CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR4787.R41910 
 
 Rest harrow; a comedy of resolution, by Ma 
 
 3 1924 013 482 629 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tlie Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013482629 
 
REST HARROW 
 
 A COMEDY OF RESOLUTION 
 
BOOKS BY MAURICE HEWLETT 
 
 PnBLiBHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 Open Country S1.50 
 
 Halfway House S1.50 
 
 Rest Harrow S1.50 
 
 The Fool Errant S1.50 
 
 The Queen's Qua:r S1.50 
 
 New Canterbury Tales S1.50 
 
 The Life and Death of Richard Yea and Nay 11.50 
 
 The Forest Lovers S1.50 
 
 Little Novels of Italy 81.50 
 
 Earthwork Out of Tuscany S2.00 
 
 The Road in Tuscany. Two Volumes, net $6.00 
 Letters to Sanchia 80.90 
 
Wrote deliberately to each of her sisters. 
 
REST HARROW 
 
 A COMEDY OF RESOLUTION 
 
 BY 
 
 MAURICE HEWLETT 
 
 '^ Rest Harrow ^rows in any soil, . , . The seeds may he sown as soon 
 as ripe in warm, sheltered spots out of doors. . . , It is a British plant." 
 
 — ^Weathers 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY FRANK CRAIG 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 NEW YORK : : : : 1910 
 
Copyright, 1909, 1910, by 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 Published August, 1910 
 
THI KAAAICTHi 
 
CONTENTS 
 BOOK I 
 
 PAGE 
 
 OF THE NATURE OF A PROLOGUE, DEALING WITH 
 
 A BRUISED PHILOSOPHER IN RETIREMENT . I 
 
 BOOK II 
 SANCHIA AT WANLESS HALL .... 45, 
 
 BOOK III 
 INTERLUDE OF THE RECLUSE PHILOSOPHER . I93 
 
 BOOK IV 
 
 SANCHIA IN LONDON ..... 235 
 
 BOOK V 
 
 OF THE NATURE OF AN EPILOGUE, DEALING WITH 
 
 DESPOINA ...... 363 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Wrote deliberately to each of her sisters Frontispiece 
 
 FACING PAGE 
 
 The hum of cities, and buzz of dinner tables . . sound in 
 
 his ears not at all 42 
 
 The housekeeperl This — person! 72 
 
 He had eloquence, he thought, as he watched her, he had 
 
 won. But he was anxious She was such a deep one 116 
 
 Ploughman in the vales would sometimes see his gaunt 
 
 figure on the skyline ig6 
 
 "Well, Sanchia," he said, " here I am " 318 
 
 The great music went sobbing and chiding through her 
 
 frame, like wounded nightingales 354 
 
 Senhouse came back to her ijedside and put a little flower 
 
 into her hand 398 
 
BOOK I 
 
 OF THE NATURE OF A PROLOGUE, DEALING 
 WITH A BRUISED PHILOSOPHER IN RETIRE- 
 MENT 
 
An observant traveller, homing to England by 
 the Ostend-Dover packet in the April of some 
 five years ago, relished the vagaries of a curious 
 couple who arrived by a later train, and proved to 
 be both of his acquaintance. He had happened 
 to be early abroad, and saw them come on. They 
 were a lady of some personal attraction, comfortably 
 furred, who, descending from a first-class carriage, 
 was met by a man from a third-class, bare-headed, 
 free in the neck, loosely clad in grey flannel 
 trousers which flapped about his thin legs in the 
 sea-breeze, a white sweater with a rolling collar, 
 and a pair of sandals upon brown and sinewy feet 
 uncovered by socks: these two. The man's gar- 
 niture was extraordinary, but himself no less so. 
 He had a lean and deeply bronzed face, hatchet- 
 shaped like a Hindoo's. You looked instinctively 
 for rings in his ears. His moustache was black 
 and sinuous, outlining his mouth rather than hiding 
 it. His hair, densely black, was longish and per- 
 fectly straight. His eyes were far-sighted and un- 
 blinking; he smiled always, but furtively, as if 
 the world at large amused him, but must never 
 
 3 
 
4 REST HARROW 
 
 know it. He seemed to observe ever)rthing, except 
 the fact that everybody observed himself. 
 
 To have once seen such a man must have pro- 
 vided for his recollection; and yet our traveller, who 
 was young and debonnaire, though not so young as 
 he seemed, first recognised the lady. "Mrs Ger- 
 main, by George!" This to himself, but aloud, 
 "Now, where's she been all this time?" The frown 
 which began to settle about his discerning eyes 
 speedily dissolved in wonder as they encountered the 
 strange creature in the lady's company. He stared, 
 he gaped, then slapped his thigh. "Jack Senhouse! 
 That's the man. God of battles, what a start! 
 Now, what on earth is Jack Senhouse doing, play- 
 ing courier to Mrs. Germain?" 
 
 That was precisely the employment. His man 
 had handed the lady out of her compartment, 
 entered it when she left it, and was possessing 
 himself of her littered vestiges while these specula- 
 tions were afloat. Dressing-case, tea-basket, um- 
 brellas, rugs, and what not, he filled his arms with 
 them, handed them over to expectant porters, 
 then smilingly showed their proprietress the car- 
 raige ridded. He led the way to the steamer, de- 
 posited his burdens and saw to the bestowal of 
 others, fetched a chair, wrapped her in rugs, found 
 her book, indicated her whereabouts to a mariner 
 in case of need. All this leisurely done, in the 
 way of a man who has privilege and duty for his 
 warrants. Enquiring then, with an engaging lift 
 of the eyebrows, whether she was perfectly com- 
 
CHEVENIX HAILS HIM 5 
 
 fortabie, and receiving with a pleasant nod her 
 answering nod of thanks, he left her and returned 
 to the train. Tracked through the crowd, and 
 easily by his height, bare head, and leisurely mo- 
 tions, he was next seen shouldering a canvas bag 
 on his way back to the boat. Jack's belongings, 
 his bag of tricks; Jack all over, the same inex- 
 haustible Jack! It was delightful to our traveller 
 to find Jack Senhouse thus verifying himseK at every 
 turn. He was for the steerage, it appears — and 
 of course he was! — ^where depressed foreigners share 
 with bicycles, motor cars, and newly boiled pigs the 
 amenities of economical travel. In this malodorous 
 and slippery well his interested friend saw him sit 
 down upon his bundle, roll a cigarette, and fall into 
 easy conversation with an Italian voyager who, 
 having shaved, was now putting on a clean collar 
 and a tartan necktie. 
 
 The traveller, Mr. William Chevenix, who had 
 watched him so long, a well-dressed and cheerful 
 EngUshman of some five-and-thirty summers, with 
 round eyes in a round and rosy face, now assuring 
 himself that he would be damned if he didn't have 
 it out with the chap, descended the companion, 
 picked his way through the steerage, and approached 
 the seated philosopher. He saw that he was known, 
 and immediately. Nothing escaped Senhouse. 
 
 "How d'ye do, how d'ye do?" He held out 
 his hand. Senhouse rose and grasped it. The 
 Italian took off his hat, and strolled away. 
 
 "I'm very well, thanks," he said. "Have you no- 
 
6 REST HARROW 
 
 ticed those shores beyond the canal ? Samphire there 
 just as we have it at home. Leagues of samphire." 
 
 The younger man looked in the direction indi- 
 cated cheerfully and blankly. '"The samphire by 
 the ocean's brim,'" he said lightly. "I attach no 
 importance to it whatever, but it's very like you to 
 lift one into your privacy at a moment's notice. 
 I'm all for the formalities myself, so I observe that 
 I haven't seen you for years. Years! Not since — 
 why, it must be eighteen." 
 
 "It's precisely eight," said Senhouse, "and I've 
 been abroad for four of them." 
 
 His friend inspected him with candid interest. 
 "At your old games, I take it. You've filled Eng- 
 land with hardy perennials and now you're start- 
 ing on Europe. Great field for you. You'll want 
 a pretty big trowel, though. A wheelbarrow might 
 be handy, I should have said." ' 
 
 Senhouse fired. "I've been planting the Black 
 Forest, you see. Great games. They gave me a 
 free hand, and ten thousand marks a year to spend. 
 I've done some rather showy things. Now I want 
 to go to Tibet." 
 
 The other's attention had wandered. "I saw 
 you come on board," he said. "I watched you 
 play the Squire of Dames to a rather pretty woman 
 whom I happen to know. She was a Mrs. Germain 
 in those days." 
 
 "She still calls herself so," Senhouse said. He 
 was staring straight before him out to sea. The 
 steamer was under way. 
 
HE FENCES WITH CHEVENIX 7 
 
 "Married a queer old file in Berkshire, who died 
 worth a plum. Goodish time ago. They called 
 him Fowls, or Fowls of the Air. So she's still a 
 widow, eh?" 
 
 Senhouse nodded. "She's his widow." Then 
 he asked, "You know her? You might go and 
 amuse her. I can't, because of these bonds." He 
 exhibited his sockless feet with a cheerful grin. 
 
 " Oh, I shall, you know," he was assured. "You're 
 not dressy enough for Mrs. Germain. She'd never 
 stand it." 
 
 "She doesn't," said Senhouse. "She dislikes a 
 fuss, and thinks me rather remarkable." 
 
 "Well," said the other, "I think she's right. 
 You always were a conspicuous beggar. Now look 
 at me. Think I'll do?" 
 
 Senhouse peered at him. "I think you are ex- 
 actly what she wants just now," he said. "Go in 
 and approve yourself, Chevenix." 
 
 Mr. Chevenix, the spick and span, had some- 
 thing on his mind, however, which he did not know 
 how to put. He continued to reflect upon Mrs. 
 Germain, but only by way of marking time. "She 
 used to be very good fun in my young days. And 
 she made things spin in Berkshire, they tell me: 
 I know she did in London — ^while it lasted. What's 
 she doing ? There was a chap called Duplessis, 
 I remember." 
 
 "There still is," Senhouse said, but in such a 
 manner as to chalk No Thoroughfare across the 
 field. Chevenix perceived this rather late in the 
 
8 REST HARROW 
 
 day, and ended his ruminations in a whistle. "She 
 kept him dangling — " he had begun. Instead of 
 pursuing, he said abruptly, "I say, you remember 
 Sancie Percival, of course." 
 
 A change came over Senhouse's aspect which a 
 close observer might have noticed. He was very 
 quiet, hardly moved; but he seemed to be listen- 
 ing with all his senses, hstening with every pore of 
 his skin. "Yes," he said, slowly. "Yes, I do; I'm 
 not likely to forget her. She was my dearest friend, 
 and is so still, I hope." 
 
 The solemnity of his intended message clouded 
 Mr. Chevenix's candid brow. "She's still at Wan- 
 less, you know." 
 
 Senhouse set a watch upon himself. "No doubt 
 she is," he said. "She's well?" 
 
 The other probed him. "She's never made it up 
 with her people. I think she feels it nowadays." 
 
 Senhouse asked sharply, "Where's Ingram?" 
 
 "Ingram," said Chevenix, "is just oflE for a trip. 
 He's to be abroad for a year. India." 
 
 Senhouse shivered. "Alone?" 
 
 "Well, without her, anyhow. He always was a 
 casual beggar, was Nevile." He could see now that 
 he was making a hit. "Got old Senhouse where 
 he lives," he told himself, and then continued. 
 "Fact is, I've been out with him as far as Brindisi. 
 He asked me to. I had nothing to do. But I want 
 to see Sancie Percival again. I was awfully fond 
 of her — of the whole lot of them." He reflected, as 
 £i man might deliberate upon familiar things, and 
 
BEST FRIEND OR WORST 9 
 
 discover them to be wonders. "What a family they 
 were, by Jove! Five — of — the — loveHest girls a man 
 could meet with. Melusine, what, a girl she was! 
 Married Tubby Scales — fat chap with a cigar. 
 Vicky, now. How about Vicky? She was my 
 chum, you know. She's married, too. Chap called 
 Sinclair — in the Guides. But Sancie beat them all 
 in her quiet way. A still water — ^what?" 
 
 Senhouse, his chin clasped in his bony hands, 
 contemplated the sea. His face was drawn and 
 stern. There was a queer twitching of the cheek- 
 bones. "Got him, by Jove!" said Mr. Chevenix 
 to himself, and pushed on. "I say, I wish you'd 
 go and see her," he said. 
 
 Senhouse got up and leaned over the bulwarks. 
 He was plainly disturbed. Chevenix waited for 
 him nervously, but got nothing. 
 
 Then he said, "The fact is, Senhouse, I think 
 that you should go. You were the best friend she 
 ever had." Senhouse turned him then a tragic face. 
 
 "No, I wasn't," he said. "I think I was the 
 worst." 
 
 Chevenix blinked. "I know what you mean. 
 If it hadn't been for you and your confounded 
 theories, you imply that she " 
 
 "I don't know — " Senhouse began. "God only 
 knows what she might have done. She was not 
 of our sort, you know. I always said that she was 
 unhuman." 
 
 "That's the last thing she was," said Chevenix, 
 neatly. Senhouse scorned him. 
 
10 REST HARROW 
 
 "You don't know anything about it," he said. 
 "What are the doings of this silly world, of our 
 makeshift appearances, to the essentials? Antics — 
 filling up time! You speak as if she gave Ingram 
 everything, and lost it. She did, but he never 
 knew it — so never had it. Ingram had what he 
 was fitted to receive. Her impulse, her impulsion 
 were divine. She has lost nothing — and he has 
 gained nothing." 
 
 "If you talk philosophy I'm done," cried Mr. 
 Chevenix. "Well, I say to you, my boy. Go and 
 see her. She's so far human that she's got a tongue, 
 and likes to wag it, I suppose. I don't say that 
 there's trouble, and I don't say there's not. But 
 there are the makings of it. She's alone, and may 
 be moped. I don't know. You'd better judge for 
 yourself." 
 
 Senhouse, trembling from his recent fire, turned 
 away his face. "I don't know that I dare. If she's 
 unhappy, I shall be in the worst place I ever was in 
 my life. I don't know what I shall do." 
 
 "That's the first time you ever said that, I'll go 
 bail," Chevenix interrupted him. But Senhouse did 
 not hear him. 
 
 "I did everything I could at the time. I nearly 
 made her quarrel with me — I dared do that. I 
 went up to Wanless and saw Ingram. I hated 
 the fellow, I disapproved of hun, feared him. He 
 was the last man in the world I could have tackled 
 with a view to redemption. He was almost hope- 
 lessly bad, according to my view of things. Fed 
 
HE CONFESSES il 
 
 by slaves from the cradle, hag-ridden by his vices; 
 a purple young bully, a product of filthy sloth, 
 scabbed with privilege. I saw just how things were. 
 She pitied him, and thought it was her business to 
 save him. She did nobly. She gave herself for 
 pity; and if she mistook that ^ for love, the splendid 
 generosity of her is enough to Itake the breath away. 
 The world ought to have gone down on its knees to 
 her — but it picked up its skirts for fear she might 
 touch them. What a country! What a race! Well, 
 feeling towards her as I did, and loathing him, I 
 urged him to marry her — to make her his property 
 for life. Dead against my conviction, mind you, 
 but what else could I do? God help me, I played 
 the renegade to what I sincerely beheved. I couldn't 
 see her done to death by a world of satyrs." 
 
 "Of course you couldn't, my dear man," cried 
 Chevenix. "Girls of her sort must be married, 
 you know." 
 
 "I don't know anything of the kind," replied 
 Senhouse, fiercely; "but I loved her. You may put 
 it that I funked. I did — and to no purpose." 
 
 "If you were to see her now," Chevenix put in, 
 "you could do some good. She'll be pretty lonely 
 up there." Senhouse got up. 
 
 "I'll see her," he said. "Whatever happens." 
 
 "Right," said Chevenix. "That's a good man. 
 That's what I wanted of you. I'll tell her that 
 you're coming. Now I'm going to do the civil to 
 Mrs. Germain." 
 
 Senhouse had turned away, and was leaning over 
 
12 REST HARROW 
 
 the bulwarks, lost in his thoughts. He remained 
 there until the passage was over. 
 
 Mr. Chevenix, having approached the lady with 
 all forms observed, made himself happy in her 
 company, as, indeed, he did in all. "Now this 
 is very jolly, Mrs. Germain, I must say. I'm a 
 companionable beggar, I believe; and here I was 
 in a ship where I didn't know a living soul until 
 I met you and Senhouse. Didn't even know that 
 you knew Senhouse. Queer fish, eh? Oh, the 
 queerest fish in the sea! But you know all that, 
 of course." 
 
 Mrs. Germain, a brunette with the power of 
 glowing, coloured becomingly, and veiled her fine 
 eyes with somewhait heavy and heavily-fringed eye- 
 lids. "Oh, yes," she said, "I have known him for 
 a long time." 
 
 "Met him abroad, I suppose — ^tinkering round, 
 as he does. The everlasting loafer, artist, tinker, 
 poet, gardener. 'Pon my soul, he's like the game 
 we used to do with cherry-stones round the pudding 
 plate. Don't you know? Soldier, sailor, tinker, 
 tailor, and all the rest. He's all those things, and 
 has two. pair of bags to his name, and lives in a cart, 
 and's a gentleman. Not a doubt about that, mind 
 you, Mrs. Germain." 
 
 She smiled upon him kindly. "None at all," 
 she said. "I like him extremely." 
 
 "You would, you know," said Chevenix, his 
 tones rich in sympathy. "All women do. You 
 couldn't help it. You've got such a kind heart. 
 
IDENTITIES REVEALED I J 
 
 All women have. Now, I've known Senhouse 
 himself five or six years, but I've known about 
 him for at least eight. I used to hear about him 
 from mom to dewy eve, once upon a time, from 
 one — of — ^the — ^loveliest and most charming girls 
 you ever met in your life. Did you know her? 
 A Miss Percival — Sanchia Percival. We used to 
 call her Sancie. Thought you might have met 
 her, perhaps. No? Well, this chap Senhouse 
 would have gone through the fire for her. He 
 would have said his prayers to her. Did you 
 ever see his poems about her? My word! He 
 published 'em after the row, you know. He as 
 good as identified her with — well, we won't men- 
 tion names, Mrs. Germain, but he identified her 
 with a certain holy lady not a hundred miles from 
 the Kingdom of Heaven. Blasphemous old chap 
 — he did, though." 
 
 Mrs. Germain, toying with her scent-bottle, was 
 interested. "I never heard him speak about a Miss 
 Percival," she said. She used a careless tone, but 
 her flickering eyelids betrayed her. 
 . "You wouldn't, you know," he told her with 
 the same sympathetic earnestness. "There was 
 too much of a row. He was cut all to pieces. I 
 thought he'd go under; but he's not that sort. 
 Who called somebody — some political johnny — 
 the Sea-green Incorruptible? Oh, ask me another! 
 You might caU old Senhouse the Green-tea Irre- 
 pressible; for that was his drink (to keep himself 
 awake all night, writin' poems), and there never 
 
14 REST HARROW 
 
 was a cork that would hold him down — not even 
 Sancie Percival. No, no, out he must come — 
 fizzling." 
 
 "I see," said Mrs. Germain, still looking at her 
 fingers in her lap. "I'm very much interested. 
 You mean that he was very much — that he paid 
 her a great deal of attention?" 
 
 Chevenix stared roundly about him. "Atten- 
 tion! Oh, heavens! Why, three of his letters 
 to her would fill The Times for a week — and he 
 kept it up for years! She used to get three a week 
 — ^budgets! blue-books! For simple years! At- 
 tentions!" He shook his head. "The word's no 
 good. He paid nobody an34hing at all when she 
 was in the same county. He used to sit listening 
 to her thrilling the waves of air. He used to hear 
 her voice in the wind — and when it changed, he 
 used to fire off his answers!" 
 
 Mrs. Germain laughed — ^whether at Chevenix or 
 his preposterous hero is not to be known. "You 
 are rather absurd," she said. "Mr. Senhouse never 
 gave me the idea of that sort of person. Why did 
 they never ?" 
 
 Chevenix narrowed his eyes to the merest slats. 
 "Marry ?" he said, in an awed whisper. "Is that 
 what you mean?" 
 
 Mrs. Germain showed him her soft brown orbs, 
 which for two seasons had been said to be the 
 finest pair of dark eyes in London. "Yes," she 
 said, "I do mean that. How clever of you to 
 guess!" 
 
HOW TO MAKE TROUBLE 1 5 
 
 Chevenix bowed to her. "Not at all," he said. 
 "I'm quite good at that kind of thing. You have 
 to be, if you knock about. Besides, that's the 
 whole point. Bless you! He would just as soon 
 have married Diana of the Ephesians. He said so. 
 I heard him. He would have thought it an insult 
 to hint at it. Didn't I tell you that he was a poet ?" 
 
 "Yes," the lady said quickly. "You did. But 
 I suppose poets occasionally marry." 
 
 "Not that sort," Chevenix pronounced, with a 
 shake of the head. "At least, they don't marry 
 the right person. They never do. Or there are 
 two or three persons. Look at Shelley. Look at 
 Dante. I happen to know all about both of 'em. 
 Senhouse drank 'em up — ^and gave 'em out like 
 steam. He thought no end of Dante and Shelley. 
 As a matter of fact, he didn't believe in marriage, 
 as a game — as a kind of institution, you know. 
 He thought it devilish wrong — and said so — and 
 that's where the trouble was. Marry Sancie! I 
 wish to heaven he had. There'd have been no 
 trouble at all. They were made for each other. 
 She loved his fun — and was easy with him, you 
 see. She was queerish, too — a. shy young bird; 
 but she was quite at home with him. No, no. 
 The trouble really began with him putting her 
 out of conceit with marriage. And then she didn't 
 care for him in that sort of way, then. And then 
 -^well, the less said the better." 
 
 "Oh," said Mrs. Germain, absorbed by the de- 
 volutions of the tale. "Oh!" 
 
1 6 REST HARROW 
 
 "'Oh' 's the sort of expression one used at the 
 time," said Chevenix. "There wasn't much else 
 to be said. It was a holy row." He mused, he 
 brooded, and said no more. Luckily for him, he 
 discovered Dover at hand, and escaped. Mrs. 
 Germain was put into a first-class carriage by two 
 attendant squires, provided with tea and a foot- 
 warmer; and then Chevenix bowed himself away 
 and Senhouse disappeared. She had a novel on 
 her knees, but read little. She looked out of win- 
 dow, frowning and biting her red lip. When 
 she reached Victoria she tightened both lips, and 
 you saw that, so compressed, they made a thin 
 red line straight above a square chin. Her charm 
 and favour both lay, you then discovered, in ex- 
 pression. 
 
 Senhouse, hatless and loose-limbed, stood at the 
 door to help her out. She accepted his services, 
 and was put into a cab. 
 
 "Where's he to take you?" he asked her pleas- 
 antly, 
 
 She said at once, "To Brown's Hotel." Then, 
 before she got in, with a hand, unperceived by the 
 general, just touching his arm, "Jack, I want to 
 speak to you, but not to-night. Will you come 
 in the morning, please? I am rather tired, and 
 shall dine early and go to bed. Is my maid here?" 
 She looked about. "Oh, I suppose she's seeing to 
 the luggage. You might find her, and tell her 
 where to come to." 
 
 Senhouse smiled and nodded. "Certainly. All 
 
HE STROLLS OUT 17 
 
 these things shall be done. Anything else before 
 you go oflf?" 
 
 She hesitated for a minute, then said, "Yes, 
 there is one more thing. You mustn't come to 
 Brown's like that. You must put on ordinary 
 things." 
 
 He raised his eyebrows, then laughed — ^throwing 
 his head up. "Wonderful lady! Wherewithal shall 
 I be clothed? Do you really think these things 
 matter?" 
 
 She was firm. "I really do. I hope you will 
 be kind enough to — ^to — ^please me." 
 
 He looked very kindly at her. "My dear," he 
 said, "of course I shall. Be quite easy about it." 
 He held out his hand. "Good night, Mary." 
 
 She took it, but didn't meet his look. "Good 
 night," she said, and drove away without another 
 signal. 
 
 Senhouse, shouldering his bundle, found the 
 lady's maid, and gave her her sailing orders. His 
 manner to her was exactly that which he had shown 
 to the mistress, easy, simple, and good-humoured. 
 Leaving her, he went a leisurely way through the 
 press, and took a tram-car from the comer of Vaux- 
 hall Bridge Road in the direction of Battersea. 
 
II 
 
 Senhouse, after a night of solitary musing upon 
 certain waste places known best to outlanders, 
 walked up Saint James's Street at six o'clock in 
 the morning, talking lightly and fiercely to hun- 
 self. A long life of loneliness had given him that 
 habit incurably. Discovering the hour by a clock 
 in Piccadilly, he realised that it was too early to 
 wait upon Mrs. Germain in Albemarle Street, so 
 continued his way up the empty hill, entered the 
 Park, and flung himself upon the turf under the 
 elms. Other guests were harboured by that hos- 
 pitable sward, shambling, downcast lice of the 
 town. These, having shuffled thither, dropped, 
 huddled and slept. His way was not theirs: to 
 him the open space was his domain. He ranged 
 the streets, one saw, as if they had been the South 
 Downs, with the long stride and sensitive tread of 
 a man who reckons with inequalities of footing. 
 The country and the town were earth alike, though 
 now of springing grass and now again of flagstones. 
 
 His face, after a night of fierce self-searching, 
 looked its age, that of a man past forty; his aspect 
 upon affairs was no more a detached observer's; 
 his eyes were hard, his smile was bleak. Sodden 
 misery, stupor, and despair lay all about him, and 
 would have drawn his pitying comments if it had 
 
 i8 
 
HE MUSES ALOUD 19 
 
 not been so with him that all his concern must be 
 for himself. 
 
 "She wants me, and I must go to her," was the 
 burden of his thought; but,, like a recurring hne 
 in a poem, it concluded very diverse matter. 
 - "I played the traitor to her; I could not wait 
 — and yet I must have known. I said to myself. 
 It is enough to have known and loved her; watch 
 her happy, and thank God. That should have 
 been enough for any man who had ever seen the 
 blue beam of her eyes shed in kindliness upon him; 
 but I grew blind and could not see. I lost my 
 lamp and went astray. I ran about asking one 
 after another to stop the bleeding of my wound. 
 God is good. After eight years, she wants me, and 
 I must go to her. 
 
 "I love her, as I have always loved; for she is 
 always there, and I have come back. She can 
 never change, though her beauty grow graver, and 
 all knowledge of the vile usage of the world have 
 passed before her young eyes. Artemis no more, 
 for she has stooped to the lot of women; but still 
 invincibly pure, incapable of sin, though she know 
 it all. It can never touch her; she goes her way. 
 She wears a blue gown now, not a white one. De- 
 meter, the sad, bountiful Mother she will be — yet the 
 same woman, the sweet and grave, the inflexible, 
 the eternal. And, standing as she has always stood, 
 she wants me, and I must go to her. 
 
 "I remember the wonder, I remember the morn- 
 ing glory of her first appearing. The spell of the 
 
20 REST HARROW 
 
 woods was upon her. Bare-headed, gowned in white, 
 she girt up her vesture and dipped her white limbs 
 in the pool. I went to her, all my worship in my 
 face; I worked with her at her task. Together 
 we pulled the weed, we set the lilies free. High- 
 minded as a goddess, she revealed herself to me. 
 I was the postulant, dumb before the mysteries; 
 I adored without a thought. I was nothing, could 
 be nothing, to her but her lover — and now she wants 
 me, and I must go to her. 
 
 "For two years I was close to her side — either 
 I or my words never left her. She became humble, 
 suffered me to lead her, opened to me her mind, 
 shared with me her secret thoughts. I told her 
 the truth; I hid nothing from the first. From 
 the first day she knew that I loved her. There 
 was no presumption in this — ^I asked nothing, ex- 
 pected nothing. I told her often that I looked for- 
 ward to her wedded state — and then it came, and 
 I was not ready for it as it came. Horrible thing, 
 her nobility was her punishment. She has suflFered, 
 she suffers; she wants me, and I must go to her. 
 
 "How am I to go, tied and bound as I am? 
 What can I do? I have been false to my vows. 
 I belong in duty to another world, to another woman, 
 who can command me as she will. I don't know, 
 I don't see. I know only one thing, and see only 
 her, caUing me with her inflexibly grave eyes. She 
 wants me, and I must go to her." 
 
 He got up and left the Park. It was ten o'clock 
 of an 'April morning. Crocuses — her flowers — were 
 
HE OPENS THE MATTER 21 
 
 blowing sideways under a south-west wind. Blue 
 sky, white clouds, shining on the just and the unjust, 
 covered her in Yorkshire and him, her grim knight, 
 in Mayfair. He stalked, gaunt and haggard-eyed, 
 down the hill, threading his way through the grow- 
 ing traffic of the day, and faced his business with the 
 lady in the case. 
 
 Mrs. Germain was serious when he entered her 
 sitting-room. She was in a loose morning gown 
 of lace and pink ribbon. Pink was her colour. 
 Her dark eyes looked heavy. She should have 
 been adorable, and she was — but not to him just 
 now. He stood before her, looked at her where 
 she sat with her eyes cast down at her hands in 
 her lap. She had let them rest upon him for the 
 moment of his entry, but had not greeted him. 
 
 Now, as he stood watching her, she had no 
 greeting. 
 
 "Good morning, Mary," he said presently, and 
 she murmured a reply. He saw at once that she 
 was prepared for him, and began in the middle. 
 
 "A friend of mine," he said, "is alone and un- 
 happy. I heard of it yesterday from Chevenix. 
 I must go and see her. I shan't be away long, and 
 shall then be at your disposition." 
 
 Her strength lay in her silence. She sat per- 
 fectly still, looking at her white hands. Her heavy 
 eyelids, weighted with all the knowledge she had, 
 seemed beyond her power of lifting. He was driven to 
 speak again, and, against his will, to defend himself. 
 
 "I am in a hatefully false position. I ought to 
 
22 REST HARROW 
 
 have told you long ago all about it. It seemed 
 impossible at the time, and so from time to time, 
 to open the shut book. I closed it deliberately, 
 and from the time of doing it until this moment I 
 have never spoken of it even to myself. Chevenix, 
 who knew her well, broke it open unawares yester- 
 day, and now we must read in it, you and I." 
 
 He stopped, took breath, and began again. "I 
 don't see how you can forgive me, or how I can, 
 so to speak, look myself in the face again. I have 
 played the knave so long with you that it is per- 
 haps the greatest knavery I can commit to be honest 
 at last. But I am going to do it, Mary. I want 
 to tell you the whole story. You have told me 
 yours." 
 
 Her eyes flickered at that, but she said nothing. 
 Passive as she sat, heavy in judgment, she was yet 
 keenly interested. All her wits were at work, 
 commenting, comparing, judging, and weighing 
 every word that he said. 
 
 He told her a strange, incoherent story of poet's 
 love. This mysterious, shrouded Sanchia figured 
 in it as the goddess of a shrine — omnipresent, a 
 felt influence, yet never a woman. He spoke her 
 name with a drop of the voice; every act of hers, 
 as he related it, was coloured by sanction to seem 
 the dealing of a divine person with creeping man- 
 kind. To Mrs. Germain it was all preposterous; 
 if she had owned the humorous sense it would have 
 been tragically absurd. For what did it amount 
 to, pray, but this, that Jack Senhouse had been in 
 
IN THE LADY'S MIND 23 
 
 love with a girl who had loved sohaebody else, had 
 married her choice, and was now repenting it? 
 Jack, then, in a pique, had trifled with her, Mary 
 Germain, and made love to her. Now he found 
 that this Sanchia was to be se6n he was for jumping 
 back. Was he to jump, or not to jump? Did it 
 lie with her? Jack seemed to think that it did. 
 
 If it did, what did she want? As to one thing 
 she had long been clear. Jack Senhouse was a 
 good lover, but would be an impossible mate. She 
 had found his gypsy tent arid hedgerow practice in 
 the highest degree romantic. With gypsy practice 
 he had the wheedling g)T)sy ways. An adventure of 
 hers in the North, for instance — when, panic-struck, 
 she had fled to him by a midnight train, had sought 
 him through the dales and over limestone mountains 
 through a day and night, and cried herself to sleep, 
 and been found by him in the dewy dawn and 
 soothed by his masterful cool sense — wasn't this 
 romantic? It had drawn her to him as she had 
 never before been drawn tp a man. She felt that 
 here at last was a man indeed to be trusted. For 
 she had been there with him, and not a living soul 
 within miles, entirely at his discretion, and he had 
 not so much as kissed her fingers. No, not even 
 that, though he had wanted to. That she knew, 
 as women do know such things. Romantic, in- 
 deed, trustworthy! Why, a Bayard, a Galahad 
 of a gypsy! After this adventure, after he had 
 driven her back to her duty, she had owned alle- 
 giance to nobody else in the world. And when her 
 
24 REST HARROW 
 
 husband died she had renounced her widow-right, 
 embraced hardship, kept herself by teaching; and 
 when, finally, he came to her and offered her her 
 choice, she had chosen Poverty for her lord as single- 
 heartedly as ever did Francis find his lady in a 
 beggar's garb. 
 
 And that being done, it did not "do." That 
 -was how she put it now; but the process had been 
 slow, and never defined. He had carried her oflE 
 to Baden for his work of naturalising plants. He 
 had a great name for that, a European name. In 
 three weeks his work absorbed him; within that 
 time she knew that she was no mate for him. You 
 can't be picturesque for ever, she thought. She 
 had never reckoned with his incredible simplicity, 
 and never for a moment connected his talk with his 
 acts. Perhaps this Jack was the only really logical 
 man in the world. Now she found that in talking 
 of Poverty as the only happiness, he literally and 
 really believed it so. He would own nothing but 
 the barest necessities — neither pictures, nor furni- 
 ture, neither clothes nor books. Pictures, furniture ? 
 Why, he had no roof to shelter them! Clothes? 
 Where was he to carry them, if not on his back? 
 Books? He had half-dozen, which contained all 
 the wisdom of the world. So he used to cry. Now, 
 this might be as it was; but when he seemed to 
 expect her to be of the same mind and behaviour, 
 you will see that he must needs be mad. 
 
 Yet so it was. He had lived in a tent for twenty 
 years, so took his tent to Germany, and went on 
 
COLOURED MEMORIES 25 
 
 living in it. In that, with complete gravity, he 
 received the Grand Duke of Baden, and several 
 uniformed high officials, who wore plumed head- 
 gear and incredibly high collars, and glittering 
 boots of patent leather. Folded superbly in cloaks 
 of milky blue, they looked to Mary like gods; to 
 Senhouse they were amusing fellow-creatures, inter- 
 ested in his plants and plans. He spread maps on 
 the ground and followed his racing finger with racing 
 speech. His German was faulty, but exceedingly 
 graphic. His words shook the tent curtains. With- 
 in half-an-hour, such was the infection of his elo- 
 quence, he had most of his company on their knees 
 beside him, and the Grand Duke, accommodated 
 with a camp-stool, buried his hand in his beard and 
 followed every line without a breath. Of all in 
 that tent, she, Mary Germain, had been the only 
 person to feel the indescribable squalor in the 
 situation — ^and she the only one who might have been 
 born to it; for her upbringing had been humble, 
 and her rise in the world sudden and short of durance. 
 But she knew now that she had hardly been able to 
 live it out for very shame. 
 
 Directly the visitors had departed there had been 
 a scene — she in tears of vexation which scalded, and 
 he concerned at her trouble, but unable for the 
 life of him to see what it was all about. He had 
 been kindness itself. He always was the kindest 
 and gentlest creature. If she wanted a house, 
 hotel or what not, she should have it. In fact, he 
 got her one, installed her, and undertook to keep her 
 
26 REST HARROW 
 
 there. She bit her lip now to remember that she 
 had agreed — and the ensuing difficulties. He had 
 no money, and would have none of his own, and he 
 refused to live under a roof on any terms whatso- 
 ever. Of ten thousand marks a year, which he was 
 to receive from his Grand Duke, half was to be hers; 
 he would see her when she would, and she might 
 follow him about as she would — or not, if she would 
 not. He could not see that there was anything 
 extraordinary in these propositions. To him it was 
 the simplest thing in the world that two people 
 should do as they pleased. Society? What in the 
 name of God had society to do with it? She re- 
 membered her tears, and his blank dismay when he 
 saw them. He thought that she was unhappy, and 
 so she was; but she was grievously angry also, that 
 she could not make him see what things would "do" 
 and what things "never do." 
 
 His work had inflarned him; he had marched 
 from place to place, unencumbered and without a 
 thought or care in the world — inspired with his 
 scheme, in which plants stood for the words in 
 a poem. He slept out many nights on the Felsen- 
 berg, on the ground, wrapped in a cloak. He 
 disappeared for weeks at a time in impenetrable 
 forests, sharing the fires of charcoal-burners, map- 
 ping, planning, giving orders to a secretary from the 
 Botanical Department, as wild as a disciple should 
 be. There was nothing for her, poor lady, but to 
 sit about in hotel saloons — as the widow of an Eng- 
 lish gentleman, occasionally visited by an eccentric 
 
HEARTS AND RINGS ^^ 
 
 friend. So she put it for the benefit of society; 
 but this had not been her idea of things when she 
 had tumbled into Senhouse's arms — nor had it been 
 his. 
 
 Her ruling idea in these days of disenchantment 
 and discomfort — and it was .her ruling idea still — 
 was to preserve appearances. The great, invincible, 
 fundamental instinct of the class from which she 
 had ' sprung — ^to keep oneself unspotted by the 
 world. The variation upon the text is Senhouse's 
 own, done in a moment of exasperation over her 
 untiring effort to appear what she was not and did 
 not want to be. She loved the man sincerely; if 
 she had been married to him she would have kept 
 faithfully to his side. But she had no lines; her 
 wedding ring was not of his giving. Without 
 these assurances she simply could not love him. 
 It came to that. 
 
 He had, when they had approached the matter 
 of alliance, put aside marriage, literal marriage, as 
 out of the question. He took it airily for granted 
 that she agreed with him. The servitude of the 
 woman which it implied was to him unspeakably 
 wicked. He could not have treated the vilest 
 woman in such a manner. But he had reckoned 
 without the woman in her case. To her, freedom 
 to love, without sanction or obligation, destroyed 
 love. When he found that out, which he did after 
 a year of her German vexations, he offered himself 
 and his convictions to her. He humbled himself 
 before her — but by that time she would not. By 
 
28 REST HARROW 
 
 that time she had recovered her widow's portion 
 (which had been dependent upon her remaining 
 sole), and was entitled to some thousands a year 
 and a good dower-house in Berks. She declined to 
 marry him, and acted as such. She had been his 
 wife in fact for a quarter of a year; she was his 
 friend — as he was hers — for the rest of their time 
 abroad. He had respected her wish, but had kept 
 himself at her free disposal, until now of late, when 
 this disturbing Sanchia Percival arose out of the 
 nothingless and was shown to her as a goddess 
 newly from the shades. And so now here sat Mrs. 
 Germain, with her eccentric friend pale and- gaunt 
 before her, unlike himself as she had always known 
 him, about to take her at her word, and to behave 
 as a friend might. What should she say ? 
 
 He would come back if she chose; he had said 
 so — and he was incapable of lies. If he came back, 
 and if she chose, he would marry her, and be the 
 imperturbable, delightful, incalculable, impossible 
 companion she had always known him. He would 
 marry her — and decline to come under her roof. 
 He would, perhaps, pitch his tent in her paddock; 
 he would sit at her table in sweater and flannels, 
 sandals on his feet, while she and her guests were 
 in the ordinary garb of— gentlefolks. Gentlefolks! 
 Yes. But the maddening and baffling thought was 
 a conviction that he would be the greatest gentle- 
 man there. She knew that. Lord of his mind, 
 lord of his acts, easy in his will, and refusing to 
 bow to any necessity but that, he would be the 
 
HE FEELS THE PULL 29 
 
 superior of them all. Could this be borne? Or 
 could she bear to surrender so rare a friend to a 
 Miss Percival? 
 
 Who could Miss Percival be? It was a good 
 name— better than Middleham, which had been 
 her own, as good as Germain, which had been 
 her husband's. Sanchia, an extraordinary name, 
 an unusual name. It sounded Spanish and aristo- 
 cratic. The Honourable Hertha de Speyne: she 
 had known the daughter of a noble house so styled 
 in her governess days, her days of drudgery, and 
 even now it had a glamour for her, who had since 
 hobnobbed with many honourables, flirted with many 
 young lords, and been kissed by a duchess. Miss 
 Sanchia Percival: the Honourable Sanchia Percival. 
 No doubt this was a high lady. And she must be 
 beautiful, or Jack wouldn't speak of her as he had. 
 He hushed his voice down, he spoke as if she were a 
 goddess, as if to disobey her call was out of the ques- 
 tion. A dull heat stirred deeply within her, and she 
 found herself setting her teeth together. No! Jack- 
 had brought her to this pass — and she would not 
 be left there. 
 
 These were the thoughts of Mrs. Germain as 
 she sat very still, with heavy-Udded eyes, listening 
 to Senhouse's story. He ended it in these words: 
 "You charmed me, Mary, and you still charm me. 
 You are very sweet, and I shall never want a dearer 
 mate than you might be, if you would. I vow to 
 you that you are the only woman with whom I 
 have wished to live, as we might live if you would. 
 
30 REST HARROW 
 
 I can't make you see, I'm conscious, what I feel 
 about Sanchia— but it's certainly not that. My 
 little dear, can't you trust me?" He looked down, 
 and saw her tears slowly dropping; he was very 
 much moved, knelt by her side. She turned her 
 face away, dangerously moved also. She struggled 
 with her tea~r-s, her face contorted, her bosom heav- 
 ing in riot. Senhouse took her hands, but she 
 wrenched them away and covered her face with 
 them. Passion grew upon her, passion of regret, 
 of loss, of rage, of desire — "Oh, leave me, leave 
 me! Oh, cruel, cruel! No man in the world 
 could be so cruel — " and then she sprang up, and 
 faced him, flushed and fierce as a woman whom love 
 has made mad. 
 
 "I believed in you, I gave you everything I had. 
 You have had it, and you leave me. I made ho 
 pretences — I told you all my secrets. You said that 
 you loved me — and now you leave me. Go, please. 
 I hope I shall never see you again." 
 
 Her great eyes loomed in her hot face like beacons. 
 Her colour was high, her lips vivid. She looked 
 as beautiful as an Indian flower. She was fighting 
 for her own hke a cat. An absent, shadowy, icily- 
 pure Sanchia could never contend with this quiver- 
 ing reality of scarlet and burning brown; and the 
 man stood disarmed before her, watching her every 
 movement and sensible of every call of her body. 
 Her wild words provoked iiim, her beauty melted 
 him; pity for her, shame, memories of what he haji 
 believed her, impossible visions of what she, might 
 
HE FEELS THE PULL 3 1 
 
 be; he was tossed this way and that, was whirled, 
 engulfed, overwhelmed. There is only one end to 
 such strifes. With a short cry, he threw up his arms. 
 "God help us, I stay," he said. 
 
Ill 
 
 Hear now of the immediate end. This gentle- 
 man, a philosopher and poet, rich in theory, having 
 reached a middle point in his career, had found 
 that he had, without knowing it, encountered a Fact 
 which had gripped him in a vital part, squeezed 
 the very fibres of him, sucked him apparently dry 
 of human juices, even of the zest to live, and pres- 
 ently departed, leaving him faint by the wayside. 
 Not until he was clean gone did he have the least 
 suspicion that it had been there, and (if he could 
 have known it) the first glimmering of reawakening 
 pulse in him was the considering of its nature. 
 Brooding upon it, while he grieved over his languor, 
 he discovered that it had not been hard and scaly, 
 like your ordinary vampire, but soft-lipped, brown- 
 eyed, warm-fleshed, cloudy-haired; in fact, a pretty 
 woman. Now, in all his previous relations with 
 that sex, while he had given much of himself, he 
 had never met before with a woman whose need was 
 the measure of her allure. If she had not wanted 
 him so much, he would never have thought of her 
 twice. But this was precisely what had happened. 
 She had acted upon him as a vacuum upon air. Her 
 helplessness, her ignorance, her appealing belief in 
 him, her clinging power, heightening her physical 
 
 32 
 
THE PRACTICAL ANARCHIST 33 
 
 charm, had sucked him in a stream; and when she 
 was full of him, he was empty. She had been the 
 first to find it out. Having trailed him in her wake 
 for a season, against his instincts, against his con- 
 science, she presently coaxed him to let her go. 
 Let her go! He asked nothing better than to see 
 her happy, and saw no other way of being so him- 
 self. When she had gone, and was safely married 
 to an old admirer, our expended friend lay, like 
 a gaflfed salmon, faintly flapping on the .bank. 
 For a year or more he lay, and dated his recovery 
 of tone from the moment of finding out the nature 
 of his disaster. "She was hungry, and I fed her. 
 She was thirsty, and I gave her drink. The Lord 
 gave, and the Lord hath taken away. Blessed, 
 by all means, be the name of the Lord." 
 
 He proposed now to resume his former life of 
 sojourn in tents and desultory practice of the arts, 
 a life which, as it was at once highly practical and 
 entirely dependent upon enjoyment, we may call 
 one of contemplative activity. For twenty years he 
 had not lived in a house, slept in a bed, or owned 
 an5d;hing beyond the barest necessities. (The only 
 thing he had, indeed, found himself owning, had 
 at last removed itself.) He had been by turns poet, 
 painter-in-water-colours, tinker, botaniser, antino- 
 mian, and anarchist ; and attributed his success in all 
 these busy walks to the fact that he was as strongly 
 averse to the possession of property as he was in- 
 capable of getting any. Here, then, was his cap- 
 ital, with which to commence the world again. 
 
34 REST HARROW 
 
 With this at his back, you would have said, he had 
 but to pack his knapsack, stow his tent, and take 
 to the road. But that was not so. 
 
 He had, with the purest intentions, broken all 
 the laws of Society. Entitled to a competence, 
 he had had neither house nor gear, earned just 
 so much as would keep him in food. He knew 
 what it was to go without a dinner, and what to 
 sleep under the stars. Yet he had been extraordi- 
 narily happy. He had held up his head, and kept 
 it, alike with the learned — for he had learning — 
 and with the simple, whose simplicity he shared. 
 He had had the knack, in fact, of getting himself 
 accepted on his own terms, exorbitant as they 
 were; and of both rich and poor alike he had de- 
 manded entire equality. "Barefoot I stand," had 
 been his proposition, "of level inches with your 
 lordship, or with you, my hedgerow acquaintance. 
 Take me for a man, decently furnished within, 
 or take me not at all. Take me never, at least, 
 for a clothes-horse." In all these things, which 
 he had proclaimed far and wide, in divers tongues, 
 all of them eloquent, he had violated the unwritten 
 laws of our country as great and small know them 
 to be. Chiefest he broke them in being happy. 
 That was outrageous. But he was now, it seemed, 
 confronted with a Law of Nature when he found 
 that, having broken with a way of life, you cannot 
 resume it, not because it isn't there (for there it 
 is), but rather because you are not there yourself. 
 You are elsewhere, and the road is hard to find. 
 
PHILOSOPHY WINS 35 
 
 At forty-two you are not the mountaineer of thirty- 
 five. Worse than that, worst sign of all, you don't 
 want to be. 
 
 Here was a shock for the poet in him, which 
 it was the philosopher's task to allay. In heated 
 debate the two contended for his reasonable soul. 
 
 Poet. I am young. 
 
 Philosopher. You put it so. You are forty-two, 
 and as old as you feel. 
 
 Poet. Away with you. I am young, I tell you. 
 There are worlds to see. 
 
 Philosopher. Europe, Asia, Africa 
 
 Poet. Alas! I have never been to Tibet. 
 
 Philosopher. My friend, if you wished to see 
 Tibet you would be half-way there by now. I 
 know you so well. Believe me you have seen 
 more than enough. The world is so much larger 
 than you, that five-and-twenty acres in Sussex 
 will yield you more wonders than you can use. 
 Take them, make them yours, and from them build 
 up your Tibet. I understood that you were a 
 poet. 
 
 Poet. My heart fails me. I have loved and 
 lost. I have seen the dawn, and it has ' blinded 
 me. 
 
 Philosopher. Mary is happy. You could never 
 have made her so. 
 
 Poet. A sweet, good girl, but — I was not speak- 
 ing of Mary. 
 
 Philosopher. So I supposed. Let me remind 
 you 
 
36 REST HARROW 
 
 Poet. Remind me of nothing. I remember every- 
 thing; She was like the dayspring from on high. 
 When I think of Greece, I think not of Plato and 
 Sophocles, but of things more delicate and shy; 
 of the tender hedge-flowers of the Anthology, of 
 Tanagra and its maidens in reedy gowns, of all of 
 this in a sweet clean light, as she was, and is, and 
 must be. Ah, and I think of her, as I saw her first 
 in the woodland, in her white gown, with the sun 
 upon her hair. She was like the fluting of a bird; 
 she was clear melody. She girt herself high and set 
 her foot in the black water. She dipped her pure 
 body in above the knees; she, the noblest, the whole- 
 somest, the youngest of the gods. Remind me of 
 nothing, I beg you. 
 
 Philosopher. I must really remind you of this. 
 You renounced her of your own deliberation, and 
 promised to dance at her wedding. 
 
 Poet (with a sob). So I would, God bless 
 her! 
 
 Philosopher. That is a charitable sentiment. I 
 have done you good. 
 
 Poet. You are an ass. 
 
 I have summarised an argument which was really 
 prolonged and very acrimonious. The philosopher 
 prevailed, and the poet, beaten at every point, 
 forswore what ambitions remained to him, built 
 himself a shepherd's hut in a valley of the Wiltshire 
 Downs, and planned out his memoirs in three 
 stout volumes. He believed that he had reached 
 that stage in life where retrospect is all. 
 
DIOGENES' NEW HOUSE 37 
 
 Volume I., Open Country ; Volume II., Halfway 
 House ; Volume III., Shepherd's Crown — are titles 
 which indicate the scope and spirit of the projected 
 work. They were characteristically chosen before 
 a line was written; nor, indeed, was a single other 
 word put to paper, not so much as an Advice to 
 the Reader, for two years. The building of his 
 house with his own hands, and the disposition of 
 the land about it occupied him for the better part 
 of one; the next, with its progressive seasons of 
 fruition, was spent in meditative ecstasy; by the 
 beginning of the third his cure was complete. The 
 poet in him was now the philosopher's humble ser- 
 vant, as should surely always be the case. Resolved 
 that the world should be sweetened yet, he attacked 
 his book. 
 
 He began with the third volume, in which, under 
 the heading of Shepherd's Crown, he proposed to 
 discharge himself of the conclusions of his ripened 
 manhood upon the world, as he now saw it from his 
 grassy outlook. Not yet could he trust himself 
 with Open Country. That was for Thoughts. That 
 was to be filled with spheral music which lay under 
 lock and bolt deep within his nature. Before he 
 could set that free to throb and beat in his brain, 
 he must be quite sure that it could not win a way 
 back into his heart. For she of whom it must 
 consist, whose very name was music, whose presence, 
 as he said, was like the fluting of a bird, was the re- 
 nounced, impossible She; that She whom for reason 
 clear and good he had loved (upon his knees, with 
 
38 REST HARROW 
 
 covered eyes), and suffered go her ways. The phil- 
 osopher was clear upon the point that Volume I. 
 must be withheld for a season, and that Volume II., 
 if it was to deal with the enchantment of the flitted 
 Mary, must wait also. Mary must be charitably 
 handled; give her time. In Volume the third, 
 now, we were to have neither music on the one 
 hand, nor the sharp fragrance of loose hair and 
 warm breath on the other; but green thoughts, 
 rather, "calm of mind, all passion spent," as surely 
 at forty-two it must be. Let the wise book deal 
 with life, not the living; with love, not of woman; 
 with death, but not of the body. 
 
 Early in the third year this wanderer, come 
 to anchor, began his book, and at his desk I pro- 
 pose to leave him until near the end of mine. But, 
 that he shall know the man again when the tale 
 hath need of him, the reader will be pleased to ac- 
 company me into his neighbourhood for a moment. 
 
 Into the great ridge of chalk which is the back- 
 bone of South Wilts, and runs east and west from 
 Sarum to Shaftesbury, there cuts up from the 
 south a deep, winding, and narrow valley. The 
 hills, between whose breasts it runs a turfy way, 
 fold one into the other; a man coming up from 
 Blandford, and minded to strike across country 
 to Marlborough, might well pass within two hun- 
 dred yards of our recluse and never see a sign of 
 him. It was at the head of this glen, sheltered by 
 hills from north, east, -and west, but open full to 
 the south, he had built his one-storied, deep-eaved 
 
DIOGENES' NEW HOUSE 39 
 
 house of larch and shingles. Here, under the sky, 
 he watched and laboured and slept, and saw nobody, 
 living principally on vegetables of his own growing, 
 and cheese, which he made from the milk of a flock 
 of goats. Bread he had once a week from a peasant's 
 cottage at the valley's foot; gypsy folk brought him 
 occasionally tea and tobacco. For the most part 
 he drank water, and was too good a traveller to 
 be rooted to his pipe. 
 
 The group behind him sloped sharply up to 
 the ridge, which we call the Race-Plain in those 
 parts, and had nourished, when he first took up 
 his rest below it, little but nettles, mulleins, and 
 scrub of elder. A few fair trees — ash, thorn, 
 spindle, service — struggled with the undergrowth 
 which should live. He was for the trees, needing 
 their shade; cleared the ground, terraced it with 
 infinite pains, and utilised the water of a mist pool 
 which he had made on the high land by a system 
 of canals of remarkable neatness and ingenuity. 
 Tree-trunks, split and hollowed out, conveyed what 
 water he wanted as and whither he would. 
 
 To the west of his dwelling the slope was gen- 
 tler, and there woods and brake-fern grew peace- 
 fully together and made a fine refuge from the 
 heats. Behind this shelter, hidden from sight of 
 the house, he had a broad lynch for his vegetables, 
 and grew and protected them to be the envy and 
 despair of rabbits. In the woods, and below, in 
 the valley bottom, where wind-sown thorns made a 
 natural park, his goats found eatage. He reserved 
 
40 REST HARROW 
 
 the terraces about the house for the flowers which 
 he loved and understood. 
 
 He was an expert gardener, who in his day had 
 been famous for his skill in naturalisation. His 
 feats in this work have made a stir beyond our 
 shores. Alpine plants grow wild upon Enghsh 
 rock-faces at his whim, irises from the glaring 
 crags of the Caucasus spread out their filmy wings, 
 when he bids them, on Devonshire tors. These 
 wonders he chose not to repeat — for reasons. Pence, 
 to begin with, failed him. The work itself was as- 
 sociated with the happiest and the saddest moments 
 of his life; he had not the heart to begin it. More- 
 over, in the course of his year's work of house- 
 building and settling in, he had kept an eye for 
 Nature's way in his valley, and when it came to 
 making a flower-garden he found that she had one 
 there to his hand. 
 
 He said, "Nothing is lovelier in flowers than 
 true colour. Form is nothing to Nature; it is 
 one of Art's tricks. Here I may have a succession 
 of pure washes by mere concentration of what I 
 find. The downs give me everj^hing; all I have 
 to do is to group them. 
 
 "Here is my design. For early spring, cowslips 
 in a cloud. Scattered broadcast, they are happy 
 accidents which you come upon walking; but if you 
 mass them their scent tells, and you find they are 
 nearer the colour of oranges than of limes. 
 
 "For mid- April and early May I have the orchids 
 — a blood-spatter on the bottom; higher the flecked 
 
A FLOWER-SCHEME 41 
 
 white, the pink, and the yellow with brown. Then 
 for a shelf among rocks the milk-worts, the sky- 
 blue, the white and the pink; with these I float 
 out May like Fra Angelico. For June there are 
 Ragged Robins like filaments of rosy cloud, and 
 Forget-me-not to drift like wood-smoke over the 
 chalk rubble. In July I have a pageant. Fox- 
 glove and Eglantine make melodious my woods; 
 Ladies' Slipper gives a golden cope to the hillside, 
 with purple campanula to wind about it like a 
 scarf. After this — ^August, September, October — 
 our uplands faint out in semitones: grey scabious, 
 grey harebell, pale bed-straw, white meadowsweet, 
 like the lace of an old lady's cap. But even so, 
 if I must have a sunset glow of brown-pink, herb- 
 willow gives it me. Pinch out the leader of each slim 
 spike, and you make a different plant of it." Thus 
 the poet embroidered the philosopher's text, and 
 kept away from his memories, and husbanded his 
 pence. 
 
 These things, at any rate, he did, collecting 
 with diligence the plants to his hand, separating 
 them from the grasses and bents in which they 
 hid, massing them and marshalling to his purposes. 
 The thing was done with extreme art and infinite 
 patience; the result, a rainbow stream of colour 
 through the working year. 
 
 He added a few foreign growths: cyclamen for 
 the woods, because he did not see how one could do 
 without them who had once seen them in Calabria; 
 wild gladiolus, because it loved the com, and there 
 
42 REST HARROW 
 
 was land in tillage within a mile of him; a few 
 primulas for his conduit's edges; wild crocus, be- 
 cause She whom he had loved best had loved them; 
 colchicums for the bottoms in Autumn, because 
 once She, straying with him in meadows, had 
 picked some for her bosom and at parting given 
 him one. He had it still, though he never cared 
 to look at it. She and it belonged to his first volume, 
 and neither crocus nor colchicum had been added at 
 the date of which I write. He planted them when 
 he reopened that book, and they are thriving now. 
 Here was work enough for a man somewhat 
 mauled by the world to forget his hard knocks 
 withal; and he forgot them. Looking about him, 
 the length and breadth of his silent and lonely 
 valley, he could see nothing but amenity in the 
 earth which owed man so little. It was so with 
 him at this time that the more he saw to love in 
 Nature the less he could find admirable in man, 
 who denied her at every turn. It was men, not 
 She, who had given him his bruises; it was She, 
 not men, who had taught him how to forget them. 
 When outraged Society cried him down for a breaker 
 of laws, he had replied that, so far as he knew, 
 he had broken none of Nature's; and had it been 
 argued that we live otherwise than as the beasts 
 that perish, he would have retorted, "Whether 
 the beasts perish or not, it is very clear that they 
 live to the full in this world, and that we don't. 
 Suppose they perish, at least they have lived. If 
 we are to live hereafter, as to which no one is cer- 
 
The hum of cities, and buzz of dinner -tables 
 his ears not at all. 
 
 sound in 
 
HE STATES THE LAW 43 
 
 tain, we are faced at our temporal death with the 
 fact that, bom into this world with certain faculties, 
 instincts, appetites, and senses, we have let most of 
 them atrophy, and the rest rot, by many contribu- 
 tory causes, of which the chief is over-eating. If 
 I die, to live again, I have it behind me that I have 
 lived well already. I am that much to the good. 
 And, that others may have thfe same fortune, I 
 shall devote what time remains to me to teaching 
 the truth, TJie less you have the more you are. This 
 was his intention when he sat down to pen his 
 Shepherd's Crown ; before he dared look back 
 upon Open Country, or to plant the sacred crocus, 
 or to look upon the dry colchicum flower which had 
 been granted the grace of- a fair breast. 
 
 We meet him again, but not yet. We have him 
 fast in his moorings, and are to see him rather 
 as a fixed point about which other wandering lights 
 stray in narrowing circles, to which they converge. 
 We are to conceive of him, if you please, as writ- 
 ing his Book, while the hum of cities, and buzz 
 of dinner-tables, noisy enough to us and full of 
 excitement, sound in his ears not at all. And when 
 I have done, you will discover, if you care, why he 
 changed the title of his third volume from Shepherd's 
 Crown, and chose it to be called Rest Harrow. 
 
 The way thither is long, and many things are 
 to happen to many people; but little happens to 
 him except the wheeling of the years. 
 
BOOK II 
 
 SANCHIA AT WANLESS HALL 
 
A TELEGRAM was handed to her as she came in 
 from the garden, her broad-brimmed straw hat in 
 her hand, and a bunch of fritillaries nodding in 
 her blouse. That dates and places her at once: 
 the time was April, and she was fond of curious 
 flowers. She stood in the doorway to get the 
 sunset glow upon the missive, and was herself 
 ensanguined and enhanced, a sunny-haired, low- 
 breasted young woman of middle height, rather 
 faintly coloured, wholesome to see, with a bowed 
 upper lip, and clear, grey-blue eyes of extreme 
 directness and candour. A trick of looking you 
 fuU, of considering you and her answer together, 
 she had — a mild, steady beam, a radiance within 
 the orb which told of a hidden glory. Her brows 
 were level, eyebrows arched; her bust, though set 
 like Aphrodite's of Melos, was full. The curving 
 comers of the bow of her lips assured her the pos- 
 session, even when she was most serious, of a lurk- 
 ing smile. Taking off her gardening gloves that 
 she might break the red envelope, she disclosed a 
 pair of fine, white, nervous hands, and pointed 
 fingers which wore no rings. 
 
 47 
 
48 REST HARROW 
 
 The address, which she was careful to read be- 
 fore she tore the envelope, was — 
 
 Miss Percival, Wanless, Felsboro'. 
 
 Opening then, she read as follows: — 
 
 Home to-morrow seven people Ingram. 
 
 If she frowned slightly, it was a mere approach 
 of the fine eyebrows to each other. She certainly 
 smiled — ^wisely and meditatively, without showing 
 her teeth. She touched her chin — a rounded, full 
 chin — ^with the telegram, as she looked up at the 
 maid who brought it. 
 
 "I must see Mrs. Benson about this. It's from 
 Mr. Ingram." 
 
 "Yes, Miss Percival." 
 
 A friendly desire to share the puzzle was now 
 manifest in the clear eyes. 
 
 "You see, Minnie, it might mean one of two 
 things, and I am not quite sure which of them it 
 does mean." She looked again at the message 
 with amused interest; but one could not have 
 said whether she was amused at her interest, or 
 interested in her amusement. That was part of 
 Miss Percival's charm, that she was always baffling 
 you. 
 
 But Minnie, the maid, was demure and monot- 
 onous under the attack of friendly desires. "No, 
 Miss Percival," she said, and added, "I am sure I 
 couldn't say." She stood aside from the doorway 
 
SANCHIA ON HER WAY 49 
 
 as the young lady entered the billiard-room, say- 
 ing, as she went, "Ask Mrs. Benson to come to 
 my room, Minnie, please; and tell Frodsham I 
 should like to see him directly he comes to-morrow 
 morning." 
 
 She heard Minnie's "Very well. Miss Percival," 
 as she disappeared, smiling still, and with a shght 
 heightening of colour. When her colour rose, it 
 rose evenly, flooding her face and neck with the 
 dawn-hue. There were no patches or streaks of 
 flame; she showed, as it were, incandescent. 
 
 She crossed the hall in the deepening dusk, a 
 fine, littered room, where a great log-fire revealed 
 the tall portraits of ladies and gentleman of long 
 ago-^sportsmen with spaniels at their feet, general 
 officers in scarlet, pointing through smoke the 
 direction of the enemy, a judge in ermine and full 
 bottomed wig, a lady in white satin leaning against 
 a broken column in a park, and backed by a brew- 
 ing thunderstorm; and as she went her way gave 
 a couple of glances to right and left, picked up a 
 Bradshaw from a side-table, stooped to put a tiger- 
 skin straight. She continued down a long corridor, 
 swinging her hat, and entered an open doorway 
 at the extreme end. By the way she tossed the hat 
 on to a chair and stirred the crackling logs with the 
 point of her shoe, it was to be supposed that she 
 was in her demesne. Standing with a foot on the 
 fender she presently fell into a reverie, and presently 
 reopened and re-read her telegr9,m. Certainly she 
 
50 REST HARROW 
 
 was smiling, and certainly her colour was en- 
 hanced. 
 
 The room, though business-like, was feminine. 
 It had a Chippendale bureau between the windows, 
 its pigeon-holes stuffed with papers; but there were 
 flowers upon it, and elsewhere many photographs, 
 and pictures evidently chosen by the tenant. The 
 ■Dante from the Bargello was one, the three headless 
 Fates of the Parthenon another; the Hermes and 
 the Sophocles, all in autogravure. It had a piano 
 and a small bookcase containing the poets in green 
 morocco, a uniform set. Elsewhere, in a larger book- 
 case, were miscellaneous volumes, by no means all nov- 
 els, though novels there were. One shelf was filled 
 with household books: cookery, bee-keeping, poultry, 
 the Dog in Health and Disease, the horse, the flower- 
 garden. Botany, British Edible Fungi, the World of 
 Vegetables, were some of the subjects treated of. Be- 
 low the bookcase was a row of japanned tin boxes, 
 carefully lettered in white paint. House Accounts, 
 Garden Accounts, Stable Accounts, one read. A fourth 
 bore the words "Wood Sales and Miscellaneous." 
 
 If you were alone, waiting in the room, you 
 would glance at the photographs perched about, 
 like alighting butterflies, upon piano and mantel- 
 shelf and occasional table. You would pass over, 
 I beheve, the children on ponies and in sailor suits, 
 that elderly, ample lady, brooched and in black, 
 beaming under the status of Grandmamma, that 
 gaitered gentleman with a square-topped felt hat 
 upon his head and grizzled whiskers below his 
 
PHOTOGRAPHS 51 
 
 ears, in favour of a group of five girls in black 
 muslin and lace, sisters evidently, prosperously to- 
 gether, an uncommonly happy five. They look on 
 good terms with themselves and with each other. 
 They look frankly at you out of the frame — ^and 
 how they must have dazzled the photographer with 
 their five pair of bright, uncompromising eyes! 
 Hands rest easily upon familiar shoulders, elbows 
 on knees. One of them smiles outright, two are 
 very ready to smile; one is more serious, as be- 
 comes the eldest of five; and one is round-cheeked 
 and solemn — the baby. 
 
 Miss Percival and her sisters, it's clear. One 
 can't mistake the rounded chin, the level brows, 
 the promise of womanhood. Women should always 
 be photographed in evening dress if, like the Misses 
 Percival, they have nothing to hide. But now to 
 pick out our Miss Percival. You will observe that 
 the young ladies' names are neatly printed beneath 
 their persons. 
 
 Even if I were sure of dates, I should not insist 
 upon the serious one. So far as I can judge, the 
 photograph is some eight or ten years old. I go 
 by the style of hair-dressing which it shows, and 
 by the name of the photographer, who signs from 
 Wigmore Street. He is out of date;, fashion has 
 deserted him. Then that grave, watchful young 
 goddess, who sits enthroned with her nymphs about 
 her, must be a great deal older than our lady of 
 this room, of the doubtful smile and friendly de- 
 sires. She has the sedate air of eight-and-twenty, 
 
52 REST HARROW 
 
 and by this time must be thirty-six or even more. 
 She is Philippa, anyhow, we read. Who comes next ? 
 Here is Hawise, standing behind her of the throne 
 and the centre, with a hand on her bare shoulder. 
 She is laughing, sleepily; she is distinctly pretty, 
 but distinctly, also, fat. She cannot be the owner 
 of this room. 
 
 There's a taste for names in the Percival family: 
 we have Philippa, Hawise. Now for the seated 
 pair, one on either side of Philippa: they are Melu- 
 sine, who has a long neck and a very demure look, 
 and a great deal of hair, and Victoria, who, having 
 just tossed back her head, lifts her chin and glim- 
 mers at you through half-shut eyes. Her lips laugh 
 snugly at some mischief meditating. Neither of 
 these can be our lady, who must therefore be the 
 last and youngest, this child of eighteen or so, 
 round-cheeked, round-eyed and serious, with crit- 
 ical lids, like those of the Farnese Hera, and a 
 beautiful mouth: Sanchia-Josepha, crouched on the 
 floor at the feet of Philippa. A charming bevy of 
 maidens — Philippa, Hawise, Melusine, Victoria, 
 Sanchia-Josepha; ten years ago happily sisters and 
 rich in promise, looking out boldly at the veiled 
 years ahead of them. Ten years ago? Call it 
 eight, and you make our Miss Percival, say, six- 
 and-twenty by this time. 
 
 There are many other photographs — girls and 
 women, most of them; but here is a man, digni- 
 fied by a place apart upon the bureau. He occupies 
 one side of it by himself, balanced by the sisters 
 
A SNAPSHOT 53 
 
 at the other. A youngish man in yeomanry uni- 
 form, he appears only in torso. He has the smooth 
 head of a soldier, and rather a low, but very square, 
 forehead. His eyes are smallish, and set deep. 
 They look to be grey, light grey, but may be light 
 blue. He has a good nose, high-bridged, large, 
 thin, and practically straight. Such noses are sel- 
 dom perfectly straight, and his is not. I observe 
 that he has curled his moustache with the tongs, 
 so that it is well away from his upper lip. If I had 
 been he I should not have done that. Jt is too 
 much trouble — and if a man takes pains about his 
 toilette, those pains ought not to be evident. More- 
 over, the rnouth is by no means this young man's 
 best feature. There is a twist, the hint of a snarl 
 in the upper lip. The lower protrudes. The gen- 
 tleman is the least in life underhung. Consider his 
 chin. It has the jut of the Hapsburgs', of Charles 
 the Fifth's, not pronounced by any means, but 
 undoubtedly there. Firmness, or perhaps obsti- 
 nacy, hard judgment, an uneven temper, a leaning 
 to autocracy, I read in this portrait. There is no 
 signature, nothing to tell you who he is. Certainly, 
 no Percival. 
 
 I call your attention to one more photograph, 
 in marked distinction to others of your notice. 
 Those were, in every sense, full-dress afiEairs; this 
 one, in all senses, undress. It is the work of an 
 amateur, you can see at once — small, rather blurred 
 to begin with, not perfectly focussed, and fading 
 now towards the end of all such gear. It repre- 
 
54 REST HARROW 
 
 sents a bareheaded young lady in a white gown 
 pinned very high. She is standing in a pond, with 
 the water well over her knees. One hand keeps 
 her balance with a pole, the other grasps a streamer 
 of water-weed. Floating beyond her upon some 
 kind of raft is a man, bareheaded also, in a white 
 sweater with a rolling collar. ■ His face is shadowed 
 — you can see that his hair, black and straight, 
 falls over his eyes. He is raking up the weed with 
 his hand, his arm bare to the shoulder. Below is 
 written, in a round, sprawling hand, "To Sanchia 
 from Percy." Both the workers are intent upon 
 their task, with no idea that they are posing. The 
 girl has a Greek face, and a very fine pair of legs 
 heedlessly displayed. The man is as thin as a 
 g3:psy. Out of the dark in which his face is hidden 
 gleam his white teeth. A classical, rather than 
 romantic scene. The absence of draperies suggest 
 it; but the absence of self -consciousness is con- 
 clusive. 
 
 But I keep Miss Percival too long at the fender. 
 She had been standing there for some minutes after 
 her entry, first re-reading her telegram, next strok- 
 ing her chin with it. She was thoughtful still, and 
 still smiling. Once she looked over her shoulder 
 through the window to the dying day, and lightly 
 sighed. The time was April's end, and had been 
 squally, with violent storms; but the last onslaughts 
 of the north-wester had routed the rain-clouds. 
 The day was dying under a clear saffron sky, and 
 a thrush piped its mellow elegy. Miss Percival 
 
OMENS FOR MRS. BENSON 55 
 
 heard him, and listened, smiling with her lips, and 
 with her eyes also which the serene light soothed. 
 Her lips barely moved, just relaxed their firm 
 embrace, but no more. She held the light grate- 
 fully with her eyes, seemed unwilling to lose a mo- 
 ment of it, wistful to be still out of doors. Again 
 she lightly sighed, and presently resumed her down- 
 ward gazing at the fire. 
 
 Knuckles quavered at the door. She straightened 
 herself, turned, and called out definitely, "Come in." 
 Mrs. Benson stood before her, vast, massive, black- 
 gowned, cloudy for trouble, a cook. 
 
 There was instantly to be observed in Miss 
 Percival's lifted head and eyes the same frank 
 appeal for interchange of sentiments as had been 
 manifested to Minnie the maid. Her brows were 
 smoothed out, her smile became less dubious; her 
 intention to be friendly was deliberately expressed. 
 But truth will have it that, just as before, Mrs. 
 Benson's guard turned out at the same moment, 
 as at a signal. To vary the figure, her vedettes, 
 in touch with the advancers, fell back upon the 
 main body. 
 
 If the young lady perceived this she did not 
 cease to be amiably disposed. "Oh, Mrs. Benson," 
 she said, "I've had a telegram." 
 
 Mrs. Benson, with strict non-committal, lifted 
 her eyebrows to "Well, well!" It was as if she 
 imphed that such things were to be expected in a 
 world full of trouble. "So I hear, Miss Percival," 
 she grimly said. 
 
56 REST HARROW 
 
 "It's from Mr. Ingram, you know." 
 
 "Ah, well — " Mrs. Benson could have been 
 heard to sigh; but among the many things which 
 Miss Percival chose to ignore, this sort of thing 
 was one. Trouble to her, always, was a signal 
 which braced the nerves and sinews. 
 
 "It's to say — but I think you had better read 
 it." It was held out unfalteringly, while Mrs. 
 Benson dived for, opened, wiped, tested, and fixed 
 her spectacles. These operations concluded, it was 
 received as might have been a darlgerous explo- 
 sive. 
 
 Punctuating as she went, Mrs. Benson read, 
 "Home to-morrow — seven people — Ingram." Then 
 she looked, confirmed in her omens, over the rim 
 of her spectacles. "Seven people. Miss Percival! 
 A house-party! And, as you may say, at a mo- 
 ment's notice. Dear, dear, dear!" 
 
 Miss Percival remained cheerful. "Oh, I don't 
 read it like that," she said, went behind Mrs. Ben- 
 son, and read over her shoulder, pointing the words 
 with a pencil still wet from her mouth. "'Home 
 to-morrow, seven — ^with people — Ingram.' That's 
 what it must mean, of course." She spoke wooingly, 
 but Mrs, Benson was not to be won. 
 
 "Then, why does he say 'Seven people,' Miss 
 Percival ? Why does he say that ?" 
 
 "But he doesn't, according to me." She laughed. 
 "He is telling us the time of his train. How could 
 we meet him and his people if he didn't?" 
 
 "Ah," said Mrs. Benson, heavily prepared for 
 
MRS. BENSON ON WOMAN 57 
 
 the worst, "how could we? That's where it is, 
 you see. But of course he wouldn't think of us." 
 
 "But he does, you know. He has. He says 
 that he will have people with him. That is to 
 prepare us." Mrs. Benson's fist crashed into the 
 paper. 
 
 "How many people. Miss Percival? How many 
 people? Why, seven, of course? What else could 
 it be ? And where's the fish to come from for seven 
 people ? And what about maids aVid valets ? Does 
 he count up the likes of them? He's not Mr. In- 
 gram if he does. Not he! Nor his father before 
 him. And what's Frodsham going to do about 
 carriage-room for seven — and the servants as well 
 — and the luggage, and all? Dogs, very likely, 
 dogs and cats, and parrots. Who knows? I've 
 seen 'em bring scritch-owls and hawks on their 
 wrists before now. Oh, they'll do an5rthing, some of 
 'em — anything to be looked at. That's what it is; 
 they want looking at. And I'd look at 'em if I had 
 my way!" 
 
 Mrs. Benson, shining with indignant heat, had 
 to be pacified. She required much tact, the exer- 
 cise of a low and musical voice. It cooed upon 
 her like a dove's. Miss Percival used her hands, 
 too, and in the end had one of them on Mrs. Ben- 
 son's shoulder. The charm worked. Dinner should 
 be cooked for five or six; Frodsham should meet 
 the seven-four from London with the omnibus and 
 luggage-cart. There would be no dogs at this time 
 of year. Parrots were urged upon her again, but 
 
58 REST HARROW 
 
 tentatively. She chuckled them away, musically, 
 with real relish for the picture. She was sure there 
 would be no parrots. Now she must see about the 
 bedrooms — but Mrs. Benson peered round into her 
 glowing face. 
 
 "And what about your supper, Miss Percival? 
 It's just upon ready. And there's a sweet-bread." 
 
 Miss Percival almost caressed the ridiculous good 
 soul. Her arm remained about her shoulder, her 
 hand touched it. "How nice of you! I'll go and 
 get ready at once. Then I'll see what rooms we 
 had better have. Wasn't it lucky we did the drawing- 
 rooms last week?" 
 
 Gloom gathered again. Mrs. Benson thought 
 that some people didn't deserve their luck. It 
 was clear to whom she referred; certainly not to 
 Miss Percival, for instance. But the young lady, 
 with really extraordinary simplicity, replied that 
 surely Mr. Ingram deserved credit for having 
 well-chosen his ministers. "Yourself," she said, "for 
 the kitchen, and me for the hall." She exploded 
 this little bomb with some heightening of colour. 
 
 Mrs. Benson, glancing at her sideways, observed 
 the blush, and was scared. She blinked. Miss 
 Percival's blush deepened. 
 
 In the awkward pause that ensued the friendly 
 hand was about to be removed, when Mrs. Benson, 
 with an effort which did honour to her resources, 
 said, "We all have our troubles. Miss Percival, 
 else we shouldn't be here, as the Bible says. The 
 good Book! Well for them as read therein. Now, 
 
HINTS OF BLACK BLOOD 59 
 
 only this afternoon Mr. Menzies was talking to 
 me about things at large, and he says, 'Mrs. Ben- 
 son, what's to be done with Struan Glyde?' quite 
 sudden. So I says, 'And what should be done 
 with such a one, Mr. Menzies, but wallop him?' 
 and he shakes his head and says, 'He's on the 
 catarampus, ma'am — in one of his black fits. Tells 
 me to go my way and let him alone; then turns 
 his back.' Now, what about such troubles as that. 
 Miss Percival?" 
 
 Miss Percival looked serious, but not especially 
 interested. Her eyes looked before her, but seemed 
 not to see anything. She asked, "What did Mr. 
 Menzies say to him next?" but if she was interested 
 it was not in that matter. 
 
 Mrs. Benson brandished her voice. "Ha, you 
 may well ask me. 'No, my man,' he says, 'but 
 'tis you that must go mine while I'm head-gardener 
 at Wanless,' he says. That's what Mr. Menzies 
 told him, the elderly man that he is — and now 
 look at this. Young Glyde turns his back upon 
 him, with no more notice taken than you or I would 
 have of a flea on the arm. Insolence, that is. Down- 
 right insolence of an elderly man. Ah," said Mrs. 
 Benson with tightening lips, "if you come to trou- 
 bles!" 
 
 Miss Percival's tone was s)mipathetic, if her eyes 
 were still sightless. "Really! I'm very sorry. I'U 
 see Mr. Menzies about it to-morrow, and of course 
 I'll talk to Struan. He is difiicult — it's very tire- 
 some of him. I saw him this afternoon but had no 
 
6o REST HARROW 
 
 notion of all this. I can't think how it is. Nerves, 
 I suppose. He's a human creature, you see, as well 
 as a gardener." 
 
 Mrs. Benson was incapable of seeing such a pos- 
 sible combination: her explanation was simpler. 
 Human! She scorned him. "Bad blood," she 
 said with energy; "bad, black, gypsy blood. He'll 
 be murdering one of us in her bed in a day or two. 
 You see if he don't." 
 
 Miss Percival did not deny the suggestion. She 
 considered it rather — its effect, its effectiveness. 
 "Struan is tiresome, of course," she said, "but I do 
 think he has tried to restrain himself lately. He 
 promised me he would." She turned her full gaze 
 suddenly upon Mrs. Benson, and almost disarmed 
 that lady. "I like him, you know. He's very nice 
 to me." 
 
 Mrs. Benson gasped, but recovered just in time 
 to resume the dark oracles in her keeping. "Ah," 
 she said, "he would be. If you can call it nice " 
 
 "He's wonderful in the garden," Miss Percival 
 calmly continued. " Even Menzies admits it. He'U 
 work all day. He's never tired." 
 
 "Nor's a tiger," the cook snapped. "Nor's a 
 tom-cat." 
 
 Miss Percival looked pitifully at her and smiled. 
 "Poor Struan — you don't like him. I'll see him 
 to-night. I have an influence, I think." 
 
 Mrs. Benson touched the hand that lay within 
 her reach, which had lately been upon her shoulder. 
 "Don't, my dear, don't," she 'said. 
 
HINTS OF BLACK BLOOD 6 1 
 
 "Why not?" asked the lady with her lifted 
 brows. ' ' Why shouldn't I ? " 
 
 "Influence! The likes of him! — Gypsy blood at 
 midnight — soft-voiced, murderous " 
 
 She gave no coherent answer, but smiled always, 
 then leaned forward and stroked Mrs. Benson 
 upon her personable cheek. "Dear old thing, let 
 me do as I like. It's much better for everybody," 
 she presently said. 
 
II 
 
 It had clouded over after sunset: there was no 
 moon visible, but an irradiance was omnipresent, 
 and showed the muffled yew-tree walks, and the 
 greater trees colossal, mountains overshadowing the 
 land. Here and there, as you went, glimmered 
 daffodils, like the Pleiades half-veiled, and long 
 files of crocuses burned like waning fires. 
 
 Miss Percival, at about nine o'clock, came gently 
 down one of these alleys, with a scarf over her head 
 and shoulders. She looked like a nymph in Tan- 
 agra. And as if she knew where she was going, 
 exactly, she walked gently but unfalteringly between 
 the linked crocus-beacons to where the alley broad- 
 ened into a bay of cut yews, to where ghostly white 
 seats and a dim sun-dial seemed disposed as for 
 a scene in a comedy. The leaden statue of a skip- 
 ping faun would have been made out in a recess 
 if you had known it was there. And as she entered 
 the place a figure seated there, with elbows on knees 
 and chin between his pahns, looked up, listening, 
 watching intently, then rose and waited. 
 
 "Struan," said Miss Percival comfortably, "are 
 you there?" 
 
 "I'm here," she was answered. 
 
 62 
 
COLLOQUY IN THE DUSK 63 
 
 Thereupon she came easily forward and stood 
 near him. She was in white from top to toe; he 
 could see the clean outline of her head and neck, 
 defined by the hooding scarf. He had not as yet 
 taken off his hat, but now, as she stood there silent, 
 he slowly removed it. Still there was nothing said. 
 Miss Percival was very deliberate. 
 
 Presently she spoke. "You didn't tell me this 
 afternoon that you'd had a bother with Mr. Men- 
 zies. Why didn't you tell me?" 
 
 "Why should I tell you?" The words seemed 
 wrung from him. "Why should you care?" 
 
 "Of course I care," she said. "You know that 
 I care. Why didn't you tell me? . . . But I know 
 why you didn't." 
 
 "You do not." He denied her hotly. 
 
 "Oh, but I do. Because you were ashamed." 
 
 "It was not. I'm not ashamed. He's an old 
 fool. He thinks he can teach me my business. 
 Melons! Plants! Why, I'm one of them. What 
 can he teach me?" 
 
 "He's a very good gardener," Miss Percival be- 
 gan, but the rest was drowned. 
 
 "Gardener — he! He's a botcher. He measures 
 his melons by the pound. It's money he wants, 
 money-value. So much dung — so much meat. He 
 says, 'Be careful, you, of the water-pot; go steady 
 with your syringe. You'll damp off those plants 
 it you're not handy,' he tells me. To me, this! 
 Don't I know what the life of a plant must have, 
 and how, and where it must be fed? He's an old 
 
64 REST HARRO\y 
 
 fool, and you know it. And I'll not be told things 
 I have got by heart before a lad new to his breeches. 
 Besides," he added darkly, "he'd vexed me before 
 that, and bitterly." 
 
 "How did he vex you?" Miss Percival's voice 
 came cool and clear, but commanding. 
 
 "That I cannot tell you," said he. 
 
 "But I want to know." This seemed to her 
 suflScing reason. 
 
 But he was dogged. "Then I can't help you. 
 You cannot be told." 
 
 "But perhaps I ought to be told. Do you think 
 I ought?" 
 
 "Indeed, I don't know." 
 
 "Well, will you tell me?" 
 
 "I will not, indeed. That is, I cannot." 
 
 "It's very extraordinary." 
 
 He made no answer. 
 
 "Struan," said Miss Percival, after a while, "you 
 are angry." 
 
 He turned quickly. "With you? Never." 
 
 "I didn't say that. I said you were angry." 
 
 He said, "Ah — and so I am." 
 
 "I am included, I suppose." 
 
 "You are not. It could not be." 
 
 She laughed. "I don't know " 
 
 He was vehement. "But you do know. You 
 know it very well." 
 
 She had no answer; but she smiled to herself; 
 and I have no doubt she knew. 
 
 For two minutes or more there was silence, a 
 
COLLOQUY IN THE DUSK 65 
 
 time of suspense. Then Miss Percival said, "I've 
 had a telegram. Mr. Ingram is coming to-morrow." 
 
 To this he said nothing. She went on. 
 
 "He is bringing people with him. Mrs. Benson 
 was very funny about it. He is coming at seven 
 with some people, and she would read it that he 
 was coming with seven people. When I asked 
 her, how could we meet him if he had not told us 
 the time? she made a grievance of it, and said 
 that was so like him. So it is, of course." 
 
 Struan remained speechless, and had turned 
 away his face. Miss Percival continued her re- 
 flections aloud. 
 
 "How long has he been away? More than a 
 year. He wrote once from Singapore — then from 
 Rawal-pindi — and that was all, until I got this 
 telegram. He's very casual, I must say." Here 
 she paused. 
 
 Struan said suddenly, "Miss Percival, I'm going." 
 
 She turned with interest, and asked, with not 
 too much interest, "Oh! Why?" 
 
 He said, "You know why." 
 
 She lowered her voice by a tone, but no more. 
 "I hope you won't. It would be a pity. There's 
 no real reason for it. I'll speak to Menzies to- 
 morrow. He doesn't mean any harm to you. He's 
 only old and grumpy." 
 
 "He's a fool," said Struan. "Certainly, he's a 
 fool. But that's neither here nor there." 
 
 Miss Percival, ignoring what she chose to ignore, 
 said again, "I hope you won't go." 
 
66 REST HARROW 
 
 The young man shifted his ground, and dug 
 his heel into the turf. "I must— indeed, I must." 
 
 "Where shall you go?" 
 
 "God knows." 
 
 "Why must you go?" 
 
 "You know why." 
 
 "Is it because of Menzies?" 
 
 He threw his head up. "Menzies, forsooth!" 
 He scorned Menzies. 
 
 " Then I don't see why you should go. I shouldn't 
 like it. I hope you will stay." 
 
 He looked at her now across the dusk, intensely. 
 "You hope I will stay?" 
 
 "Yes, certainly I do." 
 
 "You hope I will stay? You ask me to stay?" 
 
 She considered. Then she said, "Yes, I think 
 so. Yes, I do." 
 
 "Then," said Struan, "God help us all. I stay." 
 
 Miss Percival said cheerfully, "I'm so glad. 
 I'll speak to Menzies to-morrow, and get him to 
 leave you alone. He knows how well you do the 
 melons, but of course he would never admit it." 
 She broke off the interview shortly afterwards. 
 
 "I'm going to bed," she told him. "I've got lots 
 to do to-morrow. Heaps of things. You must get 
 me some of your flowers for the rooms." 
 
 He was not appeased, "Menzies will do it," 
 he said. She laughed. 
 
 "You know what Menzies wiU say — 'Pelargoni- 
 ums for the hall, Miss Percival, and some nice 
 maidenhair.' He's not inventive, poor Menzies." 
 
SANCHIA PREVAILS 67 
 
 "He's an old fool," said Struan. "He takes 
 flowers for spangles in a circus." 
 
 Miss Percival again laughed softly, and held out 
 her hand. "Good-night," she said. "I'm going." 
 
 He touched her hand, and then put his own be- 
 hind his back. 
 
 "Aren't you going to bed?" she asked him. 
 
 "Presently," he said. "I'm going to walk round 
 for a while." 
 
 She hovered for a moment, seemed to hesitate, 
 to weigh the attractions of walking round. It had 
 a charm. Then she decided. 
 
 "Good-night," she bade him for the third time. 
 
 He grumbled his good-night, and watched her 
 fade into the dark. Not until she was completely 
 hidden up did he put on his hat again. Then he 
 prowled noiselessly about among the breathing 
 flowers. 
 
Ill 
 
 Wanless, as they call it there, — Wanless Hall, 
 Felsboro', as it is politically, — stands squarely and 
 deeply in the hills of a northern county, plentifully 
 embowered in trees, with a river washing its south- 
 ern side. To reach house from river you ascend 
 a gentle slope of lawns and groves for some hun- 
 dreds of feet, then find a broad stepway. That 
 takes you to a terraced, parapeted garden very 
 well tended, as one should be which has four men 
 at its disposition. There stands the house of Wan- 
 less, stone-built in the days of Charles the Second 
 — a gleaming, grey front, covered to the first-floor 
 windows with a magnolia of unknown age. The 
 main entrance faces north, from which point the 
 true shape of the place is revealed as a long body 
 with wings, an E-shaped house. Here are the 
 carriage-drive and carriage-sweep; then there's a 
 belt of trees, and beyond that, shaped by the valley, 
 which gradually narrows to the incline of the hills, 
 kitchen-gardens, glass-houses, a pond (fed by a 
 beck), water meadows, and hanging woods. Above 
 those again heather-clad slopes climb to piled rocks 
 and a ragged sky-line. It is a fine property with 
 5,000 acres of shooting, a good many farms, and a 
 
 68 
 
MR. INGRAM ARRIVES 69 
 
 hill village to its account. The lodge at the gate 
 was half a mile away, at the end of a good avenue 
 of beech and sycamore. 
 
 Mr. Nevile Ingram who, at thirty, had still the 
 air of a brisk young man and was owner by inheri- 
 tance of this place, arrived with his guests by the 
 7.4 train from London. The omnibus brought 
 the four of them, with a maid sitting on the box 
 beside Frodsham, and a bank of luggage behind 
 her head. No parrots, no dogs ; but a Mr. Chevenix 
 brought his fishing-rods. Besides this Mr. Chevenix, 
 who had been here before, there was an elderly Mrs. 
 Devereux, white-haired and short-sighted, who used, 
 whenever she could find them, a pair of long-handled 
 glasses, and a young Mrs. Wilmot, pretty, very fair, 
 rather helpless. It was her maid who shared the 
 box-seat with Frodsham. 
 
 The absence of a footman at the station had 
 been noted by Mrs. Devereux, the absence of any 
 man-servant at the house struck her as remarkable. 
 There was none, and had been none since Miss 
 Percival assumed command; but at this time 
 Mrs. Devereux knew nothing of Miss Percival. 
 Nevile Ingram, banging the door open with his 
 knee, jumped out first, and stood to help the ladies; 
 the next to emerge was Mr. Chevenix who, the mo- 
 ment he touched earth, said "Right!" and looked 
 as if he had sparkled. It was clear that he had 
 abundant health and was satisfied with all the 
 arrangements of Providence. He surveyed the 
 house, the awaiting virgins at the door, wished 
 
yo REST HARROW 
 
 them both good evening, nosed the upper air, 
 snuffed the gale, said "Good old Wanless — ^my 
 precious rods!" and dived for them before the 
 ladies could descend. Thereafter a timidly poising 
 foot and some robust breadth of stocking revealed 
 the anxieties of Mrs. Devereux. On alighting she 
 shook herself like a hen, and her draperies rustled 
 to their length. She found her lorgnettes and sur- 
 veyed (so to speak) the absent men-servants with 
 blank misgivings. A maid advanced for her jewel- 
 case, but Mrs. Devereux, shutting her eyes, said 
 "Thanks, I carry it," and pressed it to her bosom. 
 A butler would have had it. Meantime, Mrs. 
 Wilmot, a hand to each cavalier, was descending 
 from the omnibus. She was a pretty, bedraped 
 lady, with wide blue Greuze eyes, and soft lips, 
 always wet and mostly apart. She murmured, 
 "How kind you are to me," and liked it from 
 Ingram to Chevenix. Ingram said nothing, but 
 Chevenix dropped down his brisk "By Jove, Mrs. 
 Wilmot, that's nothing to what I could do for you 
 — ^nothing at all." And then they turned to the 
 house. 
 
 When Miss Percival, looking frailer than she 
 really was because of her black gown, fairer, that 
 is, and paler, entered the hall, she found the party 
 at a loose end. Mr. Chevenix was in a deep chair, 
 turning over Bradshaw, and whistling softly to 
 himself. Ingram, hands in pockets, was deprecat- 
 ing the portraits of his ancestors to the two ladies, 
 
SANCHIA IS TIMELy 71 
 
 who were not at all interested in them. He ap- 
 peared to be considerably bored by his guests, 
 and they to be aware of it. Miss Percival's ar- 
 rival was timely, if only because she effectively chased 
 out ennui. Chevenix, as if he had been waiting 
 for her, jumped up and went to meet her. He shook 
 hands. "Hulloa, Sancie!" he was heard distinctly 
 to say. "By Jove, I'm glad to see you again." The 
 latter sentence was not quite audible, but sufficiently 
 so to send Mrs. Devereux' lorgnettes up to her nose. 
 Sanchia herself, receiving civilities as if bom to 
 them, impelled her to keep them there. She had 
 appeared silently and suddenly out of the blue. 
 And now she hovered, smiling, fair, and uncon- 
 cerned, like a goddess out of a chariot come to deal 
 judgment, and listened charitably to Mr. Chevenix. 
 How odd! How more than odd! Mrs. Wilmot 
 looked as if her eyes were full of tears, but let nothing 
 escape her. As for Ingram, he greeted the appari- 
 tion with a smile and a nod sideways. But Mrs. 
 Devereux could have sworn to a scare in the eye. 
 "How are you, Sanchia?" he said, and then to his 
 guests, "Miss Percival will show you where you aU 
 are, if you'll — Dinner's at half-past eight, I be- 
 lieve. At least, it always used to be; but I've been 
 away for a year, and they may have changed all 
 that. Have you, by the way?" he asked, with a 
 sudden turn to Miss Percival. 
 
 She looked calmly at him. "No. It's still at 
 half-past eight," she said. He lit his cigarette. 
 
 "Will you show these ladies their rooms?" he 
 
72 REST HARROW 
 
 required of her, adding as an afterthought, "'Mrs. 
 Devereux, Mrs. Wilmot. Mrs. Wilmot has a maid 
 somewhere." 
 
 It was a quasi-introduction, awkwardly done. 
 Sanchia gravely bowed, and all might have been 
 well had not her gentle smile persisted. The 
 baffling quality of this, the archaic enigma of it, 
 made Mrs. Wilmot stare at her helpless with brim- 
 ming blue eyes. It made Mrs. Devereux shiver. 
 It was she, however, who accepted the inclination 
 of the head. "Good evening to you," she said. 
 The housekeeper! This — ^person! The pair of them 
 followed her upstairs, Mrs. Devereux marching be- 
 fore, like one of the old regime to the guillotine, 
 Mrs. Wilmot trailing in her wake. 
 
 Young Chevenix, when they had disappeared, 
 returned with a grin to his Bradshaw. "No change 
 from Sanchia," he said; and "Let's see: Birming- 
 ham depart 4.45. By Gad, that's a good train. 
 No," he resumed; "no change out of Sancie. How 
 long is it since you were here, Nevile?" 
 
 Ingram was staring blankly out of window. 
 "I think a year. I don't know. You went out 
 with me to Brindisi, I believe, and that was April, 
 and so's this — ^just. So you can work it out. D'you 
 want me to j&x you up? You're in the east wing, 
 you know — I expect you are, anyhow. Where you 
 were before." 
 
 "Right," said Chevenix; "right. Only we're 
 none of us where we were before, my boy. Don't 
 flatter yourself." He shut Bradshaw with a bang, 
 
DINNER AT WANLESS 73 
 
 and went off, singing softly, to a tune of his own, 
 "No change, no change from Sanchia," which he 
 turned into "Who is Sanchia? What is she, that 
 all our swains ... ?." 
 
 Miss Percival, having played the exact and 
 perfect housekeeper above — with no apparent inter- 
 est in life but submergence in her duties — returned 
 to the ground floor and sought Minnie in the dining- 
 room. She made her survey calmly, and gave such 
 orders as pertained in smooth tones which could 
 not jar. She seemed to consult where she really 
 directed. "Shall we have the epergne ? I think 
 we will, don't you? Yes. It's a grand occasion. 
 I don't think we have ever had ladies at Wanless 
 before." An admission which staggered Minnie. 
 Her "Oh, yes. Miss Percival," and "Oh, no, Miss 
 Percival," were appreciative and good to hear. 
 
 She was butler, we find, as well as housekeeper, 
 for as she stood there, meditating the table, Ingram 
 came in, in a hurry, with ideas about wine. He 
 gave them out in jerks, without looking at her. 
 Sherry, of course, a hock, Lafite. No champagne: 
 it's beastly unless you are tired. Oh, and old 
 brandy — the very old. Nothing of the sort to be 
 had in India. The climate kills it. He stood 
 very close to her as he spoke. When he remem- 
 bered the brandy he put his hand on her shoulder, 
 and finding it there, kept it so. Minnie presently 
 went out of the room upon affairs; and then he 
 looked into her face and said in a new tone, "How 
 are you, Sancie?" He let his hand slide down, 
 
74 REST HARROW 
 
 encircled her waist lightly with his arm. She gave 
 him her grey eyes and a slow, patient smile. "I 
 am quite well," she said. "Are you?" Ingram, 
 watching her still, seemed disconcerted, as if he 
 wanted to say or do more, but couldn't, for some 
 reason. What he did was to remove his hand 
 quickly and thrust it into his trouser pocket. It 
 might have been suddenly stung, judging from his 
 way of whipping it away. "Oh, I'm all right, of 
 course. I must go and dress, I suppose." A year 
 is a long time for an absence. In the doorway he 
 stopped and looked back, a last look. "Supper in 
 my room, you know. We'll talk." She held to 
 her mysteries, and he went. 
 
 Dinner passed gaily. Miss Percival away. In- 
 gram was loquacious, though rather caustic ; Cheve- 
 nix a good foil, easy-tempered, always at a run, a 
 very fair marksman for all his random shooting. 
 His was that happy disposition which finds Na- 
 ture at large, including men, as precisely there for 
 his amusement. He relished, never failed to relish, 
 the works of God. But then he had perfect health. 
 Mrs. Devereux was something of a grandee, though 
 not quite so much of one as she suspected. Her 
 white hair towered; she wore black velvet and 
 diamonds. Mrs. Wilmot was very much of a pretty 
 woman, and knew to the turn of a hair how much. 
 She had the air of a spoiled child, which became her; 
 was golden and rosy; could pout; had dark blue 
 eyes, which she could cloud at will, and fill, as we 
 know, with tears. She excelled in pathetic silences, 
 
INGRAM'S MONOLOGUE 75 
 
 to which her parted lips gave an air of being breath- 
 less. She was beautifully dressed in cloudy, filmy 
 things, and had a soft, slight, drooping figure. 
 Innocence was her forte : her rings were superb. 
 
 One odd thing was noticeable, and noticed in- 
 tensely by Chevenix, that Ingram hardly ate any- 
 thing, though he pretended to a hearty meal. It 
 came, Chevenix saw, to dry toast and three glasses 
 of wine, practically. But he made great play with 
 knife and fork, and talked incessantly. He re- 
 vealed himself at every turn of his monologue — 
 for it came to be a monologue — as one of those men 
 whose motives are so transparently reasonable to 
 themselves that, they need never be at the trouble 
 to explain or defend any act of theirs. He was 
 witty, though occasionally brutal, as when he spoke 
 of a dragoman he had had in Egypt, whose defence 
 of his harem had cost him his place. This man, a 
 cultivated Persian, had proposed hospitality to his 
 patron in Alexandria, where he lived. Accepted, 
 he had made a great supper for Ingram, invited his 
 friends and acquaintances, procured musicians and 
 dancing-girls. It was magnificent, Ingram allowed. 
 The trouble came afterwards, when the native guests 
 had gone their ways and patron and host were 
 together. Ingram proposed a visit to the ladies — 
 "the civil thing, it appeared to me. But no, if you 
 please! Mirza turned very glum, pronounced it not 
 the custom: I must excuse him, he says. But I 
 say. Will they excuse me, my good man ? He makes 
 a sour face, so of course I know that they won't, 
 
76 REST HARROW 
 
 and that he knows they won't. Then he marches 
 away upon some errand or another, and when he 
 comes back finds me tapping at a door. You never 
 saw such a change in a chap; upon my soul, it was 
 worth it. He went white, he went grey, he went 
 livid. His eyes were like stars. No, I'm wrong. 
 They were not. They were like the flaming swords 
 which kept Adam and Eve out of the garden. Mag- 
 nificent police arrangements in Eden, they had. 
 I heard his breath whistle through his nose like 
 the wind at a keyhole. He says 'You mistake, sir. 
 You forget. Or do I deserve to be insulted?" I 
 told him that I was the insulted person in the party, 
 and the ladies came next. I swear I heard a chuckle 
 behind the door. That I swear to." 
 
 Chevenix, round-eyed and staring, was heard 
 to mutter, "Good old Nevile! Well, I'll be shot 
 . . . ." Ingram cut short his tale. 
 
 "I can't go into what followed.^ Much of it 
 was irrelevant, all of it was preposterous. It ended 
 by Mirza directing me to the nearest hotel, in per- 
 fect English. The crosser he got, the better his 
 English. That's odd, you know. Of course, I 
 chucked the chap. He lost a soft billet." 
 
 There were no comments from the auditory, 
 save such as Mrs. Wihnot's eyes may have afforded. 
 She sighed, and laid her hand for one moment, 
 caressingly, upon her neck. Her rings were cer- 
 tainly superb. 
 
 The dessert being on the table, Minnie served 
 the old brandy and retired. Ingram drank of it 
 
"WHO IS SANCHIA?" 77 
 
 freely, and began his cigarette the moment that 
 the coflfee and spirit-flame appeared. The ladies 
 withdrew to the drawing-room, and Mrs. Wilmot 
 sought the piano. But two chords had not been 
 touched before her eyes found those of Mrs. Dev- 
 ereux, who stood by the fire. Eyebrows exchanged 
 signals. 
 
 Then Mrs. Devereux said, "I am most uncom- 
 fortable," and Mrs. Wilmot sighed, "I know." 
 
IV 
 
 The quiet cause of discomfort, slippered and loose- 
 robed, sat meanwhile in an easy-chair, with her 
 feet in the fender. Her hair floated free about her 
 shoulders, silky from the brush. She had a book 
 on her knees, but did not read it. Instead she looked 
 into the fire, frowning. 
 
 Faint Hnes now printed themselves upon her 
 face; two between her brows, one defining the 
 round of each fair cheek. Her eyes showed fathom- 
 less sapphire: whatever her thoughts were of they 
 held the secret close. Their gaze was one of fascina- 
 tion, as if she saw things in the fire terrible and 
 strange, figures of the past or of the future, from 
 which she could not turn her face. The curve of 
 her upper lip, where it lay along its fellow and made 
 a dimpled end, sharpened and grew bleak. Poring 
 and smiling into the fire, she looked like a Sibyl en- 
 visaging the fate of men, not concerned in it, yet ab- 
 sorbed, interested in the play, not at all in the persons. 
 This friend of Mrs. Benson, this midnight mate of 
 young gardeners, disturber of high ladies' comfort, 
 serene controller of Wanless, she was, it would seem, 
 all things to all men, as men could take her. But 
 now she had the fell look of a cat, the long, sleek, 
 cruel smile, the staring and avid eyes. A cat she 
 
 78 
 
SANCHIA FACES FATE 79 
 
 might be, playing with her own beating heart, pat- 
 ting it, watching its throbs. 
 
 These moments of witchcraft gazing were not 
 many. They had been deliberately begun, and 
 were deliberately done with. Within their span 
 her cares were faced and co-ordinated; and the 
 business over, she sighed and sank more snugly into 
 her chair. She leaned back; her hands crossed 
 themselves in her lap; she shut her eyes. All the 
 lines upon her face softened, melted away. She 
 looked now like an Oread aswoon in the midday 
 heats, pure of thought or dread or memory. Her bos- 
 om below her laces rose and fell gently. She slept. 
 
 Outside, in the dusky dark, was one who padded 
 up and down the grass on noiseless feet, passing 
 and repassing the window, with an eye for the 
 narrow chink of light. 
 
 She slept for a very short time. Towards ten 
 o'clock she awoke. Collecting herself luxuriously, 
 she was seen to face her facts again. Evidently 
 they held her eyes waking; they were dreadfully 
 there, still unresolved or still unpalatable. Before 
 them now she plainly quailed. The flush of her 
 sleep gave delicacy to her carven beauty; she 
 looked fragile and tremulous; it would seem that 
 a little more pity of herself would bring her to tears. 
 As if she knew it, she took her measures, rose ab- 
 ruptly, and after two turns about the room went 
 to a safe, opened it, and plunged herself into the 
 ledger-book, which she took from it. Upon that 
 
8o REST HARROW 
 
 and a cash-box — with certain involuntary pauses, 
 in which her eyes concentrated and stared — she 
 remained closely engaged until half-past eleven. 
 
 At that hour, having ascertained it, she put by 
 her work, went into her bedroom, and began a 
 deliberate and careful toilet. She was pale, serious, 
 and evidently rather scared at herself; she lifted 
 her eyebrows and opened wide her eyes. But she 
 did what she had to do as daintily as ever Amina, 
 in the Arab tale, figured her rice. A person of 
 great simplicity, who did extraordinary things in 
 an ordinary way, at the hour when all Wanless 
 was going to bed, she brushed and banded her 
 shining hair, and dressed herself in silk and lace as 
 for a dinner party. To herself in the glass she 
 gave and received again a face of pure pity and 
 sorrow. She saw herself lovely and love-worthy, 
 sleek under the caress of her own beauty. Yet she 
 knew exactly what she was about to do, and how 
 she would do it, and did not falter at alh 
 
 At a quarter past twelve her summons came — a 
 knock at the door, the turning of the handle, the 
 push to open, and Ingram's voice. "Come along, 
 Sancie," he said, and went away without any more 
 ceremony. She got up from her chair, put her 
 book down, having marked her place, and foUowed 
 him after a few minutes' meditation. Ingram's 
 quarters were on the ground floor of the house, as 
 hers were, but in the opposite wing. She had two 
 rooms in the western arm of the E ; the whole of 
 the eastern was his. 
 
INGRAM AT HIS REVELS 8 1 
 
 He was at table when she came in and shut 
 the door behind her, at a table fairly naped, with 
 fine glass, silver, and flowers upon it. There was 
 hothouse fruit, too, a melon, a little pyramid of 
 strawberries in fig-leaves. He was eating smoked 
 salmon and bread and butter with appetite. By 
 his side, half empty, was a champagne glass. A 
 pint bottle stood at his elbow. 
 
 He hailed her gaily, with a jerk of his head, a 
 "Come along," and a lifted glass. Leaning back 
 as she came on, watching and waiting for her, he 
 stretched out his left arm. She smiled rather con- 
 ventionally, did not meet his eyes, but came within 
 reach. His arm encircled her, and drew her in. 
 "Well, my girl, well!" he said, glancing up, laughing, 
 tempting her to laugh. She looked down gently, 
 blushing a little, and condescended to him, stooped 
 and brushed his forehead with her lips. Conde- 
 scension expresses her act. It was exactly done as 
 one would humour an importunate child, excuse its 
 childishness, and grant it its desire of the moment. 
 
 So it must have been felt by him, for there was 
 a sharp, short tussle of wills. She would have had 
 him contented, but he was not so to be contented. 
 There was a little struggle, much silent entreaty 
 from him, much consideration from her above 
 him — her doubting, judging, discriminating eyes, 
 her smile, half -tender and half-scornful; but in the 
 end he kissed her lips, the more ardently for their 
 withholding. Then he allowed her to sit by the 
 table, not far oflF, and resumed his smoked salmon 
 
82 REST HARROW 
 
 and his zest. She dedined to share the meal; was 
 neither hungry nor thirsty, she said. "Have your 
 own way, my dear," he concluded the match; 
 "you'll feel all the better for it, I know." She 
 cupped her chin in her hand, and watched the play 
 of knife and fork, her thoughts elsewhere. 
 
 "Now, Sancie," he said presently, in his usual 
 direct manner, "how long is it since I've seen you?" 
 
 She answered at once, without looking up, "A 
 year and ten days." 
 
 He shook his head. "That's too long. That's 
 absurd. I don't like that kind of thing, as a man 
 domestically inclined. But I've been a devil of a 
 way. I wrote to you — ^from where?" 
 
 "From Singapore," she told him. 
 
 "So I did. I remember. But I went to Egypt 
 before that. First-rate place, Egypt. I know it 
 well, but am always glad to be there. Fine river 
 of its own. We went to Khartoum, and two marches 
 beyond; then Singapore and the Straits, Burmah, 
 Ceylon; then India. Didn't I write to you from 
 India?" 
 
 "Yes," she told him. She was balancing a salt- 
 spoon idly on a wine-glass, and seemed scarcely to 
 listen. He rattled on. 
 
 "Had great days in India. Shooting, fishing, 
 pig-spearing; polo, dances, rajahs, pretty women, 
 pow-wows of sorts, and a chance of a fight. All 
 in a year, my friend — ^I beg your pardon — and ten 
 days. Quick work, eh? One crowded year of 
 glorious life. A cycle of Cathay." 
 
THE BEST OF HER 83 
 
 She was looking at her saltspoon, stretched be- 
 yond her the length of her arm. "I'm sure you 
 were very happy." 
 
 He looked at her directly. "Oh, I was, you 
 know. Otherwise, I guess I should have written. 
 I was idiotically happy. And you?" 
 
 "I was busy," she told him, "idiotically busy." 
 He laughed gaily. 
 
 "That's one for me — and a shrewd one. Oh, 
 you deep-eyed scamp! Sancie, you never give 
 yourself away. I've noticed that many and many 
 a time. And not I only, I can assure you. Bill 
 Chevenix, now " 
 
 Her thoughts, her regard, were far away from a 
 world of Ingrams and Chevenixes. She may have 
 heard, but she gave no sign. He rattled on. 
 
 "Oh, you're splendid, of course you're splendid. 
 The comfort of you! I go off to the ends of the 
 world — ^without a care left behind me — or taken 
 with me, by Jove! No bothers, no worry — letters 
 opened, the right ones, answered and done with. 
 Letters forwarded, the right ones, unopened. How 
 you can guess, it beats me! No worry. You don't 
 ask me to write to you — or expect it. You don't 
 write to me — and I don't expect it. You know me 
 just as I know you. There's a confidence, a cer- 
 tainty about you. That's what's so splendid. There 
 can't be a girl in the world like you." He clasped 
 her in triumph. "My Sancie! Back I come at 
 the end of my time, and everything's in apple-pie 
 order. And to crown all, there's you at the door. 
 
84 REST HARROW 
 
 to welcome me — ^and wait your turn — and wait your 
 turn. Always the same — my wise, fine Sanchia!" 
 He leaned forward, picked up and held her hand. 
 "My dear, I love you," he said, and jumped up 
 and kissed her. Then, as he stood above her, the 
 triumphant young man, with the hand of possession 
 on her shoulder, "Upon my word," he declared to 
 the assembled universe, "this is a very satisfactory 
 world, so far as I am concerned." 
 
 When he was seated again, and invited her to 
 talk domestic affairs, she returned from her reverie, 
 and gathered in all her self-possession. The estate, 
 the household, the parish, the county: there was 
 no mistaking his interest in these matters. He was 
 interested in the smallest particulars: her broods of 
 young chicks, her pigeons, the tabby cat's kittens, 
 the Rector's baby. He asked searching questions. 
 How many cows were in milk just now; when would 
 Menzies have asparagus fit to eat ? The servants — 
 was all well there? Their young men? Nothing 
 escaped him. She was quite ready for him, took 
 a dry tone, showed a slight sense of the humour of 
 the situation, descended to trifles, had statistics at 
 her fingers' ends. She met him, in a word, as he 
 wished to be met, as jointly concerned in these 
 minute affairs. 
 
 He lit a cigar, and drew her to the fire. He 
 would have had her on his knee, but she would 
 not. She sat on a straight chair beside his easy 
 one, and allowed him to play with her hand. 
 
 He talked now in jerks, between puffs, of his 
 
INGRAM RATTLES ON 85 
 
 adventures; his first shot at a tiger, some trouble 
 with hilbnen at Peshawur, a row at a mess-table, 
 in which two chaps lost their heads, and one his 
 papers. He had been present as a guest, but had 
 kept well in the background. There had been a 
 lot of drinking done — luckily he was all right. He 
 had a good head, you see; could carry a lot of 
 stuff. 
 
 He had, by the way, "picked up" that little 
 Mrs. Wilmot on board ship. She was coming 
 home in the convoy of Mrs. Devereux. Of course 
 he had known Mrs. Devereux for years; she was 
 an institution. The little Wilmot person was a 
 widow, it seemed. Niceish sort of young woman; 
 knew the Trenchards up here, was a kind of cousin 
 of Lady Trenchard's. In fact, she was going on 
 to them from here; but not due for a week or so. 
 She had, you might say, asked to be asked, or spelled 
 for it out of those eyes of hers. You get awfully 
 friendly on board ship, you must know. You can 
 say anything — and do most things — oh, all sorts 
 of things! He had no objection — to her coming, he 
 meant; indeed, he rather liked the young party. 
 He thought Chevenix did, too. But Chevenix was 
 very much at Sanchia's disposal; "he talked a lot 
 about seeing you again, my girl." To meet him 
 again might carry her mind back — how long? 
 Eight stricken years. Was it possible that she — 
 he and she — had been here together eight years? 
 Yes, he could see that she remembered. Dear, 
 sweet Sancie! 
 
86 REST HARROW 
 
 There was bravado here on his part, and nervous- 
 ness to be discerned beneath it; for it is most cer- 
 tain that her reverie was not exactly as he would 
 have it. Her chin was in her hand, her caught 
 other hand lay idle in his own; her eyes were far- 
 gazing and sombre ; her smile was bleak. Whatever 
 she heard, whatever she thought of, she betrayed 
 nothing. 
 
 Her brooding calm spurred him in that sensi- 
 tive spot whose throb or ache tells a man whether 
 he is centre of a woman's mind or not. He must 
 know whether she was glad to have him back; 
 the wanderer returned, eh? She had not told him 
 so yet, he must observe; no, nor looked it. She was 
 mysterious, it seemed to him. "And you can speak 
 with your eyes, my dear; none better. Your tongue 
 was never very loose; but your eyes! Now, you 
 know what you can do with them, Sancie ; you know 
 very well. Speak to me, then, my dear, speak to 
 me. Speak to me only with thine . . . no, not 
 only ! You can speak in a thousand ways — with 
 your hands, with the tips of your fingers placed 
 here or there, with a bend of the head on that lovely 
 neck you have, with your faint colour, with your 
 quick breath." . . . 
 
 Fired by his own words, he worked himself into 
 enthusiasm, was enamoured of what himself pro- 
 claimed. "My beautiful — my goddess!" he called 
 her, and drew her to his heart. 
 
 And she allowed him, allowed herself to be pressed 
 there, while within her the dull fire smouldered, 
 
A DEAD WOMAN 87 
 
 and the deep, slow resentment gathered like clouds 
 about the sun. But he held her face now between 
 his two hands and forced to meet his own her un- 
 responsive eyes; and when with ardour he had 
 kissed her grave lips, the flippancy of a fool ruined 
 him, and his triumph was flattened into dust, as 
 when one crushes a puff-ball. 
 
 He suddenly held her at arms' length as he was 
 struck by an idea. "Oh, by the way, I forgot," 
 he said, and looked vaguely across the room. " Claire 
 is dead." 
 
 Sanchia's eyes concentrated and paled. The pu- 
 pils of them were specks. She paled to the lips, 
 then slowly flooded as with a tide of sanguine. She 
 withdrew herself from him; simply dropped him 
 off her. She said nothing; but she watched him 
 steadily, while within her the masked fire gleamed 
 and fitfully leapt. 
 
 Bravado made him hold on to his airy tone. 
 "She died, I'm told, at Messina, some time in 
 March. I heard it at Marseilles. Met a man who 
 told me. Yes! She's dead — and buried." 
 
 Sanchia had nothing to say. She looked, how- 
 ever, towards the door — and he detected that. 
 Her silence spread about the room, caught him 
 and enveloped him. That she was calculating how 
 long it would be before she could escape by that 
 door was absolutely clear, and the frost of her 
 silence struck down upon him so that he could not 
 gainsay her purpose. He paused irresolute, glan- 
 cing askance at her directed eyes. Then he gave in, 
 
88 REST HARROW 
 
 left her, opened the door for her. She went out, 
 folded in her own mystery, but as she went by him 
 he caught up her hand, and kissed the fingers. They 
 were very cold, and made him shiver. 
 
 "Good-night, my dear," he said, all his dash gone 
 out of him. 
 
 She said good-night very simply and went away. 
 He looked after her until she had turned the corri- 
 dor, then went to the table and poured himself 
 brandy and soda-water, drank deeply, and set down 
 the tumbler with a crash. " By God ! I am a fool," 
 he told himself. 
 
 From the garden that narrow chink of light 
 which shone through Ingram's shutter was seen to 
 collapse by one who watched it. Shortly after- 
 wards, that same haunter of the dark saw a shining 
 slit part the shutters of a window in the west wing, 
 and sighed, short and quick. He returned, to prowl 
 among the secret flowers. 
 
When, after dinner, Mrs. Devereux had told her 
 young friend that she was uncomfortable, there 
 had been no need of the words; but the slow an- 
 swering "I know" with which Mrs. Wilmot ex- 
 pressed S)mipathy was not intended to imply that 
 she shared the feeling. She herself was not at all 
 uncomfortable, because, while she saw the whole 
 state of afifairs, she was not unhopeful of coping 
 with it. Touching the place where the tender point 
 of her breast lay nestling, she assured herself that 
 she could hope. But Mrs. Devereux, moving about 
 in worlds not realised, was incensed. Nothing that 
 followed during the next few days served to clear 
 the surcharged air. It is hard to say what vexed her 
 most, where all was as it should not be. Ingram, 
 bluntly unconscious of her sufferings, gloomed over 
 his own; Chevenix spied about for what he could 
 not find, spy as he would, and made the cause of 
 woe more conspicuous than ever. As for her, the 
 disastrous fair, the deliberation with which she went 
 about her duties, and ease with which she did or 
 caused them to be done; her self-possession, gentle- 
 ness, suavity, yes! and benevolence, were sights 
 to make angels weep. Tears of blood! If Mrs. 
 
 89 
 
90 REST HARROW 
 
 Devereux, by any means, could have compressed 
 tears of blood, they had been shed. Nothing less 
 vivid would have met the case: to exhibit her scar- 
 let handkerchief to Ingram with a "There, see, I 
 weep. Tears of blood!" Day by day in that mild 
 spring weather, under pale blue skies, fanned by 
 zephyrs, she could but pace the terrace walks, and 
 stiffen herself, and stare about her — with duU dis- 
 approval for the very flowers, lest theirs, too, should 
 be frail beauty, and repeat for her only comfort that 
 she was most uncomfortable. So she was. But it 
 was because she did not understand, not because 
 she did. Curiosity ravaged her. 
 
 On one of these days, breakfast over at half -past 
 ten, young Mr. Chevenix declared his intention with 
 cheerfulness and point. "Twentieth of April — 
 Dizzy's birthday, or Shakespeare's. Nevile, I'm 
 going to fish your river. They are leaping like the 
 boys in Eugene Aram, and I'm going to give them 
 something to leap at. Now, what are all you people 
 going to do? Because, I'll be free with you, I don't 
 want you to come and look on. Mrs. Devereux, I 
 let you off. You needn't gillie me. Nevile, you 
 run away and play. Amuse Mrs. Wiknot. Do now: 
 she likes it. I'm all right." 
 
 The elder lady fixed him keenly with a look 
 which saw through his saucy assurance; Ingram's 
 eyes sought those of Mrs. Wilmot across the table. 
 She lent him their wonder for^ moment, then looked 
 down at her bosom. He was satisfied. There were 
 still women in the world. 
 
CHEVENIX A-FISHING 9 1 
 
 "What shall we do?" he asked her. "Will you 
 be driven? Will you drive? Will you ride?" 
 Another shaft rewarded him, which said, "Do with 
 me as you will." 
 
 Ingram rang the bell. Minnie appeared. "Tell 
 Frodsham, the horses at a quarter past eleven. I 
 ride Sea-King, Mrs. Wilmot Loma Doone. He had 
 better come — or Butters will do. That's all." 
 
 Mrs. Devereux had been ignored, but was not 
 displeased. It showed, at least, that Ingram knew 
 she was not to be disposed of like a white rabbit. 
 It was, however, necessary to say something, to de- 
 clare one's presence, as it were; so she collected her 
 papers. "I have letters to write. You will excuse 
 me, I know." 
 
 Chevenix sprang to the door. "By George, I 
 should think so," he said, which was well intended, 
 but too brisk. He bowed her out, shut her out, 
 and stood with his eyes on the others. 
 
 Ingram remained before the fire looking out of 
 window. "She's in a wax. I don't know why." 
 
 "Oh, don't you, my boy?" said Chevenix to 
 himself. 
 
 Mrs. Wilmot trifled with her tea-spoon. "And I 
 don't care — much," he added. Mrs. Wilmot smiled. 
 
 Mr. Chevenix, going a-fishing, saw, as he had 
 intended to see, Sanchia in the rose-garden, talk- 
 ing to Struan Glyde, who was tying ramblers. 
 "Morning, Sanchia — morning, Glyde!" Each 
 greeted him, but the youth grimly. 
 
92 
 
 REST HARROW 
 
 He talked at large. "I'm for murder. I must 
 flesh my steel. It's too good a day. to lose. Clouds 
 scurry, sun is shy; air's balmy: a trout must die. 
 That is very nearly poetry, Sancie. It is as near 
 poetry as I can hope to get this side the harps and 
 quires. Now, what on earth is Glyde doing to his 
 roses at this time of year?" 
 
 The dark-skinned, sharp-chinned young man, 
 aproned and shirt-sleeved, turned a shade darker. 
 His black eyes glowed. He was quietly arrogant, 
 even to her. "It doesn't matter," he had once told 
 her, "what you say or do. I love you, and that's 
 the sum and end of it." Now he allowed her to 
 answer for him. 
 
 "There was a wind in the night which tore them 
 about. I asked him to make them safe. I hate 
 to think of their bruised ribs." 
 
 Chevenix whistled his satisfaction with this and 
 all things else. "I see. Works of mercy. There's 
 a blessing on that, somewhere and somewhen. All 
 to the good, you know, Glyde. You never know 
 your luck, they tell me." He left Glyde and his 
 roses, and turned to the young lady. "Well now, 
 look here, Sancie — if works of mercy are toward, 
 what d'you say to one on your own account ? Here 
 I stand, an orphan boy, upon my honour. The mas- 
 ter's gone riding with the widow." He stopped his 
 rattle, as a thought struck him serious for a moment. 
 "By George, and he's a widower — so he is!" Dis- 
 charged of that, he resumed — "Yes, and Mrs. 
 Devereux has got the hump, as they say — and here 
 
SANCHIA AT EASE 93 
 
 I am at your mercy, to be made much of. Who's 
 going to admire me ? Who's going to hold my net ? 
 Who's going to say, ' Oh, what a beauty!' " He had 
 now got her thoroughly at her old ease with him. 
 Her eyes gleamed, and there was no doubting her 
 smile. "Now, rUteU you what. Your roses are all 
 right. Glyde will see to that. You leave that to 
 Glyde and his strong right arm. His strength is as 
 the strength of ten, because . . . you follow me, 
 I think ? Now, Sancie, I put it to you — I'm an old 
 friend of the family, and haven't seen you for — how 
 many years? Aren't you going to give me half-an- 
 hour of your morning?" 
 
 He pleaded by looks. He was quizzical, but in 
 earnest. Her brow was clear. 
 
 "Yes," she said. "I'll come — for half-an-hour." 
 
 "Right! Right, goddess of the silver brake. 
 Come, hold the pass with me." He turned to go, 
 and she caught him up. "I mix my poets like 
 salad, but that's because I'm in such high spirits. 
 By Jove, Sancie, it is good to see you again." She 
 met his laughing eyes with hers. She swam by 
 his side — ^took his net, and was happy. Her face 
 glowed. She had the power of casting troubles 
 behind, recuperative power, resiliency. Glyde, the 
 olive-faced, watched them down the walk, and 
 owned to a heart of lead. "As weU shut down the 
 west wind as a spirit like hers!" He turned to his 
 affair. 
 
 Below the steps, in the nut-walk which led to 
 the bridge, Chevenix altered his tone. "It's good 
 
94 REST HARROW 
 
 of you to come with me, Sancie, my dear. I'm a 
 very friendly beggar, and Nevile, you know — I 
 say!" and he turned her a sober face — "You know, 
 I suppose? His wife — eh? Dead, you know. Oh, 
 but of course you did!" 
 
 She met him unfalteringly. "Yes, he told me." 
 
 Chevenix shrugged. "I must say, you know — 
 what? Oh, of course, it was a ghastly affair all 
 along. But you know all that, as well as I do. 
 Why, her temper! Oh, awiul! I've seen her my- 
 self dead-white in one of her rages — she had hold 
 of a wine-glass so hard that it snapped, and cut 
 her hand. She looked at the blood — she didn't 
 know how it happened. And he — well, you ought 
 to know — was as bad, in his way. 'Pon my soul, 
 Sancie, Vesuvius might just as well have married 
 Etna — every bit. But there! What's the good of 
 talking! Everybody knew how it would be." Words 
 failing him, he stared about him. 
 
 "But still — oh, damn it all! To hear of your 
 wife's death — casually — on a platform — from a chap 
 you happen to know — happen to have met some- 
 where — oh, well, I call it casual. That's the word, 
 I believe — casual. Well, it is pretty casual — ^what? 
 Now, just tell me what you think — between friends, 
 of course." 
 
 She stopped him: she was short in the breath. 
 "I think not. If you don't mind." 
 
 He became as serious, immediately, as he was 
 capable of being. "I'll do as you like, my dear — 
 but you'll let me say this, that if I could see you 
 
SHE ASKS REPRIEVE 95 
 
 with all your belongings about you again, I should 
 sing a hymn. That's all, Sancie; but it means a 
 lot. When you went out of Great Cumberland 
 Place, it became, somehow, another kind of place. 
 I hardly ever go there now, you know. And now 
 they're all married but you, and — I say, you heard 
 that Vicky had a son arid heir ? Did you hear that ? " 
 
 She had averted her face, but she listened in- 
 tensely, nodding her head. "Yes, yes, I knew that. 
 Papa told me. He always writes to me, you know; 
 from the office, poor darling!" 
 
 She appealed to him urgently. "Please don't 
 talk about them just yet. Please don't." 
 
 He saw the mist in her eyes, and was afraid. 
 "All right, Sancie, all right. I'm frightfully sorry. 
 Beastly painful all this, you know." He was much 
 disturbed. To his simple soul a fine day, a fine- 
 fettled river demanded, as of right, a happy mood 
 in man, for whom all things were made. And a 
 fine girl by his side, a good, a brave, a splendid girl 
 — down on her luck — on such a day! What could 
 one do? If, when you began, she choked you off! 
 Wouldn't meet you half-way — bottled it up! And 
 here he was, geared for fishing, and without the 
 heart to wet a line, because of all this misery. San- 
 chia, sharply in profile to him, from cheek to chin, 
 from shoulder to low breast, all one sinuous, lax, 
 beautiful line, broke in on his rueful meditations. 
 "There's a rise," she said. "Look, look." 
 
 His eye swept the river. "You're right. By 
 Gad, that's a whacker. That's a fish. Now, you 
 
96 REST HARROW 
 
 Stop just where you are, net in hand. Don't move, 
 and you shall see something." 
 
 He left her, and ran stooping down the bank, 
 all his little soul concentrated in his cast. The 
 dimpled water ran and swirled, the line flashed in 
 the sun. Three casts, four; a splash, a taut line, 
 and his shout, "Come on, quick; I've got him." 
 Sanchia glided swiftly down the bank, her eyes 
 alight, the lines of neck and shoulder finely alert. 
 Her eyes shone, her lips parted; she looked the 
 Divine Huntress to whom Senhouse had once lik- 
 ened her. She stooped, the net jerked; she watched, 
 waited, tense to the act. Within the swirling water 
 the great fish plunged: she watched, strung to the 
 pounce; the net dipped and darted; she lifted it to 
 land. 
 
 Chevenix admired. "By George, you are a one- 
 er, I must say! Bom to it. You strike like an 
 osprey. That's a fish — ^what?" They peered to- 
 gether into the net, where, coiled and massy, beam- 
 ing rose and pale gold, the trout writhed. 
 
 "Splendid!" breathed Sanchia, glowing and alight. 
 
 Chevenix gloried in her beauty. "If Nevile don't 
 know what his chances are — if he ain't on his knees 
 — my heavens, what a mate for a chap!" 
 
 A shadow falling upon him caused him to look 
 up. Mrs. Devereux, grey and tall, boa'd, gloved, 
 umbrella'd, stood regarding him and his companion 
 from the bank. Instinct prompted hitn immediately 
 to screen Sanchia by dragging her into the party. 
 He held up the net and plunged. "First prize," 
 
CHEVENIX'S BEST 97 
 
 he cried out, as heartfuUy as he could, "to me and 
 Miss Percival." 
 
 "So I see," said Mrs. Devereux. "Ah, good 
 morning." 
 
 This was to Sanchia's bland greeting, which, as 
 always, made the lady shiver. It is difficult to 
 say what a shock it was to her to be greeted cheer- 
 fully by Sanchia. To see one in so painful a situa- 
 tion occupied by anything less painful, interested 
 in anything at all, was truly shocking. Mrs. Dever- 
 eux's idea of irregularity was that it absorbed the 
 devoted victim, kept her aghast. If it did not, 
 surely, there was no reward left to the virtuous. 
 But here we had a highly irregular young woman 
 behaving with extreme regularity. Was the world 
 turning upside down? Was black, then, really 
 white? She shivered, she blinked her eyes; but she 
 descended the bank and stood beside the pair, yet 
 rigidly apart. 
 
 Chevenix, having got her there, knew not what 
 to do with her. It seemed to him that he had better, 
 on the whole, go on, so turned the lady a knowing 
 face. 
 
 "This is not the first time by any means that 
 Miss Percival and I have gone fishing, you must 
 know. We began by tickling 'em — ^we were urchins 
 together, you see." 
 
 "Really!" said Mrs. Devereux, who still saw 
 nothing but depravity. 
 
 "I remember," he went on, "the first time we 
 went fishing. I was at Alnmouth with a governess; 
 
gS REST HARROW 
 
 awful lonely little beggar I was. I used to moon 
 about on the sands, while she read the Morning 
 Post, with spectacles and a red parasol. And I 
 used to hanker about all the other young 'uns, 
 and wish I was one of 'em. Her party was there, 
 you know — ^five of 'em, all girls and all pretty girls 
 — eh, Sancie? I would have given my hopes of 
 heaven — if I'd had any, you know — ^to go and paddle 
 with 'em. Jolly party you were, my dear — jolly 
 old plump papa, rosy mamma — and Philippa like 
 a young tree, and Melusine and Hawise bright as 
 apples; and then Vicky and you — little dears, you 
 were. I was like a spent salmon, I believe, lantern 
 jawed, hollow-eyed little devil, as solitary as sin." 
 He turned, flushed, to Sanchia, and put his hand on 
 her arm; she turned away her face, and Mrs. Dever- 
 eux believed she saw tears. "It was you who took 
 me in, you know." 
 
 "No," said Sanchia, turning him her shining eyes. 
 "It was Vicky. She asked you to come fishing." 
 He accepting her ruling. 
 
 "Bless me, it was Vicky. Always a frisky one. 
 But after that it was always you and Vicky and 
 me. And we had the time of our lives — at least, 
 I did." Even Mrs. Devereux felt an emotion from 
 the beam with which Sanchia rewarded him — a 
 tender, compassionate look, as if she understood 
 and excused him. 
 
 "You are old friends, I see," she said; and her 
 smile was not unfriendly. 
 
 Chevenix shook his head wisely. "Frightfully 
 
MRS. DEVEREUX AT IT 99 
 
 old — ^I've known 'em all — all my life." Mrs. Dever- 
 eux then made a distinct advance. 
 
 "It must be very nice for you," she said to San- 
 chia. 
 
 Sanchia's eyes were now clear, and her smile 
 absolutely general. "To see Mr. Chevenix? Yes, 
 indeed." She collected herself. "But I'm afraid 
 I must go now. I've a great deal to do." She ad- 
 monished the young man. "Now you had better 
 catch some more," she told him. "I must go." 
 
 His face fell — without any regard for Mrs. Dever- 
 eux — to "Oh, I say!" but it was then revealed to 
 him that there might be a part for him to play. 
 "Right, Sancie — you're mistress here. See you 
 later." He met her eyes gallantly, and lifted his 
 hat. Sanchia bent her head to Mrs. Devereux, and 
 went staidly away, her duties gathering in her brows. 
 The elder lady and the young man stood face to 
 face without speaking. Then Mrs. Devereux sat 
 deliberately down, and Chevenix braced himself. 
 
 "You said just now," the lady began, "to Miss 
 Percival, that she was mistress here. What did you 
 mean by that, exactly?" 
 
 Chevenix sprang sideways to this flank attack. 
 "Oh, you know, Mrs. Devereux! you can't take a 
 chap — literally — ^what ?" 
 
 He wanted time; but she gave him none. "You 
 must forgive an old woman of the world — of a 
 certain world. I come here — ^to a house which be- 
 longed to Nevile's father, an old, old friend, and I 
 find — installed — a young lady — ^who does not dine 
 
100 REST HARROW 
 
 — ^who is extremely capable. I am bewildered, 
 naturally." 
 
 Chevenix's "I know, I know," and his friendly 
 nods ran on as an accompaniment. 
 
 "And then," said she, raising her voice, "I find 
 that this young lady — and you — are old friends. 
 You speak of her — people — as if they were really 
 — of the sort which — as if she were — of the kind 
 — ^whom — " It was impossible. "Really," she said, 
 "it's most unusual. I don't frankly know what I 
 ought to do." 
 
 Chevenix listened carefully to her truncated 
 phsases, where what she did not say was the most 
 eloquent part of her discourse. He nodded freely 
 and sagely; he was conciliatory, but clear in opin- 
 ion. "I know, I know," he said. "It's very rum 
 — you must naturally find it so. I know exactly 
 how you feel about it. Oh, rum's the only word 
 for it. Or rummy. Yes, you might call it rummy 
 — or a go, you know — or anything like that." Then 
 he grew plausible. "But I'm sure it's all right. 
 It's a long story, but I'm quite sure. You've no 
 idea what a fine girl that is. Ah, but I know it." 
 He tapped his forehead. "I saw the whole thing 
 through — from beginning to end. She's a perfect 
 beauty, to begin with." 
 
 That was a bad note. Mrs. Devereux asked him 
 at once if he thought that a good reason. "Well," 
 he said, "I do, you know — in a way. I can't ex- 
 plain it — but I think you see it in her face, you 
 know — and manner. Yes, in her manner. She's 
 
DID SHE—? lOI 
 
 uncommon, you see, most uncommon. And as 
 cool as — well, it would be hard to say how cool a 
 hand I thought her." He paused, having got off 
 this effective estimate, round-eyed and triumphant. 
 
 "It seems to me, Mr. Chevenix," said the dry 
 lady, "that the less you say the better." 
 
 "Not at all, Mrs. Devereux, not at all." He 
 was eager to explain. "I don't think you quite 
 follow me. What I meant to say was, that when 
 a young woman can be as cool as she can be; can 
 run a big place like this, and manage a staff of 
 servants, — outdoors, mind you, and in; no steward, 
 only a bailiff; keep all the accounts; and hold her 
 head up — ^for she does that, you know, uncommonly 
 well; why, then I say that she must be allowed 
 the benefit of the doubt, you know. You must 
 say, 'Well, it's rum, it's rummy,' or how you like 
 to put it — 'but she's got a head on her shoulders, 
 and I suppose she knows what she's doing. I 
 suppose she's seen her way.' For she's all right, 
 you know, Mrs. Devereux; she's as right as rain. 
 It's irregular, dashed irregular — but, by George, 
 I'll tell you this, Nevile was in a bad way when 
 he first met her; and she's pulled him through. 
 He's steady enough now, is Nevile. Don't drink 
 — nor do other things. He threatened to be a 
 waster in his day; but he's no waster now. She 
 did that, you know; she pulled him through. Why, 
 bless your heart, Mrs. Devereux, he used to rave 
 about her — rave, and chuck himself about on sofas, 
 and cry like anything, and bite his nails down. There 
 
102 REST HARROW 
 
 never was such a girl under heaven, he used to say. 
 He called her a goddess. Love! Oh, Lord! And 
 I assure you, on my solemn oath, that he never did 
 a better day's work in his life, nor any girl a finer, 
 than when he put in his word for himself, poor devil, 
 and she said, 'Yes, I'll do it.'" 
 
 "Did she — " Mrs. Devereux asked, or began to 
 ask, and he shrugged, and exclaimed, 
 
 "Ah! There you have me. Now you've done 
 it. I don't know. That's the fact — I don't know. 
 Everybody thought so. She went on as if she did; 
 but now, — no, I don't know. You see, she's such 
 a cool hand, she's such a deep one — you can't tell. 
 There's no telling with that sort. All I can say is, 
 it looked uncommonly like the real thing. W^e all 
 thought so at the time. The S)miptoms were right 
 enough — or wrong enough, you'll say — and then, 
 look at her since! She's stuck to him through every- 
 thing — ^good report, bad report, everj^hing. She's 
 chucked her people — or been chucked. Had four 
 beautiful sisters — glowing, upstanding, fine girls, 
 all of them; and chucked. Old father, in the City: 
 chucked. Mother, big, handsome, hot-tempered: 
 chucked. And all for Nevile, who (between our- 
 selves) ain't worth it. He's not a bad one, but he's 
 not a good one, either. He's got a cruel temper, 
 Nevile has — like that ghastly wife of his. But — " he 
 cried, opening his arms — "there you are. They're 
 like that, her sort. Mighty quiet about it, you know; 
 was turned into the streets, you may say; father, 
 mother, sisters, all showed their backs. What does 
 
CHEVENIX'S CONCLUSION 103 
 
 she do? Sets her teeth together, looks straight 
 ahead, and takes old Nevile. And here she is now 
 oh, as— right as rain. What a girl, eh?" 
 
 Mrs. Devereux was certainly moved. She was 
 almost prepared to admit a genuinely exceptional 
 case. But she had a question to ask. Did Ingram 
 intend to marry her — now? 
 
 At this Chevenix stepped back, as if to avoid a 
 blow. "Ah!" he said. "Ah! That's it. Ask me 
 another." 
 
 "Do you mean to say of your friend, and mine," 
 she pursued him, "that he would dare — after all 
 that you tell me — ^to " 
 
 "No," said Chevenix, in a desperate stew; "no, 
 I don't mean that. I think he would have her 
 this moment — if he could get her. But — ^the fact 
 is — Well, you know — " and he glanced anxiously, 
 at the lady, "I've nothing to go upon, absolutely 
 nothing as yet; but the fact is, I'm not sure whether 
 she would take him, you know — now." 
 
 "Is that possible?" was all the lady could find 
 to say, with a throw-up of the hands. "Is that 
 possible?" 
 
 "Quite — ^with Sanchia," said Chevenix. "Through 
 with him, you know — ^got to the bottom of him — 
 sick of him. I believe he bores her, you know." 
 Mrs. Devereux looked at him, more in sorrow than 
 in anger, and then walked slowly away. Most 
 eloquent comment. 
 
VI 
 
 Whatever may have been the net result upon 
 Mrs. Devereux's mind of the explanatory revela- 
 tions made upon the river bank, two things be- 
 came clear as day succeeded day. One was that 
 Miss Percival avoided her, the other that she sought 
 out Miss Percival. Being entirely unable to suc- 
 ceed, she did not renounce her now benevolent atti- 
 tude towards the young lady, but she decided to 
 leave Wanless. 
 
 All that she could do, she did. No wheedling 
 of Mrs. Wilmot's could draw any further comment 
 from her, and she said nothing to Ingram either 
 for or against what she supposed now to be the 
 desire, the honourable desire of his heart. Oddly 
 enough, though it was against all her upbringing, 
 Chevenix had so far succeeded in impressing her 
 that she rather respected Sanchia the more for 
 being cool now that rehabilitation was in full sight, 
 and practically within touch of her hand. Cheve- 
 nix, in fact, had made her see that Sanchia was a 
 personality, not merely a pretty woman. You can't 
 label a girl "unfortunate" if, with the chance of 
 being most fortunate, she puts her hand to her 
 chin, and reflects, and says. Hum, shall I ? or shall 
 I not? Short of deliberately knocking at the girl's 
 
 104 
 
MRS. DEVEREUX TO GO 105 
 
 door, she would have done anything to exchange 
 views. That she could not do. She found herself 
 waiting about in corridors and halls for Sanchia's 
 possible passage. Once she had marked her down 
 in the garden, flower-basket on arm, scissors in 
 hand. She had been fluttered, positively felt her 
 heart-beats, as she sailed down in pursuit; but then 
 Sanchia, under the brim of her garden hat, must have 
 divined her, for, with a few clear words of direction 
 over her shoulder to the young gardener who was 
 helping her, she had steered smoothly away, and, 
 without running, could not have been caught. The 
 thing was marked, not uncivilly, but quite clearly. 
 What could one do ? 
 
 Two more days of fine weather and perplexity, 
 and she announced her departure as imminent. 
 We were at Thursday. She must positively leave 
 on Monday. *'No more letters to write about my 
 shortcomings," was Ingram's comment upon this 
 intelligence to Mrs. Wilmot apart. "It's a mistake 
 to have people to stay with you who've known you 
 all their lives. They are for ever at their contrasts: 
 why isn't one still a chubby-faced boy, for instance ? 
 They see you in an Eton jacket once, and you're 
 printed in it for ever. So you glare by contrast, 
 you hurt, you wound. In other words, you have 
 character, you see, which is dashed inconvenient 
 to a woman who remembers you with none. You 
 upset her calculations — and sometimes she upsets 
 yours. No offence to Mrs. Devereux; but I rather 
 wish she hadn't come." 
 
I06 REST HARROW 
 
 Mrs. Wilmot, who had no general conversation, 
 thought that they ought to be "nice" to Mrs. Dever- 
 eux; to which Ingram replied, snarling, that he 
 was always "nice" to her, but that if a woman will 
 spend her time writing letters or disapproving of 
 her host, she can't expect to be happy in such a 
 world as ours. But the worst of Mrs. Devereux, 
 he went on to say, was that she couldn't be happy 
 unless she did disapprove of somebody. Mrs. 
 Wilmot, aware of whom the lady did disapprove, 
 dug holes in the turf, and wondered what she her- 
 self ought to do. Supposing Mrs. Devereux went 
 on Monday, ought not she — ? Now, she didn't at 
 all want to go just now. 
 
 At luncheon Ingram proposed a visit — ^to certain 
 Sowerbys of Sowerby, and pointedly asked Mrs. 
 Devereux to come. "You like her, you know. It's 
 beyond dispute. So I do hope you'll come. I'll 
 drive you over in the phaeton." 
 
 Mrs. Devereux agreed to go. Chevenix said that 
 he should fish. He hated calling — except on Mrs. 
 Devereux, of course. He braved the discerning eyes 
 of the lady, who had already caught him at his 
 fishing. 
 
 The phaeton safely away, he found Sanchia, as 
 he had hoped, in the garden. Her gauntlets were 
 on, an apron covered her; she was flushed with 
 the exercise of the hoe. Struan Glyde, silent and 
 intent, worked abreast of her. He had just mut- 
 tered something or another which had given her 
 
CHEVENIX TRIES AGAIN 107 
 
 pause. She had her chin on her hands, her hands 
 on her hoe, while she considered her reply. Then 
 Chevenix heard her slow, "Yes, I suppose so. 
 I don't like it at all, but I'm afraid you're right. 
 We are poor creatures, made to be underneath." 
 
 The cheerful youth rubbed his head. "Candid 
 — ^what? Where have we got to now?" 
 
 Glyde had stopped in the act to hoe: he was 
 stopping still, his blade in the ground, but he turned 
 his face sideways to answer her. "Not so," he 
 said, "unless you will have it so. She is queen of 
 the world who is queen of herself." Then Sanchia 
 saw Chevenix, and waited for him. 
 
 "Philosophy — ^what?" the cheerful youth hailed 
 them. "Plain living, hard thinking, what? Upon 
 my soul, you are a pair! Now, Miss Sancie, I can 
 expect the truth from you. What's Glyde preach- 
 ing? Heresy? Schism? Sudden death?" 
 
 "He was talking about women," Sanchia told 
 him. 
 
 "Ah," the youth mused aloud. "He was, was 
 he? Glyde on Woman. He ought to wait for his 
 beard to grow; then you might listen to him." 
 
 Glyde, who was dumb in company, was hacking 
 into the clods, while Chevenix, to whom he was 
 negligible, pursued his own affair. 
 
 "I say, Sancie, I'm going to ask a favour of 
 you — not the first, by any means; but I always 
 was a sturdy beggar. The Lord loveth a sturdy 
 beggar, eh? Well, look here, I'm at a loose end 
 again. Nevile's taken 'em out driving — to a tea- 
 
lo8 REST HARROW 
 
 party — to the Sowerbys. I jibbed, though I was 
 asked. I lied, because they drove me into a cor- 
 ner. I couldn't face old Sowerby's chin — ^and all 
 those gels with their embroidered curates — what? 
 You know what I mean. I mean their church- 
 work, and the curates they do it for. So I said 
 I was going fishing — which was a he — and Mrs. 
 Devereux as good as said it was a lie. Now, sup- 
 pose you invite me to tea; how would that be?" 
 
 "Then you do go fishing," said Sanchia, and 
 smiled. "Very well. I do invite you." 
 
 "Bravo! You're a true friend. O woman, in 
 our hours of ease . . . ! Trust me for an apposite 
 quotation . . . and new, what ? I believe I'm pretty 
 good at quotations. My people used to play a 
 game. You write down a name on a bit of paper; 
 then you fold it down; then a quotation; then 
 another name. That's my vein of gold. Now 
 you have it — the secret's out. I'm coming, you 
 know. I accept. Many thanks. What's yo\i^ii?'\r?" 
 
 "Half-past four," she told him. He bowed, aYid 
 left her with Glyde. He turned to look at them as 
 he left the walled garden, and saw them near to- 
 gether, — Glyde vehement in his still way of under- 
 tones, she listening as she worked. 
 
 At half-past four she received him in her room. 
 Though her blouse was of lace and her skirt of 
 green cloth, she looked like a virgin of the Athenian 
 procession. Her clothes flowed about her, clung 
 to her like weed as she swam. As he met her 
 
REMINISCENCES 1.09 
 
 friendly, silent welcome, he expressed her to him- 
 self — "By the gods above, you are — without excep- 
 tion — the healthiest — finest — bravest — young woman 
 — that ever made the sun shine in grey weather." 
 Aloud, he made things easy. 
 
 "Here's your tea-party, Sancie, dressed in its 
 best, eager for the fray. When I think of old 
 Sowerby taking whisky-pegs while his family has 
 tea and curates, I bless my happy stars that I've 
 got a friend at court — ^to save me, don't you know, 
 from the wicked man. AVhen the wicked man — 
 what? You know the quotation, I expect. Not 
 one of my best — but give me time." 
 
 While she made tea he pried about her room, 
 looking at photographs. He paused here and there 
 as one struck him, and commented aloud. "Old 
 Nevile, with his sour mouth. Looks as if the tongs 
 had nipped him in the act. Why will he roU his 
 moustache like that? It's not pretty — shows him 
 like i, coar, with his tusks out, don't you think? 
 But he's a good-looking beggar, and knows it. 
 Ah! and there you all are — or, rather, were — all 
 five of you! Philippa, Hawise, Melusine, Vicky, 
 you. What a bevy! I say — " He turned to her. 
 "I met old Vicky, for a minute, the other day. Met 
 her in Bond Street. Sinclair'd got the pip, or some- 
 thing, down at Aldershot. Expensive complaint, 
 seemingly. So she'd come up to see a palmist, 
 or some kind of an expert about him. She spoke 
 of you, of her own accord. I said I was coming 
 down here." 
 
no REST HARROW 
 
 Sanchia's hand at the kettle was steady, but her 
 eyes flickered before they took the veil. "Tell me 
 about Vicky. What did she say — of me?" 
 
 Chevenix came to the tea-table and stood by 
 her. "I think Vicky's all right. I do indeed. It 
 seems to me she'd give her ears to see you — simple 
 ears. Sinclair, you'll find, is the trouble. He's 
 the usual airy kind of ass. Makes laws for his 
 womankind, and has 'em kept. Vicky likes it, 
 too." 
 
 "I suppose he is like that," Sanchia said, as if it 
 was a curious case. "I have never spoken to him. 
 He was about, of course — but Vicky took him up 
 after — ^my time." For a moment emotion, like a 
 wet cloud, drifted across her eyes. "I should like 
 to see Vicky again. It's eight years." 
 
 Chevenix was anxious. "I do think it could 
 be managed, you know — ^with tact. I'd do any 
 mortal thing, Sancie — you know I would, but — " 
 He despaired. "Tact! Tact! That's what you 
 want." 
 
 Her soft mood chased away. She looked at him 
 full. "I can't use what you call tact with Vicky. 
 That means that I am to grovel." She drove him 
 back to his photographs. He peered into the little 
 print on the wall. 
 
 "What have we here? A domestic scene, my 
 hat! You appear to be bathing — ^well over the 
 knee, anyhow. High-girt Diana, when no man is 
 by. Awfully jolly you look. But he is by. Who 
 on earth's this chap?" He peered. Sanchia from 
 
SENHOUSE CROPS UP in 
 
 her tea-table watched him, in happy muse. He 
 shouted his discovery. "I remember the chap! 
 Now, what on earth was he called? Your casual 
 friend, who lived in a cart and only had three pair 
 of bags. Nohouse — Senhouse! That was the man." 
 He looked with interest at the pair, then at Sanchia. 
 "Mixed bathing — ^what ? ' ' 
 
 She laughed. "Yes — we both got wet to the 
 skin. Percy Chamock took it ages agov-oh, ages! 
 Before I was out, or knew Nevile, or anybody ex- 
 cept you. It was ten years ago. I must have been 
 eighteen. It was when I was at Gorston with 
 Grace Mauleverer — trying to save water-lilies from 
 drowning in green scum. He — Mr. Senhouse — 
 came along in his cart, and saw me, and lent me his 
 bed for a raft — ^and worked it himself. That was 
 the first time I ever saw him — " she ended softly 
 in a sigh: "before an)rthing happened." 
 
 Chevenix listened, nodding at the photograph. 
 "Wish to heaven, my dear, nothing had ever hap- 
 pened. The less that happens to girls the better 
 for them, I beheve. Not but what this chap would 
 have been all right. If he had happened, now! 
 He was as mad as a hatter, but a real good sort. 
 Did I tell you?" He grew suddenly reminiscent. "I 
 saw him a little more than a year ago — with a pretty 
 woman. Had a talk with him — asked him to come 
 up and have a look at you. It was when Nevile 
 went off on this trip. No, no, I liked old Senhouse. 
 He was a nice-minded chap. Not the kind to eat 
 you up — and take everything you've got as if he had 
 
112 REST HARROW 
 
 a right to it. No. That's Nevile's line, that is. 
 You wouldn't see Nevile lending you his bed, or 
 risking his life after water-lilies." 
 
 Sanchia's eyes were narrow and critical. She 
 peered as if she were trying to find good some- 
 where in Nevile Ingram. "He'd risk anything to 
 get what he thought were his rights. But not 
 upon a bed for a raft. He'd write to London for 
 the latest thing in coracles. He's very conventional." 
 
 "You have to be," said Chevenix with sudden 
 energy. He wheeled round upon her as he spoke. 
 "We all have to be. We go by clockwork. You 
 get the striking all wrong if you play tricks." He 
 resumed the photograph. "By Jove, but that suits 
 you. Child of Nature, what? I suppose you're 
 happiest when you're larking?" 
 
 "Mud-larking?" she asked him, laughing and 
 blushing. 
 
 "Well, we'll say rampageing; going as you 
 please." 
 
 "Yes." She owned to it without hesitation. "I 
 can't be happy, I think, unless I can do just what 
 I Uke everywhere. It was one of the first things 
 Jack Senhouse ever taught me. He was an anarch- 
 ist, you know — and I suppose I'm one, too." 
 
 "Your gypsy friend?" He jerked his head 
 backwards to the photograph, "By Jove, my 
 dear," he added, "you must have knocked him 
 sidewaj^ — even him — ^when you carried out his little 
 ideas — as you did." 
 
 She opened her eyes to a stare. She stared, 
 
SANCHIA'S PLEASURE 113 
 
 rather ruefully. "Yes," she said, "I believe I did. 
 I know I did. He was dreadfully unhappy. He 
 and I were never quite the same after that. But 
 I couldn't help myself. It was before me — it had 
 to be done." 
 
 "No, no, no!" cried he vehemently, but checked 
 himself. "Pardon, Sancie. We won't go over all 
 that, but surely you see, now, that it won't do. 
 Now that escapade in the pond, you know. That 
 was all right — ^with only old Senhouse in the way. 
 You must admit that you were rather d'ecollet'ee, to 
 say the least of it. Now, would you say that you 
 can do those sort of things — go as you please, you 
 •know, an)rsvhere?" 
 
 "Why not?" Her eyes were straightly at him. 
 
 "What! Whether you're seen or not?" 
 
 She frowned. "I don't want to know whether 
 I'm seen or not." 
 
 "And mostly you don't care?" 
 
 "And sometimes I don't care." 
 
 "Ah," said Chevenix, "there you are. Your 
 'sometimes' gives you away." 
 
 She changed the subject. "Do have some tea 
 It will be quite cold." 
 
 He had been staring again at the photograph — 
 Sanchia's gleaming limbs, the gypsy's intent face 
 shadowed over the water. He now relinquished 
 it with an effort. "Thanks," he said. "I like it 
 cold." He sat beside her, and they talked casually, 
 like old, fast friends, of mutual acquaintance. But 
 for him the air was charged; she was on his con- 
 
114 REST HARROW 
 
 science. Reminiscences paled and talk died down; 
 he found himself staring at the wall. 
 
 He resumed the great affair. "Nevile's rather 
 jumpy, don't you think?" 
 
 Her serenity was proof. "Is he? Why should 
 he be?" 
 
 "Ah, my dear!" cried the poor young man. 
 "Let's say it's the old Devereux. Salmo deverox, 
 eh? Sounds fierce." 
 
 Not a flicker. "Mrs. Devereux? What has she 
 been doing to him?" 
 
 "Nothing," he said; "and that's just it. She 
 won't have anything to say to him." 
 
 Then she went a little too far. A man charged 
 with friendly impulse, charged also with knowledge, 
 must be handled tenderly. You must not be fool- 
 hardy. But here was bravado, nothing less. For 
 she arched her brows, and showed her eyes inno- 
 cently wide. "Oh!" she said, "why? Why won't 
 Mrs. Devereux speak to Nevile?" 
 
 "Oh, come, you know." He looked at her keenly. 
 He didn't wink, but he blinked. Then he crossed 
 the room. "Look here, Sancie. Will you let me 
 talk to you — really — as an old friend?" 
 
 She looked up into his face, nodded and smiled. 
 "Of course you may say what you like." 
 
 He sat by her, collecting himself. "Well, then, 
 what I shall say is just this. The whole thing is 
 in your hands — now. You can put it square. 
 There's absolutely nothing in your way — now — 
 well, now that Claire's gone, you know." He 
 
SANCHIA'S LAW II5 
 
 watched her anxiously for a sign, but got none. 
 So still she sat, glooming, watching herself — as on 
 a scene. 
 
 "Mind," he said in a new tone. "You know 
 all about me. I jibbed at first when you broke 
 away. I'll own to that. I couldn't do otherwise. 
 Why, old Senhouse himself went half off his head 
 about it. Anything in the world to get you out 
 of it, I'd have done. Any mortal thing, my dear. 
 But there! There was no holding you — off you 
 went! But when once the thing was started — ^the 
 extraordinary thing was that I was on your side 
 directly. And so I always have been. Ask Vicky 
 — ask your mother. I've done, in my quiet way, 
 what you would never have asked of me. You 
 must forgive me — ^I've defended you everywhere. 
 I won't mention names, but I've explained your 
 case, only lately, in a rocky quarter — and I know 
 I've made an impression. I'm not much good at 
 talking, as a rule, but I do believe that I put the 
 thing rather well. You make your own laws — 
 eh? Like Napoleon Buonaparte — eh? And some- 
 how — the way you do it — it's all right, eh, Sancie?" 
 
 He got nothing from her. She sat on rigid, with 
 unwinking eyes, staring at herself, as she saw her- 
 self on the scene. Chevenix leaned to her. 
 
 "And Nevile knows it. He believes it. He 
 would say it anywhere. He's difficult, is Nevile; 
 a wa5rward beggar. He's been his own master 
 since he was sixteen; asked, and had. It's hard 
 to make him understand that he can't go on. But 
 
Il6 REST HARROW 
 
 he can't, the old sweep, when you put in your say. 
 You know his way — he puts his desires in the 
 shape of truisms. He states them — that's all he 
 has to do — they become immutable laws. Very 
 imposing, his desires, put like that. They've im- 
 posed upon me; they've imposed upon you in their 
 day. Well, with a man like that, you know, you 
 can't take him up too short. Go slow, go slow. 
 What was it I heard Glyde saying to you just now? 
 Who's queen of herself is queen of the world — 
 what? Now, that's quite true. One for Glyde. 
 Apply that to old Nevile. Queen of herself! Why, 
 what else are you? And what's Nevile but the 
 blundering world in a man's skin ? Well, queen it, 
 queen it— rand there's your kingdom under your 
 feet. Marry the old chap, Sancie. You put every- 
 thing right; you take your proper place. The 
 county! But what are counties to you? You 
 smile — and you may well smile. Let the county 
 go hang; but there's Vicky. She's more than 
 county to you. There's Melusine, there's Philippa, 
 there's Hawise; there's your good old dad, there's 
 your lady mother. You get 'em all. And Nevile's 
 biting his nails for it. And a free man. Come 
 now." 
 
 She had listened, that's certain; she hadn't been 
 displeased. He had seen her eyes grow dreamy, 
 he had marked her rising breast. Rising and falling, 
 rising and falling, like lilies swayed by flowing water. 
 That betokened no storm, nor flood ; that meant the 
 stirring of the still deeps, not by violent access, but by 
 
He had eloquence, he thought, as he watched her, he had won. 
 But he was anxious. She was such a deep one. 
 
SHE SPEAKS 117 
 
 slow-moving, slow-gathered, inborn forces. Had he 
 had eloquence, he thought, as he watched her, he 
 had won. But he was anxious. She was such a 
 deep one. 
 
 When she spoke there sounded to be a tinge of 
 weariness in her voice; she dragged her sentences, 
 as if she foresaw her own acts, and was tired in 
 advance. She seemed almost to be pitying her fate. 
 At first she looked down at her hands in her lap, 
 at her fingers idly interweaving; but midway of her 
 drawn-out soliloquy — for she seemed to be talking 
 to herself — she turned him her eyes, and he plumbed 
 their depths in vain. 
 
 "It's very nice of you to be interested in me. 
 You are much more interested than I am — and 
 it's a compliment, a great compliment. I think 
 you are very loyal — if I can call it loyalty — if you'll 
 let me caU it that. I like my work here; I'm 
 perfectly happy doing it. It was hard at first. 
 I knew absolutely nothing of housekeeping and 
 managing things when I came here. I had to work 
 — to learn book-keeping and accounts — cooking — 
 building — carpentering — stock-raising — oh, every- 
 thing. I had to feel that I knew very nearly as 
 much about ever)rthing as the people who were to 
 do what I told them. And of course that was quite 
 true; but it wasn't at all easy. It has taken me 
 eight years to get as far as I am now. And I could 
 go on for years more. There's nobody on the place 
 whom I can't manage: they all like me. I'm quite 
 comfortable — if I can be let alone." 
 
Il8 REST HARROW 
 
 . . . Speaking so, she believed it. But, think- 
 ing it over she was driven to explain herself. 
 
 "People seem to think that girls — that women 
 — care for nothing but one thing — being married, 
 I mean. I'm sure that's a mistake. One gets 
 interested, one may get absorbed — and then there's 
 a difficulty. For it's very true, I think, that unless 
 we care for the one thing, and that thing only, we 
 don't care for it at all. At least, that is how I feel 
 about it. I have got lots of interests in life — all 
 these things here — management of things. I don't 
 want Nevile — or to be married. I don't want any- 
 thing of the sort; I can't be bothered. I cared 
 once — frightfully; but now I don't care. All that 
 was long ago; at the beginning — eight years ago. 
 Now it's done with, I only want to be let alone — 
 to do my work here. It doesn't seem to me much 
 to ask; but " . . . 
 
 It was then that she looked at him, and was 
 beyond the power of his sounding. She grew 
 vehement, full of still, passionless rage. She was 
 like a goddess pronouncing a decree; she was 
 final. 
 
 "I don't want to marry Nevile. It bores me. 
 And he doesn't want me, really. He thinks he 
 does, because he thinks that he can't have me any 
 other way. But he would be miserable, and so 
 should I. It seems to me impossible. You can't 
 put hfe into dead things. When he came back 
 here the other day he had been away a year: a 
 year and ten days. He had written to me twice " 
 
SHE FANS FIRE 119 
 
 Chevenix interrupted. "Excuse me," he said. 
 "How many times had you written to him?" He 
 had guessed at pique; but he was wrong. 
 
 She replied slowly. "I forwarded his letters. I 
 hadn't written at all." Her simplicity! Chevenix 
 allowed her to go on. 
 
 "The thing — all that it began with — ^was over. 
 I felt that. I showed him that the first evening 
 he was here. He has never spoken to me again. — 
 of that sort of thing, and I don't think he ever 
 will. He doesn't understand being refused any- 
 thing. I suppose he never has been before in his 
 life." 
 
 "Weren't you, perhaps, a little bit short?" he 
 hazarded; and she considered the possibility. 
 
 "No, I don't think so. I wasn't more abrupt 
 than he was — after a year." She paused. "He 
 threw out her death — Mrs. Ingram's death — " she 
 forced herself to the name — "quite casually, as if 
 he had been saying, 'By-the-by, the Rector's coming 
 to dine.' If he had wanted me, do you think he 
 would have put it like that?" 
 
 "Nevile," said Chevenix, "would put an)rthing 
 — ^like anything. He's that sort, you know. He'd 
 take for granted that you understood lots of things 
 which he couldn't express. But I will say this 
 for Nevile. He's not petty. He's fairly large- 
 minded. For instance, I'll bet you what you like 
 he didn't mind your not writing to him — or reproach 
 you with it." 
 
 She opened her eyes. "Of course he didn't. 
 
120 REST HARROW 
 
 He was perfectly happy. He told me he had been 
 idiotically happy. He knew I was here, because 
 I forwarded his letters — and that was all he cared 
 about. I was here for — ^when he chose. I assure 
 you he didn't want me at all until I showed him that 
 he couldn't have me." 
 
 "But he did, you know," said Chevenix; "he 
 does. He was sure of you all through, from the 
 beginning, as you say. That's why he didn't 
 write or expect letters from you. He flattered 
 himself that he was secure. Poor old Nevile!" 
 He felt sorry now for Ingram. She was really 
 adamantine. 
 
 She arose, with matches in her hand, knelt be- 
 fore the fire and kindled it. She blew into it with 
 her mouth, and watched the climbing flames. "I 
 don't think you need pity Nevile, really," she said. 
 "He will always be happy. But I am going to be 
 made unhappy." She proclaimed her fate as a 
 fact in, which she had no concern at all. Chevenix 
 rose and paced the room. 
 
 "Well, you know — I must be allowed to say — 
 your happiness is so entirely in your own hands. 
 It's difficult — I've no right to suggest — to interfere 
 in any way. I'm nothing at all, of course " 
 
 "You are my friend, I hope," she said, watch- 
 ing the young fire — still on her knees before it, 
 worshipping it, as it seemed. Chevenix expanded 
 his chest. 
 
 "You make me very proud. I thank you for 
 that. Yes, I am your friend. That's why I risk 
 
CHEVENIX BURNT 121 
 
 your friendship by asking you something. You 
 won't answer me unless you choose, of course. 
 But — come now, Sancie, is there, might there be — 
 somebody else?" 
 
 She looked round at him from where she knelt. 
 Her hands were opened to the fire; her face was 
 warmed by its glow; it was the pure face of a seraph. 
 "No. There's nobody at all — now." 
 
 He was I again standing before the little photo- 
 graph of the nymph thigh-deep in water. That 
 seemed to attract him; but he heard her "now," 
 and started. "I take your word for it, absolutely. 
 But, seeing what you felt for Nevile in the begin- 
 ning, I should have thought — in any ordinary case 
 — ^there must have been a tender spot — ^unless, of 
 course, you had changed your mind — for reasons " 
 
 She got up from her knees, and stood, leaning 
 by the mantelpiece. Her low voice stirred him 
 strangely. 
 
 "There are reasons. The spot, as you call it, 
 is so tender that it's raw." 
 
 "Good Lord," said Chevenix. "What do you 
 mean?" 
 
 She was full of her reasons, evidently. Rumours 
 of them, so to say, drove over her eyes, showed 
 cloudily and angrily there. Her beautiful mouth 
 looked cruel — as if she saw death and took joy in 
 it. -"I think he is horrible," she said. "I think 
 he is like a beast. He doesn't love me at all until 
 he comes here — and then he expects me — Oh, don't 
 ask me to talk about it." She stopped her tongue, 
 
122 REST HARROW 
 
 but not her thought. That thronged the gates of 
 her lips. She hesitated, fighting the entry; but the 
 words came, shocked and dreadful. "He wants 
 me, to ravage me — like a beast." 
 
 Chevenix began to stammer. "Oh, I say, you 
 mustn't— Oh, don't talk like that " 
 
 The door opened, and Ingram came in. 
 
 He looked from one to the other, sharply. "Hul- 
 loa," he said. "What are you two about in 
 here?" 
 
 Sanchia looked at the fire, and put her foot close 
 to it, to be warmed. "Tea-party," said Chevenix. 
 "That's it, Nevile." He nodded sagely at his 
 host, and saw his brow clear. Ingram shut the 
 door and came into the room, to a chair. "That's 
 all right," he said. "I hope it was a livelier one 
 than mine. That old Devereux was on her high- 
 stepper. I'm sick of being trampled. I thought, 
 though, that you had been having words. You 
 looked like it." 
 
 Sanchia said, smiling in her queer way, "Oh, 
 dear no. Mr. Chevenix is much too kind for that. 
 He's been talking very nicely to me. He's been 
 charming." 
 
 "Oh, come, Sancie — " cried the brisk young man, 
 quite recovered. 
 
 Ingram, in a stare, said, "Yes, Sancie, you may 
 trust him. He's a friend of ours." 
 
 "I do trust him," she said. 
 
 Chevenix said, "I shall go out on that. I declare 
 my innings. Good-bye, you two. I'll go and pacify 
 
THE DEAD THING 123 
 
 the Devereux." He hoped against hope that he 
 might have warmed her. 
 
 Ingram, when they were alone, threw himseK back 
 in his chair, crossed one leg, and clasped the thin 
 ankle of it. He had finely-made, narrow feet, and 
 was proud of his ankles. Sanchia was now again 
 kneeling before the fire. ""^ 
 
 "Quite right to have a fire," he said. "It's fall- 
 ing in cold. There'll be a frost. What was Cheve- 
 nix saying about me?" 
 
 She had been prepared. "Nothing but good. 
 He's your friend, as you said." 
 
 "I said 'our friend,' my dear." 
 
 She looked at him. "Yes, certainly. He's my 
 friend, too." 
 
 "I hope he'll prove so. Upon my soul, I do." 
 He remained silent for a time. Then he leaned 
 forward suddenly, and held out his arms. 
 
 "Oh, Sancie," he said, his voice trembling. 
 "Love me." 
 
 She looked at him with wide, searching, earnest 
 eyes. They seemed to search, not him, but her 
 own soul. They explored the void, seeking for 
 a sign, a vestige, a wreck ;n but found nothing. 
 
 "I can't," she said. Her voice was frayed. "The 
 thing is quite dead." 
 
 Ingram flushed deeply, but sat on, biting his lip, 
 frowning, staring at the young, mounting fire, which 
 she, stooping over it, cherished with her breath and 
 quick hands. 
 
VII 
 
 Ingram, at supper in his private room, had his 
 elbows on the table, and spoke between his fists 
 to Chevenix, let into these mysteries for the first 
 time. 
 
 "I ought not to complain, you'll say, and in my 
 heart of hearts I don't, because I'm a reasonable 
 man, and know that you don't make a row about 
 sunstroke or lightning-shocks. We call 'em the 
 Act of God, and rule 'em out in insurance ofl&ces. 
 No, no, I see what I've let myself in for. I've 
 been away too much; she's got sick of it. I shall 
 have to work at it — ^to bring her round. By God, 
 and she's worth it. She's a wonder." 
 
 "Pity," said Chevenix, "you've only just found 
 it out." 
 
 Ingram frowned, and waxing in rage, stared at 
 his friend as if he had never known him. "You 
 don't know what you're talking about. AVhy, she 
 adored me. I was never more in love with a woman 
 in my life than I was with Sancie." 
 
 Chevenix tilted back his chair. "Oh, you had 
 it pretty badly — at the time. The trouble' with you 
 is that you are such a chap for accepting things. 
 You're like a hall-porter in a Swiss hotel. You 
 
 124 
 
INGRAM'S MEMORIES 125 
 
 take things for granted. Do nothing — hold out 
 your hand — and get your perks. Perks! Why, 
 they ain't perks at all. They're bounty — what you 
 get from a girl like Sancie." 
 
 All this Ingram took as his due — as due, that is, 
 to a man of passion and reasonable desires. He 
 fell into a reverie. "Yes, yes, I know. She was 
 devilish fond of me." 
 
 Chevenix gritted his teeth, but Ingram went 
 on. "It was a false position, I know, and I never 
 ought to have looked at her twice. But she was 
 awfully queer or awfully deep — one never knew 
 which. Why, when we got thick together — ^always 
 meeting out, always reading poetry and philosophy 
 — Shelley, Dante, Keats (I forget half their names 
 now) — I take my oath I hadn't a suspicion that 
 she was getting to like me, in that sort of way, as 
 we call it. She made all the difference in the world 
 to me, I can tell you. You know what I was doing 
 after Claire bolted with that swine: killing time and 
 killing myself — ^that's what I was doing. It was like 
 going into church out of the sun to hear her at her 
 poetry, and see her. Oh, a lovely girl she was!" 
 
 "She's a lovelier woman than you and I are fit 
 to look at," said Chevenix, "if you ask me." 
 
 "Damn you, I know all about that. D'you think 
 I want telling, now that I can't get her? Well, 
 then I found out what was the matter with me — and 
 then we cleared the air." 
 
 "Who had stuffed it up to begin with?" Cheve- 
 nix murmured; but Ingram ignored him. 
 
126 REST HARROW 
 "I told her the whole thing ' 
 
 "After she had found it out!" cried Chevenix with 
 energy. "Let's have cards on the table. I told 
 Vicky all about it at a dance — and Vicky told her." 
 
 "I told her," Ingram said, "that I was in love 
 with her, and promised to behave — ^and so I should 
 have, only " 
 
 "Only you didn't, old chap." 
 
 "She loved me — ^there was no stopping it then. 
 The thing was done. Mind you, her people knew it 
 all, too." 
 
 "The mother always was a fool," Chevenix agreed. 
 "And she liked you." 
 
 " I know she did. I took care of that." 
 
 "Not a bit of it, my boy," the other objected. 
 "That's just what you didn't do. She liked you 
 because she thought you didn't care a curse whether 
 she liked you or not." 
 
 Ingram raised his eyebrows at such naivete. 
 "That's what I mean, of course. So it went on 
 all that summer. We used to shake when we 
 met each other, and be speechless. By heavens, 
 what a time that was! Do you remember the tea- 
 party?" 
 
 Chevenix blinked. "I wasn't there; but I re- 
 member what happened afterwards. The poor child 
 — as white as a sheet — and every hand lifted against 
 her. By God, Nevile, what girls — mere chits — ^wiU 
 go through!" 
 
 "I know," said Ingram dreamily. "Isn't it 
 awful?" Chevenix looked at him. He was quite 
 
THE ELECTRIC HOUR 127 
 
 serious. What can you do with such a man as 
 this? 
 
 "They left us alone in the room, you know," 
 Ingram continued. "Vicky went out last and left 
 us in there — and the whole place was charged 
 with electricity. You could feel it, smell it, hear it 
 crackling all about. My heart going like a drum; 
 my ears buzzing with it all. I hadn't been able 
 to speak when they spdie to me. I don't know 
 what the devil they must have thought of me — 
 and I didn't care a damn. And over across the 
 tea-table, on. a low chair — there she sat — ^my girl! 
 Her eyes downcast, her mouth adroop." He shut 
 his eyes for a moment. "And Vicky went out, 
 and left us there!" 
 
 "You had it badly, old chap," Chevenix said. 
 "Go slow. Take your time. Or chuck it, if 
 you'd rather." 
 
 Ingram appeared not to hear him; he was staring 
 at the tablecloth, at his two hands locked in front 
 of him, and at his knuckles white under the strain. 
 
 "I don't know how long I stood gaping at the 
 window, I don't indeed. I could feel her sitting 
 shaking in her chair; but neither of us said any- 
 thing. Somebody came to take the tea out — and 
 then I turned and looked at her; and she turned 
 and looked at me. Something drew me — set me 
 on the move. It was aU over with me then. I went 
 straight across the room to her; I stood above her, 
 I stooped and took her hands. I don't know what 
 I said: she looked at me all the time in a strange, 
 
128 REST HARROW 
 
 clear way. She got up — I was beside her, and took 
 her. Not a word said. I had her lips. Honey of 
 flowers! Her soul came forth from them: new wine. 
 Oh, God! I thought so, anyhow. And so did she. 
 Chevenix, she meant giving." 
 
 Chevenix nodded shortly. He believed that. In- 
 gram had covered his eyes. 
 
 He drained a glass before he went on with his 
 account. "1 suppose you know the rest as well 
 as I do. I never had the details out of her. One 
 of them — that Mrs. King — Phihppa, it was — came 
 slam into the room; and what was there to do? 
 I stuck it as long as I could — until I was practically 
 kicked out. The mother came back and turned 
 me out. I had to leave her to brave them all — 
 and I never saw her again until I found out where 
 she was in London." 
 
 "Don't you trouble to tell me all that part," 
 said Chevenix frowning at him. "I know more 
 about that than you do. I was in it. My head, 
 how they treated her! What I never did under- 
 stand, you know, was how you found out where she 
 was." 
 
 Ingram smiled. His memories now amused him. 
 He looked straight at his friend. "I'll tell you that. 
 It was rather neat. You remember that chap 
 Senhouse — loafing kind of artist ? Anarchist, gypsy- 
 looking chap, who wore no hat?" 
 
 Chevenix opened his eyes. "By George, I do!" 
 
 Ingram nodded. "She thought no end of him. 
 He took her affair with me very much to heart." 
 
ODDS AGAINST SENHOUSE 129 
 
 "As well he might," said Chevenix. "I fancy 
 that you were the only person who took it easy." 
 
 "Sancie used to tell him everything," Ingram 
 went on, "and she told him all the trouble. She'd 
 been turned adrift with fifty pounds to her name." 
 
 "Not quite so bad as that," Chevenix put in. 
 "They locked her up with an aunt, and she bolted." 
 
 "Same thing," said Ingram. "Well, this chap 
 Senhouse comes here one day in a mighty hurry — 
 turns up at breakfast, and makes a row. Wants 
 me to swear I'll divorce and marry Sancie. Says 
 he thinks I'm a blackguard and all that, but that, 
 on the whole, I'd • better marry her. Refuses to 
 give me her address, all the same. We had a 
 row, I remember, because he began to tell me what 
 he thought about her. The man was a bore, you 
 know." 
 
 Chevenix screwed up one leg. "All men are, 
 if they're sweet on your sweetheart, I suppose. 
 He was worth fifty of you, all the same — but go 
 on." 
 
 Ingram laughed. "I set my wits against his," 
 he said, "and found out that he'd come straight 
 from seeing her — in London. That was good 
 enough for me. I got rid of Master Senhouse, and 
 went off to town. He had no promises out of me, 
 you may believe." 
 
 Chevenix felt very sick, and looked it. "The less 
 you say about your promises, my good chap, the 
 better I'll take it." But Ingram by now had got 
 back to his holier reminiscences: — 
 
130 REST HARROW 
 
 "I hunted for her high and low for three months 
 — advertised, turned on detectives, I had even 
 dared her friends' eyes and their cold shoulders — 
 couldn't hear an3^hing. ... I was walking in hell 
 for three months. . . . 
 
 "Then, one day, I met her — in Chancery Lane. 
 Of all squalid places on earth — there. . . . 
 
 "I'd been to my lawyer's, in Lincoln's Inn. I'd 
 settled money on her — in case anything happened 
 to me while I was abroad. I was going to travel, 
 because I'd given it up. And then I met her. 
 Chancery Lane! 
 
 "I was passing some school or another — Com- 
 mercial Academy — book-keeping, shorthand, type- 
 writing — ^that sort of place; a lot of ogling, giggling 
 girls, and boys after 'em, came tumbling down the 
 steps — all sun-bonnets and fluffy hair; and down 
 the steps she came, too — Sanchia came — like a 
 princess. She was in white, my dear man — as fresh 
 and dainty as a rose, I remember. Daisies round a 
 broad-brimmed straw: some books under her arm. 
 The sun was on her, lit the gold in her hair. She 
 looked neither right nor left, spoke to no one, had 
 no one with her, or after her. She was never showy. 
 You had to know her well to see how lovely she was. 
 She never showed off well, and was always silent in 
 company. Oh, but what a girl! 
 
 "When she saw me she flushed all over, and 
 stood. She stood on the last step, and looked 
 at me. Looked at me straight, as if she waited. 
 I went directly to her, and took her ha^nd. She 
 
QUESTIONS FOR INGRAM 131 
 
 let me. I couldn't speak sense. I said, 'You!' 
 and she said, 'I knew I should see you like this.' 
 It sounded all right. I never questioned it." . . . 
 He stared, then broke out. "Good God, Bill! 
 To think of her then — and to see her now! She 
 won't look at me! I don't exist." He plunged 
 his face between his hands, and* rocked himself 
 about. Chevenix watched him without a word. 
 Suddenly he lifted his pinched face, and complained 
 bitterly. 
 
 "I can't understand it — I don't know what's 
 changed her. Why, it's awful to make a chap 
 suffer like this!" He stared about him. "Why, 
 Bill," he said, hushing down his voice, "is she going 
 to drop me, d'you think — let me go to the devil?" 
 
 Chevenix rose and stood with his back to the 
 fire. "I'll trouble you not to whine, Nevile; I've 
 got something to say to all this tale of yours. I've 
 got to ask you a thing or two. When you found 
 her, now; and when you knew all that she'd gone 
 through — a child like that! You brought her up 
 here — hey?" 
 
 Without shifting his head to face his cross-exami- 
 nation, Ingram answered between his hands — "No, 
 I didn't. She wouldn't budge from her school till 
 she'd finished her course. I courted her for a month. 
 It took me all that to make her listen to reason." 
 
 "Reason!" Chevenix rated him. "You call it 
 reason!" 
 
 "It was what she called it — not I," said Ingram 
 from between his fists. Then he looked up. "She 
 
132 REST HARROW 
 
 refused the idea of going abroad. Said she wasn't 
 at all afraid of people talking. Said she wanted 
 to work for me. Must be doing something, she 
 said. I tell you, it was her idea from the beginning. 
 And I do say, myself, that it was reasonable." He 
 searched for agreement in his friend's face, but got 
 none. "It suited better," he said presently, with 
 indifference. "It suited better — in every way. I 
 had to be here." 
 
 "Why had you to be here, man ?" Chevenix raised 
 his voice. "What the devil did it matter to you, 
 having her, where you were?" 
 
 "It mattered a lot. I like this place. It's mine. 
 I've got duties up here. I'm a magistrate and all 
 that." 
 
 Chevenix was now very hot. "Magistrate be 
 damned. Do you mean to tell me that you profess 
 to love a woman, and turn her into a servant be- 
 cause you want to try poachers? And you talk 
 about the sun in her hair! And then — ^upon my 
 soul, Ingram, you sicken me." 
 
 "You fool," said Ingram. "I tell you it was her 
 own idea. She loves the place. She loves it a lot 
 more than she does me. It's been a continual joy 
 to her. Why, where would she have been while 
 I was in India — all that year — if she hadn't had all 
 this in her hands? You don't know what you're 
 talking about." 
 
 His voice rang down his scorn. Chevenix began 
 to stammer. 
 
 "You're hopeless, Nevile, utterly hopeless. Every 
 
CHEVENIX'S POINTS 133 
 
 word you say gives up your case. What's it to 
 do with you whether she likes it or not? I'm 
 not talking of her, but of you. You silly ass, don't 
 you see where you are? You fall in love with a 
 woman and make her your head housemaid. Then 
 you say, Oh, but she likes it. It's not what she 
 likes we're talking about; it's what you can bring 
 yourself to do with her. Wait a bit now. There's 
 more to it. You play about here, there, and all 
 over the shop. Off you go for three months at a 
 time, sky-larking, shooting antelope, pigeon-shooting, 
 polo, and whatever. She sits here and minds the 
 gardeners — she whom you saw with the sun in her 
 hair! Year in, year out it goes on. Now here you 
 are back from India. Good. You leave her for 
 a year, and write to her twice — then you say, Why, 
 where would she have been if she hadn't had some- 
 thing to do ? The sun in her hair, hey ? Love, my 
 good chap! You don't know how to spell the word. 
 You ought not to touch her shoe-string. You're not 
 fit. By Gad, sir, and now I remember something! 
 And it's the truth, it's the bitter, naked, grinning 
 truth." He did remember something. He saw her 
 curled-back lip — he saw her fierce resentful eyes. 
 He heard her say it: "I think he is like a beast. 
 He wants to ravage me — like a beast." "You've 
 been judged, Nevile," he said. "You've done for 
 yourself. And now I'll go to bed." 
 
 Ingram's face was very cloudy. He looked for 
 a moment like quarrelling. "Do you mean to leave 
 me like this?" he asked. 
 
134 REST HARROW 
 
 "Yes," said Chevenix, "I do. I don't want to 
 stop and hear you protest that you intend to marry 
 her. Marry her! Why, man, if you'd meant to 
 marry her, you'd have posted home express from 
 Marseilles the moment you heard that you could 
 do it. But no! You've got her there — in cap 
 and apron — she'll keep. You know she's here — 
 you have your fling. And you stop three days in 
 Paris, and drop it to her casually, when you please, 
 that you're a free man. Yes, by George, I do 
 mean to leave you like this. You're best alone, 
 by George. Good-night to you." 
 
 He went smartly away; but he had worked 
 himself into a shaking fit, could not have slept to 
 save his life. A cigar at the open window was 
 inevitable. 
 
 He leaned far into the night. It was densely 
 dark, and had been raining. Soft scud drifted 
 over his face; clouds in loose solution drenched 
 the earth. He smoked fiercely, inhaling great 
 draughts and driving them out into the fog. Being 
 no thinker, his sensations took no body, but he 
 broke out now and again with pishes and pshaws, 
 or scornfully — "Old Nevile — hungry devil, what? 
 Stalking about like a beast. Oh, she was right, 
 she was right. Pish! And there's an end of it." 
 
 He was aware of softly moving feet below — a 
 measured tread. He listened and heard them be- 
 yond dispute. "Nevile!" he said, "like a beast, 
 padding about his place." He listened on, grimly 
 amused. Let him pad and rage. 
 
CLYDE PROWLS 1 35 
 
 But he was to be startled. A voice hailed him, 
 not Ingram's. "Beg your pardon, sir." 
 
 "HuUoa!" he cried. "Who are you, my man?" 
 
 "Glyde, sir. Is all weU?" 
 
 "What do you mean, Glyde? What are you 
 doing?" 
 
 "I was passing, sir, to my houses. I heard 
 voices, and I wondered " 
 
 "Oh!" he laughed. "You thought there was a 
 scrap, did you? It's all right, Glyde. I and the 
 master were having a talk. Nothing for you to 
 worry about. I shared his lonely meal. Don't 
 you be disturbed." 
 
 "No, no, sir. Thank you, sir." 
 
 Chevenix called to him when he was at some 
 distance. "I say, Glyde." 
 
 "Yes, sir?" 
 
 "You can go to bed. It's all right." 
 
 "Thank you, sir. Good-night." 
 
 He chuckled as he undressed. "Rum fish, Glyde. 
 Watch and ward, what? Watching his shield. 
 Bless her, she's got friends, then." He considered 
 for a while, flicking the glowing end of his cigar. 
 "That chap — Senhouse — Jack Senhouse. I won- 
 der what's become of him." 
 
VIII 
 
 The discrepancies of an unfortunate party caused 
 no disturbance to the staff of Wanless Hall. Sanchia, 
 whatever her private cares — and they seemed less 
 than those of other people on her account — suffered 
 nothing to interfere with her housekeeping. Ingram 
 might rage for her in vain, Chevenix agonise, or 
 quarrel with his host and friend, Mrs. Devereux dis- 
 approve to the point of keeping her room; but San- 
 chia, with front serene, moved from office-table to 
 kitchen, to the garden, to the home-farm, inter- 
 viewed Mrs. Benson, consulted with the stockman, 
 pored — her head close to Clyde's — over seed-pans 
 and melon borders, was keenly interested, judicial, 
 reflective, pleading, coaxing by turns — seemed, in 
 fact, not to have a perplexity in her fair head. Her 
 health was superb, she never had an ache nor failed 
 of an appetite. To see her sitting in the stable-yard 
 on a sunny morning, her lap full of nozzling fox- 
 hound pups, was to have a vision of Artemis Eile- 
 ithyia. So, it seemed, the grave mother-hound, erect 
 on haunches, with wise ears, and sidelong eyes 
 showing the white, knew her certainly to be. Beside 
 and over her stood Frodsham of the stables, and his 
 underlings, firmly her friends. 
 
 136 
 
SHE PLAYS LUCINA 137 
 
 She looked up, beaming. "Oh, Frodsham; aren't 
 they sweet? One of them tries to suck my finger. 
 What are you going to call them? I do hope you 
 mean to keep them all." 
 
 "I doubt they're too many for the old bitch. Miss 
 Percival. She'll not feed the lot of them. We'll 
 be wise to duck the latest cast." 
 
 "Oh, no, — please. I'll feed it — I will, really. 
 I couldn't let you drown it. Now, what are their 
 names to be?" 
 
 "There's Melpomeen, Miss Percival, and Melody, 
 and Melchior, and Melchizedek. That's for the 
 bitches." 
 
 She quizzed him. "No, Frodsham, really that 
 won't do. I'm not quite sure about Melchizedek; 
 but Melchior was a man — he was a king — a king of 
 the East. And I believe Melchizedek was an angel." 
 
 Frodsham rubbed his chin. "May be you are 
 right, Miss Percival. An angel, was he now? 
 Wings to him? 'Tis a name for a bird, then. If 
 we kept the hawks the old Squire used to love — 
 there's a name for a peregrine! Melchizedek — a 
 fair mouthful." 
 
 "A Priest for ever," mused Jacobs, a wizened 
 elder, the kennel man, who yet bowed to the coach- 
 man in his own yard. "We may put him among 
 the dogs, I believe. We've Proteus, and Prophet; 
 but no Priest." 
 
 Frodsham looked to Sanchia for direction, ignor- 
 ing Jacobs. She flashed him a name. "Meli- 
 sande, Frodshani. Call her Melisande, and save 
 
138 REST HARROW 
 
 her life; and she shall be mine. I'll look after her. 
 Please do." He owned to the spell of her eyes, of 
 the sun upon her hair. "Melisande she shall be, 
 Miss Percival, and your own," he said. "The 
 Missus shall rear her if the old bitch won't. She's 
 had six of her own, and knows what it is." 
 
 Regretfully, one by one, she put the striving 
 blind things down; then rose and went her way 
 into the gardens about the house. Slowly through 
 the kitchen gardens she passed. Glyde, thinning 
 walled peach-trees, saw her, felt her go. She shed 
 her benediction upon him — " Good morning, Struan," 
 — and went on. He watched her for a while, then 
 turned fiercely to his affair. Through dense shrub- 
 beries, over drenched lawns her way was; it led 
 her to the lily-pond, which lay hidden within rhodo- 
 dendron walls, with a narrow cincture of grass path 
 all about it. Dark-brown, still and translucent like 
 an onyx it lay before her. It was her haunt of 
 election when she was troubled, as now she was, 
 when she gave herself time to remember it. 
 
 She stood, her hands clasped before her, close 
 to the water's brim, and looked over the shining 
 surface. She had never yet squarely faced her 
 difficulties. Her sceptre was slipping from her; 
 her reahn, usurped at first, hers by sufferance 
 first, but then by love of them she ruled, could 
 hold her but a little while more. The shadow of 
 coming eclipse made her eyes grow sombre. Doubt 
 of the unknown made lax her lips. 
 
 If Nevile's wife, with all her sins clotted on her, 
 
SHE PITIES HERSELF 139 
 
 was dead, what was she herself going to do, or allow 
 to be done ? She had yielded to love — her first love 
 and her last; but that had been long ago. Love, 
 the fire, the trembling and the music in her heart; 
 pride, the trust, the loyalty, the bliss of service; 
 the wonder, the swooning, the glory like a sun 
 upon her — all gone, burned out, or worked out. 
 Why, how long had it lasted her ? Her lips stretched 
 to a bleak smile to think of it. Three months joy 
 in herself, three months joy of him; then work, 
 incessant and absorbing; and then the growth of 
 a new pride, the pride of mind (for she found that 
 she had a brain), and of a new love — for she found 
 that she loved the creatures more than man. Edu- 
 cation indeed! To draw from a child caught una- 
 wares the force and the brooding love of an Earth- 
 Goddess. ' 
 
 In the beginning, she could have told herself 
 (but never did), she was to be pitied, not blamed. 
 Reticent among her free-speaking sisters, shy, what 
 the maids call "a, deep one," rarely a talker, keeping 
 always her own counsel, she had first been moved 
 to utter herself by the extreme carelessness of 
 Ingram whether she did so or not. The blame — 
 if it is to be laid — ^must be upon her mother when 
 she, knowing Ingram's story of miserable marriage 
 and separation, allowed the man to continue a 
 friend of the house, be much with her girl, and 
 unfold himself under her clear young eyes. What 
 she was about — ^that masterful, self-absorbed woman 
 
I40 REST HARROW 
 
 — ^there's no sa)nng. It was always supposed that, 
 with five beautiful daughters to market, she had 
 pushed Welbore Percival — Thomas Welbore Perci- 
 val, East India merchant of The Poultry — into lavish 
 entertainment of his friends and acquaintance. 
 Ingram, a squire and son of squires, was perhaps 
 a shade above her degree; she may have required 
 him to give a tone. This, considering that wretched 
 marriage of his — a month's engagement in defiance 
 of head-shaking, a blazing Hanover Square wedding, 
 a year's bickering, one month's acrimony (done by 
 letter) and Ingram's unquenchable hatred of the 
 woman — ^this, I say, you may well doubt. But I 
 can give no other explanation. He came, he talked 
 in his high-voiced, querulous, bitter-humoured way, 
 he saw and sought the grave young Sanchia, and he 
 won her pit)ring heart directly he had engrossed her 
 watching eyes. 
 
 She was a girl intensely interested in a hundred 
 dawning things, to whom love had come late. Until 
 she was near twenty you would have thought her 
 sexless. Senhouse, her poetical friend and teacher 
 — her only friend, her only confidant — had dubbed 
 her Artemis; and it may well have been his adoring 
 service of her pure flame which first turned it in- 
 wards, to scorch her heart. All that she had learned 
 of this scholar gypsy she poured out as balm over 
 the stricken Ingram, who swallowed it and her 
 together. Then the truth about him was blared 
 upon her suddenly, and she found that he was to 
 be pitied. Guileless victim of a hateful woman as 
 
SHE ADMITS THE FACTS I4I 
 
 she believed him then, she found that she held a 
 store of balm. She pitied him deeply, she opened, 
 she poured out her treasure. Enthusiasm for the 
 saving work captained her thereafter; nothing would 
 turn her from her purpose. Ingram was to be saved 
 by love: she gave him all. 
 
 To do him justice, a young man bom to possess 
 and command, he did his best to repair what was 
 beyond repair. He told her the truth unasked by 
 her; he confessed that he loved her, and owned 
 that he had no business to do it. Nearness, cir- 
 cumstance, brooding on that which was true of both 
 of them and must not be uttered by either, did 
 the rest. Upon that evening in the drawing-room 
 when they found themselves alone, each trembling 
 under the god, they simply drifted together, and 
 without effort to resist, mingled their natures through 
 the lips. Discovery, earthquake and eclipse, her 
 mother's chill rage, her father's tears, her sisters' 
 dismay; all this and more she endured. She pas- 
 sioned like a young martyr. She admitted the facts 
 without comment, and accepted the consequences 
 without a falter. They might have whelmed a greater 
 heart than hers; turned on to the town as she was 
 to all intent, at two-and-twenty, a girl with the face 
 and figure of a goddess, with fifty pounds between 
 her and the devil. They might have sent her, at 
 the least, weeping and trembling into Ingram's arms. 
 But they did not. She was of finer clay. She took 
 a lodging in Pimlico, and, to fit herself for employ- 
 ment, went to school. The commercial course 
 
142 
 
 REST HARROW 
 
 which she chose was the shortest possible, but all 
 that she felt she could afford. "My dear young 
 lady, we can only promise you a smattering — ^really 
 no more for the money." "It must start me," said 
 Sanchia, and began. There was a month more to 
 run when Ingram found her, and, glad as she was 
 of him, doting and doted upon, in the first flood of 
 youth and love, she persisted in it, finished it out, 
 and got her diploma for what it was worth, before, 
 as he put it, she would listen to reason. 
 
 It sounded extremely reasonable to him what he 
 then proposed; and also to her, though Chevenix 
 scorned its propounder. As Ingram put it to her, 
 it attracted her newborn pride of knowledge. She 
 was to flesh her steel, so to speak, in reality: in 
 plainer words, she, with her smattering of accounts, 
 was to manage a great house, an army of servants, 
 possibly an estate. Excessively in love as she was, 
 with all the music of it in her untried ears, she 
 knew already in herself that her mind must have 
 other food than her heart's rapture. I think, in- 
 deed, that she would have declined him altogether 
 if he had proposed nothing more tangible to her than 
 perpetual honeymoon. That was what Senhouse 
 would certainly have proposed to her — she saw that 
 in every look of his, and read it in every line he s^nt 
 her; but that had never attracted her. She had 
 given Senhouse her confidence, but not her heart. 
 Ingram's proposals, therefore, pleased her. She had 
 not a sweet enough tooth, nor the taste for flattery 
 which the other involved. She was entirely without 
 
SHE GAVE AND GOT 143 
 
 vanity. Therefore, however little honourable and 
 however much a lover of his ease Ingram may have 
 shown himself in making them, his reasonable pro- 
 posals were gratefully received. It was he who 
 suggested, but she who took the lead. She began 
 immediately to plan her new career — ^was perfectly 
 business-like. Ingram was to leave London at once, 
 and go to Wanless — ^to his duties of the bench, his 
 delights of the field, cares of the farm. He was to 
 announce to his househould his intention of "set- 
 tling down"; and he was to announce the advent of 
 a housekeeper. In this very outset of his bliss he 
 must needs do as she bade him. He went, and 
 made her ways as smooth as they could be made. 
 Her rooms were assigned to her; her duties mapped 
 out, the exact range of her authority. Her wages 
 were fixed, to be paid quarterly. She would take 
 nothing else from him — no jewellery (she wore 
 nothing but simple things, which had been given 
 her by her parents or sisters — amber, a string of 
 cowries, an ^.gate heart, a bangle or two), no frocks. 
 She was to have two hundred a year, and through- 
 out her time to this present she had no more, and 
 kept herself exquisitely upon it, with a sense of what 
 was due to him, to herself, and to her position, which 
 was admirable, .unhesitating, and never at fault. 
 In due time she arrived and entered upon her career. 
 That which was unlawful seemed now justified; the 
 secret intimacy, the wedded amity, the giving, which 
 was the dearest gain she had. Discretion, on her 
 side unsleeping, on his the more effective because he 
 
144 I^EST HARROW 
 
 never seemed to have any, secured them. There was 
 no open scandal among the neighbours; whatever 
 the household may have suspected, very little was 
 said. Within a year her servants were her slaves. 
 The Rector, it is true, reproached her for not go- 
 ing to church. She deprecated his indignation, but 
 didn't go. 
 
 Up to the day when we first met with her, her 
 garden-hat in her hand, reading her telegram by 
 the garden window, she had been eight years gov- 
 ernor of Wanless — and for nearly two of those years 
 alone. For the first two or three of them Ingram, 
 revelling in his snug ease, with little to do but devise 
 things — alterations, extensions, ventures into farm- 
 ing, and the like, which it was her delight to execute — 
 never left the county, hardly cared to leave the estate. 
 He entertained very sparingly: Chevenix came once 
 or twice, his own brother, Maxwell Ingram; there 
 were some other dinner-parties to the countryside, 
 hunt-breakfasts, once a hunt-ball, at none of which 
 ceremonies did she appear. He endured these weari- 
 nesses, shrugging them away as soon as he could, to 
 hasten from a dinner of dry toast and knives and 
 forks to his room — ^the Master's room — ^where sup- 
 per, Sanchia, sweet intimacy awaited him. He 
 spent thus by far the cleanliest and most sane years 
 of his wayward life. She soothed, amused, stimu- 
 lated him at once. He taught her all he knew of 
 country-lore, gave her, as they say, "the hang" of 
 landed estate; he learned by teaching, and might 
 have become a wholesome gentleman. 
 
SHE WAS KIND I45 
 
 But domestic business called him to London 
 presently. He went, and was away three months, 
 with lawyers, fierce threatenings from Claire, inter- 
 mediaries, friends of both parties, and the rest of 
 them. He was worried, flurried, put into a rage; 
 exploded, put himself a thousand times in the 
 wrong; finally, he came back to Wanless embit- 
 tered and restless. He came back to find himself 
 welcome, but not excessively so. At least he thought 
 not. His extensions, suggested in that first wonder- 
 ful time — a range of glass-houses, new heating ap- 
 paratus, acetylene gas installations, were well ad- 
 vanced. Sanchia's brows were often knit over esti- 
 mates, specifications, and bills. He had to pay for 
 novelties from which the salt had evaporated; he 
 he was never very fond of paying, and now, it 
 seemed, he wasn't very fond of what he had to pay 
 for. Sanchia was kind to him, but there was a 
 difference. She was as happy as the day was long, 
 always at work, outdoors or in, had not a moment 
 for him (business apart) until the very end of the 
 day, when (at eleven or so) she dressed with care 
 and went to him at his supper. Sanchia was per- 
 fectly happy; but he was not. 
 
 He stayed six months that year — ^from April 
 to September; but then went to Scotland, deer- 
 stalking, shooting pheasants. He was back for 
 Christmas and brought a houseful of guests — all 
 men. Again she welcomed him, again she was 
 kind. He was now a little blunted to the fine 
 shades of love, took his happiness as it happened 
 
146 REST HARROW 
 
 to come, and could rub his hands over the house- 
 hold blessing she was. By-and-by, at the end of 
 her fourth year, she took over the gardens as well 
 as the house, was accepted by Mr. Menzies as his 
 liege-lady and by young Glyde as much more 
 than that. The estate-management, home-farm, 
 woods, tenancies, were given up to her at the end 
 of the fifth year, just before Ingram sailed for 
 West Africa on a shooting expedition. By that 
 time he had grown to depend upon her entirely 
 for ever3i:hing. She was become the faithful well- 
 tried wife of standing, which in a man of Ingram's 
 bone means that nothing remained of love but entire 
 confidence and occasional gratification. After this, 
 he left her for long periods together; for the whole 
 of the eighth year he was abroad, " idiotically happy," 
 as he had told her. 
 
 During all this time no intercourse with her 
 family — except those furtive letters from her ador- 
 ing old father, which were pitiful to her, because 
 they could not be answered as he would have had 
 them; and nothing from her friend of the Open, who 
 had at last got himself a mate. It seemed that she 
 had made a clean break, and that nothing of what 
 had made her dawning life sweet and sane was 
 to mingle with the sweetness and sanity which she 
 had brought into Wanless. And then — after eight 
 years — she caught herself looking back. And now 
 — here was an end of the dream. 
 
 If you are to ask me what had changed her re- 
 gard for Ingram during that solitary year, so that 
 
SHE LEARNED TO SEE 147 
 
 she received him at the end of it as she did, I don't 
 know that I can tell you. Slowly discovery— of 
 herself, of him — came to her, slowly combustible 
 stuff was heaped within her; it slowly kindled, and 
 smouldered long. No doubt he himself blew it 
 into clear flame by his let-drop news of Claire's 
 death. She had not known that: she never read 
 the newspaper, having neither time for the world's 
 affairs nor interest in them. Suddenly, by that, 
 she was offended; suddenly saw him as he really 
 was, always had been, and always must be. Sud- 
 denly, also, she saw herself, as brimming with life, 
 energy to live and to make hve, at the end of her 
 music-time. The folds fell from her eyes, she could 
 see Ingram as a man, squalid. Nay, more: she 
 could now see him as a beast, ravening. Thereupon 
 , he gave her horror, so that she dared not look back 
 upon her hours of blindness. 
 
 Perhaps he had offended her by his silence — 
 his two letters, which she had neither invited nor 
 answered. That can hardly account for it, since 
 she had not written to him of her own initiative. 
 Their parting certainly had been discrepant: the 
 clinging and wistfulness had been hers, though 
 she had uttered nothing of complaint or misgiving. 
 But perhaps he had been too gay and nonchalant, 
 a little too much the husband secure. For a week 
 she had shivered at her loneliness; then she had 
 plunged anew into the flood of affairs, and had 
 come out, as from a cold bath, braced and tingling. 
 Round went the wheels of Wanless. The house 
 
148 REST HARROW 
 
 was new-papered, painted, carpeted; every month 
 brought new wonders to the garden. Under Clyde's 
 tuition, seeing with his eyes, watching with his tens- 
 ity of vision, she had come closely into Nature's 
 arms. Perhaps she was unwise with the young man : 
 the fact is she never stopped to consider him. She 
 liked him and his queer, secret, passionate ways. 
 She took a royal line of her own. She required much 
 of him, and if he made much of it, she didn't know 
 it. She dreamed no harm to him or to herself. 
 Her absorption in the business of the moment, 
 or the needs, was so manifest that not even the 
 maids, who saw her frequently with the youth, 
 could have thought harm for a second. It was 
 just Miss Percival all over — as "keen as mustard." 
 Perhaps it was as much under Glyde's fostering 
 as any other nurture that she came, during that 
 year alone, to love the earth so well that she could 
 appraise the worth of human love. I don't know. 
 It was a critical year for her. 
 
 As she was anything but a fool, there's no doubt 
 that she came, before the end of that year, to kiiow 
 what was the matter with Glyde. She had had 
 experience — of herself and another — and he was 
 utterly incapable of concealing his feelings. Of 
 course she knew what was the matter with him, 
 and was tenderly and quietly amused. She ap- 
 proached him gradually, let herself play elder sister, 
 and let him play what he chose, within severe 
 limits, never overstepped by him, never unwatched 
 by herself. He was a passionate, sensitive, inarticu- 
 
SCHOOL FOR GLYDE 149 
 
 late creature, narrow-faced, sharp-eyed, scowling and 
 thin. He always looked cold, mostly angry, and 
 never seemed contented, even when his plants flow- 
 ered themselves to death to please him. 
 
 A woman, any woman, knowing that a man 
 covets her possession, stores her knowledge, exults 
 in it in secret. It is a fund, a store against lean 
 years or wry ones. You can see it throned sedately 
 in her eyes, when she is with him, however much 
 she may feel his absurdity or presumption. So it 
 was with Sanchia. She was fully conscious of 
 Struan's preposterous state, strictly the elder sister, 
 never the patroness, for were they not bond-slaves 
 both? She patronised nobody at Wanless, yet, 
 with a steady eye for distances, kept a perfect length, 
 varying with each oncomer. With Mr. Menzies, 
 lord of the gardens, so far on she came; with Frod- 
 sham, master of horse and hound, so far; with the 
 engineer so far; with Minnie nearer; nearest of 
 all with Mrs. Benson: her attitude to the stout 
 woman was that of favourite pupil to a family 
 governess of immemorial service. She could wheedle 
 Mrs. Benson, and often did. The elder sister atti- 
 tude was kept for young Glyde; she admonished, 
 scolded, preached to him high doctrine of duty and 
 honour; there was something benignant, a sort of 
 pitying care shed from above. To him she may 
 have been like Cynthia, stooping to the dreamer on 
 Latmos. Whether she knew that, she must have 
 known a good deal. She knew, for instance, that 
 he kept vigil; for she had met him at night, as 
 
15© REST HARROW 
 
 you have been told. She knew where to find him. 
 Nothing had ever passed between them, of course, 
 of her relations with the Master. I don't think that 
 she was aware of his sentry-go under the windows 
 — first under Ingram's, then under hers. I am sure 
 she was not, or he would have heard of it in plain 
 terms, have seen her eyes grqw hard, and her mouth 
 stretch to bleakness. She was capable of royal, 
 cold rage when she was oflf ended. But that he 
 hated Ingram must have been plain to her. 
 
 And now, as she stood at gaze, lonely and pensive 
 by the black pond, she saw that it was over, her 
 busy life. She was at the end of her tether, must 
 lose her power and the sense of it. She was to begin 
 the world again, starting with her fifty pounds, and 
 without that which had made it a pride before. 
 With a little shiver of self-pity, a half-sigh and a 
 tightening of the lips, she accepted her fate. That 
 was her way. 
 
 She regretted nothing, asked neither for mercy 
 nor allowance. What she had done, she had done; 
 if it was to be done with, she could not help that; 
 she must go her way. Never for an instant did it 
 enter her head that she could marry Ingram. Noth- 
 ing that he had urged, or Chevenix counselled, made 
 the smallest difference to her. She did not love 
 Nevile any more; he was horrible to her: enough 
 of that. Whatever her fate was to be, she would 
 accept it : she chose it so. Without reasoning it out, 
 that was final for her. She had always had sic 
 volo for her final cause. Stet pro ratione voluntas. 
 
HER HIGH CLAIM 151 
 
 Marriage, even nominal marriage, with Nevile was 
 the accursed thing: none of it. And why? Because 
 she chose it so. 
 
 This was very subhme. I sing, or Mr. Senhouse 
 sings, a Goddess in her own Right. That is to be 
 observed, or v/e fail. Persons have existed, and 
 do yet exist, who are law unto themselves, de- 
 liberate choosers of their fate, deliberate allies of 
 Atropos with the shears, who go what seems to 
 us, shivering on the brink of things, a bright and 
 bloodstained way, and furrow deeply into life, 
 because it must be so, because so they will have it. 
 Great ones of time, a Caesar or so, a Catherine, a 
 Buonaparte, come handily to mind, who, wreaking 
 countless woes, wrought evenly their own. And 
 since greatness is a relative term, and time an ab- 
 straction of the mind, in their company, says Mr. 
 Senhouse, was Sanchia Percival, and in her blue- 
 clouded eyes was to be discerned seated, like a 
 captain, foreknowledge of her own fate, and will 
 to choose it. But, as for Mr. Senhouse himself, at 
 this time of envisaging of ways I don't believe 
 that he entered her head. Small blame to her, 
 either, seeing that the man, having renounced her, 
 or failed of her, as you please, had taken up with 
 his Mrs. Germain, and found her to be a Fact, as 
 I have related. 
 
 But to do wrong or right, the prerogative o£ 
 choice: she arrogated that. So, I think, if the; 
 sister of the Far-Darter had ever stepped aside 
 from the path of her lonely delight — ^as some have 
 
152 REST HARROW 
 
 it she did on Latmos — she would have done it 
 without shame. It would have been her pleasure 
 and her choice; she would never change counte- 
 nance or have to breast the flood of colour. It 
 must be hers to take up or discard an empire, 
 or a Nevile Ingram of Wanless Hall. So, in her 
 ■degree, did Sanchia Percival — of the stuff of god- 
 desses. 
 
IX 
 
 Mrs. Devereux having departed as impressively 
 as might be expected of a lady with a sense of 
 injury, there was little for Chevenix to do but to 
 follow her; for whereas Mrs. Devereux considered 
 herself badly treated by both parties in the house, 
 the young man had to own that he had quarrelled 
 with his host. "I laid for Nevile," he told Sanchia, 
 "and he don't let me forget it, either. He don't 
 like commentators on his text — never did. So he's 
 making Wanless too hot to hold me." 
 
 Sanchia, with rueful eyes, feared that this was 
 her fault. "I'm very sorry," she said. "On all 
 accounts I'm very sorry. I shall miss you. It" was 
 nice to see you again." 
 
 "See me again," cried Chevenix, "as soon as 
 you please; but not here — ^unless you feel you can 
 make up your mind to settle down, as we call it." 
 
 She shook her head. "I don't think I can. I 
 think it might be wicked — as things are." 
 
 Chevenix raised his eyebrows. "That's you all 
 over, my dear. Other people's Right is your 
 Wrong. Why question the decrees of the police? 
 They teU you that you may do what you please 
 when you're married, but not before. But you 
 won't have that. Of course, if you can't swallow 
 
 IS3 
 
154 
 
 REST HARROW 
 
 Nevile, you can't — and there's an end of it. Only," 
 he added, "there must be an end of it. You're in 
 a false position — now." 
 
 "According to you I always was," said the can- 
 did young lady, and made him change countenance. 
 She shirked nothing. 
 
 "I did think so once; we all did, you know. 
 Even your bare-footed friend, What's-his-name " 
 
 "Mr. Senhouse." 
 
 "Beg your pardon. Mr. Senhouse, of course. 
 Well, he didn't take it sitting down, so to speak. 
 Did he now?" 
 
 She considered. Her eyes grew gentle over the 
 remembrances which this name always called up.' 
 "He knew that I was right. Oh, yes. I'm sure 
 of that. But he was frightened. He lost his nerve 
 because " 
 
 "Because it was you, my dear," said Chevenix 
 briskly. She owned soberly to that. 
 
 "I shall see your people when I get to town," 
 he told her. "I shall make a point of seeing Vicky 
 and your governor. And if I could drop in upon 
 Senhouse, by George, I'd risk it. You don't know 
 where he is just now, I suppose?" 
 
 "He was in the Black Forest when I last heard 
 from him," she said, "and was going to the Cau- 
 casus — ^to collect plants. That was a long time ago. 
 Three years, I should think. He doesn't write 
 now. He's married, you know." 
 
 "Married?" he repeated, with open eyes. "I 
 never knew that." 
 
SENHOUSE GLIMMERS 155 
 
 "He married a Mrs. Germain — a widow." 
 
 Chevenix stared, then slapped his leg. "Then 
 that accounts for it! Didn't I tell you I met him 
 when I went out to Brindisi to see Nevile off — 
 met him on a steamer, with a pretty woman ? That 
 was Mrs. G. — his pretty woman. Good Lord, 
 how rum!" He laughed, staring. Then, "What 
 on earth did he do that for? She's not his sort. 
 And I gave myself away — confoundedly — ^to each 
 of 'em in turn. You'll never believe it, but I told 
 him that she'd always been in love with Tristram 
 Duplessis, and then I gave her to understand what 
 had been the matter with old Senhouse." He ex- 
 ploded, then grew mighty serious. "That's rather 
 a bore. I was counting on him, you know. I 
 thought you might want him." 
 
 Sanchia made no reply. About the comers of 
 her mouth there lurked the hint of a smile, which 
 her wistful eyes belied. Chevenix watched her, but 
 could make nothing of it. 
 
 "He was a rum 'un," he continued. "The first 
 time I saw him after you came up here, was when 
 I ran against him by chance in Norfolk somewhere. 
 Spread abroad he was — in flannels — all his things 
 strewn about. He had a little fire going, and a 
 little pot on it. Doing a job of tinkering, he said, 
 to oblige a lady. There was the lady, too, if you 
 please, sitting on a bank, smoking a clay. She 
 had a beard, and an old wide-awake on her head. 
 Senhouse introduced me, I remember. He told me 
 he was on his way North — ^Wastwater, I think. 
 
156 ^ REST HARROW 
 
 A planting job up there — or something. Rum 
 chap that! Oh, one of the very rummest! He 
 asked me a lot about you. I didn't know how 
 much he knew, so I went very pussy. The chap 
 was as sharp as a needle. Spotted me. He said, 
 'My dear sir, I don't ask you what she is doing 
 or where she is. I ask you if she is well.' Then 
 I told him a lot — about you, and Nevile, and all 
 this business. I let out, I tell you. I was fairly 
 deep in the thing — you know that I felt pretty 
 badly, because it was my fault that you ever knew 
 Nevile at all. Don't you suppose I've ever for- 
 given myself that, Sancie; never you suppose it. 
 No, no." 
 
 He was much moved. She, by a sudden impulse, 
 put out her hand to him. He wrung it, and said, 
 "Thanks, Sancie; thanks, my dear." 
 
 After a wrestling bout, he went on: "Do you 
 know what that fellow said to me? I should like 
 you to know it. Mind you, he was yours, body 
 and soul, then — whatever he may be now. I think 
 he's yours still, for that matter — but then ! He 
 never concealed it — so far as I know — from any- 
 body. Now, listen to me. He heard me out, 
 never said anything till I'd done. Then he looked 
 out over the marshes into the weather, and he said, 
 "No harm ever came to a good woman. I shall 
 see her again, crowned." Now, what do you say 
 to that? Queer, isn't it?" 
 
 Sanchia blushed deeply and bent her head. 
 Chevenix marked her confusion, and varied his 
 
HE SPEAKS FROM AFAR 157 
 
 tone to suit the case. He became practical. "Now, 
 what'U he say about this new state of affairs, do 
 you suppose?" 
 
 She Hfted her head. "He will think me in the 
 right." 
 
 Chevenix shrugged. "There's going to be trou- 
 ble," he believed. "There's bound to be, just on 
 that account. Nevile can be a brute when he's in 
 the wrong, and knows it." 
 
 Sanchia squared her jaw for trouble. 
 
 "He wants you back, you know, awfully — ^be- 
 cause you won't come. And the more he wants 
 you the less he'll say so. That's the pride of the 
 cobbler's dog. If he's uncomfortable, he'll scratch 
 until he's comfortable again. And he says, "If 
 you can't get the best take the next best"; and 
 runs about with Mrs. Wibnot at his heels, and is 
 bored all the time. That's Nevile aU over." His 
 eyes grew rounder. "You'll have to go, you know." 
 
 She admitted that. "Yes, I must." Then she 
 sighed. "I don't want to go. There's such a lot 
 to be done here." 
 
 "Yes, yes, my dear," said Chevenix with some 
 irritation. "No doubt there is, But you can't 
 afford it." 
 
 He stammered out his next. "I should like to 
 say, Sancie, that there's nobody on earth I respect — 
 for whom I have more respect than for you. I 
 don't understand your point of view — don't pretend 
 to. But I know a fine thing when I see it. I'm 
 not much of a chap, I know — ^no brains, and all 
 
158 REST HARROW 
 
 that — simple, rotten chap, I know; but if we're not 
 going to be friends I shall be unhappy." 
 
 "We are, I hope," she said, smiling kindly at 
 him. She gave him her hand. 
 
 "Right, Sancie. Look here," he said sternly. 
 "I'll punch Nevile's head for you, if you like." 
 
 "I shouldn't like it at all," she assured him. 
 
 "We're old acquaintance, you know. He'd take 
 it from me better than from anyone else — like 
 Senhouse." 
 
 "Mr. Senhouse would never touch him," she 
 was sure. He dropped in Chevenix's estimation 
 immediately. 
 
 "Quaker, eh? I didn't know that." 
 
 Sanchia explained. "He can't be changed in 
 those sort of things. He would only use force 
 against wild beasts." 
 
 "Well," cried Chevenix, "what do you think 
 Nevile's going to be? My advice to you is to get 
 out as soon as you can. And when you're in town, 
 command me." They parted firm friends. 
 
 Mrs. Wilmot remained, against her inmost judg- 
 ment; against her maid Purcell's clear advice, for 
 one more day. The night of Chevenix's departure 
 she was there, and on the morrow was to be con- 
 veyed to the Trenchards', across the county. Wan- 
 less had her steadily in its score pair of eyes for 
 twenty-four hours, as Purcell, her maid, had fore- 
 seen. "You are doing a strange thing, ma'am, 
 permit me to say." Purcell was an elderly spinster. 
 
MRS. WILMOT IS JUDGED 159 
 
 who only required her own permission to say what 
 she pleased. "You will be watched and reported. 
 I suppose I am not in the servants' hall for nothing." 
 Mrs. Wilmot said feebly that she supposed she was 
 there for meals. Purcell stiffened her wiry neck. 
 "Meals, ma'am! In the best houses there's a 
 second table. The butler may be there, and per- 
 haps the valet. The lady's maid, of course. But 
 where there's no lady, one may put up with the cook, 
 though the cook in such houses is rarely a female. 
 But the housekeeper here! A Miss Percival! Dines 
 alone — or is said to — and the cook sits at the head 
 of our table. This is no house for you, ma'am." 
 
 The lady gave a little cry and hoisted a white shoul- 
 der. "Oh, Purcell, you are hurting me dreadfully. 
 Do be more gentle with me. You are tearing my 
 hair out by handfuls. What can it matter to you 
 where Miss — ^where the housekeeper dines?" 
 
 "Ho," said Purcell, "little or nothing — ^to me, 
 ma'am. I cannot help my thoughts. But I keep 
 them to myself. Not one word in this house — 
 downstairs — of Miss Percival. Not one word. They 
 keep their mouths shut, I promise you, and their 
 eyes open. But what you will, you wiU. As for 
 Mr. Ingram, the less I say the better." 
 . "Much the better," said Mrs. Wilmot, fretfully 
 wriggling under the comb. 
 
 That fine afternoon — ^April budding into May — 
 this lady listened to Ingram in the garden. Of all 
 sounds in the world the sweetest music for her ear 
 
l6o REST HARROW 
 
 was made by a man's voice embroidering the theme 
 — " You are lovely, you are cruel, I die." Ingram's 
 descant on the golden phrase was querulous, after 
 his manner. He took his lover's smarts, as one 
 must suppose them, hardly. As thus: " You are 
 lovely — but what's that to me, if I can't touch you ? 
 You sting my eyes, you inflame, you wound — or I 
 think you do; here am I, tied by the leg to a dead 
 woman — for dead to me she is, the she-cat Sanchia 
 — looking at you because I can't help myself. You 
 are soft and lax, you purr when I stroke you; I 
 could make a pet of you. Was ever a man of 
 property and station in such a case? 
 
 " You are cruel — ^because, though I could put out 
 my hand and take you, yet you expect me to do 
 it. That's all over, for me. I've done that sort 
 of thing — Sanchia knows. Now I must trouble 
 you to advance. I'm sick of life on these terms: 
 you could make life worth living. I must really 
 trouble you: sorry to seem languid, but I am lan- 
 guid. You, with your fine sensibilities, ought to 
 be the first to feel that; but no: you wait, looking 
 exquisite, with eyes like blue-black water, and a 
 mouth, a mouth like a flower. You soft gossamer 
 beauty, I could crush you where you hover; but 
 you won't come and be crushed. Certainly, you 
 are cruel. 
 
 / die. He avoided that. It was absurd. She 
 thought for one moment that he hinted it when he 
 said, shrugging off his ranges of hot-house — "Good 
 of their kind, I fancy. But what good are they to 
 
INGRAM'S CONSOLATIONS l6l 
 
 me — a solitary beggar? I never go into 'em, you 
 know. I thought I should take an interest when 
 I had 'em put up. It looked like it — But now! 
 who cares whether I go into 'em or not? Who 
 cares whether I live or die?" There had been a 
 pathetic ring there. 
 
 She had murmured a gentle rebuke; her eyes 
 had brimmed, reproaching him. It was then that 
 he had taken her hand, at the going-out from the 
 fig-house. "Ruth," he had said, "my kind, pretty 
 Ruth." Then he stooped his head and kissed her. 
 Through three pairs of doors Glyde, in the peach- 
 house, had seen the act, and paused in his spraying. 
 It was over in a minute. The pair strolled away 
 and passed out of the walled-garden. Glyde, who 
 had turned very white, compressed his lips and 
 went back to his work — like a machine. Presently 
 a light step made him start, look guardedly up, 
 watch and wait. Sanchia, bare-headed, fresh and 
 debonnaire, came in, like a stream of west wind. 
 Her eyes beamed her health and pleasure. "Oh, 
 Struan," she said, "do come and see the Susianas. 
 They are on the very point of opening. Do come. 
 There's nobody about. They've gone down to the, 
 river." 
 
 He could not face her, knowing what he knew. 
 But he could not resist her either. "I'll come," he 
 said, and followed her. 
 
 She went gaily and eagerly. "You've never 
 done so well with them as this year. I counted 
 a dozen. Huge! I felt rather miserable this mom- 
 
1 62 REST HARROW 
 
 ing; I've been worried rather. I thought I would 
 just see what they would do for me. They made 
 me feel ashamed of myself. Their strength, their 
 contentedness — ^just to grow, and be strong and well ! 
 Nothing more. What else ought we to want? 
 Food — the sun — strength to grow! Isn't that 
 enough?" She was echoing Senhouse here, and 
 felt an added glow to .remember it. He had been 
 much in her thoughts since her last exchange with 
 Chevenix. 
 
 Out of the warm brown soil, sheltered by the 
 eaves, the iris clump made a brave show. Its 
 leaves like grey scimitars, its great flower-stems 
 like spears. Stiffly they reared, erect, smooth, 
 well-rounded, and each was crowned with the 
 swollen bud of promise. She displayed them proud- 
 ly, she counted them, made him check her counting. 
 She glowed over them, fascinated by their virile 
 pride. Struan watched her more than her treasures. 
 He was pale still, and bit his lip; had nothing to 
 say. 
 
 She knelt and took one of the great stalks tenderly 
 in her hand. A kind of rapture was upon her, a 
 mystic's ecstasy. She passed her closed hand up 
 and down, feeling the stiflF smoothness: she clasped 
 and pressed the bursting bud. "Feel it, Struan, feel 
 it," she said. ''It's alive." He turned, shaking, 
 away. 
 
 "They say," she went on, caressing the bud, 
 "that this is really the Lily of the Annunciation. 
 It's a s)Tnbol, I've read. Gabriel held one in his 
 
SANCHIA AND A MYSTERY 163 
 
 hand when he stood before Our Lady. Did you 
 know that?" 
 
 Glyde broke out. "Don't. Don't. Come away. 
 I must speak to you — quickly — if I dare. Come 
 away from here." 
 
 He spoke fiercely, meaning what he said. Grave, 
 sobered, she rose and followed him. He drew her 
 after him to the yew-tree walk, to the enclosure at 
 its end, where the leaden Faun capered and grinned. 
 There he faced her. 
 
 "You must leave this place," he said shortly. 
 She looked to the ground. 
 
 "I know," she replied in a low voice. 
 
 "Every moment you stop here insults you, puts 
 shame upon you. Shame! And on you! It's not 
 bearable. It's not to be suffered. I'll not suffer 
 it for one." 
 
 At this she lifted her head and reproved him by 
 a look. It was mild, queenly mild, but not weak. 
 Remote from him and his world, it said, "I can't 
 hear you." 
 
 He understood it so. "Who says I may not 
 speak to you? Who else is to speak to you if I 
 don't? How can you bear yourself and speak 
 nothing? Is it natural?" He seemed on the point 
 of angry tears; with a gesture infinitely kind she 
 bore with him. Her hand just touched his arm. 
 
 "Dear Struan," she said, "I know how nice you 
 mean to be to me; I am very grateful to you. Of 
 course I am going away. I have brought every- 
 thing on myself, and must bear the consequences 
 
164 REST HARROW 
 
 by myself. But I have been happy here, lately, 
 and shall be most unhappy to go. I have so many 
 friends here." Then, after looking at him, reflect- 
 ing, she added, "Of course I know that you care." 
 
 "Care!" he cried out, scornfully. "Do you 
 think that I've watched you, in and out, for three 
 years without caring? Do you think that I have 
 schooled myself to put up with — ^with him — ^with- 
 out caring? And when I thought that he was com- 
 ing back here to — to prove himself an honourable 
 man — I thanked the Lord. Yes, I did that. I 
 was ready to go when I knew he was coming back 
 for that. I told you I would go — and I meant 
 it. I should have cut my heart out and left it here, 
 and gone away — clean away, glorifying and prais- 
 ing God. But — oh, it's hideous, hideous! You are 
 discarded — you! Cast off — you! Peerless as you 
 are — you! Oh, my Saviour, what's this?" He 
 broke away, and sobbed. He dashed his arm over 
 his eyes in a rage with himself. She was very gentle 
 with him now. 
 
 She put her hand on his shoulder, and though 
 he shook it off, put it there again. "You hurt me, 
 Struan, really. If you are my friend, you shouldn't 
 doubt me. I don't feel about it as you do, you 
 know." 
 
 He lifted his head at the challenge. "Then you 
 should," he said. "Dog that he is. He's insulting 
 you. He had better have died than do as he does. 
 Damn him, he shall pay for it." She shook her 
 head, smiling rather dismally. 
 
FIERCENESS OF CLYDE 1 65 
 
 "I can't talk to you any more if you don't under- 
 stand why I can't talk to you," she said. " There are 
 things which friends cannot do for each other — 
 which we have to do alone." 
 
 The lad gasped and made a step towards her. 
 He could not control himself — he shook. 
 
 "Not you — never you. I'll die for you — and 
 you know it." She looked at him full, then left 
 him. 
 
X 
 
 Mrs. Wilmot stayed for the better part of a week 
 longer than she had intended, and then, perceiving 
 by subtle but unmistakeable signs that she would 
 wiselier go, went. To Wanless that had been a 
 week of strain; the air was charged with trouble. 
 One could not have pointed to anything — it was 
 beyond the range of weathercock or glass; but 
 everybody felt it. Sanchia, graver than she was 
 wont to be, pushed herself sharply from duty to 
 duty, and avoided sympathy by a dry manner. 
 Or she was obtuse, affecting a fooUsh interest in 
 trivialities. She never went into the garden, and 
 saw nothing of young Glyde. Mrs. Benson, gloom- 
 ing thunder from her brows, Minnie with scare in 
 her russet eyes turned Purcell's feasts into fasts. 
 The wiry tire-woman, to do her justice, was as un- 
 comfortable as any of them ; but loyalty spurred her to 
 feats of endurance undreamed of by any but servants. 
 They, in a world of their own, where speech is rare, 
 and skins rarer, where ever)?thing must be done by 
 glances and hints, are perhaps more aware of them- 
 selves than any other children of men. They are 
 for ever judging their betters; how shall they escape 
 from judgment of each other? Judge not, says the 
 
 i66 
 
GLYDE IN BLACK 167 
 
 Book; but if you pry for vice, what can you be your- 
 self but a prying-ground? So Purcell agonised, 
 and felt her very vitals under the hooks. The case 
 was past praying for. She suffered and was dumb. 
 
 At last the delicate beauty, seeing Adonis faint 
 in the chase — for Ingram, as a lover, was languid 
 and gloomy — ^was helped into her lacy draperies, 
 helped into the carriage, driven to the station; 
 and Ingram, on horseback, rode by her side. He 
 helped her into the train, stored her with magazines, 
 kissed her mouth, revolted at her tears, and re- 
 turned sulkily, with hard-rimmed eyes, at a foot's 
 pace to his halls. Midway of the carriage-drive, 
 instinctively, he tightened the rein; for Glyde 
 stepped out of the undergrowth some ten paces 
 ahead, and stood, waiting for him. He was dressed, 
 not for the garden (in shirt-sleeves and baize), but 
 in his blacks, and had a soft felt hat on his head, 
 basin-shaped, with the brim over his eyes. "Now 
 what the devil does that chap want, play-acting 
 here?" was Ingram's enquiry of the Universe. 
 
 Glyde, as the horse drew level, came within touch 
 of his flank, and told Ingram that he wished to 
 speak with him. 
 
 "Eh?" said Ingram; and then, "oh, what a 
 nuisance." He felt himself injured. "Well, what 
 is it, Glyde?" 
 
 Glyde said, "I wish to give notice, if you please." 
 The manner of address was curt and offensive. 
 
 "Oh, do you?" Ingram said. "Well, then, you 
 had better do it in the proper way. See Miss 
 
1 68 REST HARROW 
 
 Percival about it, will you?" He pressed his knees 
 in as if to continue his way. 
 
 Glyde, however, stood by the horse's head. 
 
 "I have seen Miss Percival about it, Mr. In- 
 gram," he said. "I saw her — a week ago. And 
 now I've got to see you about it." 
 
 Ingram looked at him sharply — a sudden stiffen- 
 ing of the spine; spine stiff and eyes sharp, act- 
 ing together. What he saw made him the more 
 alert. 
 
 "What on earth do you mean?" he asked. 
 
 "I'll tell you," said Glyde. "I'm free of your 
 service from this minute, so I'll tell you. I say 
 that you are a damned scoundrel, and that you 
 know it." A concentration of many grudges, kept 
 very still, as by white heat, characterised this re- 
 markable speech. 
 
 Ingram blenched. "By George, my man," he 
 said, "you'll have to make that good." 
 
 Glyde said, "And I will. You have behaved, 
 you are behaving, like a dog in this house; and 
 you're to take a dog's wages." 
 
 Ingram jumped in his saddle, rose in his stirrups. 
 "By God," he said, "by God—" but he said no 
 more. 
 
 Glyde sprang up at him where he stood above 
 his saddle, unseated — sprang up at him, took him 
 by the shoulders and then dropping, pulled him 
 off his horse. The freed animal, startled, kicked 
 out, shook his head, and cantered gaily homewards. 
 Glyde, having Ingram on the ground, took him by 
 
INGRAM ON HIS BACK 169 
 
 the collar of- his jacket and belaboured him with 
 his open hand. He cuffed him like a schoolboy, 
 boxed him about the ears and face, shook him well, 
 and then cast him into the young bracken of his 
 own avenue. "There's for you, seducer," he said; 
 and that done, he walked steadily up the road 
 towards the lodge gates. 
 
 Ingram, on his feet, in a rage which was the most 
 manly he could have suffered, went after him at 
 a run, and caught him up. "You blackguard," 
 he said, and panted. "Turn and fight with 
 me." 
 
 Glyde stopped. "I'll not fight with you, Ingram," 
 was his measured reply, "because I've that in me 
 which would kill you. No mercy for you there. 
 You can go as you please; you can send me to 
 gaol or not; but you shan't get me hanged. I've 
 something to do with my life — as much of it as 
 you leave me; and I want it." As Ingram glared 
 at him, crimson now, with bulging eyes and teeth 
 at lips, the other went on. "I'm going no farther 
 to-day than my lodging. Your police will find 
 me there when you send 'em. I shan't fight them, 
 because I can't afford it; and I shan't fight you, 
 dog that you are, for the same reason." Ingram 
 cursed, and sprang at him, but Glyde stiffened 
 his arm and held him off. Master was no match 
 for man, and felt no better for the knowledge of 
 that. It did serve, however, to bring him to his 
 senses. He saw that he was making an ass of 
 himself. 
 
1 70 REST HARROW 
 
 "You'll hear more of this," he said, and turned 
 and walked rapidly back to the house. 
 
 Mortification inflamed his rage; his furious walk- 
 ing blew into it a sense of incurable injury. Injury, 
 shocked pride, and animal heat altogether made a 
 devil of him. He went directly to his own room, 
 and rang the bell. "Send Miss Percival to me," 
 he told Minnie, "at once." 
 
 Then he waited for her, with a face like a rat. 
 
XI 
 
 She might have gathered warning from Minnie's 
 panting summons, but had been busy over her ac- 
 counts and had noticed nothing amiss. 
 
 "He wants you, Miss Percival! Don't go!" 
 She had scarcely heard. She said, "Who wants 
 me? Mr. Ingram? I'll come;" and though the 
 maid stammered, "I wouldn't, oh, I wouldn't," 
 had gone. 
 
 The face he showed her from his bureau, where 
 he sat huddled over a litter of papers, prepared her 
 instantly for crisis; snarling, white and wicked, 
 yet it had tragedy in it — as if he knew that he had 
 himself to reckon with beyond all. 
 
 For some time he seemed not to see her, though 
 he looked at her. He sat glooming, like a man 
 dumb in high fever, working his lower jaw, screw- 
 ing and unscrewing his hands. Afterwards she 
 believed that he had been groping for the cruellest 
 thing he could say, and was goaded into what he 
 did say by the sense that he could find nothing. 
 
 "So that was your work? Your choice way! 
 To set one of my own servants to club me." 
 
 She looked at him blankly; but her face glowed 
 with sudden fire. "I haven't the least notion what 
 you mean. Who has clubbed vou?" 
 
 171 
 
172 REST HARROW 
 
 His eyes flickered. "Glyde. Your friend. You 
 seek your champions all about, it seems. You 
 make things snug for yourself. It's master or man 
 with you — it's all one." 
 
 He spluttered his venom broadcast. She held up 
 her head. "Are you insulting me?" He wheeled 
 round full in his chair. 
 
 "Is it possible to insult you?" 
 
 At that she lowered her panoply of fire, and grew 
 still. "I see that you are. I can't allow that." 
 
 He foamed. "Bullies in your hire. Now I see 
 what Bill Chevenix was after. And Glyde — faugh! 
 who else?" 
 
 She watched him steadily without fear or disgust. 
 His words held no meaning for her. "I think you 
 must be mad," she said. "It will be better if I 
 go." 
 
 He scoffed at her. "Better! You are right." 
 He rose in his place. "You'll go to-day." 
 
 Sanchia regarded him deeply, almost curiously, 
 as if he had been a plant, interesting for its rarity. 
 
 "Naturally," she said, and left him in his star- 
 ing fit. 
 
 The ordered little realm of Wanless went on its 
 diurnal course. Luncheon was served at two by a 
 trembling parlour-maid; the coffee was set in the 
 hall, the cigar-box, the spirit-flame. Frodsham 
 came for orders, Mr. Menzies reported Glyde 
 absent without leave. These things were done by 
 rote: yet the whole house knew the facts. Sanchia, 
 
APES AND TIGERS 173 
 
 dining in the middle of the day, plied her knife 
 and fork with composure. It was her way to face 
 facts once for all, tussle with them, gain or lose, 
 and be done with them. She had been angry with 
 Glyde, but now could think of him as "poor Struan," 
 Punchinello in a rustic comedy. Of Ingram, de- 
 liberately, she thought nothing. It had been neces- 
 sary to survey her feelings of eight years ago, to 
 make a sour face of disgust over them, before she 
 could shake them out of her head. Now they were 
 gone, and he with them: the world, with May be- 
 ginning, was too sweet a place for such vermin to 
 fester in. She had swept and ridded herself, rinsed 
 her mouth with pure water, and now could sit to 
 her dinner and review her plans. 
 
 But the storm burst over Wanless, at half-past 
 four. Minnie came into her room, breathless, Mrs. 
 Benson stertorous in her traces. 
 
 Minnie wailed, "Oh, Miss, oh. Miss Sanchia, 
 oh, dear Miss Percival, what's going to become of 
 us ? Struan's beaten the Master, and the Sergeant's 
 here!" 
 
 "Apes and tigers" — Mrs. Benson tolled like a 
 bell. "Apes and tigers. What says the Book?" 
 
 Sanchia let them run, so the distorted tale was 
 pieced together. At a quarter to twelve — ^it must 
 have been that, because Emma heard the stable- 
 clock chime the half-hour — Struan was seen in his 
 blacks. He came out of the wood-house, an ash- 
 plant in his hand. "Apes and tigers, apes and 
 tigers," from Mrs. Benson — ^his face was dreadful 
 
174 REST HARROW 
 
 to see. Who said so? Who saw him? Not Min- 
 nie, for sure. It was Bella the laundr)miaid — she 
 saw him from the window, and had a turn. The 
 window was open. "Why, Struan," she said — 
 but he told her to shut mouth and eyes. "The less 
 you see, and know," he said, "the better for you." 
 Poor Struan, with his tragedy airs! Bella told 
 that to Minnie, and that she would never forget 
 it to her dying day. It turned the beer in her 
 stomach, she said — ^and now she was lying down. 
 As he went out of the yard, a cloud came over the 
 sun, and Bella felt the chill. She had the goose- 
 flesh all up her back. That, they say, betokens 
 a person walking over your grave. Somewhere in 
 England we all have our grave-ground lying green 
 under turf. It awaits the spade and the hour. In 
 the morning it is green and groweth up — this was 
 Mrs. Benson's piece, but Minnie had the rest of the 
 stage. 
 
 The saddle-horse came flinging into the yard 
 at one o'clock — no later. That's certain, because 
 Frodsham was at his after-dinner pipe — or should 
 have been: instead of which he came running in 
 after him. Just about that time, or maybe a little 
 before, Mr. Menzies had been asking for Struan? 
 Where was he ? Did anyone ever see such a wastrel ? 
 No man's account, he called him. Mrs. Benson 
 tolled her apes and tigers all. 
 
 It was Minnie had seen the Master when the 
 bell pealed. She had gone with her heart in her 
 mouth — and oh, his collar and tie! His red ear! 
 
THE TALE TOLD 175 
 
 She had never seen anything like his face, and 
 never must again on this side of the tomb. Wicked, 
 oh, wicked! He showed his teeth. His face was 
 as white as a clout. His voice was like a nutmeg- 
 grater. "Miss Percival — ^here — ^at once." It was 
 all he said. She did her bidding, for servants must 
 — but her heart bled for Miss Percival, and she felt 
 like fainting at any minute when she waited at lunch- 
 eon. He drank brandy — ^jerked his head towards 
 the sideboard when he wanted more. Never said 
 a word. And how he ate, wrenching at his food! 
 Fit to choke him. How she had lived through the 
 luncheon she didn't know at all. But that Struan, 
 that quiet in an ordinary way, should have dared — 
 with a stick in his violent hand! And the Sergeant 
 ready for his warrant — stiff in the hall. 
 
 "A villain has got his deserts," boomed Mrs. 
 Benson. "My dear, you're going, it seems, and I 
 with you. This is no place for a young lady — ^no, 
 nor ever was, God be good! I know my place, to 
 all parties; but I know that better — and now it's 
 come upon us like a thief in the night. Well, 
 well, well — ^my pretty young lady! Old women 
 must put up with what they get, we all know — ^but 
 not murderers in gentlemen's seats: no, nor beastly 
 doings in and out of doors. I shall go, my dear, 
 when you go — ah, me! When the wicked man 
 . . . but he's got his deserts. What! a widower — 
 with duty and pleasure before him, combined for 
 once, and no thanks to him! — ^to dally with a French 
 doll — ^movable eyes and separate teeth and aU — 
 
176 REST HARROW 
 
 when he might have gone on his knees to a splendid 
 young lady! And I'd have kept him there to say 
 his prayers, which he's never done before, not since 
 his mother died, poor old gentlewoman, worn out by 
 the gnashings of a tiresome, God-Almighty, wicked 
 old man, and a slip of sin who nothing was too good 
 for. Kot in this world, no! But it will be made up 
 to him in the next, by the unquenchable worm — ^as 
 he'll find out when he tries his 'down, dog' tricks; 
 his 'drop that, will you?' None of that down there 
 in the fire. What says the Book? My dear, my 
 dear," and she took the girl in her arms with a fine 
 look about her of Niobe amid arrows, "I've a bosom 
 for your head and a roof to shelter us both, and 
 we'll see what we shall see. There's castles and 
 towers for the great oneyers and their minions; 
 but mine is in the Fulham Road, my dear; my 
 own property out of a building society that does 
 business for the widow and the orphan — makes it 
 their special line, as I understand, and have treated 
 me squarely throughout — that I will say. Yes, 
 yes, and I'll tend you fairly, will Sarah Benson, 
 widowed mother of a graceless son, who can feel 
 for her poor dead mistress, mother of a worse. 
 My lamb, you shall want for nothing." 
 
 Fast in a good pair of arms, Sanchia snuggled 
 and smiled. She patted Mrs. Benson's cheek, and 
 put up her lips to her. Minnie, like a thawing ice- 
 pack, ran rivers of water. 
 
 "You are good to me," she said; "you are sweet 
 to me. I don't mind anything when I can be sure 
 
MRS. BENSON AT LARGE 177 
 
 of such friends. But you mustn't leave, you know. 
 Really, you ought not. I shan't forget you, be sure 
 of that, whether you stay or go." 
 
 Mrs. Benson crooned over her, "Oh, you're not 
 one that forgets, my precious, with your golden 
 heart. And there's more than me will find it out." 
 She wiped her spectacles, breathing on the glasses, 
 and Sanchia shook out her plumage, escaped from 
 the nest. Ingram, without knocking, came into 
 the room. 
 
 His rage was now cold and keen. He took in 
 conspiracy with one glance at the three. 
 
 He spoke to Minnie. "I have been ringing for 
 twenty minutes. The brandy in my room, and 
 some soda-water. At once." Scared Minnie fled. 
 Then he turned half to Sanchia, but didn't look at 
 her. 
 
 "I understood you were leaving this afternoon. 
 You had better order a fly. There's the telephone." 
 He held out an envelope. "I think that you will 
 find this correct." 
 
 Sanchia was at her bureau. "Put it on the 
 table, please," she said, without turning; and while 
 Ingram hovered, Mrs. Benson heaving like the 
 sea, gathered into a combing wave and, breaking, 
 swallowed him up. 
 
 "Money — ah! You come with money to a lady 
 of the land! Offer me money, Mr. Ingram, if you 
 dare. Your bread I've eaten, having baked it, 
 and your father's bread, and not choked yet, though 
 each mouthful might be my last. By every word 
 
178 REST HARROW 
 
 out of the mouth of God, says the Book; and what 
 shall He say of you? I've watched for this, I've 
 seen it coming. You keep long accounts, but there's 
 One keeps longer — and in His head, as we read. 
 To breaking mother's heart so muqh, to scandal 
 of matrimony so much — and to perjury and dirty 
 devices, wicked dalliance, so much. When she 
 came here — ^this fine young lady, so fresh and sweet — 
 I waited. I shook my fist at you, Mr. Ingram; 'I 
 know what this means,' I said, 'a false tongue and 
 a young heart.' And I waited, I tell you — ^for I 
 could do nothing else. She could have come to me 
 at any hour of any day and welcome; and I'd have 
 told her, 'He's bad — ^he's rotten at the heart. He'll 
 tire of you — neglect you— trick you — and cast you 
 out.' But she was too proud for that; she bore it 
 all, and not a word. And she did your work as never 
 before, not in your time, nor your father's time; 
 and made friends of the poor, and kept her place — 
 sweetly and smoothly it was done. And you on 
 your travels with foreign women " 
 
 Ingram now emerged from the flood. "Are you 
 mad?" he said. A dreadful calm came over Mrs. 
 Benson, succeeding the tempest. 
 
 '"I am not mad, most noble Festus,'" she said; 
 "but I am mother of a graceless son, and will not 
 be cook to another. I leave your service from this 
 hour. Your dinner is a-making, and Emma is a 
 steady worker." She turned to Sanchia. "The 
 best vegetable-hand I ever had under me, Miss 
 Percival, and I've had a score." One further cut 
 
GOODBYES 179 
 
 at Ingram she allowed herself. "I would not take 
 a penny piece of your money now, not to save my 
 darling from the lions." 
 
 "You won't get it, you know," said Ingram. 
 "But you've had lots of 'em." She braved that 
 truth. 
 
 "And earned them, Mr. Ingram, as you know, 
 better than I do." 
 
 Ingram, ignoring her, observed quietly to San- 
 chia, "The sooner the better, I think." 
 
 That was the manner of his farewell. 
 
 It was not the way she would have chosen to 
 leave; but she reasoned with herself, as she packed 
 her belongings, that it was probably the best way. 
 It gave no time and little inclination for sentiment. 
 Now, it was almost certain that had a term been 
 ahead of her, whose end could be felt nearing, there 
 would have been good-byes, last interviews, and 
 last interviews but one, which are apt to be more 
 poignant than those of the last moment of all. Even 
 as it was there were threatenings of emotion. Wan- 
 less was stirred deeply. Mr. Menzies brought in 
 a nosegay, and grasped her hand. "You will be 
 sorely missed here. Miss Percival, sorely missed. 
 Less said's the sooner mended, but you're a true 
 young lady, greatly to be deplored." 
 
 "Good-bye, Mr. Menzies," she had said, "and 
 thank you a thousand times for " 
 
 "They are from my own plot of ground," said 
 the grizzled gardener, and looked away. She had 
 
l8o REST HARROW 
 
 his tulips in her hand, and now buried her face 
 in them. 
 
 "Then I love them aU the better," she told him; 
 and put in a word for Struan. "Be kind to him 
 when you see him again — ^please do." 
 
 Mr. Menzies became far-sighted. He had very 
 blue eyes. "Ahem!" he said, in his Scotch fashion. 
 "He'll not be here again, I doubt. He'll be away, 
 the headstrong young man." But he warmed to 
 it. "Ay," he said, "ay. Miss Percival. For your 
 sake I'll listen to what he has to tell me." She felt 
 that she must be content with that. Each servant 
 in degree must be dealt with, and Minnie comforted 
 in her place. She was all for going that night ; but 
 had a mother and four sisters in Doncaster — ^all at 
 home. Would Miss Sanchia forgive her, and accept 
 of this Prayer-book? Miss Sanchia would; kissed 
 her, and did. 
 
 In the carriage drive she told Mrs. Benson of 
 her immediate intention. "I must say good-bye 
 to Struan. We will stop at his cottage on the 
 way. There's plenty of time." 
 
 Mrs. Benson was strongly against it, but rather 
 showed her mind than declared it. Mischief enough 
 had been done through that youth — and in him, 
 she doubted. Better let him alone. Are you to 
 countenance violent hands? Raised against them 
 in authority? Then where's authority ? Where are 
 Principalities and Powers ? Much as she contemned 
 Ingram, she was on his side against Struan any day. 
 
SHE KEEPS A HOLD l8l 
 
 On the other hand, Sanchia was, in a manner, her 
 guest, and could not be spoken to plainly about it. 
 She could only shake her head. 
 
 "He's better alone, Miss Percival, alone with his 
 devil. While the fit's on him, let 'em fight it out. 
 And what can he be — ^to the likes of you?" 
 
 "He's always been a friend of mine," she said. 
 "He's been very foolish, very wicked; he had no 
 business whatever to do as he did — ^to put me in 
 the vsrrong. I'm angry with him, and he will see 
 that I am. But — " Mrs. Benson knew the force 
 of that "but." It had brought the young lady to 
 Wanless. 
 
 Yet Mrs. Benson might have triumphed if she 
 would. Sanchia, at the cottage door, was met by 
 the anxious tenant of it with whom Struan lodged. 
 "He's not here. Miss," she was told, and then, 
 "oh. Miss, they've took him away. The Sergeant's 
 come for him and took him. And we hear — " 
 There had been no stopping her, but by Sanchia's 
 way. 
 
 She walked into the cottage and put up her 
 veil. She showed a pale, sad face. "How dread- 
 ful! I must write a note. Will you let me write 
 here, and leave it with you — ^to give him when he 
 comes?" 
 
 She wrote in pencil, "My dear Struan, I am 
 very sorry. You made me angry, but I'm sorry 
 now. I came to say Good-bye, as I am going 
 away. Mrs. Benson is with me. See Mr. Menzies 
 when you can. He has promised to help you, and. 
 
1 82 REST HARROW 
 
 of course, I will too, if I can. — Yours always, S. J. 
 P." With the fold of the envelope to her tongue 
 she paused, reflective. Then she took the note out 
 again, read it over, and ran her pencil through the 
 last two letters of her signature. And taking two 
 Parma violets from the knot at her breast — a recent 
 gift from Wanless — she put them within the paper. 
 Thus she did deliberately — as the Fates would have 
 her. Addressing "Mr. S. Glyde, by Mrs. Brough- 
 ton," she gave her letter in charge. "Be sure to 
 give it him when he comes back," she said. Then 
 she and her protector were driven to the station. 
 
XII 
 
 As Chevenix, once his friend, had said often, 
 Nevile, when his back was up, shrank from noth- 
 ing. Even while the Hall was in tempest, the Ser- 
 geant had visited Glyde as he sat at his tea. They 
 nodded to each other, while the oflScer stood power- 
 fully in the doorway. 
 
 Clyde's strong teeth bit through a crust. "I 
 know your errand," he said. 
 
 Sergeant Weeks replied, "I can't doubt it." 
 Impassivity became him; he figured the Law as the 
 everlasting hills. 
 
 Glyde too, in his way, was impressive. Between 
 long draughts from his tea-cup, he asked, "Where's 
 your warrant?" 
 
 The Sergeant produced his folded paper, opiened 
 and scanned it, to see that all was in order, before 
 he passed it into the room. "Here 'tis for you, 
 made out by Sir Trevor Gell. Why, man!" he 
 broke out, humanely indignant, "what in thunder 
 were you about?" A flaxen-haired child, nursing 
 a doll, edged herself through a door ajar, and gazed 
 blue-eyed upon the pair. Glyde saw her. 
 
 "That's my business," he said. "Run away, 
 Flo. I'll tell, or I'll not tell, in my time and place 
 — ^which aren't here, saving your presence." He got 
 
 183 
 
184 REST HARROW 
 
 up and put his hand on the child's poll. "Well, I'm 
 your man," he added. 
 
 The Sergeant blinked. "Nay, nay, you can 
 finish your tea. I'll just step in amd smoke my 
 pipe with you. 'Tisn't often I get the chance, in 
 the daylight." 
 
 "Right," said Glyde, and poured off the rest of 
 his brew. Flo's finger went into her mouth. 
 
 The Sergeant lit, the Sergeant puffed. A re- 
 mark seemed proper. "Seemingly," he said, "there's 
 a storm about. 'Tis like to be the end of our spell 
 of fair." 
 
 Glyde laughed; but there had been no side- 
 thrust. A police ofiScer is not gnomic. Safety, 
 for him, lies in smooth running. Thus, every 
 man is a potential criminal; but every criminal, 
 once taken, is a fellow-man. Nobody could have 
 been more tactful than he while Glyde made his 
 preparations to depart. Mrs. Broughton was in 
 tears, Flo sobbed in her mother's apron^ but Glyde 
 spoke plain words of comfort. 
 
 "Don't take on, Mrs. Broughton; this is a small 
 matter to what's been done. You'll see to my things 
 I know. The papers here may be valuable — ^who 
 knows? A deal of candle has gone up in smoke 
 over them — rivers of ink ! I'll ask them of you when 
 I come back." He took with him his Virgil and 
 Sanchia's Dante — ^nothing else. At the lodge gates 
 he mounted the cart, the Sergeant after him, and 
 by six of the evening was lodged in Felsboro' gaol. 
 There he lay for a week, awaiting Petty Sessions. 
 
CLYDE TO PAY 185 
 
 There was a full bench, a crowded court when 
 the accused was brought in. The hush that pre- 
 ceded him and the buzz when he stood up made In- 
 gram set his teeth. The reporters, with racing pen, 
 cleared the ground. Thus the world might read of 
 "The Squire of Wanless, every inch a soldier," in 
 one journal, and of "Nevile Ingram, Esquire, of 
 Wanless Hall," in another. There are no politics 
 in police reports, but broadcloth is respectable. The 
 prisoner was described as "Struan Glyde, 23, a 
 sickly-looking young man, who exhibited symptoms 
 of nervousness." It was allowed that he spoke 
 "firmly but respectfully to the Bench," but, on the 
 other hand, "to the complainant he showed con- 
 siderable animosity, and more than once had to 
 be reproved by the Chairman." The proceedings 
 were short. "At the close there was a demon- 
 stration, which was immediately checked by the 
 police." 
 
 Glyde, in fact, was revealed as a narrow-faced 
 young man, slim and olive-complexioned, having 
 light, intent eyes, and very long eyelashes. Nervous 
 he undoubtedly was; he twitched, he blinked, he 
 swallowed. He looked effeminate to one judge. 
 Another said of him to his neighbour, "As hardy 
 as a hawk." A newspaper called him "puny," a 
 rival "as tough as whip-cord." It depended upon 
 your reading of him — whether by externals or not. 
 He had a quiet, fierce way with him, a glare, the look 
 of a bird of prey. He was very self-possessed. All 
 the papers observed it. 
 
1 86 REST HARROW 
 
 Ingram, playing his privilege to the last ounce, 
 told his tale to his brother-magistrates, shortly, 
 but with considerable effect. He had had occasion 
 to dismiss a servant, and the prisoner had taken 
 upon himself to resent it. Yes — in answer to a 
 question — a female servant. Prisoner had attacked 
 him in his own carriage-drive, had pulled him out 
 of the saddle before he knew what he was about, 
 and had beaten him while on the ground. He 
 had no witnesses. There had been none. His voice, 
 as he chopped out his phrases, was dry, his tone 
 impartial. He took no sides, stated the facts. He 
 spoke to the Chairman — even when he replied to 
 the question which made him, for a moment, take 
 breath; and he never once looked at the accused. 
 
 The Bench consulted together. Old Mr. Bazal- 
 guet, the Chairman, leaned far back in his chair 
 and gazed at the ceiling, while two younger justices 
 whispered to each other across his portly person, 
 peering sideways at Ingram, who showed them his 
 smooth head and folded arms. Colonel Vero, the 
 fourth of the tribunal, was drawing angels on his 
 blotting paper. Then they settled themselves, one 
 of them with a shrug, and Sergeant Weeks told of 
 the arrest. Accused had declined to make a state- 
 ment, but had spoken certain words to his landlady, 
 one Mrs. Broughton, to the effect that what was to 
 come was "nothing" to what had been done. He 
 had left in her charge papers, which the Sergeant 
 had afterwards examined, and now had in his care. 
 This had led to a brief interlude. 
 
THE BENCH CONSULTS 187 
 
 Mr. Bazalguet had caught the words. "Papers? 
 What papers?" he asked. "Newspapers?" 
 
 "No, sir," said Sergeant Weeks. "They were 
 writings. Poetry and the like — and foreign tongues." 
 The bench sat up, and now Glyde had the hawk- 
 look in his light eyes. Ingram stifled a yawn, and 
 impressed the Bench. 
 
 Mr. Bazalguet, inclining his head to either side, 
 enquired only with his eyebrows. Did we want 
 these papers? Should we, perhaps, for form's sake 
 examine them ? Mr. Max Fortnaby was of opinion 
 that we should. As they were handed up, the pris- 
 oner, who had been wetting his lips, said plainly, 
 "There's nothing in them about this business," and 
 was reproved by Sergeant Weeks. 
 
 A formidable pile of MS. was passed up by the 
 Clerk, whose deprecating glances were not lost 
 upon the Chairman. But Mr. Max Fortnaby cut 
 open the budget in the midst, and peered in. 
 
 "Janua vel domina penitus crudelior ipsa" — ^he 
 read. It was a footnote. He lifted his eyebrows — 
 then his eyes upon the accused. 
 
 "Propertius? You know Latin?" 
 
 "I know some, sir." 
 
 He returned to the MS., then again to Glyde. 
 
 "You are a bit of a poet, I see." 
 
 "Yes, sir. I hope so." 
 
 "If it leads you to battery, my young friend — " 
 was his private comment. To Mr. Bazalguet he 
 whispered, "The fellow's got scholarship. We 
 might give these back, I think." Mr. Bazalguet 
 
1 88 REST HARROW 
 
 was only too happy, and Glyde saw his offspring 
 returned. Sergeant Weeks, safe in Mr. Fortnaby's 
 good opinion, scrupulously wrapped and tied them. 
 Mr. Fortnaby said, "Let them go back to his land- 
 lady," and caught the prisoner's eye. 
 
 It was now time to ask him whether he had any- 
 thing to say. Glyde, perfectly master of himself, 
 said that he pleaded Guilty, but would like to put 
 a few questions. The Chairman, biting the tips 
 of his fingers, nodded; and Mr. Fortnaby watched 
 him. 
 
 Facing Ingram, who looked always to the Chair- 
 man, Glyde asked — "Did you dismiss your servant.- 
 as you put it, before I met you, or afterwards?" 
 All eyes flew from Glyde to Ingram. 
 
 "Actually, afterwards," it was explained. "But 
 the thing was understood before." 
 
 "By whom?" 
 
 "By me," said Ingram, "and — " He stopped 
 there. A very interesting struggle, momentary, and 
 done in silence, took place. Glyde was daring In- 
 gram to bring in Sanchia's name, and Ingram could 
 not do it. 
 
 "And—?" said Glyde. "And by whom?" 
 
 Ingram paused, biting his lips. He was pale. 
 He took a long breath, and then said, "And by 
 you, I have no doubt." 
 
 "Thank you," Glyde said. Then he began again. 
 "Did you ask me to fight with you?" 
 
 "I believe I did." 
 
 "And I refused?" 
 
CLYDE TO INGRAM 189 
 
 "Yes," said Ingram, "you did." 
 "Did I say that I didn't fight with dogs?" 
 Ingram smiled at the Chairman. "You did not." 
 "I say so now," said Glyde, and stirred the Court. 
 Mr. Bazalguet interfered. "You mustn't talk like 
 that, Glyde. We can't have it, you know." Col- 
 onel Vero added, "Certainly not," and stretched 
 his long legs out. 
 
 Glyde recovered himself, and begged pardon. 
 He was told that he might go on, in reason, but 
 declined. "Thank you, sir. I think I'll leave it 
 so. I own to what I did." 
 
 He was told that he could be dealt with sum- 
 marily, or sent for trial. "I'll take it from you, gen- 
 tlemen," he said, and settled himself reposefully. 
 The Bench drew together, with the Clerk inter- 
 vening. 
 
 Mr. Bazalguet, double-chinned and comfortable 
 squire, was disturbed by this case. What troubled 
 him was that Ingram had not been straightforward. 
 What was this dismissal of a servant? He knew, 
 and therefore he asked the question. Fortnaby 
 knew also, but didn't intend to say. Everybody, 
 indeed, knew. Romance appeals to us all in diverse 
 ways; and it was actually romance which settled 
 Clyde's romantic affair. 
 
 Fortnaby, Maximilian Fortnaby, had been a 
 schoolmaster, had succeeded to an estate at forty, 
 and retired. He, with his keen face and trim 
 whiskers, leaning his head on his hand, thus spoke 
 in undertones, and carried the day. "The case is 
 
I go REST HARROW 
 
 dear. The young man's taught himself tongues, 
 and has poetry. He's been taught other things, 
 too, and has got some of them wrongly. One 
 thing he ought to learn is that to relieve your feel- 
 ings is not the way to help the oppressed. He's 
 set himself up for a champion, and tongues have 
 got to work. I should give him three months." 
 Mr. Bazalguet looked at the Clerk, who said it 
 was a bad case. Mr. Ingram was a magistrate 
 and — the maximum was two years. The third 
 magistrate saw his way to impressing himself, — 
 "Make it six months," he said. The Chairman 
 agreed with him, until Colonel Vero said, "I should 
 give him a year." That shocked him. "It'll take 
 a long time for it to blow over, you know," he whis- 
 pered to Fortnaby, who smiled and shrugged. "I 
 don't suppose six will hurt him. He'll be able to 
 write after a bit." "Ingram will go abroad, you 
 know," said Mr. Bazalguet. "Did you happen to 
 know the — ^party?" Fortnaby looked up quickly. 
 "I? Oh, dear no. But I gather that the less we 
 say the better. It was not an ordinary servant." 
 Mr. Weir, the third magistrate, said, "A lady, I 
 hear;" but his colleagues ignored him. Then they 
 all sat up, and the Clerk sank into the well. 
 
 "Glyde," said Mr. Bazalguet, "you will have to 
 go to prison for three months, with hard labour. 
 I hope this will be a warning to you. I do indeed." 
 
 The prisoner was removed amid murmurs. There 
 was some cheering outside the court — at which In- 
 gram grimly smiled. But he was very pale, and did 
 
THEY GO THEIR WAYS 191 
 
 not leave the Sessions house until late in the after- 
 noon. Old Mr. Bazalguet was very cool with him 
 after court. He grunted when they met in the hall. 
 "You go abroad?" he asked him. Ingram said, it 
 was probable. 
 
BOOK III 
 
 INTERLUDE OF THE RECLUSE PHILOSOPHER 
 
I 
 
 A NOTABLE difference between the sexes is this: 
 that a man will thrive for years — that is, his better 
 part — ^upon love denied, and woman upon love 
 fulfilled. So Senhouse, in his hopeless plight, 
 starved and did well; dreams nourished him in 
 what passes in England for solitude. From the 
 grey of the mornings to the violet-lidded dusk his 
 silence was rarely broken; and yet the music in his 
 heart was continuous; his routine marched to a 
 rhythm. The real presence of Sanchia was always 
 with him, to intensify, accentuate, and make reason- 
 able the perceptions of his quickened senses. Sense 
 blended with sense — as when the sharp fragrance 
 of the thjmie which his feet crushed gave him the 
 vision of her immortal beauty, or when, in the rustle 
 of the wind-swept grasses, he had a consciousness of 
 her thrilled heart beating near by. AU nature, in 
 fact, was vocal of Sanchia by day; and at night, 
 presently, she stole white-footed down the slant rays 
 of the moon and fed his soul upon exhalations of her 
 own. Idle as he might have appeared to one who 
 did not know the man — for beyond the routine 
 of his handiwork he did nothing visible — he was 
 really intensely busy. Out of the stores reaped 
 
 I9S 
 
196 REST HARROW 
 
 and garnered in those meditative years was to come 
 the substance of his after-life. 
 
 But no man in England may live three years in 
 a grass valley unreported; his fame will spread 
 abroad, scattered as birds sow seeds. Discreetly 
 as he lived and little as he fared, he was at first a 
 thing of doubt and suspicion, and won respect by 
 slow degrees. Was he a coiner, stirring alloys 
 over his night fires? Was he Antichrist, blas- 
 pheming the Trinity at daybreak? He was talked 
 of by gaitered farmers at sheep-fairs, by teamsters 
 at cross-roads, by maidens and their sweethearts on 
 Sundays. The shepherds, it was thought, might have 
 told more than they did. It was understood that 
 they had caught him at his secrets times and again. 
 But the shepherds had little to say of him but that 
 he, was a mellow man, knowing sheep and weather, 
 and not imparting all that he knew. Similarly the 
 gypsies, who alone travel the Race-plain in these 
 days, and mostly by night, were believed to know 
 him well; but they, too, kept their lore within the 
 limits of their own shifty realm. 
 
 Rarely, indeed, he was seen. Sunday lovers, 
 strolling hand in hand up the valley, came to a point 
 where they went tiptoe and peered about for him. 
 He might be described motionless, folded in his 
 white robe, midway between ridge and hollow; 
 or a gleam of him flashed between the trees of the 
 brake would perhaps be all that they would get for 
 an hour of watching. The hill brows would, on 
 such days, be lined with patient onlookers; all eyes 
 
Ploughman in the vales would sometimes see his gaunt figure 
 on the sky-line. 
 
LEGENDS A-MAKING 197 
 
 would be up the narrow valley to its head under 
 Hirlebury, where, below the little wood, his grey 
 hut could be seen, deep-eaved, mysterious, blankly 
 holding its secrets behind empty windows. None 
 ever ventured to explore at close quarters; and if 
 the tenant had appeared, a thousand to one they 
 would all have looked the other way. The Wilt- 
 shire peasant is a gentleman from the heart out- 
 wards. So, too, carters, ploughmen, reapers in the 
 vales would sometimes see his gaunt figure mon- 
 strous on the sky-line, cowled and with uplifted 
 arms, adoring (it was supposed) the sun, or lean- 
 ing on his staff, motionless and rapt, meditating 
 death and mutability. He lost nothing by such 
 chance apparitions; on the contrary, he gained 
 the name of a wise man who had powers of divina- 
 tion and healing. In the cottage whither he went 
 once a week for bread, a child had been sick of a 
 burning fever. His hands, averred the mother, 
 had cured it. Groping and making passes over 
 its stomach, rubbing in oils, relief had come, then 
 quiet sleep and a cool forehead. After this, an old 
 man, crippled with rheumatics, had hobbled up to 
 the very edge of his dominion, and had waited shak- 
 ing there upon his staff until he could get speech 
 with the white stranger. He, too, had had the re- 
 ward of his relief. If he was not made sound again, 
 he was relieved and heartened. He had said that, 
 if he was spared, he was hopeful to stretch to his 
 height again, which had been six feet aU but an inch. 
 The stranger, said he, had put him in the way of 
 
198 REST HARROW 
 
 new life, and whatever he might mean — ^whether 
 that he were a Salvationist or a quack doctor — he 
 would say no more. After that, a young woman 
 went to him to get him to name the father of her 
 child, and returned, and was modest for a month, 
 and a good mother when the time came. And true 
 it was that her chap came forward and saw the vicar 
 about it, and that they were asked in church. Out 
 of such things as these his fame grew. 
 
 The hunt struck upon him now and again, when 
 the hounds in full cry streamed down his steep es- 
 carpments and threatened panic to his browsing 
 goats. At such times he would rise up, white- 
 robed and calm, and stay with a quiet gesture the 
 scattering beasts. The whips would cap him, and 
 the Master with his field find themselves in company 
 of an equal. For his ease of manner never left him, 
 nor that persuasive smile which made you think that 
 the sun was come out. He had none of the airs of 
 a mystagogue, but talked to men, as he did to beasts, 
 in the speech which was habitual to them. The 
 lagging fox understood him when, grinning his fear 
 and fatigue, he drew himself painfully through the 
 furze. So did the hounds, athirst for his blood. 
 Buck-skinned gentlemen, no less, found hitn affable 
 and full of information — about anything and every- 
 thing in the world except the line of the hunted 
 fox. "Oh, come," he said once, "don't ask me 
 to give him away. You're fifty to one, to start 
 with; and the fact is I passed him my word that I 
 wouldn't. I'll tell you what, though. You shall 
 
WONDERS IN THE DOWNS 199 
 
 offer me a cigarette. I haven't smoked for six 
 daysj" Which was done. 
 
 His powers with children, his charm for them, 
 his influence and fascination, ■ which in course of 
 time made him famous beyond these shores, arose 
 out of a chance encounter not far from his hut. 
 Three boys, breaking school in the nesting season, 
 came suddenly upon him, and paled, and stood 
 rooted. "Come on," he said, "I'll show you a 
 thing or two that you've never seen before." He 
 led them to places of marvel, which his speech 
 made to glimmer with the hues of romance: the 
 fresh grubbed earth where a badger had been rout- 
 ing, the quiet glade where, that morning, a pole- 
 cat had washed her face. He brought them up 
 to a vixen and her cubs, and got them all playing 
 together. He let them hold leverets in their arms, 
 milk his goats, as the kids milk them for their need ; 
 and showed them so much of the ways of birds that 
 they forgot, while they were under the spell of him, 
 to take any of their eggs. Crowning wonder of all 
 — ^when a peewit, waiting on the down, dipped and 
 circled about his head for a while and finally perched 
 on his shoulder while he stood looking down upon 
 her eggs in the bents! Such deeds as these fly 
 broadcast over the villages, and on Saturdays he 
 would be attended by a score of urchins, boys and 
 girls. To a gamekeeper who came out after his 
 lad, sapling ash in hand, he had that to say which 
 convinced the man of his authority. 
 
 "'A says to me, 'There's a covey of ten in thicky 
 
200 REST HARROW 
 
 holler,' where you could see neither land nor bird. 
 'I allow 'tis ten,' he says, 'but we won't be particu- 
 lar to a chick.' There was nine, if you credit me, 
 that rose out of a kind of a dimple in the down, that 
 you couldn't see, and no man could see. 'Lord 
 love you,' I said, 'Mr. John, how ever did you see 
 'em?' He looks at me, and he says, very quiet, 
 'I never saw the birds, nor knew they was there. I 
 saw the air. There's waves in this air,' he says, 
 'wrinkled waves; and they birds stirred 'em, like 
 stones flung into a pond. Tom,' he says, to my Tom, 
 'if you look as close as I do,' he says, 'you'll see what 
 I see.' And young ^om looks up at him, as a dog 
 might, kind of faithful, and he says, 'I 'low I will, 
 sir, please, sir.' I says to him, ' Can a man be taught 
 the like o' that?' 'No,' says he, 'but a boy can.' 
 'What more could thicky boy learn?' I says, and he 
 says, 'To understand his betters, and get great 
 words, and do without a sight of things — for the 
 more you do without,' he says, 'the more you have 
 to deal with.' 'Such things as what, now, would he 
 do without?' I wants to know. He looks at me. 
 'Food,' he says, kind of sharp; 'food when he's 
 hungry, and clothing, and a bed; and money, and 
 the respect of them that don't know anything, and 
 other men's learning, and things he don't make for 
 himself.' Heard any man ever the like o' that? 
 But just you bide till I've done. 'Can a boy learn 
 to do without drink?' I wants to know — for beer's 
 been my downfall. 'He can,' says thicky man. 
 'And love?' I says; and 'No,' says he straight, 'he 
 
HOW TO SWALLOW 201 
 
 cannot. But he can learn the way of it; and that 
 'uU teach him to do wi'out lust.' 'Tis a wise thought, 
 the like of that, I allow." 
 
 The gamekeeper paused for the murmurs of 
 his auditory to circle about the tap-room, swell 
 and subside, and then brought out his conclusion. 
 There was book-learning to be faced. "How 
 about scholarship? 'I'd give him none,' says the 
 man. 'SwaUerin' comes by nature, and through 
 more than the mouth. I'd open him his eyes and 
 ears, his fingers and toes, and the very hairs on the 
 backs of his hands; and they'll all swaller in time, 
 hke the parts of the beastes do.' Now, that's 
 a learned man, I allow. My boy must go to the 
 Council School it does appear; but thicky man 
 will give him more teaching in a week than school- 
 master in a year — ^and there he goes o' Saturdays 
 — and wants no driving, moreover." He returned 
 to his beer, thoughtful-eyed. 
 
 The gamekeeper's son was twelve years old, 
 and was the nucleus round which grew the Sen- 
 husian school of a later day, where neither read- 
 ing nor writing could be had until the pupil was 
 fifteen years old. But this is anticipatory, for the 
 school was a matter of long gestation and tentative 
 birth. 
 
II 
 
 One September midnight, as he stirred a late 
 supper over a small wood-fire, he was hailed by a 
 cry from above. "Ho, you! I ask shelter," he 
 was' adjured. The quarter moon showed him a 
 slim figure dark against the sky. 
 
 "Cohie down, and you shall have it," he an- 
 swered, and continued to skim his broth. 
 
 The descent was painfully made, and it was 
 long before the traveller stood blinking by his fire 
 — a gaunt and hollow-eyed lad. Senhouse took 
 him in at a glance, stained, out-at-elbows with the 
 world, nursing a grudge, footsore and heartsore. 
 He had a gypsy look, and yet had not a gypsy 
 serenity. That is a race that is never angry at 
 random; and never bitter at large. A gypsy will 
 want a man's life; but if the man is not before 
 him, will be content to wait until he is. But this 
 wanderer seemed to have a quarrel with time and 
 place, that they held not his enemy by the gullet. 
 
 "You travel late, my friend," said Senhouse 
 briskly. 
 
 "I travel by night," said the stranger, "lest I 
 should be seen by men or the sun." 
 
 Senhouse laughed. '"In girum imus noctu, non 
 ut consumimur igni.' They used to say that of 
 
THE STRANGER BY NIGHT 203 
 
 the devils once upon a time. Devilish bad Latin; 
 but it reads backwards as well as forwards, like the 
 devil himself." 
 
 " My devil rides on my back," said the stranger, 
 "and carries with him the fire that roasts me." 
 
 He was at once bitter and sententious. Senhouse 
 put down his hurts to bruises of the self-esteem. 
 
 "I hope that you dropped him up above," he 
 said cheerfully, "or that you will let me exorcise 
 him. I've tried my hand with most kinds of devil. 
 Are you a Roman ?" 
 
 "Half," he was told, and, guessing which half, 
 asked no more questions. 
 
 "You are pretty well done, I can see," he said. 
 "You want more food. You want warm water, 
 and a bed, and a dressing for your feet. You've 
 been on the road too long." 
 
 The stranger was huddled by the fire, probing 
 his wounded feet. "I'm cut to pieces," he said. 
 "I've been over stubbles and flint. This is a cruel 
 country." 
 
 "It's the sweetest in the world," Senhouse told 
 him, "when you know your way about it. When 
 you have the hang of it you need not touch the 
 roads. You smell out the hedgerows, and every 
 borstal leads you out on to the grass. But I'll 
 own that there are thistles. I wear sandals myself. 
 Now," he continued, ladling out of his pot with 
 a wooden spoon, "here's your porridge, and there 
 are bread and salt; and here water, and here goat's 
 milk. Afterwards you shall have a pipe of tobacco. 
 
204 REST HARROW 
 
 and some tea. Best begin while all's hot — and 
 while you eat I'll look to your wounds. Finally, 
 you shall be washed and clothed." 
 
 He went away, returning presently with water 
 and a napkin. Kneeling, he bathed his guest's 
 feet, wiped them, anointed, then wrapped them 
 up in the napkin. The disconsolate one, mean- 
 time, was supping like a wolf. He gulped at his 
 porridge with quick snaps, tore his bread with his 
 teeth. Senhouse gave him time, quietly eating 
 his own supper, watching the red gleam die down 
 in the poor wretch's eyes. Being himself a spare 
 feeder, he was soon done, and at further business 
 of hospitality. He set a great pipkin of water to 
 heat, brought out a clean robe of white wool, a 
 jelab like his own, and made some tea. 
 
 The stranger, then, being filled, cleansed and 
 in warm raiment, stretched himself before the fire, 
 and broke silence. He was still surly, but the 
 grudge was not audible in his voice. "1 took your 
 fire for a gypsy camp, and was glad enough of it. 
 I've come by the hills from Winterslow since dusk. 
 You were right, though:' I was done. I couldn't 
 have dragged another furlong." 
 
 Senhouse nodded. "I thought not. Been long 
 on the road?" 
 
 "Two months." 
 
 "From the North, I think? From Yorkshire?" 
 
 The stranger grunted his replies. His host judged 
 that he had reasons for his reticence. There was a 
 pause. 
 
HEALTH AND SOLITUDE 205 
 
 "You sup late," was then observed. 
 
 Senhouse replied, "I generally do. I take two 
 meals a day — ^the first at noon, the second at mid- 
 night; but I believe that I could do without one 
 of them. I never was much of an eater — and I 
 need very little sleep. Somehow, although I am 
 out at sunrise most mornings, I rarely sleep till 
 two or thereabouts. Four hours are enough for 
 me — and in the summer much less. Sometimes, 
 when the fit is on me, I roam all night long, and 
 come back and do my routine — and then sleep 
 where I am, or may be. Precisians would grow 
 mad at such a life — and yet I'm awfully healthy." 
 
 The stranger watched him. "You live here, 
 then — and so?" 
 
 "I have lived here," said Senhouse, "for three 
 years or more; but I've lived so for over twenty. 
 I've wandered for most of that time, and know 
 England from end to end; but now I seem to have 
 got into a backwater, and I find that I travel farther, 
 and see more, than I did when I was hardly for a 
 week together in the same place. But that's reason- 
 able enough, if you think of it. If you can do with- 
 out time, space goes with it. If it don't matter 
 when you are, it don't matter where." 
 
 The stranger lent this reasoning his gloomy 
 meditation, which turned it inwards to himself 
 and his rueful history. "I don't follow you, I 
 believe," he said, "for very good reason. I hope 
 you will never learn as I have that it does matter 
 where you are." He stopped, then added, as if 
 
206 REST HARROW 
 
 the admission was wrung out of him, "I've been in 
 prison." 
 
 "So have I," said Senhouse, "and in Siberia at 
 that. I was there for more than a year, though 
 not all that time within walls. They let me loose 
 when they found that I could be trusted, and I 
 learned botany, and caught a marsh fever which 
 nearly finished me. They wouldn't have me in 
 after that, being quite content that I should rot in 
 the open. I was succoured by a woman, one of 
 those noble creatures who are made to give them- 
 selves. She gave me what blood she had left. God 
 bless her: she blessed me." 
 
 "It was a woman," said the stranger, "that sent 
 me to prison." 
 
 Senhouse, after looking him over, calmly re- 
 plied, "I don't believe you. You mean, I think, 
 that there was a woman, and you went to prison. 
 You confuse her and your feelings about her. It 
 is natural, but not very fine-mannered. No woman 
 would have put the thing as you have put it to 
 me." 
 
 The stranger shifted two or three times under 
 his host's quiet regard: presently he said, "This 
 is the tale in a nutshell. She was beautiful and 
 kind to me; she was in a hateful place, and I loved 
 her — and she knew it. There was a man with 
 claims — rights he had none — preposterous claims, 
 made infamous by his acts. The position was im- 
 possible, intolerable. She knew it, but did nothing. 
 Women are like that — endlessly enduring; but men 
 
SENHOUSE ON GLYDE 207 
 
 are not. I dragged him off a horse and thrashed 
 him. He had me to gaol, and she went her ways, 
 leaving a note for me, hoping I should do well. Do 
 well! Much she cares what I do. Much care I." 
 He ended with a sob which was like the cough of a 
 wolf at night, and then turned his face away. 
 
 "Why should she care," asked Senhouse, "what 
 becomes of you? By your act you dropped your- 
 self out of her sphere. If she was to be degraded, 
 as you call it, by whom was she degraded? But 
 you talk there a language which I don't understand. 
 You say that she was beautiful, and I suppose you 
 know what you mean by the word. How then is a 
 beautiful person to be degraded by anything the 
 likes of you, or your fellow-dog, do to her? The 
 thing's absurd. You can't claw her soul or blacken 
 the edges of that. You can't sell that into prostitu- 
 tion or worse. That is her own, and it's that which 
 makes her beautiful, — in spite of the precious 
 pair of you, bickering and mauling each other to 
 possess her. Possess her, poor fool! Can you 
 possess moonlight? If you have degraded any- 
 thing, you have degraded yourself. She remains 
 where she is, entirely out of your reach." 
 
 The young man now turned his trapped and 
 wretched face to the speaker. "You little know — " 
 he began, then for weakness stopped. "I can't 
 quarrel with you; wait till I've had a night's rest." 
 
 "You shall have it, and welcome," said Senhouse. 
 "But you'll never quarrel with me. I believe 
 I've got beyond that way of enforcing arguments 
 
208 REST HARROW 
 
 which I fear may be unsound. I doubt if I have 
 quarrelled with anybody for twenty years." 
 
 "There are some things which no man can 
 stand," said the other, "and that was one. Your 
 talk of the soul is very fine; but do you say that 
 you don't love a woman's body as well as her 
 soul?" 
 
 Senhouse was silent for a while; then he said, 
 "No, — I can't say that. You have me there. I 
 ought to, but I can't. And I think I owe you an 
 apology for my heat, for the fact is that I've been 
 in much of your position myself. There was a 
 man once upon a time that I felt like thrashings— 
 for much of your reason. But I didn't do it — 
 for what seemed to me unanswerable reason. I 
 did precisely the opposite — I did everything I 
 could to ensure a miserable marriage for the being 
 I loved best in all the world. I loathed the man, 
 I loathed the bondage; but that's what I did. 
 Now mark what follows. I didn't — I couldn't — 
 degrade her; but I saw myself dragging like a 
 worm in the mud while she soared out of my reach. 
 And there I've been — of the slime slimy ever since. 
 Where she is now I don't know, but I think in heaven. 
 Heaven lay in her eyes — and whenever I look at the 
 sky at night I see her there." 
 
 "You are talking above my head," said the 
 stranger, "or above your own. Either I am a fool, 
 or you a madman. You love a woman, and give 
 her to another man? You love her, and secure her 
 in slavery? You love her, and don't want her?" 
 
HYMN TO BEAUTY 209 
 
 "It is I that am the fool, not you," said Sen- 
 house. "I do want her. I want nothing else in 
 earth or heaven. And yet I know that I have her 
 for ever. Our souls have touched each other. 
 She is mine and I am hers. And yet I want 
 her." 
 
 "Won't you get her? Don't you believe that you 
 will?" 
 
 "God knows ! God knows ! ' ' 
 
 "She was beautiful?" 
 
 "The dawn," said Senhouse, "was not more 
 purely lovely than she. The dawn was in her 
 face — ^the awfulness of it as well as its breathless 
 beauty." 
 
 "My mistress," said the young man, "had the 
 gait of a goddess in the corn. One thought of 
 Demeter in the wheat. She was like ivory under 
 the moon. She laughed rarely, but her voice was 
 low and thrilled." 
 
 "Her breath," Senhouse continued, "was like 
 the scent of bean-flowers. She sweetened the 
 earth. It is true that she laughed seldom, but 
 when she did the sun shone from behind a cloud. 
 When she was silent you could hear her heart 
 beat. She was deliberate, measured in aU that 
 she did — yet her spirit was as swift as the south- 
 west wind. She did nothing that was not lovely, 
 and never faltered in what she purposed. When 
 first I came to know her and see the workings of 
 her noble mind, I was so happy in the mere thought 
 of her that I sang all day as I worked or walked. 
 
2IO REST HARROW 
 
 It never entered me for one minute that I could 
 desire an3d:hing but the knowledge of her." 
 
 "I wanted my mistress altogether," the other 
 broke in, "from the first moment to the last — ^fool, 
 and wicked fool, as you may think me. I could 
 see her bosom stir her gown — I could see the lines 
 of her as she walked. She was kind to me, I tell 
 you, and there were times when — alone with her 
 — in her melting mood — in the wildness of my 
 passion — but no! something held me: I never 
 dared touch her. . . . And then he — ^the other — 
 came back; he, with his 'claims' and 'rights'; 
 and the thought of him, and what he could do — 
 and did do — made me blind. You tell me that I 
 sinned against her " 
 
 "I don't," said Senhouse. "I tell you that you 
 sinned against love. You don't know what love is." 
 
 "You say so. Maybe you know nothing about 
 it. If you have reduced yourself to be contented 
 with the soul of a woman, I have not. What have 
 I to do with the soul?" 
 
 " Evidently nothing," said Senhouse. " How, pray, 
 do you undertake to apprehend body's beauty unless 
 you discern the soul in it — on which it shapes its 
 beauty?" 
 
 "I know," the other replied, "that she has a 
 lovely body, and gracious, free-moving ways; and 
 I could have inferred her soul from them. I'll 
 engage that you did the same thing. How are 
 you to judge of the soul but by the hints which 
 the body affords you?" 
 
PARADOX 211 
 
 Senhouse made no answer, but remained mu- 
 sing. When he spoke it was as if he was resuming 
 a tale half-told. . . . 
 
 "She was in white — white as a cloud — and in 
 a wood. Her hair reflected gold of the sun. She 
 pinned her skirts about her waist, and put her bare 
 foot into a pool of black water. She sank in it to 
 the knee. She did not falter: her eyes were steady 
 upon what she did." 
 
 The stranger took him up where he stopped, 
 and continued the tale. "She could never falter 
 in her purpose. She bared herself to the thighs. 
 She went into the pool thigh-deep. Whiter than 
 the lilies which she went to save, she raked the 
 weed from them — ^you helping her." 
 
 "She did," said Senhouse, his eyes searching the 
 fire. "And when, afterwards, she did what her 
 heart bade her, she never faltered either, though 
 she steeped her pure soul in foulness compared to 
 which the black water was sweet. But do you 
 suppose that any evil handling would stain her? 
 You fool! You are incapable of seeing a good 
 woman. In the same breath with which I spurned 
 myself for having a moment's fear for her, I thanked 
 God for having let me witness her action." 
 
 The rebuke was accepted, not because it was 
 felt to be justified; but rather, it passed unheeded. 
 The stranger had questions to ply. 
 
 "Knowing her, loving her — loveworthy as she 
 was — how could you leave her?" 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said Senhouse, "I have 
 
212 REST HARROW 
 
 never left her." But in the next breath he had to, 
 qualify his paradox. 
 
 He spoke vehemently. "I had of her all that 
 I dared have. That has never left me. I had all 
 that she could give me — she that was self-sufl&cing, 
 not to be imparted. She did not love me, as you 
 could understand love: I don't think she could 
 love anybody. But I only could read her thoughts 
 and grasp her troubles for her. She was at ease 
 with me, let me write to her, was glad to see me 
 when I came, but perfectly able to do without me. 
 She was, of course, not human; she inhabited 
 elsewhere. Her 'soul was like a star and dwelt 
 apart.' She remembered things as they had been, 
 yet not as affecting her to pleasure or pain; she 
 remembered them as a tale that is told, as things 
 witnessed. So she remembered me — and so she 
 still does. If I was there, with her, she was glad; 
 if I was not there, she wasn't sorry. I was nothing 
 to her but a momentary solace — and I knew it and 
 taught myself to be contented. I believe that she 
 was the spirit of immortal youth fleeting over the 
 world. I called her Hymnia. What Beatrice was 
 to Dante, the visible incarnation of his dream of 
 holiness, such was she to me. I picture her and 
 Beatrice together in heaven. 
 
 ' In the clear spaces of heaven, 
 As sisters and lovers, sit 
 Beatrice and Thou embraced — 
 Hand and hand, waist and waist, 
 
HYMNIA DESPOINA 213 
 
 And smile at the worship given 
 By Earth, and the men in it 
 To whom you were manifest.' 
 
 I quote my own poetry, because, oddly enough, 
 nobody else has remarked upon the fact." 
 
 He continued: "When she did what it pleased 
 her to do, it was said by fools that I had inspired 
 her. Fool among fools, I thought so myself at the 
 time, and moved Earth and Heaven, and Hell and 
 Ingram, to save her from an act of magnanimity 
 the like of which I have never heard of. Bless 
 you! if I had never lived, she would have acted 
 as she did, because she was incapable of seeing evil, 
 incapable of acting against her heart. Well! and 
 the thing was done — and I had to face it. I had 
 it all out with, myself, and decided that no harm 
 could come to her. From that hour I have never 
 seen her with my waking eyes. Yet she is here. 
 She is always here. . . . 
 
 "My answer to you is simple. I have all of 
 her of which I am capable. I have never left her 
 because she has never left me. . . . 
 
 "I wrote out my heart in my first years of know- 
 ing her; but since then I have gone under the har- 
 row of this world, where there can be no singing. 
 Now that I am at peace my voice has come back. 
 I listen to what she tells me, and note it. Like 
 Dante, vo significando : I am a drain-pipe for her 
 spirit. She was Hymnia to me once, and I sang 
 of Open Country; now she is Despoina, Mistress 
 
214 REST HARROW 
 
 of the Night. Words come thronging to me, phrases, 
 rhythms; but not Form. I shall get out a poem 
 one of these days — when the harrow rests. Aiid 
 that will be its name: Rest Harrow." 
 
 He broke out after a pause — "Her beauty! What 
 is it to the purpose to put its semblance into words ? 
 Its significance is the heart of the matter. We see 
 the earth as hill and valley, pasture and cloud, sky 
 and sea. Really it is nothing of the kind, but in- 
 finitely more. It is tireless energy, yearning, force, 
 profusion, terror, inunutability in variety. What 
 are words to such a power? i It is to that I stretch 
 out my arms. I must lie folded in that immensity, 
 drown and sink in it, till it and I are one. I must 
 be resumed into the divine energy whose appearance 
 is but a broken hint of it. So it is with Her: not 
 what she appears, but what she stands for is the 
 miracle. Her beauty is not in dimple and curve, 
 though her breasts are softer than the snowy hills, 
 and the liquor of her mouth sweeter than honey of 
 limes. If I lay on the floor of the ^Egean and looked 
 up to the sun I should not see such blue as glimmers 
 in her eyes. But these are figures, halting symbols. 
 Her form, her glow, her eager, lovely breath are her 
 soul put into speech for us to read. You might say 
 that her nobility was that of the Jungfrau on a night 
 of stars. So her body's beauty is but a poem writ- 
 ten by God about her soul." 
 
 Glyde sat up and looked at him across the fire. " I 
 know you. There is but one man who has loved her 
 as you do. You are her poet. You are Senhouse." 
 
THE RAT IN HARBOUR 215 
 
 Senhouse nodded. "That is my name. You 
 know her, then?" His face glowed darkly. "You 
 have known her — ^you!" 
 
 "I saw her four months ago. I was in servitude 
 in a house where she too was made a servant. For 
 her sake, I tell you again, I downed Ingram." 
 
 Senhouse said sharply, "It was for your own. 
 You aren't fit to talk to her. You have unclean 
 lips. You don't hurt her, for you cannot. You 
 hurt yourself infinitely. Why, a dog would do as 
 you did, and possibly be right; but you, not being 
 a dog, have broken your own rules. You have 
 trodden on your own honour, and, like the dull 
 fool that you are, come out wrapped in your silly 
 self-esteem as if it was a flag. I wish that you 
 could see yourself as I see you — or rather I hope 
 you never may; for if you did you would see no 
 reason to live." The words, frozen with scorn, 
 cut like hailstones. The guest cowered, with the 
 whip about his face. Senhouse rose. 
 
 "Follow me," he said. 
 
 Glyde also rose to his feet, and, as if he was 
 giddy, looked blankly about him. "O God, what 
 have I done? O God, what am I?" He dashed 
 his hand over his eyes. "I can't see. I suppose I 
 never could." He turned upon Senhouse. "Youf 
 Why do you harbour such a rat as I?" 
 
 Senhouse gave him pitiful eyes. "If you think 
 yourself a rat, you are in the way to be more. Come, 
 we will be friends yet. You're near the end of your 
 tether, I think. Let me tuck you into a blanket." 
 
Ill 
 
 In the morning Glyde, in a humble mood, drank 
 quantities of small beer. In other words, he told 
 his story of Sahchia, of Ingram, and of Mrs. Wilmot. 
 He was so steered by questions from Senhouse that 
 he came, towards the end, to see that if any one had 
 ■driven his mistress into a life of bondage to Ingram 
 it was himself and his presumptuous arm. 
 
 "You must have offended her beyond expres- 
 sion," he was told. "First, her fine esteem in her 
 own spotless robe, which you have smeared with 
 beastly blood and heat; next, her sense of reason 
 clear as day; next, and worst, her logical faculty 
 by which she sees it to be a law of the earth that 
 nothing can be bought without a price. Oh, you 
 precious young donkey! And who the mischief 
 are you, pray, to meddle in the affairs of high 
 ladies — you who can't manage your own better 
 than to do with your foolish muscles what is the 
 work of a man's heart? Love! You don't know 
 how to speU the word. But I am getting angry 
 again, and I don't want to do that. I'll tell you 
 what I shall do with you. You shall stay with me 
 here till you are well, and then you shall go to Lon- 
 don and find Despoina " 
 
 216 
 
TRUTHS FOR GLYDE 217 
 
 "Do you mean Sanchia?" Glyde was still un- 
 regenerate at heart. 
 
 "I mean whom I say, your mistress and mine. 
 You are not fit to name her by any other name." 
 
 "No, no — I know it," said the youth; "but her 
 name is so beautiful." 
 
 "Everything about her is beautiful," said Sen- 
 house, "therefore see that you go to her cleansed 
 and sweetened. Now, when you have found her 
 you shall beg her pardon on your knees " 
 
 "Never!" said Glyde, grittily in his teeth. 
 
 "On your heart's knees, you fool," cried Senhouse, 
 with a roar which roUed about the hills. "On the 
 knees of your rat's heart. You shall beg her pardon 
 on your knees for your beastly interference, pre- 
 sumption, mulishness, and graceless manhood; and 
 then you shall leave her immediately, and thank 
 God for the breath of her forgiveness. This also 
 is important. You are not to name me who have 
 sent you." His eyes shone with the gleam of tears. 
 "Never name me to her, young Glyde, for I'll 
 tell you now that for every stripe I've dusted your 
 jacket with you owe me forty — and you can lay on 
 when you please." 
 
 "For I," he continued, after a pause for breath, 
 while Glyde stared fearfully upon him, "for I, too, 
 have betrayed her." 
 
 They said no more at that time, but aU day Glyde 
 followed Senhouse about like a dog. 
 
 In the evening of what to the undrilled youth 
 was a hard-spent day, Senhouse unfolded his heart 
 
2l8 REST HARROW 
 
 and talked long and eloquently of love and other 
 mysteries of our immortal life. 
 
 "The attainment of our desires," he said, "ap- 
 pears to every one of us to be a Law of Nature, 
 and so, no doubt, it is. But that is equally valid 
 which says, 'To every man that which he is fit to 
 enjoy.' The task of men is to reconcile the two. 
 That once done you are whole — nay, you are holy." 
 
 "I believe that I am in the way of that salvation, 
 look you, for I know now that there is hardly a 
 thing upon the earth which I canhot do without. 
 That being so, and all things of equal value, or of 
 no value, I have them all. They are at the dis- 
 posal of that part of myself which enters no markets 
 and cannot be chaffered away. Wind, rain, and 
 sun have bleached me; dinners of herbs have 
 reduced my flesh to obedience; incessant toil, with 
 meditation under the stars, have driven my thoughts 
 along channels graved deep by patient plodding 
 of the field. I am become one with Nature. I have 
 watched the wheeling of the seasons until, to escape 
 vertigo, I picture myself as a fixed point, and see 
 the spheres in their courses revolve about me." 
 
 Mystic sayings, aphorisms oozed from him like 
 resin from a pine. 
 
 "It is error to suppose that discomfort is holy. 
 Holiness is harmony. Men have lost sight of the 
 sanctity of the body. Rightly considered, indiges- 
 tion is a great sin." 
 
 "Passion, which is a state of becoming, is not 
 holy, for holiness is a state of being. But it is 
 
SENHOUSE ON OUR NATURE 219 
 
 noble, because it is a straining after appeasement, 
 which is a harmony. 
 
 "Man is an ape, or a god, but certainly a god 
 in this, that he can make himself either. It is by 
 no means certain, however, that this potentiality 
 is not also possessed by the ape. 
 
 "Appeasement of passion is fulfilment of our 
 being, which out of ferment makes wine, though 
 riot seeks rest." 
 
 He was not always so transcendental. Here we 
 have him closer to the matter. 
 
 "A woman when she loves is a seraph winged. 
 When she does not she is a chrysalis, a husk, or a 
 shell. In love she follows the man, but appears to 
 fly him, as a shepherd goes before the sheep he is 
 really driving. Out of it she is an empty vase, to 
 be revered by us for the sacred wine which she may 
 hold, as a priest handles fearfully the chalice. 
 
 "She has but one law, the law of her love, which 
 says to her, 'Give, give, give.' See here how she 
 differs from the man, to whom love is but one 
 of many healthy appetites — not a divine mission. 
 Love, hunger, hunting, or a taste for picture-deal- 
 ing, say to him, 'Take, fake.' 
 
 "Yet it is no wonder that the sexes go in fear of 
 each other, each a mystery to each. For my part, 
 I have never been close to a woman without a desire 
 to cover my eyes." 
 
 And here he got level with her, and showed her 
 radiant beside him. 
 
 "A young woman with shining eyes, blown-back 
 
220 REST HARROW 
 
 hair and face on fire, holding out her heart from 
 the threshold, stretching it out at arms' length, 
 crpng, 'Who will take this? To whom may I 
 give it?' A vision here of Heaven's core of light. 
 I have seen it. I, Senhouse, have seen the Holy 
 Grail. 
 
 "She stood with me upon the threshold of the 
 world, just so, with blown-back hair and shining 
 eyes. Blessed one, blessed prodigal! She poured 
 out her heart like water — for a dog to lap. He 
 was dog-headed, full in the eye, a rich feeder. 
 She decked him with the fair garlands of her thoughts, 
 she made him glisten with her holy oils. She 
 crowned him with starry beams from her eyes, 
 she sweetened him with the breath of her pure 
 prayers. She robed him in white and scarlet, for 
 he was wrapped in her soul and sprinkled with her 
 passion. And she said, 'I love a divine person. I 
 am ready to die for him. Make haste. Pile the 
 fire, sharpen the knife; bind me with cords, and 
 drive deep. I die that he may hve.' O Gods, and 
 Sanchia gave herself for Nevile Ingram!" 
 
 He was never alone, it appeared, for she was 
 with him constantly, a vivifying principle. He 
 had ensphered her in light ; she was unassailable — 
 his fly in amber. Ingram, Chevenix, all Wanless, 
 might have daily converse with her, and one might 
 grudge her her self-sufi&ciency, and another see her 
 a pretty girl in a mess. To him she was a fairy 
 in harness, "a lovely lady garmented in light," 
 
HE REVEALS HER 221 
 
 to whom the rubs of the world could do no harm. 
 She wore crystal armour. They did not know her, 
 could not see her, those who used her for their 
 elemental needs. "Her soul was like a star and 
 dwelt apart." 
 
 He told young Glyde that he had reached this 
 transcendental eyrie of his by painful degrees. No 
 person of Sanchia's acquaintance had suffered more 
 than he by her desperate affair. He had been her 
 first lover, and her only confidant, for she had 
 been what one calls a "difl&cult" girl, who gave out 
 nothing and had no friends. Her sisters knew 
 very little about her, her mother nothing. It had 
 been Senhouse who had called up the spirit that was 
 in her — ^that extraordinary candour of vision which 
 shrank from the judgment of nothing in heaven or 
 earth "upon the merits." He had himself been at 
 first amazed by her quality; but before he had 
 discovered it he had adored her; so it had seemed 
 all of a piece with her exquisite perfection. That 
 first sight he had had of her, in the sun-dappled 
 woodland glade, with her gown above her knees, 
 setting her foot in the unknown depths of a black 
 pool — ^that she might rescue lilies from suffocation 
 — was surely typical of that which followed — ^when, 
 barely twenty-one, she trod deUberately, in her 
 world's shocked face, a road which leads without 
 return to a point at which the world says, "I cannot 
 see you, you are dead." But she had never faltered, 
 had seen no shame, and felt none. Nevile was 
 unhappy, and needed her. If there was no other 
 
222 REST HARROW 
 
 way of serving him, she must take that way. So 
 she told him, Senhouse, her only friend; and he 
 cried aloud in his agony, "God save her," while his 
 soul was saying, "Beatrice never shrank from hell, 
 nor ever looked back. No more, God be thanked, 
 does Sanchia." When the thing was done, and she 
 had gone with unbowed head into the deeps, he 
 had known his hours of desolation; but from that 
 hour she had stood for him "a, thing enskied and 
 sainted." He felt that he was set apart for her 
 worship, and only regretted that Beatrice had had 
 a better poet for the business than Sanchia could 
 ever hope for. 
 
 For a year after her flight he continued a corre- 
 spondence with her which had begun with their 
 first acquaintance; and then he had stopped it, 
 not she. His reason shall be admitted, to his 
 credit or not. It appeared that she read his letters, 
 as they came, to Nevile Ingram — she told him so 
 — and, further, that Ingram was bored. Sanchia 
 did not tell him that, but he gathered it ; and whether 
 he felt that the intimacy was fatally invaded, or 
 whether he was piqued — he stopped. Within two 
 years or so from that he wrote once more to tell her 
 that he was about to "join fortunes" with Mary 
 Germain, a young widow. 
 
 She knew what he meant by that; he was too 
 much of a poet to be anything but shocked at the 
 marriage-bond. She hoped the best for him, but 
 his letter did not encourage her. 
 
 He wrote, "She is good, sweet and wholesome. 
 
SANCHIA VEILED 223 
 
 I have taught her what she knows — I mean by 
 that that I have helped her to pick up a clue here 
 and there to take her by some means to the heart 
 of our mystery. She has had a dreadful mauling 
 by the world; but her brain is sound. I intend 
 to make her happy, but not here. We go to Baden 
 a-painting. She vows she will keep the door of 
 my tent like a Bedouin's wife. It's a great test. 
 If she comes through it — with her upbringing — 
 she will show mettle. Farewell, Queen Mab. One 
 does what one must, being man. Pray for us both." 
 
 She answered him frankly and kindly. Ingram 
 was away on one of his long absences, and she felt 
 acold. "1 shall always wish for your happiness. 
 How could I ever forget what you did to give me 
 mine?" He read that as meaning that she had 
 found and had it still, so .wrote no more — not even 
 when his venture, not too hopefully begun, had 
 ended. His head was low in the dust, his zest 
 was gone. It needed his austerities and solitude 
 to restore his tone. 
 
 But now, in his hidden valley, she never left 
 him, though she was always veiled. He could not 
 call up her blue eyes' magic, nor her slow smile, 
 nor the touch of her thin fingers. She had no 
 bodily semblance; she was a principle. In his 
 exalted mood, being tiptoe for Mystery, he identified 
 her with the Spirit of all Life. For life to him was 
 a straining at the leash, a reaching for the unattain- 
 able, a preparation to soar. He saw all things 
 flowing towards heaven, which to him was Harmony, 
 
224 REST HARROW 
 
 Rest, what he called Appeasement. And all this 
 straining and yearning in infinite variety was figured 
 to him in Sanchia, as he discerned, but could not 
 perceive, her presence. He made her out in ele- 
 mental images, into the contours of the hills read her 
 bountiful shape, into the onslaught of the wind her 
 dauntless ardour. In fire leaped her pride, in the 
 mantling snow her chastity was proclaimed. The 
 rain was her largess, her treasure poured to enrich 
 mankind. All flowers were sacred to her — frail 
 beauty salient from the earth. He never looked 
 on one but he blessed her name. 
 
 On a later day he read a poem to his guest — 
 which he called the Song of Mab. By this name, 
 it seems, he also figured Sanchia, whose synonyms, 
 threatened to be as many as those of Artemis or 
 the Virgin Mary. From poring for signs of her 
 in the face of earth he was come to see little else. 
 If the west wind was her breath and the hills were 
 her breasts, it needed a mystic to see them so; and 
 he was become a mystic. A glorified and non- 
 natural Sanchia pervaded the poem, which, for the 
 form, was a barbaric, rough-hewn chant, stuffed 
 with words and great phrases which had the effect 
 rather of making music in the header than of con- 
 taining it in themselves. It was poetry by hints, 
 perpetually moving, initiating, l)rrical phrases, then 
 breaking off and leaving you with a melody in your 
 ears which your brain could not render. Either 
 the poet was inchoate or the subtlest musician of 
 
CONFESSIONS OF SENHOUSE 225 
 
 our day. He said of himself that he was a drain- 
 pipe for the spirit — a dark saying to Glyde, who was 
 himself, we have heard, something of a poet, of the 
 Byronic tradition. The youth was extremely in- 
 terested, though seldom moved by this chaotic 
 piece. He was for ever on the point to drink, and 
 had the cup snatched away. Senhouse tormented you 
 with possibilities of bliss — ^where sight merges in 
 sound and both lift together into a triumphant 
 swfeep of motion — ^whirled you, as it were, to the 
 gates of dawn, showed you the amber glories of 
 preparation, thrilled you with the throb of sus- 
 pense; then, behold! coursing vapours and gather- 
 ing clouds blot out the miracle — ^and you end in 
 the clash of thunderstorms and dissonances. Some- 
 thing of this the listener had to urge. Senhouse 
 admitted it, but he said, "You know that the splen- 
 dour is enacting behind. You guess the opening of 
 the rose. One stalks this earth agog for miracles. 
 It is full of hints — you catch a moment — for flashed 
 instants you are God. Then the mist wraps you, 
 and you blunder forward, two-legged man swaying 
 for a balance. Translate the oracle as you will — 
 with your paint-pans, with your words — ^we get 
 broken lights, half-phrases. But we guess the rest, 
 and so we strain and grow. Who are you or I, that 
 we should know her!" 
 
 He stuffed the pages into the breast of his jelab, 
 and sat brooding over the paling fire for a while; 
 then, by an abrupt transition, he said — "A fatal 
 inclination for instructing the young was, perhaps, 
 
226 REST HARROW 
 
 my undoing. I believe that I am a prig to the very 
 fibres of me. If I had kept my didactics for my own 
 Sex, all might have gone well: I have never doubted 
 but that I had things to teach my generation which 
 it would be the happier of knowing. But it's a 
 dangerous power to put into a man's hands that he 
 shall instruct his betters. I was tempted by that 
 deadliest flattery of all, and I fell. Despoina heard 
 me, smiled at me, and went her way regardlessly; 
 but my poor Mary was a victim. She heard me, 
 and took it seriously. She thought me a man of 
 God. I failed absolutely, and so badly that by 
 rights I ought never to have held up my head again. 
 But she is happy, dear little soul, after her own 
 peculiar fashion, — which she never could have been 
 with me. She writes to me now and then. The 
 man, her husband, is her master, but not a bad one. 
 She knows it, and glories in him. Isn't that ex- 
 traordinary?" 
 
 "Not at all," Glyde said, who knew nothing of 
 Mary. "It's a law of Nature. The woman follows 
 the man. I suppose you treated her as an equal?" 
 
 "No, as a superior, which she plainly was," said 
 Senhouse. 
 
 "Then," Glyde said, looking at him, "then you 
 made her so. If you fly against Nature, you must 
 get the worst of it." He waited, then asked, "It's 
 against your principles to marry a woman, no 
 doubt." 
 
 "Quite," Senhouse said. "It seems to me an 
 insult to propose it to her." 
 
APOLOGIA 227 
 
 "Your Mary didn't think so." 
 
 "She did at first; but she couldn't get used to it." 
 
 " She felt naked without the ring ? And ashamed ? " 
 
 "God help me," said Senhouse, "that's true. 
 The moment I realised what had happened, I gave 
 in." 
 
 "And then she refused?" 
 
 "She neither accepted nor refused. She lived 
 apart. We were in Germany at the time. I was 
 naturalising plants for the Grand Duke of Baden 
 — ^filling the rocks and glades in the Black Forest. 
 She went into an hotel in Donaueschingen, and I 
 went to see her every day. We were friends. Then 
 we went to England, to London. She held to that 
 way of life, and I did the best I could for myself. 
 At any moment I would have taken her. I con- 
 sidered myself bound in every way. I could have 
 been happy with her. She had great charm for 
 me — ^great physical charm, I mean — and sweet, 
 affectionate ways. I could have made her a wife 
 and a mother. 
 
 "I intended her the highest honour I could show 
 to a woman. To make her your property by legal 
 process and the sanction of custom seems to me 
 like sacrilege. But, however — One day she told 
 me that a former lover of hers wanted to marry 
 her, and left it for me to judge. She wouldn't say 
 whether she wished it herself or not; but I knew 
 that she did, for when I advised her to accept him 
 she got up and put her arms round my neck and 
 kissed both my cheeks. I was her elder brother, 
 
228 REST HARROW 
 
 I perceived, and said so. She laughed, and owned 
 to it. And yet she had loved me, you know. She 
 had refused that same man for me. She was afraid 
 of him, and gave me her hand before his face." 
 
 "That to me," Glyde said, "is proof positive 
 that she loved him. Of course she feared him. 
 It is obvious. My poor master!" 
 
 Senhouse serenely replied, "She's happy, and 
 I've done her no harm at all. But it's impossible 
 for me to treat any living creature otherwise than 
 as my better." 
 
 "I believe you," said Glyde, "and so it may be 
 in a rarer world than this. In this world, how- 
 ever, a man is the most cunning animal, and in 
 that both are flesh he is the stronger of the sexes. 
 In this world the law is that the woman follows the 
 man." He thought before he spoke, then added, 
 "That applies all this world over. You will marry 
 Sanchia." 
 
 Senhouse would not look up. He sat, nursing 
 one leg. He bent his brows, and a hot flush made 
 his skin shine in the firelight. 
 
IV 
 
 The poet and his disciple continued their partner- 
 ship through the sogging rains of Christmas, well 
 into the chill opening of the new year. Then 
 came the snow to fill up the valley in which stood 
 the hut, and blur the outlines of the folded hills. 
 Poetry and Sanchia drew together a pair who could 
 have little in common. 
 
 But Glyde became the slave of the strange man 
 who blended austerity with charitable judgment, 
 and appeased his passion by blood from his heart. 
 He was not himself a mystic, but a sensitive youth 
 whom the world's rubs had taught the uses of a 
 thick hide. Either you have that by nature, or 
 you earn it by practice. Glyde had found out 
 that the less you say to your maltreaters the less, 
 in time, you have to say about it to yourself. He 
 was conscious of his parts and all too ready to be 
 arrogant. Senhouse's goddess had been kind to 
 him, and he had presumed upon that. Senhouse's 
 own method was to alternate extreme friendliness 
 with torrential contempt. He knocked Glyde down 
 and picked him up again with the same hand. He 
 treated him as his equal whenever he was not con- 
 sidering him a worm. There is no better way of 
 
 229 
 
230 REST HARROW 
 
 gaining the confidence of a youth of his sort. At 
 the end of a fortnight there was nothing Glyde 
 would not have told him; at the end of six months 
 he would have crossed Europe barefoot to serve 
 him. 
 
 He was nothing of a mystic, and therefore had 
 his own ideas of what seemed to afford his master 
 so much satisfaction; he was enough of a poet to 
 be sure that Senhouse's romantic raptures were only 
 a makeshift at best. To his mind here was a man 
 aching for a woman. He thought that the poet 
 sang to ease his bleeding heart. He came to picture 
 the mating of these two — Sanchia the salient, 
 beautiful woman, and his master of the clear, long- 
 enduring, searching eyes, and that strange look of 
 second-sight upon him which those only have who 
 live apart from men, under the sky. It is a look 
 you can never mistake. Sailors have it, and shep- 
 herds, and dwellers in the desert. The eye sees 
 through you — into you, and beyond you. It is 
 almost impossible for any person to be either so 
 arresting in himself or possessed of such utterance 
 as will cause the weathered eye to check its scanning 
 of distance and concentrate upon an immediate 
 presence. To such an eye, communing with infinite 
 and eternal things, no creature of time and space 
 can interpose solidly. Each must be vain and clear 
 as bubbles of air. Behind it float spirits invisible 
 to other men — essential forms, of whose company 
 the seer into distance really is. He will neither 
 heed you nor hear you; his conversation is other- 
 
GLYDE WANTS NEWS 231 
 
 where. And what then would Senhouse do^ con- 
 fronted with Sanchia? Would he look beyond her, 
 towards some horizon where she could never stand ? 
 Or would he not see in her blue eyes the goal of 
 all his searching — ^the content of his own? What 
 would he say but "You!" and take her? What 
 she but sigh her content to be taken? Appease- 
 ment is holiness, says Senhouse. And what of 
 their holy life thereafter, breast to breast, fronting 
 the dawn? Glyde's heart, purged of his dishonesty, 
 beat at the thought. He turned all his erotic over 
 to the more generous emotion, and faced with 
 glowing blood the picture of the woman he had 
 coveted in the arms of the master he avowed. 
 
 When February began to show a hint of spring, 
 in pairing plovers and breaking eglantine, Senhouse, 
 in a temporary dejection, ceased work upon his 
 poem, and Glyde said that he must know the news. 
 All through the winter they had had little communi- 
 cation with the world beyond their gates. A shep- 
 herd homing from the folds, a sodden tinker and 
 his drab, whom he touchingly cherished, a party of 
 rabbit-shooters beating the furze bushes, had been 
 all their hold upon a life where men meet and hood- 
 wink each other. Once in a week one of them 
 ploughed through the drifts to the cottage at the foot 
 of the third valley, and got as he needed flour and 
 candles, soap or matches. It had not yet occurred 
 to either of them — ^to Senhouse it never did occur — 
 to beg the sight of a newspaper. But Saint Valen- 
 tine's call stirred the deeps of Glyde, who now said 
 
232 REST HARROW 
 
 that he must have news. He departed for Sarum, 
 and stayed away until March was in. 
 
 He returned with certain information, absorbed 
 by Senhouse with far-sighted patient eyes and in 
 silence. The only indication he afforded was in- 
 scrutable. His cheek-bones twitched flickeringly, 
 like summer lightning about the hills. 
 
 Sanchia, Glyde said, was well and in London. 
 She was living in a street off Berkeley Square, with 
 an old lady who wore side-curls and shawls, and 
 drove out every afternoon in a barouche with two 
 stout horses and two lean men-servants. Sanchia 
 sometimes accompanied her, stiff and pliant at 
 once, bright-eyed and faintly coloured. She was 
 taken about to parties also, and to the opera — and 
 very often there were parties at the old lady's house 
 — carriage-company, and gentleman in furred coats, 
 who came in hansom cabs. He thought that she 
 had suitors. There was a tall, thin man who came 
 very often in the afternoons. He was sallow and 
 melancholy, and wore a silk muffler day and night. 
 Glyde thought that he was a foreigner, perhaps a 
 Hungarian or Pole. 
 
 He had seen Sanchia often, but she could not 
 have caught a glimpse of him. He admitted that 
 he had haunted the house, had seen her come out 
 and go in, knew when she dressed for dinner and 
 when she went to bed. Long practice had ac- 
 quainted him with the significance of light and 
 darkness seen through chinks in shutters. "I know 
 her room," he said, "and the times of her lights. 
 
HE GETS IT 233 
 
 She looks out over the streets towards the Park 
 twice every night — once when she is dressed, and 
 once before she goes to bed. It is as if she is saying 
 her prayers. She looks long to the west, very seri- 
 ously. I think her lips move. I believe that she 
 always does it." Senhouse, who may have been 
 listening, bowed his head to his knees, below his 
 clasped hands. 
 
 "Twice she looked full at me without knowing 
 me. Why should she know me now? Her pale 
 and serious face, master, was as beautiful as the 
 winter moon, as remote from us and our little 
 aflfairs. No words of mine can express to you the 
 outward splendour of her neck and bosom. She 
 was uncovered for a party at the house. In the 
 morning she came out to walk. You know her 
 way, how she glides rather than seems to move her 
 feet — ^the soaring, even motion of a sea-bird. She 
 walked across the Park, and I followed, praising 
 God, whose image she is. On the further side the 
 Pole met her in his furs, and she walked with him 
 for an hour in the sun. She had no wrappage to 
 hide her blissful shape. Close-fitted, erect, free- 
 moving, gracious as a young birch-tree. Master, 
 she is the Holy One." 
 
 "You played Peeping Tom, my ingenuous young 
 friend," said Senhouse, who was fastidious in such 
 matters. 
 
 But Glyde cried out, "God forbid! Are you 
 prying when you look at the sun! Master, you need 
 not grudge the Pole. He is nothing." 
 
234 REST HARROW 
 
 "I grudge no man anything he can get of her," 
 said Senhouse. "He will get precisely what lies 
 within his scope." 
 
 "He has the eyes of a rat," Glyde said. 
 
 Senhouse answered, "Rats and men alike seek 
 their meat of the earth. And the rats get rat-food, 
 and the men man's food. Despoina's breasts are 
 very large." He turned to his poem, folded his jelab 
 about his middle, and went out over the downs. 
 Glyde saw him no more that day, nor, indeed, till 
 the next morning, when he found him squatted over a 
 pipkin simmering on the fire. 
 
 The year went on its course, and windy March 
 broke into a wet, warm April. Glyde sat at the 
 knees of his master, and imbibed learning and fun- 
 damental morality. But now and then he absented 
 himself for a day at a time, and was understood to 
 get news from Salisbury market. He came back 
 one day with a newspaper. Senhouse read without 
 falter or comment: * 
 
 "A marriage is arranged, and will take place in 
 July, between Nevile Ingram of Wanless Hall, 
 Felsboro', Yorks, and Sanchia-Josepha, youngest 
 daughter of Thonias Welbore Percival of — Great 
 Cumberland Place, W., and The Poultry, E.G." 
 
 In that night, or very early in the morning, Glyde 
 disappeared without word or sign left behind him. 
 
BOOK IV 
 
 SANCHIA IN LONDON 
 
London in mid-May, slogging at its pleasures 
 under the pale sun, might read one morning of an 
 affray in Yorkshire, of a magistrate assaulted, or 
 undergardener in arms, and forget it in half-an-hour; 
 but to Sanchia, unaccustomed to cower, some such 
 chance paragraph seemed one spot the more upon her 
 vesture, which contact with the Fulham Road had 
 smirched already. She had never taken cover 
 before — and how could one be in such a place but to 
 hide in it? With contracted brows and bosom op- 
 pressed, she watched the drifting millions go by, and 
 her heart sank. Was she become as one of these? 
 Is not to be ashamed to be shameful? And had 
 she not been put to shame ? If she was to hold up 
 the head and feel the mouth of the winged steed that 
 she rode, she must stable him elsewhere. 
 
 She wished to forget Wanless. Let it be as if it 
 was not, and had never been. But she found that 
 Glyde and his outrageous act made that not possible. 
 They brought her down to London's level — her in her 
 white robe out of stainless air; here she was still, as 
 Glyde had made her there, just a woman for men to 
 quarrel over, or a bone for dogs. Her heart surged 
 hot against Wanless; she could not, if she would, 
 forget it — least of aU in the Fulham Road. 
 
 237 
 
238 REST HARROW 
 
 She felt spotted in Mrs. Benson's spotless dwelling 
 — largely because it was Mrs. Benson's, partly be- 
 cause a smell of fried herrings drifted in daily from 
 the street. She felt herself the chosen of a servant, 
 one for whom a clown had held battle; and then she 
 found herself resenting the phrases, growing hot 
 over them. A servant — Mrs. Benson, that staunch 
 protectress! A clown — Struan — ^his thin frame throb- 
 bing with fire, and his eyes of a hawk in a' cage, far- 
 set, communing with invisible things! Why, when 
 he was rapt in his work he never saw her at all. 
 She was a speck at his feet ! He had sent her away 
 once. "I'm busy," he had said, without looking at 
 her; and she had gone away on tiptoe. These things 
 vexed her to remember, and she felt that Mrs. Ben- 
 son's dwelling could not be hers. 
 
 Mrs. Benson, too, it must be owned, had an in- 
 cumbrance, which she kept as far as might be in the 
 lower regions of her house, but which was how and, 
 again encountered on the stair-^a shambling son, 
 one Joe, mostly in shirt-sleeves, distilling familiarity 
 and beer from every pore. He was a ne'er-do-well, 
 whom it was his mother's cross and crown to keep in 
 complete idleness. He cast dreadful looks, as of an 
 equal in snugness, a fellow-minion, at the chiselled pro- 
 file of our goddess, and was not long before he tried 
 for a full-faced effect. Sanchia's eyes of clear amaze 
 should have cut him down, but they did not. His 
 "Morning, Miss," was daily reminder of a shared 
 clay. Sanchia made herself inaccessible, and Mrs. 
 Benson agonised. 
 
SANCHIA IN LONDON 239 
 
 To apologise for her son had been as futile as to 
 make excuses for death; but she tried it. "You'll 
 overlook the partiality of a mother, Miss Percival? 
 What am I to do ? It's not that I want him to lap 
 syrup from a spoon — far from that. Idleness leads 
 to impiety, and impiety anywhere, from Tattersall's 
 to the public, we all know. But think of what stings 
 me. I can't abide the thought that here am I, large 
 Mrs. Benson, with money to spare, turning my back 
 upon my fatherless child. Yet nothing short of 
 that will do it." Sanchia readily excused her; and 
 then she turned her own back upon the Fulham Road. 
 Pimlico found her a lodging, at the gates of whose 
 dingy mysteries were parks, Westminster, the sky and 
 the river, eternal things, making for tranquillity. 
 
 It had been her first impulse, the moment she 
 reached London, to go to her father, with whom alone 
 she had corresponded during her years of exile. 
 There was Vicky Sinclair, to be sure, her sister next 
 in age; but Vicky was married to a man she knew 
 nothing of, and she found herself shy. Fought for! 
 Blared across London in a paragraph — championed 
 by a clown! How was she to meet a Captain Sin- 
 clair? Her father, surely, was different. She never 
 doubted his love, nor that he would take her to his 
 heart if she asked to go there. But could she? It 
 would have to be done by stealth; she must go to 
 the city, to his office — for her mother ruled in Great 
 Cumberland Place, and she could not go there. She 
 hated secrets, and couldn't pose as a culprit; so she 
 delayed and delayed. It was a comfort to her to 
 
240 REST HARROW 
 
 know that he was at hand: meantime, she sought 
 about for scope to spread her wings. 
 
 For a fortnight she drank of the gales of liberty, 
 filled her bosom with beauty, and let art smooth out 
 her brows. She listened to music, looked at pic- 
 tures, renewed her reader's ticket, and spent whole 
 days browsing under the Bloomsbury dome. Climb- 
 ing the heights, she planned out schemes of work, 
 felt her critical faculties renewed, studied men and 
 women, and found her old pleasure in quiet chuckling 
 over their shifts. But she had to chuckle alone, for 
 she never spoke to a soul. For a fortnight or so all 
 went well — and then, quite suddenly, without any 
 warning, going, as it were, to the fountain for water, 
 she found there was no bottom to her cruse. She 
 went to bed sanguine, she awoke morose. She saw 
 the day with jaundiced eyes, scorned herself, cried 
 "Liver!" and took medicine. She was glued to her 
 books all day, returned late to her lodging, and found 
 herself in tears. She discovered a tenderness, a 
 yearning; she lay awake dreaming of her childhood, 
 of her girlhood, of Vicky, of her father's knee, of 
 Senhouse, her dear, preposterous friend, whose grey 
 eyes quizzed while they loved her. Golden days 
 with him — ^golden nights when she dreamed over 
 his eager, profuse, interminable letters! All these 
 sweet, seemly things were dead! Ah, no,, not that, 
 else must she die. She cried softly, and stretched out 
 her arms in the dark to the gentle ghosts that peopled 
 it. Then, being practical in grain, she jumped up, 
 lit candles, and wrote deliberately to each of her sis- 
 
PHILIPPA 241 
 
 ters — ^finally, after much biting of the pen, to her 
 father. Before her mood could cool she dressed 
 hastily, slipped out, and posted her letters. Coming 
 back to bed, she paused in the act to enter it — one 
 knee upon it. Wide-eyed she wondered why she 
 had not written to Senhouse. To him, of ah people 
 in the world, first of all! And his answer — a cer- 
 tainty. Hot came the reply to her question, and 
 smote her in the face. Never to him again — ^never. 
 There are certain things no woman can bring herself 
 to do. The more she has need of a man the less pos- 
 sible is it to tell him so. She sighed as she got into 
 her bed, and her eyes were very kind. 
 
 Of the five fair daughters of Thomas Welbore 
 Percival, East India Merchant in The Poultry, Phi- 
 lippa, the eldest, the trenchant and clear-sighted, 
 lived in Bryanston Square, mother of three children. 
 Her husband, Mr. Tompsett-King, was a solicitor, 
 but he was much more than that. An elderly, quiet 
 gentleman, who talked in a whisper, and seemed to 
 walk in one too, he presided over more than one 
 learned Society, and spoke at Congresses on non-con- 
 troversial topics. A sound churchman, he deplored 
 Romish advance on the one hand and easy divorce 
 on the other. The salvation of human society lay, 
 he held, within these limits. Distrust the emotions; 
 submit all things to' reason — ^love of God and love 
 of women. On these terms he prospered like his 
 father before him. It all seemed very simple to him. 
 The handsome Philippa respected him, obeyed him 
 
242 REST HARROW 
 
 particularly, and never differed from him in opinion. 
 But she coloured every compliance with his decrees 
 with an idiosyncrasy so marked as to make them seem 
 her own. Where he held that Rome pandered to 
 the emotions, she laughed it to scorn as a forcing- 
 house of spiritual foppery; where he saw in divorce a 
 treason to the law of contract, she said that it tempted 
 women to fall. Is it not easy enough to sin ? Must 
 we legalise it ? Why put a tax upon marriage ? Mr. 
 Tompsett-King deprecated aU dottings of iotas; 
 when Philippa stormed at society he hummed a sad 
 Uttle tune. Before he left for Bedford Row he patted 
 her shoulder and said, " Gently does it." Some such 
 scene must ensue upon the prodigal's letter. 
 
 Hawise, Lady Pinwell, next in age to Philippa, 
 lived in the country. Her husband was a baronet, 
 and a handsome blond. A pretty, apple-cheeked, 
 round-eyed girl, very much of a kitten, she was now 
 grown plump, sleek, rather slow to move, and many 
 times a mother. She deferred to her husband in all 
 things, and by his wish received her parents on a 
 formal visit once a year. She saw very little of her 
 sisters, and as for Sanchia — ^the thing was not to be 
 heard of, not even mentioned to Sir George. As, 
 in fact, she burned the child's letter before she left 
 her bedroom, she does not come into the tale at all. 
 
 But the pensive Melusine, three years younger 
 than Philippa, seven older than Sanchia, may be 
 reckoned with. She was also married, to a Mr. 
 Gerald Scales, the son of a baronet. He was not, 
 
MELUSINE 243 
 
 however, to inherit the title, for he had a brother. 
 Sir Matthew, and frequent nephews. But his means 
 were ample for his rank and discreet amusements, 
 and went further and did more for him than prolific 
 Sir Matthew's; for Melusine gave him no sons. His 
 circle of being, in and through which trailed with 
 charming languor his wife, was of more dappled 
 sheen and of ampler circumference than that of 
 Bryanston Square. Having its centre in Kensing- 
 ton Gore, it reached to Ranelagh on one side, to 
 Maidenhead on the other. There was a riverside 
 villa down there, where Mrs. Scales gave parties in 
 the summertime and was punted about by flushed 
 gentlemen in pink shirts. She was the tallest of the 
 five sisters, and the most graceful; near-sighted 
 enough for lorgnettes, an elegant young woman. 
 She had an instinct for attitudes, turns of the head, 
 which were useful in tete-a-tete conversations. Men- 
 tally, she was not strong, and perhaps her manner 
 was too elaborate: she draped herself when she sat 
 down as if her skirts were window-curtains. Toy 
 Pomeranians were a hobby of hers, and the early 
 Florentine masters. She could read off the names of 
 the saints in a sacred conversation as easily as you 
 or I a row of actresses in a photograph shop. Mrs. 
 Jameson's books were at her fingers' ends. Her 
 mother favoured her more than any of her children, 
 and was often at her house on visits. Gerald Scales 
 called her the Dowager, and pleased her vastly. He 
 himself was Tubby to his friends. 
 Vicky, a year older than Sanchia, had married a 
 
244 I^EST HARROW 
 
 Captain Sinlcair, who was stationed at Aldershot. 
 She had been the romp of former days and, when 
 the storm had burst, hotly on the culprit's side. 
 But Vicky had been flighty, and marriage changes 
 one. Sanchia's eyes grew wistful as she sat, her 
 letters on the wing, and thought of Vicky. 
 
 Her first response was from Melusine, in a tele- 
 gram from Taplow which' read, "Darling, alas!" 
 and no more. Her comment was shrewd: "Mam- 
 ma is there" — and she was right. Then came her 
 father's letter, to pluck at her heart-strings. He 
 invited her to the Poultry at "any hour of the day — 
 and the sooner the better;" but was clear that she 
 could not visit Great Cumberland Place without 
 writing to Mamma. "Doing the civil" was his 
 jocular way of putting it — one of Papa's little ways 
 when he meant more. She knew that he was right, 
 and postponed the fond man and his injunction. 
 His love might be taken for granted by a favourite 
 child. Just now it was her sisters' judgment she 
 craved. 
 
 Philippa wrote with her accustomed steel. It 
 might have been a bayonet: yet she meant to be 
 kind. 
 
 Bryanston Square, 
 Thursday. 
 
 My Dear Sanchia, — I may as well say at once that I am not 
 surprised to hear from you; in fact, I have been expecting 
 some such letter as yours ever since I read in the Times of 
 Claire Ingram's death. Poor unhappy woman, it was time! 
 Some of the Pierpoints (the Godfrey P's) are intimate friends 
 
RIGHT AND PROPER 245 
 
 of ours: we dined there last week; no party — ^just ourselves — 
 and heard all about it. I learned that Mr. Ingram had gone 
 abroad, but imagine that he will be in London before the end of 
 the season. Have you written to Mamma? If not, pray do 
 so. I assure you that it wiU be taken as it is meant. Nothing 
 but good can come of it. Of that I am sure. 
 
 Now, as to your proposals. I think I wiU ask you to come 
 to me here. I am very busy, with calls a thousand ways. I 
 really have no afternoons free for as far forward as I can see — 
 except Sundays, which I devote entirely to Tertius and re- 
 ligion. No woman ought to separate the two — love of God, 
 love of husband in God. Sooner or later, all women learn it. 
 Then the mornings are naturally occupied with the house and 
 the children. They have Miss Meadows; but she is yoimg 
 and absurdly inconsequent. I don't see how you can expect a 
 girl in her teens to work miracles. In fact, I don't want her to, 
 and am at hand to see that she doesn't. 
 
 I have spoken to Tertius, and you must forgive me for saying 
 that we both think, under the circumstances, it would look, and 
 be, better in every way if you came here, in the first instance. 
 Without discussing what is done, and (I pray) done with, you 
 will see, I think, that for me to seek you out would be, to say the 
 least of it, unusual. You left our father's house for reasons of 
 your own; I had left it to be married to Tertius. Forgiveness, 
 if you wish it from me, is yours: countenance of the step you 
 took — ^never. You will not ask it. -So come here any morning 
 that suits you, and I shall be pleased. You will find [me ready 
 to do everything I can, to put you on your proper footing in the 
 sphere to which you were bom. — ^Believe me, my dear Sanchia, 
 your affectionate sister, Philippa Tompsext-King. 
 
 P. S. — ^The Church's arms are very wide. One "cannot be 
 too thankful, as things have turned out, that Claire Ingram 
 never sued for divorce. God is most merciful. 
 
 There was some knitting of brows over this, and 
 some chuckling. Comedy is the Art of the Chuckle; 
 
246 REST HARROW 
 
 but it is very seldom that one of the persons in the 
 play can practise that which delights us. Sanchia 
 was such a person. She could detach herself from 
 herself, see her own floutings and thwackings, and 
 be amused. At the same time her reply to Philippa 
 was curt. 
 
 "You," she wrote, "are busy, and I am not. I 
 will come to you one of these fine mornings, and 
 must trust to Miss Meadows' sense of fitness not to 
 work miracles that day." 
 
 A day or two later came a telegram from Vicky 
 Sinclair. " Just got your letter. Coming at twelve. 
 Vicky." Sanchia glowed. " Just like her, the dar- 
 Hng." Philippa's astringent proposal was put aside. 
 
 At twelve thirty-five there lit from a hansom an 
 eager and pretty little lady, all in gauzy tissues and 
 lace scarf, who knocked at the door like a postman 
 and flew up the stair into Sanchia's arms. "Oh, 
 Sancie, Sancie, how sweet of you to write! Now we 
 are all going to be happy again forever after. Oh, 
 and here's Cuthbert — I forgot." In the doorway 
 stood the erect form, and smiled the bronzed face 
 of Captain Sinclair of the Greys. His "How d'ye 
 do, Miss Sanchia!" was accompanied by a look of 
 such curious enquiry that Sanchia gave him two 
 fingers, said, " Quite well, thank you," and no more. 
 Much more had been expected, and the Captain was 
 somewhat taken aback. He had been ready to wel- 
 come the prodigal and admire her too. What's 
 more, he had already very much admired her. To 
 
THE CAPTAIN WOUNDED 247 
 
 have one's generous motions damped by a coolness of 
 that sort is sickening. But there it was: what could 
 one say ? what could one do ? He went to the win- 
 dow and stood there, whistling in a whisper until his 
 wife dismissed him. To the Cavalry Club stalked 
 he, working himself into virtuous heat. There, at 
 luncheon with a friend, he expatiated, which was 
 unwise and unmannerly at once. But his own 
 wrongs swallowed up his wife's rights. 
 
 "I'll be damned, Jack," he took up his parable, 
 "I'll be damned if ever I do a woman a good turn 
 any more. Never, never again. Gel I know — 
 relative of mine she is, by marriage — goes a purler 
 with a chap. Kjiew something of the chap too — 
 so did you, I expect. Not a bad chap, by any 
 means, barring this sort of thing. Well, now she's 
 in town — all over — settled down, y'know. Writes 
 to my wife. Well, I thought it was no good bein' 
 stiff in these things. Against the spirit of the age — 
 what ? So I said we'd do the handsome thing and 
 go up. We both wanted a spell' of ^easy — so it was 
 handy. Besides, I wanted to see the gel. I own to 
 that. And there's no doubt she's a clinker; quiet, 
 you know, and steady; looksright at you, farin; sees 
 the lot at a glance. Palish gel, not too big; but 
 well set up. Square shoulders — deep-chested gel. 
 That sort." He stared at the table-cloth hard. 
 
 "I was taken by her, mightily taken. So when 
 she and my wife had done kissin', I put in my little 
 oar. 'How d'ye do. Miss — ' I won't mention 
 names, though upon my dick I don't know why I 
 
248 REST HARROW 
 
 should be squeamish. But there it was ; and I'd have 
 kissed her, as you do kiss your wife's — ^well, cousin, 
 let's say — if you want to. Bless you, not a bit of it. 
 Proud as pepper. Gives me a finger. * Quite well,' 
 says she. 'Quite well, thank you — ' and drops me. 
 Drops me ! Good Lord ! ' ' 
 
 He drank deeply of beer. "Well now, 1 tell you, 
 that's the last time, absolutely the last time I do the 
 civil thing to — ^well, to that sort, if she's my wife's 
 grandmother." He stared out of window, mist over 
 his blue eyes. "They're all for marrying her now. 
 It seems it can be done. Chap's to be screwed up. 
 Then she'll be patronising me, you'll see. Because I 
 was decently civil — ^that was as far as I was prepared 
 to go; bare civility — and two fingers for it — 'Quite 
 well, thank you!' Oh, damn it. Waiter — ^more 
 beer." 
 
II 
 
 Vicky was enchanting; for half-an-hour Sanchia 
 was at the top of bliss. To be petted and diminu- 
 tived by a butterfly — it was hke that; for though 
 the child was a year older than she, six years of 
 marriage had .made a baby of her. Her audacities 
 of old had become artless prattle, her sallies were 
 skips in the air. Yet to be purred over by a kitten 
 was pure joy. "You darUng! You darling little 
 Sancie! You beautiful, pale, Madame-de-Watte- 
 ville kind of person! Oh, my treasure — and I 
 thought I should never see you again!" So she 
 cooed while she cuddled, Sanchia, for her part, saying 
 little, but kissing much. Her hps were famished; 
 but Vicky's must be free for moments if her words 
 were to be intelligible. During such times she 
 stroked or patted the prodigal, and let her browse 
 on her cheeks. 
 
 By-and-by, raptures subsiding, the pair settled 
 down for talk, and the discrepancies which eight 
 years had made began to show up, like rocks and 
 boulders in a strand left bare by the ebb. Grotesque 
 the shapes of some of them, comical others; but 
 wrecks and dead things come to light at low water — 
 spectral matter, squalid, rueful matter. And there 
 
 249 
 
250 REST HARROW 
 
 are chasms set yawning, too, which you cannot 
 bridge. Sanchia was to be lacerated. 
 
 No doubt it was laughable at first, as naivete is. 
 "Cuthbert was very funny about it" — ^for instance. 
 "He was awfully anxious to see you, you know — 
 you had never met, I think? — and yet not quite 
 liking it. He said it was a great risk; he seemed 
 to think I ought not to be there. He takes great 
 care of me, the darling. And there was little Dickie, 
 you see. Sancie! he can just walk^ — a kind of 
 totter from my knees to Cuthbert's— 'and then so 
 proud of himself! Cuthbert said that my duty was 
 to Dickie; but I told him that I meant to come." 
 
 Yes, it was comical. "Did Captain Sinclair think 
 I should give him a complaint ?" Sanchia was smil- 
 ing, with eyes and mouth; but the smile was fixed. 
 
 Vicky hugged her. "You dear one! prettiness 
 is your complaint. I should like him to have some 
 of that." She held her at arms' length, looked and 
 glowed, and kissed. She took a serious tone, for the 
 matter was serious. "You know, Sancie, you're the 
 only beauty in our family, the only real beauty. 
 Philippa's awfully handsome, I know, and greatly 
 admired — ^and I've always said that Melot was 
 lovely. There are those three sorts of women, you 
 know. Philippa's handsome, Melot's lovely, and 
 you're beautiful. Then there's prettiness. I know 
 I'm rather pretty: everybody says so. Besides, there's 
 Cuthbert. Oh, you can always tell! For one thing 
 — ^he's so fussy about my clothes — ^you've no idea." 
 She preened herself, like a pigeon in the sun, be- 
 
VICKY'S PROBING 25 1 
 
 fore she returned to her praises. "But you! You're 
 quite diflferent. You're like a goddess." She touched 
 her curiously. "Yes, I thought so. Exactly like a 
 goddess." She sighed. "I can't think how you do 
 it. Swedish exercises? I know it's wonderful what 
 they do for you — in no time. But you have to think 
 about them all the while, and I think of Cuthbert — 
 and Dickie — and the horses — and, oh, all sorts of 
 things! Those sort, I mean, — ^nice things." She 
 pondered Sanchia's godhead, shaking her pretty 
 draperies out, then recalled herself. " Oh, yes, about 
 coming here. Of course I knew that Mamma would 
 make a fuss — ^but I had determined long ago, before 
 I dreamed that it would ever happen, not to tell her a 
 word. It was only Cuthbert who made me feel — 
 well, serious. He is so wise, such a man of the 
 world! But I told him that I meant to come what- 
 ever he could say — and afterwards it turned out that 
 he wanted to come too. He was really quite keen. 
 Wasn't that sweet of him ? You would adore Cuth- 
 bert if you knew him as well as I do. But, of course, 
 that's absurd." She suddenly became intense. 
 "Sancie!" she said, then stopped and peered. 
 
 "Yes?" It was a sobered goddess who waited 
 for close quarters. Vicky put her question, but 
 peered no more. 
 
 "I wish you would tell me one thing, which — 
 has always puzzled me. But don't, if you would 
 rather not. How did you — ^I simply can't under- 
 stand it — ^how did you ever — ? I suppose you 
 loved him very much?" 
 
252 REST HARROW 
 
 Sanchia was in a hard stare. "Yes," she said 
 slowly, "I suppose I did." Vicky's head darted back. 
 
 "Ah! But now you don't a bit. I knew you 
 didn't! Sancie, that's what I can't understand. 
 Because, you know, when you're married you do. 
 You always love the same person. You must — 
 you can't help it. He's so natural; he knows things 
 that you know. He knows — everything. Oh, San- 
 cie, I can't talk about it, but you understand, don't 
 you?" 
 
 Poor Sancie nodded, not able to look up. Alas 
 for her secrets, offered, taken, and forgotten! But 
 Vicky's vivacious fingers groped in her empty cup- 
 board. "And then, as well as that, you ought to 
 love him. You see, you've promised; it's all been 
 made so sacred. You never forget it — the clergyman , 
 and the altar, and the hymns. You're all in white — 
 veiled. And you kneel there — before the altar — 
 and he holds your hand. And the ring, oh, Sancie, 
 the feeling of the ring!" She opened her little hand 
 and looked down at the smoothed gold, coiled be- 
 low the diamonds and pearls. "You never forget 
 the first feel of that. It means — everything!" She 
 blushed, and said, in a hushed sort of way, "It meant 
 — Dickie, to me." 
 
 Sanchia drooped and bled. Vicky, deep in her 
 holy joys, was remorseless. Even when she turned 
 once more to her sister's affairs her consolation 
 made wounds. 
 
 "Cuthbert said that it would come all right now 
 — ^now that Mrs. Ingram — ^the wife — was — That's 
 
SHE CUTS DEEP 253 
 
 rather horrible. Even you must feel that. Instead 
 of being sorry that his wife is dead, one has to be 
 awfully glad. I suppose you felt that at once; and 
 of course he did. Poor woman! I wonder if she 
 was buried in her ring." She eyed her own. "No 
 one would dare take it off. I made Cuthbert prom- 
 ise me this morning. But — of course people do marry 
 again, and it will be practically the same as that." 
 She reflected. "Yes, practically, it will, but — oh, 
 it's very extraordinary! You've had all your fun of 
 engagement and all that, long ago." She looked 
 down deeply at her hand; and then she gazed at her 
 sister. "And, oh, Sancie, you've had your honey- 
 moon!" Before the deadly simplicity of that last 
 stroke Sanchia fell, and lay quivering. She could 
 not ask for mercy, she could explain, extenuate, 
 nothing. Huddled she lay. At this aching mo- 
 ment the one thing that the world held worth her 
 having seemed to be the approbation of this but- 
 terfly child. For Vicky's happiness was specific. 
 Nuptial bliss lay, as it were, crystallised within it.t 
 There are moments in one's life when love itself | 
 seems lust, and safety the only holy thing. Vicky/ 
 tearing at her heart, had turned her head. 
 
 Vicky once gone, with promise of frequent inter- 
 course by letter and otherwise, it was to Philippa's 
 fine house and respectable man-servant she next 
 surrendered herself. The meeting was cool, but not 
 intolerable to a goddess sore from Vicky's whip. 
 Philippa could ply a longer lash, but not by the same 
 
254 REST HARROW 
 
 right, nor with the same passion to drive it home. 
 Sanchia's eyes met hers upon the level; and if the 
 elder had a firmly modelled chin, so had the younger 
 sister. Her strength, too, lay, as it always had, in 
 saying little, whereas Philippa's forte was dialogue. 
 But it needs two for that. After the first greeting 
 there came a pause, in which the embarrassment, 
 upon the whole, was Mrs. Tompsett-King's. 
 
 The trenchant lady had had her sailing orders, 
 and was going to follow them. Mr. Tompsett- 
 King had told her that Sanchia must be led, not 
 driven, into Ingram's arms. "Assume the best of 
 her, my dear friend," he had said, "if you wish to 
 get the best out of her. Take right intentions for 
 granted. It is very seldom that a woman can resist 
 that kind of flattery. So far as I can read your 
 sister's mind, she has suffered from your mother's 
 abrupt methods. I beg of you not to repeat them. 
 Nothing but mischief could come of it." When Mr. 
 Tompsett-King called her his dear friend, she knew 
 that he was serious. 
 
 But Sanchia's mood had not been reckoned with: 
 Philippa was not Vicky. In the old days, in a won- 
 derfully harmonious household, there had been a 
 latent rivalry between her and all her juniors. The 
 greatest trouble had been with Sanchia, the deliberate. 
 And so it was now that when the elder warmed to 
 her task of making bad best, she was suddenly chilled 
 by that old pondering and weighing which had 
 always offended her. Sanchia replied to her assump- 
 tions and suppositions by sa)dng simply that she 
 
PHILIPPA'S ALARM 255 
 
 didn't know where Mr. Ingram was, and that he was 
 no better informed of her than she of him. But 
 surely — PhiUppa raised her brows — but surely she 
 knew when he was coming to London? Sanchia's 
 head-shake shocked her. There was but one con- 
 culsion to be drawn from it. 
 
 "There's been a quarrel," then said she. 
 
 "No," Sanchia answered — as if thinking it out — 
 "no, I shouldn't say that. I should say, a diflFer- 
 ence of opinion." 
 
 "My dear," said Philippa — and the phrase with 
 her was .one of reproof — "on essentials there can 
 have been none. He will wait a year, of course. 
 Under the circumstances, a full year. But " 
 
 Sanchia had replied, "I don't know what he 
 means to do. I have left Wanless." 
 
 "Oh, of course, of course. But — I was going to 
 say — I fully expect that he has written to Mamma." 
 Sanchia's eyebrows and her, "I should think that 
 unlikely. Why should he write to Mamma?" 
 frightened Philippa, while to Mr. Tompsett-Eling's 
 mind they were clear gain. It was necessary, after it, 
 to get on to surer ground. The interview terminated 
 by an understanding that Sanchia should write to her 
 mother. 
 
 Philippa took her husband to dine in Great Cum- 
 berland Place that night; and there, he with Mr. 
 Percival, she with the lady, obtained the terms of a 
 settlement. Sanchia was to be allowed a hundred 
 a year — for the present. (Mr. Percival intended 
 
256 REST HARROW 
 
 privately to make it two.) Everything was to be 
 assumed in her favour; but she was not to be asked 
 to meet company. Neither Mrs. Percival nor Phi- 
 lippa could be brought to that, and Mr. Percival. so 
 far as he was concerned, had no desire for any sort 
 of company but hers. He was one of those men 
 made rosy-gilled for happiness. Good fellowship, 
 the domestic affections — ^if they were not there, they 
 must appear to be. His friends of the city were 
 always on his lips — Old Tom Peters — Old Jack 
 Summers — Old Bob — Old Dick. Good fellows every 
 one. All the pet names in the family had been his. 
 To him belonged Pippa and Sancie, Melot and 
 Vicky. "My girls," or "My rascals," he used to 
 call them to Tom Peters or Jack Summers, and 
 bring them home jerky little tin pedestrians fropi 
 the city, or emus pulling little carts; or (later on) 
 bowls of goldfish or violet nosegays from Covent 
 Garden. If he had a nearer passion, it was to stand 
 well with all the world. That's two passions, how- 
 ever, to his score; and the struggle between them, 
 in Sanchia's case, had taken him as near tragedy as 
 the easy man could go. Heaven be praised, the 
 good times were come again. Now he was all for the 
 return of the prodigal, without conditions — "and no 
 questions asked," as he put it. 
 
 But in this he could not get his dear desire. Phi- 
 lippa's sense of justice was inflamed, as well as her 
 moral sense. What! you eat a cake, and then, 
 instead of sitting down to your plain bread and 
 butter — away you flounce, and get ready to eat 
 
MAMMA 257 
 
 another cake! That's dead against' the proverb, 
 that's monstrous, that's offensive. "Mamma, mam- 
 ma," Phihppa had protested, "you can never have 
 her back to flourish her sin in all our faces." 
 
 "Thank you, Philippa, for reminding me, how- 
 ever gratuitously, of my duties to society," had been 
 Mrs. Percival's acknowledgment. She liked sin as 
 httle as Philippa, but she liked being lectured a great 
 deal less. Poor Mr. Percival had pulled his whisk- 
 ers throughout the debate, and now sighed as he 
 bit them. His girl was to be denied him — but he 
 could give her two hundred a year, and go to see 
 her often. That was comfort. 
 
 And then the meeting took place. First with 
 Mamma, who had never hked her, and was now 
 a little afraid of what she might do. For Philippa 
 had made it quite plain that if Sanchia was not 
 humoured, she would have nothing to say to Ingram. 
 "She's exhausted her criminal passion — ^that's what 
 it comes to," was Philippa's judgment. "Now she 
 will have to be cajoled." So Mrs. Percival was 
 cowed into civility. 
 
 The pair conversed, rather painfully, for perhaps 
 an hour. They had tea. All the effort to talk 
 was made by Sanchia, who broached the children — 
 Philippa's three, Vicky's one — and got nothing but 
 perfunctory enthusiasm in reply. Mrs. Percival was 
 far too sincerely interested in herself to care for 
 children. The sons-in-law proved a better subject. 
 Here she could point a moral inwards. She extolled 
 
258 REST HARROW 
 
 them highly — ^never was woman so blessed in her 
 daughters' husbands. Mr. Tompsett-King — "Ter- 
 tius, the soul of honour: the most delicate-minded 
 man I have ever known. And sensitive to a fault ! I 
 assure you — " Captain Sinclair was "our gallant 
 Cuthbert," or "my soldier son." "Sweet little 
 Vicky's knight! chivalry lives again in him. It has 
 been the greatest blessing in my days of trouble to be 
 sure of the ideal happiness of those two young lives. 
 Ah! one does have one's consolations." 
 
 Such eulogium seemed to leave little to be said 
 for Melusine and her prize; and yet it was certain 
 that Mrs. Percival favoured Gerald Scales above 
 the others. A lift of the voice was observable — 
 "Gerald, who, naturally, is quite at home at Marl- 
 borough House ..." "Gerald, with that charm- 
 ing old-world courtesy of his . . ." "Dear Lady 
 Scales told me that of her two sons, Gerald should 
 have been the baronet. Poor Sir Matthew suffers 
 from hay-fever to that extent. . . . But Gerald is a 
 splendid young man. Darling Melot is, I need not 
 tell you, fully appreciated at Winkley." This was 
 the seat of Sir Matthew, in Essex. 
 
 Sanchia, for her part, having regained the throne 
 of her serenity — from which Vicky had toppled her 
 of late — ^by means of Philippa, was able to contem- 
 plate this singular parent of hers with the interest 
 due to a curious object, and some internal amuse- 
 ment. She was too far removed from her to be 
 moved, too much estranged to be hurt. She won- 
 dered at herself for feeling so little of what, in the 
 
PAPA 259 
 
 days of babyhood, she had firmly held to be the 
 devout opinion. She found that, from a child, she 
 had always judged her mother, and was sure now 
 that her mother knew it. She remembered how 
 hopeless she had always known it to be, to explain 
 any attitude of mind she may have exhibited and 
 been blamed for. So now, though it was abundantly 
 clear to her what was hoped of her, and though she 
 could see perfectly well that the chance of her doing 
 it was so risky that she must be handled like a heavy 
 fish on a light line, she made no eflFort whatever to 
 show why what was to be hoped for was absurdly im- 
 possible. She watched her mother sail about it and 
 about in ever narrowing circles, heard herself com- 
 mended for her promptitude in leaving Wanless, 
 answered enquiries as to Ingram's behaviour under 
 what Mrs. Percival otiosely called "his bereave- 
 ment," echoed speculations at to his whereabouts — 
 played, in short, vacantly an empty part, and kept 
 her mother upon tenterhooks. She gained civil en- 
 treaty this way. 
 
 But her father's bustling entry changed all this. 
 She had not known of herself how susceptible she 
 still was. Vicky had made her cower; but her 
 father made her cry. 
 
 He affected a bluff ease in his manner of greeting ' 
 her. "Well, Sancie, well, my dear, well, well" — 
 and then he cleared his throat; but he did not dare 
 to look at her. Sancie answered him by jumping 
 into his arms, and upset him altogether. "Oh, my 
 girl, my girl — ^my little Sancie — " and then the pair of 
 
26o REST HARROW 
 
 them mingled tears, while Mrs. Percival, who thought 
 this exhibition out of place "under the circum- 
 stances," and not in the best possible taste, tapped 
 her foot on the carpet, and wished that Philippa 
 had been here. 
 
 But, once they were beyond a certain flood mark, 
 as she know by long acquaintance, Mr. Percival's 
 emotions must be given play. She retired, there- 
 fore, and left the clinging pair. Directly she was 
 gone, the good gentleman's embrace of his child 
 grew straighter, and his kisses of her brows and 
 hair more ardent. He humbled himself before her, 
 thanked her for coming back to him. "My darling, 
 it was fine of you to come ! 'Pon my soul, it was fine ! ' ' 
 
 "No, darling, no," she protested, smiling sadly at 
 his fondness. 
 
 "I always loved you, my child! My Sancie — ^you 
 know that of your old father, hey?" He pinched 
 her cheek before he kissed it again. "Ton my life, 
 it cut me down like a frost to do — ^what was done." 
 
 "I know, I know," Sanchia murmured, and then 
 begged him not to speak of it. 
 
 "Ah, but I must, you know," he vowed. "What! 
 A damned unnatural father! ..." And then he 
 held her closely, while he whispered his anxiety. 
 "Sancie — ^tell me, my lamb — ^put my mind at rest. 
 He — that fellow — ^that Ingram — he was good to you, 
 hey? He didn't— hey?" 
 
 She vowed in her turn. "Oh, yes, dearest, yes. 
 Of course he was. I was very happy, except for — 
 what couldn't be helped, you know." 
 
INFALLIBLE REMEDY 261 
 
 "Yes, yes — it couldn't be helped. I know that 
 you felt that. I was bound — for the others, don't 
 you see? — sake of example. That sort of thing, 
 don't you see?" He shook his head. "We can't 
 have that, you know. It don't do — in the long run. 
 Very irregular, hey? And your mother, you know 
 — she takes these things to lieart. Goes too far, 
 I say. Sometimes goes a little to extremes, you 
 know." He grew quite scared as he recalled the 
 scene. "I shall never forget" — shuddering, he 
 clasped her close. "My darling girl, let's be happy 
 again! It shall be right as — well, as rain, you know 
 — now. We'll have you with a child on your knee in 
 no time, — ^hey?" He seemed to think that marriage 
 alone could work this boon. Again — as before with 
 Vicky — Sanchia had not the heart to gainsay him. 
 She allowed him to speculate as he would; and her 
 mother, returning, found the pair, one on the other's 
 knee, with the future cut and dried. 
 
 But Sanchia rose at her entry. 
 
 "Dearest, I must go now," she told him, "but I'U 
 see you again very soon." 
 
 He urged her to stay and dine. "We're quite 
 alone, you know! No ceremony with our child, 
 hey!" 
 
 But she smilingly refused. "No, darling, I won't 
 stop now. I'll come again — " her mother's stretched 
 lips, stomaching what she could not sanction, stood, 
 as it were, before the home doors. 
 
 He looked wistfully at her — ^aware, he too, of the 
 sentries at the gate. "You might — ^we are pretty 
 
262 REST HARROW 
 
 lonely here, we old people — ^I should have said you 
 might come back — ^there's your old room, you know 
 — eating its head off, hey?" 
 
 Sanchia kissed him. "Darling — ^we'U see. We'll 
 talk about it soon. But I must go now — to my 
 books. I'm working very hard, at my Italian. I've 
 forgotten — lots." 
 
 He had to let her go — ^but, manlike, he must re- 
 lieve himself in a man's way. He drew her into 
 his study, bade her "see what she should see." 
 He went to his desk and sat to his cheque-book. He 
 returned with the slip wet in his hand. "There, 
 my child, there. That will keep the wolf from the 
 door, I hope. For a day or two, you know." She 
 read, "Miss Sanchia Percival — two hundred pounds 
 sterling." It brought the tears to her eyes again. 
 It was so exactly like him. 
 
 "You darling — how ridiculous of you — but how 
 sweet!" 
 
 He glowed under her praises. "Plenty more 
 where that came from, Sancie," — ^then piously added, 
 "Thank God, of course." 
 
 Sanchia, in the hall, turned to her mother. " Good- 
 bye, mother," she said, and held her hand out. Her 
 mother took it, drew her in, and kissed her forehead. 
 "Good-bye, my child"; she could not, for her life, 
 be more cordial than that. The offence itself seemed 
 a pinprick beside the rankle of the wound to her pride. 
 This child had set up for herself, and was now re- 
 turned — without extenuation, without plea for mercy. 
 Mrs. Percival was one of those people who cannot 
 
PAPA BRAVES IT 263 
 
 be happy unless their right to rule be unquestioned. 
 Had the girl humbled herself to the dust, grovelled at 
 her feet, she would have taken her to her breast. But 
 Sanchia stood upright, and Mrs. Percival felt the frost 
 gripe at her heart. It must be so. 
 
 Her father went with her to the door — his arm 
 about her waist. "Come soon," he pleaded, and 
 when she promised, whispered in her ear — " Come 
 to The Poultry, if you'd rather: I'm always there 
 — as you know. Come, and we'll lunch together. 
 You'll be like a nosegay in the dusty old place." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I shall come — often," she told him, 
 and nestled to his side. Then she put up her cheek 
 for his kiss. "Good-night, Papa dear," He wept 
 over her, and let her go. Then he returned to his 
 hearth and his wife. In his now exalted mood he 
 was really master of both, and Mrs. Percival knew it, 
 "You gave her the money, I suppose?" she said; 
 and he, "Yes, my dear, I gave her two hundred 
 pounds." He had doubled the sum agreed, but 
 Mrs. Percival let it pass. 
 
Ill 
 
 Upon this footing her affairs now stood; she was 
 to be one of the family, with two hundred pounds a 
 year to her credit, the run of her teeth in the house, 
 and (by a secret arrangement) as often in her father's 
 company as she could find time to be. Meantime, 
 by her own deliberate choice, she maintained her 
 lodging in Pimlico, and read at the Museum most days 
 of the week. She prepared herself to be happy, and 
 under a buoyant impulse, due to the softening of 
 her affections, wrote to her friend Mr. Chevenix, and 
 asked him to come to see her. That he briskly did. 
 
 She received him cordially. It was good to see the 
 cheerful youth again, and to be able to rejoice in the 
 man of the world he affected to be. A man of the 
 world — throned, at it were, upon the brows of a 
 suckling. 
 
 Wisdom was justified of her child. "So you cut 
 it? Thought you would. Wanless Hall is all very 
 weU in its little way — ^when the rainbows are jump- 
 ing, what? D'you remember that fish? And old 
 Devereux — Sdmo deverox? My certy, what a lady! 
 But Nevile — " he shook his head. "No, no. Some 
 devil had entered into him: he was a gloomy kind 
 of tyrant. I don't know, by the way, what's hap- 
 
 264 
 
CHEVENIX'S AUNT 265 
 
 pened to him. Travelling, or something, I fancy. 
 He was always a rolling stone, as you know. But 
 he'll come round, you'll see. Oh, Lord, yes. He'll 
 sulk out his devil — and be the first to apologise. 
 Well — never mind old Nevile. You'll see, one of 
 these days. Now, I say, what are you doing with 
 yourself up here ? Any good?" 
 
 She named her Italian studies, and made him open 
 his eyes. 
 
 "Italian? Xante grazie, and all that! But that 
 don't take you very far, you know. Your teeth wiU 
 crack a tougher nut. Now, I'll tell you what you do. 
 You come and see my old Aunt Wenman " 
 
 She was highly amused. "Why should I see your 
 old Aunt Wenman ? Does she know Italian ?" 
 
 "Italian! God bless you, if she knows English, 
 it's as much as she does. Learnt the Catechism 
 once, I s'pose. She's a good old sort — ^Lady Maria 
 Wenman, widow of my old Uncle Charles, and my 
 mother's sister at that. She'll take to you — she'll 
 take to you." 
 
 "I don't see — " said Sanchia, puzzled. The 
 youth explained. 
 
 "Well, you see — you'll forgive me, I know — it's 
 tone you want just now. She'll give you that. She's 
 something to pull against. You get your back up 
 against her, and hang on. That's the ticket. She's a 
 good soul, is Aunt Maria — lots of tone — gives parties 
 to all and sundry. You meet some rare fish in those 
 waters — Jews, Turks, infidels, and heretics. They'U 
 amuse you — give you bones to pick. I don't get on 
 
266 REST HARROW 
 
 with 'em myself — ^too simple, I am, you know. They 
 talk their politics, or domestic afflictions, and I feel so 
 delicate I don't know what to do. There was one 
 chap I remember — Golowicz his name was — big, 
 red-whiskered, conspiracy chap . . . told me aU 
 about his mother — tears running down his cheeks. 
 I didn't know her from Adam, you know, but still — 
 Oh, you'll like Aunt Wenman. She'll want you to 
 live with her, and you might do much worse." 
 Sanchia listened, smiled, and pondered. It was not 
 her way to be disposed of so simply. 
 
 What was impressive to her about this con- 
 versation was the real reticence underlying the chatter 
 of her friend. She could feel his conviction of her 
 want of tone; she was convinced of it herself. Her 
 purpose in life seemed gone. Once it had been 
 love, next it had been the ordering of afifairs. The 
 second had been so absorbing that she had not 
 missed the first; indeed, she had believed it there 
 until the very end, when she had called it up, and had 
 no answer. But now — ^what aim had she, in this 
 lonely, empty life she was leading, whose hours were 
 so many that she had to fill them up with Italian got 
 out of books? Without knowing it, it was life she 
 wanted, not books. She with her brains, vitality, 
 beauty, and charm had been growing in these graces 
 unawares, flowering in secret at Wanless under her 
 aprons, behind her account-books and garden gloves. 
 Now that all these swaddling bands were stripped 
 off her, behold her, armed at all points for the lists. 
 
WORLDLY WISDOM 267 
 
 So Chevenix had beheld her, it seems. Let her see 
 the world, approve her mettle, run her career. Chev- 
 enix, watching her, judged in those pondering eyes, 
 in that half-smile which had charmed him before, a 
 kind of quivering expectancy new to her. He judged 
 her tempted, and renewed his suggestions on a later 
 day. % 
 
 "What you want," he then told her, "is to try a 
 fall or two with the world. You've been too snug, 
 you know — ^too long under glass. You left the school- 
 room to go to Wanless — and where were you there ? 
 Under cover. You want the sun, the wind, and the 
 rain; you want to know what these things feel like — 
 and how the rest of us take 'em. And you want to 
 be seen, if you let me say that. We all like being 
 looked at, I believe. I know that I do, when I'm 
 quite sure about my hat. Now you won't get much 
 of that in a Warwick Street two-pair front, let, me tell 
 you — ^no, nor in your B 17, or whatever your seat is, 
 at the Museum. You're a star — you're to shine. 
 Well, give 'em a turn in Charles Street. I'll fix it up 
 for you. I wish you'd think it over." 
 
 She gave him grateful looks, but said little. Nev- 
 ertheless, he went away encouraged. A week or so 
 later she found a card upon her table: that of a Mrs. 
 John Chevenix. 
 
 "That's my sister-in-law," the friendly youth pres- 
 ently told her. "That's Mrs. John. You go and 
 see her. She's a good sort of woman. You'll meet 
 Aunt Wenman there. I thought it all out, and that's 
 the way to get at it. She'll jump at you, in my 
 
268 REST HARROW 
 
 opinion. She loves orphans. Collects 'em. You 
 go!" 
 
 She was due in the city on a visit to her father, 
 was, in fact, dressed for it in her best white frock, 
 roses in her hat. She promised to think of it — 
 and of course would return Mrs. John's call. The 
 amiable Chevenix accompanied her as far eastward 
 as it was possible for him to go. He went, indeed, 
 farther, and in fuS*Hew of Saint Paul's decided upon 
 a visit to that sanctuary. You never know your 
 luck, he said. He might meet Senhouse there. He 
 had been hunting the recessed philosopher high and . 
 low. 
 
 "Great sport if we met him now — you, who look 
 like lunching at the Savoy or somewhere, and he 
 like a fakir! What should you do? Fall in his 
 arms?" Sanchia had mist over the eyes. 
 
 "I believe I should," she admitted. "I should 
 love to see him again." 
 
 "He'll turn up at Aunt Wenman's, I'll bet you," 
 Chevenix felt sure. "She rakes 'em in — all sorts. 
 Do you think about her, now, there's a dear. You 
 won't be able to stick it at home, you know." 
 
 "I am sure that I shan't go home," Sanchia said. 
 "And I am thinking abou your aunt." 
 
 "Right," cried Chevenix, and briskly mounted the 
 steps of the cathedral. 
 
 Mr. Percival had provided a tea for her which had 
 the appearance of a banquet. The table seemed 
 sunk in flowers; a great urn held the tea. There 
 
PAPA AT TEA 269 
 
 were buns m pyramids, snow-mantled cakes, apricot 
 jam, strawberries, clotted cream. Nothing was too 
 good for his beloved, as he cried aloud when he saw 
 her, fresh and glowing in her lace frock and flower- 
 wreathed hat. 
 
 "My girl — and upon my soul, a picture!" 
 
 She blushed at his praises, and came within kiss- 
 ing distance. "You make a school-treat of me, 
 dearest. You mus^tn't be wicked with your money, 
 or I shan't come any more to see you. I won't be 
 spoiled." 
 
 "No, my dear, no — and you can't be," he assured 
 her. "Good Lord, my child, you're the only one 
 I've got left. All my birds flown but you! And 
 I had five of the sweetest, sauciest, happiest girls 
 in England once upon a time. . . . Now, come you 
 and pour out a cup of tea for your foolish old father. 
 We're snug here — hey? Better than Great Cum- 
 berland — hey? You monkey!" He pinched her ear 
 — ^and felt that they shared a secret. 
 
 She caught his happiness, and bathed in his praises, 
 feeling as it were the sun upon her cheeks. How 
 she loved to be loved! How she loved to be praised 
 for her good looks! The world had grown sud- 
 denly kind again; the world was good. There, 
 ahead of her, stood Mrs. John Chevenix and a 
 friendly Lady Maria, beckoning her to London de- 
 lights, a friendly world of admiring eyes. She was 
 to be looked at — she was to listen-^and be heard. 
 Her heart beat, eyes shone starry. Life, which had 
 seemed behind her, now danced before, a gay proces- 
 
270 REST HARROW 
 
 sion. She told her father what seemed to be in the 
 wind. He listened and stared. 
 
 "Lady Maria, hey! We are going up in the world. 
 The peerage! Charles Street, Berkeley Square! I 
 remember young Chevenix: he had swell connec- 
 tions — yes, yes. How things come about. This will 
 please your mother, my dear. She sets a store by 
 such things." Their eyes met, and she nodded. 
 
 "Yes, I thought of that. But what do you feel 
 about it. Papa? You see — ^I couldn't very well 
 come back to Great Cumberland Place." 
 
 He did see that, poor man. "No, chick, no. 
 That wouldn't work out — ^that sum. You and your 
 mother never did add up very well — ^No, no. Much 
 as I should have liked it. But Charles Street? 
 Hum. I'm a plain man, you see, a plain, old com- 
 fortable merchant — and the older I grow, the more 
 comfortable I get, I believe. Now, I don't see my- 
 self in Berkeley Square, making a bow to Lady 
 Maria. My poor old back's too stiff for that. But 
 if you're contented — if you're to have your deserts — 
 for you're a little beauty, my love, and there's no mis- 
 take about it — why, what can I say? And I know 
 you won't forget Papa in The Poultry — hey?" 
 
 She held him her hand across the tea-cups, smi- 
 ling with her eyes. "Do you really think I shall?" 
 
 He caught fast to the little hand. "No, child, no! 
 Though, mind you, I deserve it. When I think that 
 I let you be packed out of my house — neck and crop 
 — ^to the devil, for aught I knew — I grow cold. My 
 dear, it's taken me suddenly at night — when I've 
 
SANCHIA IS CANDID 271 
 
 been wakeful — and I've groaned in my agony. It 
 don't do to think of — ^hideous! Women make fools 
 of us men, and knaves as well. But there! You 
 know your, mother's way. I mustn't speak against 
 her, of course. No, no. She's a good woman." He 
 looked as if he tried hard to believe it. 
 , Sanchia, her hand still held, had grown serious. 
 "Papa," she said, "I want you to understand me 
 altogether. I should do it again, I believe, if I 
 really loved somebody." 
 
 He looked at her anxiously, then away from her, 
 while he patted her caught hand. "Yes, my dear, 
 yes. I understand that you feel like that. It's 
 queer — to me, you know. I don't pretend to see it 
 as you do. But I trust you. I know you're a good 
 girl. Only — it's not the old-fashioned way; and 
 
 your mother " 
 
 "Mamma,"' she said, "is different. She thinks 
 I'm wicked; you think I'm good. I don't know 
 what I am — I don't understand myself at all; but 
 I'm quite sure that I should do it again, if it had to 
 be done." Her eyes grew large with the certainty of 
 her argument. She had a divine seriousness, a rapt 
 look, as of one inspired from within. "I don't see 
 how you can help it, if you see quite clearly that the 
 person needs you. It seems disloyalty. It seems 
 making too much of yourself — as if what happened 
 to that part of you mattered! And it seems making 
 too little of yourself, too — as if you shrank, as if you 
 were afraid of vile people. One can't afford to be 
 afraid — for the sake of such a small thing." 
 
272 REST HARROW 
 
 Mr. Percival, nodding, patting her hand, put in 
 a gentle remonstrance. "I shouldn't say that, 
 Sancie, I shouldn't indeed. It used to be considered 
 ever)rthing in the world, to a woman.". 
 
 She mused, then decided. "No. I can't under- 
 stand that. It's not everything in the world. It's 
 almost nothing compared to other things — like 
 freedom. To me the only thing that seems to matter 
 is one's mind. Freedom for that ! You can give up 
 anything else. But that you must have — if you are 
 to hve at all." 
 
 He made a loyal effort to follow her thought, 
 but it led him into dismal regions where he found 
 himself unnerved. "I don't know, upon my soul, 
 where you get these notions of yours, my dear. I 
 don't indeed. Not from me, I believe." 
 
 She smiled gently at him, but with a wistful tinge, 
 as if she felt her isolation. "I don't know, either — 
 but there they are. I always know what I've got to 
 do. I see it, or feel it, ahead of me. There's a path 
 that way, a path the other. I see the fork, and have 
 to follow one of them. I always know which." 
 
 That was equally beyond him. He left it, and 
 returned to a more practical puzzlement. "But 
 when — ^When you make up your mind about — Mm, 
 you know? I wish you would tell me." 
 
 "I'll tell you everything I can, dearest, of course." 
 
 "Well, now, your freedom, you know. Your 
 freedom of mind. Now, you gave him your freedom, 
 didn't you! And your mind too? Didn't you, 
 now?" 
 
SHE KNOWS THE WAY 273 
 
 She had to consider that, and he watched her with 
 anxiety. But she looked him fairly in the face with 
 her answer, so that he read the truth in her eyes. 
 "No," she told him. "No. He never had that, 
 luckily for me. I always knew what I had to do be- 
 fore he did, I could always see where he was right 
 and I was wrong — or the other way about. I don't 
 think I could ever give up my judgment. At least — " 
 She had to think again ; and again she answered him, 
 but with heightened colour. "If I did — it would be 
 a different sort of person altogether. Quite a different 
 person." 
 
 His face fell. This didn't sound like marriage- 
 bells. "Oh, my dear!" he said ruefully. "You 
 don't mean to tell me " 
 
 She jumped up and hugged him. "You darling 
 old thing, of course not." But she kept her face 
 buried in his whiskers. "If I ever did that — give 
 up my mind, I mean — ^I believe I should be happier." 
 
 Mr. Percivg,l had no doubt about that. He had 
 old-fashioned opinions. 
 
IV 
 
 Mrs. John Chevenix, a young and lively woman 
 with ash-coloured hair, audacious nose, and a clear 
 complexion, was devoted to her husband's family, 
 and especially tender to our young friend and 
 Sanchia's, with whom she had a strong alliance. Her 
 husband had a sense of humour, which he indulged 
 for the most part in silence. He spoke rarely, swal- 
 lowed his laughter, and yet was good company. 
 You felt his sympathy, found yourself depending 
 on it. You gauged his relish by a twinkle, by a 
 deeper shade of purple in his cheeks, by a twitching 
 ear. The Stock Exchange gave him a sufficiency, 
 and his wife, with her taste for dinner-parties, saw 
 to it that it gave him no more. "Let's bleed old 
 John," was Bill Chevenix's pleasant way of suggest- 
 ing an escapade which might run into hundreds. 
 "It will do him good," Mrs. John used to agree; and 
 John Chevenix would chuckle internally, and say, 
 " Go it, you two." On these terms they were all very 
 happy. 
 
 Bill Chevenix had told his sister-in-law as much 
 about Sanchia as he thought fitting. To begin 
 with, he took all responsibility upon himself for the 
 opening scene of her wild adventure. He had in- 
 
 274 
 
MRS. JOHN 275 
 
 troduced "the chap" into the Percival household, 
 and it was he, too, who had not introduced the fact 
 of his unhappy marriage. "Took it all for granted 
 — thought they knew it — forgot they didn't belong 
 to that gang — ^your gang, my gang, Nevile's gang. 
 Rotten of me, my dear, but there you are." Mrs. 
 John understood him to feel more contrite than he 
 appeared. And next he lauded Sanchia, after his 
 own manner. As thus: "A queer young fish. You 
 can't judge her by the rules of the game. She shows 
 her strength by breaking 'em. She'd break an3rthing 
 and anybody. Oh, she's as deep as the Dogger. 
 But mighty pleasant with it, you know, Fine, quiet 
 style of her own. And a beauty. My word, but 
 she's like a rose." Then his eyes met hers con- 
 fidentially. A wink passed. "No. We're great 
 friends. That's all there is to it, on my honour. 
 But you can't leave a girl like that stranded, can you 
 now? Especially when you've run her aground 
 yourself — in a way. So I thought of old Aunt Wen- 
 man in a minute. In fact, I've seen her about it, 
 and, by George, she hit on a phrase in a trice. 'Un- 
 fortunate attachment.' She's perfectly happy with 
 that, and rather keen. Now aU you have to do is to 
 give a party, and I'll ask Sancie." 
 
 Mrs. John thought that was too casual. "You 
 mustn't treat her like a dancing man," she told 
 him. "I shall call on her, and you can tell her I'm 
 coming. We'll do the thing in form." 
 
 All this had been done, and the call returned. 
 Sanchia's still serenity, seen through the rosy mist 
 
276 REST HARROW 
 
 of her momentary confusion, pleased Mrs. John. 
 The invitation was made and accepted in parting. 
 
 "Do come. We shan't have many people, you 
 know; but I won't let you be dull. And Bill will 
 be there, of course — and you rather like Bill — and 
 a queer old Aunt of ours who knows everybody. 
 So I hope you won't mind." 
 
 "I'm sure I shan't," Sanchia said, and then they 
 shook hands. 
 
 Bill Chevenix, who had been present, waved him- 
 self away from the doorstep. "By-by, my dear," 
 he said. "You've done bravely by me. Isn't she 
 splendid?" 
 
 "I like her," said Mrs. John. "But she's rather 
 unapproachable . ' ' 
 
 Bill chuckled. "That's her little way. She don't 
 kiss easily." 
 
 Mrs. John said that he ought to know. 
 
 The party was anything but dull. Lady Maria 
 dined with seven other people, the best that could 
 be mustered on short notice — and Sanchia came in 
 at ten o'clock, when the drawing-room was full. 
 She came with an elderly friend, a Mrs. Quantock, 
 whose acquaintance she had made in an omnibus, 
 and renewed at the British Museum. Mrs. Quan- 
 tock was an authoress by profession, a poetess by 
 temperament. Her emotions, not always under 
 control, consorted oddly with her broad and placid 
 face. She knew Lady Maria Wenman, and it was 
 she who actually performed the introduction, Mrs. 
 John being fast at her stair-head. 
 
AUNT WENMAN 277 
 
 "I particularly want you to know my dear friend 
 — Miss Sanchia Percival — ^Lady Maria Wenman. 
 A great heart, Lady Maria, in a frame of steel." 
 
 "Oh, indeed," said Lady Maria. Then, "Come 
 and sit with me, my dear; I've heard about you. 
 But I hope you've left your steels at home." 
 
 "If I had a trumpet," said good Mrs. Quantock, 
 "instead of a penny whistle, all the world should 
 hear what I think of Sanchia." 
 
 "Then it's a very good thing you haven't," said 
 Lady Maria. "The less young ladies are trumpeted 
 in public the better!" 
 
 Sanchia, during this interchange, had stood smi- 
 ling and self-possessed; but she was a little fluttered, 
 and looked none the worse for that. Without a 
 word she obeyed the twinkling and puckered old 
 lady, sat by her on the sofa and awaited, her hands 
 folded in her lap, what might be in store for her. 
 She liked the looks of Lady Maria, and had no dis- 
 relish for her sharp tongue, nor fear of what might 
 fall to her share when Mrs. Quantock took herself off. 
 She liked the little, deep-set, dark grey eyes, the 
 beaked nose, like the prow of a trireme, and the 
 drawn-in mouth, which seemed to be victim of the 
 astringencies it was driven to utter. And then she 
 liked the signs of race, the disregard of opinion, the 
 keen look which lit on a man or woman and saw him 
 negligible and left him in the road. She had herself 
 an artist's eye for style, and saw in Lady Maria the 
 grand manner. The praise or blame of such as she 
 would be worth having; awaiting either, she felt 
 
278 REST HARROW 
 
 herself braced. She could envisage the past, collect 
 it, display it in her lap without fear. "Here's my 
 life's work, so far as it has gone. Now beat me, if 
 you will; I'm not afraid of honest blows." She 
 knew there would be no sham outcries from this 
 high-looking old dame. 
 
 Lady Maria Wenman was rich, imperious, whim- 
 sical, and afraid only of boredom. By birth a daugh- 
 ter of Lord Starcross, by fate the widow of a judge, 
 she was strongly of opinion that she could do as she 
 pleased. It was not so clear to her that other people 
 could also; but the reason of that was that other 
 people, not immediately about her, were not them- 
 selves clear. She once said of a prime minister, "My 
 dear, he seemed to me a very good sort of man"; 
 and that was her attitude all the world over towards 
 those not connected with her by blood or the aflfec- 
 tions. Marks of race she had, but not pride of it. 
 She was her own fountain of honour, and were you 
 omnibus-tout or commander-in-chief, if she liked you 
 you were in being, if not, you didn't exist. One 
 consequence of this was that she hated nobody, and 
 was offended at nothing. The vices or crimes of a 
 non-existent world were mere shadows, naturally; 
 those of her circle of cognizance she had a way, very 
 much her own, of accounting for. A trick of hers, 
 which had beconie inveterate, was to explain states of 
 being by phrases. These not only explained, they 
 seemed to condone; and to her there's no doubt, 
 they accounted for everything. Mr. William Cheve- 
 nix, aware of her foible, did not scruple to turn it to 
 
THE CLICHE 279 
 
 his ends when putting before her Sanchia's case. 
 "You see, Aunt, one rather admires her loyalty to 
 the chap. He was precious miserable, and she 
 pitied him. Well, we know what comes of that, 
 don't we? It turns to liking, and gratitude, and 
 all those swimmy feelings; and then they swim to- 
 gether, all in a flux, eh? And there you are." To 
 which, when Lady Maria had nodded her head of 
 kindly vulture sagely, and mused aloud, "I see; an 
 unfortunate attachment. Very common, I believe, 
 and quite sad," he knew that he had scored a point. 
 When she had added, "We must do what we can, 
 of course; I'll see her; I've nobody with me just 
 now," he presumed that he had won the rubber. 
 
 Apart from the comfortable clicM in which she 
 was seen enfolded, Sanchia pleased the eye. Her 
 father, in league with her throughout, had "stood" 
 her a frock, the cunningest that Madame Freluche 
 could supply, and would have added pearls for her 
 hair and neck if she had not tenderly refused them. 
 She took his counsels in the general — ^that she was to 
 show them what was what, "for the honour of the 
 Percival girls" — and her own for the particular; 
 lyould have no ornaments at all. By an entirely 
 right instinct she chose to wear black. It set her oflE 
 as dazzlingly fair, as more delicate than she was. 
 Her eyes, from her pale brows and faintly tinted 
 cheeks, gleamed intensely, bumingly blue. Her 
 strength appeared in her shut lips and firm chin — 
 subtle, and, as Mrs. Quantock said, like that of steel 
 wire. 
 
28o REST HARROW 
 
 She did not talk much, but what she said was 
 simple and direct. She seemed to be reticent about 
 herself, not by any means from shame, but because 
 her acts and intentions appeared too obvious to be 
 worth rehearsing. Once or twice her laugh, low and 
 musical, showed that she relished a joke. Lady 
 Maria occasionally made jokes. Here was a girl who 
 understood them. 
 
 To the old gentlewoman, who never beat about 
 bushes, but mostly walked through them, Sanchia's 
 bluntness made immediate appeal. Her reply, for 
 instance, to the enquiry, What had induced her to go 
 on with the affair, was a counter-question. "What 
 else could I do?" she had asked, with pencilled 
 brows arched. "I thought it made no difference. 
 I wanted to, you see. What you do is nothing com- 
 pared with what you want to do." 
 
 "Then why do it, my dear?" said Lady Maria. 
 Sanchia did not blink the answer, "Nevile wanted 
 me. He was very unhappy." 
 
 "Well," said the old woman, "what is he now?" 
 This time Sanchia did not reply. 
 
 Lady Maria drew her lips in until her mouth 
 looked like a dimple in her face. "Oho! That's 
 it, is it? He's neglected you, and now you don't 
 care?" 
 
 "I care for some things very much," said Sanchia. 
 "I want to please Papa, and Vicky, my sister, you 
 know — and I think I want to put myself right with the 
 world. But " 
 
 "But you don't care two pins about him?" 
 
LONDON PHILOSOPHY 281 
 
 Sanchia shook her head sadly. Her brows were 
 arched to her hair. "No," she said, "I don't care 
 one pin." 
 
 Lady Maria was no fool. She saw exactly what 
 was going to happen, and no reason why she should 
 not declare it. She had formed aheady a high 
 enough opinion of Sanchia — ^which is to say no more 
 than that she hked her — ^to be sure that it would not 
 influence her conduct. "I'll tell you what the end 
 of this will be," she said. "You'll have him on the 
 floor, kissing your toes. He'll be mad to have you — 
 and you'll marry him. Then he'll be your slave for 
 life. And they tell me that's the happiest state a 
 woman can live in. I have some reason for believ- 
 ing it. I and the judge got along admirably, though 
 the poor man might have bored me to extinction. 
 Oh, you'll do very well. But don't make him 
 jealous." 
 
 Sanchia considered this. "I don't think he would 
 be jealous," she decided; "but we are rather pre- 
 mature, aren't we?" And then she related, as if 
 they were an anecdote, the circumstances of her 
 departure from Wanless. 
 
 Lady Maria listened carefully, nodding a dis- 
 passionate head at details which would have raised 
 Philippa's hair, and depilated Mrs. Percival. "I 
 think he's a human being, if you'll allow me to say 
 so," was the conclusion she came to. "It was no 
 affair of the gardener's that I can see; and to be 
 battered in your own drive by your own servant, 
 even you must allow to be provoking." 
 
282 REST HARROW 
 
 "Oh," Sanchia assured her, "I didn't at all mind 
 his being vexed. But he accused me of — all sorts 
 of things." 
 
 "Of course he did, my dear," cried Lady Maria. 
 "He was in a towering rage. How was he to know 
 that you hadn't egged on the gardener?" 
 
 "By what he knew of me already," said Sanchia 
 with spirit. Lady Maria twinkled; but her scrutiny 
 was keen. "I don't think you have explained the 
 gardener," she told her. Sanchia blushed. 
 
 "He's a boy," was her suggestion: but Lady 
 Maria's comment on that was, "And a bruiser it 
 seems." 
 
 Sanchia smiled gently. "Poor Struan! He was 
 very difiScult. He made me furiously angry. What 
 he did was outrageous. But I am sure he is a 
 genius." 
 
 "What!" cried her ladyship. "A genius at 
 gardening? or at thrashing gentlemen?" 
 
 Sanchia said simply, "It's extraordinary what he 
 can do with plants. He's certainly a genius there. 
 He's like a plant himself. He never goes to bed, but 
 walks about the garden all night, talking to them." 
 
 "Like a burglar," said Lady Maria. "Pray, what 
 does he talk to them about ? Growing ? " 
 
 "Sometimes, I think. I don't know what he says 
 to them. But he talks about all sorts of things." 
 
 "You, for instance?" Lady Maria asked, sud- 
 denly; and Sanchia blushed again, and presently 
 looked at Lady Maria. "He's always nice to me," 
 she said, mildly. 
 
LONDON PRACTICE 283 
 
 "I think," her ladyship resumed, "I think I like 
 to think of him best in prison;" and then washed him 
 out of her memory as she faced more serious topics. 
 
 "It will be much better for you to come to me," 
 she told Sanchia. "I'm an old woman, and an old 
 tyrant, I daresay, but I'm somebody, you know. 
 And I'm pretty lonely, and happen to want company 
 just now. It will be good that you have a foothold 
 to your name when your Nevile Ingram comes after 
 you. I shall bring him to reason quicker than most 
 people, I don't doubt. Your quarrel is absurd; you 
 can't afford to quarrel with your bread and cheese. 
 You've your father, you'll say; but my answer is 
 that it's not very decent to live upon your father 
 when you've got yourself kicked out of his house. I 
 quite see your point of view, mind you. These things 
 will happen, and in theory you're perfectly in the 
 right. It's your practice that won't do. All for 
 love and the world well lost — ^very fine indeed.' But 
 so long as we're in the world, you see, we can't lose it. 
 There it is. Now you've had your kisses, and can 
 afford to settle down; but you must do it in the 
 world's way if you want peace and quietness; and I'm 
 very ready to help you. Really, I don't see anything 
 better for you — short of your own home." 
 
 "I shall never go there again," Sanchia told her, 
 directly. 
 
 "Very right, my dear," said the old lady. "Then 
 you had better come to me." 
 
 Sanchia said, "I should like that," and Lady 
 Maria, taking her by the chin, patted her cheek. 
 
284 REST HARROW 
 
 "And SO should I, my dear," she said — and the 
 thing was as good as settled. 
 
 Mrs. John, released from her stair-head, came 
 up presently; Bill Chevenix was with her. "Dear 
 Aunt Wenman," she said, "I haven't had a word 
 with you since you came; but I'm sure you've been 
 happy." 
 
 "Miss Sanchia and I have been swearing eternal 
 friendship," said Lady Maria. 
 
 "Exchanging drops of blood, eh, Aunt?" chirped 
 the cheerful youth. "Nothing like it." 
 
 "I have no blood to spare, William," she replied, 
 "and if I had. Miss Sanchia has too much. Now 
 you can take her away while I talk to Helen. Good- 
 by, my dear," she bade Sanchia. 
 
 "Good-by, Lady Maria," the girl repHed, with 
 deeply sincere eyes. "You've been very kind to 
 me." 
 
 "Fiddlesticks," said Lady Maria. "I like you. 
 Now run away, the pair of you." 
 
 "Right, Aunt," said Chevenix, and crooked his 
 arm. 
 
 After a decent interval, in which we may suppose 
 formal visits exchanged between Charles Street and 
 Great Cumberland Place, Sanchia set up her rest in 
 the former mansion. The time was full June. 
 
V 
 
 The string of episodes which discovered before the 
 autumn was over the heart of Mr. Cyrus Worth- 
 ington at her feet hardly deserves record in her 
 history but for the fillip which it gave to her spirits. 
 Tribute is tribute, and Mr. Worthington was a war- 
 rantable gentleman. The tarnish she had discerned 
 upon her armour, the foxmarks upon her fair page, 
 dispersed under his ardent breath; she realised her- 
 self desirable and loveworthy; she arose from the 
 thicket in which she cowered with the light of triumph 
 prophetic in her eyes, the flush of victory after vic- 
 tory prophetic in her cheeks. Therefore Mr. Worth- 
 ington's career in the Charles Street lists shall be 
 chronicled. 
 
 He was a portly widower, a banker, a father, who 
 made his bow to Lady Maria some three times a 
 year when he dined in Charles Street. In return, 
 he received her ladyship once during a summer at 
 his mansion of Fallowlea, Walton-on-Thames. On 
 such occasions the Misses Worthington and their 
 cousins, the Pascoe girls, who lived at Esher, would 
 enact a pastoral play in the shrubberies with various 
 entangled curates, with young Sam Worthington 
 from Oxford and friends of his. Mr. Worthington 
 himself, master of the difficult art of declining verse 
 
 28s 
 
286 REST HARROW 
 
 as if it were bad prose, rehearsed the Prologue and 
 Epilogue in a master's gown and mortarboard, which 
 he would retain for the rest of the afternoon. It 
 was in that guise that, his caution deserting him, 
 he allowed himself to dwell upon Sanchia's beauty. 
 
 Lady Maria had taken her down to Walton in mid- 
 July; she had chanced to meet Melusine there, and 
 the two had embraced as sisters should. It is to be 
 owned that her adoption by Charles Street had re- 
 stored her credit with her family more certainly 
 than any white sheet and taper which she could 
 have supported would have done. Her mother was 
 highly gratified, though she afFected a shrug when 
 good Mr. Percival, in the simplicity of his heart, 
 overflowed with the joy of it. "Sancie in Berkeley 
 Square — ^where Lord Rosebery lives: think of that, 
 my dear!" And Mrs. Percival, who knew where 
 Lord Rosebery lived as well as anybody, would reply, 
 "These things will be balanced hereafter. Neither 
 you nor I, Welbore, are assessing angels, I believe. 
 I pray to God that she has made her peace with our 
 Church." " Chapel Royal," said Mr. Percival, "will 
 be her ladyship's ticket — or St. James's, Piccadilly. 
 They tell me that the great world go there now in the 
 evenings, dressed for dinner." Privately he vowed 
 that, should his Sancie be one of those immaculate 
 worshippers, she should not fail in toilet. And he 
 had not missed the point so far as you might think. 
 Philippa Tompsett-King, who had been present 
 when these things were discussing, had lifted an in- 
 flamed face over the dinner-table. "I only know," 
 
THE TWO SISTERS 287 
 
 she had said, "that I would rather live in Blooms- 
 bury than have her conscience. Cynicism has 
 always seemed to me the sin against the Holy 
 Ghost." But Melusine Scales, the gentle creature, 
 had written meekly of her joy; and Vicky Sinclair 
 said to her husband, the captain — "Sancie always 
 tumbles on her feet. She always did — like a sweet 
 cat." Shrewd and affectionate at once, she alone 
 had discerned the god's prerogative immanent in the 
 youngest daughter of Thomas Welbore Percival. 
 
 But the picture of Sanchia and Melusine, two 
 fair girls, standing together embraced under the 
 cedarn shade had smitten deep into the well-cased 
 heart of Cjrus Worthington. He had come upon 
 them at a pretty moment, when Melusine, the wil- 
 lowy and tall, having opened, her arms to the dear 
 truant, one arm stiU about her, with her free hand 
 touched her cheek that lips might meet lips. "Dar- 
 ling, I'm so glad — so very glad," she was whispering, 
 and Sanchia, with the same light laughing in her 
 eyes, "Dear old Melot — ^how sweet you are to me." 
 Mr. Worthington pushed back his mortarboard and 
 revealed the crimson chevron which it had bitten into 
 his bald brow. "A charming scene — ^two charming 
 young ladies! Mrs. Gerald Scales and her sister, 
 I think. Lady Maria's adoption — charming, charm- 
 ing!" A right instinct sent him tiptoe over his lawn, 
 another made him doff his mortarboard. 
 
 "Mrs. Scales, we begin. The hunt is up. Poesy 
 calls, ' Follow, follow, foUow ! ' Your sister, I think ? " 
 
288 REST HARROW 
 
 Sanchia played the rogue. "Oh, Mr. Worthing- 
 ton, have you forgotten already? Lady Maria ex- 
 plained me half-an-hour-ago. Must Melusine intro- 
 duce me again?" 
 
 "Not for the world, Miss Percival, not for the 
 world!" the banker protested. "I was in a sense 
 explaining myself. Pray, do not suppose that I 
 forget either you or my manners so completely. No, 
 no. But I am a little near-sighted, I fear; there is a 
 little difficulty of focussing; nothing organic, no loss 
 of function." He cleared his throat, and to give 
 himself assurance, jingled half-crowns with his 
 plunged hand. "No loss of function whatever." 
 He took the thing a little more seriously than he 
 need, was in danger of labouring it. Melusine 
 turned the talk. He invited them to the play, as 
 "master of the revels," and walked between them, 
 looking a very decent figure of a don on a college 
 lawn, substantial, serene, and with an air of display- 
 ing his possessions: "Parva sed apta mihi; Deus 
 nobis haec otia fecit 1" He still possessed the rags 
 of his Latin. "This little bay-tree will interest you. 
 Miss Percival. It was planted many years ago by 
 the late Lord Meeke — ^the uncle of the present peer. 
 We had had some business relations; they were 
 happily cemented into something more intimate by 
 this little fellow." He touched it tenderly. "A 
 sturdy growth! Like my affection for my noble 
 but departed friend. Dear me! Labuntur anni, in- 
 deed!" His fig tree, which some one else had 
 planted, his laburnum — a slip from one at Rick- 
 
SEDATE ENCHANTMENTS 289 
 
 mansworth, the seat of the late Lord Mayor Burgess 
 — a catalpa seedling from Panshanger, which the late 
 Lady Cowper did him the honour to present with her 
 own hands: as Sanchia said afterwards to Melot, his 
 garden was rather like a cemetery of dead friend- 
 ships. . . . 
 
 Then they sat to witness the revels. Sanchia's 
 fancy, uplifted by her contentment, played with the 
 play, and suggested flights undreamed of for many a 
 year. She sat by Melusine and her husband, and Mr. 
 Worthington watched her in the long intervals of 
 his duty. Charming indeed, and most high-bred: 
 now where did old Welbore Percival, whom he met 
 daily in Throgmorton Street, fetch up such a strain 
 of blood? His wife, too, Kitty Blount, as she had 
 been — what had Kitty Blount been but a high- 
 coloured, bouncing romp of a girl when they had 
 all been paddling together at Broadstairs ? Extraor- 
 dinary! And now here was one of his girls sister- 
 in-law of a county baronet — none of your city 
 knights, mind you — and the other, with the lift of a 
 princess and the clear sight which is hers by title. 
 Extraordinary! 
 
 And there was another thing: where had old 
 Welbore and Kitty Blount kept her all this time? 
 And why wasn't she married, a girl like that ? She 
 came next to Mrs. Scales, he supposed. Well, but 
 there was another, younger still, married only the 
 other day — ^to an army man. He remembered 
 Welbore chirping about it at a Board meeting. What 
 was that in the Bible — ^what was it? Ha! — "But 
 
290 REST HARROW 
 
 thou hast kept the good wine until now." By George, 
 he must remember that for old Welbore. And now 
 he came to think of it, old Jack Etherington had come 
 in one morning full of Percival's daughter — "A 
 lovely gal" — he had said, that old Jack — "colour of 
 a Mildred Grant — quiet as the truth." 
 
 Such were the ruminations of Cyrus Worthington 
 at his own garden-party, and he pursued them at 
 favoured moments — ^with his glass of port at dessert, 
 with his last cigar, with his whisky night-cap. In 
 the city next day he raUied Thomas Welbore, who 
 betrayed unlimited relish for the diversion; and 
 within a few days more he left a card in Charles 
 Street and took a late train to Walton-on-Thames. 
 Asked in due course to dinner, he handed Sanchia to 
 the table, and spent the evening by her side. He 
 begged her better acquaintance with his daughters, 
 made the most of that which he had with Melusine 
 Scales, and ended a successful adventure by winning 
 Lady Maria's acceptance "for herself and her young 
 friend," of a banquet at the Cooper's Company of 
 which he was warden. The occasion was a great 
 one — a foreign potentate, the Prime Minister, Lord 
 Mayor, and SheriflFs. The Coopers were to dis- 
 tinguish themselves, or be extinguished. He could 
 promise them of the best. Sanchia, new to courtship, 
 was quietly elated, and her amusement did nothing to 
 diminish her elation. She had never been wooed 
 before: there had been nothing of the kind in those 
 shuddering days when she and Ingram, trembling in 
 each other's sight, had mutely cried across the waste 
 
FAIR PROPOSALS 291 
 
 of London for balm upon their wounds. The flat- 
 tery of attentions had never been hers, nor the high 
 credit of admiration so respectful as the good mer- 
 chant's. He esteemed her the fairest and holiest of 
 women, was as timid as a boy in her company, gasped 
 like a fish and grew unmannerly hot; but I defy a 
 young woman to be anything but gratified. Mi- 
 randa shunned Caliban; but had she not rather he 
 had been there to be shunned ? 
 
 Thus, under Lady Maria's watchful eye, the thing 
 proceeded, and Mr. Worthington, within an ace of 
 committing himself, scared his family. The chmax 
 was reached at Kissingen, whither the infatuated 
 gentleman had followed his charmer. 
 
 She was very kind to him, but perfectly clear that 
 she could not, and would not, make him the happiest 
 of men. She said that she was flattered, which I 
 believe to have been true, though he deprecated the 
 phrase. "My dear young lady — ha! I must really 
 be allowed — I assure you that you overwhelm me. 
 Flattered — oh. Lord!" He limped the conclusion, 
 and left for England that night. 
 
 She felt the thing to have been rather ridiculous, 
 and yet she was pleased. She was gently elated, 
 and had a kindly eye for herself as she dressed before 
 her glass. Power lay with her; she could choose 
 and weigh, accept or refuse. She was loveworthy 
 yet. In spite of her disaster, a man had sought 
 her. Others would do that same, moved by what 
 had moved him. Shining eyes, body's form, soft- 
 ness, roundness — she had hardly thought of these 
 
292 REST HARROW 
 
 things before, nor looked at them with an eye to 
 their value. Mr. Worthington's ardent glances had 
 illuminated her own, and by-and-by she found, oddly 
 enough, that they threw a backward beam, and 
 illuminated others. She found herself smiling ten- 
 derly as she thought of Jack Senhouse, and repeating 
 some of that poetry which he had literally poured into 
 her lap. It was so long ago! But when she remem- 
 bered how much it had puzzled her, she now found 
 that she was not puzzled by it at all. 
 
 Your eyes are twin mountain lakes, and the lashes of them 
 Like the swishing sedge ,^ 
 
 That hideth the water's edge. . . . 
 
 Were her eyes, then, so fair! Mr. Worthington 
 had found them so. Others would — others had. 
 
 "Thy face drinketh the light," — he had written 
 that of her — and now she knew that he had believed 
 it. Had Nevile felt these things? Could Nevile — 
 as she knew him? Her lip curved back. If she 
 could not think of herself without thinking of Nevile 
 — who wanted to mangle her — better take the veil. 
 
 But she felt the strange reality behind that wild 
 and adoring passion of Jack Senhouse's, which had 
 made him so incalculable a mixture. He advised 
 her, and adored, he received her confidences, and 
 emptied verses out of his heart into her lap. And 
 she had had nothing to give him, who had given her 
 all! All indeed; for now she saw that he had loved 
 her beyond measure, reason, or stint. 
 
CRY FROM CHANCTONBURY 293 
 
 There had been that last of his letters — a despair- 
 ing cry from Chanctonbury, written when she was 
 Nevile's shadow, and he hers. She felt stabbed to 
 the heart to remember how perfunctorily she had 
 read that. How did it go? What had he said? 
 She could not recall the words, but their sense beat 
 upon her. Oh, he had set her too high! He had 
 called her Artemis — ^the chaste, the bright. Artemis 
 the Bright had been one of his names for her — and 
 Queen Mab another. He had set her too high! 
 And how far had she fallen? She bowed her burn- 
 ing head, and even as she did so, remembered another 
 phrase of his, sent with flowers — a line from the 
 Anthology, begging her to grant his rose "the grace 
 of a fair breast." No longer fair, no longer fair — 
 except to Nevile, who craved it — and to a Mr. 
 Worthington. 
 
 The bravest gentleman, a poet, a thinker, a man 
 like a beacon-fire, had loved her and cried her 
 aloud as a goddess out of his reach. "Farewell, 
 Sanchia, too dear for my possessing!" She had the 
 words. And she had passed him by for Nevile, who 
 made her a housekeeper, and loved her when he 
 wanted solace. What more had Jack said? What, 
 indeed, had he not said ? That her life was like the 
 scent of bean-flowers over a hedgerow — a fragrance 
 caught in passing by wayfarers, whereby men and 
 women might thank God for a fair sight who had 
 chanced upon her in the street. Praise indeed! 
 But he had loved her, and saw her so — and all that 
 was gone for ever. He had left her because he dared 
 
294 REST HARROW 
 
 not do otherwise, and now he was happy without her. 
 Her new-found elation was like to die in self-pity. 
 It required more than the complacency inspired by 
 Mr. Worthington to clear her eyes. 
 
 Thus were the flowers laid up for her by an honest 
 merchant changed for a wreath of rue as he was 
 reminded of his better — his better and (she thought) 
 hers, alas! A wave of desire to catch back at far-off 
 things played her a trick. She found herself yearn- 
 ing for her childhood, found herself crying for her in- 
 nocence, for the sweet scent of opening life. Even 
 as she longed and strained, she knew herself vain. 
 But the temptation for the semblance of what was 
 gone was strong and took a subtle form. If she 
 could not have the thing, she would have the thing's 
 name; if she could not be innocent again, she would 
 ape innocency. Prodigal of Pity as she has been, she 
 could say to Senhouse's ghost, I am no more worthy 
 of thee; and from that to being worthy was but a 
 short step. The rest of her sojourn abroad was prep- 
 aration for what was to be done on her return 
 home. 
 
 Her treasure lay hidden there, in a desk in her 
 room : three portly packets of letters, tied with ribbon, 
 and labelled "Jack to Me." Stained and yellow, 
 she now turned over the pages, and inhaled the faint, 
 sweet scent of them — a scent as of lavender and tears. 
 Her eyes filled, her heart beat ; but she read on and 
 on. Impossible praises! Love beyond reason, with- 
 
SANCHIA IN CHURCH 295 
 
 out bounds — immeasurable homage! Did any man 
 ever — save Dante — love a woman so greatly, set her 
 so high? So presently she was caught up into a 
 kind of heaven of wonder, and spent a night with the 
 past. . . . From that she arose clear-eyed to meet 
 the future. If she had been so loved, so served by 
 man so generous and so fine, the rest of her life might 
 well be spent in testimony. Her single aim now 
 should be to recover herself, to be what he had once 
 seen her. And for all this high remembrance and 
 high hope — thanks to Mr. Cyrus Worthington! 
 
 Lady Maria, as the weeks went by, watched her 
 carefully, and marked the change. Sanchia was 
 very subdued, and now went to church. This to the 
 old lady, who did not, was remarkable. She was 
 not aware, naturally, of a passage in a letter which 
 pictured her in church — ^with her "dear obsequious 
 head, bowed in a fair place to a fair emblem." She 
 could not have understood, if she had had it ex- 
 plained, that the girl, conscious of her stiff neck, 
 was teaching herseK obsequiousness for the sake of 
 him who had seen her so and found her dear. None 
 of these things were for Lady Maria's comprehension; 
 but she reflected aloud upon church-going, and got 
 her young friend to explanations. 
 
 "Yes," Sanchia said, "I do go to church. For 
 a long time, you see, I couldn't — but now I feel 
 that I can. We were all brought up to go to 
 church." 
 
 "So was I," said Lady Maria, "and that, I take 
 
296 REST HARROW 
 
 it, is why I don't go now. I was taught to take 
 it as physic." 
 
 Sanchia's explanation, which she yielded on pres- 
 sure, of why she had stopped, was very artless. "I 
 wanted to do something that they thought wicked, 
 but which I thought quite good. If I went to con- 
 fession, I should have been told that I was wicked. 
 So I couldn't go. It was a difference of opinion, 
 you see." 
 
 "Beg pardon," said Lady Maria, "but I don't 
 see. What you mean is that, if you'd told your 
 priest you were going off with Ingram, he'd have 
 said, Don't, and put you under the necessity of dis- 
 obeying him." She owned to it. And then she 
 owned to something more. If the difficult choice 
 came before her again, she would think twice. "I 
 can't see, even now, that I was wrong in what I did. 
 I am sure it must be right, somehow, to follow your 
 own conscience. But I do see that it's a pity to break 
 rules. Yes, I see that." 
 
 "I didn't suppose myself religious," Lady Maria 
 had replied, "but if that is what your religion tells 
 you, I agree with it. It's common sense. What's 
 a heart or two compared with peace and quietness ? 
 And how, pray, is a child of eighteen to know what 
 her conscience is worth?" 
 
 "It is all she has to go upon," said Sanchia; but 
 the old lady retorted, "Nothing of the kind. She's 
 got the experience of all Nature behind her, from 
 the poultry-yard to the House of Lords. You'll 
 find that the Ten Commandments are rigidly en- 
 
AUNT WENMAN ON LAW 297 
 
 forced among the cocks and hens. If a member 
 of the zenana breaks bounds there, she rues it. 
 How else do you suppose this world is to be peopled ? 
 Read the history of marriage, my dear. You'll find 
 that the more primitive your man the more com- 
 plicated his marriage laws. Why, bless my soul, 
 I don't need the Church to tell me that I mustn't run 
 away with a married man. I can learn that from the 
 pigeons in the piazza at Venice. But I suppose 
 I'm an old pagan. Now, you run away to your 
 priest and make a clean breast of it." 
 
 Perhaps Lady Maria was fanciful, but she put 
 down this return to the Church's knees to the fact 
 that Mr. Worthington had gone upon his. "The 
 child finds that she's a valuable article," she said to 
 herself; "so she locks herself up in the cupboard, 
 like the best china." Sanchia's resolution persisted, 
 and enthusiasm followed >s growth. She frequented 
 the churches early in the mornings, and one fine day 
 presented herself in the vestry of one of them. Upon 
 her knees, but with unbent head and eyes fixed 
 steadily to the grille, she rehearsed her tale from the 
 beginning, neither faltering nor losing countenance. 
 What followed upon that was not communicated to 
 her protectress, nor do I care to pry. I imagine 
 that she had always said her prayers, but that now 
 she was answering them. 
 
 That is, when one thinks upon it, the first ofl&ce of 
 prayer. 
 
VI 
 
 Lady Makea Wenman grew to be extremely fond 
 of Sanchia, really as fond of her as she was capable 
 of becoming of anybody. She had been good to 
 travel with, and was good to live with. She found 
 her so reasonable, she said. One could discuss 
 anj^hing without shocking her, or without fear of 
 being made uncomfortable by seeing her discom- 
 fort. Lady Maria, in fact, being entirely without 
 prejudice, experienced the little luxury of being able 
 to express herself without trampling. 
 
 On her side also, Sanchia sincerely liked her old 
 protectress, and found Charles Street agree with her. 
 There was a primordial air about it, which made 
 habits seem like laws of Nature; an absence of fuss 
 which soothed her nerves, and did much better than 
 slay her monsters for her, when it exposed them for 
 no monsters at all, but simple, everyday, rather tire- 
 some concomitants of our makeshift existence. 
 
 "You will, of course, marry Nevile Ingram," — 
 thus Lady Maria disposed of the most dread of all 
 monsters — "because it is, on the whole, more agree- 
 able to avoid scandal, and because it is certainly 
 more decent to pay one's bills. Long credit is a 
 mistake; but you found it a convenience, I suppose; 
 and now you are in funds, you will, of course, get out 
 
 zgS 
 
MOROSINE 299 
 
 of debt. If only that you may run into it again at 
 need, you will draw a cheque. Now, you had eight 
 years of it at Wanless, you tell me? Very well, my 
 dear, that must be written off Society's books. Mean- 
 while, the more you see of amusing, emancipated 
 people like Alexis Morosine the better." 
 * This man was understood to be a Pole in exile, 
 though his title to that distinction could only have 
 been on the side of the distaff, since his father's 
 descent from a ducal family of Venice was not de- 
 nied; but neither nationality nor expatriation was 
 very obvious upon him. At first sight you would 
 have supposed him a sallow Englishman, spare of 
 flesh and too narrow in the chest; you might have 
 put down his dead complexion and his leanness to 
 India or Jamaica, and been inclined to attribute his 
 dry c)niicism to the same superfervent experience. 
 But presently you would be alive to his hungry mind, 
 to his hungry, raging air, his restless habit and large 
 way of looking at circumstance — as if by no possi- 
 bility could it be any concern of his. And then the 
 trick he had of considering our people as Europeans, 
 of dividing the races of the world by continents rather 
 than kingdoms; and that other of judging all cases, 
 including yours and his own, upon their merits — 
 such traits, to an experienced mind, would have 
 established him for a foreigner, one of a people who 
 had had too much elbowing for breath to have time 
 or space for prejudice or minute classification. Su- 
 perficially, to be sure, he was English enough — 
 from his speech to his tailoring; and his phlegm (of 
 
300 REST HARROW 
 
 which we boast) was unassailable. Nobody knew 
 much of his history; Bill Chevenix used to say that 
 he was born whole, and thirty, out of an egg dropped 
 upon our coasts by a migratory roc; that he stepped 
 out, exquisitely dressed, and ordered a whisky and 
 ApoUinaris at the nearest buffet. This, said Chev- 
 enix, was his ordinary breakfast. When Sanchia 
 objected that he might have stepped out in the after- 
 noon, he replied that it also formed his usual tea, 
 and, so far as he knew, was the staple of all his meals. 
 "And cigarettes," he added. "But he would have 
 had those with him. I bet you what you like he 
 came out smoking." 
 
 It was certain that he had been to Eton and to 
 Oxford, and was member of two good clubs. He 
 was extremely rich, and he was by profession, said 
 Chevenix, a prince. He had no territory, and was 
 not apparently scheming to get any, either of his 
 own or other people's. Nobody at the Foreign 
 Office believed that he corresponded with any in- 
 transigent; he used to go there often and exchange 
 urbane gossip with under-secretaries. He lodged 
 in Duke Street, gave dinner-parties at the Bache- 
 lors, had a large visiting-list, and was, as they 
 say, always "about." One saw him everywhere — in 
 the city, in Mayfair drawing-rooms, at Kensing- 
 ton tea-parties, and at Lambeth Palace. Chevenix 
 swore that he had met him at a Church Congress 
 — and the only answer to that was that if Chevenix 
 had truly been there to see, Morosine might well 
 have been there to be seen. But this catholicity 
 
AN EXILE AT EASE 301 
 
 of experience was characteristic of the man; his 
 attraction to the nice observer lay precisely in that, 
 that he was a nomad, unappeased and unappeasa- 
 ble, ranging hungrily. There was a probability, too, 
 that below a surface exquisitely calm there lurked 
 corrosive tooth and claw. Here are sufl&cient ele- 
 ments of danger to draw any woman; so Sanchia 
 found herself presently drawn. 
 
 He came to Charles Street one evening late in~ 
 November, to what Lady Maria called a little party. 
 There was an autumn session that year, and Lon- 
 don full. To her little party, then, came a solid 
 wedge of three hundred people into rooms capable 
 of holding with comfort fifty. 
 
 Chevenix was by Sanchia's side at the top of the 
 stair, chatting pleasantly about every new-comer, 
 when he suddenly stopped. "Hulloa," he said, 
 "here's Morosine, as smooth as a glass stiletto. 
 He'll amuse you. I'll introduce him." 
 
 Sanchia followed the leading of his eyes. She 
 saw a tall and slim young man, inordinately thin, 
 slightly bald, with a moustache like a rake, and- 
 heavy-browed, mournful eyes, pushing his way 
 slowly upstairs. Without effort, his hands behind 
 his back, working from the shoulders, he made room 
 for himself, but so quietly that nobody seemed to 
 observe how aggressively he was at it. Occasionally 
 some ousted dowager turned redly upon him, or it 
 might be some pushing gentleman smothered an oath 
 as he faced the attack. But Morosine's mournful 
 
302 REST HARROW 
 
 eyes gazed calmly their fill, seemed to be communing 
 beyond the surging guests, beyond the wall, with the 
 eternal stars, and, without faltering, the narrow 
 frame glided forward into the space which indigna- 
 tion had cleared. Sanchia, above him, and out of 
 the game, was highly amused. 
 
 "He's very selfish, your friend. He takes care of 
 himself; but no one seems to know it." 
 
 Chevenix chuckled. " That's the beauty of Alexis. 
 But, as he asks, whom else should he take care of? 
 It's not queer if the Poles have learned that lesson." 
 
 "Oh," said Sanchia. "Is he a Pole?" Jack 
 Senhouse had been in Poland. 
 
 "Half of him is hungry Pole. The other part is 
 bad Italian — ^pampered Italian, fed for generations 
 on oil and polenta. He's always dining out, but he 
 eats nothing because the Pole is feeding on the 
 Venetian all day." Then he told her about the 
 miraculous birth, the whisky and ApoUinaris, and 
 concluded, "Oh, he'll amuse you vastly. Stay where 
 you are. I'll net him at the top." 
 
 Presently after she saw the process. It con- 
 sisted in violent effort on Chevenix's part, languid 
 attention from the other. Morosine dreamed over 
 the speaker as if he were a lost soul. Then, his 
 consideration being caught, he looked about him, 
 and presently fixed upon her his melancholy eyes. 
 She felt a little shiver, the sensation of goose-flesh in 
 the spine — not unpleasantly. It was as if a light 
 wind had ruffled her blood. Shortly afterwards 
 Morosine was bowing before her. In this, perhaps, 
 
SANCHIA AND THE POLE 303 
 
 he betrayed himself; his hat covered his heart, he 
 inclined from the hips, and his head bent with his 
 body. An Englishman bows with the head only, 
 and does not nowadays carry his hat upstairs. 
 
 He began to talk quietly and at once, and main- 
 tained a perfectly even flow of comment, reflection, 
 anecdote, reminiscence, and sudden, flashing turns 
 of inference. He seemed always to be searching after 
 general principles, cosmic laws, and to be always 
 jumping at them, testing them, finding them not 
 comprehensive enough, and letting them drift behind 
 him as he pursued his search. She remarked on this 
 afterwards to Lady Maria, who said that principles 
 were the last thing to interest Morosine. He had 
 none at all, said Lady Maria, unless his own imme- 
 diate gratification was a principle; and perhaps with 
 men you might almost say that it was. 
 
 Chevenix remained, chuckling and interjecting 
 here and there an exclamation, just (as he told her 
 later) to "start the chap on his meander," and pres- 
 ently betook himself elsewhere. It was then to be 
 observed that Morosine allowed himself to drift 
 into the discussion of matters not usually subjects 
 of ordinary conversation; but he did so without 
 consciousness, and therefore without offence. San- 
 chia neither disapproved nor felt uncomfortable. 
 They were, moreover, interesting, and rather ma- 
 terial. 
 
 It began with Poland, a country which, the less 
 it existed politically, he said, was the better to live 
 in, and be of. We live by our emotions, the beasts 
 
304 REST HARROW 
 
 by their appetites--a material distinction. Now, 
 the condition of the Poles was perfectly adapted to 
 the quickening of the emotional parts. Shorten 
 time, you make love a precious ecstasy; restrict 
 liberty, freedom is a lust — none the worse for being 
 lawful. No Pole knows how long he may have to 
 live: Russia or phthisis will have him late or soon. 
 What he pursues, then, must be fleeting — imagine 
 with what rapture he takes it to his breast ! with what 
 frenzy he guards it, never knowing when it will be 
 required of him again. Feverish? (This was upon 
 a remark from her.) Yes, and why not? Are not 
 dreams more vivid than waking life? Can you gal- 
 lop your material horse as your courser of the mind ? 
 Better to bum than to rust. That's the secret of life 
 — ^which all the laws of bureaucrats are directed 
 to destroy. The establishments want to see us as 
 fixed as themselves. They are tentacled, stationary 
 creatures, feeding at ease. They would have us 
 handy of access, falsely secure, so that they can 
 fasten on us one by one and suck our juices. But 
 the world is changing, thrones and churches are 
 slackening in their hold. Men are discovering how 
 short a time they have to live, and that eternity is 
 more than questionable. A mild Epicureanism is 
 gaining ground. Instincts founded on the patriarchal 
 system must give way to that. "Have you ever con- 
 sidered," he asked abruptly, "that the flocks and 
 herds of the Semitic patriarch are the sole cause of 
 the moral code which we still profess ? Thou shalt 
 not steal. Why not? Because you injure the pa- 
 
SENHOUSE IN VINEGAR 305 
 
 triarch. Not murder ? You might attack one of his 
 family. You have the habit in England of tracing 
 prejudices to the Feudal System: believe me, there 
 is hardly anything in Europe so modem. I should 
 date at 4000 B.C. nearly all our present conventions, 
 from the British Sunday to the law of conspiracy. 
 So long as you say that property is sacred, you uplift 
 the Patriarch and lose sight of the man." 
 
 Sanchia, reminded of Senhouse — a Senhouse with 
 his tongue dipped in vinegar — objected that society 
 may have demanded some of these laws in defiance 
 of the engrossing patriarch; but Morosine shook 
 his head. "Society is the patriarch's weapon. 
 Society is a S3nidicate of patriarchs who cannot live 
 unless all men are enslaved. Man is not by nature 
 gregarious; he's solitary, like all the nobler beasts. 
 Wolves and dogs hunt in herds, but not the great cats; 
 oxen and buffaloes, but not elephants; rooks, but 
 not eagles; bream, never salmon. And the time is 
 not so very far when man will discover why it is that 
 he is herded and marshalled hither and thither by 
 police, legislatures, and monstrous assemblies called 
 armies or fleets. He has but to know it to aboHsh 
 these things; they fade like dreams in the morning. 
 But hitherto everything has been banded to make 
 his sleep secure — his religion, his cupidity, his tim- 
 idity, his affections. Religion tells him it is vprong 
 to love without the Church; patriotism, that it is 
 glorious to bleed in making other men bleed; tim- 
 idity, that property keeps the woK from the door; ap- 
 petite, that under cover of the law you may devour 
 
3o6 REST HARROW 
 
 your neighbour and fear no indigestion. Finally, 
 there are the affections of a man which have been 
 so guided that they see the aged more venerable than 
 the young, the old thing more sacred than the new 
 'Woodman, spare that tree,' they cry: 'it dates 
 from at least 2000 B.C.' Because old wine is good, 
 they argue, old laws must needs be. As well might 
 a man say. Because I relish old wine, I will love only 
 old women. And so we go on ! " He shrugged and 
 broke off — to talk shrewdly of books. They got to 
 Leopardi, from him to Dante ; he heard of her studies 
 at the British Museum, and hoped he might meet her 
 there. She reads there often ? Mostly in the after- 
 noons? The light was bad: he usually devoted his 
 mornings to what work he had there. He was study- 
 ing Persian, he said, but fitfully, as the mood took him. 
 
 So far he had scarcely looked at her, but had 
 talked out his monologue as if he had been alone, 
 clasping one thin ankle, staring wide-eyed over the 
 heads of guests, occasionally, when he was vehement, 
 throwing his head up, shooting his words at the ceil- 
 ing as if they had been Greek fire. Now, as he got 
 up to leave her, his eyes dwelt earnestly on her. "It 
 will be a pleasure, to which I shall aspire — ^that of 
 meeting you again. There or elsewhere." 
 
 She thanked him as she gave him her hand. Ex- 
 citement made her eyes bright, mantled her cheeks. 
 She felt that she was communing with Senhouse at 
 third hand. 
 
 "Then — it is understood — ^we meet again," he 
 concluded. He bowed over her hand, on a second 
 
SENHOUSE IN VINEGAR 307 
 
 thought kissed her fingers, then left her immedi- 
 ately and went downstairs. He paid no farewell to 
 Lady Maria; was ascertained to have left the house 
 at once. 
 
VII 
 
 MoROSiNE had been called emancipated by Lady 
 Maria, who after a week or. set found it proper to 
 explain that he was by no means so free from chains 
 as he appeared. Sanchia, she thought, was seeing a 
 good deal of him. "He's the victim, like the rest 
 of us, of his constitution. His, as you may see, is 
 deplorable. Weak heart, they say — ^but it may be 
 lungs. I never heard of a Pole who could live in 
 any climate, least of any his own. As for his mind, 
 that follows his wasted body; it's hectic. He aflfects 
 a detachment which he will never have. It's a pose. 
 He is exceedingly sentimental, has an imagination 
 which — if you could follow it — ^might alarm you. 
 I have no doubt at all but that, in imagination, he 
 has you safe in some island of Cythera or another, 
 and has slain every other male inhabitant of it lest 
 some one of them should happen to look at your 
 footprints in the sand. Jealous! He would sicken 
 at the word — ^not because he would be ashamed, but 
 because it would conjure up the vision of some 
 satyr-shape, and haunt him day and night. He has 
 no need to study Persian poetry, I assure you. He 
 has rose-gardens enough and to spare; for, if you 
 are inclined to be flattered at my suggestion of Cy- 
 
 308 
 
MOROSINE APPROVED 309 
 
 thera, I hasten to assure you that yours is not the only 
 island of his dominion. Bless you, he'll have an 
 archipelago. But I have no fear for you; you can 
 afford a sentimental education." 
 
 Sanchia did not tell her old friend how far that 
 education was proceeding — ^not because she was 
 afraid, still less because she was ashamed, but in 
 obedience to her nature, which was extremely re- 
 served. She spoke of herseK and her affairs with 
 difficulty — never unless she was forced. But it had 
 become a custom just now — in the dull days on 
 either side of Christmas — ^to look for Morosine in the 
 reading-room about noon, to stroll the galleries for 
 half-an-hour, to receive and to agree to a lightly- 
 offered proposition that they should lunch together, 
 and (it might well be) to accept his escort homewards. 
 This, I say, had become the rule of three days in the 
 week, more or less. And it's not to be supposed 
 that so clear-sighted a young lady could see so much 
 of so keen-sighted a man without a good deal of self- 
 conununing. 
 
 Her capacity for silent meditation, during which 
 she would sit before her fire, gazing far, smiling at 
 her thoughts, into the glowing coals, had never left 
 her. But there was a slight difference to be noted. 
 She could not think of Ingram — ^the past, the present, 
 or any future Ingram — ^without contraction of the 
 brows. Smooth-browed she thought of Morosine. 
 
 He interested her greatly; she was conscious of 
 anxiety to learn his opinion, of a wave of warm feel- 
 ing when she awaited it. She credited him with in- 
 
310 REST HARROW 
 
 sight, had a notion, for instance, that she could dis- 
 cuss her own affairs without any preliminary apology. 
 He took so much for granted — surely he would take 
 her youth into full account. She had never said to 
 him a word of herself as yet; but there had been 
 times when she had felt near it — had seen herself row- 
 ing a boat, as it were, within range of a weir, been 
 conscious of effort to keep a straight course, and of the 
 f ruitlessness of effort . There had been moments when 
 she had been tempted to throw down her oars with 
 a sigh — by no means of despair. Morosine seemed 
 to her so extraordinarily reasonable, so ready, with 
 well-known laws, to account for unheard of vagaries, 
 that it would have been real luxury to her to find her- 
 self and her escapade the mere creatures of some such 
 law. To be discovered normal: what a relief from 
 strain! 
 
 Lady Maria, it seems, charged him with Oriental 
 aptitudes. Sanchia gave that judgment careful at- 
 tention, studied her friend in the light of it, weighed 
 every word of his to her, watched him closely in 
 company when he could not be aware of it. She 
 decided against the opinion. His manners with 
 women were his manners with men, those of urbane 
 indifference to sex. To sex! To much more than 
 that. He was, in fact, outwardly polite to the point 
 of formality; but his attitude of mind towards the 
 person he happened to be with seemed to her — ^when 
 she examined it closely — to be sublimely insulting. 
 No created thing, with the passions and affections 
 common to his kind, ought to take up such a posi- 
 
TEN COMMANDMENTS 311 
 
 tion with his fellow-creature — ^that which says, "I 
 infer your existence from my sensations: apart from 
 them, I cannot bring myself to believe in it." She 
 was aware that he must needs regard her from this 
 stand-point, and the knowledge piqued her. If she 
 did not exist for him, why did he seek her out ? If 
 she did, why did he pretend she did not? Or was 
 Lady Maria right? Were his sensations awake, 
 and had they fired his imagination, to carry her to 
 C)rthera, and keep he]^ hidden there? These ques- 
 tions amused her, and she made no attempt to answer 
 them. Amusement might cease that way: she in- 
 dulged herself and left her questions open. One 
 thing may be added. Morosine no longer reminded 
 her of Senhouse. Quite otherwise — for of Senhouse 
 just now she dared not think. 
 
 Her friend Bill Chevenix gave her no warnings. 
 Even when she sounded for them, he gave none. 
 " I like Alexis," he said once. " He's not so original 
 as he makes out, but there's enough to give him a 
 relish. A handy chap, too, in a dozen ways — She'll 
 model you in wax, or draw you in pastels, or sing 
 about you on the guitar, or whistle you off on the 
 piano; but he's not strong, isn't Alexis. The one 
 thing he can do — ^no, there are two. He can ride 
 an3^hing, and he can use a revolver. I saw him 
 empty the ten of hearts once: very pretty. I dare 
 say, if he was put to it, he could use an iron to some 
 purpose; but we don't stick each other here, so he'd 
 be out of practice. I rather wish we did, you know. 
 It's far more gentlemanly than laying for a chap out- 
 
312 REST HARROW 
 
 side his club with a hunting-crop, and getting sum- 
 moned for assault at Vine Street. Not a bit more 
 vicious, barring the Ten Commandments." 
 
 "Prince Morosine doesn't believe in them," 
 Sanchia said. "He's vowed to abolish them." 
 
 "So he may tell you, my dear. Don't you believe 
 it. So long as they are good form they will be Alexis' 
 form. He'd sooner die than covet his neighbour's 
 wife." She reserved this for consideration. Mean- 
 time, she saw more of Morosine than of any other 
 man, and got through January very well by his 
 help. 
 
 She particularly liked -his company in galleries, 
 because, though he never allowed himself raptures 
 — of which she, too, was incapable — he was always 
 seeking the roots of rapture. Sanchia had a fund 
 of enthusiasm for art all the richer, perhaps, for 
 being denied expression. It was comfortable to haye 
 that securely based. 
 
 "Do you ever consider," he asked her once, when 
 they stood before the great group of the Pediment, 
 "why it is that these things are so beautiful; why, 
 although they are bare of colour and all that stands 
 for life to us in art, they are more than life? It's 
 because they point to a state of being exquisitely 
 conform to the laws of being. Such a perfect con- 
 formity soothes us into believing that while we wit- 
 ness it we are of it — ourselves conforming. These 
 splendid creatures here, so superbly static — idle, you 
 might say (only they wouldn't understand you), in- 
 
MOROSINE'S LITTLE PLAN 313 
 
 dulging their strength — are strong and able precisely 
 because they have submitted themselves " 
 
 "Unlike the Poles?" She reminded him of their 
 first conversation, and saw that he remembered it. 
 He bowed to her. 
 
 "Let me finish. These existences, emanations, 
 essences, what you will, are submiss, not to man, 
 but to Nature. They are as passive as Earth her- 
 self, and as immune. They derive their strength 
 from her. That's our only reasonable service." 
 Whether he intended it or not, the effect of this kind 
 of talk was to make her view submission to the world's 
 voice as a reasonable service. 
 
 It was not so odd as it may seem that her intimates 
 had always been men. That reticence of hers which 
 repelled her own sex was precisely that in her which 
 attracted, by provoking, the other. After her dumb 
 childhood, to which she never looked back, came 
 her opening girlhood, and on the threshold of that 
 stood Jack Senhouse, the loyal servitor, the one man 
 who had loved her without an ounce of self-seeking. 
 Then came Nevile Ingram, and swallowed her up 
 for a while, and when he had tired of her she was 
 once more without a friend. To Chevenix after- 
 wards, rather than to Mrs. Devereux, she had strug- 
 gled to utter herself. That cry of distress, "he 
 wants me, to ravage me," would never have been 
 made by her to a woman. She would have died of it 
 sooner. And now came the Pole, Morosine, and by 
 taking for granted (as even Lady Maria could not. 
 have done) much that could not have been explained, 
 
314 REST HARROW 
 
 put her at her ease. She found him a Jack without 
 the spirit — ^without the divine spark. She could 
 never have loved him, though she liked him well, 
 and she had no idea that he thought of nothing but 
 the greatness of his reward when, after patient toil- 
 ing, she might fall into his arms. Every nerve in 
 her body was now strung up to obedience to Jack's 
 idea of her. She saw, as clearly as if it was printed, 
 her fate before her. She was to put herself under the 
 law. Jack should not have loved in vain her "dear 
 obsequious head." Nevile would come back and 
 require her. For Jack's sake, who had seen her too 
 noble to be touched by sin, she would dip herself deep 
 in sin. 
 
 Morosine, who frankly desired her to be the wife 
 of a man she did not love in order that she might the 
 more easily find consolation in himself afterwards, 
 had the wit to see that she needed some of his sophis- 
 try, though not enough to know exactly why. It was 
 perfectly true. Her churchgoing was an ointment. 
 It could soothe but not heal her. Sanchia had a 
 mind. To do wrong by the world because it had 
 seemed right to her was not to be remedied by doing 
 a right by it now, which to her reasoning would glare 
 before her as a monstrous sin. She forgot that Sen- 
 house had also taught her that the great sin of all was 
 insincerity. She could not have afforded to remem- 
 ber that. All her present desire was to be, as nearly 
 as she might, what she had been when Jack had seen 
 her first, what he had found excellent in her and love- 
 worthy — pious, bowing her head in a fair place, ob- 
 
PREPARATION 315 
 
 sequious, obedient to the law. He had loved her, of 
 course, whatever she did — outraging the law as well 
 as keeping it, loving Nevile, letting himself go away. 
 She could not remember that. He had loved her 
 meek; she would be meek. That was what her 
 heart told her; and Morosine, to serve his own ends, 
 lulled her head with his sophisticated anodynes, and 
 sent her brain to sleep. 
 
 That he should know her story, as he obviously 
 did, was not so disconcerting to her as it would have 
 been to most young women. Taciturn as she was, 
 it was not by reason of timidity, but rather that her 
 own motives seemed too clear to her to be worth 
 stating. She was, perhaps, rather given to assume 
 her prerogative right to be different. Her first 
 thought, therefore, was that she was saved the trouble 
 of explaining herself, and her second that it was 
 satisfactory to have a friend who understood her 
 without explanations. 
 
 As for Morosine, he may or may not have felt 
 that he had broken the ice; he pushed forward, at 
 any rate, as if he had clear water in front of him. 
 Sanchia felt, when she next met him, that their 
 acquaintance had entered on a new phase. 
 
 Then suddenly, before she knew where she was, 
 her fate was upon her. 
 
 It was in the Park on a fine Sunday forenoon in 
 February. She was with Lady Maria, and had 
 met with Melusine and Gerald Scales. Morosine 
 also, seeing her and meeting her eyes, instantly left 
 his companion and came to greet her, hat in hand. 
 He addressed himself to her exclusively, having 
 
3i6 REST HARROW 
 
 saluted Lady Maria; but she named her sister, and 
 he saluted her too. Gerald Scales, bronzed, plump, 
 and very full in the eye, having looked the new- 
 comer over, decided against him, and gave him a 
 shoulder. "Foreign beggar," was the conclusion he 
 came to, which does credit to his perspicacity, be- 
 cause the Pole had a very English appearance, and 
 Scales himself the look of a Jew. 
 
 When they turned to walk, Morosine took the side 
 next Sanchia, and though he talked to both ladies, 
 so contrived that she should read more in what he said 
 than her sister. He did it deftly, but continuously. 
 Sanchia was entertained, slightly excited, and ended 
 by taking part in the game of skill. It is impossible 
 to say by how much this sort of thing increased the 
 intimacy already established between the pair. It 
 was by so much, at least, that when Melusine joined 
 her husband, by dropping behind and waiting for 
 him to come up with the old lady, it came as no sort 
 of shock to Sanchia that he took up the talk where 
 he had ended it in the gallery. 
 
 "You have been to church, I see. But you are 
 not a Christian?" He did not look at her. 
 
 Nor did she turn her head to reply. "I don't 
 know. Nominally, at least; j&tfuUy, at the most." 
 
 "That must be the outside of it," he continued. 
 "The thing is the antithesis of the Hellenic ideal — 
 which is yours. Your seemingly passive martyr is 
 really in an ecstasy. He aims at outraging Nature; 
 begins by despising and ends by dreading it. Na- 
 ture, however, has ways of revenging herself." 
 
 "Yes, indeed," said Sanchia soberly. 
 
PREPARATION 317 
 
 They walked on together, she by this time very 
 much absorbed. She was not conscious of the shift- 
 ing crowd, the lifting of hats, the chatter, the yap- 
 ping dogs that ran in and out of women's skirts. 
 
 Presently he spoke again. "You believe that you 
 failed?" 
 
 Her voice came low. "I know that I failed." 
 
 Then he looked at her, and spoke with vehe- 
 mence. "And what is that to you ? What is, failure 
 in such a cause, to such as you ?" But she could not 
 meet his face, kept hers rigidly to the front. 
 
 "The cause," Morosine told her, "is everything, 
 the aim, the loyalty, the great surrender. Beside 
 this failure is nothing at all. Do you say that the 
 saphng fails that springs out of a cleft rock and 
 towers — seeking, as we all seek, the sun, the light 
 in heaven? A gale gathers it up and tears it out: 
 over it goes, and lies shattered. Is that failure? 
 How can it be when nothing dies?" 
 
 Sanchia, very pale, turned her face to his at last. 
 Her mouth was drawn down at the comers, to the 
 tragic droop. She almost whispered the words, 
 "Something did die." 
 
 His intuition worked like a woman's, in flashes. 
 He knew immediately what she meant. 
 
 "I know, I know," he said. "You were mis- 
 taken. But you never faltered. You followed a 
 caU." 
 
 "You tell me," she said, "that there was none." 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "But," she argued, "that with which I began 
 
3l8 REST HARROW 
 
 failed me. I was entirely certain, at the time; I 
 could not possibly have hesitated. And then — it 
 died." Her eyes loomed large. "It is quite dead 
 now, and I feel that I have betrayed myself — broken 
 faith with myself." ( 
 
 He shook his head. "You could not break faith; 
 you are the soul of truth." 
 
 This praise she accepted. "I don't tell lies, I 
 hope — ^and I don't shirk things. But you see that 
 I can stultify my own acts. I believed, and acted 
 on my belief; and then I ceased to believe, and 
 acted on that. I cannot trust myself — I ought to 
 be ashamed to say so, and I hope I am." 
 
 Morosine met her eyes again, and held them. 
 "I can never believe that you would fail. I tell 
 you that you have not failed. It is that you have 
 been failed. You cannot give if what you give is 
 not taken. Failed — ^you! Ah, no, you have suc- 
 ceeded, I think." 
 
 She bent her brows as she faced resolutely forward. 
 "I must take the consequences of what I have done. 
 I see that." 
 
 "Ah," said Morosine, "that is a question of cour- 
 age. Courage you have." 
 
 "I need it," she said in a hush, and stopped dead. 
 Ingram stood before her, and took off his hat. 
 
 "Well, Sanchia," he said, "here I am." 
 
"Well, Sanchia," he said. "Here I am." 
 
VIII 
 
 The scattered party was suddenly strung to ten- 
 sity; Morosine drew himself up, stiff as steel, but 
 stood his ground. Here was the man he had waited 
 for, who was necessary to him. Lady Maria, blink- 
 ing her little black eyes, Melusine, with hers in a 
 blur of mist, Gerald Scales, level and impassive, 
 joined the other three. 
 
 Ingram, with a stretched smile, was volubly ex- 
 plaining. "I've been in London a week — ^to-day's 
 the first glimpse of the sun I've had. I do think 
 they might make better arrangements for a man 
 home from Africa. I met your mother last night at a 
 play. She told me that I might see you here." He 
 turned, without effrontery, to greet Melusine. "Ages 
 since we have met. Ah, Scales, how are you ?" 
 
 The tall Melusine stooped her head; Scales 
 nodded, then, by an afterthought, shook hands. 
 " I'm very fit, thanks," he said. " Been travelling ?" 
 
 Sanchia sought the side of Lady Maria, to whom 
 she named Ingram. His exaggerated bow was 
 accepted. "So you've arrived, I see," said Lady 
 Maria. 
 
 "One does, you know." Ingram shrugged at the 
 inevitable. "All roads lead to Rome." 
 
 319 
 
320 REST HARROW 
 
 "Most roads lead to Lady Maria," Morosine said 
 to Sanchia, who replied from her heart, "I'm very 
 glad that mine did." Moved either by loyalty to his 
 friendship, or touched by his recent words, she then 
 brought him bodily into play. "Mr. Nevile Ingram; 
 Prince Morosine." 
 
 The two men inclined; Morosine lifted his hat, 
 Ingram touched his brim. 
 
 Ingram, whom Morosine judged as a hard worker 
 just now, supported his part with great gallantry. 
 If he was naked to all these people who knew him, 
 he appeared quite unashamed. Morosine, watching 
 him carefully, believed that he had devoted a night's 
 vigil to getting word perfect. He described Khar- 
 toum with vivacity — the English drill sergeant reign- 
 ing over mudheaps, flies, and prowling dogs; getting 
 up cricket-matches for the edification of contemptu- 
 ous blacks. "They judge us, those fellows, you 
 know. They are measuring us with their glazed 
 eyes. The cud they chew has gall in it. I don't 
 suppose anything offends them more deeply than 
 our idiotic games. Is there a more frivolous race in 
 the world than ours?" 
 
 Lady Maria suggested that the Boers might ask 
 that question; Morosine that the Germans might 
 answer it. Sanchia standing between these two, 
 faced by Ingram, kept silent. She was conscious of 
 being closely under observation. Morosine did not 
 once lose sight of her. Whatever he said was ad- 
 dressed to her. Once, when she looked at him, she 
 saw the gleam of knowledge in his eyes. He and 
 
INGRAM AT WORK 321 
 
 Ingram never spoke to each other directly; indirectly 
 Morosine capped whatever Ingram said. It was 
 these two who maintained the talk through her sen- 
 sitive frame. 
 
 Melusine and her husband exchanged glances — 
 she in obedience to his fidgety heels. He had dug a 
 hole in the gravel deep enough to bury a kitten. 
 Her curtsey — it was almost that — ^to Lady Maria 
 was very pretty. She drew in her suffering sister, 
 almost embraced her. "Dearest, dearest!" she 
 whispered. Sanchia, who was very pale, made no 
 answer, and hardly returned the salute. 
 
 "Insufferable beggar," was Gerald Scales' out- 
 burst. "I could have shot him at sight. But you 
 women will go through with it, I suppose." 
 
 "Oh, Gerald," faltered Melusine, "it's dreadful 
 — but what can she do?" 
 
 "'Pon my soul, I'd take Morosov — ^the Polish 
 party — ^what's-his-name — ^first. I would indeed — on 
 the whole." 
 
 There was nothing to say. Melusine knew that 
 could not be. 
 
 Lady Maria, however, who never made a fuss 
 over spilt milk, lost no time in ladling up what might 
 be possible. She asked Ingram to luncheon, and 
 was accepted with a cheerful, "Thanks, most 
 happy." It may have been malice which turned her 
 to Morosine with the question. "And you? Will 
 you join us?" 
 
 Morosine promptly excused himself. He had 
 
322 REST HARROW 
 
 guests, and must consider them. He took cere- 
 monious leave. "You remember, I hope, that I am 
 to see you on Thursday, Lady Maria. And Miss 
 Percival?" He looked to Sanchia, who did not turn 
 him her eyes. 
 
 "Perfectly," said her ladyship. "What's your 
 hour?" 
 
 "We will dine at half -past eight." He named 
 the restaurant. He turned to pay his farewells to 
 Sanchia. She looked him No, being unable to 
 speak to him. Her eyes, deep lakes of woe, were 
 crying to him. His answered. 
 
 He held out his hand and received hers. "Thurs- 
 day," he repeated, and left her with her fate. 
 
 Lady Maria, at luncheon, made what she called 
 the best of a bad business. She treated Ingram to 
 a brisk curiosity. "So you're a wanderer, I hear — 
 like the Gay Cavalier of my childhood. Your mother 
 may have heard the song. Mine sang it. I believe 
 that that kind of thing was considered heroic in her 
 day; in ours, heroism is more difficult, and much 
 more dull. You might try heroism, Mr. Ingram." 
 
 "I might, no doubt," Ingram said. "Hitherto, 
 I've preferred to travel. But I'm home for good 
 now, so far as I can see." 
 
 "We all hope so," said Lady Maria. "But that 
 remains to be seen." 
 
 "Of course it does," said Ingram blandly, and 
 turned to Sanchia. "I thought your mother looking 
 very well. Your father wasn't there. I saw Phi- 
 
HEROISM SUGGESTED 323 
 
 lippa, by the way; but I suppose she didn't remember 
 me. That was her husband with her, I take it. 
 Stiff old boy." So he went on, letting bygones be 
 bygones. It was after luncheon that her ordeal 
 came. 
 
 Lady Maria having departed for her siesta, he 
 came instantly to Sanchia with his hand out for her. 
 "Sancie, I couldn't talk before all those people. 
 You must forgive me, my dear. You are too good 
 a sort — you must forgive me." 
 
 He had to wait; but slowly she lifted her hand 
 and let him take it. "I have forgiven you," she 
 said. He stroked her arm. 
 
 "That's nice of you — ^that's like you. I know 
 that I behaved Hke a brute. I was awfully cut up 
 about it afterwards — ^but, as you know, I had great 
 provocation." 
 
 "Not from me, I think." Her eyes were upon 
 him now. 
 
 "No, no," he admitted; "certainly not from you; 
 but — ^well, perhaps I may say that I had some ground 
 for thinking that you — ^possibly — No, I don't think 
 I ought to say that. At any rate, I thought then 
 that I had. As for that young friend of yours — ^but 
 he's nothing. It's you I want to make my peace with." 
 
 "It's not difficult," she said. "I tell you that I 
 don't bear any malice. I bore none at the time. I 
 wanted to go." 
 
 He let her hand slide from his, and plunged his own 
 into his pockets. "I know you did; I felt that at 
 the time. That hurt me a good bit. I had come 
 
324 REST HARROW 
 
 to rely upon you so much — oh, for every mortal thing. 
 I expect the whole place has gone to the devil now. 
 You had your hand on the tiller, by Jove! You 
 kept a straight course. You see, I'd got into the way 
 of thinking we were — married, don't you know, and 
 all that " 
 
 "I think you had, indeed," she said. He saw her 
 wry smile. 
 
 "I know what you mean by that. You mean, 
 if that's marriage — many thanks! Well, my dear, 
 all I can say is, you were absolutely wrong. It was 
 not marriage — it never had been, and you know 
 it couldn't have been. But if it had been, Sancie, 
 you'd have been as right as rain. You know you 
 would. Your own place — everything to your hand 
 — Society — all that kind of thing. Why, you'd never 
 have thought it amiss in me to go off tiger-shooting 
 for a bit. You'd have had your whack of travelling, 
 playing the grass widow; you'd have entertained, 
 had all sorts of little games — and both of us been all 
 the better. No! But it was just because our rela- 
 tionship was so infernally irregular that you felt those 
 separations — ^took them, if I may say it, so hard. 
 Depend upon it, that was it." 
 
 Her lip curled back, though she said nothing. 
 She wondered if he had always been quite so fatuous 
 as this, quite so sublimely unhumorous. If he had, 
 what under heaven had she been about ? That she 
 could have believed this smug cockscomb to have 
 loved her — to have been capable of anything but 
 hunger and thirst for her — incredible! It made her 
 
INGRAM'S IDEA 325 
 
 out precisely as fatuous as he. And yet she said 
 nothing. With the likes of him nothing seemed 
 worth doing except to forget him. 
 
 And she was to marry him, to live in his house, to 
 see him daily — ah, and more than that ; and yet she 
 said nothing of what her curled back lip expressed. 
 She was in the presence of her fate, and, as ever, 
 was dumb before it. To make him shrivel under 
 scorn, to wind her tongue about him like a whip till 
 he writhed; to play the honest woman and tell him 
 quietly that she did not love and had nothing more 
 to say to him; or to ask him urgently for release — 
 she did none of these things: none of them entered 
 her head. She had never shirked the apportioning 
 of the Weaving Women. Destiny was unquestion- 
 able. She felt that she abhorred Ingram. What 
 she was to suffer from him she knew but too well. 
 And yet she knew also that she was going to marry 
 him, to be neglected by him, put to scorn, betrayed. 
 All these things she would undergo, because they 
 could not be avoided. She was bound as weU as 
 gagged. Her destiny was before her, as her char- 
 acter was within. The one had begotten the other. 
 She had sowed, and now she was to reap. Her 
 stony mind contemplated the harvest, and saw that 
 it was just. 
 
 Therefore she said nothing, but stood with her 
 foot on the fender, shading her face from the fire 
 with her thin hand. In this attitude, though able 
 to see sideways what was coming upon her, she 
 stood nerveless to his approach. "Sancie, my own 
 
326 REST HARROW 
 
 Sancie," he said, and put his ann about her, and 
 drew her bodily to his side. She stiffened, but 
 allowed it. 
 
 "Dearest girl, tell me that you forgive me — ^tell 
 me that. I am wretched without you — ^I can't go 
 on like this. It's not good for me; my health suf- 
 fers. Darling Sancie, forgive poor old Nevile. He 
 was once your boy — you loved him so much. For 
 the sake of old times, Sancie, my dear." 
 
 She could only say, "I have forgiven you — you 
 know that. I have told you so." He pressed her 
 closely to him, feeling his urgent need to make the 
 most of what she had to give him. Her apathy 
 struck him mortally chill; he wooed her the more 
 desperately. 
 
 Holding her to his heart — an inanimate burden 
 — he kissed her cold lips, her eyelids, her hair; 
 called her by names whose use she had long forgotten, 
 whose revival caused her pain like nausea. If he 
 could have known it, this was the last way to win her. 
 It was like pressing upon a queasy invalid the sweets 
 which had made him sick. But he, remembering 
 their ancient potency, seeing himself the triumphant 
 wielder of charms, felt secure in them still; therefore 
 she was his darling, his hardy little lover, his Queen 
 of Love, his saucy Sancie, his lass. On fire himself 
 by his own blowing, at last he fell upon his knees and 
 clasped hers: "Dearest, most beautiful, my own, 
 I love you more than ever. Comfort me, be my 
 salvation — I pray that I may be worth your while. 
 Marry me, Sancie, and save my soul alive." 
 
OLD SPELLS 327 
 
 Honestly, for the moment, he believed himself 
 irresistible, and so far succeeded with her that her 
 disgust hid itself in a cloud of pity. She felt pity 
 for a man abject at her feet, and could speak more 
 kindly to him. 
 
 But she could not bring herself to touch him. 
 Looking down at him there, her eyes were softer 
 and her lips took a gentler curve. "You mustn't 
 be down there," she said. "I don't like to see you 
 there — and can't talk to you till you get up. Let's 
 sit down and talk — if you will." He rose obedi- 
 ently and stood with heaving chest, while she drew 
 a chair to the fire and seated herself. Then he took 
 to the hearthrug, and possessed himself of her 
 hand. 
 
 "What a cold hand, my dear! Oh, Sancie, how 
 I could have warmed you once! Is that never to be 
 again? Don't tell me so, for God's sake." 
 
 "Oh, how can I tell!" cried she. "Surely you 
 can understand me better than that? Do you ask 
 me to forget everything that has has happened in 
 eight years?" 
 
 "I asked you to forgive me, my dear." 
 
 "And I have forgiven." 
 
 "But do you store these things up against me? 
 That's not too generous, is it?" 
 
 "I don't store anything," she assured him; "but 
 it wouldn't be honest of me tp pretend I am what 
 I was — once. I was a child then, and now I'm a 
 woman. You have made me that. I am what you 
 made me." 
 
328 REST HARROW 
 
 He stared into the fire, dropped her hand, which 
 she instantly hid under the other. 
 
 "You mean to tell me, then," he said, "that I 
 have made you cease to care?" 
 
 She tried to soften the verdict. "You seemed 
 to me not to care very much yourself. You left me 
 for a year together " 
 
 "Once, my dear. I left you for one year." 
 
 "One whole year, you know," she replied, "and 
 for other times too." 
 
 "I never ceased to love you," he vowed. "You 
 must be aware how much I depended upon you. 
 You were always with me." 
 
 She could have laughed at him. "I don't pre- 
 tend to the same state of mind. During those 
 absences of yours I learned to be happy alone — and 
 I was happy, too." 
 
 This seemed horrible to him. "I could not have 
 believed it of you," he said, aghast. "You must 
 have changed indeed." 
 
 "I have changed," she owned. He started to his 
 knees and clasped her. 
 
 "Beloved, I can change you again — I am the man 
 who had your heart. I must do it — it's my right as 
 well as my duty. Trust me again, my own; give 
 me your dear hand again — ^and you shall see. If you 
 are changed for the worse, I am changed for the 
 better. You have redeemed me. What is it they say 
 in the Bible? By your stripes I am healed. Yes, 
 yes — ^that's precisely it. Kiss me, my own girl; 
 kiss me." His eyes implored: she stooped her sad 
 
COLD KISSES 329 
 
 head that he might kiss her. He strained upwards 
 and held her until she broke away with a sob. " Oh, 
 leave me, leave me for a little while," she prayed 
 him brokenly. "I can't talk any more now; I assure 
 you I can't." 
 
 He begged her pardon for his vehemence. "I'm 
 pretty bad myseh, you know. This kind of thing 
 plays the deuce with a man's heart." 
 
 She could thank him with a woman's for this 
 naive assurance. "I don't doubt you for a moment," 
 she said. "You have been rather eloquent." 
 
 "Eloquent, my dear!" He raised his eyebrows. 
 "You might spare me congratulations upon my 
 eloquence. I don't deserve very much, perhaps — 
 though God knows I tried to make you comfortable; 
 but perhaps I deserve credit for sincerity." 
 
 She was not to be drawn that way. " I don't doubt 
 your sincerity in the least," she said. "But I wish 
 you to allow for mine. I am changed, and have told 
 you so." 
 
 "I can see that you are. Heaven knows that. 
 Perhaps I deserve it: I don't know. It's hardly 
 for me to talk about my own points, is it ? Criticism, 
 from whichever side it comes, does seem to me out of 
 place in a love-scene. And you found me eloquent 
 in spite of it ! Surely I may congratulate myself upon 
 that." 
 
 She looked at him 'standing before her, his arms 
 folded; she showed him a face too dreary to be 
 moved by sarcasm. "You may congratulate your- 
 self on lots of things, I'm sure."' 
 
330 REST HARROW 
 
 Annoyance began to prick him; he showed spirit. 
 "You are tired — ^and I may have tired you. I 
 won't do that any longer. I think I'll go, if you'll 
 excuse me to your Lady Maria. Sensible lady, that. 
 She goes to sleep. ..." He took a turn over the 
 room, then came back and stood over her. "I have 
 not had my answer yet. I'll come for it in a few 
 days' time. May I hope you'll have it for me — say, 
 to-day week?" 
 
 "What is the question I have to answer?" She 
 looked up for it, though she knew what it was to be 
 quite well. 
 
 "Do you wish it repeated?" He was perfectly 
 cool by now. "I'll put it categorically. I have 
 wronged you, and wish to repair my fault: will you 
 allow it? I love you more than before: will you 
 permit me to prove it? I believe that I can make 
 you happy: may I try?" 
 
 She had scarcely listened, and when she answered 
 him, did not lift her head. "I can't answer you 
 now, Nevile. Don't ask me." 
 
 "I have not asked you. I have simply put my 
 questions fairly. I will come for my answer next 
 Sunday afternoon. Good-bye, Sanchia." 
 
 He held out his hand and received hers, which 
 he kissed. Then he turned and left her alone. 
 
 "I should swallow him, if I were you," was Lady 
 Maria's spoken reflection upon what her young 
 friend was able to tell her. "I should swallow him 
 
"SWALLOW HIM" 33 1 
 
 like a pill. You won't taste him much, and he'll 
 do you worlds of good. The world ? I'm not talk- 
 ing of the world. I never do. He'll put you right 
 with yourself. That's much more to the point. He's 
 in love with you, I believe. From what you tell me, 
 that's new. You suppose that he was in love with 
 you before. I do not. He was in love with himself, 
 as you presented him. Most men are. Now you 
 are to occupy that exceedingly comfortable position 
 of a woman out of love with her husband, extrava- 
 gantly beloved by him. Next to being a man's mis- 
 tress there's no surer ground for you than that, with 
 respectability added, mind you. No mean addition. 
 Take my advice, my dear, and you won't regret it." 
 But Sanchia knew at the bottom of her heart that 
 Ingram was not in love with her. He wanted her 
 restored to his collection. 
 
IX 
 
 On the Monday morning, after a night of broken 
 sleep, she received a letter from her mother. 
 
 "My dear Child," Mrs. Percival wrote, "I met Nevile 
 Ingram, quite unexpectedly, on Saturdays. evening. Yesterday 
 he called here, after he had seen you in the house where you 
 choose to remain. Our interview Was naturally distressing, 
 and I should be glad to feel sure that you could spare me a 
 third. I need not remind you of the first. 
 
 "But I feel bound to own, from what I could learn from 
 him of his discussion (as I must call it) with you, that I am most 
 uneasy. If I were to say unhappy, tho' it would be less than 
 the truth, you might accuse me of exaggeration. That I could 
 not bear. Therefore, let 'uneasy' be the word. Is it possible, 
 I ask myself, that my yoxmgest child — ^my latest-born — can 
 find it in her heart to torture the already agonised heart of her 
 mother ? I put the question to you, Sanchia, for I am incapable 
 myself of finding the answer. I blush to write it — ^but such is 
 the terrible fact. I can only beg you to put me out of sus- 
 pense as gently as may be. I am growing old. There are limits 
 to what a grey-haired mother's heart can bear. 
 
 "Mr. Ingram's proposals towards a settlement of the untold 
 ruin he has wrought in a once smiling and contented house- 
 hold were (I must say) liberal. That they were all that they 
 should be, I must not declare — for how could that ever be? 
 He put himself, however, and his extremely handsome fortune 
 unreservedly in my hands and those of your father*, who was 
 not present at our interview. He was resting, I believe — his 
 
 332 
 
SANCHIA STRICKEN 333 
 
 own phrase. Philippa came in to tea, with her trusty, honour- 
 able Tertius, and was more than gracious to N. You know 
 her way. She stoops more charmingly than any woman I have 
 ever met. Her manners, certainly, are to be copied. 
 
 "His position in the county — I return to Nevile — I need not 
 dwell upon. It may be brilliant. A Justice of the Peace at 
 thirty-two! I leave you to imagine what he might become, 
 building upon that, if he were blessed with the loving com- 
 panionship of a tender, chaste and Xtian wife. Such an one 
 could guide him into Green Pastures — and such an one only. 
 Secure in the gratitude of his inferiors, the respect of his peers, 
 reconciled to the Altar, and his God, one sees before Nevile the 
 upright, prosperous, honoured career of an English Gentle- 
 man. There is no higher, I believe. But it is clear to all of 
 those who truly love you, my child, that you only can ensure 
 him these advantages. He is sincerely penitent now — of that I 
 am sure. Who can tell, however, what relapse there may be 
 unless he is taken in hand? 
 
 "You have been his curse, but may be his Blessing. You 
 have my prayers. 
 
 "I' beg my compliments to Lady Maria Wenman if she 
 condescends to recognise the existence of — ^Your affect" Mother, 
 "Catherine Welbore Perctval. 
 
 "P. S. — Nevile assures me that his cousin, the Bishop, would 
 perform the rite. This would be a great thing. One must 
 think of N's position in the county. " 
 
 "Venus, wounded in the side ..." is the open- 
 ing line of an old poem of Senhouse's, one of those 
 "Greek Idylls" with which he made his bow to the 
 world — old placid stories illuminated by modem 
 romantic fancy; nursery-rhyme versions, we may 
 call them, of the myths. "Venus, wounded in the 
 side," recounts how the Dame, struck by a shaft of 
 her son's, ran moaning from one ally to another 
 
334 REST HARROW 
 
 seeking Pity, the only balm that could assuage her- 
 wound. To the new lover, to the old, to the fresh- 
 wedded, to the long-mated: from one to the other 
 she ran — ^hand clapt to throbbing heart. None 
 could help her. "Pity! What's that?" cried the 
 first. "I triumph: rejoice with me. Is she not like 
 the sun in a valley?" The second cursed her for a 
 procuress. The bride stirred in her sleep, and whis- 
 pered, "Kiss me again, Beloved." As for the 
 fourth, he said, "All my Pity was for myself. It is 
 gone; now I am frost-bound." Venus wept : Adonis 
 healed the wound. 
 
 Sanchia, reading long afterwards, saw in it a par- 
 allel to her case, when she, stricken deep, ran about 
 London ways for a soothing lotion. She saw her- 
 self trapped; felt the steel bite to the bone. Tears 
 might have helped her, but she had none: pray she 
 could not, nor crave mercy. It was not Ingram 
 who held her caged, but Destiny; and there's no 
 war with him. 
 
 She thought of Vicky, of Melusine. Their kisses 
 would have been sweet, but she knew what they 
 would say. Melusine's sideways head, her sighed, 
 "Dearest, how sad! But life is so serious, isn't it?" 
 She saw the gleam in Vicky's eyes, and heard her 
 "Dear old Sancie, how slendid! Now you'll be all 
 right." Then she would clasp her round the neck 
 and whisper in her ear, "Do make me an aunt — I 
 shall adore your baby. Quick, darling! " She turned 
 her back on Kensington and Camberley, and went 
 into the City, to The Poultry, with her griefs. 
 
BLANKNESS OF PAPA 335 
 
 Poor Mr. Percival's rosy gills and white whiskers, 
 his invariable, "Well, Sancie— well, my dear, well, 
 well—" called her home. She ran forward, clung 
 to him, and lay a while in his arms, short-breathing, 
 breathless for the advent of peace. To his, "What 
 is it, my love? Tell your old father all about it," 
 she could only murmur, "Oh, dearest, what shall I 
 do?" He urged her again to tell him what the 
 matter was — "What has hurt you? Who has 
 dared to hurt my darling? Show me that scoun- 
 drel — " but she was luxuriating in new comfort and 
 would say nothing. Into her false peace she snug- 
 gled and lay still; and the honest man, loving her to 
 be there, let her be. 
 
 Presently she opened her weary eyes, looked up, 
 and smiled, then snuggled again. He led her to his 
 office chair, and took her on his knee. "Lie here, 
 my bird, make your pillow of my shoulder. That's 
 more comfortable, I hope. Why, Sancie, you've not 
 been here, in my arms, since you hurt your foot at 
 Sidmouth deuce knows how long ago — and I kissed 
 it well! Do you remember that? Ah, but I do. 
 I'm a foolish old chap, with nothing else to think 
 about but my girls. And you're the only one left — 
 the only one, Sancie. And I always loved you best 
 — and behaved as if you were the worst — God 
 forgive me!" She put her hand up and touched 
 his cheek. "Hush, dearest. We don't talk about 
 that." 
 
 "No, no, my darling — that's over, thank God. 
 You have forgiven me, I know — ^my great-hearted 
 
336 REST HARROW 
 
 Sancie. Now, if you feel stronger, tell me all your 
 troubles." She murmured what follows. 
 
 "He came to see me. Nevile came." 
 
 "I know, my love. Your mother told me." 
 
 "She wrote to me. Rather a dreadful letter. 
 She's on his side — she talks about his position in. 
 the county." 
 
 "I daresay, I daresay. But you know, your 
 mother thinks a great deal of that kind of thing. 
 She says we owe a deal to our station, you know. 
 There's something in it, my dear. I'm bound to 
 say that." 
 
 "Papa, he — ^wants me again. He thinks he 
 does." 
 
 "Oh, my dear, there's no doubt about that — 
 none at all. He proposes — well, it's carte blanche; 
 there's no other word for it. A blank cheque, you 
 Imow. We must do Master Nevile justice. It is 
 the least he can do; but he does it." 
 
 "What am I to do. Papa?" The poor gentle- 
 man looked rather blank. 
 
 "Do, my dear? Do?" He puzzled; then, as 
 the light broke on him, could not help showing his 
 dismay. "Why, you don't mean to say — Oh, my 
 child, is that what you mean?" 
 
 She clung to him convulsively, buried her face. 
 
 "God help us all!" His thought, his pity, his 
 love whirled him hither and thither. He shivered 
 in the blast. "'Pon my soul, I don't know how we 
 shall break it to your mother. I don't, indeed." 
 He stared miserably, then caught her to him. "It 
 
INDULGENCE IS URGED 337 
 
 breaks my heart to see you like this — my child; it 
 cuts me to the heart. Sancie, what are we to do ?" 
 
 She sat up and brushed her dry eyes with her 
 handkerchief. "I know. There's nothing to do. 
 It's my fate." 
 
 This was rather shocking to old Mr. Percival, who 
 shared the common opinion of matrimony, that 
 it should be marked by champagne at luncheons. 
 It was a signal for rejoicing — therefore you must 
 rejoice. White stood for a wedding all the world over, 
 black for a funeral. To go scowling to church, or 
 tearless to the cemetery, was to fail in duty. . 
 
 "We mustn't look at it like that, my darling. I 
 don't think we ought, indeed. Fate, you know! 
 That's a gloomy view of an affair of the sort. I 
 don't pretend to understand you, quite, my love. 
 You see, a year or two ago, you would have asked 
 nothing better — and now you call it fate. Oh, 
 my dear " 
 
 She could not have hoped that he would under- 
 stand, and yet she felt more like crying than at 
 any time yet. "My heart is cold," she said. "It's 
 dead, I think." 
 
 He echoed her, whispering, "Not dead, Sancie, 
 not ^ead, my child. Numbed. He'll warm it 
 asleep, he'll kiss it awake. He loves you." 
 
 She moaned as she shook her head. "No, no. He 
 wants me — ^that's all." 
 
 "Well, my dear," pleaded good Mr. Percival, 
 "and so he may. We do want what we love, don't 
 we now? He's come to his senses by this time, 
 
338 REST HARROW 
 
 found out the need of you. And I don't wonder at 
 it. You're a beautiful girl, my dear — you're the pick 
 of my bevy. But I must bring back the roses to 
 those cheeks — Mildred Grant, eh? Jack Ethering- 
 ton used to call you that : he was a great rose-fancier 
 — old Jack. Do you remember our tea-party last 
 summer? And how happy we were? Let's be 
 happy again, my lamb! Come, my child, can't you 
 squeeze me out one little smile? You'll make the 
 sun shine in this foggy old den of mine." He pinched 
 her cheek, peered for the dimple which a smile must 
 bring; then he drew her closer to him and whispered 
 his darling thought: "Shall I tell you something, 
 Sancie? What your old dad prays for when he's 
 by himself? I want another grandchild, my dear 
 — one I can spoil. I ought to be a happy man with 
 what I've got — I know that. But you were always 
 the pet, my love; you know you were — until, until — 
 ah, Sancie! And one of yours! Aren't you going to 
 indulge your old father ? He's only got a few years 
 left, mind you. Don't want any more. To see his 
 darling happy, smiling down on her baby — ^bless me, 
 I'm getting foolish." He blinked his bravest, but had 
 to wipe his glasses. She rewarded him with a kiss, 
 and did not leave till she could leave him at ease. 
 
X 
 
 Sanchla, after many nights' stony vigil, decided 
 that she must fight her beasts by herself. She was. 
 going to make her parents and sisters happy; she 
 was going through with her bargain; but there was no 
 need to tell them any more about it. In her hard 
 mood she told herself that that was the only wear. 
 If she should be wept over, she might well recant. 
 When the fatal word was once spoken, she would 
 write to her mother — that was all that she could do. 
 For the same reason — that she dreaded a tender mo- 
 ment — she did not go to church with her griefs. The 
 Gods there were too human — the Man of Sorrows, 
 the Mother with the swords in her bosom. It was 
 Destiny that had her by the heel. As ye sow, ye 
 shall reap. Vaster gods, heartless, blind, immortal 
 shapes, figuring the everlasting hills, were her need. 
 She was going to her fate, because the Fates called 
 her. There's no war with them. 
 
 There had been one who would have had it all 
 out of her in a trice. But he was remote, a part of 
 her childhood. She hardly called him to mind at 
 this hour. It was dangerous work to think of him, 
 she knew — ^and her old fortitude stood by her, which 
 said. Turn your mind resolutely away from that 
 which may influence your judgment. Senhouse was 
 
 339 
 
340 ' REST HARROW 
 
 not a stoic; he was an epicurean, she now considered. 
 She wanted something flintier than Senhouse. He 
 might have tried to dissuade her; but her mind was 
 now made up. She intended to marry Nevile. 
 
 She breakfasted alone, and immediately after- 
 wards went upstairs to write her agreement. The 
 thing was to be gone through with, and the sooner 
 the. better. 
 
 "My dear Nevile," she wrote, "if it can ever be right to 
 marry without love, it must be in my case. I don't blame you 
 in the least for what happened. It was as much my doing as 
 yours — and I still think that I was right. And now I think that 
 it is right to fulfil one's bargain — as it would have been if I had 
 married you. If I had been married to you, I should not have 
 left you unless you told me to go, and I don't think that I ought 
 to now. If you really wish it, you shall marry me when you 
 please, and I will do my duty by you always. Whatever 
 arrangements you make will suit me quite well; but the less fuss 
 we make the better. I am sure that you will think so too. 
 Don't come to see me for a few days if you don't mind. I 
 want to think. — Yours affectionately, Sanchia. 
 
 It was not a very gracious letter, it must be owned. 
 So young and so untender! One would have said 
 that the man must be a courageous lover who would 
 take marriage on such terms; but either Ingram 
 was very much in love, or honestly hoped to be loved 
 again. I incHne to the opinion of Bill Chevenix, to 
 whom he showed it. "Nevile, old chap," he said, 
 "you take her on any terms. You've no idea how 
 set up you'll feel by everybody saying you've done 
 the square thing. I tell you frankly that she's too 
 
CHEVENIX STARES 341 
 
 good for you. Look how she's shaped in Charles 
 Street! As if she'd been born to it. And never 
 once — never once — allowed to anybody that she's 
 been in the wrong. Not to a soul. And neither 
 you nor I believe that she has — nor did old Doss- 
 house, or whatever his name was." Ingram knew 
 quite well to whom he so airily referred. 
 
 "I shall have landed that chap once for all, any- 
 how," he said. 
 
 "Landed him!" cried the other. "Why, bless 
 you, didn't you know? He landed himself two 
 years after you did. He's married." 
 
 "Married, is he?" Ingram asked, not thinking 
 of Senhouse in particular. "Who did he marry?" 
 
 "He married a rather pretty woman, a widow, a 
 Mrs. Germain." 
 
 Ingram looked sharply up. "I'll take my oath 
 he didn't. I met her the other day. She's Mrs. 
 Duplessis." 
 
 Chevenix stared at him. "Why, I know the chap. 
 Where did you meet her? Where do they live?" he 
 asked his friend. 
 
 But Ingram had other things to think of, and 
 returned to his letter. "I shall take this as she 
 means it. Bill. She wants me to go slow — I can 
 take a hint. She shall have her head. When I 
 get her down to Wanless we shall be all right. The 
 place isn't fit to live in now, you know. I was up 
 there last week — ^and found ever3^hing going to pot. 
 Not a horse fit to ride — not a sound one amongst 'era. 
 Plantations all to pieces — ^gardens — ^tenants in arrears 
 
342 REST HARROW 
 
 — oh, beastly! She'll have it all to rights in no time, 
 and she'll simply revel in it. She'll come round — 
 you leave that to me. If / can't get a girl round I 
 ought to." 
 
 Chevenix listened, and judged. He knew his 
 Ingram pretty well, and took his confidence, like his 
 confidences, for what they were worth. "Where 
 did you say that the Duplessis lived?" 
 
 "I think she's in a hotel. It might be Brown's. 
 I believe it is Brown's. What d'you want her for?" 
 
 "Think she knows some of my people," said Chev- 
 enix, and presently took himself out of the Coffee 
 Tree Club. 
 
 But Sanchia, her day's work done, went — not to 
 church, but to Bloomsbury. Entering the portals of 
 the Museum, she swam to the portico, full of her 
 cares. But smoothly, swiftly, she went, with that 
 even, gliding gait peculiar to her kind, which has 
 precisely the effect of a swan breasting the stream. 
 Past the door, she turned to the left, not glancing at 
 the aligned Caesars, scarcely bowing to Demeter of 
 the remote gaze. In that long gallery, where the 
 Caryatid thrusts her bosom that her neck may be the 
 prouder to the weight, she saw the objects of her 
 present pilgrimage — beaten, blind, and dumb, im- 
 movable as the eternal hills, the Attic Fates; and 
 before them at gaze, his arms folded over his narrow 
 chest, Morosine the Pole. 
 
 Whether she had sought him here or not, she 
 did not falter in her advance. Smoothly, swiftly. 
 
MOROSINE ORACULAR 343 
 
 and silently she came to him and stood by his side. 
 He turned hfs head, looked sharply at her pale face 
 and sad eyes, then resumed his meditation before 
 the Three. Neither of them had a care to speak. 
 
 Presently Morosine said, "I knew that you 
 would be here." He kept his face towards the 
 mystery, and so did she when she echoed him. "Did 
 you know that ? You know me, I think." 
 
 "I believe that I do. You have come here for 
 strength. You will get it." 
 
 Ruefully enough she answered, "1 wish I could 
 believe that." 
 
 "You have it in you already. These great ladies 
 will call it out. I wish you had been here, say, the 
 day before yesterday. They might have helped 
 you." 
 
 "But they did help me," she said. "They were 
 with me. I remembered what we had talked about 
 before them." 
 
 He nodded his head. "I had intended that you 
 should. I was rightly inspired." 
 
 "Without them," she went on, "I don't know 
 what I should have done. It seems absurd to say 
 so, but " 
 
 He interrupted. "It's not absurd at all — ^to you 
 and me. If it's absurd, then Art is pastry-cook- 
 stuff: sugar and white-of-egg. The man who fash- 
 ioned these things had walked with God. Here are 
 his secrets, revealed to you and me." 
 
 She followed her own thoughts, not his. "I 
 came to-day because I have made up my mind. I 
 
344 REST HARROW 
 
 wanted them to confirm me — to say that I was right. 
 If you weren't here, I should go up to them and 
 whisper to them, as I've seen women do to the Ma- 
 donna abroad. I should tell them everything." 
 
 He looked at her keenly. "Do it now. I'll 
 leave you." 
 
 She smiled faintly. "No, don't leave me. I 
 couldn't do it now. But I meant to when I came 
 in." 
 
 "You didn't think that I might be here?" He 
 watched her. 
 
 "No. I remember that you said we were to meet 
 on Thursday. And I have a great deal to think of; 
 I'm in great trouble." 
 
 "I know you are," he said. "I fear to be im- 
 pertinent; but if I can help you " 
 
 She gave him a grateful look. Her trouble was 
 very real, and made almost a child of her. " I should 
 value your advice. It would help me to have it — 
 even if it couldn't change my intentions." 
 
 "You shall have it, assuredly," he said. "Shall 
 we find a seat?" 
 
 "No, no. I would rather stop where we are. 
 Perhaps they'll hear us." They looked at each 
 other and smiled at a shared sentiment. 
 
 "Tell me, then," he said. 
 
 "He wants me to marry him," she said hurriedly, 
 "and I think that I must. AU my people wish it, 
 and my friends — I mean those who have known 
 me for a long time. I don't mind very much about 
 most of them; but one of my sisters — Vicky — ^who 
 
MOROSINE AGREES 345 
 
 was always my closest friend, expects it — ^and it 
 would break my father's heart if I did not do it. 
 The others don't count; but those two do. And 
 there are other things — one other person who would 
 think I am doing right." 
 
 "Would you" — Morosine spoke slowly, address- 
 ing the statues — "would you consider the possibility 
 of marrying any one else?" 
 
 She spoke as one in a trance. "No — I couldn't 
 — I shouldn't dare. Besides, there is no possibility 
 — ^there would be Papa and Vicky again. That 
 would never satisfy them. And then I feel that it's 
 my punishment — if I deserve punishment, as they 
 all imply that I do. At any rate, it's part of my 
 bargain. I began this thing, and I must go on with 
 it, at all costs to myself. I mustn't think of myself 
 in it at all. I'm only part of the world's plan; but I 
 happen to know that I am ; and so I must go where I 
 am called to go. I must follow my Destiny, just as I 
 did at first. That time I followed it against every- 
 body's opinion; this time I must follow against my 
 own will. Don't you agree with me ?" 
 
 Morosine reflected in silence. Then he said, 
 "Yes, I agree with you. I recommend you to follow 
 your determination." 
 
 Her eyes looked blankly at him; for the first mo- 
 ment he thought her disappointed, but he corrected 
 his impression in the second. 
 
 "I'm glad you agree with me," she said. "I 
 should have been disappointed if you hadn't." 
 
 He smiled. "You are stronger than vou think. 
 
346 REST HARROW 
 
 You can suffice to yourself. But I hope that I shall 
 never disappoint you." 
 
 "I have no fear of that," she said, young again and 
 confident. She thanked the Immortal Three with 
 her eyes, and turning to Morosine, asked him, "Shall 
 we go?" They went together. Passing the Deme- 
 ter of Cnidos, her swinging hand touched his. He 
 held his breath. Her face, sharply in profile, was 
 as pure and pale as a silver coin. Her breast held 
 her secret. To her own heart she voiced the cry, 
 "Have I done well, dear one? Have I done well? 
 Do you approve of me ? Do you ?" It may be that 
 Senhouse heard her in his Wiltshire hills. 
 
XI 
 
 Nevile Ingram was capable of fine ideas, we have 
 seen, and could sometimes carry them out. He had 
 had a moment of generosity, with Sanchia's letter 
 in his hand, and held in the main to his expressed 
 intentions. When he went to see her, at the end 
 of three rigorous days, he behaved like a gentleman. 
 She entered the room where he awaited her, pale 
 for his embrace: he came to meet her, put his hand 
 upon her shoulder, and, stooping, kissed her lightly. 
 "My dear," he said, "I'll deserve you yet;" and he 
 really meant it. She was touched, and quite kind 
 to him. He exhibited his version of her surrender. 
 
 "We're friends, eh? We know each other of 
 old, have no surprises, and can take raptures for 
 granted. That's your notion, I fancy? It's not 
 mine, but I'll be thankful for what you give me, 
 and it shall be my fault if you find me backward 
 when you're ready. Bygones are bygones, then? 
 We make a new start?" 
 
 She sat staidly under his gaze, not aware at the 
 moment that his steel-blue eyes searched her avidly 
 for a hint of more than he stated. "So far as I am 
 concerned — certainly," she said. "I shall never 
 unlock any cupboards." 
 
 347 
 
348 REST HARROW 
 
 "Better to bum the contents, perhaps," he laughed. 
 "I tell you fairly, I had rather they were cleared out. 
 Now, I'll confess to anything you please to ask me. 
 That's a firm offer." He would probably have done 
 it, but she told him that she had no questions to put. 
 "Very well, my dear," he said. "Have it as you 
 will. It's sublime of you — but it's not love. If you 
 don't want to know it's because you don't care." 
 
 "No, indeed," she sighed, with such conviction 
 that he was stung. 
 
 "Hang it all, Sancie," he cried, "you can't have 
 known me for eight years without feeling some- 
 thing." She looked up at him, and he saw that her 
 eyes were full. 
 
 "Oh, Nevile," she said, with a quivering lip, 
 "don't let us look back. Indeed, I can't do it now." 
 He put his arm round her and, drawing her closer, 
 kissed her forehead. "My pretty one, we won't. 
 I had much rather look forward. The future is to 
 be my affair — if the past was yours." Then he went 
 away, and she saw nothing of him for two days. On 
 the second of them he dined with Lady Maria, and 
 met some of the Percivals — ^the father and mother, 
 the Sinclairs, and Mr. Tompsett-King. (Philippa 
 had declined to come.) He behaved with great dis- 
 cretion, and so continued. After a week or ten days 
 of courtship, she could hardly beHeve that their re- 
 lations had ever been interrupted. His reliance upon 
 her was absolute, his confidence no less so. He 
 babbled of himself and his concerns in the old vein of 
 mocking soliloquy, careless whether she heard him 
 
INGRAM IS GENEROUS 349 
 
 or not. Now that he had her promise, he seemed in 
 no hurry for possession. His kisses were fraternal, 
 his embraces confined to a hand on her shoulder, an 
 arm lightly about her waist. She was inordinately 
 thankful to him, and by a queer freak of the mind, 
 poured all her gratitude into Senhouse. She told 
 herself that but for him she would never have brought 
 herself to her duty; but for him, therefore, would 
 never have discovered how little she had to fear. 
 Here was a crown for her "dear obsequious head": 
 shutting her eyes tightly, she thought that she could 
 feel his fingers putting it on, smoothing out her hair 
 so that the circlet should fit closely. Night after 
 night she knelt to receive it. It came as a result of 
 prayer. 
 
 The marriage-announcement, got into the paper by 
 Mrs. Percival, was accepted for what it was worth. 
 It was partly the price of her crown. A few letters 
 from old friends were formally answered. Sanchia 
 had never been a free writer; nobody but Senhouse 
 had found her letters eloquent — ^he only had been 
 able to feel the throb beneath the stiff lines. Her 
 handwriting, round and firm, had for him a provo- 
 cative quality; it stung his imagination. He used 
 to sing her "divine frugality of utterance," and pro- 
 test that it was all of a piece with the rest of her life. 
 No one, he had told her once, but a sculptor could 
 embody her in Art — her chill perfection, her severity 
 and definite outline. A poet might not dare, for he 
 would have to be greater than love itself, greater 
 than the love which inspired him, able to put it 
 
350 REST HARROW 
 
 down below him, and stand remote from it, and 
 regard it as a speck in the landscape. 
 
 Your sober thought, and your pride 
 To nurse the passion you hold and hide 
 
 he had written of her in his day. That austere con- 
 cealment of her heart, which so impassioned him, 
 chilled enthusiasm in all others of her acquaintance. 
 So her letters were few, and now she was thankful 
 enough. She herself wrote to nobody, and never 
 spoke of her future unless she was compelled to 
 answer questions. 
 
 Once a day, however, she took out a writing-block, 
 and traced upon it the words, "My dear Jack, I 
 
 think I ought to tell you " or a similar exordium. 
 
 She got no further. How could she tell him that 
 without telling him more? And how tell him moife 
 when, of her own accord, she had sent him about his 
 business, and set her approval upon his marriage, 
 or what must be considered his marriage ? An in- 
 stinct forbade her. She didn't reason with it: her 
 reason was paralysed. "It's part of the price. It's 
 what he would have praised me for" — and she flew 
 to her text. 
 
 "A great power is in your thin sweet hands, my 
 sweet; you are in the way of being a great artist." 
 She looked at her hands, and loved them for his 
 sake who had loved them so well. Her "thin sweet 
 hands!" Could one write so of her hands and not 
 love them well? 
 
 But the power, the power that she had! Hear her 
 
SENHOUSE TO SANCHIA ' 351 
 
 rhapsodist. "If you can so work upon your delicate 
 surface as to mould it close to your nolle soul; if in the 
 gallery of the world you can unveil yourself for a thou- 
 sand pair of eyes to see, and poise God for the right to 
 see — why, what an artist you are, and what an audi- 
 ence you have! . . . Like a whiff of thyme on a grassy 
 down, like the breath of violets from a hank, or of bean- 
 flower blown across a dusty hedge, some gentle exhala- 
 tion of your soul sighed through your body will hint to 
 the passion-driven wretch things innocent and quiet. 
 The blue beam of your steadfast eyes may turn his 
 own to heaven; a chance-caught, low, sweet tone of 
 your voice may check clamour; an answer may turn 
 his wrath. . . . You can be picture, form, poem, 
 symphony in one. . . . Think of it, Sanchia, before 
 you turn away. Think well whether upon that ex- 
 quisite medium you cannot express your best." 
 
 She found herself trembling — in these days she 
 easily trembled^ — ^as she re-read these words. That 
 such a power should indeed be hers — and how could 
 she fail to believe it ? — ^was inspiration enough to send 
 her to the fire. She read no more, but used to sit 
 shivering, thrilling through every fibre of her body, 
 with the strength of such splendid praise. For what- 
 ever might be her fate, splendid it was to have been 
 so loved, so seen, and so praised. It was well for 
 Ingram that she read her old love-letters — and ex- 
 tremely unfortunate for the writer of them, who 
 anguished for her now in his desert place. Odd 
 situation! that the love-letters of one man should 
 reconcile her to the arms of another. 
 
352 REST HARROW 
 
 From Torquay, where she spent the Easter holi- 
 days with her father, the two alone and happily 
 together, she wrote two or three times to Nevile. He 
 was at Wanless, professedly getting some order into 
 things there, and protesting to her by every word he 
 sent her upon the need there was of her hand upon 
 affairs. There was not a word of love used between 
 the pair. All the love-making, indeed, was done by 
 Senhouse, whose master-stroke was called for by 
 and by. 
 
 Towards the end of April she was alone in Charles 
 Street, preparing the house for Lady Maria's return 
 from Rome. Ingram was still at Wanless, grumbling 
 through his duties of magistrate, landlord, and 
 county gentleman. "They seem to think up here 
 that a fellow has nothing to do but 'take the chair,'" 
 he wrote. " I can tell you I'm pretty sick of it, and 
 fancy that they will be before long. I'm an awk- 
 ward customer when I'm bored — as I am now, 
 damnably." She sent him matter-of-fact replies, 
 and wrote principally of the weather. 
 
 The Pole continued his discreet and temperate 
 wooing after the plan he had formulated. He strove 
 to interest her perpetually, never left her without 
 having, as he taught himself to believe, impressed 
 himself anew upon her imagination. Watching her 
 as a cat a mouse, he learned to read her by signs so 
 slight that no one who had not the intuition of a 
 woman could have seen them at all. Unfortunately 
 for him, he misinterpreted what he read. The slap- 
 dash Ingram thought all was well; Chevenix, the 
 
PAUSE 353 
 
 more observant, thought there was a bare chance; 
 Morosine alone could see how her quivering soul 
 was being bruised, and if he thought that she looked 
 to him for bahn, he may be excused. She was 
 drowning, she held out her hands. To whom, but to 
 him upon the bank? How should he know what 
 shadow stood behind him, with praise in his dim eyes 
 for a "dear obsequious head"? 
 
 Playing deputy to Senhouse, little as he guessed 
 it, he devoted himself to bracing her for the match, 
 having made up his mind that there was no other 
 way of making her happiness his own. His mis- 
 tress she might be, his wife never. As he read her, 
 she would keep the letter of the law — since the law 
 required it of her. The rest, he flattered himself, 
 might be left to time and him. His present aim was 
 to interest and stimulate her, without alarming. 
 
 He counted greatly upon some sudden emotional 
 stimulus, which would cause her to fall to him; and 
 one came, though it had no such effect. 
 
 The opera of Tristan and Isolde, to which she was 
 taken by Lady Maria — ^where she sat in his box, by 
 his side, absorbed in the most sensuous expression 
 of the love-malady that has ever tormented its way 
 out of a poet's heart — ^had been a real test of his 
 restraint. He had not once met her eyes — though 
 hers, craving sympathy at any hand, had sought his 
 often; he had not once permitted himself to gaze 
 upon her beauty, though it was her beauty, so carven, 
 so purely Greek, which had drawn him to her from 
 the first. While the great music went soTabing and 
 
354 REST HARROW 
 
 chiding through her frame, like wounded nightin- 
 gales, he had sat in the dark, with his arms folded, 
 never looking at her fully, nor seeking to win a 
 glance from her soul to his own. That it stirred her 
 to the deeps he knew. He could watch sideways, 
 listen sideways, both hear and see that she was 
 rapt. Her quick-heaving breast, the whistle of her 
 short breath, the strained line of her head and shoul- 
 der — all this he marked and stored without a sign. 
 Even when, on going out, he had been conscious of 
 her overcharged heart, of her breast full of emotion; 
 even when she had told him under her breath that 
 she was happier, though he shivered, he drew away. 
 He had nodded quickly, smiled, blinked his eyes. 
 "I was sure of that," was all he allowed himself in 
 the way of intimacy. 
 
 Swift, fire-consumed, intensely sensitive, subtle- 
 minded, this was a man who relished suggestions 
 more than things. He had far rather deal mentally 
 with the lovely image of Sanchia, as he saw it, 
 than actually with the breathing, palpitating flesh. 
 To picture her longing, straining, trembling — to 
 keep her always so, always holding out her arms, 
 never obtaining what she sought: his bliss lay in 
 that. He knew himself, after much experience of 
 the sort; he had missed so often by blundering in, 
 that now he dared not risk a wreck. Here at last, he 
 told himself, was perfection: let him look to it that 
 he kept it at its perfect poise. He must poise him- 
 self to do that, balance himself upon a knife-edge. 
 Little of an ascetic as he was by temper, he could 
 
The great music went sobbing and chiding through 
 her frame, like wounded niglitingales. 
 
STIRRING MUSIC 355 
 
 train himself to the last ounce if the prize were worth 
 it. And it was. Never had musician had instrti- 
 ment more sensitive to play upon. It seemed to him 
 worthy of a lifetime of preparation to have her for 
 one moment of time throbbing in his arms. 
 
 So Morosine went into the palaestrum, and fasted 
 with prayer. His sangfroid through Tristan, and 
 the going out with all its cry ringing in him, and in 
 her, surprised even himself, who knew himself well. 
 "My friend," he thought, as he stalked to his club, 
 "you have done well." 
 
 But he had not reckoned with the flinty core 
 which lay beneath her fair and delicate seeming. 
 Her frugality of utterance, which charmed and 
 chained him, really implied no reserve. She did not 
 speak, because she had nothing to say, did not reveal 
 herself, because she knew of no mystery. She was 
 at once very simple and very practical; she had 
 healthy tastes which she desired to gratify, and a 
 deliberate mind which instructed her how far she 
 might do so. Once in her life those had played her 
 false, when they told her that the pity she had for 
 Ingram was love, and the need he had for possession 
 of her was her own need to give it him. She had 
 been bitterly mistaken, and was now so weary with 
 herself that she seemed to have no desire in the 
 world but that of sleep. Tristan and Isolde, drown- 
 ing soul and body in music which made love, and 
 love which was the heart of music, were not to be 
 thought of on this side of the grave. The Fates had a 
 sterner way for her. She was never to empty herself 
 
356 REST HARROW 
 
 in a kiss or to watch out the stars with Jack Sen- 
 house. Homing in the carriage with Lady Maria, 
 she denied him, like Peter his Lord. "I know not 
 the man." Vaguely dreaming at her open window, 
 under the fire-fretted roof of that May night, she 
 suddenly thought of him again — ^nay, knew him 
 bodily there, alone with her under the sky — and for 
 the first time in her life felt his eyes upon her, seeking 
 of her what he had never dared to seek, and then his 
 arms about her, touching her as assuredly he had 
 never dreamed to do. She had denied him once too 
 often, it seems. Here was a sudden attack, a trick 
 of the sprites. She held her breath, she trembled, 
 her breast heaved, she shut her eyes, and her lips re- 
 laxed their hold of each other. "Not yet, my 
 blessed one, not yet!" and "Come, Rose of the 
 World!" Thus they murmured to each other and 
 strove. An expectancy, the shiver and thrill of it, 
 possessed her; she seemed to feel the touch of a be- 
 loved hand, which drew her, trembling and panting, 
 closer and closer to some high experience of which 
 she had never dreamed before, to the expression of 
 inexpressible things, to a giving of the utmost, to a 
 wild strife of emulation which of them two should 
 give the most. The dark was all about them like a 
 bed — and closer he drew her, and closer yet. For 
 one wild moment that endured — O heaven, they 
 two in love under the stars! He was of the Open 
 Country — as free as the wind. Thus he would love 
 her, if he ever loved. Tristan's crying would be 
 his — and Isolde's whimper of hurt would be her 
 
VISION 357 
 
 answer. Thus, if ever, she might be loved. And 
 then, if ever in this world, peace! 
 
 Shivering still, with the sense of an arm still 
 about her, of wild breath beating on her cheek, she 
 looked wonderfully out at the stars which had seen 
 her possessing. They burned steadily in their violet 
 hold — a million kindly eyes welcoming her to the 
 Open Country. The great town lay so still below 
 that but for the glare behind the houses, which told 
 her that it lived, she might have thought herself 
 enfolded in the hills. So sure she was that she had 
 been wedded, she glanced swiftly up and down the 
 street, lest one chance passenger should have seen 
 her naked soul. So a young girl, kissed by her 
 lover, will search the emptiness in fear. Not a soul 
 could be seen; Charles Street under its lamplight 
 showed like a broad white ribbon curving towards the 
 Square, towards the Park. To her heart she whis- 
 pered, "Dearest, you may love me — we are alone 
 under the stars" — and then shut her eyes fast, and 
 with parted lips breathed quick and short. 
 
 Out of the night, out of an empty street, a voice 
 came up, "He loves you — none so well. He lies 
 out on the down in a white robe. He watches for 
 you and waits. I have seen him, talked with hitn 
 of you. Can you refuse such love as his? Goddess 
 though you are, you will get no higher love." 
 
 The voice was very real. She knew it well. 
 From the close arms that held her, she answered it. 
 "Oh, Struan, I know! I knew before you told me. 
 It's wonderful. Love is a wonderful thing." 
 
358 REST HARROW 
 
 "It's all we have in the world. I am here to tell 
 you that he waits for you. Good-night." 
 
 " Good-night, Struan,"she said. " I'm quite happy 
 now." 
 
 She remembered afterwards, with a shock of dis- 
 may at her selfishness, that she had never asked 
 Struan of his welfare. 
 
 She came to herself with a shudder and envisaged 
 her circumstance. She had had "a rare vision," like 
 Bottom the weaver — and that was all. Jack Sen- 
 house had never loved her so. To him she had been 
 Artemis, the cold goddess, or Queen Mab, whom no 
 man might take. He had said so often^and had 
 looked it whenever she was near him. Meantime, 
 she was to be married — and Tristan was unprofit- 
 able provender. , It had given her an indigestion of 
 the mind. She would go to bed. 
 
 That she deliberately did — ^with one ceremony, 
 characteristic of her frugality. She opened a locked 
 drawer, and looked at its contents. There lay three 
 goodly piles of letters, tied with blue ribbon. Each 
 packet was labelled "Jack to Me," and dated with 
 beginning and ending. She contented herself with 
 looking at them, smiling wisely and thoughtfully as 
 she did so. Then, like a child, not trusting to her 
 eyes alone, she looked at them with her fingers; 
 touched them delicately in turn, with a caress. Im- 
 mediately afterwards she locked them up; and 
 turned to her disrobing. She slept quietly, and went 
 
DRIFTING 359 
 
 about her affairs of the morrow with a calmness that 
 surprised her. 
 
 At a later day, in a conversation which Morosine 
 had with her,, he permitted himself a reference to 
 the Museum. "You go no more? They've done 
 their work — the Three?" 
 
 She smiled upon him, looking up from a little 
 blue-covered book which lay half-cut upon her lap. 
 It had arrived by the post that morning without 
 message, or even inscription. But it was dedicated, 
 she observed, "To the Fairest," and had smiled 
 wisely to herself, observing it. A finger in the book, 
 she answered Morosine. "Yes, they've done their 
 work. I'm much happier now. I've thrown up 
 my arms, you see. I'm drowning." She suddenly 
 blushed, to remember her dream ; and he perceived it. 
 
 "Drowning?" he asked. 
 
 "Drifting with the tide," she explained. "And I 
 like it." 
 
 It was on his tongue to refer to Tristan, but — such 
 was her hardihood — she saved him the trouble. "I 
 was fearfully excited with the opera. During the 
 performance, and after it." 
 
 His heart beat high. "You were not more so 
 than I was," he said, looking at her. "I thought of 
 things possible and impossible. I had a vision." 
 
 So had she had a vision, whose force was such 
 that she could not continue to talk of such things. 
 She had flashed her eyes upon him vividly for a mo- 
 ment, but was compelled to turn them away. He 
 read in them a wild surmise ; he thought that she un- 
 
360 REST HARROW 
 
 derstood him and was perturbed — perturbed, but not 
 displeased. The bustling entry of Chevenix, unan- 
 nounced, prevented him from pursuing his campaign. 
 
 Chevenix was gay. "HuUoa, Sancie — ^this is rip- 
 ping. I say, I have something frightfully interesting 
 to tell you." Then he saw Morosine. "Hulloa, 
 Alexis, is that you? Now we'll sit each other out, 
 and Sancie won't have her news." 
 
 "But I hope I shall," she cried. "I haven't got 
 a secret in the world. Don't go. Prince, please. 
 Mr. Chevenix shall tell you the news too. I haven't 
 the faintest idea." 
 
 "It's something you want to know very badly. 
 At least, I should think you did. It's not Nevile's 
 address." She took him gaily. 
 
 "I don't want to know that at all, if it's a new one. 
 I have three already." 
 
 "Perhaps," said Morosine, with a friendly look, 
 "it's to cancel some of them." 
 
 She held up a book. "Is that what you mean? 
 Do look. Songs, by S. Glyde. Did you mean to 
 tell me of that?" 
 
 Chevenix stared. "The poet Glyde? No. By 
 Jove, though, not a bad shot. I referred, my dear, 
 to the poet Senhouse." 
 
 She received that full in the face. She paled, then 
 coloured. Her heart leaped, then stood still. She 
 spelt with her blue eyes, "Tell me." 
 
 Chevenix peered at her. "Thought I should fetch 
 you, my dear. The poet Senhouse is run to ground, 
 and I'm going to see him. That's all." 
 
CHEVENIX MESSENGER 361 
 
 It was plain to Morosine that she was very much 
 concerned with this intelligence. She simply sat 
 there, staring at Chevenix, shaking, moving her white 
 lips. She was as white as chalk and her eyes burned 
 black in her face. What on earth — ^who on earth — ? 
 He couldn't for the life of him make it out. He had 
 never heard of the man. It was a shock to him to 
 discover — so soon we flatter ourselves — that Sanchia 
 had any reserve of confidence. He had felt so sure 
 of her! 
 
 "Another new poet?" he asked her. She recov- 
 ered herself, shook her head. 
 
 "He's not new — to me. He's the greatest friend 
 I ever had." That was all she could say. She 
 turned to Chevenix, her desire fainting in her eyes. 
 "You're going to see him ? Oh, take me with you ! " 
 
 "Right," said Chevenix. 
 
BOOK V 
 
 OF THE NATURE OF AN EPILOGUE, DEALING 
 WITH DESPOINA 
 
Her spirits on the rebound, her courage waving 
 in her face, like the flag on a citadel, she hesitated 
 at nothing. On Chevenix's suggestion that they 
 must "play the game with Nevile," she told her 
 betrothed what she proposed to do. He had raised 
 his eyebrows, but said, "Why not?" 
 
 "I thought you didn't love each other," had been 
 her answer, and he had responded: 
 
 "Well, I have no reason to dislike him. In fact, 
 he gave you to me, if you remember." He chuckled 
 over the memory. "When the thing between us was 
 at its reddest heat, your man cam/a pelting up to me. 
 He had seen you, it appears, and nothing would stop 
 him. I never told you this tale, but you may as 
 well have it now. The man's a lunatic, you know. 
 What do you think he wanted? How do you think 
 he put it? As thus: 'I loathe you, my dear man' 
 — I'm giving you the substance — 'You stand for 
 everything I'm vowed to destroy; but I hope you'll 
 marry her, and tie her to you for life.' That was 
 his little plan. As you know, I couldn't oblige him. 
 He thought I could!" 
 
 She had been staring out of the window while he 
 harangued from the hearthrug, his favourite post in 
 a room. At this time she had no eyes but for the 
 
 365 
 
366 REST HARROW 
 
 Open Country, or what of it could be seen over the 
 chimney-pots. But at those last words she did turn 
 and look at him! "Why did he think you could ?" 
 
 It was for Ingram then to stare. "Why did he 
 think so? My dear, I'll tell you why no sane man 
 would have thought so, if you insist. He thought 
 that as I had lived alone ever since Claire bolted, I 
 could get a divorce. That's what he thought." 
 
 Sanchia pondered his reply, facing the window 
 again. Ingram fidgeted, with his hands in his 
 pockets. "Men don't live like that," he said. 
 Sanchia did not move. More as if it were to satisfy 
 herself than to credit him, she said, to the window 
 and street beyond it, "I wonder that he didn't re- 
 member that you would never drag any one into 
 notoriety whom you had once — loved." Ingram 
 grinned. 
 
 "As your man Glyde tried to drag you, my dear! 
 Well, that's one way of accounting for old Senhouse, 
 certainly. I don't know that that would have stood 
 in the light, after the way she behaved. Notoriety! 
 She managed that for herself." 
 
 "Then — " she began, but did not finish. She 
 stopped, looked sharply about her, out of window, 
 across the room, seemed to be listening to some- 
 thing, or for something. Then she said, "I see." 
 For the rest of the evening she was very quiet, 
 burning in a hidden fire. 
 
 Here was Saturday, and to-morrow she should 
 see him again — ^the man who had loved her so much 
 
TO-MORROW 367 
 
 that he had never kissed her. Love such as that, 
 Tendered in kisses, was unthinkable. She knew 
 that she must not think of it, though she could not 
 help her dreams. But there was no fear. The man 
 who had not dared to kiss her when he might should 
 find that she was worthy of such high honour. 
 
 Through the strings blew the wind from the 
 south-west. "I love him — I shall see him to- 
 morrow — I shall never tell him so — but he will read 
 it in my eyes. He never kissed me when he might 
 — he will not do it now when he must not. I am a 
 fool, a fool, a fool ! Thank God, I am a fool again ! " 
 
n 
 
 "I FANCY," said Chevenix, as they breasted the 
 down, "that to the candid observer we present a very 
 pretty sight. He's not here, but I wish he were. A 
 free-moving young lady — this is my idea — a Diana of 
 the Uplands — wasn't there a picture of the name ? — 
 going to see an emancipated party of the Open Road, 
 with a chain round her heart, in the custody of a 
 gentleman-friend . ' ' 
 
 She took him on his own terms. "Explain your 
 idea. What, for instance, is in the gentleman- 
 friend's custody? The chain or the heart? Be- 
 cause, I assure you " 
 
 "A truce," said Chevenix, "to your assurances. 
 What I mean is this. It's jolly decent of Nevile 
 to let you off. I don't know how he can bear you 
 out of his sight after the way he's behaved." 
 
 She was in high spirits. She laughed at the vision 
 of Nevile, deeply contrite and afraid that she would 
 find him out. "I don't think Nevile cares much, 
 whatever I may do." But Chevenix shook his 
 head. 
 
 "You never know where to have Nevile. .'What 
 says the Primer ? Timeo Danaos — don't you know ? ' ' 
 
 She pleaded, Might they not forget Nevile out 
 368 
 
ON THE DOWN 369 
 
 here in the open? "Do you know," she asked him, 
 "that I haven't been out Uke this " 
 
 "On the loose, eh?" he interposed. She nodded. 
 
 "Yes, like this — free to do as I like — the world 
 before me — " She fronted the blue vaUey for a mo- 
 ment, and then turned to the wind — "and the wind in 
 my face, ever since I left Wanless?" Then she re- 
 flected with wide and wondering eyes. "And before 
 that — long before. I haven't been free, you know, 
 ever since I knew Nevile. Oh!' — and she inhaled 
 the spirit of the hour — "Oh, I could fall down and 
 hug the earth. Don't you love the thymy smell? 
 I don't know why, but it always makes me think of 
 poetry — and that." She lifted her rapt face to where, 
 like a fountain of sound, a lark flooded the blue. 
 "To lift up, and up, and up, to be so lovely because 
 one was so glad! Nobody could do that! — except 
 Jack," she added half in a whisper. 
 
 "That old chap's not a man," said Chevenix, 
 "he's a spirit." 
 
 "They used to call him the Faun, at Bill Hill, 
 where I first met him," she said. "I fancy now that 
 I never knew him at all. But he knew all about 
 me. That's why I'm so happy. Nobody has ever 
 known me since — and it's such a bore to have to 
 explain yourself. Other people seem to think I am 
 extraordinary. I'm not at all — ^I'm the most or- 
 dinary person in the world. But he liked me like 
 that." 
 
 Chevenix, watching her, said, "He'll like you like 
 this, I expect. May I tell you that you're a heady 
 
370 REST HARROW 
 
 compound? Do be quiet. Remember that I'm 
 holding the chain. I won't swear to every link." 
 She laughed, and pressed forward, the wind kissing 
 her eyes. 
 
 They reached the racecourse, and had, behind 
 them and before, two valleys. Their road lay now 
 due west, keeping the ridge — a broad grass track 
 belted rarely by woods on the north, but open on 
 the south to hill and vale in diversity of sun and 
 shade, a billowy sea of grass where no sign of man 
 was to be seen. Sanchia's heart was so light she 
 scarcely touched the ground. She swam the air, 
 not flew. Chevenix pounded in her wake. 
 
 "You know," he told her by and by, "he's alone 
 here ? A solitary figure ? Doing the hermit ? Cry- 
 ing in the Wilderness?" 
 
 She had guessed, but not known that. Caution 
 set a guard upon her eyes and tongue. "Do you 
 mean — that he's always alone?" 
 
 "Bless you, yes. His lady couldn't stick it. She 
 fled. But she's quite fond of him — in her way. I 
 found out his address from her. She was quite glad 
 I was going to see him. But she never goes her- 
 self, I believe. She's married. Other views alto- 
 gether, she has. Or he has — her husband, you 
 know. It was a rum business altogether, her taking 
 up with old Senhouse. I could have told her what 
 would come of that, if she'd asked me. No malice, 
 you know — now. They're good friends. Write to 
 each other. As a fact, she's married. She was a 
 widow. She married a man I know, a chap in the 
 
THE HARES 371 
 
 House, name of Duplessis. Sulky chap, but able. 
 Keeps her in order. Old Senhouse will speak about 
 it — you see if he don't." 
 
 She was full of thought over these sayings. What 
 had he been about when he mated with a woman of 
 this sort? "A man don't live hke that," had been 
 Nevile's explanation of part of his own history. Was 
 this the meaning of her friend's vagary? Would he 
 tell her? She would never ask him, but would 
 give worlds to know. 
 
 Presently, and quite suddenly, as they pushed 
 their way, now in silence broken only by Chevenix's 
 cheerful whistling, upon that backbone of a broad 
 hill-country — quite suddenly her heart leaped, and 
 then stood fast. "Look, look!" she said softly. 
 "There's Jack, close to us!" In a sheltered hollow 
 some hundred feet below the level at which they 
 were, a hooded figure in pure white was startlingly 
 splashed upon the grey-brown of the dry hills. The 
 peak of a cowl shot straight above his head, and the 
 curtains of it covered his face. He sat, squatting 
 upon the turf, with a lifted hand admonishing. 
 About him, with cocked ears, and quick, side-glances, 
 were some six or seven hares, some reared upon their 
 haunches, som6, with sleek heads, intent upon the 
 herbage, one lopping here and there in quest, but 
 none out of range of a quick hand. Above his head, 
 high in the blue, birds were wheeling, now up, now 
 down. Peewits tumbling heavily, pigeons with beat- 
 ing wings, sailing jackdaws — ^higher yet, serene in 
 rarity, a brown kestrel oared the sky. 
 
372 REST HARROW 
 
 Sanchia's soft eyes gleamed with wet. "Saint 
 Francis and the hares! Oh, dearest, have I never 
 known you?" 
 
 "What a chance for a rifleman!" said Chevenix. 
 "That beats the cocks." 
 
 They stood intent for a while, not daring to dis- 
 turb the mystery enacting. Chevenix whispered, 
 "He's giving 'em church, to-day being Sunday," 
 while Sanchia, breathless, said, "Hush! hush!" and 
 felt the tears fret a way down her cheeks. Presently 
 she put both hands to her breast and fell upon her 
 knees. Chevenix, not insensible to her emotion, lit 
 a pipe. Thus he broke the spell. 
 
 " Go to him, please. Tell him that I'm here," 
 she bade him, and then turned away and sat waiting 
 upon a clump of heather. She sat, as not daring 
 to look up, until she heard his soft tread on the 
 turf. Then she lifted to him her wet and rueful 
 eyes. 
 
 His long strides brought him close in a second. 
 He was changed. Leaner, browner, older than 
 she had known him. And he wore a strange Eastern 
 garment, a hooded white robe, short-sleeved and 
 buttonless, made of coarse woollen cloth. He had 
 thrown the hood back, and it sat upon his shoulders 
 like a huge rolling collar. Yes, he was changed; 
 there was mystery upon him, which sat broodingly 
 on his brows. But his eyes were the same — bright as 
 a bird's, frosty-kind as a spring morning which stings 
 while it kisses you. "Queen Mab!" he said. 
 "You!" and held out both his hands. It was evi- 
 
THEY MEET 373 
 
 dent that neither of them could speak. She rose; 
 but there was no touching of the hands. 
 
 "And Peachblossom, attendant sprite," cried the 
 resourceful Chevenix, following him up. "Don't 
 forget him." 
 
 "Puck, I think," said Senhouse. "Robin Good- 
 fellow." He had recovered himself in that breathing- 
 space. "How splendid of you both. Come and 
 see my ship. I'm in moorings now, you know. 
 I've cut piracy." 
 
 "And preach to the hares," said Chevenix. "We 
 saw you at it. What does his lordship say ?" 
 
 "His lordship, who, in spite of that, is an excellent 
 man, likes it. His lordship was pleased to catch me, 
 as you did, at it, and to suggest that he should bring 
 out a party of her ladyship's friend to see me perform. 
 I told him that I was his hireling, no doubt, but that 
 my friends here were amateurs who didn't care to 
 say their prayers in public. His lordship begged 
 pardon, and I bet you he's a gentleman. Nearly 
 everybody is, when you come to know him." 
 
 Chevenix revelled in him. "Still the complete 
 moralist, old Jack!" he cheered. I'll back you for 
 a bushel of nuts to have it out with Charon as you 
 ferry across. And here, for want of us, you turn to 
 the hares! Sancie, you and I must get season tickets 
 to Sarum, or he'll forget his tongue." 
 
 Sanchia, overcome by shyness, had nothing to do 
 with this brisk interchange. She walked between 
 the contestants like a child out with her betters. 
 Senhouse led them down the scarped side of a hill 
 into his own valley; rounding a bluff, they suddenly 
 
374 REST HARROW 
 
 came upon his terraces and creeper-covered hut. 
 The place was a blaze of field flowers; each terrace a 
 thick carpet of colour. In front of them the valley 
 wound softly to the south, and melted into the folds 
 of the hills; to the right, upon a wooded slope, in 
 glades between the trees, goats were at pasture. 
 
 "Goats! Robinson Crusoe!" Chevenix pointed 
 them out. "Die mihi, Damosta, cuium fecus? an 
 MeUhoei? Are they yours, Senhouse?" 
 
 "I drink them, and make cheese. I learned how 
 to do it at Udine ages ago. You shall have some." 
 
 Sanchia saw them. The sun gleamed upon fawn 
 and white, and made black shine like jet. Deep in 
 the thickets they heard the bell of one, cropping 
 musically. 
 
 Senhouse led them to his verandah, which was 
 shadowed from the heat, made them sit on mats, and 
 served them with milk and bread in wooden laowls 
 and trenchers. He was barefooted, which Sanchia, 
 must by all means be — for the day: divining her, as 
 he only could, he knelt without invitation and untied 
 her shoes. "Stockings too, TU bet you!" was what 
 Chevenix thought; but he was wrong. Senhouse 
 went into his cabin, and returned with sandals. 
 Sanchia had taken off her own stockings. They 
 were sandals to fit her. "I made them for Mary," he 
 explained; "but she preferred boots." "Most of 
 'em do," Chevenix said, "in their hearts," and Sen- 
 house quietly rejoined, "So I've found out." 
 
 Chevenix, the tactful, withdrew himself after a 
 civil interval. He said that he should go goat- 
 
FAIRY DEALINGS 375 
 
 stalking, and, instead, went for a ramble, well out 
 of sight. Then he found a place after his mind, 
 smoked his pipe, and had a nap. 
 
 The pair, left to themselves, resumed with hardly 
 an effort their ancient footing. 
 
 He said, after looking long upon her, "You are 
 changed. Queen Mab; you are graver and quieter 
 — but you are yourself, I see." 
 
 "I am not changed really," she said. "I love all 
 the things I did. But sometimes one doesn't 
 know it." 
 
 He did not appear to heed her, occupied in his 
 gentle scanning of her. "You are, I suppose, more 
 beautiful than you were — I was prepared for that. 
 You have been very much with me of late." 
 
 Her excitement grew suddenly quick. "Have I? 
 It's very odd, but " 
 
 "It's not at all odd," he said. "Nothing is. I 
 will tell you what happens. After I go to bed — 
 which is always lateish — I feel you come down the 
 slope. I am not surprised — I wasn't the first time. 
 You come in a blue gown, with bare feet. I can't 
 see anything of you as you come but gleaming ivory — 
 an oval, which is your face — two bars for your arms 
 — two shafts, — and your feet. Your hair is loose all 
 about your shoulders, and close about your face. It 
 makes the oval longer and narrower than I see it now; 
 your face is fuller by day than by night. You come 
 to me out here, where I wait for you, and hold out 
 your hand. I rise, and take it — and off we go. I 
 realise now that I am in the conduct of a fairy. I was 
 
376 REST HARROW 
 
 inspired when I hailed you — how long ago? — as 
 Queen Mab. You show me wonderful things. Do 
 you know that you come?" 
 
 "No, but — " She stopped, and bent her head. 
 Her experience had not been so simple. "I have 
 thought sometimes — " She could not finish — broke 
 off abruptly. There was a beating pause, during 
 which neither of them dared look at the other. She 
 broke it. She asked him what he did out here alone. 
 
 "I live," he said, "very much as I did. I read — 
 in three tongues; I paint rarely; I do a great deal of 
 work. At night I write my book. And then — you 
 
 "And what is your book ?" 
 
 "It began as Memoirs — in three volumes, but 
 those have stopped. There was plenty to say, but 
 after certain experiences which came to me here — 
 singular enough experiences — nothing in it seemed 
 worth while. Now I call it Despoina, after the prin- 
 cipal character. Despoina, or the Lore of Proser- 
 pine." 
 
 "Who is Despoina?" She showed him that she 
 had the answer already. 
 
 He looked at her, smiling with his eyes. "You 
 are Despoina." 
 
 "Oh," said she, "I thought I was Queen Mab." 
 
 "It is the same thing. Despoina means the Lady 
 — the Lady of the Country. She is a great fairy. 
 The greatest." 
 
 It was now for her to smile at him, which she did 
 a little wistfully. "Your Despoina is either too 
 
HER CONFESSION 377 
 
 much fairy, or not enough. She does very humdrum 
 things. She has done mischief; now she is going to 
 repair it. She is going to be married." 
 
 He was watching her quietly, and took her news 
 quietly. 
 
 "Yes, so I learned. There was a youth here who 
 told me." 
 
 She stopped him, flushing wildly. "A youth! 
 Struan was here? Then it's true — it's true?" 
 
 He was quite calm under this outcry. "Yes, 
 your champion Glyde was here. A good fellow in 
 the main, but, Lord! what a donkey! I think 
 I did him good. He left me a week ago. He had 
 told me about you — found out where you lived, and 
 what was happening." She sat with her face be- 
 tween her hands, dared not let him see it. 
 
 Senhouse resumed the question of her marriage. 
 "It doesn't matter what you do. You are you. So 
 -Ingram has forgiven Master Glyde, and now " 
 
 She lifted her pale face at this name of duty. 
 
 "His wife died a year ago; rather more. He 
 wants me to marry him, and I think I must." 
 
 "You don't want to?" She shook her head, 
 watching her fingers tear the grass. 
 
 "No," she said, "not in the least. But I shall do 
 it. Don't you think that I should ? " 
 
 He thought, then threw his arms out. "God 
 knows what I am to say! If the world held only 
 you and me and him — here — ^fast in this valley — 
 I tell yoii fairly, I 'should stop it." She looked up 
 quickly, and their eyes met. Hers were haunted with 
 
378 REST HARROW 
 
 longing. He had to turn his head. " But it doesn't. 
 To me what you intend to do seems quite horrible 
 because I am flesh, and cannot see that you are spirit. 
 That is a perfectly reasonable reading of the Laws, 
 which says, WhaJ I did as a child I must abide as a 
 woman. It's a law of Nature, after all's said; and 
 yet it can be contradicted in a breath. It's one of 
 those everlasting propositions which are true both 
 ways, positively and negatively; for Nature says, 
 That is my rule, and immediately after. Break it if 
 you're strong enough. Now, you are, but I am 
 not." 
 
 Once more they looked at each other, these two 
 who had but one desire between them — and who 
 knew it each of each. And again it was he who 
 broke away. 
 
 "I'm a coward, I'm false to my own belief. It's 
 love that makes me so. Oh, Heaven, I see so well 
 what it would be! And it would be right, mind you. 
 These laws of Society are nothing, absolutely nothing. 
 But you are pleased, for reasons, to submit. You are 
 deliberate, you are strong. It's the old thing over 
 again. Hideous, vile, abominable servitude! But 
 you are pleased to do it. You say it is Destiny, and 
 you may be right. I tell you once more, I dare not 
 say a word against it." 
 
 "No, no," she said hastily; "don't say anything to 
 stop me. I must go on with it. I have promised. 
 He knows I don't love him, and he doesn't care." 
 
 Senhouse pricked up his head. "Does he love 
 you, do you suppose ? Do you believe it ?" 
 
HIS CONFESSION 379 
 
 She shrugged half-heartedly. "He says so. He 
 seemed to when I told him that I was going away. 
 . "When was that?" he asked her. She told him 
 the whole story as the reader knows it. Senhouse 
 heard her, his head between his hands. 
 
 At the end of it, he looked out over the valley. 
 
 "Would to God," he said, "you and I had never 
 met, Sanchia." 
 
 Tears filled her eyes. "Oh, why do you say 
 that?" 
 
 He took her hands. "You know why." There 
 was no faltering in the look that passed between 
 them now. They were face to face indeed. He got 
 up, and stood apart from her. She waited miserably 
 where she was. 
 
 "We may be friends now, I believe," he said. 
 You'll let me write to you ? You'll trust me ?" 
 
 "I shall live in your letters," she said. "I read 
 nothing else but those I have. They are all the help 
 I have." Then with a cry she broke out, "Oh, 
 Jack, what a mess you've made of our affairs!" 
 
 He laughed bitterly. "Do you know my tale?" 
 
 "I guess it," she said. 
 
 "I played the rogue," he told her, "to a good girl, 
 who was as far from my understanding as I was from 
 hers. I thought that I had got over — ^it, you know, 
 and that she and I could be happy together. Ab- 
 surd, absurd! God bless her, she's happy now. I 
 swear to you that I meant to do her honour — and 
 directly I found out what she really wanted, I would 
 have giyen it her. You'll not believe that I was such 
 
380 REST HARROW 
 
 a fool as to suppose she could feel happy with my 
 ideas of wedded life — but I did. Oh, Heavens! Poor 
 dear, affectionate, simple soul, she felt naked! She 
 shivered at her own plight, and wondered why I'd 
 been so unkind to her, seeing I was by ordinary so 
 kind. I shudder to think what she must have gone 
 through." 
 
 "But," .she said, anxious to save him, "but she 
 knew what your beliefs were — and accepted them. 
 You told me so." 
 
 "Queen Mab," he said gravely, "she was a 
 woman, not a fairy. And please to observe the 
 difference. She, poor dear, felt as if she was stripped 
 until she married. You will feel stripped when you 
 do. Yet you both do it for the same reason. She 
 obeys the law because she dare not break it; you 
 because you choose to keep it. Despoina! Des- 
 poina!" 
 
 She laughed, a little awry. "You used to call me 
 Artemis. I'm not she any more." 
 
 "You are all the goddesses. You do what you 
 please. Your mind is of Artemis; you have the 
 form of Demeter, the grave-eyed spirit of the com — 
 and your gown, I observe, is blue, as hers was. I 
 see Hera in you, too, the peering, proud lady of in- 
 tolerant eyelids; and Kore, the pale, sad wife — ^which 
 makes you your own daughter, my dear; and Gaia, 
 by whom the Athenians swore when they were seri- 
 ous, — Gaia, the Heart of the Earth. All these you 
 are in turns; but to me Despoina, the Lady of the 
 Country, whose secrets no man knows but me." 
 
SHE IS SURE 381 
 
 She was now by his side, very pale and pure in her 
 distress. She put her hand on his shoulder as she 
 leaned to him. "Dearest, there is one of my secrets- 
 you have not learned. May I tell it you ?" 
 
 He listened sideways, not able to look at her. She 
 felt him tremble. "I think not — I think not. You 
 will tell Ingram first — ^then do as you please. Don't 
 ask me to listen. Haven't I told you that I see you 
 every night?" 
 
 "And I tell you nothing of my secret?" 
 
 "I never ask you." 
 
 "But do I not tell you ? Can I keep it ?" 
 
 "You don't speak to me. You never speak. 
 You look. Fairies don't speak with the tongue. 
 They have better ways. " 
 
 "What do you do with me?" 
 
 "I foUow you, over the hills." 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 "At dawn you leave me." 
 
 "I am a ghost?" 
 
 "I don't know. You are Despoina. You go at 
 dawn." 
 
 A power was upon her, and within her. She put 
 both hands on his shoulders. "One night I shall come 
 — and not leave you. And after that you will not fol- 
 low me any more. I shall foUow you." Perfectly 
 master of himself, his eyes met hers and held them. 
 
 "It shall be as you will." 
 
 She smiled confidently. 'I shall come. I know 
 that. But I shan't speak." 
 
 "What "need of speech between you and me?" 
 
382 REST HARROW 
 
 She saw Chevenix upon the high ground above. 
 He stood on the grass dykes of Hirlebury, and waved 
 his hat. 
 
 "I must go now," she said. "Good-bye, my 
 dear one." 
 
 "Good-bye, Despoina. In seven hours you will be 
 here again. . . ." 
 
 "It is to be observed," says a gifted author, "that 
 the laws of human conduct are precisely made for 
 the conduct of this world of Men in which we live 
 and breed and pay rent. They do not affect the 
 Kingdom of the Dogs, nor that of the Fishes ; by a 
 parity of reasoning they should not be supposed to 
 obtain in the Kingdom of Heaven, in which the 
 Schoolmen discovered the citizens dwelling in nine 
 spheres, apart from the blessed Immigrants, whose 
 privileges did not extend so near to the Heart of the 
 Presence. How many realms there may be between 
 mankind's and that ultimate object of Pure Desire 
 cannot at present be known, but it may be affirmed 
 with confidence that any denizen of any one of 
 them, brought into relation with human beings, 
 would act, and lawfully act, in ways which to 
 men would seem harsh, unconscionable, without 
 sanction or convenience. Such a being might mur- 
 der one of the ratepayers of London, compound a 
 felony, or enter into conspiracy to depose the King 
 himself, and, being detected, very properly be put 
 under restraint, or visited with chastisement either 
 deterrent or vindictive, or both. But the true in- 
 
HE JUSTIFIES HER 383 
 
 ference from the premisses would be that, although 
 duress or banishment from the kingdom might be 
 essential, yet punishment, so called, ought not to be 
 visited upon the offender. For he or she could not 
 be nostri juris, and that which was abominable to us 
 might well be reasonable to him or her, and, indeed, a 
 fulfilment of the law of his being. Punishment, there- 
 fore, could not be exemplary, since the person pun- 
 ished exemplified nothing to Mankind; and if vin- 
 dictive, then would be shocking, since that which it 
 vindicated, in the mind of the victim either did not 
 exist, or ought not. The ancient Greek who with- 
 held from the sacrifices to Showery Zeus because a 
 thunderbolt destroyed his hayrick, or the Egyptian 
 who manumitted his slaves because a god took the 
 life of his eldest son, was neither a pious nor a rea- 
 sonable person. 
 
 "Beyond question," he continues, "there are such 
 beings upon the earth, visitors or sojourners by 
 chance, whose true commerce is elsewhere, in a 
 state not visible to us, nor to be apprehended by most 
 of us; whose relation with mankind is temporary. 
 The spheres which govern us, govern not them, and 
 their conduct is dictated by their good pleasure, where 
 ours goes after the good pleasure of our betters. 
 Thus a man may, if he can, take a goddess or nymph 
 to wife, but should not be disconcerted with what she 
 may elect to do." 
 
 Sanchia returned silently to London by the 6.50 
 from Salisbury, and arrived at Charles Street by 
 
384 REST HARROW 
 
 half-past eight, which was Lady Maria's usual hour. 
 She changed her dress hurriedly and came into the 
 drawing-room. Ingram was waiting there, his hands 
 behind his back. He looked at her as she entered, 
 but did not greet her. Perhaps he saw his doom in 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Had a good day, Sancie?" he asked, after a 
 while of gazing. 
 
 "Very good," she said. 
 
 "Saw your man?" 
 
 "Yes, I saw him." 
 
 "Mad as ever?" 
 
 "Ah," she said, "who is mad?" 
 
 "Well, my dear, if he is not, we are. That's cer- 
 tain. What have you done with Bill Chevenix?" 
 
 "He's gone home to dress. He will be here 
 directly." 
 
 "I hope," said Ingram, "he played the perfect 
 squire." She stood by the window looking out tow- 
 ards the west. Luminous orange mist flared up 
 behind the chimney-stacks in streamers. Above 
 that, in a sky faintly blue, crimson clouds, like plumes 
 of feather, floated without motion. 
 
 Ingram called her to him. "Sancie, come here 
 a minute. I want you." She turned her head and 
 looked at him, then slowly crossed the room. She 
 kept her eyes upon him, but did not seem to see him. 
 They were haunted eyes. She came in front of him, 
 and stood, questing his face, as if she was trying to 
 see him within it. 
 
 He continued to smile jauntily, but his lips twitched 
 
SHE STOPS HALF-WAY 385 
 
 with the strain. He put his arm round her shoulder 
 and drew her towards him. "This day month, my 
 girl," he said, and kissed her. She stiffened at his 
 touch. Her lips were cold, and made him shiver. 
 His arm fell back. "Pooh! what do you care?" 
 - She stood in her place before him without speaking. 
 If she had looked at him she might have stricken him 
 blind. When Lady Maria came in, she moved 
 away, and returned to the window. The glow had 
 almost gone; nothing remained but wan blue, white 
 towards the horizon. It was the colour of death; 
 but a single star shone out in it. 
 
 Chevenix came in briskly, fastening his sleeve- 
 links. "Here is the Perfect Chaperon, here is he!" 
 he said, and bowed to Lady Maria. "My dear 
 Aunt Wenman, you've no notion how hungry I am. 
 We saw Senhouse teaching the hares their catechism. 
 Afterwards we lunched on conversation and water. 
 Ah, and salad. Excellent salad. Then I went goat- 
 stalking, and had a nap. Sancie and the Seer con- 
 versed. A great day." 
 
 Lady Maria took Ingram's arm, Sanchia that of 
 Chevenix, and they went downstairs. Half-way 
 down she stopped. Chevenix looked at her. She 
 was white; she could hardly breathe. "Good God, 
 Sancie, what's the matter?" 
 
 She stared, gasped, moved her head about. "I 
 can't go on — I can't — ^I can't. It's horrible — it's 
 awful — I'm afraid. Hush — don't make a fuss. I'm 
 going away. This isn't possible." 
 
 The other couple were in the dining-room by now. 
 Chevenix didn't know what to do. 
 
386 REST HARROW 
 
 "There's dinner, you know, Sancie," he said. 
 "That's an institution, eh? You'll feel better, I 
 expect. Keep your pecker up. I'll have a go at 
 Nevile for you. I swear I will. Now, where's your 
 pluck, my dear?" 
 
 She shook her head, struggling all the time to 
 get her breath. "It's gone — clean gone." 
 
 "You want food, Sancie; that's what you want. 
 Come. Don't let's have a commotion. You leave 
 all this to me." 
 
 She leaned against the wall, and brushed her hand 
 across her face. Chevenix was in depsair. Nevile, 
 from below, called up, "What are you two conspiring 
 about?" Sanchia shivered, and stood up. 
 
 "Go down alone," she said. "I can't." 
 
Ill 
 
 She dragged herself upstairs, and locked herself in 
 her room, stumbled to the window, caught at it by 
 the sill and leaned out. Her skin burned, her blood 
 beat at her temples, and her breath came panting 
 from her. Her white breasts ached with the burden 
 of her strife. "I was bom to live, not die. Air! or 
 I shall fall." 
 
 It was mellow dusk by now, the lamps below her 
 lighted, and above the chimneys and broken roof- 
 line, above the trembling glare which meant London, 
 there were stars in a violet sky. The stars which 
 looked on London, looked also on the dim grass 
 wolds, on hills rolling like waves, on muffled woods, 
 rivers swift under their banks, on comlands stiff and 
 silent in the calm, on pastures and drowsy sheep. 
 But the hills stretched out on either side of a val- 
 ley, fold upon fold, everlastingly the same. There 
 Despoina walked, at the deepest hour of the night. 
 Even now she was looked for by one who sat in the 
 valley and watched the East — intent, hooded, white, 
 his chin upon his knees. A knock sounded at her 
 door. She turned and ran to open. "Her ladyship 
 have sent to know if you would have something 
 sent up, miss." "Nothing, nothing." She sped 
 back to the window. 
 
 387 
 
388 REST HARROW 
 
 At midnight, Despoina should be there. At mid- 
 night! In three hours! It was time to get ready; 
 there wasn't a moment to lose. She watched the 
 night as if she were listening to it, counting its pulse. 
 Then, kneeling where she was, she began to un- 
 fasten her hair, running her hands through it as 
 each clinging coil loosened and grew light. So pres- 
 ently she was curtained in her hair. 
 
 It drooped about her burning cheeks and veiled 
 her bosom. She looked like the Magdalen in the 
 desert, facing, wide-eyed, the preacher. There she 
 knelt on, in a trance, waiting for the hour. 
 
 It struck ten — eleven. 
 
 She changed her dress and put on again the blue 
 cotton gown of the day's wearing — ^but she left her 
 hair loose about her face and shoulders, and her feet 
 were bare. She looked at herself in the glass. Her 
 face was white, her eyes were wide and strange. She 
 did not know herself, smiling so sharply — like a 
 goddess wild with a rapture not known by men and 
 women. Fiercer delights than theirs she knew, the 
 joy of power mated with its equal, coping fellow to 
 fellow. Consciousness of immortal bliss dawned 
 upon her wise lips, and flickered in their curve. 
 
 "Despoina is here," she said, and blew out the 
 light. 
 
IV 
 
 It was intensely dark in the cup of the hills, but 
 by the difference of a tone it was just possible to 
 make out where the sky began. Looking closer yet, 
 you could guess at a film of light, as if the rim of 
 down absorbed and reflected a caught radiance from 
 the stars. 
 
 On a quiet night the stars seem to bum more 
 fiercely, and on this night you might have believed 
 they gave you heat. There was no moon; but the 
 sky was illuminated by stars. Jupiter had rays like 
 a sun, and Sirius lay low down and glowed, now 
 fiery, now green. A winged creature, crossing up 
 the valley, would pass unnoticed; but if it struck 
 suddenly upwards for a higher flight, above the hills 
 into the upper air, you would see the light upon its 
 pinions, and even the glitter of its watchful eye. 
 
 There was no wind; the silence could be felt, 
 throbbing about you. It was past the hour when 
 the creatures go hunting; the time when every 
 breathing thing submits to the same power. Men 
 and women forgot each other and their loves; foxes 
 lay coiled in their earths. The shriek of the field- 
 mouse startled you no more, nor the swift dry rustle of 
 the grass-snake. Presently, verv far away across the 
 
 389 
 
390 REST HARROW 
 
 hills, in some valley not to be known, a dog barked; 
 but the sound just marked the silence, and died down. 
 
 The hooded figure down there sat like a Buddha 
 on his rock, motionless, unwinking, breathing deep 
 and slow. His hands clasped his shins, his chin 
 was on his knees; he pored into the dark. He sat 
 facing the ridgeway where it came from the East, 
 and watched the courses of the stars. 
 
 Through the window of the hidden hut a faint 
 light glimmered, and within the open door there was 
 to be discerned a pale diffusion of light. In the 
 beam of this he sat, cowled in white, but his face was 
 shadowed. He was like the shell of a man who had 
 died in his thought, and stiffened in the act of medi- 
 tation. No relation between him and the rest of the 
 world could be discerned. He was as far from the 
 sleepers as the dead are. 
 
 Yet within him was the patience which comes of 
 wild expectancy. His mind was as couched as his 
 body for the moment. He had not fasted for years 
 in the wilderness, and communed with the spirits of 
 the hidden creatures without learning the secret of 
 their immobility. To him who could speak with 
 plants and beasts, with hills and trees, the Night itself 
 could converse. So surely as the crystal fluid which 
 is the air streams in circles of waves about our 
 sphere, so surely ranged his sense. 
 
 At a certain moment of time, without stirring, 
 he changed. Intensity of search gathered in his 
 eyes, and filled them with power. He remained for 
 a little time longer in a state of tension so extreme, so 
 
SHE COMES BY NIGHT 39 1 
 
 Strung to an act that there might have streamed a 
 music from him, as from the Memnon in the sands 
 when hght and heat thrill the fibres of the stone. 
 His look was concentrated upon a point above him 
 where, look as one might, one could have seen noth- 
 ing to break the translucent veil of dark. 
 
 Yet, after a time, looking just there, one might feel 
 rather than know a something coming. The watcher 
 certainly did. Deep within the shadow of the cowl 
 his eyes dilated and narrowed, his lips parted, his 
 breath came quick and sharp. But he did not move. 
 
 The sense of a presence heightened; one knew it 
 much nearer. By and by, one could have seen pale 
 forms wavering in the fluid violet of the night, like 
 marsh-fires going and coming — and could guess 
 them one and the same. Bodily substance could 
 only be inferred. But he who waited, tense for the 
 hour, knew that the hour had come. 
 
 Her white face, made narrow by the streaming 
 curtain of her hair, her white arms and feet were 
 luminous in that dark place, and revealed the sem- 
 blance of her body. His cowl was thrown back; 
 he had bowed his head to his knees. She stood over 
 him, looking down upon him, not moving. Her eyes 
 were clear and wide, and her parted lips smiled. 
 The rise and fall of her breasts could be heard as 
 they stirred her gown. 
 
 She put out her hand and laid it on his head; she 
 stooped to him as he looked fearfully up, and, meet- 
 ing his face, kissed him. No words passed between 
 
392 . REST HARROW 
 
 them, but he rose and stood by her, and she took his 
 hand. 
 
 Together, hand in hand, they went deep into the 
 valley, and the night hid them under the stars, and 
 the silence swallowed up the sounds of their bare 
 footfalls. 
 
The philosopher sat barefoot in the hollow of his 
 valley, and wrote diligently in a book. He paused, 
 pen in hand, and looked over the folds of the hills 
 where the haze of heat hung blue, and brown at 
 the edges. It lay upon the hill-tops like a mist. 
 The sky was grey, and the land was pale, burned to 
 the bone. Heavy masses of trees in the hanging 
 wood showed lifeless and black. No bird sang, but 
 there were crickets in the bents, shrilling incon- 
 ceivably. The swoon of midsummer was over all, 
 and Sanchia was coming. 
 
 He knew that she was coming before he saw her. 
 She came along the edge of the plain above him. 
 springing barefoot. He saw her legs gleam under 
 her swirling skirts. He strained his eyes to her, but 
 could not see her face for the. mist over them. He 
 waited for her, watching, feeling her approach. 
 She began the descent of the scarp timidly, as if she 
 was playing with the thought of his bliss, which she 
 held daintily in her hands. "Dangerously beauti- 
 ful, my Beautiful One, art thou. Heedless always of 
 thyself. Now a wind blows from thee to me. Thy 
 herald, O Thou that shrillest on the wind!" 
 
 393 
 
394 liEST HARROW 
 
 He heard her gay and confident voice. "Jack! 
 Jack! Where are you?" He rose and went to 
 meet her; she saw him, and suddenly faltered in her 
 stoop. She stopped, poised as if for flight; he saw 
 her wings fold behind her, and lie quivering where 
 they touched each other. 
 
 Her heart urged her. "Go to him." 
 
 She looked at him. "I can't see him perfectly, 
 and can't trust myself." 
 
 Her heart cried, "I have brought you so far. I 
 daren't stop." Still she stood and flickered. 
 
 Senhouse mounted to meet her. Blushful and 
 bashful she stood; but her eyes, deeply watchful, 
 never left him. 
 
 He, too, had lost his tongue. "Queen Mab! I 
 knew that you were coming." 
 
 Her eyes were timid and her tongue tied. She was 
 like a rueful child. 
 
 "How did you come, my dear?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "You came last night?" 
 
 "Ah, you knew me?" 
 
 "Well, Queen Mab?" 
 
 She had nothing to say. 
 
 "Oh, my dear, my dear,^' he asked her, "why 
 are you come?" 
 
 "I can't tell you if you don't know." She looked 
 at him, and he knew. 
 
 "You came to me — not because I love you?" 
 
 "No, no! Not for that!" 
 
SHE COMES BY DAY 395 
 
 "You are beautiful beyond belief, Queen Mab. 
 And you are the soul of truth. My dear one, do 
 you love me?" 
 
 She hung her head, and looked up from under her 
 long lashes. He saw, not heard, her answer. 
 
 He encircled her with his arm, and felt her trem- 
 bling at his side. "My dear," he said, "I was writing 
 my Memoirs. Now we'll bum the book, for I see 
 that I am now going to be bom." 
 
 She looked up at him laughing. She was the 
 colour of a flushed rose. "My bride," he said, and 
 kissed her lips. She tumed in his arm and clung to 
 him. The storm swept surging over her; passion 
 long pent made her shiver like a blown fire. They 
 took their wild joy. . . . 
 
 He led her by her hand to the shade of the valley, 
 where the deep turf is hardly ever dry. She was 
 barefoot, as he was, and bareheaded. In her bosom 
 was a spray of dog-rose. 
 
 "You are blue-gowned, like Despoina," he told 
 her, "and, indeed, that is your name. I am to 
 have a fairy wife." 
 
 "Artemis no more," she laughed. 
 
 "You fulfil all the goddesses. Artemis was your 
 childhood. But let's be practical. What is to be 
 done?" She faltered her answer. 
 
 "I have found out by myself what to do," she 
 said. And then she kissed him. "It's done now." 
 
 They picked up their lives where they had dropped 
 them. They were content to wait for the fulness of 
 
396 REST HARROW 
 
 their joy. He busied himself with food for her; he 
 cooked, and she helped him; they talked of his 
 affairs as if they had always been hers. 
 
 Something stirred the practical side of him. She 
 was to see him as near a man of the world as it was 
 possible for him to be. It might have been a shock to 
 her, but its simplicity was all his own. 
 
 "I must see one person, and you must see one. 
 I'll go to your father, and you shall tell Ingram 
 what's going to happen. We don't owe him much, 
 but there's that, I think. I've a great idea of treat- 
 ing the world with civility. The one thing it has 
 worth having is its sense of manners. Let us have 
 manners, then. Don't you think so?" He held 
 her close as he spoke, and with a strange discrepancy 
 between sight and sound, looked at her with dim 
 eyes of love, before which she had to close down her 
 own. To his, "Don't you think so?" she could 
 only murmur without breath, "You mustn't love me 
 so much — ^not yet, not yet!" but he pressed her the 
 nearer and laughed his joy of her. "What! After 
 eight years! And if I don't hold her very close, 
 Mab, the tricksy sprite, may slip me." 
 
 Then he returned to his moralisings. "You'll see 
 Ingram, my blessed one, don't you think?" 
 
 She said gravely, with hard outlook upon the dis- 
 tant wold, "Yes, I must see him — " and then, with 
 a sudden turn to him and a wondrous veil of tender- 
 ness upon her eyes, " You know that I think what you 
 think from now onwards." Their lips sealed the 
 pact. 
 
THE FAIRY WIFE 397 
 
 He broke away at last. "Practice! Practice! 
 Do let's be practical. Think of this. My house is 
 yours until we marry; that can't be for a week/' A 
 week! This was Senhouse practical. She blushed 
 her answer. 
 
 "What will you do? I mustn't turn you out." 
 He opened his arms wide to the airs of the down. 
 
 "I sleep in the open. The stars for me. They 
 shall see you wedded. Meanwhile, I shall wait upon 
 you. But do let us be practical. We wait a week; 
 we marry; but then what shall we do ? Shall we re- 
 form the world ? I think we shall do that in spite of 
 ourselves; for if two people dare to be simple, there's 
 no reason why two million shouldn't." She lay at 
 peace considering; her blue eyes, searching won- 
 derfully into his, saw peace like a crown of stars. 
 
 "I'll tell you what I should like to do," she said. 
 "I've thought about it this minute. It never oc- 
 curred to me before, but I should like to teach better 
 than anything in the world." 
 
 He looked far out to the white rim of horizon. He 
 took her very seriously. "It'p the highest profes- 
 sion of all, of course. Let's tbink. I've begun on 
 it ahready, oddly enough. And yet, you know, it's 
 not odd. Nothing is after our experiences. . . . We 
 will teach. Woodcraft, weathercraft, husbandry,- 
 beast-craft, sky-craft. I can do that much for them. 
 Lit., hum., Greek, Latin, EngHsh, Dante. History, 
 shadowy; geography, practical. Tinkering, car- 
 pentering, planting. No mathematics; I can't add 
 two to two." 
 
39? REST HARROW 
 
 " But I can," she told him. " I'll teach the babies, 
 for we must have babies." 
 
 His eyes flashed upon hers for one beating second 
 of full interchange. Then he turned them away, and 
 scanned again the hazy hills. But hers remained 
 on their watch, charged with their wistful dream. 
 
 "Our school," he presently resumed, "I see it. 
 We teach first of all Nature's face and the love of it. 
 We lead their hungry mouths to Nature's breast. 
 No books! No books for them to glue their eyes 
 upon. They shall learn by ear; their eyes have a 
 better book to read in. Classics by ear and by heart, 
 eh?" 
 
 She glowed at a memory. "You wrote to me 
 about that. You said that, before the Printing Press, 
 people used to get poetry by heart." 
 
 He looked down at her where she lay at ease. 
 " ' As I have got you, ' I said." She dreamed beneath 
 her flickering eyelids. 
 
 "You had me then. I didn't know it; but you 
 had. And you have me still. That's wonderful. 
 But now I have got you ! " She lay awhile under the 
 spell of him and the thought, and glowed and blos^ 
 somed under them until at last, flowering like a rose, 
 she turned and hid her face in his arm. Senhouse, 
 grave and strong, let her lie where she was; but he 
 felt the pulsing of her bosom, and was moved to 
 utterance. Nothing in the eyes he bent dovm to her 
 beauty, and nothing in his words betrayed the pas- 
 sion of his heart. 
 
 "The loveliest thing in all the world to me," he 
 
Senhouse came back to her bedside and put a little flower 
 into her hand. 
 
WEATHERS SUMS UP 399 
 
 said, "is a beautiful thing bent in humility, stooping 
 to serve. I shall see you teaching your children. 
 They will be at your knees, on your knees; you will 
 kiss them, and I shall go mad with joy. Flowers 
 and you! Yes, we'll have our school. We'll teach 
 people the beauty of their own business by means of 
 the most beautiful things. Flowers and you!" 
 
 They talked long and late, walking down the val- 
 ley to the farmstead for bread. On this, with milk 
 and fruit, they supped after Sanchia had bathed, and 
 clad herself in one of his Moorish robes. Hooded 
 and folded in this she sat at meat, and Senhouse, 
 filled with the Holy Ghost, discoursed at large. The 
 past they took for granted; the present was but a 
 golden frame for the throbbing blue of the days to 
 come. 
 
 Very early on the morning after the night when, 
 as has been foretold, she was made a wife under the 
 stars, Senhouse came back to her bedside and put a 
 Uttle flower into her hand. It woke her out of her 
 dreams; glozed and dewy from them she looked at it, 
 and smiled at him through it. In grey-green leafage, 
 dewy and downy, lay a little blossom of delicate pink, 
 chahce-shaped, with a lip of flushed white. Watch- 
 ing him, she laid it to her lips. "My flower, our 
 flower," she said, and watching him still put it deep 
 within her bosom. "My dear one, we have earned 
 it." 
 
400 REST HARROW 
 
 "'Rest-Harrow,'" said Senhouse, in a sententious 
 mood, "'grows in any soil. . . . The seed may be 
 sown as soon as ripe, in warm, sheltered spots out of 
 doors. ... It is a British plant.' So says Weathers, 
 the learned botanist. I praise Weathers. And I 
 like his name." Then he kissed her. 
 
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 Hearth.' " — Philadelphia Ledger^ 
 
 "A wonderful creation which Mr. Hewlett has never 
 surpassed." — New York Titnes. 
 
BOOKS BY MAURICE HEWLETT 
 
 PUBLISHED by CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 Little Novels of Italy 
 
 12mo. $1.50 
 
 " The most finished studies which have appeared since 
 the essays of Walter Pater." — London Daily Telegraph. 
 
 " The stories are so true to their locality that they read 
 almost like translations." — New York Times. 
 
 The Road in Tuscany 
 
 A Commentary 
 
 2 Volumes. 12mo. $6.00 Net 
 
 " Every one who wishes to have an English library of 
 books of and on Italy should have this frank and 
 charming comment upon Tuscany." 
 
 — Chicago Tribune. 
 
 Earth^vork Out of 
 Tuscany 
 
 Being Impressions and Translations of 
 Maurice Hew^lett 
 
 12ino. $2.00 
 
 " Written with the lightness, the delicacy, the felicity 
 of the painter whose colors are words fitly chosen." 
 
 — San Francisco Argonaut. 
 
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