by Elinor Glyn
BY ELINOR GLYN
AUTHOR OF “THE REASON WHY,” “HIS HOUR,” “THREE WEEKS,” ETC.
TO THE MEMORY OF MY KIND FRIEND
LORD ST. HELIER
WHOSE SYMPATHY WITH MY CLASSICAL STUDIES SO GREATLY ENCOURAGED THEM
[Greek: DRASANTI PATHEIN]
“And now they are past the last blue headland and in the open
sea; and there is nothing round them but the waves and the sky and the
wind. But the waves are gentle and the sky is clear, and the breeze is
tender and low; for these are the days when Halcyone and Ceyx build
their nest and no storms ever ruffle the pleasant summer sea. And who
were Halcyone and Ceyx? Halcyone was a fairy maiden, the daughter of
the beach and of the wind. And she loved a sailor-boy and married him;
and none on earth were so happy as they. But at last Ceyx was wrecked;
and before he could swim to the shore, the billows swallowed him up.
And Halcyone saw him drowning and leapt into the sea to him; but in
vain. Then the Immortals took pity on them both, and changed them into
two fair sea-birds, and now they build a floating nest every year and
sail up and down for ever upon the pleasant seas of Greece.”
THE HEROES, Kingsley.
Outside one of the park gates there was a little house. In the
prosperous days of the La Sarthe it had been the land steward's—but
when there was no longer any land to steward it had gone with the rest,
and for several years had been uninhabited.
One day in early spring Halcyone saw smoke coming out of the
chimney. This was too interesting a fact not to be investigated; she
resented it, too—because a hole in the park paling had often let her
into the garden and there was a particularly fine apple tree there
whose fruit she had yearly enjoyed.
She crept nearer, a tall, slender shape, with mouse-colored hair
waving down her back, and a scarlet cap pulled jauntily over her
brow—the delightful feeling of adventure tingling in her veins. Yes,
the gap was there, it had not been mended yet—she would penetrate and
see for herself who this intruder could be.
She climbed through and stole along the orchard and up to the house.
Signs of mending were around the windows, in the shape of a new board
here and there in the shutters; but nothing further. She peeped over
the low sill, and there her eyes met those of an old man seated in a
shabby armchair, amid piles and piles of books. He had evidently been
reading while he smoked a long, clay pipe.
He was a fine old man with a splendid presence, his gray hair was
longer than is usual and a silvery beard flowed over his chest.
Halcyone at once likened him to Cheiron in the picture of him in her
volume of Kingsley's “Heroes.”
They stared at one another and the old man rose and came to the
Halcyone did not move.
“Who are you, little girl?” he said. “And what do you want?”
“I want to know who you are, and why you have come here?” she
answered fearlessly. “I am Halcyone, you know.”
The old man smiled.
“That ought to tell me everything,” he said, gravely, “but
unfortunately it does not! Who is Halcyone?”
“I live at La Sarthe Chase with the Aunts La Sarthe,” she said
proudly, as though La Sarthe Chase had been Windsor Castle—“and I have
been accustomed to play in this garden. I don't like your being here
“I am sorry for that, because it suits me and I have bought it. But
how would it be if I said you might come into the garden still and
play? Would you forgive me then for being here?”
“I might,” said Halcyone. “What are all these books for?”
“They are to read.”
“I knew that—” and she frowned, beetling her delicate dark brows,
“but why such a lot? You can never read them all.”
The old man smiled.
“I have read most of them already,” he said. “I have had plenty of
time, you see.”
“Yes, I dare say you are old,” said Halcyone—“and what are they
about? I would like to know that. My books so seldom interest me.”
He handed her one through the window, but it was written in Greek
and she could not read it. She frowned again as she turned over the
“Perhaps there is something nice in that,” she said.
“Well, won't you tell me what?”
“That would take a long time—suppose you come in and have tea with
me, then we could talk comfortably.”
“That sounds a good plan,” she said, gravely. “Shall I climb through
the window—I can quite easily—or would you like me to go round by the
“The window will serve,” said the old man.
And with one bound as light as a young kid, Halcyone was in the
There was a second armchair beyond the pile of books, and into that
she nestled, crossing her knees and clasping her hands round them. “Now
we can begin,” she said.
“Tea or talk?” asked the old man.
“Why, talk, of course; there is no tea—”
“But if you rang that bell some might come.”
Halcyone jumped up again and looked about for the bell. She was not
going to ask where it was—she disliked stupid people herself. The old
man watched her from under the penthouse of his eyebrows with a curious
The bell was hidden in the carving of the mantelpiece, but she found
it at last and gave it a lusty pull.
It seemed answered instantaneously by a strange-looking man,—a
dark, extremely thin person with black, dull eyes.
The old man spoke to him in an unknown language and he retired
“Who was that?” asked Halcyone.
“That is my servant,—he will bring tea.”
“He is not English?”
“No—does that matter?”
“Of course not—but what country does he come from?”
“You must ask him someday.”
“I want to see countries,” and she stretched out her slender arms,
“I want to fly away outside the park and see the world.”
“You have time,” said the old man.
“When I am big enough I shall run away—I get very tired of only the
Aunts La Sarthe. They never understand a word I say.” “What do you
“I want to say all sorts of things, but if it isn't what they have
heard a hundred times before, they look shocked and pained.”
“You must come and say them to me then, perhaps I might understand,
and in any case I should not be shocked or pained.”
“They remind me of the Three Gray Sisters, although there are only
two of them—one eye and one tooth between them.”
“I see—there is something we can talk about at all events,” said
the old man. “The Three Gray Sisters are friends of yours—are they?”
“Not friends!” Haley one exclaimed emphatically. “I can't bear them,
silly old things nodding there, with their ridiculous answers to
Perseus, saying old things were better than new—and their day better
than his—I should have thrown their eye into the sea if I had been he.
Do all old people do that?—pretend their time was the best?—do you? I
don't mean to.”
“You are right. It is a bad habit.”
“But are they better, the old things?”
The old man did not answer for a moment or two. He looked his
visitor through and through with his wise gray eyes—an investigation
which might have disconcerted some people, but Halcyone was unabashed.
“I know what you are doing,” she said. “You are seeing the other
side of my head—and I wish I could see the other side of yours, I can
the Aunts' La Sarthe and Priscilla's, in a minute, but yours is
“I am glad of that—you might be disappointed, though, if you did
see what was there.”
“I always want to see,” she said simply—“see everything; and
sometimes I find the other side not a bit what this is—even in the
birds and trees and the beetles. But you must have a huge big one.”
The old man laughed.
“You and I are going to be good acquaintances,” he said. “Tell me
some more of Perseus. What more do you know of him?”
“I have only read 'The Heroes,'“ Halcyone admitted, “but I know it
by heart—and I know it is all true though my governess says it is
fairy-tales and not for girls. I want to learn Greek, but they can't
“That is too bad.”
“When things are put vaguely I always want to know, them—I want to
know why Medusa turned into a gorgon? What was her sin?”
The old man smiled.
“I see,” said Halcyone, “you won't tell me, but some day I shall
“Yes, some day you shall know,” he said.
“They seem such great people, those Greeks; they knew everything—so
the preface of my 'Heroes' says, and I want to learn the things they
knew—mathematics and geometry, rather—and especially logic and
metaphysics, because I want to know the meaning of words and the art of
reasoning, and above everything I want to know about my own thoughts
and soul.” “You strange little girl,” said the old man. “Have you a
“I don't know, I have something in there,” and Halcyone pointed to
her head—“and it talks to me like another voice, and when I am alone
up a tree away from people, and all is beautiful, it seems to make it
tight round here,—and go from my head into my side,” and she placed
her lean brown paw over her heart.
“Yes—you perhaps have a soul,” said the old man, and then he added,
half to himself—“What a pity.”
“Why a pity?” demanded Halcyone.
“Because a woman with a soul suffers, and brings tribulation—but
since you have one we may as well teach you how to keep the thing in
At that moment, the dark servant brought tea, and the fine oriental
china pleased Halcyone whose perceptions took in the texture of every
single thing she came in contact with.
The old man seemed to go into a reverie, he was quite silent while
he poured out the tea, forgetting to enquire her tastes as to cream and
sugar—he drank his black—and handed Halcyone a cup of the same.
She looked at him, her inquiring eyes full of intelligence and
understanding, and she realized at once that these trifles were not in
his consideration for the moment. So she helped herself to what she
wanted and sat down again in her armchair. She did not even rattle her
teaspoon. Priscilla often made noises which irritated her when she was
thinking. The old man came back to a remembrance of her presence at
“Little girl,” he said—“would you like to come here pretty often
and learn Greek, and about the Greeks?”
Halcyone bounded from her chair with joy.
“But of course I would!” she said. “And I am not stupid—not really
stupid Mademoiselle says, when I want to learn things.”
“No—I dare say you are not stupid,” the old man said. “So it is a
bargain then; I shall teach you about my friends the Greeks, and you
shall teach me about the green trees, and your friends the rabbits and
Then those instinctive good manners of Halcyone's came uppermost,
inherited, like her slender shape and balanced head, from that long
line of La Sarthe ancestors, and she thanked the old man with a quaint,
courtly, sweetly pedantic grace. Then she got up to go—
“I like being here—and may I come again to-morrow?” she said
afterwards. “I must go now or they will be disagreeable and perhaps
The old man watched her as she curtsied to him and vaulted through
the window again, and on down the path, and through the hole in the
paling, without once turning round. Then he muttered to himself:
“A woman thing who refrains from looking back!—Yes, I fear she has
Then he returned to his pipe and his Aristotle.
Halcyone struck straight across the park until she came to the beech
avenue, near the top, which ran south. The place had been nobly planned
by that grim old La Sarthe who raised it in the days of seventh Henry.
It stood very high with its terraced garden in the center of four
splendid avenues of oak, lime, beech and Spanish chestnut running east,
west, north and south. And four gates in different stages of
dilapidation gave entrance through a broken wall of stone to a circular
drive which connected all the avenues giving access to the house, a
battered, irregular erection of gray stone.
To reach the splendid front door you entered from the oak avenue and
crossed the pleasance, now only an overgrown meadow where the one cow
grazed in the summer.
Then you were obliged to mount three stately flights of stone steps
until you reached the first terrace, which was flagged near the house
and bordered with stiff flower-beds. Here you might turn and look back
due west upon a view of exquisite beauty—an undulating fertile country
beneath, and then in the far distance a line of dim blue hills.
But if you chanced to wish to enter your carriage unwetted on a
rainy day, you were obliged to deny yourself the pleasure of passing
through the entrance hall in state, and to go out at the back by stone
passages into the courtyard where the circular avenue came up close to
a fortified door, under the arch of which you could drive.
Everything spoke of past grandeur and present decay—only the
flower-beds of the highest terrace appeared even partly cultivated; the
two lower ones were a wild riot of weeds and straggling rose trees
unpruned and untrained, and if you looked up at the windows in the
southern wing of the house, you saw that several panes in them were
missing and that the holes had been stuffed with rags.
At this time of the year the beech avenue presented an indescribably
lovely sight of just opening leaves of tender green. It was a
never-failing joy to Halcyone. She walked the few paces which separated
her from it and turning, stood leaning against the broken gate now,
drinking in every tone of the patches the lowered sun made of gold
between the green. For her it was full of wood nymphs and elves. It did
not contain gods and goddesses like the others. She told herself long
stories about them.
The beech avenue was her favorite for the spring, the lime for the
summer, the chestnut for the autumn, and the oak for the winter. She
knew every tree in all four, as a huntsman knows his hounds. And when,
in the great equinoctial storm of the previous year, three giant oaks
lay shattered and broken, the sight had caused her deep grief, until
she wove a legend about them and turned them into monsters for Perseus
to subdue with Medusa's head. One, indeed, whose trunk was gnarled and
twisted, became the serpent of the brazen scales who sleepeth not,
guarding the Golden Fleece.
“As the tree falls so shall it lie,” seemed to be the motto of La
Sarthe Chase. For none were removed.
Halcyone stretched out her arms and beckoned to her fairy friends.
“Queen Mab,” she called, “come and dance nearer to me—I can see
your wings and I want to talk to you to-day!”
And as if in answer to this invitation, the rays of the lowered sun
shifted to an opening almost at her feet, and with a cry of joy the
child began to dance in the gorgeous light.
“Come follow, follow me, ye fairy elves that be,” she sang softly.
And the sprites laughed with gladness, and gilded her mouse hair
with gold, and lit up her eyes, and wove scarves about her with
gossamer threads, and beneath her feet tall bluebells offered their
heads as a carpet.
But Halcyone sprang over them, she would not have crushed the
“Queen Mab!” she said at last, as she sat down in the middle of the
sunlight, “I have found an old gentleman—and he is Cheiron, and if one
could see it in the right light, he may have a horse's body, and he is
going to teach me just what Jason learnt—and then I shall tell it to
The rays shifted again to a path beyond, and Halcyone bounded up and
went on her way.
Old William was drawing the elder Miss La Sarthe in a dilapidated
basket-chair, up and down on the highest terrace. She held a minute
faded pink silk parasol over her head—it had an ivory handle which
folded up when she no longer needed the parasol as a shade. She wore
one-buttoned gloves, of slate-colored kid, and a wrist-band of black
velvet clasped with a buckle. An inverted cake-tin of weather-beaten
straw, trimmed with rusty velvet, shadowed her old, tired eyes; an
Indian shawl was crossed upon her thin bosom.
“Halcyone!” she called querulously. “Where have you been, child? You
must have missed your tea.”
And Halcyone answered:
“In the orchard.”
For of what use to inform Aunt Ginevra about that enchanting visit
to Cheiron! Aunt Ginevra who knew not of such beings!
“The orchard's let,” grunted old William—“they do say it's sold—”
“I had rather not hear of it, William,” said Miss La Sarthe
frowning. “It does not concern one what occurs beyond one's gates.”
Old William growled gently, and continued his laborious task—one of
the wheels squeaked as it turned on the flags.
“Aunt Ginevra, you must have that oiled,” said Halcyone, as she
screwed up her face. “How can you bear it? You can't see the lovely
spring things, with that noise.”
“One does not see with one's ears, Halcyone,” quavered Miss La
Sarthe. “Take me in now, William.”
“And she can't even see them with her eyes—poor Aunt Ginevra!”
Halcyone said to herself, as she walked respectfully by the chair until
it passed the front door on its way to the side. Then she bounded up
the steps and through the paneled, desolate hall, taking joy in
climbing the dog-gates at the turn of the stairs, which she could
easily have opened—and she did not pause until she reached her own
room in the battered south wing, and was soon curled up in the broad
window sill, her hands clasped round her knees.
For this was a wonderful thing which had come into her life.—She
had met someone who could see the other side of her head! Henceforth
there would be a human voice, not only a fairy's, to converse with her.
Indeed, the world was a very fair place!
Here, Priscilla found her when it was growing dark, still with the
rapt expression of glad thought on her face. And the elderly woman
shook her head. “That child is not canny,” she muttered, while aloud
she chided her for idleness and untidiness in having thrown her cap on
But Halcyone flung her arms round Priscilla's neck and laughed in
“Oh, you dear old goosie! I have been with the Immortals on the blue
peaks of Olympus and there we did not wear caps!”
“Them Immortals!” said Priscilla. “Better far you were attending to
things you can see. They'll be coming down and carrying you off, some
of these fine nights!”
“The Immortals don't care so much about the nights,
Priscilla—unless Artemis is abroad—she does—but the others like the
sunlight and great white clouds and a still blue sky. I am quite
safe—” and Halcyone smiled.
Priscilla began tidying up.
“Ma'm'selle's wrote to the mistresses to say she won't come back,
she can't put up with the place any longer.”
This sounded too good to be true! Another governess going! Surely
they would see it was no use asking any more to come to La Sarthe
Chase—Halcyone had never had one who could appreciate its beauties.
Governesses to her were poor-spirited creatures afraid of rats, and the
dark passages—and one and all resentful of the rag-stuffed panes in
the long gallery. Surely with the new-found Cheiron to instruct her
about those divine Greeks a fresh governess was unnecessary.
“I shall ask Aunt Ginevra to implore my stepfather not to send any
more. We don't want them, do we, Priscilla?”
“That we don't, my lamb!” agreed Priscilla. “But you must learn
something more useful than gods and goddesses. Your poor, dear mother
in heaven would break her heart if she knew you were going to be
brought up ignorant.”
Halcyone raised her head haughtily.
“I shan't be ignorant—don't be afraid. I would not remain ignorant
even if no other governess ever came near me. I can read by myself, and
the dear old gentleman I saw to-day will direct me.” And then when she
perceived the look of astonishment on Priscilla's face: “Ah! That is a
secret! I had not meant to tell you—but I will. The orchard cottage is
inhabited and I've seen him, and he is Cheiron, and I am going to learn
“Bless my heart!” said Priscilla. “Well, now, it is long past seven
o'clock and you must dress to go down to dessert.”
And all the time she was putting Halcyone into her too short white
frock, and brushing her mane of hair, the child kept up a brisk
conversation. Silent for hours at a time, when something suddenly
interested her she could be loquacious enough.
One candle had to be lit before her toilet was completed, and then
at half past seven she stole down the stairs, full of shadows, and
across the hall to the great dining-room, where the Misses La Sarthe
dined in state at seven o'clock, off some thin soup and one other dish,
so that at half past seven the cloth had been cleared away by old
William (in a black evening coat now and rather a high stock), and the
shining mahogany table reflected the two candles in their superb old
At this stage, as Halcyone entered the room, it was customary for
William to place the dish of apples on the table in front of Miss La
Sarthe, and the dish of almonds and raisins in front of Miss Roberta.
The dessert did not vary much for months—from October to late June it
was the same; and only on Sundays was the almond and raisin dish
allowed to be partaken of, but an apple was divided into four quarters,
after being carefully peeled by Miss La Sarthe, each evening, and Miss
Roberta was given two quarters and Halcyone one, while the eldest lady
nibbled at the remaining piece herself.
In her day, children had always come down to dessert, and had had to
be good and not greedy, or the fate of Miss Augusta Noble of that
estimable book, “The Fairchild Family,” would certainly fall upon them.
Halcyone, from her earliest memory, had come down to dessert every
night—except at one or two pleasant moments when the measles or a bad
cold had kept her in bed. Half past seven o'clock, summer and winter,
had meant for her the quarter of an apple, two or three strawberries or
a plum—and almost always the same conversation.
Miss La Sarthe sat at the head of the table, in a green silk dress
cut low upon the shoulders and trimmed with a bertha of blonde lace.
Miss Roberta—sad falling off from dignity—had her thin bones covered
with a habit shirt of tulle, because she was altogether a poorer
creature than her sister, and felt the cold badly. Both ladies wore
ringlets at the sides of their faces and little caps of ribbon and
Even within Halcyone's memory, the dining-room had lost some of its
adornments. The Chippendale chairs had gone, and had been replaced by
four stout kitchen ones. The bits of rare china were fewer—but the
portrait of the famous Timothy La Sarthe, by Holbein, still frowned
from his place of honor above the chimneypiece. All the La Sarthes had
been christened Timothy since that time.
The affair of the governess seemed to be troubling Miss Roberta. At
intervals she had found comfort in these denizens of the outer world,
and, free from the stern eye of Sister Ginevra, had been wont to chat
with one and another. They never stayed long enough for her to know
them well, and now this lady—the fifth within two years—had refused
to return. Life seemed very dull.
“Need I have any more governesses, Aunt Ginevra?” Halcyone said.
“There is an old gentleman who has bought the orchard house and he says
he will teach me Greek—and I already know a number of other tiresome
Halcyone had not meant to tell her aunts anything about
Cheiron—this new-found joy—but she reasoned after she heard of
Mademoiselle's non-return that the knowledge that she would have some
instructor might have weight with those in charge of her. It was worth
risking at all events.
Miss La Sarthe adjusted a gold pince-nez and looked at the little
“How old are you, Halcyone?” she asked.
“I was twelve on the seventh of last October, Aunt Ginevra.”
“Twelve—a young gentlewoman's education is not complete at twelve
years old, child—although governesses in the house are not very
pleasant, I admit”—and Miss La Sarthe sighed.
“Oh, I know it isn't!” said Halcyone, “but you see, I can speak
French and German quite decently, and the other things surely I might
learn myself in between the old gentleman's teaching.”
“But what do you know of this—this stranger?” demanded Miss La
Sarthe. “You allude to someone of whom neither your Aunt Roberta nor I
have ever heard.”
“I met him to-day. I went into the orchard as usual, and found the
house was inhabited, and I saw him and he asked me in to tea. He is a
very old gentleman with a long white beard, and very, very clever. His
room is full of Greek books and we had a long talk, and he was very
kind and said he would teach me to read them.”
This seemed to Halcyone to be sufficient in the way of credentials
“I have heard from Hester,” Miss Roberta interposed timidly, “that
the orchard house has been bought by an Oxford professor—it sounds
most respectable, does it not, sister?”
Miss La Sarthe looked stern:
“More than thirty-five years ago, Roberta, I told you I disapproved
of Hester's chattering. I cannot conceive personally, how you can
converse with servants as you do. Hester would not have dared to gossip
Poor Miss Roberta looked crushed. She had often been chided on this
Halcyone would like to have reminded her elder aunt that William,
who was equally a servant, had announced some such news to her that
afternoon; but she remained silent. She must gain her point if she
could, and to argue, she knew, was never a road to success.
“I am sure if we could get a really nice English girl,” hazarded
Miss Roberta, wishing to propitiate, “it might be company for us all,
Ginevra—but if Mrs. Anderton insists upon sending another foreign
“And of course she will,” interrupted the elder lady; “people of
Mrs. Anderton's class always think it is more genteel to have a
smattering of foreign languages than to know their own mother tongue.
We may get another German—and that I could hardly bear.”
“Then do write to my stepfather, please, please,” cried Halcyone.
“Say I am going to be splendidly taught—lots of interesting
things—and oh—I will try so hard by myself to keep up what I already
know. I will practice—really, really, Aunt Ginevra—and do my German
exercises and dear Aunt Roberta can talk French to me and even teach me
the Italian songs that she sings so beautifully to her guitar!”
This last won the day as far as Miss Roberta was concerned. Her
faded cheeks flushed pink. The trilling Italian love-songs, learnt some
fifty years ago during a two years' residence in Florence, had always
been her pride and joy. So she warmly seconded her niece's pleadings,
and the momentous decision was come to that James Anderton should be
approached upon the subject. If the child learned Greek—from a
professor—and could pick up a few of Roberta's songs as an
accomplishment, she might do well enough—and a governess in the house,
in spite of the money paid by Mr. Anderton to keep her, was a continual
gall and worry to them.
Halcyone knew very little about her stepfather. She was aware that
he had married her mother when she was a very poor and sorrowful young
widow, that she had had two stepsisters and a brother very close
together, and then that the pretty mother had died. There was evidently
something so sad connected with the whole story that Priscilla never
cared much to talk about it. It was always, “your poor sainted mother
in heaven,” or, “your blessed pretty mother”—and with that instinctive
knowledge of the feelings of other people which characterized
Halcyone's point of view, she had avoided questioning her old nurse.
Her stepfather, James Anderton, was a very wealthy stockbroker—she
knew that, and also that a year or so after her mother's death he had
married again—“a person of his own class,” Miss La Sarthe had said,
“far more suitable to him than poor Elaine.”
Halcyone had only been six years old at her mother's death, but she
kept a crisp memory of the horror of it. The crimson, crumpled-looking
baby brother, in his long clothes, whose coming somehow seemed
responsible for the loss of her tender angel, for a long time was
viewed with resentful hatred. It was a terrible, unspeakable grief. She
remembered perfectly the helpless sense of loss and loneliness.
Her mother had loved her with passionate devotion. She was conscious
even then that Mabel and Ethel, the stepsisters, were as nothing in
comparison to herself in her mother's regard. She had a certainty that
her mother had loved her own father very much—the young, brilliant,
spendthrift, last La Sarthe. And her mother had been of the family,
too—a distant cousin. So she herself was La Sarthe to her finger
tips—slender and pale and distinguished-looking. She remembered the
last scene with her stepfather before her coming to La Sarthe Chase. It
was the culmination after a year of misery and unassuaged grieving for
her loss. He had come into the nursery where the three little girls
were playing—Halcyone and her two stepsisters—and he had made them
all stand up in his rough way, and see who could catch the pennies the
best that he threw from the door. His brother, “Uncle Ted,” was with
him. And the two younger children, Mabel of five and Ethel of four,
shouted riotously with glee and snatched the coins from one another and
greedily quarreled over those which Halcyone caught with her superior
skill and handed to them.
She remembered her stepfather's face—it grew heavy and sullen and
he walked to the window, where his brother followed him—and she
remembered their words and had pondered over them often since.
“It's the damned breeding in the brat that fairly gets me raw, Ted,”
Mr. Anderton had said. “Why the devil couldn't Elaine have given it to
my children, too. I can't stand it—a home must be found for her
And soon after that, Halcyone had come with her own Priscilla to La
Sarthe Chase to her great-aunts Ginevra and Roberta, in their
tumble-down mansion which her father had not lived to inherit. Under
family arrangements, it was the two old ladies' property for their
And now the problem of what James Anderton—or rather the second
Mrs. James Anderton—would do was the question of the moment. Would
there be a fresh governess or would they all be left in peace without
one? Mrs. James Anderton, Miss Roberta had said once, was a person who
“did her duty,” as people often did “in her class”—“a most worthy
woman, if not quite a lady”—and she had striven to do her best by
James Anderton's children—even his stepchild Halcyone.
Miss La Sarthe promised to write that night before she went to
bed—but Halcyone knew it was a long process with her and that an
answer could not be expected for at least a week. Therefore there was
no good agitating herself too soon about the result. It was one of her
principles never to worry over unnecessary things. Life was full of
blessed certainties to enjoy without spoiling them by speculating over
The old gentleman—Cheiron—and old William and the timid curate who
came to dine on Saturday nights once a month were about the only male
creatures Halcyone had ever spoken to within her recollection—their
rector was a confirmed invalid and lived abroad—but Priscilla had a
supreme contempt for them as a sex.
“One and all set on themselves, my lamb,” she said; “even your own
beautiful father had to be bowed down to and worshiped. We put up with
it in him, of course; but I never did see one that didn't think of
himself first. It is their selfishness that causes all the sorrow of
the world to women. We needn't have lost your angel mother but for Mr.
Anderton's selfishness—a kind, hard, rough man—but as selfish as a
It seemed a more excusable defect to Priscilla in the upper class,
but had no redeeming touch in the status of Mr. Anderton.
Halcyone, however, had a logical mind and reasoned with her nurse:
“If they are all selfish, Priscilla, it must be either
women's fault for letting them be, or God intended them to be so. A
thing can't be all unless the big force makes it.”
This “big force”—this “God” was a real personality to Halcyone. She
could not bear it when in church she heard the meanest acts of revenge
and petty wounded vanity attributed to Him. She argued it was because
the curate did not know. Having come from a town, he could not be
speaking of the same wonderful God she knew in the woods and
fields—the God so loving and tender in the springtime to the budding
flowers, so gorgeous in the summer and autumn and so pure and cold in
the winter. With all that to attend to He could not possibly stoop to
punish ignorant people and harbor anger and wrath against them. He was
the sunlight and the moonlight and the starlight. He was the voice
which talked in the night and made her never lonely.
And all the other things of nature and the universe were gods,
also—lesser ones obeying the supreme force and somehow fused with Him
in a whole, being part of a scheme which He had invented to complete
the felicity of the world He had created—not beings to be prayed to or
solicited for favors, but just gentle, glorious, sympathetic, invisible
friends. She was very much interested in Christ; He was certainly a
part of God, too—but she could not understand about His dying to save
the world, since the God she heard of in the church was still forever
punishing and torturing human beings, or only extending mercy after His
vanity had been flattered by offerings and sacrifices.
“I expect,” she said to herself, coming home one Sunday after one of
Mr. Miller's lengthy discourses upon God's vengeance, “when I am older
and able really to understand what is written in the Bible I shall find
it isn't that a bit, and it is either Mr. Miller can't see straight or
he has put the stops all in the wrong places and changed the sense. In
any case I shall not trouble now—the God who kept me from falling
through the hole in the loft yesterday by that ray of sunlight to show
the cracked board, is the one I am fond of.”
It was the simple and logical view of a case which always appealed
“Halcyone” her parents had called her well—their bond of
love—their tangible proof of halcyon days. And always when Halcyone
read her “Heroes” she felt it was her beautiful father and mother who
were the real Halcyone and Ceyx, and she longed to see the blue summer
sea and the pleasant isles of Greece that she might find their floating
nest and see them sail away happily for ever over those gentle southern
Mr. Carlyon—for such was Cheiron's real name—knocked the ashes
from his long pipe next day at eleven o'clock in the morning, after his
late breakfast and began to arrange his books. His mind was away in a
land of classical lore; he had almost forgotten the sprite who had
invaded his solitude the previous afternoon, until he heard a tap at
the window, and saw her standing there—great, intelligent eyes aflame
and rosy lips apart.
“May I come in, please?” her voice said. “I am afraid I am a little
early, but I had something so very interesting to tell you, I had to
He opened wide the window and let in the May sunshine.
“The first of May and a May Queen,” he told her presently, when they
were seated in their two chairs. “And now begin this interesting news.”
“Aunt Ginevra has promised to write to my step-father at once, and
suggest that no more governesses are sent to me. Won't it be perfectly
splendid if he agrees!”
“I really don't know,” said Cheiron.
Halcyone's face fell.
“You promised to teach me Greek,” she said simply, “and I know from
my 'Heroes' that is all that I need necessarily learn from anyone to
acquire the other things myself.”
This seemed to Mr. Carlyon a very conclusive answer—his bent of
mind found it logical.
“Very well,” he said. “When shall we begin?”
“Perhaps to-morrow. To-day if you have time I would like to take you
for a walk in the park—and show you some of the trees. The beeches are
coming out very early this year; they have the most exquisite green
just showing, and the chestnuts in some places have quite large leaves.
It is damp under foot, though—do you mind that?”
“Not a bit,” said Cheiron.
And so they went, creeping through the hole in the paling like two
brigands on a marauding expedition.
“There used to be deer when I first came five years ago,” Halcyone
said. “I remember them quite well, and their sweet little fawns; but
the next winter was that horribly cold one, and there was no hay to be
put out to them—my Aunts La Sarthe are very poor—and some of them
died, and in the summer the Long Man came and talked and talked, and
Aunt Roberta had red eyes all the afternoon, as she always does when he
comes, and Aunt Ginevra pretended hers were a cold in her head—and the
week after a lot of men arrived and drove all the tender, beautiful
creatures into corners, and took them away in carts with nets over
them—the does—but the bucks had pieces of wood because their horns
would have torn the nets.”
Her delicate lips quivered a moment, as though at a too painful
memory—then she smiled.
“But one mother doe and her fawn got away—and I knew where they
were hiding, but I did not tell, of course—and now there are four of
them, or perhaps five. But they are very wild and keep in the copses,
and fly if they see anyone coming. They don't mind me, of course, but
strangers. The mother remembers that awful day, I expect.”
“No doubt,” said Cheiron; “and who is the 'Long Man' you spoke of as
having instigated this outrage?”
“He is the man of business, he was the bailiff once, but is a house
agent now in Applewood. And whenever he comes something has to go—we
all dread it. Last Michaelmas it was the Chippendale dining-room
“I know him then—I bought my cottage from him. I suppose all this
is necessary, because he seemed an honest fellow.”
“Someone long ago made it necessary—it is not the Aunts' fault—“
and then Halcyone stopped abruptly and pointed to the beech avenue
which they were approaching now through the bracken, brown and crisp
from last year, with only here and there a green shoot showing.
“Queen Mab and the elves live there in May and early June,” she
said. “They dance every afternoon as the sun sets, and sometimes in the
dawn, too, and the early morning. You can see them if you keep quite
“Naturally,” said Cheiron.
“Do you know, since last winter I have had a great pleasure,” and
Halcyone's grave, intent eyes looked up into the old gentleman's face.
“There was a terrible storm in February—but can you really keep a
secret?”—and then, as he nodded his head seriously, she went on. “It
blew down a narrow piece of the paneling in the long gallery—it is
next to my room, you know—and I heard the noise in the night and lit a
candle and went to see. Some of the window panes are broken, so it is
very blustery there in storms. Well, there was a door behind it—a
secret door! I was so excited, but I could not keep the candle alight
and it was very cold. I saw nothing was broken—only the wind had
dislodged the spring. I was able to push it back and pull a little
chest against it, and wait till morning. And then what do you think I
found?—it led to a staircase in the thickness of the wall, which went
down and down until it came to a door right below the cellar—it took
me days of dodging Mademoiselle and Priscilla to carry down oil and
things to help me to open it—and then it came out in a hollow archway
on the second terrace, which has a stone bench in it, and is where old
William keeps his tools. It is so cleverly done you could never see it;
it looks just as if it was no door, but was only there for ornament.
You may fancy I never told anyone! It is my secret—and yours now—and
it enabled me to do what I have always longed to do—go out in the
“You go out in the night all alone!” exclaimed Cheiron, almost
“But of course,” said Halcyone. “You cannot think of the joy when
there is a moon and stars; and some of the night creatures are such
friends—they teach me wonderful things. Only the dreadful difficulty
is in avoiding Priscilla—she sleeps in the dressing-room next me. I
love her better than anyone else in the world, but she could never
understand—she would only worry about the wet feet and clothes being
spoilt. I always think it is so fortunate though, don't you, that
servants—even a dear like Priscilla—sleep so soundly. Aunt Ginevra
says they can't help it, every class has its peculiarity.”
Mr. Carlyon was extremely interested—he wanted to hear more of
“How do you avoid Priscilla seeing your things in the morning then?”
“I have got a pair of big gutta-percha boots—they were my father's
waders once, and I found them, and have hidden them in one of the
chests, and I tuck everything into them—so there are no marks. It is
“And do you often have these nocturnal outings, you odd little
girl?” Cheiron said, wonderingly.
“Not very. I have to be so careful, you see—and I only choose
moonlight or starlight nights, and they are rare—but when the summer
comes I hope to enjoy many more of them.”
Then Mr. Carlyon's old eyes looked away into distance and seemed to
see a slender shape wrapped in a spotted fawn's skin, its head crowned
with leaves, joining the throng of those other early worshipers of
Dionysus as they beat their weird music among the dark crags of
Parnassus—searching for communion with the spiritual beyond in the
only way they knew of then to reach it, through a wild ecstasy of
emotion. Here was the same impulse, unconscious, instinctive. The
probing of nature to discover her secrets. Here was a female thing with
a soul unafraid in her pure innocence, alone in the night.
Halcyone did not interrupt his meditations, and presently they came
to the broken gate close to the house.
Cheiron paused and leaned on the top bar.
“Is this the elves' home?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered gravely. “But so late in the day you cannot see
them. You must wait again until the sun is setting; and I expect when
it is warm they come in the moonlight, too, but I have not been able to
get a fine enough night—as yet. This avenue is the most beautiful of
all, because a hundred years ago the La Sarthes had a quarrel with the
Wendovers, whose land just touches at the end of it, and they closed
the gate, and so the turf has covered the gravel. And look at the
tree—you can see the fairy ring where they dance, and I always fancy
they sup under the one with the very low branch at the side—but I
don't believe I should like 'marrow of mice,' should you?”
“Not at all,” said Cheiron.
Then they wandered on. Halcyone led him to each of the favorite
points of view, and he became acquainted with the great serpent, and so
vivid was her picturing that he almost fancied he saw the Golden
Fleece, nailed to the tree beyond, and heard Orpheus' exquisite
melodies charming the reptile to sleep while Jason stepped over his
“But I do not have Medea here,” she said; “I play her part myself,
and I make her different. She was too cunning and had wicked thoughts
in her heart, and so the poor Heroes suffered. If she had been good and
true and had not killed Absyrtus, things might have had a different
ending. I never like to think of Absyrtus in any case—because, do you
know, I once hated my baby brother, and would have been glad if anyone
had killed him.”
Her eyes became black as night with this awful recollection. “It was
very long ago, you understand—when I was quite a little girl before I
knew the wonderful things the wind and the flowers and the stars tell
Cheiron did not ask the cause of this hate; he reserved the question
for a future time, and encouraged her to tell him of her discoveries in
Some trees had strange personalities, she said. You could never
guess the other side of their heads, until you knew them very well. But
all had good in them, and it was wisest never even to see the bad.
“I always find if you are afraid of things they become real and hurt
you, but if you are sure they are kind and true they turn gentle and
love you. I am hardly ever afraid of anything now—only I do not like a
thunderstorm. It seems as if God were really angry then, and were not
considering sufficiently just whom He meant to hit.”
Justice to her appeared to hold chief place among the virtues.
“Do you stay here all the year round?” asked Cheiron, presently, “or
do you sometimes have a trip to the seaside?”
“I have never been away since I first came—I would love to see the
sea,” and her eyes became dreary. “I can just remember long ago with my
mother, we went once—she and I alone—” then she turned to her old
companion and looked up in his face.
“Had you a mother? Of course you had, but I mean one that you knew?”
The late Mrs. Carlyon had not meant anything much to her son in her
lifetime, and was now a far-off memory of forty years ago, so Cheiron
answered truthfully upon the subject, and Halcyone looked grave.
“When we have been friends for a long time I will tell you of my
beautiful mother—and I could let you share my memory of her
perhaps—but not to-day,” she said.
And then she was silent for a while as they walked on. But when they
were turning back towards the orchard house she suddenly began to
laugh, glancing at the old gentleman with eyes full of merriment.
“It is funny,” she said, “I don't even know your name! I would like
to call you Cheiron—but you have a real name, of course.”
“It is Arnold Carlyon, and I come from Cornwall,” the old gentleman
said, “but you are welcome to call me Cheiron, if you like.”
Halcyone thanked him prettily.
“I wish you had his body—don't you? How we could gallop about,
could we not? But I can imagine you have, easily. I always can see
things I imagine, and sometimes they become realities then.”
“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed Cheiron. “What would my four legs and my
hoofs do in the little orchard house, and how should I sit in my
Halcyone pealed with merry laughter; her laughs came so rarely and
were like golden bells. The comic side of the picture enchanted her.
“Of course it would only do if we lived in a cave, as the real
Cheiron did,” she admitted. “I was silly, was not I?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Carlyon, “but I don't think I mind your being so—it
is nice to laugh.”
She slipped her thin little hand into his for a moment, and caught
hold of one of his fingers.
“I am so glad you understand that,” she said. “How good it is to
laugh! That is what the birds sing to me, it is no use ever to be sad,
because it draws evil and fear to yourself, and even in the winter one
must know there is always the beautiful spring soon coming. Don't you
think God is full of love for this world?”
“I am sure he is.”
“The Aunts' God isn't a very kind person,” she went on. “But I
expect, since you know about the Greeks, yours and mine are the same.”
“Probably,” said Cheiron.
Then, being assured on this point, Halcyone felt she could almost
entrust him with her greatest secret.
“Do you know,” she said, in the gravest voice, “I will tell you
something. I have a goddess, too. I found her in the secret staircase.
She is broken, even her nose a little, but she is supremely beautiful.
It is just her head I have got, and I pretend she is my mother
sometimes, really come back to me again. We have long talks. Some day I
will show her to you. I have to keep her hidden, because Aunt Ginevra
cannot bear rubbish about, and as she is broken she would want to have
her thrown away.”
“I shall be delighted to make her acquaintance. What do you call
“That is just it,” said Halcyone. “When I first found her it seemed
to me I must call her Pallas Athene, because of that noble lady in
Perseus—but as I looked and looked I knew she was not that; it seems
she cannot be anything else but just Love—her eyes are so tender, she
has many moods, and they are not often the same—but no matter how she
looks you feel all the time just love, love, love—so I have not named
her yet. You remember when Orpheus took his lyre and sang after Cheiron
had finished his song—it was of Chaos and the making of the world, and
how all things had sprung from Love—who could not live alone in the
Abyss. So I know that is she—just Love.”
“Aphrodite,” said Cheiron.
“It is a pretty name. If that is what it means, I would call her
“It will do,” said Cheiron.
“Aphrodite—Aphrodite,” she repeated it over and over. “It must mean
kind and tender, and soft and sweet, and beautiful and glorious, and
making you think of noble things, and making you feel perfectly happy
and warmed and comforted and blessed. Is it all that?”
“It could be—and more,” said Cheiron.
“Then I will name her so.”
After this there was a long silence. Mr. Carlyon would not interrupt
what was evidently a serious moment to his little friend. He waited,
and then presently he turned the channel of her thoughts by asking her
if she thought he might call on her Aunts that afternoon.
Halcyone hesitated a second.
“We hardly ever have visitors. Aunt Ginevra has always said one must
not receive what one cannot return, and they have no carriage or horses
now, so they never see anyone. Aunt Roberta would, but Aunt Ginevra
does not let her, and she often says in the last ten years they have
quite dropped out of everything. I do not know what that means
altogether, because I do not know what there was to drop out of. I have
scarcely ever been beyond the park, and there do not seem to be any big
houses for miles—do there?—except Wendover, but it is shut up; it has
been for twenty years.”
“Then you think the Misses La Sarthe might not receive me?”
“You could try, of course. You have not a carriage. If you just
walked it would make it even. Shall I tell them you are coming? I had
“Yes, this afternoon.”
And if Halcyone had known it, she was receiving an unheard-of
compliment! The hermit Carlyon—the old Oxford Professor of Greek, who
had come to this out-of-the-way corner because he had been assured by
the agent there would be no sort of society around him—now intended to
put on a tall hat and frock coat, and make a formal call on two maiden
ladies—all for the sake of a child of twelve years, with serious gray
eyes—and a soul!
In her heart of hearts Miss Roberta felt fluttered as she walked
across the empty hall to the Italian parlor behind her sterner sister,
to receive their guest. He would come in the afternoon, Halcyone had
said. That meant about three o'clock, and it behooved ladies expecting
a gentleman to be at ease at some pretty fancy work when he should be
The village was two miles beyond the lime lodge gates, and for the
last eight years rheumatism in the knee had made the walk there out of
the question for poor Miss Roberta—so even the sight of a man and a
stranger was an unusual thing! She had not attempted conversation with
anyone but Mr. Miller, the curate, for over eleven years. The isolation
in which the inhabitants of La Sarthe Chase lived could not be more
The Italian parlor had its own slightly pathetic cachet. The
walls and ceiling had been painted by rather a bad artist from Florence
at the beginning of the nineteenth century, but the furniture was good
of its kind—a strange dark orange lacquer and gilt—and here most of
the treasures which had not yet been disposed of for daily bread, were
hoarded in cabinets and quaint glass-topped show tables. There were a
number of other priceless things about the house, the value of which
the Long Man's artistic education was as yet too unfinished to
appreciate. And the greatest treasure of all, as we have seen, was
probably only understood by Halcyone—but more of that in its place.
At present it concerns us to know that Miss La Sarthe and her sister
had reached the Italian parlor, and were seated in their respective
chairs—Miss Roberta with a piece of delicate embroidery in her hands,
the stitches of which her eyes—without spectacles, to receive
company—were too weak adequately to perceive.
Miss La Sarthe did not condescend to any such subterfuges. She sat
quite still doing nothing, looking very much as she had looked for the
last forty years. Her harp stood on one side of the fireplace, and Miss
Roberta's guitar hung by a faded blue ribbon from a nail at the other.
Presently old William announced:
And Cheiron, in his Sunday best, walked into the room.
Halcyone was not present. If children were wanted they were sent
for. It was not seemly for them to be idling in the drawing-rooms.
But Miss Roberta felt so pleasantly nervous, that she said timidly,
after they had all shaken hands:
“Ginevra, can we not tell William to ask Halcyone to come down,
perhaps Mr. Carlyon might like to see her again.”
And William, who had not got far from the door, was recalled and
sent on the errand.
“What a very beautiful view you have from here,” Mr. Carlyon said,
by way of a beginning. “It is an ideal spot.”
“We are glad you like it,” Miss La Sarthe replied, graciously; “as
my sister and I live quite retired from the world it suits us. We had
much gayety here in our youth, but now we like tranquillity.”
“It is, however, delightful to have a neighbor,” Miss Roberta
exclaimed—and then blushed at her temerity.
The elder lady frowned; Roberta had always been so sadly effusive,
she felt. Men ought not to be flattered so.
Mr. Carlyon bowed, and the platitudes were continued, each felt he
or she must approach the subject of Halcyone's lessons, but waited for
the other to begin.
Halcyone, herself, put an end to all awkwardness after she very
gently entered the room. There was no bounding or vaulting in the
presence of the aunts.
“Is it not kind of Mr. Carlyon to wish to teach me Greek?” she said,
including both her relatives. “I expect he has told you about it
The Misses La Sarthe were properly surprised and interested. Most
kind they thought it and expressed their appreciation in their separate
ways. They both hoped their great-niece would be diligent, and prove a
worthy pupil. It was most fortunate for Halcyone, because her
stepfather, Mr. James Anderton, might decide at their request not to
send another governess, and, “No doubt it will be most useful to her,”
Miss La Sarthe continued. “In these modern days so much learning seems
to be expected of people. When we were young, a little French and
Italian were all that was necessary.”
Then Mr. Carlyon made friends of them for life, by a happy
“I see you are both musicians,” he said, pointing to the antiquated
musical instruments. “A taste of that sort is a constant pleasure.”
“We used to play a good deal at one time,” admitted Miss La Sarthe,
without a too great show of gratification, “and my sister was quite
celebrated for her Italian songs.”
“Oh!” gasped Miss Roberta, blushing again.
“I hope I may have the pleasure of hearing you together some day,”
said the Professor, gallantly.
Both ladies smilingly acquiesced, as they depreciated their powers.
And just before their visitor got up to leave, Miss La Sarthe said
with her grand air:
“We hope you find your cottage comfortable. It used to be the land
steward's, before we disposed of the property we no longer required. It
always used to have a very pretty garden, but no doubt it has rather
fallen into decay.”
“I shall do my best to repair it,” Mr. Carlyon said, “but it will
take some time. I and my servant have already begun to clear the weeds
away, and a new gardener is coming next week.”
“Oh, may I help?” exclaimed Halcyone. “I love gardening, and can dig
quite well. I often help William.”
“Our old butler does many useful things for us,” Miss Roberta
explained, with a slightly conscious air.
And then the adieus were said, Halcyon's first lesson having been
arranged to begin on the morrow.
When the visitor had gone and the door was shut:
“A very worthy, cultivated gentleman, Roberta,” Miss La Sarthe
announced to her sister. “We must ask him to dinner the next time Mr.
Miller is coming. We must show him some attention for his kindness to
our great-niece; he will understand and not allow it to flatter him too
much. You remember, Roberta, our Mamma always said unmarried women—of
any age—cannot be too careful of les convenances, but we might
ask him to dinner under the circumstances—don't you think so?”
“Oh, I am sure—yes, sister—but I wish you would not talk so of our
age,” Miss Roberta said, rather fretfully for her. “You were only
seventy-two last November, and I shall not be sixty-nine until
March—and if you remember, Aunt Agatha lived to ninety-one, and Aunt
Mildred to ninety-four! So we are not so very old as yet.”
“The more reason for us to be careful then,” retorted the elder
lady, and Miss Roberta subsided with a sigh as she took her guitar from
the wall and began in her gentle old quavering voice to trill out one
of her many love-songs.
The guitar had not been tuned for several days, and had run down
into a pitiful flatness; Halcyone could hardly sit still, it hurt her
so—but it was only when Miss Roberta had begun a second warble that
either she or Miss La Sarthe noticed the jar. Then a helpless look grew
in the songstress's faded eyes.
“Halcyone, dear—I think you might tune the instrument for me,” she
said. “I almost think the top string is not quite true, and you do it
And grateful for the chance, the child soon had it perfectly
accorded, and the concert continued.
Meanwhile Mr. Carlyon had got back to the orchard house, and had
rung for some of his black tea. He was musing deeply upon events. And
at last he sat at his writing-table and wrote a letter to his friend
and former pupil, John Derringham, in which he described his arrival at
his new home, and his outlook, and made a casual reference to the two
maiden ladies in these terms:
“The park and house is still owned by two antediluvian spinsters of
the name of La Sarthe—exquisite specimens of Early Victorian
gentility. They are very poor and proud and narrow-minded, and they
have a great-niece living with them, the most remarkable little female
intelligence I have ever come across. My old habit of instruction is
not to be allowed to rest, for I am going to teach the creature Greek,
as a diversion. She seems to be about twelve years old, and has the
makings of a wonderful character. In the summer you had better come
down and pay me a visit, if you are not too busy with your potent
mistress, your political ambitions.”
But John Derringham did not respond to this casual invitation for
many a long day. He had other potent interests beside his political
ambitions—and in any case, never did anything unless he felt inclined.
Mr. Carlyon did not expect him—he knew him very well.
Thus the days passed and by the end of June even, Halcyone had
learned more than the Greek alphabet; and had listened to many charming
stories of that wonderful people. And the night was her friend, and
numerous hours were passed in the shadow of his dark wings, as she
flitted like some pale ghost about the park and the deserted,
The July of that year was very warm with peculiarly still days, and
Halcyone and her master, Cheiron, spent most of their time during their
hours of study, under the apple tree. They had got to a stage of
complete understanding, and seemed to have fitted into each other's
lives as though they had always been together.
Mr. Carlyon watched his little pupil from under the shadow of his
penthouse brows with the deep speculative interest she had aroused in
him from the first. He had theories upon several subjects, which she
seemed to be going to show the result of in practice—and in his kindly
cynic's heart she was now enshrined in a special niche.
For Halcyone he was “Cheiron,” her master, who had the enchanting
quality of being able to see the other side of her head. Every idea of
her soul seemed to be developing under this touch of sympathy and
understanding. Her heterogeneous knowledge culled from the teachings of
her many changing governesses, seemed to regulate itself into distinct
branches with an upward shoot for each, and Mr. Carlyon watched and
encouraged them all.
It was on one glorious Saturday morning when the fairies and nymphs
and gods and goddesses were presumably asleep in the sunlight, that she
drew up her knees as she sat on the grass by her Professor's chair, and
pushing away the Greek grammar, said, with grave eyes fixed upon his
“Cheiron, to-day something tells me I can show you Aphrodite. When
it is cooler, about five o'clock, will you come with me to the second
terrace? There I will leave you and go and fetch her, and as William
and Priscilla will be at tea, I can open the secret door, and you shall
see where she lives—all in the dark!”
Mr. Carlyon felt duly honored—for they had never referred to this
subject since she had first mentioned it. The Professor felt it was one
of deep religious solemnity to his little friend, and had waited until
she herself should feel he was worthy of her complete confidence.
“She speaks to me more than ever,” Halcyone continued. “I took her
out in the moonlight on Thursday night, and she seemed to look more
lovely than before. It has pleased her that I call her Aphrodite—it
was certainly her name.”
“It is settled, then,” said Cheiron, “at five o'clock I will be upon
Halcyone returned to her grammar, and silence obtained between them.
Then presently Mr. Carlyon spoke.
“I am going to have a visitor for a week or perhaps more,” he
A startled pair of eyes looked up at him.
“That seems odd,” Halcyone said. “I hope whoever it is will not be
much in our way. I do not think I am glad—are you?”
“Yes, I am glad. It is someone for whom I have a great regard,” and
Mr. Carlyon knocked the ashes from his long pipe. “It is a young man
who used to be at Oxford and to whom also I taught Greek.”
“Then he will know a great deal more than I do, being older,”
returned Halcyone, not at all mollified by this information.
“Yes, he knows rather more than you do as yet,” the Professor
allowed. “Perhaps you will not like him; he can be quite disagreeable
when he wishes—and he may not like you.”
Halcyone's dark brows met.
“If he is someone for whom you have a regard he must be of those who
count. I shall be angry then, if he dislikes me—is he coming soon?”
“On Monday, by the four o'clock train.”
“Our lesson will be over—that is something. You will not want me on
Tuesday, I expect?” and a note of regret grew in her voice.
“I thought you might have a holiday for a while, all pupils have
holidays in the summer,” the Professor returned.
“Very well,” was all she said, and then was quiet for a time,
thinking the matter over. She wished to hear more of this visitor who
was going to interrupt their pleasant intercourse.
“Of what sort is he?” she asked presently. “A hunter like
Meleager—or cunning like Theseus—or noble like Perseus, whom I love
best of all?”
“He is not very Greek to look at, I am afraid, except perhaps in his
length of limb,” and the Professor smiled. “He is just a thin, lanky,
rather distinguished young Englishman and was considered to be the most
brilliant of my pupils, taking a Double First under my auspices and
leaving Oxford with flying colors when I retired myself a year or two
ago. He has been very lucky since, he is full of ambitions in the
political line, and he has a fearless and rather caustic wit.”
“I must think of him as Pericles, then, if he is occupied with the
state,” said Halcyone. “But how has he been lucky since? I would like
to know—tell me, please, and I will try not to mind his being here.”
“Yes—try—” said Mr. Carlyon. “After he took his degree he studied
law and history, you know, as well as the Greek philosophy which you
may come to some day—he went to London to the Temple to read for the
bar. He never intended to be a practicing barrister, but everything is
a means to his career. Then his luck came—he has lots of friends and
relations in the great world and at one of their country houses he met
the Prime Minister, who took a tremendous fancy to him, and the thing
going well, the great man finally asked him to be his assistant private
secretary, which post he accepted. The chief private secretary last
year being made governor of a colony, John has now stepped into his
shoes, and presently he will go into Parliament. He is a brilliant
fellow and cares for no man—following only his own star. I shall be
very glad to see him again.”
Halcyone's face fell into a brown study and the Professor watching
her mused to himself.
“John Derringham will find her in the way. She is not woman enough
yet to attract his eye; he will only perceive she is a rather plain
child—and she will certainly see the other side of his head.”
As Halcyone walked back to La Sarthe Chase for her early dinner, she
“I must not feel this dislike towards Cheiron's other pupil. After
all, Jason could not have the master alone—and if I do feel it then he
will be able to harm me, should he dislike me, too—but if I try to
like him, then he will be powerless, and when he has gone he will not
have left any mark.”
Mr. Carlyon felt a perceptible glow of interest as he waited at five
o'clock that day upon the dilapidated stone bench in the archway where
old William kept his garden tools, and while the subdued light gave him
very little chance of studying minutely the walls, the general aspect
certainly presented no hint of any door. However, he had not to wait or
speculate long, for, with hardly a creak, two stones seemed to turn
upon a pivot, and Halcyone came forth from the aperture bending her
“After all, I do not think you had better come in with me,” she
said. “It is low like this for ten yards; it will make your back
ache—so I have brought her. If you will hold her, I will run out and
see if all is safe; and then we can carry her to the summer house and
take off her scarf.”
Cheiron held out his arms to receive the precious bundle; and he
could feel by its weight it was a marble head. It was enveloped in the
voluminous folds of the remains of an old blue silk curtain, a relic of
other days, when rich stuffs hung before the windows of La Sarthe
“I took the covering from the Spanish Chest in the long gallery,”
Halcyone announced. “I had played with it for years, and the color
suits her—it must be the same as are her real eyes.”
Then she darted out into the sunlight and returned again in a few
moments—with shining face. All was safe and the momentous hour had
She took her goddess from Mr. Carlyon's arms, and walking with the
dignity of a priestess of the Temple, she preceded her master along the
A riot of things growing impeded each step. Roses which had
degenerated into little better than wild ones, showed late red and pink
blooms, honeysuckle and columbines flowered, and foxgloves raised their
At the end there was a broken bower at the corner of the terrace,
with a superb view over the park and far beyond to the high blue hills.
This place was cleared, for Halcyone had done the necessary work
herself. It was one of her outlooks upon the world and she had even
carefully mended the cracked bench with a bit of board and a nail or
two. The table, which was of stone, still stood firmly and was quaint
and rather Greek in shape—for had not a later Timothy La Sarthe
brought it from Paris in the Empire days?
Mr. Carlyon sat down and prepared himself for the solemn moment when
the Goddess should be unveiled.
And when the reverent little priestess had removed the folds from
the face as it lay upon the table, he started and held his breath, for
he instantly realized that indeed this was the work of some glorious
old Greek sculptor; none other could have created that perfect head.
And as he looked, the child slipped her hand into his and whispered
“Watch her eyes; she is tender to-day and welcomes us. I was not
quite sure how she would receive you.”
And lo! it seemed to Mr. Carlyon as though the divine orbs softened
into a smile, such was the art of those old Greeks, who marred not the
marble with pupil or iris, who stooped to no trick of simulation, but
left the perfect modeling to speak for itself.
The eyes of this Aphrodite conveyed volumes of love, with her nobly
planned brows and temples and her softly smooth cheeks. The slight
break of the nose even did not seem to spoil the perfect beauty of the
whole. Her mouth, tender and rather full, seemed to smile a welcome,
and the patine, unspoiled by any casts having ever been taken, gleamed
as the finest of skin. It was in a wonderful state of preservation and
not darkened to more than a soft cream color.
So there she lay at last! Goddess of Love still for all time. The
head was broken off at the base of the slender, rounded throat.
Halcyone perceived that Cheiron was appreciating her treasure in a
proper spirit and spoke not a word while he examined it minutely,
turning it in all lights.
“What consummate genius!” he almost whispered at last. “You have
truly a goddess here, child, and you do well to guard her as
such,—Aphrodite you have named her well.”
“I am glad now that I have shown her to you—at first I was a little
afraid—but you understand. And now you can feel how I have my mother
always with me. She tells me to hope, and that all mean things are of
no importance, and that God intends us all to be as happy as is her
Then Mr. Carlyon asked again for the story of the Goddess's
discovery, and heard all the details of how there was a ray of light in
the dark passage, coming from some cleverly contrived crack on the
first terrace. Here Halcyone's foot had struck against the marble upon
her original voyage of discovery, and by the other objects she
encountered she supposed someone long ago, being in flight, had
gradually dropped things which were heavy and of least value. There was
a breastplate as well, and an iron-bound box which she had never been
able to move or open.
“You might help me and we could look into it some day,” she said.
Mr. Carlyon took Aphrodite into his hands and raised her head,
examining every point with minute care, and now her expression appeared
to change and grow sad in the different effect of light.
“I do not want her to be up upon a pillar like Artemis and Hebe, who
are still in the hall,” Halcyone said. “She could not talk to me then,
she would be always the same. I like to hold her this way and that, and
then I can see her moods and the blue silks keeps her nice and warm.”
“It is a great possession,” said Cheiron, “and I understand your joy
in it,” and he handed the head back to the child with respect.
Halcyone bent and caressed it with her soft little velvet cheek.
“See,” she said. “Once I was very foolish and cried about something
and the tears made this little mark,” and she pointed to two small
spots which did not gleam quite so much as the rest of the surface.
“Tears always do silly things—I am never so foolish now.” And then her
young voice became dreamy and her eyes widened with a look as though
she saw far beyond.
“Cheiron—all the world is made for gladness if we only do not take
the ugly things with us everywhere. There is summer, as it is now, when
we rest and play and all the gods come down from Olympus and dance and
sing and bask in the light—and then the autumn when the colors are
rich and everything prepares for winter and sleeps. But even in the
cold and dark we must not be sad, because we know it is only for a time
and to give us change, so that we may shout for joy when the spring
comes and each year discover in it some new beauty.”
Cheiron did not speak for a while, he, too, was musing.
“You are a little Epicurean,” he said at last, “and presently we
shall read about Epicurus' great principles and his garden where he
taught and lived.”
John Derringham had been at the orchard house for three or four days
before there was any sign of Halcyone. She had kept away on purpose and
was doing her best to repress the sense of resentment the thought of
the presence of a stranger caused. Mr. Carlyon had given her some
simple books upon the Renaissance which she was devouring with joy.
This period seemed to give some echo of the Greek ideas she loved, and
as was her habit she was visualizing everything as she read, bringing
the people and the places up before her mental eyes, and regulating
them into friends or acquaintances. Cheiron did not confine himself to
teaching her Greek alone, but directed all her reading, taking a
growing delight in her intelligent mind. Thus they had many talks upon
history and the natural sciences and poetry and painting. But to hear
of the famous statues and learn from pictures to know the styles of the
old sculptors seemed to please her best of all.
By the fifth day, a Friday, Mr. Carlyon began to feel a desire to
see his little pupil again and sent her a message by his dark, silent
servant. Would she not take tea with him that afternoon? So Halcyone
came. She was very quiet and subdued and crept through her gap in the
hedge without any leaps or bounds.
John Derringham was stretched the whole length of his long, lean
limbs under the apple tree—her apple tree! This did not produce a
Cheiron watched the meeting with inward amusement.
“This is my little friend Halcyone La Sarthe,” he said. “Halcyone,
yonder Tityus in these latter days is known by the name of John
Derringham—of Derringham in the County of Northampton. Make your bows
to one another.”
Halcyone inclined her head with dignity, but Mr. Derringham only
raised himself a little and said “Good afternoon.” He did not care for
children, and was busy with his old master discussing other things.
“You will pour out the tea, Halcyone, for us as usual,” Cheiron
said. “Demetrius will bring it in a minute.” And Halcyone sat down
demurely upon the basket chair near the table and crossed her hands.
“I tell you I will not take their point of view,” John Derringham
said, continuing the conversation he had been carrying on before
Halcyone arrived. “Everything in England is spoilt by this pandering to
the mediocrity. A man may not make a speech but he must choose his
words so that uneducated clods can grasp his meaning, he cannot
advocate an idea with success unless it can appeal to the lower middle
classes. It is this subservience to them which has brought us to where
we are. No ideals—no lofty ends—just a means to each one's own hand.
I will never pretend we are all equal, I will never appeal to anything
but the highest in an audience. So they can throw me out if they will!”
And he stretched out his long legs and clasped his hands under his
head—so that to Halcyone he seemed seven foot tall.
“Tityus” she thought was a very apt name for him, and she wondered
if he would jump if the vulture suddenly gave a gnaw at his liver!
“You are an idealist, John,” said Mr. Carlyon. “All this might have
been of some use as a principle of propaganda before the franchise was
so low, but now the mediocrity is our master—so of what use? If you
talked so you would but preach to empty benches.”
“I will not do that—I will make them listen. My point is that
everyone can rise if he wishes, but until he has done so in fact, there
is no use in his pretending in words that he has. I would explain to
them the reason of things. I could have agreed with the greatest
Athenian democrats because their principle was one of sense. They had
slaves to do the lowest offices who had no voice in public affairs, but
here we let those who have no more education or comprehension than
slaves have the same power as men who have spent their lives in
studying the matter. It is all unjust, and no one has the courage to
tell them to their faces they are unfitted for the task.”
“It will be a grand stalking horse for your first essay in your
constituency,” Cheiron said with his kindly twinkle of sarcasm. He
loved to encourage John Derringham to talk.
But at that moment Demetrius brought the tea and Halcyone gravely
began her task.
“Do you take it black like Mr. Carlyon?” she asked of the reclining
He came back to the remembrance of her presence and glancing at her,
“Oh—ah, no—that is, yes—strong, only with cream and sugar. Thanks
But Halcyone did not rise to hand it to him, so he was obliged to
get up and take it from where she sat. She perceived then that though
extremely thin he was lithe and well-shaped. And in spite of her
unconquered prejudice, she was obliged to own she liked his steely gray
hawk-like eyes and his fine, rather ascetic, clean-shaven face. He did
not look at her specially. He may have taken in a small, pale visage
and masses of mouse-colored hair and slender legs—but nothing struck
him particularly except her feet. As his eyes dropped to the ground he
caught sight of them; they were singularly perfect feet. He admired
points in man or beast—and when he had returned to his old place
stretched out under the apple tree, he still glanced at them now and
then; they satisfied his eye.
“What have you been doing in these days, Halcyone?” Mr. Carlyon
asked. “I have not seen you since Monday morning. Have you been getting
into any mischief?”
Halcyone reluctantly admitted that she had not. There was, she
explained, very little chance of any of an agreeable kind coming her
way at La Sarthe Chase. She had been gardening with William—they had
quite tidied the top terrace—and she had been reading French with Aunt
Roberta, but the book was great nonsense.
Then she added that she had brought an invitation from the Aunts La
Sarthe that Mr. Carlyon's guest should accompany him when he dined with
them on the Saturday. It had become the custom for him to partake of
this repast on the same occasions that Mr. Miller did—once a month.
John Derringham frowned under his straw hat which he had pulled over
his eyes. He had not come into the country to be dragged out to bucolic
dinner parties. But upon some points he knew his old master was
obdurate and from his firm acceptance of the invitation this appeared
to be one of them.
Then Halcyone asked politely if he would have a second cup of tea,
but he refused and again addressed Cheiron, ignoring her. Their
conversation now ran into philosophical questions, some of them out of
her depth, but much of the subject interested her deeply and she
At last there was a pause and her fresh young voice asked:
“What, then, is the aim of philosophy—is it only words, or does it
bring any good?”
And both men looked at her, staggered for a moment, and John
Derringham burst into a ringing laugh.
“Upon my word, I don't know,” he said. “It was invented so that the
Master here and I should pull each other's theories to pieces; that
evidently was its aim from the beginning of time. I do not know if it
has any other good.”
“Everything is so very simple,” said Halcyone. “To have to argue
about it must be fatiguing.”
“You find things simple, do you?” asked John Derringham, now
complacently roused to look at her. “What are your rules of life then,
let us hear, oh, Oracle!—we listen with respect!”
Halcyone reddened a little and a gleam grew in her wise eyes. She
would have refused to reply, but looking at her revered master, she saw
that he was awaiting her answer with an encouraging smile. So she
thought a second and then said calmly, measuring her words: “Things are
what we make them, they have no power in themselves; they are as
inanimate as this wood—” and she touched the table with her fine brown
hand. “It is we ourselves who give them activity. So it is our own
faults if they are bad—they could just as easily be good. Is not that
“An example, please, Goddess,” demanded John Derringham with a
“The dark is an example,” she went on quietly. “People fill the dark
with their own frightening images and fear it because they themselves
have turned it into evil. The dark is as kind as the day.”
John Derringham laughed. He was amused at this precocious wisdom and
he suddenly remembered that his old master had mentioned some clever
child when writing to him first about the place, two months before.
This was the creature, then, who was learning Greek. She had picked up
these ideas, of course, out of some book and was showing off. Children
should be snubbed and kept in their places:
“Then you don't cry when your nurse leaves you at night without a
candle. What a good little girl! But perhaps you take a doll to bed,”
he added mockingly, “or suck your thumb.”
Halcyone did not answer, her eyes, benign as a goddess's, looked him
through and through—and Cheiron leaned back in his chair and puffed
volumes of smoke while he chuckled delightedly:
“Take care, John—you will come off second best, for Halcyone can
see the other side of your head.”
For some unaccountable reason, John Derringham felt annoyed; but it
was too contemptible to be annoyed by a child, so he laughed as he
“There, I will not tease her. I expect she hates me already—” and
he pushed his hat back from his eyes.
“No,” said Halcyone. “One only hates a thing one fears; hate implies
fear. I hated my last but one governess for a while—because she told
lies and was mean and she had the power to keep me in. But once I
reasoned about it, I grew quite indifferent and she had no effect upon
me at all.”
“You have not had time to reason about me,” returned John
Derringham, “but it is something that you don't hate me; I ought to
“I do not know that there is occasion for that,” Halcyone remarked,
“it is all a level thing which does not matter. You are Mr. Carlyon's
guest and I expect will be staying some time—”
“So you will have to put up with me!” and John Derringham laughed,
furious now with himself for his increasing irritation.
“I must be going,” Halcyone then announced and got up from her
chair—“and I will tell my aunts that they may expect you to-morrow
night,” she continued, addressing Mr. Carlyon.
He rose and prepared to accompany her down the garden. She bowed to
John Derringham with quiet dignity as he still lay on the ground and
walked on by the side of her Professor without further words.
“You don't like my old pupil, Halcyone?” Mr. Carlyon said when they
got to the gap in the hedge. “Tell me, what do you see at the other
side of his head?”
“Himself,” was all she answered as she bounded lightly away
laughing, and was soon lost to view in the copse beyond.
And Cheiron, considerably amused, returned to his prostrate guest to
find him with a frown upon his face.
“I hope to goodness, Master, you won't bore me with that brat while
I am here,” he exclaimed, “chattering aphorisms like a parrot. I can't
stand children out of their place.”
“Since there will be three gentlemen, Ginevra,” Miss Roberta said on
Saturday morning when they sat together in the Italian parlor after
breakfast, “do you not think we had better have Halcyone down to dinner
to-night? I know,” she added timidly, “it is not in the proper order of
things, but we could make an exception.”
Miss La Sarthe frowned. Roberta so often was ready to upset
regulations. She was difficult to deal with. But this suggestion of
hers had some point.
They would be two ladies to three of the other sex—and one of their
guests appeared to be quite a young man—perhaps it might be more
prudent to relax a rule, than to find themselves in an embarrassing
“I strongly deplore the fact of children ever being brought from
their seclusion except for dessert, but as you say, Roberta, three
gentlemen—and one a perfect stranger—might be too much for us. I
hardly think our Mamma would have approved of our giving such an
unchaperoned party, so for this once Halcyone had better come down. She
can have Mr. Miller for her partner, you will be conducted by the
Professor—and the new guest will take me in.”
Miss Roberta bridled—the Professor was now a hero in her eyes.
“And Sister,” she said, “I think we might bring six of the chairs
from Sir Timothy's bed-and dressing-room just for to-night, instead of
those Windsor ones. It would give the dining-room a better look, do you
not think so?”
And to this also Miss La Sarthe agreed. So Miss Roberta joyfully
found Halcyone out upon the second terrace and imparted to her the good
news. They would arrange flowers in the epergne, she suggested—a few
sweet williams and mignonette and a foxglove or two. A pretty posy
fixed in sand, such as she remembered there always was in their gala
days. Halcyone was enchanted at the prospect.
“Oh! dear Aunt Roberta, do let me do it all,” she said. “You sit
here on the bench and I will run and fetch the epergne—and we can pick
what we think best. Or—don't you think just a big china bowl full of
sweet peas would be prettier? The sand might show and, and—the epergne
is rather stiff.”
But Miss Roberta looked aggrieved. The epergne with its gold and
silver fern leaves climbing up a thin stalk of glass to its top dish
for fruit had always come out for dinner parties and she liked not
innovations. It was indeed as much as Halcyone could do to get all the
flowers of the same kind, a nasturtium and a magenta stock had with
care to be smuggled away, leaving the sweet peas sole occupants of the
sand. But the effect was very festive and the two carried their work
into the dining-room well pleased.
The best Sevres dinner-set was had out, which that traveler Timothy
had brought from Paris among other things, and the best cut glass and
rat-tailed silver. Old William, assisted by Hester and Priscilla, had
been busy polishing most of the day—while the cook and the “young
person from the village” were contriving wonders in the vast kitchen.
And punctually at seven in broad daylight, the three Misses La Sarthe,
the two elder in their finest mauve silk evening dresses, awaited their
guests in the Italian parlor.
Miss Roberta's heart had not fluttered like this since a county ball
some forty years ago when a certain whiskered captain of a dashing
cavalry regiment stationed at Upminster had whispered in her ear.
Priscilla had let down Halcyone's white muslin frock and as the
tucks were rather large, it was longer than she intended, so that the
child might easily have been taken for a girl of fifteen, and her
perfect feet were encased in a pair of old-fashioned bronze slippers
with elastics crossed up the legs of her white silk stockings. A fillet
of blue silk kept back the soft cloud of her mouse-colored hair.
Mr. Miller was announced first—very nervous, as usual, and saying
the wrong thing in his flurry. Then up the terrace steps could be seen
advancing Mr. Carlyon and his guest. They had walked over from the
cottage—and Halcyone, observing from the window, was conscious that
against her will she was admiring John Derringham's arrogant,
“He could very well be as Theseus was after he grew proud,” she said
And soon they were announced.
Mr. Carlyon was now on the most friendly terms with both old ladies,
and as well as coming to the monthly dinner, sometimes dropped in to
tea on Sunday afternoons, but he knew this was a real party and must be
treated as such.
How agreeable it felt to be once more in the world, Miss Roberta
thought, and her faded pale cheeks flushed a delicate pink.
John Derringham had been sulky as a bear at the idea of coming, but
something in the quaintly pathetic refinement of the poor and splendid
old house pleased him, and the aroma of untouched early-Victorian
prudish grace which the ancient ladies threw around them appealed to
his imagination, as any complete bit of art or nature always did. He
found himself seated between Miss La Sarthe and Halcyone and quite
enjoying himself. Everything was of the time from the epergne to the
way the bread was cut.
Halcyone conversed with Mr. Miller, who always felt he must make
nursery jokes with her and ask her the names of her dolls.
“He can't help it,” she told Cheiron one day. “If he had any more
intelligence God would have put him to work in some busier place.”
John Derringham did not address her; he devoted himself to Miss La
He had absolutely no diffidence. He had been spoilt from his cradle,
and by the time he had left Eton—Captain of the Oppidans—had ruled
all those near him with a rod of iron, imposing his interesting
enthusiastic personality upon all companies with unqualified success.
Miss La Sarthe fell at once. He said exactly the right things to her
and flattered her by his unfeigned interest in all she spoke of. He was
studying her as he studied any rare memento of historical value.
“My great-niece reads every morning with Mr. Carlyon,” she said
presently. “Girls are expected to be so very clever nowadays, we are
told. She already knows a little Greek. It would have been considered
quite unnecessary in our day.”
“And I am sure it is in this,” said John Derringham. “Learned women
are an awful bore. As a sex they were meant to be feminine, dainty,
exquisite creatures as those I see to-night,” and he bowed gallantly
while Miss La Sarthe thrilled. She thoroughly approved of his
“So very much of a gentleman, Roberta,” she afterwards said. “None
of that thick, ill-cut look we are obliged to observe in so many of the
younger people we see when we go into Upminster each year.”
“And why should he look thick or ill-cut, Sister?” Miss Roberta
replied. “Mr. Carlyon told me the Derringhams have been seated at
Derringham since fabulous times.”
Thus this last of that race was appreciated fully in at least two
antiquated female hearts.
But meanwhile the cloth was being removed, and the port wine and old
Madeira placed before the elder hostess.
“Our father's cellar was famous for its port,” she said, “and we
have a few bottles of the '47 left.”
But now she felt it was only manners to turn to Mr. Carlyon upon her
other hand, so John Derringham was left in silence, no obligation to
talk to Halcyone making itself felt. She turned and looked at him, he
interested her very much. Mr. Carlyon had quantities of books of
photographs of all the famous statues in Europe and especially in Italy
and Greece, but she could not find any likeness to him in any of her
recollection of them. Alas! his face was not at all Greek. His nose was
high and aquiline, his forehead high and broad, and there was something
noble and dominating in his fearless regard. His hair even did not grow
very prettily, though it was thick and dark—and there was not an ounce
of superfluous flesh upon his whole person. He never for a moment
suggested repose, he gave the impression of vivid, nervous force and
action, a young knight going out to fight any impossible dragon with
his good sword and shield—unabashed by the smoke from its flaming
nostrils, undaunted by any fear of death.
Halcyone watched him, and her prejudice slept.
The silence had lasted quite five minutes when he allowed his
natural good manners, which he was quite aware he had kept in abeyance
in regard to her, to come uppermost.
“The Professor has been telling me how wonderfully you work with
him,” he said; “we under him at Oxford were not half so diligent it
seems. I wonder what good it will be to you at all.”
“If a thing gives pleasure, it is good,” she answered gravely. “I
wanted to learn Greek because I had a book when I was little which told
me about those splendid heroes, and I thought I could read more about
them when I am grown up if I knew it—than if I did not.”
“There is something in that. What was the book?” he asked.
Her steady eyes looked straight into his as she replied: “It was
Kingsley's 'Heroes' and if only I were a boy I would be like Perseus
and go and kill the Gorgon and rescue Andromeda from the sea monster.
Pallas Athene said some fine things to him—do you remember?—when she
asked him the question of which sort of man he would be.”
“No, I don't remember,” said John Derringham. “You must tell me
Then Halcyone began in a soft dream voice while her eyes widened and
darkened with that strange look as though she saw into another and
vaster world. “'I am Pallas Athene and I know the thoughts of all men's
hearts, and discern their manhood or their baseness. And from the souls
of clay I turn away; and they are blest, but not by me. They fatten at
ease like sheep in the pasture and eat what they did not sow, like oxen
in the stall. They grow and spread like the gourd along the ground, but
like the gourd they give no shade to the traveler and when they are
ripe death gathers them, and they go down unloved into hell, and their
name vanishes out of the land.'“
She paused a second and John Derringham was astonished at himself
because he was conscious of experiencing a thrill of deep interest.
“Yes?” he said—and her voice went on:
“'But to the souls of fire I give more fire and to those who are
manful I give a might more than man's. These are the heroes, the sons
of the Immortals who are blest but not like the souls of clay, for I
drive them forth by strange paths, Perseus, that they may fight the
Titans and monsters, the enemies of gods and men. Through doubt and
need and danger and battle I drive them, and some of them are slain in
the flower of youth, no man knows when or where, and some of them win
noble names and a fair and green old age—but what will be their latter
end, I know not, and none, save Zeus, the father of gods and men—Tell
me, now, Perseus, which of these two sorts of men seem to you more
It was as if she asked him a personal question and unconsciously he
“I should reply as Perseus did. Tell me his words.”
“'Better to die in the flower of youth on the chance of winning a
noble name than to live at ease like the sheep and die unloved and
He bent nearer to her and answered softly: “They are indeed fine
words,” and there was no mockery whatever in his eyes as he looked at
her—and took in every detail of her pure childish face. “You
wonderful, strange little girl—soon I too am going like Perseus to
fight the Gorgons, and I shall remember this night and what you have
But at that moment Mr. Miller's high, cackling laugh was heard in an
explosion of mirth. Mr. Carlyon had made some delightfully obvious joke
for his delectation and amidst a smiling company Miss La Sarthe rose
with dignity to leave the gentlemen alone with their wine.
Next morning, John Derringham sat at a late breakfast with his
whilom master of Greek and discussed things in general over his bacon
It was three years since he had left Oxford, and life held out many
interesting aspects for him. He was standing for the southern division
of his county in the following spring when the present member was going
to retire, and he was vehement in his views and clear as to the course
he meant to take. He was so eloquent in his discourse and so full of
that divine spark of enthusiasm, that he was always listened to, no
matter how unpalatably Tory the basic principles of his utterances
were. He never posed as anything but an aristocrat, and while he
whimsically admitted that in the present day to be one was an enormous
disadvantage for a man who wished to get on, he endeavored to palliate
the misfortune by lucid explanation of what the duties of such a status
were, and of the logical advantages which an appreciation of the truths
of cause and effect might bring to mankind. Down in his own country he
was considered the coming man. He thundered at the people and had facts
and figures at his finger tips. His sublime belief in himself never
wavered and like any inspired view, right or wrong, it had its strong
Mr. Carlyon thought highly of him, for a number of reasons.
“If women do not make a stumbling-block for you, John, you will go
far,” he said as he buttered his toast.
“Women!” quoth John Derringham, and he laughed incredulously. “They
matter no more to me than the flowers in the garden—enchanting in the
summer time, a mere pleasure for sight and touch, but to make or mar a
man's life!—not even to be considered as factors in the scheme of
“I am glad to hear you say so,” said Mr. Carlyon dryly. “And I hope
that jade, Fate, won't play you any tricks.”
John Derringham smiled.
“I admit that a woman with money may be useful to me by and by,” he
said, “because, as you know, I am always hard up, and presently when I
want to occupy a larger sphere I shall require money for my ends, but
for the time being they serve to divert me as a relaxation; that is
“You are contracting no ties, dear lad?” asked the Professor with
one eyebrow raised, while he shook back his silvery hair. “I had heard
vaguely about your attention to Lady Durrend, but I understand she has
had many preliminary canters and knows the ropes.”
John Derringham smiled. “Vivienne Durrend is a most charming woman,”
he said. “She has taught me a number of things in the last two years. I
am grateful to her. Next season she is bringing a daughter out—and she
has a wonderful sense of the fitness of things.” Then he sipped his tea
and got up and strolled towards the windows.
“Besides,” he continued, “I do not admit there are any ties to be
contracted. The Greeks understood the place of women; all this nonsense
of vows of fidelity and exaltation of sentiment in the home cramps a
man's ambitions. It is perfectly natural that he should take a wife if
his position calls for it, because the society in which we move has
made a figurehead of that kind necessary. But that a woman should
expect a man to be faithful to her, be she wife or mistress, is
contrary to all nature.”
“We have put nature out of the running now for a couple of thousand
years,” Mr. Carlyon announced sententiously; “we have set up a standard
of impossibilities and worship hypocrisy and can no longer see any
truth. You have got to reckon with things as they are, not with what
nature meant them to be.”
“Then you think women are a force now which one must consider?”
“I think they are as deadly as the deep sea—” and Mr. Carlyon's
voice was tense. “When they have only bodies they are dangerous enough,
but when—as many of the modern ones have—they combine a modicum of
mind as well, with all the cunning Satan originally endowed them
with—then happy is the man who escapes, even partially whole, from
“Whew—” whistled John Derringham, “and what if they have souls? Not
that I personally admit that such a case exists—what then?”
“When you meet a woman with a soul you will have met your match,
John,” the Professor said, and opening his Times, which
Demetrius had brought in with the second post, he closed the
John Derringham strolled into the garden. The place had been greatly
improved since Halcyone's first discovery of its new occupant. The
shutters were all a spruce green and the paths weeded and tidy, while
the borders were full of bedded-out plants and flowers. A famous
gardener from Upminster renowned through all the West had come over and
given his personal attention to the matter, and next year wonderful
herbaceous borders would spring up on all sides. Mr. Johnson's visits
and his council, though at first resented, had at length grown a source
of pure delight to Halcyone; she reveled in the blooms of the delicate
begonias and salvias and other blossoms which she had never seen
before. Mr. Carlyon, although desiring solitude, appreciated a
beautiful and cultivated one, and the orchard house was now becoming a
very comfortable bachelor's home.
The day was much cooler than it had been of late. There was a fresh
breeze though the sun shone. John Derringham wandered down to the apple
tree and thence to the gap, and through it and on into the park. His
walk was for pleasure, and aimless as to destination, and presently he
sat down under a low-spreading oak and looked at the house—La Sarthe
Chase. A beautiful view of it could be obtained from there, and it
interested him—and from that his thoughts came to Halcyone and her
strange, quaint little personality, and he stretched himself out and
putting his hands under his head he looked up into the dense foliage of
the tree above him—and there his eyes met two grave, quiet ones
peering down from a mass of green, and he saw slender brown legs drawn
up on a broad branch, and a scrap of blue cotton frock.
“Good morning,” Halcyone said quite composedly, “don't make a noise,
please, or rustle—the mother doe is just coming out of the copse with
her new fawn.”
“How on earth did you get up there?” he asked, surprised.
“I swung myself from the lower branch on the other side; it is quite
easy—would you like to come up, too? There is plenty of room—and then
we could be sure the doe would not see you and she might peep out
again. I do not wish to frighten her.”
John Derringham rose leisurely and went to the further side of the
oak, where sure enough there was a drooping branch and he was soon up
beside her, dangling his long limbs as he sat in a fork.
“What an enchanting bower you have found,” he said. “Away from all
“No indeed, that cannot be at this time of the year,” she answered.
“See, there is a squirrel far up in the top and there are birds, and
look—down there at the roots there is a rabbit hole with such a family
in it. It is only in the winter you can be alone—and not even then,
for you know there are the moles even if you cannot see them.”
“Creatures are interesting to watch, aren't they?” he said. “I have
an old place which I loved when I was a boy. It is let now because I am
too poor to live in it, but I used to like to prowl about in the early
mornings long ago.”
“We are all very poor,” said Halcyone simply, “but I am sorry for
you that you have to let strangers be in your house—that must be
John Derringham smiled, and his face lost the insouciante
arrogance which irritated his enemies so. His smile, rare enough, was
“I don't think about it,” he said. “It is best not to when anything
“Cheiron and I often tell one another things like that.”
“Cheiron—who is Cheiron?” he asked.
This seemed a superfluous question to Halcyone.
“The Professor, of course. He is just like the picture in my
'Heroes,'“ she answered, “and I often pretend we are in the cave on
Pelion. I thought you would perhaps be like one of the others since you
were his pupil, too, but I cannot find which. You are not
Heracles—because you have none of those great muscles—or AEneas or
Peleus. Are—are you Jason himself, perhaps—” and her voice sounded
glad with discovery. “We do not know, he may not have had a Greek
John Derringham laughed. “Jason who led the Argonauts to find the
Golden Fleece—it is a good omen. Would you help me to find the Golden
Fleece if you could?”
“Yes, I would, if you were good and true—but the end of the story
was sad because Jason was not.”
“How must I be good and true then? I thought Jason was a straight
enough sort of a fellow and that it was Medea who brought all the
trouble—Medea, the woman.”
Halcyone's grave eyes never left his face. She saw the whimsical
twinkle in his but heeded it not.
“He should not have had anything to do with Medea—that is where he
was wrong,” she said, “but having given her his word, he should have
“Even though she was a witch?” Mr. Derringham asked.
“It was still his word—don't you see? Her being a witch did not
alter his word. He did not give it because she was or was not a
witch—but because he himself wanted to at the time, I suppose;
therefore, it was binding.”
“A man should always keep his word, even to a woman, then?” and John
Derringham smiled finely.
“Why not to a woman as well as a man?” Halcyone asked surprised.
“You do not see the point at all it seems. It is not to whom it is you
give your word—it is to you it matters that you keep it, because to
break it degrades yourself.”
“You reason well, fair nymph,” he said gallantly; he was frankly
amused. “What may your age be? A thousand years more or less will not
make any difference!”
“You may laugh at me if you like,” said Halcyone, and she smiled;
his gayety was infectious, “but I am not so very young. I shall be
thirteen in October, the seventh of October.”
John Derringham appeared to be duly impressed with this antiquity,
and went on gravely:
“So you and the Master discuss these knotty points of honor and
expediency together, do you, as a recreation from the Greek syntax? I
should like to hear you.”
“The Professor does not believe in men much,” Halcyone said. “He
says they are all honorable to one another until they are tempted—and
that they are never honorable to a woman when another woman comes upon
the scene. But I do not know at all about such things, or what it
means. For me there is nothing towards other people; it only is towards
yourself. You must be honorable to yourself.”
And suddenly it seemed to John Derringham as if all the paltry shams
of the world fell together like a pack of cards, and as if he saw truth
shining naked for the first time at the bottom of the well of the
child's pure eyes.
An extraordinary wave of emotion came over him, finely strung as he
was, and susceptible to all grades of feeling. He did not speak for a
minute; it was as if he had quaffed some elixir. A flame of noble fire
seemed to run in his veins, and his voice was changed and full of
homage when at last he addressed her.
“Little Goddess of Truth,” he said, “I would like to be with you
always that you might never let me forget this point of view. And you
believe it would have won for Jason in the end—if he had been true to
himself? Tell me—I want greatly to know.”
“But how could there be any doubt of that?” she asked surprised.
“Good only can bring good, and evil, evil.”
At this moment, out from the copse the soft head of a doe appeared,
and at the thrilling sight Halcyone slipped her hand into her
companion's, and held his tight lest he should move or rustle a leaf.
“See,” she whispered right in his ear. “She will cross to the other
side by the stream—and oh! there is the fawn! Is he not the dearest
baby angel you have ever seen—!”
And the doe, feeling herself safe, trotted by, followed by a minute
son in pale drab velvet hardly a month old.
The pair in the tree watched them breathlessly until they had
entered the copse again beyond the bend, and then Halcyone said:
“That makes six—and perhaps there are more. Oh! how I hope the Long
Man will not see them!”
John Derringham did not let go her hand at once; there was something
soft and pleasant in the touch of the cool little fingers.
“I want to hear about everything,” he said. “Tell me of the Long
Man—and the fawns, and why there are only six. I am having the
happiest morning I have had for years.”
So Halcyone began. She glossed a good deal over the facts she had
told Mr. Carlyon upon the subject because she did not feel she knew
this stranger well enough to let him into her aunts' private
affairs—so she turned the interest to the deer themselves, and they
chatted on about all sorts of animals and their ways, and John
Derringham was entranced and felt quite aggrieved when she said it was
getting late and she must go back to the house for her early dinner. He
swung himself down from the tree by the high branch with ease and stood
ready to catch her, but with a nimbleness he did not expect, she crept
round to the lower side and was landed upon the soft turf before he
could reach her.
Then he walked back with her to the broken gate, telling her about
his own old home the while, and then they paused to say good-by.
Halcyone carried a twig of freshly sprouting oak which she had
brought from the tree, having broken it off in her lightning descent.
“Give me one leaf and you keep the other,” he said. “And then,
whenever I see it, I will try to remember that I must always be good
With grave earnestness she did as he asked, and then opened the
“I want to tell you,” she said—and she looked down for a second,
and then up into his eyes from beyond the bars. “I did not like the
thought of your coming—and at first I did not like you—but now I see
something quite different at the other side of your head—Good-by.”
And before he could answer, she was off as the young fawn would have
been—a flitting shape among the trees. And John Derringham walked
slowly back to the orchard house, musing as he went.
But when he got there a telegram from his Chief had arrived,
recalling him instantly to London.
And he did not see Halcyone again for several years.
The seasons came and went with peaceful regularity, unbroken by a
jarring note from the outside world. Mr. Anderton, being well assured
by the Misses La Sarthe that his stepdaughter was receiving a splendid
education, was only too glad to leave her in peace, and Mrs. Anderton
felt her duty achieved when at the beginning of each summer and winter
she sent a supply of what she considered suitable clothes. It took
Priscilla and Hester hours to alter them to Halcyone's slender shape.
Mr. Carlyon was seldom absent from his house during this period,
only twice a year, when he spent a fortnight in London in June, and
another week in November with his brother, a squire of some note in the
Cornish world. Halcyone made green his old age with the exquisite
quality of her opening mind. And deep down in her heart there always
dwelt the image of John Derringham, and whatever new hero she read
about, he unconsciously assumed some of his features or mien. She
passed through enthusiasms for all periods, and for quite six months
was under the complete spell of the “Morte d'Arthur” and the adventures
of the knights contained therein. She read voraciously and
systematically, but her first love for all things Greek regained its
hold and undoubtedly colored her whole view of life.
Her education was exotic and might have ruined a brain of lesser
fiber. But for her it seemed to bring forth all that was clear and fine
and polish it with a diamond luster. Twice a week alternately the
French and German master from the Applewood Grammar School came to her,
and she also learned to read music from the organist at the church, and
then played to herself with no technique but much taste.
And of all her masters, Nature and the fearless study of her night
moods molded her soul the most.
For the first few months after John Derringham's visit Mr. Carlyon
often spoke of him and read aloud bits of his letters, and Halcyone
listened with rapt attention, but she never embarked upon the subject
herself—and then the Professor had an accident to his knee which kept
him a prisoner for months. And somehow the interest of this seemed to
dwarf less present things, and as time went on, John Derringham grew to
be mentioned only by fits and starts, when his rapidly rising political
career called forth cynical grunts of admiration from his old master.
There had been a dissolution of Parliament and a short term of office
for the other side, and then at the General Election John Derringham's
Chief had come in again stronger than ever, and he himself had been
made Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. It was a tremendous
rise for one so young. He was at that time not more than twenty-nine
years old—but two years before this happened, when Halcyone was about
fifteen, he came again to the orchard house for a short Saturday to
From the moment that she knew he was coming a strange stillness
seemed to fall upon the child. She had grown long-legged and was at the
fledgling stage when even a pretty girl sometimes looks plain, and she,
who had as yet no claim to beauty, was at her worst. She was quite
aware of it, with her intense soul-worship of all beautiful things.
Some unreasoned impulse made her keep away from her master during the
first day, but on the Sunday he summoned her, and, as once before, she
came and poured out the tea, but it was a cold and windy autumn
afternoon, and it was not laid out of doors. John Derringham had been
for a walk, and came in while she sat in a shadowy corner behind the
table, teapot in hand.
He was greatly changed, she thought, in the three years. He had
grown a beard! and looked considerably older, with his thin commanding
figure and arrogant head. He was not handsome now, but peculiarly
distinguished-looking. He could very well be Pericles, she decided at
once. As for him, he had almost forgotten her. Life had been so full of
many things; but, seeing a pale, slender, overgrown girl with
mouse-colored clouds of hair now confined in a demure pigtail, it came
to his mind that this must be the Professor's pupil again. Had she not
been called Hebe or Psyche—or Halcyone—some Greek name? And gradually
his former recollection of her came back, and of their morning in the
“Why, how do you do,” he said politely, and Halcyone bowed without
speaking. She felt much as Hans Andersen's Ugly Duckling used to feel,
and when John Derringham had said a few ordinary things about her
having grown out of all likeness, he turned to the Professor again, and
almost forgot her presence.
His talk was most wonderful to listen to, she thought, his language
was so polished, and there was a courtesy added to the former
vehemence. They spoke of nothing but politics, which she did not
understand, and Cheiron chaffed him a good deal in his kindly cynical
way. He was still fighting his chimeras, it seemed, and fighting them
successfully. As he spoke, Halcyone, behind the teapot, thrilled with a
kind of worship. To be strong and young and manful, and to combat
modern dragons, appeared to her to be a god-like task.
In the midst of a heated argument she rose to slip away. Her comings
and goings were so natural to the Professor that he was unaware that
she was leaving the room until John Derringham broke off in the middle
of a sentence, to rise and open the door for her.
“Good-by,” she said. “Aunt Roberta is not very well to-day, so I
must not be late. Good night, Cheiron”—and she went out and closed the
“But it is quite dark!” exclaimed John Derringham. “Is there a
servant waiting? She can't go all alone!”
The Professor leaned back in his chair.
“Don't disturb yourself,” he said. “Halcyone is accustomed to the
twilight. It is a strange night-creature—leave it alone.”
John Derringham sat down again.
“She is not nearly so attractive-looking as she used to be. If I
remember, she was rather a weirdly pretty child.”
“Just a chrysalis now,” grunted the professor between [**TR Note:
was betwen in original; typesetter's error.] puffs of smoke. “But there
is more true philosophy and profound knowledge of truth in that little
head than either you or I have got in ours, John.”
“You always thought the world of her, Master—you, with your
ineradicable contempt for women!”
“She is not a woman—yet. She is an intelligence and a brain—and a
“Oh, she has a soul, then!” and John Derringham smiled. “I remember
once you said when I should meet a woman with a soul I should meet my
match! I do not feel very alarmed.”
One of the Professor's penthouse brows raised itself about half an
inch, but he did not speak.
“In which school have you taught her?” John Derringham asked—“you
who are so much of a cynic, Master. Does she study the ethics of
Aristotle with you here in this Lyceum, or do you reconstruct Plato's
Academy? She is no sophist, apparently, since you say she can see the
Mr. Carlyon looked into the fire.
“She is almost an Epicurean, John, in all but the disbelief in the
immortality of the soul. She has evolved a theory of her own about
that. It partakes of Buddhism. After I have discussed metaphysical
propositions with her over which she will argue clearly, she will
suddenly cut the whole knot with a lightning flash, and you see the
naked truth, and words become meaningless, and discussion a jest.”
“All this, at fifteen!” John Derringham laughed antagonistically,
and then he suddenly remembered her words to himself upon honor in the
tree that summer morning three years ago, and he mused.
Perhaps some heaven-taught beings were allowed to come to earth
after all, now and then as the centuries rolled on.
“She knows Greek pretty well?” he asked.
“Fairly, for the time she has learnt. She can read me bits of
Lucian. She would stumble over the tragedies. I read them to her.” Then
he continued, as though it were a subject he loved, “She has a concrete
view upon every question; her critical faculty is marvelous. She never
lays down the law, but if you ask her, you have your answer in a
nutshell, the simplest truth, which it always appears to her so strange
that you have not seen all the time.”
“What is her parentage? Heredity plays so large a part in these
things,” Mr. Derringham asked.
“The result of a passionate love-match between distant cousins of
that fine old race, I believe. Timothy La Sarthe was at Oxford before
your day, but not under me—a brilliant, enchanting fellow, drowned
while yachting when my little friend was only a few months old.”
“And the mother?”
“Married again to pay his debts, to a worthy stockbroker, almost
immediately, I believe. She paid the debt with herself and died after
having three children for him in a few years.”
“So your protegee lives with those cameos of the Victorian era we
dined with, and never sees the outside world?”
“Never—from one year's end to another.”
“What a fate!” and John Derringham stretched out his arms. “Ye gods,
what a fate!”
And again Cheiron smiled, raising his bushy left brow.
Halcyone, meanwhile, was walking with firm certain steps across the
park, where the dusk had fallen. The turbulent Boreas blew in her face,
and she stopped and took off her soft cap and unplaited her hair so
that it flew out in a cloud as the wind rushed through it. This
sensation was a great pleasure to her, and when she came to a rising
ground, a kind of knoll where the view of the country was vast and
superb, she paused again and took in great deep breaths. She was
drawing all the forces of the air into her being and quivered presently
with the joy of it.
She could see as only those who are accustomed to the dark can. She
was aware of all the outlines of golden bracken at her feet and the
head of a buck peeping from the copse near. The sky was a passionate,
tempestuous mass of angry clouds scudding over the deep blue, where an
evening star could be seen peeping out.
“Bring me your force and strength, that I may grow noble and
beautiful, dear wind,” she said aloud. “I want to be near him when he
comes again,” and then she ran and jumped the uneven places, while she
hummed a strange song.
And Jeb Hart and Joseph Gubbs, the poachers, saw her, as she passed
within a yard of where they lay setting their snares, and Gubbs, who
was a good Catholic from Upminster, crossed himself as he muttered in
his friend's ear:
“We'll get no swag to-night, Jeb. When she passes, blest if she
don't warn the beasts.”
When Halcyone was nearly nineteen and had grown into a rare and
radiant maiden, the like of whom it would be difficult to find, an
event happened which was of the greatest excitement and importance to
the neighborhood. Wendover, which had been shut up for twenty years,
was reported to have been taken for a term by a very rich widow—or
divorcee—from America it was believed, and it was going to be
sumptuously done up and would be filled with guests. Mr. Miller took
pains to find out every detail from the Long Man at Applewood, and so
was full of information at his monthly repast with the old ladies. Mrs.
Vincent Cricklander was the new tenant's name. The Long Man had himself
taken her over the place when she first came down to look at it, and
his report was that she was the most beautiful lady he had ever seen,
and with an eye to business that could not be beaten. He held her in
Then Mr. Miller coughed; he had now come to the point of his
discourse which made him nervous.
For he had learned beyond the possibility of any doubt that Mrs.
Cricklander was, alas! not a lonely widow but had been divorced—only a
year or two ago. She had divorced her husband—not he her—he hastened
to add, and then coughed again and got very red.
“When we were young,” Miss La Sarthe remarked severely, “our Mamma
would never have allowed us to know any divorced person—and, indeed,
our good Queen Victoria would never have received one at her Court. We
cannot possibly call, Roberta.”
Poor Miss Roberta's face fell. She had been secretly much elated by
the thoughts of a neighbor, and to have all her hopes thus nipped in
the bud was painful. She had heard (from Hester again, it is to be
feared!) that Mrs. Cricklander's maid, who was a cousin of the baker in
Applewood, and who had originally instigated her discovery of Wendover,
had said that her lady knew all the greatest people in England—lords
and duchesses by the dozen, and even an archbishop! Surely that was
But Miss La Sarthe, while again deploring the source of her sister's
information, was firm. Ideas might have changed, but they had
not. Since the last time they had curtsied to the beloved late Queen,
in about 1879, she believed new rules had been made, but the La Sarthe
had nothing to do with such things!
Halcyone caught Miss Roberta's piteous, subdued eye, and smiled a
tender, kind smile. With years her understanding of her ancient aunts
had grown. They were no longer rather contemptible, narrow-minded
elders in her eyes, but filled her with a pitiful and gentle respect.
Their courage under adversity, their firm self-control, and the force
which made them live up to their idea of the fitness of things,
appealed to her strongly. She had John Derringham's quality of detached
consideration, and appreciated her old relatives as exquisite relics of
the past, as well as her own kith and kin.
“In America, divorce is not considered the heinous crime it was once
in England,” Mr. Carlyon said. “Perhaps this lady may have been greatly
sinned against and deserves all our pity and regard.”
But Miss La Sarthe remained obdurate. The point was not as to who
was in the right, she explained, but that certain conventions, laid
down by one whose memory was revered, had been outraged, and she could
never permit her sister or Halcyone to have any intercourse with the
tenant of Wendover Park!
The preparations for the new arrival went on apace all the autumn
and winter. Armies of workpeople were reported to be in possession, and
whole train-loads of splendid French furniture were known to have
arrived at Applewood, to augment the antique and time-worn pieces which
were Wendover's own.
Miss Le Sarthe sent for the Long Man. Things had been rather better
of late, and no more precious belongings had been forced to be parted
with. An investment which had been valueless for years now began to
produce some interest which was a great comfort, for Miss La Sarthe was
now seventy-nine and Miss Roberta seventy-six.
The orders that the agent received were precise. The gate between
Wendover and La Sarthe Chase which had been closed for over a hundred
years was to be boarded up, and their side of the haw-haw which for
nearly a mile divided the two parks was to be deepened and cleared out,
and the spikes mended in any places where the ground might have seemed
to have fallen in sufficiently, or the irons to have become broken
enough to make the passage easy.
This would be unnecessary, Mr. Martin (the Long Man) told her. The
haw-haw was still as perfect as ever and a wonder of concealed traps
for the unwary, but the gate should be seen to at once.
Thus La Sarthe Chase was armed fully against Wendover, when, about
Easter, Mrs. Cricklander decided she would come down and bring a few
friends. It was with a sudden violent beating of the heart that
Halcyone learned casually from Mr. Carlyon that John Derringham would
be of their number.
The aunts took in the Morning Post, but until she was
eighteen they had rigorously forbidden Halcyone's perusal of it.
Newspapers, except one or two periodicals, were not fit for young
ladies' reading until they were grown up, they felt. However, their
niece, having now come to years of discretion, sometimes had the
pleasure of reading John Derringham's speeches and thrilled with joy
over his felicitous daring and caustic wit. The Government could not
last much longer, but he at least, as far as he could, would keep it
full of vigor until the end. She knew, therefore, that the last sitting
before the Easter recess had been a storm of words sharp as
sword-thrusts—it was before the days of the language of Billingsgate
and the behavior of roughs. There were quite a number of gentlemen
still in the House of Commons, who often behaved as such.
Those wonderful forces which Halcyone culled from all nature, and
especially the night, gave her a serenity over the most moving events,
and when the sudden beating of her heart was over, she waited calmly
for the moment when she should see John Derringham again.
Mr. Carlyon took in the Graphic as well as his Quarterly
Review and the Nineteenth Century, and it was her only
medium for guessing even what the outside world looked like, but from
it she was quite aware that a beard was a most unusual thing for a
young modern man of the world, and that John Derringham for that reason
must always be distinguished from his fellows. Carpenters and hedgers
and ditchers wore them, and nondescript young fellows she remembered
seeing when she went into Upminster with her aunts; but these
excursions had been discontinued now for the past five years, so the
villagers of Sarthe-under-Crum and the denizens of the rather larger
Applewood were the only human beings she ever saw.
The party at Wendover were to arrive on the Thursday before Good
Friday—Priscilla had told her that—and it was just possible that some
of them might be in church.
The aunts now drove a low basket shay which had been their pride in
the sixties, but which for countless years, until the investment began
to pay, they had been unable to keep a pair of ponies for. Now,
however, the shay was unearthed from the moldy coach-house and for the
past year two very old and quiet specimens of Shetland had been found
for them by Mr. Martin and they were able to drive to church every
Sunday in state, William sitting up behind, holding the reins between
his mistresses, while Miss La Sarthe flourished a small whip whose
delicate handle was studded with minute turquoises. From it dangled a
ring which she could slip on her finger over her one-buttoned
slate-colored glove, and so feel certain of not dropping this treasure.
Halcyone always walked.
On Good Friday there was not a sight of the Wendover party in
church, and Halcyone went back by the orchard house to look in at
Cheiron, who had had a cold in the last few days.
Stretched in the armchair she found John Derringham.
The brisk walk in the fresh spring air had brought some faint color
to her pale cheeks, her soft hair was wound about her head with
becoming simplicity, and she wore an ordinary suit which could not
disguise her beautiful slender limbs, so long and thin, a veritable
Artemis in her chaste perfection of balance and proportion.
Halcyone could pass in any crowd and perhaps no one would ever
notice her and her mouse-like coloring, but once your eye was arrested,
then, like looking at some rare bit of delicate enamel, you began to
perceive undreamed-of graces which soothed the sight until you were
filled with the consciousness of an exquisite beauty as intangible as
her other charm—distinction. An infinite serenity was in her
atmosphere, a promise of all pure and tender things in her great soft
eyes. The mystery and freshness of the night seemed always to hang
about her. Her ways were noiseless—the most creaking door appeared to
forget its irritating habit when under her touch. Thus it was that John
Derringham, smoking a cigar, never even glanced up until a voice of
extreme cultivation and softness said gently:
“Good morning. And how are you?”
Then he bounded from his chair, startled a little, and held out his
“My old friend, Miss Halcyone, the Priestess of Truth!” he
exclaimed, “as I am alive!”
She smiled serenely while they shook hands, and sat down demurely by
the Professor's side.
“I thought you would have been translated to Olympus long ago,” the
visitor said. “Have you honored this ordinary earth and our friend
Cheiron's cave, ever since?”
“There can be nothing left for you to learn. Master, it is you and I
whom she could teach,” he laughed.
“How do you know all this?” asked Halcyone quietly, while her eyes
smiled at his raillery. “Do I look such an old-fashioned blue-stocking,
“You look perfectly sweet,” and John Derringham's expressive eyes
confirmed what he said.
“Enough, enough, John. Halcyone is quite unaccustomed to gallants
from the world like you,” the Professor growled. “If you pay her
compliments she won't believe you can really make a speech.”
So Mr. Derringham laughed and continued his interrupted
conversation. He seemed in good humor with all the world. He was going
to stay at Wendover for the whole of Easter week. Mrs. Cricklander had
an amusing party of luminaries of both sides—she was the most perfect
hostess and had a remarkable talent for collecting the right people.
“She is quite the best-read woman I have ever met, Master,” John
Derringham said. “You must let me bring her over here one day to see
you—you would delight in her wit and beauty. She does not leave you a
“Yes, bring her,” the Professor returned between the puffs at his
long pipe. “I have never met any of these new hothouse roses grafted
upon briar roots. I should like to study how the system has worked.”
“Quite admirably, as you will see. I do not know any Englishwomen
who are to compare to such Americans in brilliancy and fascination.”
Over Halcyone, in spite of her serenity, there crept a feeling of
cold. She did not then analyze why, and, as was her habit when anything
began to distress her, she looked out of the window, whether it were
night or day. She always did this, and when her eyes saw Nature in any
of her moods, calm returned to her.
“She will simply revel in La Sarthe Chase when she sees it,” Mr.
Derringham went on, now addressing Halcyone. “She is a past-mistress in
knowledge of the dates of things. You are going to have the most
delicious neighbor, Miss Halcyone, and in learning, a foeman worthy of
Cheiron was heard to chuckle wickedly, and when his former Oxford
pupil asked him with mild humor the reason of his inappropriate mirth,
he answered dryly:
“She is never likely to see the inside of the park even. Queen
Victoria did not receive divorced persons, and the Misses La Sarthe, in
consequence, cannot either. You will have to bring her here by the
Halcyone winced a little. She disliked this conversation; it was not
as fine as she liked to think were the methods of both the men
who were carrying it on.
John Derringham reddened up to his temples, where there were a few
streaks of gray in his dark hair which added to the distinction of his
finely cut, rather ascetic face. The short, well-trimmed beard was very
becoming, Halcyone thought, and gave him a look of great masculinity
and strength. His hawk's eyes were shadowed, as though he sat up very
late at night; which indeed he did. For John Derringham, at this period
of his life, burnt the candle at both ends and in the middle, too, if
it could add to the pleasure or benefit of his calculated career,
mapped out for himself by himself.
A sensation almost of wrath rose in his breast at his old master's
words. These ignorant country people, to dare to criticise his
glittering golden pheasant, whom he was very nearly making up his mind
to take for a wife! This aspect of the case, that even these
unimportant old ladies could question the position of his choice,
galled him. He had spent up to the last penny of his diminished income
in his years of man's estate, and Derringham was mortgaged to its
furthest acre—and a gentleman must live—and with his brilliant
political future expanding before him, lack of means must not be
allowed to stand in his way. He would give this woman in gratified
ambition as much or more than she would give him in wealth, so it would
be an equal bargain and benefit them both. And, above all, he was more
than half in love with her, and could get quite a large share of
pleasure out of the affair as well. He had been too busy to trouble
much over women as a sex since he had left the University—except in
the way he had once described to his old master, regarding them as
flowers in a garden—mere pleasures for sight and touch, and
experiencing ephemeral passions which left no mark. But women either
feared or adored him; and this woman, the desired of a host of his
friends, had singled him out for her especial favors. It had amused him
the whole of the last season; he had defied her efforts to chain him to
her chariot wheels, and in the winter she had gone to Egypt, and had
only just returned. But the charm was growing, and he felt he would
allow himself to be caught in her net.
“Mrs. Cricklander would be very much amused could she hear this
verdict of the county,” he said with a certain tone in his voice which
did not escape Halcyone. “In London we do not occupy ourselves with
such unimportant things—but I dare say she will get over it. And now I
really must be going back. May I walk with you through the park, Miss
Halcyone, if you are going, too? I am sure there must be an opening
somewhere, as the two places touch.”
“Yes, there is just one,” Halcyone said. “The haw-haw runs the whole
way, and it is impossible to pass, except in the one spot, and I
believe no one knows of it but myself. There are a few bricks loose,
and I used to take them out and put them back when I wanted to get into
“Then it will be an adventure; come,” he said, and Halcyone rose.
“Only if you will not give away my secret. Promise you will not tell
anyone else,” she bargained.
“Oh! I promise,” and John Derringham jumped up—his movements were
always quick and decided and full of nervous force. “I will bring my
hostess to see you on Monday or Tuesday, Master,” he announced, as he
said good-by. “And prepare yourself to fall at her feet like all the
rest of us—Merlin and Vivien, you know. It will be a just punishment
for your scathing remarks.”
When they were outside in the garden Halcyone spoke not a word. The
beds were a glory of spring bulbs, and every bud on the trees was
bursting with its promise of coming leaf. Glad, chirruping bird-notes
called to one another, and a couple of partridges ran across the lawn.
John Derringham took in the lines of Halcyone's graceful person as
she walked ahead. She had that same dignity of movement from the hips
which the Nike of Samothrace seems to be advancing with as you come up
the steps of the Louvre.
How tall she had grown! She must be at least five feet nine or ten.
But why would she not speak?
He overawed her here in the daylight, and she felt silent and
“Whereabouts is our tree that we sat in when I was young and you
were old?” he asked, after they had got through the gap in the hedge. A
little gate had been put in the last years to keep out the increasing
herd of deer.
“It is over there by the copse,” she said shyly. “The lower branch
fell last winter, and it makes a delightful seat. One is not obliged to
climb into the tree now. See: Demetrius helped me to drag it close, and
we nailed on these two arms,” and she pointed to a giant oak not far
from them, which John Derringham pretended to recognize.
He tried his best to get her to talk to him, but some cloud of timid
aloofness on her part seemed to hang between them, and very soon below
the copse they came to the one vulnerable part in all the haw-haw's
length. She showed him how to take the bricks out and where to place
his feet, and pointed out how secluded from any eye the place was.
Then, as he climbed down and then up again, and looked across at her
from Wendover lands, she said a sedate good-by, and turning, went on
among the thickly growing saplings of the copse and, never looking
back, was soon out of sight.
John Derringham watched her disappear with a strange feeling of
ruffled disquietude in his heart.
It was so warm and charming an April day that Mrs. Cricklander and
some of her friends were out of doors before luncheon, walking up and
down the broad terrace walk that flanked Wendover's southern side.
It was a Georgian house, spacious and comfortable, but not
especially beautiful. Mrs. Cricklander was a woman of enormous
ability—she had a perfect talent for discovering just the right people
to work for her pleasure and benefit, while being without a single
inspiration herself. If she engaged a professional adviser to furnish
her house, and decorate it, you could be sure he was of the best and
that his services had been measured and balanced beforehand, and that
he had been generously paid whatever he had obtained by bargaining for
it, and that the agreement was signed and every penny of the cost
entered in a little book. It was so with everything that touched her
life. She had a definite idea of what she wanted, although she did not
always want the same thing for long; but while she did, she went about
getting it in a sensible, practical way, secured it, paid for it,—and
then often threw it away.
She had felt she wanted Vincent Cricklander because he belonged to
one of the old families in New York and played polo well, and, being a
great heiress though of no pretensions to birth, she wished to have an
undisputed entry into the inner circle of her own country. He fulfilled
her requirements for quite three years, and then she felt she was
“through” with America, and wanted fresh fields for her efforts. Paris
was too easy, Berlin doubtful, Vienna and Petersburg impossible to
conquer, but London would hold out everything that she could wish for.
Only, it must be the very best of London, not the part of its society
that anyone can struggle and push and pay to get into, but the real
thing. She was “quite finished” with Vincent Cricklander, too, at this
period; to see him play polo no longer gave her any thrill. So one
morning at their lunch, on a rare occasion when they chanced to be
alone, she told him so, and asked him practically how much he would
take to let her divorce him.
But Vincent Cricklander was a gentleman, and, what is more, an
American gentleman, which means of a chivalry towards women unknown in
“I do not want any of your money, Cis,” he said. “I will be quite
glad to go, if it will make you happier. We'll phone T.V. Ryan this
afternoon and let him think out a scheme so that it can be done without
a scandal of any sort. My mother has old-fashioned ideas, and I would
hate to pain the poor dear lady.”
It took nearly two years, but the divorce was completed at last, and
Cecilia Cricklander found herself perfectly free and with all the keen
scent of the hunter for the chase dilating her fine nostrils as she
stood upon the deck of the great ocean liner bound for Liverpool.
She was a very beautiful woman and refined in every point, with
exquisite feet and hands, pure, brilliant, fair coloring and a superb
figure, and even a fairly sweet voice. Her education had been a good
deal neglected because she was too spoilt by a doting father to profit
by the instruction he provided for her. She felt this keenly directly
she began to go out into the world, and immediately commenced to remedy
the defect. For her, from the very beginning, life appeared in the
light of a game. Fate was an adversary from whom she meant to win all
the stakes, and it behooved a clever woman not to overlook a single
card that might be of use to her in her play. She was quite aware of
her own limitations, and her own forces and advantages. She knew she
was beautiful and charming; she knew she was kind and generous and
extremely “cute,” as her old father said. She knew that literature and
art did not interest her one atom in themselves, that most music bored
her, and that she had a rather imperfect memory; but during her brief
visits to England, when she was making up her mind that this country
would be the field for her next exertions, she had decided that to be
beautiful and charming was not just enough; there were numbers of other
Americans who were both, and they were all one as successful and sought
after as the other. She must be something beyond this—a real Queen. To
beauty and wealth and charm she must add culture as well. She must be
able to talk to the prime minister upon his pet foibles, she must be
able to quote erudite passages from all the cleverest books of the day
to the brilliant politicians and diplomats and men of polished brain
who made up the society over which she wished to rule. And how was this
to be done? She thought it all out, and during her two years of living
quietly to obtain her divorce without a breath of scandal, she had hit
upon and put into practice an admirable plan.
She searched for and found a poor, very plain and highly cultivated
English gentlewoman, one who had been governess in a foreign Royal
family and was now trying to support an aged mother by giving private
lessons. Arabella Clinker was this treasure's name—Miss Arabella
Clinker, aged forty-two, and as ugly as it is possible for a thoroughly
nice woman to be.
Mrs. Cricklander made no mysteries about what she required Miss
Clinker's companionship for. She explained minutely that should any
special dinner-party or rencontre with any great person be in
view, Miss Clinker must do a sort of preparatory cramming for her, as
boys are prepared for examinations.
“You must make it your business, when I give you the names of the
people I am to meet, to post me up in what they are likely to talk
about. You must read all the papers in the morning with the political
speeches in them, and then give me a quick resume; if it should
be any diplomat or great artist or one of those delightful Englishmen
who knows everything, then you must suggest some suitable authors to
speak of that they will like, and I have quite enough sense myself to
turn the conversation off any that I should not know about. In this way
you will soon learn what I require of you, and I shall learn a great
deal and gradually can launch out into much more difficult things.”
Arabella Clinker had a sense of humor, and she adored her mother and
wished to give her a comfortable old age. Mrs. Cricklander's terms for
this unique position were according to her accustomed liberality.
“I like to give splendid prices for things, and then I expect them
to be splendidly done,” she said.
Miss Clinker had promised to do her best, and their partnership had
lasted for nearly three years with the most satisfactory results to
both of them. Their only difficulty was Mrs. Cricklander's defective
memory. She could not learn anything by heart, and if she were
at all tired had to keep herself tremendously in hand to make no
mistakes. But the three years of constant trying had enabled her to
talk upon most subjects in a shibboleth of the world which imposed upon
everyone. Her real talent which called for the greatest admiration was
the way in which she manipulated what she knew, and skimmed a fresh
subject. She would do so with such admirable skill and wording as to
give the impression that she was acquainted with its profoundest
depths; and then when she was safely over the chasm the first moment
she was free she would rush to Arabella for the salient points,
doggedly repeat them over and over, and on the next occasion come out
with them to the same person, convincing him more than ever of her
thorough knowledge of the subject. But her memory was her misfortune,
for if Miss Clinker instructed her, for instance, in all the different
peculiarities of the styles of Keats and Shelley, a week after she
would have forgotten which was which—because both bored her to
distraction—and she would have to be reminded again. One awful moment
came when, rhapsodizing upon the sensibility of Keats' character, she
said to Sir Tedbury Delvine, the finest litterateur of his time, that
there must have come moments during Keats' latter years when he must
have felt as his own “Prometheus Unbound”! But, seeing her mistake
immediately by her listener's blank face, she regained her ground with
a skill and a flow of words which made Sir Tedbury Delvine doubt
whether his own ears had heard aright.
“Arabella,” Mrs. Cricklander said when next morning she lay smoking
in her old-rose silk bed, while she went through her usual lessons for
the day, “you must give me just a point each about those wretched old
two, so that I will remember them again. I must have a sort of keynote.
Shelley's would do with that horrible statue of him drowned, at Oxford,
that would connect his chain—but what for Keats?”
So at last Miss Clinker invented a plan, almost Pythagorean in its
way, and it proved very helpful to her patroness.
When she went on light, amusing excursions to Egypt and such places,
she allowed Arabella to remain with her mother, and these were months
of pure happiness to Miss Clinker.
It had not taken Mrs. Cricklander long to conquer London with her
money, and her looks, and her triumphant belief in herself. At the end
of two years, when John Derringham was first presented to her, she had
almost reached the summit of her ambitions. To become his wife she had
decided would place her there. For was he not certain to climb to the
top of the tree, as well as being the most brilliant and most sought
after young man in all England. Of love—the love that recks not of
place or gain but just gives its being to the loved one—to such
emotion she was happily a complete stranger. John Derringham attracted
her greatly, and until now had successfully evaded all her snares and
had remained beyond the thrall of her will. To have got him to come for
this whole week of Easter was a triumph and exulted her accordingly.
She particularly affected politicians, and her house in Grosvenor
Square was a meeting-place for both parties, provided the members of
each were of the most distinguished type. And there were not more than
two or three people out of all her acquaintances, besides Arabella, who
smiled a little over her brilliant culture.
By all this it can be seen that Mrs. Cricklander was a wonderful
character—tenacious, indomitable, full of nerve and deserving of the
greatest respect in consequence.
The only thing the least vulgar about her was her soul—if she had
one—and it is not the business of society to look into such things.
Scrutiny of the sort is left for creatures like the Professor, Cheiron,
who have nothing else to do—but his impressions upon this subject must
come in their proper place.
Meanwhile, John Derringham had joined the party on the terrace, and
was joyously acclaimed, and then minutely questioned as to the cause of
his lengthy absence. He had not been to church—that was certain. He
had not been out of the park, because the lodges were not in the
direction from which he had been seen advancing. Where had he been,
then? All alone? He would not give any account of himself, as was his
way, and presently his hostess drew him on ahead and down the terrace
steps. She wanted to point out to him some improvements which she
contemplated. The garden must be the most beautiful in the country—and
he knew so much about gardens, he could tell her exactly which style
would suit the house best.
John Derringham was in a bad temper. That unaccountable sense of a
discordant note with himself still stayed with him. He unconsciously,
during his walk, had dwelt upon the Professor's information as to the
view of the old ladies of The Chase, and then Halcyone's silence and
stiffness. He felt excluded from the place which he recollected he had
held in the child's regard. His memory had jumped the brief glimpse of
her during her fledgling period, and had gone back with distinct
vividness to the summer morning in the tree, almost seven years ago.
He answered with a carelessness which was not altogether pleasing to
Cecilia Cricklander. She saw instantly that her favorite guest was
ruffled by something. Although never fine, she was quick at observing
all the moods of her pawns, and had brought the faculty of watching for
signs from castles, knights and kings to a science. John Derringham
must be humored and cajoled by a proof of her great understanding of
him—he must be left in silence for a minute, and then she would pause
and look over the balustrade, so that he might see her handsome profile
and take in the exquisite simplicity of her perfect dress. She knew
these things pleased him. She would look a little sad, too, and far
It had its effect.
“What are you dreaming about, fair chatelaine?” he asked after a
while. “Your charming mouth has its corners drooped.”
“I was wondering—” and then she stopped.
“Yes?” asked John Derringham. “You were wondering what?”
“I was wondering if one could ever get you to really take an
interest in anything but your politics, and your England's advancement?
How good it would be if one could interest you for a moment in anything
He leaned upon the balustrade beside her.
“You are talking nonsense,” he said. “You know very well that you
interest me every time I see you—and it is growing upon me. That was
not the only thing revolving in your clever mind.”
“Yes, indeed,” and she looked down.
“Well, then, I am interested in your garden. What do you think of
doing? Tell me.”
She explained an elaborate plan, and quoted the names of famous
gardeners and their styles, with her accustomed erudition. For had not
Arabella got them up for her only that morning, as she smoked her
seventh cigarette in bed? She inclined to French things, and she
thought that this particular part—a mere rough bit of the park—could
very well be laid out as a Petit Trianon. She could procure
copies of the plans of Mique, and even have a Temple d'Amour.
“I love to create,” she said. “The place would not have amused me if
everything had been complete, and if you will help me I shall be so
“Of course I will,” he said. “The Temple d'Amour would look
quite well up upon that rising ground, and you could have a small
winding lake dug to complete the illusion. Nothing is impossible, and I
suppose you can get permission from the old Wendover who lives in Rome
to do what you wish?”
“I should like to have been able to take the park of the next place,
La Sarthe Chase, too—that impassable haw-haw and the boarded-up gate
irritate me. The boards have been put since I came to look over
everything last autumn. I did instruct the agent, Martin, in Applewood
to offer a large price for it, but he assured me it would be quite
useless; it belongs, it appears, to the most ridiculous old ladies, who
are almost starving, but would rather die than be sensible.”
Suddenly John Derringham was conscious that his sympathies had
shifted to the Misses La Sarthe, and he could not imagine why.
“You told me, I think,” she went on, “that you knew this
neighborhood. Do you happen to be aware of any bait I could hold out to
“No, I do not,” he said. “That sort of pride is foolish, if you
like; but there it is—part of an inheritance of the spirit which in
the past has made England great. They are wonderful old ladies. I dined
with them once long ago.”
“I must really go over and see them one day. Perhaps I could
persuade them to my view.”
The flicker of a smile came into the eyes of John Derringham, and
she noticed it at once. It angered her, and deepened the pretty pink in
her fresh cheeks.
“You think they would not be pleased to see me?” she flashed.
“They are ridiculously old-fashioned,” he said. “Not your type at
“But I love curiosities,” she returned, smiling now. “I am not
absolutely set upon any type. All human beings are a delightful study.
If you know them, you must bring them to see me then some day.”
But at this John Derringham laughed outright.
“If you could picture them, you would laugh, too,” he said. “There
is someone, though, whom I do want you to know, who lives close
here—my old Oxford professor of Greek, Arnold Carlyon. He is a study
who will repay you. The most whimsical cynic, as well as one of the
greatest scholars I have ever come across in my life. I promised him
to-day that I would persuade you to let me take you to see him.”
“How enchanting,” she replied with enthusiasm. “And we must make him
come here. When shall we go? To-morrow?”
“No, I said Monday or Tuesday—with your permission,” and he bent
over her with caressing homage.
“Of course—when you will. That, then, is where you were this
morning. But how did you get back through the park?” she asked. “There
is no opening at that side whatever. It is all blocked by the wicked La
“I came round the edge,” he said, and felt annoyed—he hated
lying—“and then turned upwards. I wanted to see the boundaries.”
“I hate boundaries,” she laughed. “I always want to overstep them.”
“There is the chance of being caught in snares.”
“Which adds to the excitement,” and she allowed her radiant eyes to
seek his with a challenge.
He was not slow to take it up.
“Enchantress,” he whispered softly, “it is you whose charm lays
snares for men. You have no fear of falling into them yourself.”
She rippled a low laugh of satisfaction. And, having tamed her lion,
she now suggested it was time to go in to luncheon.
Arabella Clinker took Sunday afternoons generally to write a long
letter to her mother, and Good Friday seemed almost a Sunday, so she
went up to her room from force of habit. But first she looked up some
facts in the countless books of reference she kept always by her. Mrs.
Cricklander had skated over some very thin ice at luncheon upon a
classical subject, when talking to the distinguished Mr. Derringham,
and she must be warned and primed up before dinner. Arabella had
herself averted a catastrophe and dexterously turned the conversation
in the nick of time. Mrs. Cricklander had a peculiarly unclassical
brain, and found learning statistics about ancient philosophies and the
names of mythological personages the most difficult of all. Fortunately
in these days, even among the most polished, this special branch of
cultivation was rather old-fashioned, Miss Clinker reflected, but
still, as Mr. Derringham seemed determined to wander along this line
(Arabella had unconsciously appropriated some apt Americanisms during
her three years of bondage), she must be loyal and not allow her
employer to commit any blunders. So she got her facts crystallized, or
“tabloided,” as Mrs. Cricklander would mentally have characterized the
process, and then she began her letter to her parent. Mrs. Clinker, an
Irishwoman and the widow of a learned Dean, understood a number of
things, and was clear-headed and humorous, for all her seventy years,
and these passages in her daughter's letter amused her.
We are entertaining a number of distinguished visitors, and
them Mr. John Derringham, the Under Secretary of State for
Affairs. He is a most interesting personality, as perfectly
what he wants in life as is M. E. (M. E. stood for “My
Employer”—names were invidious). They would be a perfect
as selfish as the other, I should say. He is really very
and believes her to be so, too. She has not made a single
yet, but frightened me at luncheon a little. I must try and get
to keep him off classical subjects. She intends to marry
then she will not require me, I suppose; or rather, I do not
would permit her to keep me. If it came to a measure of wills,
would win, I think—at first, at least—but she could wear away
stone in the end, as you know. The arranging of this place is
amusing her, so she may decide to spend a good deal of time
closed her mouth with that firm snap this morning that I have
described to you often, and said that it was going to be her
to make them put themselves out and come so far away from
her. “Them,” for the moment, are Mr. Derringham and Mr.
Hanbury-Green, almost a Socialist person, who is on the other
side—very brilliantly clever but with a Cockney accent in one
words. M. E. does not notice this, of course. Mr. H-G. is in
with her—Mr. D. is not, but she is determined that he shall
be. I do
not know if he intends to marry her. He is making up his mind,
think, therefore I must be doubly careful not to allow her to
any mistakes, because if she did it would certainly estrange
as to keep her free is so much to our advantage, I feel I must
extra careful in doing my duty.
Arabella was a person of scrupulous honor.
She then proceeded to describe the party, and concluded with,
There is one American girl I like very much—perfectly natural
bubbling with spirits, saying aloud everything she thinks,
well educated and taking so much outdoor exercise that she has
yet begun to have the nervous attacks that are such a
feature of so many of her countrywomen. I am told it is their
climate. M. E. says it is because the men out there have always
them have their own way. I should think so much smoking has
to do with it.
John Derringham meanwhile had gone with his hostess and some of the
rest of the party, Mr. Hanbury-Green among them, to inspect the small
golf links Mrs. Cricklander was having constructed in the park. Her
country-house must be complete with suitable amusements. She had taken
all the Wendover shooting, too, and what she could get of Lord
Graceworth's beyond. “You cannot drag people into the wilds and then
bore them to death,” she said. What she most enjoyed was to scintillate
to a company of two or three, and fascinate them all into a desire for
a tete-a-tete, and then, when with difficulty one had secured
this privilege, to be elusive and tantalize him to death. To passion
she was a complete stranger, and won all her games because with her
great beauty she was as cold as ice.
She was not feeling perfectly content this Good Friday afternoon.
Something had happened since the evening before which had altered John
Derringham's point of view towards her. She felt it distinctly with her
senses, trained like an animal's, to scent the most subtle things in
connection with herself. It was impossible to seize, she could not
analyze it, but there it was; certainly there seemed to be some change.
He was brilliant, and had been even empresse before lunch, but
it was not spontaneous, and she was not perfectly sure that it was not
assumed. It was his cleverness which attracted her. She could not see
the other side of his head—not that she would have understood what
that meant, if she had heard the phrase.
But her habit was not to sit down under an adverse circumstance, but
to probe its source and eradicate it, or, at least, counteract it.
Thus, while she chattered eloquently to Sir Tedbury Delvine, her keen
brain was weighing things. John Derringham had certainly had a look of
aroused passion in his eyes when he had pressed her hand in a lingered
good night; he had even said some words of a more advanced insinuation
as to his intentions towards her than he had ever done before. They
were never exact—always some fugitive hint to which afterwards she
would try to fix some meaning as she reviewed their meetings. She had
not seen him at breakfast because she never came down in the morning
until eleven or twelve, and he had already gone out, she heard, when
she did descend.
It followed then that either he had received some disturbing letter
by the post—only one on Good Friday—or something had occurred during
his visit to his old master. It would be her business to find out which
of these two things it was. Could the Professor be married, and might
there be some woman in the family? Or was it nothing to do with the
Professor or with a letter, or was there a more present reason? Had
Cora Lutworth attracted him with her youth and high spirits? They were
walking ahead now, and she could hear his laugh and see how they were
She had been a perfect fool to ask Cora. She did not fear a single
Englishwoman, the powers of most of whom in her heart she despised—but
Cora was of her own race, and well equipped to rival her in a question
of marriage. Cora was only twenty-one, and she herself was thirty—and
there was the divorce which, although she had found it no bar to her
entrance into the most exclusive English society, still might perhaps
rankle unconsciously in the mind of a man mounting the political
ladder, and determined to secure the highest honors.
She felt she hated Cora, and would have destroyed her with a look if
she had been able.
Miss Lutworth, meanwhile, brimful of the joy of life and
insouciance, was amusing herself vastly. And John Derringham was
experiencing that sense of relaxation and irresponsible pleasure he got
sometimes when he was overworked from going to an excruciatingly funny
Paris farce. Miss Lutworth did not appeal to his brain at all, although
she was quite capable of doing so; she just made him feel gay and
frolicsome with her deliciously ruse view of the world and life
in general. He forgot his ruffled temper of the morning, and by the
time they had returned for tea, was his brilliant self again, and quite
ready to sit in a low chair at his hostess's side, while she leaned
back among the cushions of her sofa, in her own sitting-room, whither
she had enticed him during that nondescript hour before dinner, when
each person could do what he pleased.
“Is not Cora sweet?” she said, smoothing the brocade beneath her
hand. Her sitting-room had been arranged by the artist who had done the
house, as a perfect bower of Italian Sixteenth Century art. Mr.
Jephson, the artist, had assured her that this period would make a
perfect background for her fresh and rather voluptuous coloring; it had
not become so banal as any of the French Louis'. And so Arabella
had been instructed to drum into her head the names of the geniuses of
that time, and their works, and she could now babble sweetly all about
Giorgione, Paolo Veronese and Titian's later works without making a
single mistake. And while the pictures bored her unspeakably, she took
a deep pleasure in her own cleverness about them, and delighted in
tracing the influence Paolo Veronese must have had upon Boucher, a hint
from Arabella which she had announced as an inspiration of her own.
She had tea-gowns made to suit this period, and adopted the stately
movements which were evidently the attribute of that time.
John Derringham thought her superb. If he had been really in love
with her, he might have seen through her—and not cared—just as if she
had not attracted him at all, he would certainly have taken her measure
and enjoyed laying pitfalls for her. But as it was, his will was always
trying to augment his inclination. He was too busy to analyze the real
meaning of any woman, and until the Professor's words about the divorce
and the Misses La Sarthe's view of the affair, it had never even struck
him that there could be one single aspect of Mrs. Cricklander's case
which he might have to blink at. He had told himself he had better
marry a rich woman, since his old maternal uncle, Joseph Scroope, had
just taken unto himself a young wife and might any day have an heir.
And this was his only other possible source of fortune.
Mrs. Cricklander seemed the most advantageous bargain looming upon
the horizon. She was of proved entertaining capabilities. She had
passed her examination in the power of being a perfect hostess. She had
undoubted and expanding social talents. Women did not dislike her; she
was very vivid, very handsome, very rich. What more could a man who in
his innermost being had a supreme contempt for women, and a supreme
belief in himself, desire?
He had even balanced the advantages of marrying a rich American
girl, one like Miss Lutworth, for example. But such beings were
unproven, and might develop nerves and fads, which were of no
consequence in the delightful creatures with whom he passed occasional
leisure hours of recreation, but which in a wife would be a singular
disadvantage. Since he must marry—and soon—before the present
Parliament broke up and his Government went out, and there came some
years of fighting from the Opposition benches, when especially
brilliant entertaining might be of advantage to him—he knew he had
better make up his mind speedily, and take this ripe and luscious
peach, which appeared more than willing to drop into his mouth.
So, this late afternoon, aided by the scents and colors and
propinquity, he did his very best to make gradual love to her, and for
some unaccountable hideously annoying reason felt every moment more
aloof. It almost seemed at last as if he were guarding something of
fine and free that was being assailed. His dual self was fighting
within his soul.
Mrs. Cricklander was experiencing all the exciting emotions which
presumably the knights of old enjoyed when engaged in a tournament. She
was not even disturbed when the dressing-gong rang and she had not yet
won. It was only a postponement of one of the most entrancing games she
had ever played in her successful life. And Mr. Hanbury-Green was going
to sit upon her left hand at dinner and would afford new flint for her
steel. He was a recent acquisition, and of undoubted coming value. His
views were in reality nearer her heart politically than those of John
Derringham. Deep down in her being was a strong class hatred—undreamed
of, and which would have been vigorously denied. She remembered the
burning rage and the vows of vengeance which had convulsed her as a
girl, because the refined and gently bred women of her own New York's
inner circle would have none of her, and how it had been her glory to
trample upon as many of them as she could, when Vincent Cricklander had
placed her as head of his fine mansion in Fifty-ninth Street, having
moved from the old family home in Washington Square. And there,
underneath, was the feeling still for those of any country who,
instinct told her, had inherited from evolution something which none of
her money, and none of her talent, and none of her indomitable will,
could buy. But of course Mr. Hanbury-Green was not to be considered,
except as a foil for her wit—a pawn in the game for the securing of
Thus it was that she was able to walk in her stately way with
trailing velvets down the broad stairs of her newly acquired home with
a sense of exaltation and complacency which was unimpaired.
John Derringham, on the contrary, was rather abrupt with his valet
and spoilt two white ties, and swore at himself because his old Eton
hand had lost its cunning. But finally he too went down the shallow
steps, and, joining his hostess at the door, sailed in with her to the
George I saloon, his fine eyes shining and his bearing more arrogant
After dinner there was a brisk passage of arms between the two men
of opposite party in the group by the fire, and Mrs. Cricklander
incited them to further exertions. It had arisen because Mr. Derringham
had launched forth the abominable and preposterous theory that the only
thing the Radicals would bring England to would be the necessity of
returning to barbarism and importing slaves—then their schemes applied
to the present inhabitants of the country might all work. The denizens
in the casual wards, having a vote and a competence provided by the
State, would have time to become of the leisured classes and apply
themselves to culture, and so every free citizen being equal, a company
of philosophers and an aristocracy of intellect would arise and all
would be well!
Mrs. Cricklander glanced stealthily at his whimsical face, to be
sure whether he were joking or no—and decided he probably was. But Mr.
Hanbury-Green, so irritated by the delightful hostess's evident
penchant for his rival, allowed his ill-humor to obscure his
usually keen judgment, and took the matter up in serious earnest.
“Your side would not import, but reduce us all—we who are the
defenders of the people—to being slaves,” he said with some asperity.
“Your class has had its innings long enough, it would be the best thing
in the world for you to have to come down to doing your own housework.”
“I should make a capital cook,” said John Derringham, with smiling
eyes, “but I should certainly refuse to cook for anyone but myself; and
you, Mr. Green, who may be an indifferent artist in that respect, would
have perhaps a bad dinner.”
“I never understand,” interrupted Mrs. Cricklander—“when everything
is socialistic, shall we not be able to live in these nice houses?”
“Of course not,” said Mr. Hanbury-Green gravely. “You will have to
share with less fortunate people.” And then he drew himself up ready
for battle, and began.
“Why, because a man or woman is born in the gutter, should not he or
she be given by the State the same chance as though born in a palace?
We are all exactly the same human beings, only until now luck and
circumstance have been different for us.”
“I am all for everyone having the same chance,” agreed John
Derringham, allowing the smile to stay in his eyes, “although I do not
admit we are all the same human beings, any more than the Derby winner
is the same horse as the plow horse or the cob. They can all draw some
kind of vehicle, but they cannot all win races—they have to excel,
each in his different line. Give everyone a chance, by all means, and
then make him come up for examination, and if found fit passed on for
higher things, and if unfit, passed out! It is your tendency to
pamper the unfit which I deplore. You have only one idea on your
Radical Socialist side of the House, to pull down those who are in any
inherited or agreeable authority—not because they are doing their work
badly, but because you would prefer their place! The war-cry of boons
for the people covers a multitude of objects, and is the most
attractive cry for the masses to hear all over the world. The real boon
for the people would be to give them more practical sound education and
ruthlessly to clear out the unfit.” Then his face lost its whimsical
expression and became interested.
“Let us imagine a Utopian state of republic. Let every male citizen
who has reached twenty-five years, say, pass his examination in the
right to live freely, regardless of class, and if he cannot do so, let
him go into the ranks of the slaves, because, turn it how you will, we
must have some beings to do the lowest offices in life. Who would
willingly clean the drains, fill the dust-carts—and, indeed, do the
hundred and one things that are simply disgusting, but which must be
Mr. Hanbury-Green had not a sufficiently strong answer ready, so
remained loftily silent, while John Derringham went on:
“We obscure every issue nowadays by a sickly sentiment and this
craze for words to prove black is white in order to please the
mediocrity. If we could only look facts in the face we should see that
the idea of equality of all men is perfectly ridiculous. No ancient
republic ever worked, even the most purely democratic, like the
Athenian, of the fifth and fourth centuries B.C., without an
unconsidered and unrepresented population of slaves. You know your
Aristotle, Mr. Green,” he went on blandly, “and you will remember his
admirable remark about some men being born masters and others born to
obey, and that, if only Nature had made the difference in their mental
capacities as apparent to the eye as is the difference in their bodies,
everyone would recognize this at once.”
His voice grew intense: the subject interested him.
“You may say,” he went on, “that Aristotle, Plato and Socrates
accepted the fact of slavery without protest because it was an
institution from time immemorial, and so the idea did not appear to
them so repugnant. But do you mean to tell me that such consummate
geniuses, such unbiased glorious brains would have glossed over any
idea, or under-considered any point in their schemes for the
advancement of man? They accepted slavery because they saw that it was
the only possible way to make a republic work, where all citizens might
aspire to be equal.”
“You would advocate slavery then? Oh! Mr. Derringham, how dreadful
of you!” exclaimed Mrs. Cricklander, half playfully.
“Not in the least,” he returned, still allowing some feeling to stay
in his voice. “I would only have it recognized that there must be some
class in my ideal republic who will do the duties of the slaves of old.
I would have it so arranged that they should occupy this class only
when they had shown they were unfit for anything higher, and I would
also arrange it that the moment they appeared capable of rising out of
it there should be no bar to their doing so. It is the cry of our all
being equal because we have two arms and two legs and a head in common,
not counting any mental endowment, which is utter trash and hypocrisy.
But when these agitators are shouting for the people's rights and
inciting poor ignorant wretches to revolt, they never suggest that the
lowest of them is not perfectly suited to the highest position! Those
occupying any station above the lowest have got there merely by
superior luck and favoritism, not merit—that is what they preach.”
Mr. Hanbury-Green was just going to answer with a biting attack when
Miss Cora Lutworth's rather high voice was heard interrupting from a
tall old chair in which she had perched herself.
“Why, Mr. Derringham, we all want to be something very grand,” she
laughed merrily. “I hate common people and love English dukes and
duchesses—don't you, Cis?” and she looked at Mrs. Cricklander, who was
standing in a position of much stately grace by the lofty mantelpiece.
“You sweet girl!” exclaimed Lord Freynault, who was next to her. “I
cannot get any nearer to those favored folk than my uncle's being a
duke, but won't you let me in for some of your friendly feelings on
“I certainly will,” she answered archly, “because I like the way you
look. I like how your hair is brushed, and how your clothes are cut,
and your being nice and clean and outdoor—and long and thin—” and
then she whispered—“ever so much better than Mr. Hanbury-Green's thick
appearance. He may be as clever as clever, but he is common and
climbing up, and I like best the people who are there!”
John Derringham now addressed himself exclusively to his hostess.
“I agree with the point of view of the old Greeks—they were so full
of common sense. Balance and harmony in everything was their aim. A
beautiful body, for instance, should be the correlative of a beautiful
soul. Therefore in general their athletics were not pursued, as are
ours, for mere pleasure and sport, and because we like to feel fit.
They did not systematically exercise just to wrest from some rival the
prize in the games, either. Their care of the body had a far higher and
nobler end: to bring it into harmony as a dwelling-place for a noble
“How divine!” said Mrs. Cricklander.
John Derringham went on:
“You remember Plato upon the subject—his reluctance to admit that a
physical defect must sometimes be overlooked. But nowadays everything
is distorted by ridiculous humanitarian nonsense. With our wonderful
inventions, our increasing knowledge of sanitation and science, and the
possibilities and limitations of the human body, what glorious people
we should become if we could choke this double-headed hydra of rotten
sentiment and exalt common sense!”
But now Mrs. Cricklander saw that a storm was gathering upon Mr.
Hanbury-Green's brow and, admirable hostess that she was, she decided
to smooth the troubled waters, so she went across the room to the
piano, and began to play a seductive valse, while John Derringham
followed her and leaned upon the lid, and tried to feel as devoted as
“Why cannot we go to-morrow and see your old master?” she asked, as
her white fingers, with their one or two superb rings, glided over the
keys. “I feel an unaccountable desire to become acquainted with him. I
should love to see what the person was like who molded you when you
were a boy.”
“Mr. Carlyon is a wonderful-looking old man,” John Derringham
returned. “Someone—who knows him very well—described him long ago as
'Cheiron.' You will see how apt it is when you meet.”
Mrs. Cricklander crashed some chords. She had never heard of this
Cheiron. She felt vaguely that Arabella had told her of some classical
or mythological personage of some such sounding name, a boatman of
sorts—but she dare not risk a statement, so she went on with the point
she wished to gain, which was to investigate at once Mr. Carlyon's
surroundings and discover, if possible, whether there was any influence
there that would be inimical to herself.
“I dare say we can go to-morrow,” John Derringham said. “You and I
might walk over—and perhaps Miss Lutworth and Freynault. We can't go a
large party, the house is so small.”
“Why cannot you and I go alone, then?” she asked.
“Oh, I think he would like to see Miss Cora. She is such a charming
girl,” and John Derringham looked over to where she sat, still dangling
a pair of blue satin feet from the high chair. And inwardly Mrs.
Cora was a second cousin of her divorced husband, and belonged by
birth to that inner cream of New York society which she hated in her
heart. Never, never again would she be so foolish as to chance crossing
swords with one of her own nation. But aloud she acquiesced blandly and
arranged that they should start at eleven o'clock.
“Perhaps we could persuade him to return to lunch with us?” she
hazarded. “And that would be so nice.”
“You must do what you can with him,” John Derringham said. “I have
prepared him to find you beautiful—as you are.”
“You say lovely things about me behind my back, then?” she laughed.
“Now he will be disappointed!”
“Yes, I admit it was a betise—but, being my real thoughts,
they slipped out when I was there to-day. You will have to be extra
charming to substantiate them.”
Before Mrs. Cricklander went to bed, she called Arabella Clinker
into her room.
“Arabella,” she said, “who was Cheiron?” But she pronounced the “ei"
as an “a,” so Miss Clinker replied without any hesitation:
“He was a boatman who carried the souls of the dead over the River
Styx, and to whom they were obliged to pay an obolus—son of Erebus and
Nox. He is represented as an old man with a hideous face and long white
beard and piercing eyes.”
“Is there anything else I ought to know about him?” her employer
asked, and Arabella thought for a moment.
“There is the story of Hercules not showing the golden bow. Er—it
is a little complicated and has to do with the superstitions of the
ancients—er—something Egyptian, I think, for the moment—I will look
it up to-morrow. I can't say offhand.”
“Thanks, Arabella. Good night.”
And it was not until after the party of four had started next
morning that Miss Clinker suddenly thought, with a start: “She may have
been alluding to quite the other Cheiron—the Centaur—and in that case
I have given her some wrong lights!”
Cora was being more than exasperating, Mrs. Cricklander thought, as
they went through the park. Not content with Lord Freynault, who was
plainly devoted to her, she kept every now and then looking back at
John Derringham with some lively sally, and although he was being
particularly agreeable to herself, he responded to Miss Lutworth's
piquant attacks with a too ready zeal.
Mrs. Cricklander grew more and more certain that her hold over him
had lessened in these last two days, and every force in her indomitable
personality stiffened with determination to win him at all costs.
The Professor received them graciously. He was seated in his
library, which now was a most comfortable room surrounded with
bookcases in which lived all his rare editions of loved books. Nothing
could be more fascinating than Mrs. Cricklander's manner to him—a
mixture of deference and friendly familiarity, as though he would
appreciate the fact of a tacit understanding between them that she too
had a right in John Derringham's friends. She had been so reassured by
finding that Mr. Carlyon was unmarried and lived alone, that a glow of
real warmth towards the Professor emanated from her, while the
conviction grew that it was nothing but the influence of Cora Lutworth
which had even momentarily cooled her whilom ardent friend.
Mr. Carlyon's imperturbable countenance gave no hint of what he
thought of her, although John Derringham watched him furtively and
anxiously. He listened to their conversation when he could, and it
jarred upon him twice when the lady of his choice altogether missed the
point of Cheiron's subtle remarks. She whom he had always considered so
Of Halcyone there was no sign and no mention, and for some reason
which he could not explain John Derringham felt glad.
It seemed an eternity before Mrs. Cricklander got up to go, having
been unable to persuade Mr. Carlyon to return with them to luncheon. He
had a slight cold, he said, and meant to remain in his warm library.
“Mr. Derringham says you are called Cheiron,” Mrs. Cricklander
announced laughingly. “How ridiculous to find in you any likeness to
that old ferryman of the piercing eye. I see no resemblance but in the
“So John relegates me to the post of ferryman to the dead already,
does he!” Mr. Carlyon responded. “I had hoped he still allowed me my
horse's hoofs and my cave—I have been deceiving myself all these
A blank look grew in Mrs. Cricklander's eye. What had caves and
horse's hoofs to do with the case? She had better turn the conversation
at once, or she might be out of her depth, she felt; and this she did
with her usual skill, but not before the Professor's left eyebrow had
run up into his forehead, and his wise old eyes beneath had met and
then instantly averted themselves from those of John Derringham.
All the way back to the house Mrs. Cricklander had the satisfaction
of listening to a much more advanced admiration of herself than she had
hoped to obtain so soon, and arrived in the best of restored
humors—for John Derringham had clenched his teeth as he left the
orchard house, and had told himself that he would not be influenced or
put off by any of these trifling things, and that it was some vixenish
turn of Fate to have allowed these currents of disillusion about a
woman who was so eminently suitable to reach him through the medium of
his old friend.
A strange thing happened to Halcyone that morning. She had made up
her mind to keep away from her usual visit to Cheiron on the Monday and
Tuesday when John Derringham had announced he might bring over his
hostess to see the Professor. She did not wish to cause complications
with her aunts by making Mrs. Cricklander's acquaintance, and
underneath she had some strange reluctance herself. Her unerring
instincts warned her that this woman might in some way trouble her
life, but she thought Saturday would be perfectly safe and was
preparing to start, when some vague longing came over her to see her
goddess. She had felt less serene since the day before, and John
Derringham and his words and looks absorbed her thoughts. The home of
Aphrodite was now in a chest in the long gallery, of which she kept the
key, and as this old room was always empty—none of the servants, not
even Priscilla, caring about visiting it—haunted, it was, they
said—she had plenty of time to spend what hours she liked with her
treasure without having to do so by stealth, as in the beginning. For
any place indoors she loved the long gallery better than any other
place. The broken window panes had been mended when the turn for the
better came for the whole house, and now she herself kept it all dusted
and tidy and used it as a sitting-room and work-room as well; and,
above all, it was the temple of the goddess wherein was her shrine.
This day when Aphrodite was uncovered from her blue silk wrappings,
her whole expression seemed to be one of appeal; however Halcyone would
hold her, in high or low light, the eyes appeared to be asking her
“What is it, sweet mother and friend?” she said. “Do you not want me
to leave you to-day? If so, indeed I will not. What are you telling me
with those beautiful, sad eyes? That something is coming into my
existence that you promised me always, and that it will cause me
sorrow, and I must pause?”—and she shivered slightly and laid her
cheek against the marble cheek. “I am not afraid, and I want whatever
it must be, since it is life.” Then she put the head back, and started
upon her walk. But first one thing and then another delayed her, until
last of all she sat down under the oak near the gap in the hedge and
asked herself if all these things could be chance. And here she took to
dreaming and watching the young rabbits come out of their holes, and to
wondering what Fate held in store for her in the immediate future. What
was going to be her life? That nothing but good could happen she always
knew, because since the very beginning God—the same personal kindly
force that she had always worshiped, unaltered by her deep learning,
unweakened by any theological dissertations—was there manifesting the
whole year round His wonderful love for the world.
And so she sat until the clock of the church at Sarthe-under-Crum
struck one, and she started up, realizing that she was too late now to
go on to Cheiron's and would only just have time to return for lunch
with her aunts. She must go instead in the afternoon. So she walked
briskly to the house, with a strange feeling of relief and joy, which
she was quite unable to account for in any explicable way.
Nothing delayed her on her second attempt to reach the orchard
house, and she found Cheiron placidly smoking while he read a volume of
Lucian. She was quite aware what that meant. When the Professor was in
an amused and cynical humor he always read Lucian, and although he knew
every word by heart, it still caused him complete satisfaction, plainly
to be discerned by the upward raising of the left penthouse brow.
Halcyone sat down and smiled sympathetically while she tried to
detect which volume it was, that she might have some clew to the cause
of her Professor's mood. But he carefully closed the book, so that she
could not see—it was the Judgment of Paris in the dialogue of the
gods—and she was unable to have her curiosity gratified.
“Something has entertained you, Cheiron?” she said.
“I have had the visit of two goddesses,” he answered, chuckling.
“Our friend John Derringham brought them. He wanted to show them off
and get my opinion, I think.”
“And did you give him one?” she asked. “I suppose not!”
“He went away with his teeth shut—” and Mr. Carlyon's smile
deepened as he stroked his white beard.
Halcyone laughed. She seldom asked questions herself. If the
Professor wished to tell her anything about the ladies he would do
so—she was dying to hear! Presently a set of disjointed sentences
flowed from her master's lips between his puffs of smoke.
“Girl—worth something—showy—honest—sure of
herself—clever—pretty—on her own roots—not a graft.”
“Girl”—who was the girl? Halcyone wondered. But Cheiron continued
his laconic utterances.
“Woman—beautiful—determined—thick—roots of the
commonest—grafting of the best—octopean, tenacious—dangerous—my
poor devil of a John!”
“And did you give the apple to either, Cheiron?” Halcyone asked with
a gleam of fine humor in her wise eyes. “Or, one of the trio being
absent, did you feel yourself excused?”
Mr. Carlyon glanced at her sharply, and then broke into a smile.
“Young woman, I do not think I have ever allowed you to read the
Judgment of Paris,” he said. “Wherefore your question is ill-timed and
Then they laughed together. How well they knew one another!—not
only over things Greek. And presently they began their reading. They
were in the middle of Symonds' “Renaissance,” and so forgot the outer
But after Halcyone had gone in the dusk through the park, the
Professor sat in the firelight for a while, and did not ring for
lights. He was musing deeply, and his thoughts ran something in this
“John must dree his weird. Nothing anyone could say has ever
influenced him. If he marries this woman she will eat his soul; having
only a sham one of her own, she will devour his. She'll do very well to
adorn the London house and feed his friends. He'll find her out in less
than a year—it will kill his inspirations. Well, Zeus and all the gods
cannot help a man in his folly. But my business is to see that he does
not ensnare the heart of my little girl. If he had waited he could have
found her—the one woman with a soul.”
* * * * *
Miss Roberta had, unfortunately, a bad attack of rheumatism on
Easter Sunday, augmented by a cold, and Halcyone stayed at home to rub
her poor knee with hot oil, so she did not see the Wendover party,
several of whom came to church. Miss La Sarthe occupied the family pew
alone, and was the source of much amusement and delight to the smart
inhabitants of the outer world.
“Isn't she just too sweet, Cis?” whispered Miss Lutworth into Mrs.
Cricklander's ear. “Can't we get Mr. Derringham to take us over there
But when the subject was broached later at luncheon by his hostess,
John Derringham threw cold water upon the idea. He had stayed behind
for a few minutes to renew his acquaintance with the ancient lady, and
had given her his arm down the short church path, and placed her with
extreme deference in the Shetland pony shay, to the absolute
enchantment of Miss Lutworth, who, with Lord Freynault, stood upon the
mound of an old forgotten grave, the better to see. It was in the
earlier days of motor-cars, and Mrs. Cricklander's fine open Charron
created the greatest excitement as it waited by the lych-gate. The two
Shetlands cocked their ears and showed various signs of nervous
interest, and William had all he could do to hold the minute creatures.
But Miss La Sarthe behaved with unimpaired dignity, never once glancing
in the direction of the great green monster. She got in, assisted by
the respectful churchwarden, and allowed John Derringham to wrap the
rug round her knees, and then carefully adjusted the ring of her
turquoise-studded whip handle.
“Good day, Goddard,” she said with benign condescension to the
churchwarden. “And see that Betsy Hodges' child with the whooping-cough
gets some of Hester's syrup and is not brought to church again next
Sunday.” And she nodded a gracious dismissal. Then, turning to John
Derringham, she gave him two fingers, while she said with some show of
haughty friendliness: “My sister and I will be very pleased to see you
if you are staying in this neighborhood, Mr. Derringham, and care to
take tea with us one day.”
“I shall be more than delighted,” he replied, as he bowed with
homage and stood aside, because William's face betrayed his anxiety
over the fidgety ponies.
Miss La Sarthe turned her head with its pork-pie hat and floating
veil, and said with superb tranquillity, “You may drive on now,
William.” And they rolled off between a lane of respectful, curtseying
Mrs. Cricklander and Lady Maulevrier had already entered the motor
and were surveying the scene with amused interest, while Miss Lutworth
and Lord Freynault, chaperoned by Arabella Clinker, were preparing to
walk. It was not more than a mile across the park, and it was a
glorious day. John Derringham joined them.
“I think I will come with you, too,” he said. “You take my place,
Sir Tedbury. It is only fair you should drive one way.”
And so it was arranged, not altogether to the satisfaction of the
hostess, who would have preferred to have walked also. However, there
was nothing to be done, and so they were whizzed off, while with the
tail of her eye Cecilia Cricklander perceived that Lord Freynault had
been displaced from Cora's side and was now stalking behind the other
pair, beside Arabella Clinker.
“What an extraordinary sight that was,” she said to Sir Tedbury
Delvine as they went along. “I thought no villagers curtsied any more
now in England. That very funny-looking old lady might have been a
“It is because she has never had a doubt but that she is—or
something higher—complete owner of all these souls,” he returned,
“that they have not yet begun to doubt it either. They and their
forebears have bobbed to the La Sarthe for hundreds of years, and they
will go on doing it if this holder of the name lives to be ninety-nine.
They would never do so to any new-comer, though, I expect.”
“But I am told they have not a penny left, and have sold every acre
of the land except the park. Is it not wonderful, Kitty?” Mrs.
Cricklander went on, turning to Lady Maulevrier. “I am dying to know
them. I hope they will call.”
But Sir Tedbury had already chanced to have talked the matter over
with John Derringham, because he himself was most anxious to see La
Sarthe Chase, which was of deep historical interest, and had
incidentally been made aware by that gentleman of the old ladies'
views, so he hastily turned the conversation, rather awkwardly, to
other things. And a wonder grew in Mrs. Cricklander's mind.
That anyone should not be enchanted to receive her beautiful and
sought-after self could not enter her brain, but there was evidently
some bar between the acquaintance of herself and her nearest neighbors,
and Arabella should be set to find out of what it consisted.
“Do let us go around by the boundary,” Miss Lutworth said when they
got through the Wendover gates. “I long to see even the park of that
exquisite old lady; it must look quite different to anybody else's, and
I feel I want an adventure!”
So they struck in towards the haw-haw—the four walking almost
When they came to beyond the copse, after it touched the Professor's
garden, they paused and took in the view. It was unspeakably beautiful
from there, rolling away towards the splendid old house, which could
only just be distinguished through the giant trees, not yet in leaf.
And suddenly, hardly twenty yards from them across the gulf, coming
from the gap in Mr. Carlyon's hedge, they saw a tall and very slender
mouse-colored figure, as Halcyone emerged on her homeward way—she had
run down to see Cheiron when her duties with Miss Roberta were over,
and was now going back to lunch.
“Good morning!” called John Derringham, and the four advanced to the
very edge of their side, and Halcyone turned and also bordered hers,
while she bowed serenely.
“Isn't it a day of the gods!” he continued. “And may I from across
this Stygian lake (there was a little water collected in the haw-haw
here from the recent rains) introduce Miss Lutworth to you—and Miss
Clinker and Lord Freynault? Miss Halcyone La Sarthe.”
Everyone bowed, and Halcyone smiled her sweet, grave smile.
“We would love to jump over—or you come to us,” Cora Lutworth said
with her frank, friendly charm. “Isn't there any way?”
“I am afraid not,” responded Halcyone. “You are across in another
world—we live in the shades, this side.”
“Remember something about a fellow named Orpheus getting over to
fetch his girl”—“gail” Lord Freynault pronounced it—“since old John
will use Eton cribs in describing the horrid chasm. Can't we sop old
Cerberus and somehow manage to swim, if there is no ferryman about?”
“You would certainly be drowned,” said Halcyone. “In this place the
lake is quite ten inches deep!”
Cora Lutworth was taking in every bit of her with her clever, kindly
“What a sweet, distinguished violet-under-the-mossy-bank pet of a
girl!” she was saying to herself. “No wonder Mr. Derringham goes to see
his Professor! How mad Cis would be! I shan't tell her.” And aloud she
“You cannot imagine how I am longing to get a nearer peep of your
beautiful old house. Do we get a chance further on?”
“No,” said Halcyone. “I am so sorry. You branch further off once you
have passed the closed gate. It was very stupid—the La Sarthe
quarreled with the Wendovers a hundred years ago, and it was all closed
up then, and these wicked spikes put.”
“It is too tantalizing. But won't you walk with us to where we have
to part?” Miss Lutworth said, while John Derringham had a sudden
longing to turn back and carefully remove certain bits of iron and
brick he wot of, and ask this nymph of the woods to take him on to
their tree, and tell him more stories about Jason and Medea in that
exquisitely refined voice of hers, as she had done once before, long
ago. But even though he might not have this joy, he got rather a fine
pleasure out of the fact of sharing the secret of the crossing with
her, and he had the satisfaction of meeting her soft eyes in one
lightning comprehending glance.
They chatted on about the view and the beauties of the neighborhood,
and they all laughed often at some sally of Cora's—no one could resist
her joyous, bubbling good-fellowship. She had all the sparkle of her
clever nation, and the truest, kindest heart. Halcyone had never spoken
to another young girl in her life, and felt like a yearling horse—a
desire to whinny to a fellow colt and race up and down with him beside
the dividing fence of their paddocks. A new light of youth and
sweetness came into her pale face.
“I do wish I might ask you to come round by the road,” she said,
“and see it near, but, as Mr. Derringham knows, my aunts are very old,
and one is almost an invalid now, so we never have any visitors at
“Of course, we quite understand,” said Cora, quickly, touched at
once by this simple speech. “But we should so love you to come over to
“Alas!” said Halcyone, “it is indeed the Styx.”
And here they arrived at the boarded-up gate, where further view was
impossible, and from which onwards the lands ceased to join.
“Good-by!” they called to one another, even Arabella Clinker joining
in the chorus, while Cora Lutworth ran back to say:
“Some day we'll meet—outside the Styx. Let us get Mr. Derringham to
And Halcyone cried a glad “Oh, yes!”
“What a darling! What a perfect darling!” Miss Lutworth said
enthusiastically, taking Arabella's arm as they struck rapidly inward
and up a knoll. “Did you ever see anything look so like a lady in that
impossible old dress? Tell us about her, Mr. Derringham. Does she live
with those prehistoric ladies all alone in that haunted house? Could
anything be so mysterious and romantic? Please tell us all you know.”
“Yes, she does, I believe,” John Derringham said. “My old master
tells me she never sees or speaks to anyone from one year's end to
another. I have only met her very rarely myself.”
“Does it not seem too awful?” returned Cora, aghast, thinking of her
own merry, enjoyable life, with every whim gratified. “To be so young
and attractive and actually buried alive! Don't you think she is a
“I was greatly impressed with her distinction and charm,” Miss
Clinker said. “I wish we could do something for her to make things
“Let us ask Cis—” and then Miss Lutworth paused, returning to her
first thought—she knew her hostess well. No, it could not bring any
pleasure into the life of this slender, lithe English lady with the
wonderful Greek name, to be made acquainted with Cecilia Cricklander,
who would tear her to pieces without compunction the moment she
understood in what direction John Derringham's eyes would probably be
cast. He saw Cora's hesitation and understood, and was grateful.
“I believe this girl is trumps. I don't think she will even mention
our meeting,” he said to himself.
Now for a few steps Miss Lutworth drew Arabella Clinker on ahead.
“Arabella, you dear,” she whispered, “I don't want to say a word
against Cis—who, of course, is all right—but I have a feeling we
won't tell her we've met this dryad of a Halcyone La Sarthe. Have you
got that instinct, too?”
“Quite strongly,” said Arabella, who never wasted words. “I was
going to mention to you the same idea myself.”
“Then that is understood!” and she laughed her happy laugh. “I'll
see that Freynie doesn't peach!”
Thus it was that four demure and healthful-looking beings joined the
party on the terrace of Wendover, and described their pleasant walk,
without one word spoken of their rencontre with the youngest
Miss La Sarthe. And once or twice Cora Lutworth's mischievous eyes met
those of John Derringham, and they both laughed.
John Derringham made a point of slipping away on the Easter Tuesday
afternoon; he determined to drink tea with the Misses La Sarthe. He
went to his room with important letters to write, and then sneaked down
again like a truant schoolboy, and when he got safely out of sight,
struck obliquely across the park to the one vulnerable spot in the
haw-haw, and after fumbling a good deal, from his side, managed to get
the spikes out and to climb down, and repeat the operation upon the
other side. There was no water here, it was on rather higher ground,
and he was soon striding up the beech avenue towards the house.
“It would be an extremely awkward place to get over in the dark,” he
thought, and then he was conscious that Halcyone was far in the
distance in front of him, almost entering the house.
So she would be in, then—that was good.
He had never permitted his mind to dwell upon her for an instant,
after the Sunday walk. He made himself tell himself that she was a
charming child whom he felt great pity for, on account of her lonely
life. That he himself took a special interest in her he would not have
admitted for a second to his innermost thought. He had now definitely
made up his mind to propose to Cecilia Cricklander, and was only
awaiting a suitable occasion to put this intention into effect.
Numbers of moments had come—and passed—but he was always able to
find good and sufficient fault with them. And once or twice, when Fate
itself seemed to arrange things for him, he had a sudden sensation as
of a swimmer fighting with the tide, and he had battled to the shore
again, and was still free!
But it must come, of course, and before he left for London at the
end of the week. Private news had reached him that the Government must
soon go out, and he felt this thing must be an accomplished fact before
then, for the hand he meant to play.
But meanwhile it was only Tuesday, and he was nearing the battered
and nail-bestudded front door of La Sarthe Chase. William said the
ladies were at home, and he was shown into the Italian parlor
It had not changed in the slightest degree in the seven years since
he had seen it first, nor had the two ancient spinsters themselves.
They were most graciously glad to receive him, and gave him tea out of
the thinnest china cups, and at last Miss Roberta said:
“Our great-niece Halcyone will be coming down in a moment, Mr.
Derringham. She has grown up into a very tall girl. You will hardly
recognize her, I expect.”
And at that instant Halcyone opened the door and said a quiet word
of welcome. And if her heart beat rather faster than usual under her
simple serge bodice, nothing of any emotion showed in her tranquil
She took her tea and sat down in a chair rather in the shadows and
Miss La Sarthe monopolized the conversation. She had no intention of
relinquishing the pleasure of this rare guest, so while Miss Roberta
got in a few sentences, Halcyone hardly spoke a word, and if she had
really been a coquette, calculating her actions, she could not have
piqued John Derringham more.
She looked so very sylph-like as she sat there, bending her graceful
head. Her eyes were all in shadow and seemed to gleam as things of
mystery from under her dark brows, while the pure lines of her temples
and the plaiting of her soft thick hair made him think of some virgin
But she never spoke.
At last John Derringham began to grow exasperated, and plunged into
temptation, which he did not admit that he ought to have avoided.
“I am so very much interested in this wonderful old house,” he said,
addressing Miss La Sarthe. “That row of bay windows is in a long
gallery, I suppose? Would it be a great impertinence if I asked to see
“We shall be pleased for you to do so,” the old lady returned,
without much warmth. “It is very cold and draughty, my sister and I
have not entered it for many years, but Halcyone, I believe, goes there
sometimes; she will show it to you if you wish.”
Halcyone rose, ready at once to obey her aunts, and led the way
towards the door.
“We had better go up the great staircase and along through Sir
Timothy's rooms. The staircase which leads directly to it from the hall
is not quite safe,” she said. “Except for me,” she added, when they
were outside the door. “Then, I know exactly where to put my feet!”
“I would follow you blindly,” said John Derringham, “but we will go
which way you will. Only, you are such a strange, silent little old
friend now—I am afraid of you!”
Halcyone was rather ahead, leading the way, and she turned and
paused while he came up close beside her.
Her eyes were quite startled.
“You afraid of me!” she said.
“Yes—you seem so nymph-like and elusive. I do not know if I am
really looking at an ordinary earth-maiden, or whether you will melt
“I am quite real,” and she smiled, “but now you must notice these
two rooms a little that we shall pass through. They are very ghostly I
think; they were the Sir Timothy's who went to fetch James I from
Scotland. I am glad they are not mine, but the long gallery I love; it
is my sitting-room—my very own—and in it I keep something which
matters to me more than anything else in the world.” Then she went on,
with a divine shyness which thrilled her companion: “And—I do not know
why—but I think I will show it to you.”
“Yes, please do that,” he responded eagerly, “and do not let us stop
to look at the ghostly apartments—where you sit interests me far
So they went rapidly through Sir Timothy's rooms, with the great
state bed where had slept his royal master, so the tale ran, and on
down some uneven steps, and through a small door, and there found
themselves in the long, narrow room, with its bays along the southern
side, and one splendid mullioned casement at the end with coats-of-arms
emblazoned upon each division. And through this, which looked west,
there poured the lowered afternoon sun with a broad shaft of glorious
The place was almost empty, but for a chest or two and a table near
this window with writing materials and books. And upon a rough set of
shelves close at hand many more volumes reposed.
“So it is here you live and work, you wise, lonely, little Pallas
Athene,” he said.
“You must not call me that—I am not at all like her,” Halcyone
answered softly. “She was very clever and very noble—but a little
hard, I think. Wait until I have shown you my own goddess. I would
rather have her soul than any other of the Olympian gods.”
John Derringham took a step nearer to her.
“Do you remember the night at dinner here when you told me Pallas
Athene's words to Perseus?” he said. “I have thought of them often, and
they have helped me sometimes, I think.”
“I am so glad,” said Halcyone simply, while she moved towards her
He watched her with satisfied eyes—every action of hers was full of
grace, and the interest he felt in her personally obscured any for the
moment in what she was going to show him, but at last he became aware
that she had unlocked a cupboard drawer, and was taking from it a
bundle of blue silk.
His curiosity was aroused, and he went over as near as he could.
“Come!” whispered Halcyone, and walked to the high window-sill of
the middle section, and then put down her burden upon the old faded
“See, I will take off her veil gradually,” she said, “and you must
tell me of what she makes you think.”
John Derringham was growing interested by now, but had no idea in
the world of the marvel he was going to see. He started more
perceptibly than even Mr. Carlyon had done seven years before, when he
had realized the superlative beauty of the Greek head.
Halcyone uncovered it reverently, and then took a step back, and
waited silently for him to speak.
He looked long into the marvelous face, and then he said as though
he were dreaming:
“Ah! I felt you would know and recognize her at once—Yes, that is
her name. Oh, I am glad!” and Halcyone clapped her hands. “She is my
mother, and so, you see, I am never alone here, for she speaks always
to me of love.”
John Derringham looked at her sharply as she said this, and in her
eyes he saw two wells of purity, each with an evening star melted into
And he suddenly was conscious of something which his whole life had
missed—for he knew he did not know what real love meant, not even that
which his mother might have given him, if she had lived.
He did not speak for a moment; he gazed into Halcyone's face. It
seemed as if a curtain had lifted for one instant and given him a
momentary glimpse into some heaven, and then dropped again, leaving a
haunting memory of sweetness, the more beautiful because indistinct.
“Love—” he said, still dreamily. “Surely there is yet another and a
deeper kind of love.”
Halcyone raised her head, while a strange look grew in her wide
eyes, almost of fear. It was as though he had put into words some
unspoken, unadmitted thought.
“Yes,” she said very softly, “I feel there is—but that is not all
peace; that must be gloriously terrible, because it would mean life.”
He looked at her fully now; there was not an atom of coquetry or
challenge; her face was pale and exquisite in its simple intentness. He
turned to the goddess again, and almost chaunted:
“Oh! Aphrodite of the divine lips and soulful eyes, what mystery do
you hold for us mortals? What do you promise us? What do you make us
pay? Is the good worth the anguish? Is the fulfillment a cup worth
draining—without counting the cost?”
“What does she answer you?” whispered Halcyone. “Does she say that
to live and fulfill destiny as the beautiful year does is the only
good? It is wiser not to question and weigh the worth, for even though
we would not drink, perhaps we cannot escape—since there is Fate.”
John Derringham pulled himself together with an effort. He felt he
was drifting into wonderland, where the paths were too tenderly sweet
and flowered for him to dare to linger, for there he might find and
quaff of the poison cup. So he said in a voice which he strove to bring
back to earth:
“Where did you get the beautiful thing? She is of untold value, of
course you know?”
Halcyone took the marble into her hands lovingly.
“She came to me out of the night,” she said. “Some day I might tell
you how—but not to-day. I must put her back again. No one knows but
Cheiron and me—and now—you—that she is in existence, and no one else
must ever know.”
He did not speak; he watched her while she wrapped the head in its
folds of silk.
“Aphrodite never had so true a priestess, nor one so pure,” he
thought, and a strange feeling of sadness came over him, and he thanked
her rather abruptly for showing him her treasure, and they went
silently back through Sir Timothy's rooms, and down the stair; and in
the Italian parlor he said good-by at once, and left.
The wind had got up and blew freshly in his face. There would be a
gale before morning. It suited his mood. He struck across the park, but
instead of making for the haw-haw, he turned into Cheiron's little
gate. He wanted understanding company, he wanted to talk cynical
philosophy, and he wanted the stimulus of his old master's biting wit.
But when he got there, he found Cheiron very taciturn—contributing
little more than a growl now and then, while he smoked his long pipe
and played with his beard. So at last he got up to go.
“I have made up my mind to marry Mrs. Cricklander, Master,” he said.
“I supposed so,” the Professor replied dryly. “A man always has to
convince himself he is doing a fine thing when he gives himself up to
John Derringham reached Wendover—by the road and the lodge
gates—in an impossible temper. He had left the orchard house coming as
near to a quarrel with his old master as such a thing could be. He
absolutely refused to let himself dwell upon the anger he had felt; and
if Fate had given him a distinct and pointed chance to ask the fair
Cecilia for her lily hand, when he knocked at her sitting-room door
before dinner, he would no doubt have left the next day—summoned again
to London by his Chief—an engaged man. But this turn of events was not
in the calculations of Destiny for the moment, and he found no less a
person than Mr. Hanbury-Green already ensconced by his hostess's side.
They were both smoking and looked very comfortable and at ease.
“I just came in to tell you I shall be obliged to tear myself away
to-morrow,” John Derringham said, “and cannot have the pleasure of
staying to the end of the week in this delightful place.”
Mrs. Cricklander got up from her reclining position among the
cushions. This was a blow. She wished now she had not encouraged Mr.
Hanbury-Green to come and sit with her; it might be a lost opportunity
which it would be difficult to recapture again. But she had felt so
very much annoyed at Mr. Derringham's capriciousness, displayed the
whole of the Monday, and then at his absenting himself to-day, having
gone to see the Professor, of course—since he was out of the house at
tea-time when she had sent to his room to enquire—that she had
determined to see what a little jealousy would do for him. But if he
were off on the morrow this might not be a safe moment to try it.
Mr. Hanbury-Green, however, had not the slightest intention of
giving up his place, in spite of several well-directed hints, and sat
on like one belonging to the spot.
So they all had to go off to dress without any longed-for word
having been spoken. And Mrs. Cricklander was far too circumspect a
hostess to attempt to arrange a tete-a-tete after dinner under
the eye of an important social leader like Lady Maulevrier, whom she
had only just succeeded in enticing to stay in her country house. So,
with the usual semi-political chaff, the evening passed, and
good-nights and good-bys were said, and early next day John Derringham
left for London.
He would write—he decided—and all the way up in the train he
buried himself in the engrossing letters and papers he had received
from his Chief by the morning's post.
And for the next six weeks he was in such a turmoil of hard work and
deep and serious questions about a foreign State that he very seldom
had time to go into society, and when at last he was a little more
free, Mrs. Cricklander, he found, had not returned from Paris, whither
she always went several times a year for her clothes.
But they had written to one another once or twice.
He had promised in the last letter that he would go down to Wendover
again for Whitsuntide, and this time he firmly determined nothing
should keep him from his obvious and delectable fate.
Mrs. Cricklander had no haunting fears now. She could discover no
reason for John Derringham's change towards her. Arabella had been mute
and had put it down to the stress of his life. This tension with the
foreign State, it leaked out, had been known to the Ministers for a
week before it had been made public—that, of course, was the cause of
his preoccupation, and she would simply order some especially
irresistible garments in Paris, and bide her time.
He wrote the most charming letters, though they were hardly long
enough to be called anything but notes; but there was always the
insinuation in them that she was the one person in the world who
understood him, and they were expressed with his usual cultivated
It was sheer force of will that kept John Derringham from ever
thinking of Halcyone. He resolutely crushed the thought of her every
time it presented itself, and systematically turned to his work and
plunged into it, if even a mental vision of her came to his mind's eye.
He felt quite calm and safe when, two days before he was expected at
Wendover, the idea came to him to propose himself to the Professor, so
as not to have to go and see him and endure his cynical reflections
after he should be engaged to his hostess.
Mr. Carlyon had wired back, “Come if you like,” and on this evening
in early June John Derringham arrived at the orchard house.
Cheiron made no allusion to the matter that had caused them to part
with some breezy words upon his old pupil's side. Mrs. Cricklander or
Wendover might not have existed; their talk was upon philosophy and
politics, and contained not the shadow of a woman—even Halcyone was
not mentioned at all.
Whitsuntide fell late that year, at the end of the first week in
June, and the spring having been exceptionally mild, the foliage was
all in full beauty of the freshest green.
It was astonishingly hot, and every divine scent of the night came
to John Derringham as he went out into the garden before going to bed.
A young setting half-moon still hung in the sky, and there were stars.
One of those nights when all the mystery of life seems to be revealing
itself in the one word—Love. The nightingale throbbed out its note in
the copse amidst a perfect stillness, and the ground was soft without a
drop of dew.
John Derringham, hatless, and with his hands plunged in the pockets
of his dinner coat, wandered down the garden towards the apple tree,
picking an early red rosebud as he passed a bush—its scent intoxicated
him a little. Then he went to the gate, and, opening it, he strolled
into the park. Here was a vaster and more perfect view. It was all
clothed in the unknown of the half dark, and yet he could distinguish
the outline of the giant trees. He went on as if in some delicious
dream, which yet had some heart-break in it, and at last he came to the
tree where he and Halcyone had sat those seven years ago, when she had
told him of what consisted the true point of honor in a man. He
remembered it all vividly, her very words and the cloud of her soft
hair which had blown a little over his face. He sat down upon the
fallen log that had been made into a rude bench; and there he gazed in
front of him, unconscious now of any coherent thought.
Suddenly he was startled by a laugh so near him and so soft that he
believed himself to be dreaming, but he looked round and quickly rose
to his feet, and there at the other side of the tree he saw standing
the ethereal figure of a girl, while her filmy gray garments seemed to
melt into the night.
“Halcyone!” he gasped. “And from where?”
“Ah!” she said as she came towards him. “You have invaded my
kingdom. Mortal, what right have you to the things of the night? They
belong to me—who know them and love them.”
“Then have compassion upon me, sweet dryad!” he pleaded, “who am but
a pilgrim who cannot see his way. Let me shelter under your protection
and be guided aright.”
She laughed again—a ripple of silver that he had not guessed her
voice possessed. Her whole bearing was changed from the reserved,
demure and rather timid creature whom he knew. She was a sprite now, or
a nymph, or even a goddess, for her brow was imperious and her mien one
of assured command.
“This is my kingdom,” she said, “and if you obey me, I will show you
things of which you have never dreamed—” and then she came towards the
tree and sat upon the high forked branch of the broken bough while she
pointed with shadowy finger to the part which was a bench. “Sit there,
Man of Day,” she ordered, “for you cannot see beyond your hand. You
cannot know how the living things are creeping about, unafraid now of
your cruel power. You cannot discern the difference in the colors of
the fresh young bracken and the undergrowth; you cannot perceive the
birds asleep in the tree.”
“No, indeed, Lady of Night,” he said, “I admit I am but a mole, but
you will let me perceive them with your eyes, will you not?”
She slipped from her perch suddenly, before he could put out a
protesting hand to stop her, and glided out of his view into the dark
of the copse, and from there he heard the intoxicating silver laughter
which maddened his every sense.
“Halcyone! Witch!” he called. “Come back to me—I am afraid, all
So she came, appearing like a materializing wraith from the shadow,
and with an undulating movement of incredible grace she was again
seated upon her perch, the fallen forked branch of the tree.
John Derringham was experiencing the strongest emotion he had ever
felt in his life.
A maddening desire to seize the elusive joy—to come nearer—to
assure himself that she was real and not a spirit of night sent to
torture and elude him—overcame all other thought. The startling change
from her deportment of the day—the very way she glided about was as
the movement of some other being.
And as those old worshipers of Dionysus had grown intoxicated with
the night and the desire of communion with the beyond, so he—John
Derringham—cool, calculating English statesman—felt himself being
drawn into a current of emotion and enthrallment whose end could only
be an ecstasy of which he did not yet dare to dream.
It was all so abnormal—to see her here, a shadow, a tantalizing
soft shadow with a new personality—it was no wonder he rubbed his eyes
and asked himself if he were awake.
“Come with me,” she whispered, bending nearer to him, “and I will
show you how the wild roses grow at night.”
“I will follow you to Hades,” he said, “but I warn you I cannot see
a yard beyond my nose. You must lead me with your hand, if so ethereal
a spirit possesses a hand.”
Again the silver laugh, and he saw her not, but presently she
appeared from behind the tree. She had let down her misty,
mouse-colored hair, and it floated around her like a cloud.
Then she slipped a cool, soft set of fingers into his, and led him
onward, with sure and certain steps, while he blundered, not knowing
where to put his feet, and all the time she turned every few seconds
and looked at him, and he could just distinguish the soft mystery of
her eyes, while now and then, as she walked, a tendril of her floating
hair flew out and caressed his face, as once before, long ago.
“There are fairy things all about us,” she said. “Countless pink
campions and buttercups, with an elf in each. They will feel your giant
feet, but they will know you are a mortal and cannot help your ways,
because, you poor, blind bat, you cannot see!”
“And you?” he asked. “Who gave you these eyes?”
“My mother,” she answered softly, “the Goddess of the Night.”
And then she drew him on rapidly and stealthily, and he saw at last,
in the open space where the stars and the sinking moon gave more light,
that they were approaching the broken gate, and were near the terraced
garden, which now was better kept.
When they got to this barrier to their path, Halcyone paused and
leaned upon it.
“Mortal,” she said, “you are wandering in a maze. You have come thus
far because I have led you, but you would have fallen if you had walked
so fast alone. Now look, and I will show you the lily-of-the-valley
cups—there are only a few there under the shelter of the gray stone
And she opened the gate, letting go of his hand as she glided
“I cannot and will not hazard a step if you leave me,” he called,
and she came back and gave him again her soft fingers to hold. So at
last they reached the summer house at the end of the second terrace,
where the archway was where old William kept his tools.
There were very few flowers out, but a mass of wild roses, and still
some May tulips bloomed, while from the meadow beneath them came that
indescribable freshness which young clover gives.
John Derringham knew now that he was dreaming—or drunk with some
nectar which was not of earth. And still she led him on, and then
pointed to the old bench which he could just see.
“We shall sit here,” she said, “and Aphrodite shall tell us your
future—for see, she, too, loves the night and comes here with me.”
And to his intense astonishment, as he peered on to the table, he
saw a misty mass of folds of silk, and there lay the goddess's head,
that Halcyone had shown to him that day in the long gallery more than a
He was so petrified with surprise at the whole thing that he had
ceased to reason. Everything came now as a matter of course, like the
preposterous sequence of events in a dream. The Aphrodite lay, as a
woman caressed, half buried in her silken folds, but Halcyone lifted
her up and propped her against a stone vase which was near, letting the
silk fall so that the broken neck did not show, and it seemed as if a
living woman's face gazed down upon them.
John Derringham's eyes were growing more accustomed to the darkness,
or Halcyone really had some magic power, for it seemed to him that he
could see the divine features quite clearly.
“She is saying,” the soft voice of his companion whispered in his
ear, “that all the things you will grasp with your hands are but
dreams—and the things that you now believe to be dreams are all real.”
“And are you a dream, you sweet?” asked John Derringham. “Or are you
tangible, and must I drink the poison cup, after all?”
“I would give you no noxious wine,” she answered. “If you were
strong and wise and true, only the fire which I have stolen from heaven
could come to you.”
“Long ago,” he said, “you gave me an oak-leaf, dryad, and I have
kept it still. What now will you grant to me?”
“Nothing, since you fear—” and she drew back.
“I do not fear,” he answered wildly. “Halcyone!—sweetheart! I want
you—here—next my heart. Give me—yourself!”
Then he stretched out his arms and drew her to him, all soft and
loving and unresisting, and he pressed his lips to her pure and tender
lips. And it seemed as if the heavens opened, and the Night poured down
all that was divine of bliss.
But before he could be sure that indeed he held her safely in his
arms, she started forward, releasing herself. Then, clasping Aphrodite
and her silken folds, with a bound she was far beyond him, and had
disappeared in the shadow of the archway, on whose curve the last rays
of moonlight played, so that he saw it outlined and clear.
He strode forward to follow her, but to his amazement, when he
reached the place, she seemed to vanish absolutely in front of his
eyes, and although he lit a match and searched everywhere, not the
slightest trace of her could he find, and there was no opening or
possible corner into which she could have disappeared.
Absolutely dumbfounded, he groped his way back to the bench, and
sitting down buried his head in his hands. Surely it was all a dream,
then, and he had been drunk—with the Professor's Falernian wine—and
had wandered here and slept. But, God of all the nights, what an
The half-moon set, and the night became much darker before John
Derringham rose from his seat by the bench. A stupor had fallen upon
him. He had ceased to reason. Then he got up and made his way back to
the orchard house, under the myriads of pale stars, which shone with
diminished brilliancy from the luminous, summer night sky.
Here he seemed to grow material again and to realize that he was
indeed awake. But what had happened to him? Whether he had been
dreaming or no, a spell had fallen upon him—he had drunk of the poison
cup. And Halcyone filled his mind. He thrilled and thrilled again as he
remembered the exquisite joy of their tender embrace—even though it
had been no real thing, but a dream, it was still the divinest good his
life had yet known.
But what could it lead to if it were real? Nothing but sorrow and
parting and regret. For his career still mattered to him, he knew, now
that he was in his sane senses again, more than anything else in the
world. And he could not burden himself with a poor, uninfluential girl
as a wife, even though the joy of it took them both to heaven.
The emotion he was experiencing was one quite new to him, and he
almost resented it, because it was upsetting some of his beliefs.
The next day, at breakfast, the Professor remarked that he looked
“You rather overwork, John,” he said. “To lie about the garden here
and not have to follow the caprices of fashionable ladies at Wendover,
would do you a power of good.”
There was no sight of Halcyone all the day. She was living in a
paradise, but hers contained no doubts or uncertainties. She knew that
indeed she had lived and breathed the night before, and found complete
happiness in John Derringham's arms.
That, then, was what Aphrodite had always been telling her. She knew
now the meaning of the love in her eyes. This glorious and divine thing
had been given to her, too—out of the night.
It was fully perceived at last, not only half glanced at almost with
fear. Love had come to her, and whatever might reck of sorrow, it meant
her whole life and soul.
And this precious gift of the pure thing from God she had given in
her turn to John Derringham as his lips had pressed her lips.
She spent the whole day in the garden, sitting in the summer house
surveying the world. The blue hills in the far distance were surely the
peaks of Olympus and she had been permitted to know what existence
Not a doubt of him entered her heart, or a fear. He certainly loved
her as she loved him; they had been created for each other since the
beginning of time. And it was only a question of arrangement when she
should go away with him and never part any more.
Marriage, as a ceremony in church, meant nothing to her. Some such
thing, of course, must take place, because of the stupid conventions of
the world, but the sacrament, the real mating, was to be
In her innocent and noble soul John Derringham now reigned as king.
He had never had a rival, and never would have while breath stayed in
her fair body.
By the evening of that day he had reasoned himself into believing
that the whole thing was a dream—or, if not a dream, he had better
consider it as such; but at the same time, as the dusk grew, a wild
longing swelled in his heart for its recurrence, and when the night
came he could not any longer control himself, and as he had done before
he wandered to the tree.
The moon, one day beyond its first quarter, was growing brighter,
and a strange and mysterious shimmer was over everything as though the
heat of the day were rising to give welcome and fuse itself in the
He was alone with the bird who throbbed from the copse, and as he
sat in the sublime stillness he fancied he saw some does peep forth.
They were there, of course, with their new-born fawns.
But where was she, the nymph of the night?
His heart ached, the longing grew intense until it was a mighty
force. He felt he could stride across the luminous park which separated
them, and scale the wall to the casement window of the long gallery, to
clasp her once more in his arms. And, as it is with all those beings
who have scorned and denied his power, Love was punishing him now by a
complete annihilation of his will. At last he buried his face in his
hands; it was almost agony that he felt.
When he uncovered his eyes again he saw, far in the distance, a
filmy shadow. It seemed to be now real, and now a wraith, as it flitted
from tree to tree, but at last he knew it was real—it was
she—Halcyone! He started to his feet, and there stood waiting for her.
She came with the gliding movement he now knew belonged in her dual
personality to the night.
Her hair was all unbound, and her garment was white.
All reason, all resolution left him. He held out his arms.
“My love!” he cried. “I have waited for you—ah, so long!”
And Halcyone allowed herself to be clasped next his heart, and then
drawn to the bench, where they sat down, blissfully content.
They had such a number of things to tell one another about love. He
who had always scoffed at its existence was now eloquent in his
explanation of the mystery. And Halcyone, who had never had any doubts,
put her beautiful thoughts into words. Love meant everything—it was
just he, John Derringham. She was no more herself, but had come to
dwell in him.
She was tender and absolutely pure in her broad loyalty, concealing
nothing of her fondness, letting him see that if she were Mistress of
the Night, he was Master of her Soul.
And the complete subservience of herself, the sublime transparency
without subterfuge of her surrender, appealed to everything of chivalry
which his nature held.
“Since the beginning,” she whispered, in that soft, sweet voice of
hers which seemed to him to be of the angels, “ever since the
beginning, John, when I was a little ignorant girl, it has always been
you. You were Jason and Theseus and Perseus. You were Sir Bors and Sir
Percival and Sir Lancelot. And I knew it was just waiting—Fate.”
“My sweet, my sweet,” he murmured, kissing her hair.
“And the time you came, when I was so ugly,” she went on, “and so
overgrown—I was sad then, because I knew you would not like me. But
the winds and the night were good to me. I have grown, you see, so that
I am now more as you would wish, but everything has been for you from
that first day in the tree—our tree.”
That between two lovers the thing could be a game never entered her
brain. The thought that it might be wiser to watch moods and play on
this one or that, and conceal her feelings and draw him on with
mystery, could meet with no faintest understanding in her fond heart.
She just loved him, and belonged to him, and that was the whole
meaning of heaven and earth. Any trick of calculation would have been a
thousand miles beneath her feet. And while he was there with her,
clasping her slender willowy form to his heart, John Derringham felt
exalted. The importance of his career dwindled, the imperative
necessity of possessing Halcyone for his very own augmented, until at
last he whispered in her ear as her little head lay there upon his
“Darling child, you must marry me at once—immediately—next week.
We will go through whatever is necessary at the registry-office, and
then you must come away with me and be my very own.”
“Of course,” was all she said.
“It is absolutely impossible that we could let anyone know about it
at present—even Cheiron—” he went on, a little hurriedly. “The
circumstances are such that I cannot publicly own you as my wife,
although it would be my glory so to do. I should have to give up my
whole career, because I have no money to keep a splendid home, which
would be your due. But I dare say these things do not matter to you any
more than they do to me. Is it so, sweet, darling child?”
“How could they matter?” Halcyone whispered from the shelter of his
clasped arms. “Of what good would they be to me? I want to be with you
when you have time; I want to caress you when you are tired, and
comfort you, and inspire you, and love you, and bring you peace. How
could the world—which I do not know—matter to me? Are you not foolish
to ask me such questions, John!”
“Very foolish, my divine one,” he said, and forgot what more he
would have spoken in the delirium of a worshiping kiss.
But presently he brought himself back to facts again.
“Darling,” he said, “I will find out exactly how everything can be
managed, and then you will meet me here, under this tree, and we will
go away together and be married, and for a week at least I will make
the time to stay with you, as your lover, and you shall be absolutely
and truly my sweetest wife.”
“Yes,” said Halcyone, perfectly content.
“And after that,” he went on, “I will arrange that you stay
somewhere near me, so that every moment that I am free I can come back
to the loving glory of your arms.”
“I cannot think of any other heaven,” the tender creature murmured.
And then she nestled closer, and her voice became dreamy.
“This is what God means in everything,” she whispered. “In the
Springtime, which is waiting for the Summer—in all the flowers and all
the trees. This is the secret the night has taught me from the very
beginning, when I first was able to spend the hours in her arms.”
Then this mystery of her knowledge of the night he had to probe; and
she told him, in old-world, romantic language, how she had discovered
the stairs and Aphrodite, and even of the iron-bound box which she had
never been able to move.
“It contains some papers of that Sir Timothy, I expect,” she said.
“We know by the date of the breastplate that it was when Cromwell sent
his Ironsides to search La Sarthe that he must have escaped through the
door and got to the coast; but he was drowned crossing to France, so no
one guessed or ever knew how he had got away—and I expect the secret
of the passage died with him, and I was the first one to find it.”
“Then what do you make of the goddess's head?” asked John
Derringham. “Was that his, too?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” she answered. “He was a great, grand
seigneur—we know of that—and had traveled much in Italy when a young
man, and stayed at Florence especially. He married a relative of the
Medici belonging to some female branch, and he is even said to have
been to Greece; but in the court of the Grand Duke of Tuscany he would
certainly have learned to appreciate the divine beauty of Aphrodite. He
must have brought her from there as well as the Hebe and Artemis, which
are not nearly so good. They stand in the hall—but they say nothing to
“It would be interesting to know what the papers are about,” John
Derringham went on. “We must look at them together some day when you
are my wife.”
“Yes,” said Halcyone, and thrilled at the thought.
“So it was through the solid masonry you disappeared last night? No
wonder, sprite, that I believed I was dreaming! Why did you fly from
“It was too great, too glorious to take all at once,” she said, and
with a sudden shyness she buried her face in his coat.
“My darling sweet one,” he murmured, drawing her to him, passion
flaming once more. “I could have cried madly”—and he quoted in Greek:
“Wilt them fly me and deny me?
By thine own joy I vow,
By the grape upon the bough,
Thou shalt seek me in the midnight, thou shalt love me even now.”
Mr. Carlyon had not restricted Halcyone's reading: she knew it was
from the “Bacchae” of Euripides, and answered:
“Ah, yes, and, you see, I have sought you in the midnight, and I am
here, and I love you—even now!”
After that, for a while they both seemed to fall into a dream of
bliss. They spoke not, they just sat close together, his arms
encircling her, her head upon his breast; and thus they watched the
first precursors of dawn streak the sky and, looking up, found the
stars had faded.
Halcyone started to her feet.
“Ah! I must go, dear lover,” she said, “though it will only be for
some few hours.”
But John Derringham held her two hands, detaining her.
“I will make all the arrangements in these next few days,” he said.
“I am going to Wendover for Whitsuntide. I will get away from there,
though, and come across the park and meet you, darling, here at our
tree, and we will settle exactly what to do and when to go.”
Then, after a last fond, sweet embrace, he let her leave him, and
watched her as she glided away among the giant trees, until she was out
of sight, a wild glory in his heart.
For love, when he wins after stress, leaves no room but for gladness
in his worshiper's soul.
It was John Derringham who was taciturn next morning, not the
The light of day has a most sobering effect, and while still exalted
in a measure by all the strong forces of love, he was enabled to review
worldly events with a clearer eye, and could realize very well that he
was going to take a step which would not have a forwarding impetus upon
his career, even if it proved to be not one of retrogression.
He must give up the thought of using a rich wife as an advancement;
but then, on the other hand, he would gain a companion whose divine
sweetness would be an ennobling inspiration.
How he could ever have deceived himself in regard to his feelings he
wondered now, for he saw quite plainly that he had been drifting into
loving her from the first moment he had seen her that Good Friday
morning, the foundations having been laid years before, on the day in
He felt rather uncomfortable about his old master, who he knew would
not approve of any secret union with Halcyone. Not that Cheiron would
reck much of conventionalities, or care in the least if it were a
marriage at a registry-office or not, but he would certainly resent any
aspect of the case which would seem to put a slight upon his much-loved
protegee or place her in a false position.
He would tell him nothing about it until it was an accomplished fact
and Halcyone was his wife—then they would let him into the secret.
All the details of what she would have to say to her aunts in her
letter of farewell on leaving them would have to be thought out, too,
so that no pursuit or inopportune prying into the truth would be the
Of any possibility of her stepfather's ultimate interference he did
not think, not knowing that she had even any further connection with
him. To satisfy in some way the ancient aunts was all that appeared a
necessity. And that was difficult enough. He had certainly undertaken
no easy task, but he did not regret his decision. The first and only
strong passion he had ever known was mastering him.
But there was yet one more unpleasant aspect to face—that was the
situation regarding Mrs. Cricklander. He had assuredly not committed
himself or even acted very unfairly to her. She had been playing a game
as he had been. He did not flatter himself that she really loved
him—now that he knew what love meant—and her ambition could be
gratified elsewhere; but there remained the fact that he was engaged to
stay with her for Whitsuntide, and whether to do so, and plainly show
her that he had meant nothing and only intended to be a friend, or
whether to throw the visit over, and go to London, returning just to
fetch Halcyone about Wednesday, he could not quite decide.
Which would be the best thing to do? It worried him—but not for
long, because indecision was not, as a rule, one of his
characteristics, and he soon made up his mind to the former course.
He would go to Wendover on Saturday, as was arranged, take pains to
disabuse his hostess's mind of any illusion upon the subject of his
intentions, and, having run over to Bristol this afternoon to give
notice to the registrar and procure the license, he would leave with
the other guests on the Tuesday, after lunch, having sent his servant
up to London in the morning to be out of the way.
Then he would sleep that night in Upminster, getting his servant to
leave what luggage he required there—it was the junction for the main
line to London, and so that would be easy. A motor could be hired, and
in it, on the Wednesday, he would come to the oak avenue gate, as that
was far at the other side of the park upon the western road; there he
would arrange that Halcyone should be waiting for him with some small
box, and they would go over to Bristol, be married, and then go on to a
romantic spot he knew of in Wales, and there spend a week of bliss!
By the time he got thus far in his meditations he felt intoxicated
again, and Mr. Carlyon, who was watching him as he sat there in his
chair reading the Times opposite him, wondered what made him
suddenly clasp his hands and draw in his breath and smile in that
idiotic way while he gazed into space!
Then there would be the afterwards. Of course, that would be
blissful, too. Oh! if he could only claim her before all the world how
glorious it would be—but for the present that was hopeless, and at all
events her life with him would not be more retired than the one of
monotony which she led at La Sarthe Chase, and would have his tenderest
love to brighten it. He would take a tiny house for her somewhere—one
of those very old-fashioned ones shut in with a garden still left in
Chelsea, near the Embankment—and there he would spend every moment of
his spare time, and try to make up to her for her isolation. Well
arranged, the world need not know of this—Halcyone would never be
exigeante—or if it did develop a suspicion, ministers before his
day had been known to have had—cheres amies.
But as this thought came he jumped from his chair. It was, when
faced in a concrete fashion, hideously unpalatable as touching his
pure, fair star.
“You are rather restless to-day, John,” the Professor said, as his
old pupil went hastily towards the open window and looked out.
“Yes,” said John Derringham. “It is going to rain, and I must go to
Bristol this afternoon. I have to see a man on business.”
Cheiron's left penthouse went up into his forehead.
“Matters complicating?” was all he said.
“Yes, the very devil,” responded John Derringham.
“Beginning to feel the noose already, poor lad?”
“Er—no, not exactly,” and he turned round. “But I don't quite know
what I ought to do about her—Mrs. Cricklander.”
“A question of honor?”
“I suppose so.”
The Professor grunted, and then chuckled.
“A man's honor towards a woman lasts as long as his love. When that
goes, it goes with it—to the other woman.”
“You cynic!” said John Derringham.
“It is the truth, my son. A man's point of view of such things
shifts with his inclinations, and if other people are not likely to
know, he does not experience any qualms in thinking of the woman's
feelings—it is only of what the world will think of him if it
finds him out. Complete cowards, all of us!”
John Derringham frowned. He hated to know this was true.
“Well, I am not going to marry Mrs. Cricklander, Master,” he
announced after a while.
“I am very glad to hear it,” Cheiron said heartily. “I never like to
see a fine ship going upon the rocks. All your vitality would have been
drawn out of you by those octopus arms.”
“I do not agree with you in the least about any of those points,”
John Derringham said stiffly. “I have the highest respect for Mrs.
Cricklander—but I can't do it.”
“Well, you can thank whichever of your stars has brought you to this
conclusion,” growled the Professor. “I suppose I'll pull through
somehow financially,” the restless visitor went on, pacing the
floor—“anyway, for a few years; there may be something more to be
squeezed out of Derringham. I must see.”
“Well, if you are not marrying that need not distress you,” Cheiron
consoled him with. “Those things only matter if a man has a son.”
John Derringham stopped abruptly in his walk and looked at his old
His words gave him a strange twinge, but he crushed it down, and
went on again:
“It is a curse, this want of money,” he said. “It makes a man do
base things that his soul revolts against.” And then, in his restless
moving, he absently picked up a volume of Aristotle, and his eye caught
this sentence: “The courageous man therefore faces danger and performs
acts of courage for the sake of what is noble.”
And what did an honorable man do? But this question he would not go
“You were out very late last night, John,” Mr. Carlyon said
presently. “I left this window open for you on purpose. The garden does
one good sometimes. You were not lonely, I hope?”
“No,” said John Derringham; but he would not look at his old master,
for he knew very well he should see a whimsical sparkle in his eyes.
Mr. Carlyon, of course, must be aware of Halcyone's night wandering
proclivities. And if there had been nothing to conceal John Derringham
would have liked to have sat down now and rhapsodized all about his
darling to his old friend, who adored her, too, and knew and
appreciated all her points. He felt bitterly that Fate had not been as
kind to him as she might have been. However, there was nothing for it,
so he turned the conversation and tried to make himself grow as
interested in a question of foreign policy as he would have been able
to be, say, a year ago. And then he went out for a walk.
And Cheiron sat musing in his chair, as was his habit.
“The magnet of her soul is drawing his,” he said to himself. “Well,
now that this has begun to work, we must leave things to Fate.”
But he did not guess how passion on the one side and complete love
and trust upon the other were precipitously forcing Fate's hand.
The possibility of John Derringham's sending a message to Halcyone
was very slender. The post was out of the question—she probably never
got any letters, and the arrival of one in a man's handwriting would no
doubt be the cause of endless comment in the household. The foolishness
had been not to make a definite appointment with her when they had
parted before dawn. But they had been too overcome with love to think
of anything practical in those last moments, and now the only thing
would be for him to go again to-night to the tree, and hope that she
would meet him there. But the sky was clouding over, and rain looked
quite ready to fall. As a last resource he could send Demetrius—his
own valet he would not have trusted a yard.
The rain kept off for his journey to Bristol, and his business was
got through with rapidity. And if the registrar did connect the name of
John Derringham, barrister-at-law, of the Temple, London, with John
Derringham, the Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, he was a
man of discretion and said nothing about it.
It was quite late when Mr. Carlyon's guest returned to his
roof—cross-country trains were so tiresome—and it had just begun to
pour with rain, so there was no use expecting that Halcyone would be
there by the tree. And bed, with a rather feverish sensation of
disappointment, seemed John Derringham's portion.
Halcyone had passed a day of happy tranquillity. She was of that
godlike calm which frets not, believing always that only good could
come to her, and that, as she heard nothing from her lover, it was
because—which was indeed the truth—he was arranging for their future.
If it had been fine she had meant to go to the tree, but as it rained
she went quietly to her room, and let her Priscilla brush her hair for
an hour, while she stared in the old dark glass, seeing not her own
pale and exquisite face, but all sorts of pictures of future happiness.
That she must not tell her old nurse, for the moment, of her good
fortune was her one crumpled rose-leaf, but she had arranged that when
she went she would post a letter at once to her, and Priscilla would,
of course, join her in London, or wherever it was John Derringham would
decide that she should live. The thought of leaving her aunts did not
so much trouble her. The ancient ladies had never made her their
companion or encouraged her to have a single interest in common with
them. She was even doubtful if they would really miss her, so little
had they ever taken her into their lives. For them she was still the
child to be kept in her place, however much she had tried to grow a
little nearer. Then her thoughts turned back to ways and means.
She so often spent the whole day with Cheiron that her absence would
not be remarked upon until bedtime. But then she suddenly remembered,
with a feeling of consternation, that the Professor intended to leave
on the Tuesday in Whitsun week for his annual fortnight in London. If
the household knew of this, it might complicate matters, and was a
pity. However, there was no use speculating about any of these things,
since she did not yet know on which day she was to start—to start for
Paradise—as the wife of her Beloved!
Next morning it was fine again, and she decided she would go towards
their tree, and if John were not there, she would even go on to the
orchard house, because she realized fully the difficulty he would find
in sending her a message.
But he was there waiting for her, in the bright sunlight, and she
thought him the perfection of what a man should look in his well-cut
John Derringham knew how to dress himself, and had even in his
oldest clothes that nameless, indescribable distinction which seems
often to be the birthright of Englishmen of his class.
The daylight made her timid again; she was no more the imperious
goddess of the night. It was a shy and tender little maiden who nestled
into the protecting strong arms of her lover.
He told her all his plans: how he had given notice for the license,
and that it would be forthcoming. And he explained that he had chosen
Bristol rather than Upminster because in this latter place everyone
would know the name of La Sarthe—even the registrar's clerk and
whoever else they would secure as a witness—but in Bristol it might
They discussed what should be done about Cheiron and the old ladies,
and decided that when to apprise the former of their marriage must be
left to John's discretion; and as Halcyone would not be missed until
the evening, they would simply send two telegrams from Bristol in the
late afternoon, one to Miss La Sarthe and one to Priscilla, the former
briefly to announce that Halcyone was quite safe and was writing, and
the latter asking her old nurse not to let the old ladies feel worried,
and promising a letter to her, also.
“Then,” John Derringham said, “you will be my wife by that time,
sweetheart, and you will tell your aunts the truth, ask them to keep
our secret, and say that you will return to them often, so that they
shall not be lonely. We will write it between us, darling, and I do not
think they will give us away.”
“Never,” returned Halcyone, while she looked rather wistfully
towards the house. “They are too proud.”
He dropped her hand for an instant; the unconscious inference of
this speech made him wince. She understood, then, that she was going to
do something which her old kinswomen would think was a hurt to their
pride, and so would be silent over it in consequence. And yet she did
not hesitate. She must indeed love him very much.
A tremendous wave of emotion surged through him, and he looked at
her with reverence and worship. And for one second his own part of
utter selfishness flashed into his understanding, so that he asked,
with almost an anxious note in his deep, assured voice:
“You are not afraid, sweetheart, to come away—for all the rest of
your life—alone with me?”
And often in the after days of anguish there would come back to him
the memory of her eyes, to tear his heart with agony in the
night-watches—her pure, true eyes, with all her fresh, untarnished
soul looking out of them into his as they glistened with love and
“Afraid?” she said. “How should I be afraid—since you are my lord
and I am your love? Do we not belong to one another?”
“Oh, my dear,” he said, as he folded her to his heart in wild,
worshiping passion, “God keep you always safe, here in my arms.”
And if she had known it, for the first time in his life there were
tears in John Derringham's proud eyes. For he knew now he had found
her—the one woman with a soul.
Then they parted, when every smallest detail was settled, for she
had promised to help Miss Roberta with a new design for her embroidery,
and he had promised to join Mrs. Cricklander's party for an early
lunch. They intended to make an excursion to see the ruins of
Graseworth Tower in the afternoon.
“And indeed we can bear the separation now, my darling,” he said,
“because we shall both know that we must go through only four more days
before we are together—for always!”
But even so it seemed as if they could not tear themselves apart,
and when he did let her go he strode after her again and pleaded for
one more kiss.
“There!” she whispered, smiling while her eyes half filled with
mist. “This tree is forever sacred to us. John, it is listening now
when I tell you once more that I love you.”
And then she fled.
When once John Derringham had definitely made up his mind to any
course in life, he continued in it with decision and skill, and carried
off the situation with a high-handed assurance. Thus he felt no qualms
of awkwardness in meeting Mrs. Cricklander and treating her with an
enchanting ease and friendliness which was completely disconcerting.
She had no casus belli; she could not find fault with his manner
or his words, and yet she was left with the blank conviction that her
hopes in regard to him were over. She despised men in her heart
because, as a rule, she was able to calculate with certainty every move
in her games with them. Feeling no slightest passion, her very mediocre
intellect proved often more than a match for the cleverest. But her
supreme belief in herself now received a heavy blow. She was never so
near to loving John Derringham as during this Whitsuntide when she felt
she had lost him. Cora Lutworth once said of her:
“Cis is one of the happiest women in the world, because when she
looks in the glass in the morning she never sees anything but herself,
and is perfectly content. Most of us find shadows peeping over our
shoulders of what we would like to be.”
Arabella found her employer extremely trying during the Saturday and
Sunday, and was almost in tears when she wrote to her mother.
Mr. Derringham has plainly determined not to be ensnared yet. If
did not render M. E. so difficult to please, the situation
very instructive to watch. And I am not even now certain
will escape eventually, because her whole pride in herself is
and she will stick at nothing. I have a shrewd suspicion as to
has caused the change in his feelings and intentions towards M.
but I have not imparted my ideas to her, since doing so might
good, and would in some way certainly injure an innocent
yet I believe she is unaware of this person's existence. We
everything we can for Mr. Derringham with the most erudite
conversation. I have been up half of the night ascertaining
upon all sorts of classical subjects, as that seems to be more
ever the bent of his mind in these last two visits. (I am given
understand from other sources that the person of whom I made
above is a highly-trained Greek scholar and of exceptional
and cultivation, so that may be the reason.) The strain of
M. E. for these talks and then my anxiety when, at meals or
them, I hear her upon the brink of some fatal mistake, has
to have most unpleasant headaches, and really, if it were not
modern and silly a phrase, I should say the thing was getting
nerves. However, all the interesting guests are leaving on
afternoon. Mr. Derringham, I understand from what he said to
intends to go over to his old master, Professor Carlyon's, and
a later train from there, but M. E. does not know this, and I
not felt it my duty to inform her of it, because it might
some awkwardness connected with the person about whom I have
given you a hint. I must close now, as I have some facts to
concerning the worship of Dionysus which M. E. is going to
to-night. It was only yesterday I told her who he was, and I
greatest difficulty to get her to understand he was Bacchus as
as she had learned of him when younger under that name as the
Drunkards, and did not consider him a very nice person to
But Mr. Derringham held forth upon the rude Thracian Dionysus
night and the fundamental spirituality of his original cult,
she felt it might seem rather bourgeois to be shocked,
committed to memory as well as she can some facts to-day.
It will be seen from Miss Clinker's frank letter to her parent that
Mrs. Cricklander was leaving no stone unturned to gain her object, and
such praiseworthy toil deserves the highest commendation.
John Derringham, meanwhile, having successfully smoothed matters to
his own satisfaction, felt at liberty to dream in his spare moments of
his love. He already began to wonder how he had ever felt any emotion
towards the fair Cecilia—she was perfectly charming, but left him as
cold as ice!
And so at last the good-bys were said, and he got into the motor
with some of the other guests, ostensibly for the station, but in
reality to get out at the Lodge gates upon the pretense of going to see
the Professor. He intended, instead of this, to cross the haw-haw and
reconnoiter upon the hope of meeting his beloved, because there was no
necessity for him to spend a dull afternoon in Upminster when perhaps
some more agreeable hours could be snatched under the tree. He had
attended to every point, he believed, even having written a letter to
Cheiron which he had taken the precaution to give to his servant to
post from London on the following morning, so that there would be no
Bristol mark as a clew to their whereabouts. In this he merely stated
that when his old master would receive it Halcyone would be his wife,
and that for a time they had decided to keep the marriage secret, and
he hoped his old master would understand and sympathize.
The only qualm of any sort he experienced during these three days
was when he was composing this letter, so he finished it quickly and
did not even read it over. And now, as he strode across the Wendover
park, it was safe in his servant's pocket and would be despatched duly
next day. He was unaware of the fact that Mr. Carlyon had left for
London by a morning train.
As he came within view of the haw-haw, he saw in the far distance
Halcyone just flitting towards the beech avenue gate, and in his
intense haste to catch her up before she should get too near the house,
he removed the bricks very carelessly, not even remarking that one, and
the most important, was disposed of in such a manner that the spike
left beneath would not bear his weight.
He had got thus far, his eyes fixed upon the slender white figure
rapidly disappearing from his view, when with a tremendous crash his
foothold gave way and he fell with fearful force into the ditch
beneath, his head striking one of the fallen bricks. And after that,
all things were blank and his soul wandered into shadowland and tasted
of the pains of death.
* * * * *
From the first break of day on that Tuesday when Halcyone awoke she
was conscious that some sorrow was near her. Every sense of hers, every
instinct, so highly trained by her years of communion with Nature
seemed always to warn her of coming events.
She was restless—a state of being quite at variance with her usual
calm. The air was sultry and, though no rain fell, ominous clouds
gathered and faint thunder pealed afar off.
“What is it? What is it, God?” she asked of the sky. But no answer
came, and at last she went out into the park and towards the tree. She
had made all her simple preparations—everything that she must take had
been put into a small bag and was safely waiting in the secret passage,
ready for her to fetch on the morrow.
Cheiron, she knew, had gone to London. Had they not said good-by on
the evening before? And his last words had made her smile happily at
“Things are changing, Halcyone,” he had said, with the whimsical
raising of his left penthouse brow. “Perhaps you will not want to learn
Greek much longer with your crabbed old Cheiron in his cave.”
And she had flung her arms round his neck and buried her face in his
silver beard, and assured him she would always want to learn—all her
life. But now she felt a twinge of sadness—she would indeed miss him,
her dear old master, and he, too, would be lonely without her. Then she
fought with herself. Feelings of depression were never permitted to
stay for a moment, and she looked away into the trees for comfort—but
only a deathly stillness and a sullen roll of distant thunder answered,
and left her uncomforted.
And then some force stronger than her will seemed to drive her back
to the house, and to the long gallery, and just at the very moment when
she had passed beyond her lover's sight it was as if something chased
her, so that she ran the last few yards, and paused not until she stood
in front of Aphrodite's shrine.
It would be difficult to carry the marble head with the other few
things she proposed to take, but none the less was the necessity
imperative. She could not be married without the presence of her
beloved mother to bless her.
As she lifted her goddess out, with her silken wrappings, the first
flash of the nearing storm lit up the dark room with lurid flame.
Halcyone shivered. It was the one aspect of Nature with which she
was out of harmony. When thunder rolled and lightning quivered, her
vitality seemed to desert her and she experienced what in her came
nearest to fear.
“Ah! someone has angered God greatly,” she whispered aloud; and then
she carried the head to the secret door, knowing full well she would be
unwatched in her entry there—on such a day, with thunder pealing, not
a servant would have ventured into the long gallery.
Another and louder rumble reached her with muffled sound, as she
made her way in the dark underground, and as she came to the place
where there was the contrived gleam of light and outer air, the
lightning turned the narrow space into a green dusk.
Halcyone was trembling all over, and when she had put her precious
bundle safely into the bag with the rest of her simple preparations,
she laid it on the iron-bound box which had never been stirred, all
ready for her to lift up and take with her in the morning. Then she ran
back, cold and pale, and hastily sought Priscilla in her own room, and
talked long to her of old days, glad indeed to hear a human voice,
until presently the rain began to pour in torrents and the storm cried
But with each crash before this came her heart gave a bound, as if
in pain. And a wild longing grew in her for the morrow and safety in
her lover's arms.
And he—alas! that hapless lover!—was lying there in the haw-haw,
with broken ankle and damaged head, half recovering consciousness in
the pouring rain, but unable to stir or climb from his low bed, or even
to cry aloud enough to make anyone hear him. And so at last the night
came, and the pure moonlight, and when her usual evening duties were
over with her aunts, Halcyone was free to go to bed.
She opened her window wide, but she did not seek to wander in the
wet park. John would not be there, and she must rest, so as to be fair
for him when tomorrow they should start on life's sweet
But her heart was not quiet. All her prayers and pure thoughts
seemed to bring no peace, and even when, after a while, she fell into a
sleep, it was still troubled.
And thus the day dawned that was to have seen her wedding!
She told herself that the dull, sullen oppression she awoke with was
the result of the storm in the night, and with firm determination she
banished all she could of heaviness, and got through her usual
avocations until the moment came for her to start for the oak avenue
gate. She timed her arrival to be exactly at ten o'clock so that she
need not wait, as this of the three outlets was the one where there
might be a less remote chance of a passer-by. They had had to choose it
because it was on the road to Bristol.
The sun was shining gorgeously again when she emerged from the
secret door, carrying her heavy bundle, and except in the renewed
freshness of all the green there seemed no trace of the storm. Yes—as
she got near the gate she saw that one huge tree beyond that old friend
who had played the part of the holder of the Golden Fleece was stricken
and cleft through by the lightning. It had fallen in helpless fashion,
blackened and yawning, its proud head in the dust.
This grieved her deeply, and she paused to pass a tender hand over
the gaping wound. Then she went on to the gate, and there
waited—waited first in calm belief, then in expectancy, and at last in
a numb agony.
The sun seemed to scorch her, the light hurt her eyes, every sound
made her tremble and start forward, and at last she cried aloud:
“O God, why do I feel so troubled? I who have always had peace in my
But no bird even answered her. There was a warm stillness, and just
there, under these trees, there were no rabbits which could have
comforted her with their living forms scuttling to and fro.
She tried to reason calmly. Motors were uncertain things—this one
might have broken down, and that had delayed her lover. She must not
stir, in case he should come and think his lateness had frightened her
and that she had gone back to the house. Whatever befell, she must be
brave and true.
But at last, when the afternoon shadows were lengthening, the agony
became intense. Only the baker had passed with his cart, and a farm
wagon or two, during the whole day. Gradually the conviction grew that
it could not only be an accident to the motor—if so, John would have
procured some other vehicle, or, indeed, he could have come to her on
foot by now. Something had befallen him. There must have occurred some
accident to himself; and in spite of all her calm fortitude, anguish
clutched her soul.
She knew not what to do or which way to go. At last, as the sun
began to sink, faint and weary, she decided the orchard house would be
the best place. There, if there was any news of an accident, Sarah
Porrit, the Professor's one female servant, would have heard it.
She started straight across the park, carrying her heavy bag, and
crossed the beech avenue, and so on to the trysting tree. A cold
feeling like some extra disquietude seemed to overcome her as she
neared the haw-haw and the copse. It was as if she feared and yet
longed to get there. But she resisted the temptation, and went straight
on to the little gate and so up the garden to the house.
Mrs. Porrit received her with her usual kindly greeting. All was
calm and peaceful, and while Halcyone controlled herself to talk in an
ordinary voice, the postman's knock was heard. He passed the
Professor's door on the road to Applewood and left the evening mail,
when there chanced to be any.
Mrs. Porrit received the letters—three of them—and then she
adjusted her spectacles, but took them off again.
“After all, since you are here, miss, perhaps as you write better
than I you will be so good as to redirect them on to the master. You
know his address, as usual.” And she named an old-fashioned hotel in
Halcyone took them in her cold, trembling fingers, and then nearly
dropped them on the floor, for the top envelope was addressed in the
handwriting of her beloved! She knew it well. Had she not, during the
past years, often seen such missives, from which the Professor had read
her scraps of news?
She carried it to the light and scrutinized the postmark. It was
“London,” and posted that very morning early!
For a moment all was a blank, and she found herself grasping the
back of Cheiron's big chair to prevent herself from falling.
John had been in London at the moment when she was waiting by the
tree! What mystery was here?
At first the feeling was one of passionate relief. There had been no
accident, then; he had been obliged to go—there would be some
explanation forthcoming. Perhaps he had even written to her, too—and
she gave a bound forward, as though to run back to La Sarthe Chase. But
then she recollected the evening postman did not come to the house, and
they got no letters as Cheiron did, who was on the road. Hers could not
be there until the morning—she must wait patiently and see.
With consummate self-control she made her voice sound natural as she
said, “Oh, I am so late, Mrs. Porrit. I must go,” and, bidding the
woman a gracious good evening, walked rapidly to the house. A telegram
might have come for her, and she had been out all day. What if her
aunts had opened it!
This thought made her quicken her pace so that at last she arrived
at the terrace breathless with running; and having deposited her bag in
safety, she came out again from the secret passage and got hastily to
But there was no sign of a telegram in the hall, and she mounted to
find Priscilla in her room, which she discovered to be in great
disorder, her few clothes lying about on every available space.
“Oh, my lamb, where have you been?” the elderly woman exclaimed. “At
four o'clock who should come in a fly from the Applewood station but
your step-father's wife! She was staying at Upminster, and says she
thought she would come over and see you—and now it's settled that we
go back with her to London to-morrow. Think of it, my lamb! You and me
to see the world!” Then she cried in fear: “My precious, what is it?”
For Halcyone, overwrought and overcome, had staggered to a chair
and, falling into it, had buried her face in her hands.
Mrs. James Anderton was seated in the Italian parlor with the two
ancient hostesses when Halcyone at last came into their midst. They had
evidently exhausted all possible topics of conversation and were
extremely glad of an interruption.
Miss La Sarthe had been growing more and more annoyed at her
great-niece's lengthy absence, while Miss Roberta felt so nervous she
would like to have sniffed at her vinaigrette, but, alas! the stern eye
of her sister was upon her and she dared not.
Mrs. James Anderton—good, worthy woman—had not passed an agreeable
afternoon either. She felt herself hopelessly out of tune with the two
old ladies, whose exquisitely reserved polished manners disconcerted
She had been made to feel—most delicately, it is true, but still
unmistakably—that she had committed a breach of taste in thus
descending upon La Sarthe Chase unannounced. And instead of the
sensation of complacent importance which she usually enjoyed when among
her own friends and acquaintances, she was experiencing a depressed
sense of being a very small personage indeed.
Her highly colored comely face was very hot and flushed and she
rather restlessly played with her parasol handle. Miss La Sarthe's
voice grew a little acid as she said:
“This is our great-niece, Halcyone La Sarthe, Mrs. Anderton”—and
then—“It is unfortunate that you should have been so long absent,
“I am very sorry,” Halcyone returned gently, and she shook hands.
She made no excuse or explanation.
Mrs. Anderton plunged into important matters at once.
“Your father, Mr. Anderton”—how that word “father” jarred upon
Halcyone's sensitive ears!—“wished me to come and see you, dear, and
hopes you will return with me to-morrow to London, for a little visit
to us, that you may make the acquaintance of your brother and sisters.”
Halcyone had already made up her mind what to do, before she had
left her room. She would agree to anything they suggested in order to
have no obstacles put in her way—not admitting for a moment that these
people had any authority over her. Then, if in the morning she received
a letter from her Beloved, she would follow its instructions
implicitly. Always having at hand her certain mode of disappearance,
she could slip away, and if it seemed necessary, just leave them to
think what they pleased. Priscilla would be warned to allay at once the
anxiety of her aunts, and for the Andertons she was far too desperate
to care what they might feel.
“Thank you; it is very good of you,” she said as graciously as she
could. “My old nurse has told me of your kind invitation, and is
already beginning the preparations. I trust you left Mr. Anderton and
my stepbrother and sisters well?”
“Hoity-toity!” thought Louisa Anderton. “Of the same sort as the old
spinsters. This won't please James, I fear!” But aloud she answered
that the family were all well, and that James Albert, who was thirteen
now, would soon be going to Eton.
Over Halcyone, in spite of her numbness and the tension she was
feeling, though controlled by her firm will, there came the memory of
the red, crying baby, for whose life her own sweet mother had paid so
dear a price. And Mabel and Ethel—noisy, merry little girls!—she had
thought of them so seldom in these latter years—they seemed as far-off
shadows now. But James Anderton and her mother stood out sharp and
The strain and anguish of the day had left her very pale. Mrs.
Anderton thought her plain and most uncomfortably aloof; she really
regretted that she had put into her husband's head the idea of giving
this invitation. He would gladly have left Halcyone alone, but for her
kindly thought. Mabel was just seventeen, and such a handful that her
father had decided she should stay in the schoolroom with her sister
for another year, and Mrs. Anderton had felt it would be a good
opportunity for Halcyone to rejoin the family circle at a time when her
presence, if she proved good-looking, could not in any way interfere
with her stepsister's debut.
And here, instead of being overcome with gratitude and excitement,
this cold, quiet girl was taking it all as quite an ordinary
circumstance. No wonder she, Louisa Anderton, felt aggrieved.
They had hardly time for any more words, for Mrs. Anderton had
already put off her departure by the seven-twenty train from Applewood
to Upminster on purpose to wait for Halcyone, and now proposed to catch
the one at nine o'clock—her fly still waited in the courtyard—and
they made rapid arrangements. Halcyone, accompanied by Priscilla, was
to meet her the next day at the Upminster junction at eleven o'clock,
and they would journey to London together.
And all the while Halcyone was agreeing to this she was thinking, if
in the improbable circumstance that she should get no letter in the
morning, it would be wiser to go to London. There was her Cheiron, who
would help her to get news. But of course she would hear, and all would
Thus she was enabled to unfreeze a little to her stepfather's wife,
who, as they said good-by at the creaking fly's door, felt some of her
“Perhaps she is shy,” she said to herself as she rolled towards the
station. “Anyway, it is restful, after Mabel's laying down the law.”
That night Halcyone took her goddess to the little summer house upon
the second terrace.
“If I start with John to-morrow, my sweet,” she said, “you will come
with me as I have promised you. But if I must go to that great,
restless city, to find him, then you will wait for me here—safe in
your secret home.” And then she looked out over the misty clover-grown
pleasance to the country beyond bathed in brilliant moonlight. And
something in the beauty of it stilled the wild ache in her heart. She
would not admit into her thoughts the least fear, but some unexplained,
unconquerable apprehension stayed in her innermost soul. She knew, only
she refused to face the fact, that all was not well.
Of doubt as to John Derringham's intentions towards her, or his
love, she had none, but there were forces she knew which were strong
and could injure people, and with all her fearlessness of them, they
might have been capable of causing some trouble to her lover—her lover
who was ignorant of such things.
She stayed some time looking at the beautiful moonlit country, and
saying her prayers to that God Who was her eternal friend, and then she
got up to steal noiselessly to bed.
But as she was opening the secret door, to have one more look at the
sky, after she had replaced Aphrodite in the bag, it seemed as though
her lover's voice called her in anguish through the night: “Halcyone!”
and again, “Halcyone! My love!”
She stopped, petrified with emotion, and then rushed back onto the
terrace. But all was silence; and, wild with some mad fear, she set off
hurriedly, never stopping until she came to their trysting tree. But
here there was silence also, only the nightingale throbbed from the
copse, while the faint rustle of soft zephyrs disturbed the leaves.
And Jeb Hart and his comrade saw the tall white figure from their
hiding-place in the low overgrown brushwood, and Gubbs crossed himself
again, for whether she were living or some wraith they were never
At the moment when Halcyone opened the secret door, John Derringham
was just recovering consciousness in a luxurious bed at Wendover Park,
whither he had been carried when accidentally found by the keepers in
their rounds about eight o'clock. It was several days since they had
visited this part of the park, and they had lit upon him by a fortunate
chance. He had lain there in the haw-haw, unconscious all that day,
while his poor little lady-love waited for him at the oak gate, and was
now in a sorry plight indeed, as Arabella Clinker bent over him,
awaiting anxiously the verdict of the doctors who had been fetched by
motor from Upminster. Would he live or die?
Her employer had had a bad attack of nerves upon hearing of the
accident, and was now reclining upon her boudoir sofa, quite prostrated
and in a high state of agitation until she should know the worst—or
Arabella listened intently. Surely the patient was whispering
something? Yes, she caught the words.
“Halcyone!” he murmured, and again, “Halcyone—my love!” and then he
closed his eyes once more.
He would live, the physicians said after some hours of doubt—with
very careful nursing. But the long exposure in the wet, twenty-four
hours at least, with that wound in the head and the broken ankle, was a
very serious matter, and absolute quiet and the most highly skilled
attention would be necessary.
It was Arabella who made all the sensible, kind arrangements that
night, and herself sat up with the poor suffering patient until the
nurses could come. But it was Mrs. Cricklander who, dignified and
composed, received the doctors after the consultation with Sir Benjamin
Grant next day, before the celebrated surgeon left for London, and she
made her usual good impression upon the great man.
That the local lights thought far more highly of Arabella did not
matter. Mrs. Cricklander was wise enough to know, it is upon the
exalted that a good effect must be produced.
“And, you are sure, Sir Benjamin, that he will get quite well?” she
said tenderly, allowing her handsome eyes to melt upon the surgeon's
face. “It matters enormously to me, you know.” Then she looked down.
Thus appealed to, Sir Benjamin felt he must give her all the
assurance he could.
“Perfectly, dear lady,” he said, pressing her soft hand in sympathy.
“He is young and strong, and fortunately it has not touched his brain.
But it will take time and gentlest nursing, which you will see, of
course, that he gets.”
“Indeed, yes,” the fair Cecilia said. And when they were all gone,
she summoned Arabella.
“You will let me know, Arabella, every minute change in him,” she
commanded, “especially when he seems conscious. And you will tell him
how I am watching over him and doing everything for him. I can't bear
sick people—they upset my nerves, and I just can't stand them. But the
moment he is all right enough to see me so that it won't bore me, I'll
come. You understand? Now I must really have a trional and get some
And when she was alone she went deliberately to the glass and smiled
radiantly to herself as she whispered aloud:
“So he isn't going to die or be an idiot. In a few years he can
still be Prime Minister. And I have got him now, as sure as fate!”
Then she closed her mouth with that firm snap Arabella knew so well,
and, swallowing her sleeping draught, she composed herself for a
It required all Halcyone's fortitude to act the part of unconcern
which was necessary after the post had come in and no letter for
herself had arrived. The only possibility of getting through the time
until she should reach London, and be able to communicate with Cheiron
would, be resolutely to forbid her thoughts from turning in any
speculative direction. She knew nothing but good could come to
her—was she not protected from all harm by every strong force of the
night winds, the beautiful stars and the God Who owned them all?
Therefore it followed that this seeming disaster to her happiness must
be only a temporary thing, and if she bore it calmly it would soon
pass. Or, even if it delayed, there was the analogy of the winter which
for more than four months of the year numbed the earth, often with
weeping rain and frost, but, however severe it should be, there was
always the tender springtime following, and glorious summer, and then
the fulfillment of autumn and its fruits. So she must not be
cast down—she must have faith and not tremble.
She made herself converse gently with her stepfather's wife, and won
her liking before they reached Paddington station. If she had not been
so highly strung and preoccupied, she would have been thrilled in all
her fine senses at the idea of leaving Upminster, further than which
she had never been for the twelve long years of her residence at La
Sarthe Chase; but now, except that all appeared a wild rush and a
bewildering noise, the journey to London made no impression upon her.
It was swallowed up in the one longing to get there—to be able somehow
to communicate with Cheiron, and have her anxiety laid to rest.
The newsboys were selling the evening papers when they arrived, but
her eyes, so unaccustomed to all these new sights, did not warn her to
scan the headlines, though as they were reaching Grosvenor Gardens
where Mr. Anderton's town-house was situated, she did see the words:
“Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs.” The sheet had fallen
forward and only this line was visible.
They did not strike her very forcibly. She was quite unacquainted
with the custom of advertising sensational news in London. It might be
the usual political announcements—it surely was, since she saw another
sheet as they got to the door with “Crisis in the Cabinet” upon it. And
it comforted her greatly. John, of course, was concerned with this, and
had been summoned back suddenly, having had no possible time to let her
know. He who was so true an Englishman must think of his country first.
It seemed like an answer to her prayers, and enabled her to go in and
greet her stepfather with calm and quiet.
James Anderton had come from the city in the best of tempers. The
day had been a good one. He had received his wife's telegram announcing
that Halcyone would accompany her on her return, and awaited her
arrival with a certain amount of uneasy curiosity and interest. Would
the girl be still so terribly like Elaine and the rest of the La
Sarthe—especially Timothy, that scapegrace, handsome Timothy, her
father, on whose memory and his own bargain with Timothy's widow he
never cared much to dwell?
Yes, she was, d——d like—after a while he decided; with just the
same set of head and careless grace, and that hateful stamp of breeding
that had so lamentably escaped his own children, half La Sarthe, too.
It was just Timothy of the gray eyes come back again—not Elaine so
much now, not at all, in fact, except in the line of the throat.
His solid, coarse voice was a little husky, and those who knew him
well would have been aware that James Anderton was greatly moved as he
bid his stepdaughter welcome.
And when she had gone off to her room, accompanied by the boisterous
Mabel and Ethel, he said to his wife:
“Lu, you must get the girl some decent clothes. She looks
confoundedly a lady, but that rubbish isn't fair to her. Rig her out as
good as the rest—no expense spared. See to it to-morrow, my dear.”
And Mrs. Anderton promised. She adored shopping, and this would be a
labor of love. So she went off to dress for dinner, full of visions of
bright pinks and blues and laces and ribbons that would have made
Halcyone shrink if she had known.
Mabel was magnificently patronizing and talked a jargon of
fashionable slang which Halcyone hardly understood. Some transient
gleam of her beloved mother kept suggesting itself to her when Mabel
smiled. The memory was not distinct enough for her to know what it was,
but it hurt her. The big, bouncing, overdeveloped girl had so little of
the personality which she had treasured all these years as of her
mother—treasured even more than remembered.
Ethel had no faintest look of La Sarthe, and was a nice, jolly,
ordinary young person—dear to her father's heart.
At last they left Halcyone alone with Priscilla, and presently the
two threw themselves into each other's arms—for the old nurse was
crying bitterly now, rocking herself to and fro.
“Ah! how it all comes back to me, my lamb,” she sobbed. “He's just
the same, only older. Hard and kind and generous and never
understanding a thing that mattered to your poor, beautiful mother. Oh!
she was glad to go at the end, but for leaving you. Dear lady!—all
borne to pay your father's debts, which Mr. Anderton had took up. I
can't never forgive him quite—I can't never.”
And Halcyone, overcome with her long strain of emotion, cried, too,
for a few minutes before she could resume her stern self-control.
But at dinner she was calm again, and pale only for the shadows
under her wide eyes.
She had written her letter to Cheiron—she knew not of such things
as messenger-boys or cabs, and had got Priscilla to post it for her,
and now with enforced quiet awaited his answer which she thought she
could receive on the morrow.
“There has been a crisis in the Cabinet, has there not?” she said to
her stepfather, hoping to hear something, and James Anderton replied
that there had been some split—but for his part, the sooner this
rotten lot of sleepers had gone out the better he would be pleased; a
good sound Radical he was, like his friend Mr. Hanbury-Green.
Halcyone abruptly turned the conversation. She could not, she felt,
discuss her beloved and his opinions, even casually, with this man of
Oh! her poor mother—her poor, sweet mother! How terrible it must
have been to her to be married to such a person!—though her common
sense prompted her to add he was probably, under her influence, not
nearly so coarse and bluff in those days as now he appeared to be.
Her little stepbrother, James Albert, had not returned from his
private school for the summer holidays, so she perhaps would not see
him during her visit.
As the dinner went on everything struck her as glaring, from the
footmen's liveries to the bunches of red carnations; and the blazing
electric lights confused her brain. She, the little country mouse,
accustomed only to old William's gentle shufflings, and the two tall
silver candlesticks with their one wax taper in each!
She could not eat the rich food, and if she had known it, she looked
like a being from some shadowy world among the hearty crew.
Next morning Mr. Carlyon received her letter as he began his early
breakfast; and he tugged at his silver beard, while his penthouse brows
The matter required the most careful consideration. He enormously
disliked to have to play the role of arbiter of fate, but he loved
Halcyone more than anything else in the world, and felt bound to use
what force he possessed to secure her happiness—or, if that looked too
difficult, which he admitted it did, he must try and save her from
further unnecessary pain.
He had the day before received John Derringham's letter written from
Wendover and which Mrs. Porrit had redirected, containing the news of
the intended wedding, and it had angered him greatly.
He blazed with indignation! His peerless one to be made to take a
mistress's place when any man should be proud to make her his honored
wife! “The brutal selfishness of men,” he said to himself, not blaming
John Derringham in particular. “He ought to have gone off and left her
alone when he felt he was beginning to care, if he had not pluck enough
to stand the racket. But we are all the same—we must have what we
want, and the women must pay—confound us!”
He had never doubted but that, when he read the letter, Halcyone was
already his old pupil's wife—if indeed such a ceremony were legal, she
being under age. And this thought added to his wrath, and he intended
to look the matter up and see. But, before he could do so, he got an
evening paper and read a brief notice that John Derringham had met with
a severe accident—of what exact nature the press association had not
yet learned—and was lying in a critical condition at Wendover Park,
the country seat of the “beautiful American society leader, Mrs.
Vincent Cricklander,” with whose name rumor had already connected the
Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs in the most interesting
manner, the paragraph added.
So Fate had stepped in and saved his pure night flower, after all!
But at what sort of price? And Cheiron stared into space with troubled
He passed hours of anxious thought. He never did anything in a
hurry, and felt that now he must especially consider what would be his
And then, this next morning, Halcyone's letter had come.
It was very simple. It told of Mrs. Anderton's arrival at La Sarthe
Chase and of her own return to London with her—and then the real pith
of it had crept out. Had he heard any news of Mr. Derringham? Because
she had seen his writing upon a letter Mrs. Porrit was readdressing at
the orchard house and, observing it was from London, she presumed he
was there, and she hoped she should see him.
The Professor stopped abruptly here.
“What a woman it is, after all!” he exclaimed. He himself had never
noticed the postmark on John Derringham's envelope! Then he folded
Halcyone's pitiful little communication absently, and thought deeply.
Two things were evident. Firstly, John Derringham had been disabled
before the hour when he should have met his bride; and secondly, she
was, when she wrote, unaware that he had had any accident at all. She
must thus be very unhappy and full of horrible anxiety—his dear little
But what courage and fortitude she showed, he mused on, not to give
the situation away and lament even to him, her old friend. She plainly
intended to stand by the man she loved and never admit she had been
going to marry him until he himself gave her leave.
“The one woman with a soul,” Cheiron muttered, and rubbed the mist
away which had gathered in his eyes.
He revolved the situation over and over. Halcyone must be made aware
of the accident, if she had not already read of it in the morning
papers; but she must not be allowed to do anything rash—and as he got
thus far in his meditations, a waiter knocked at the old-fashioned
sitting-room door, and Halcyone herself brushed past him into the room.
She was deadly pale, and for a moment did not speak.
Mrs. Anderton, it appeared, thinking she would be tired from her
unaccustomed journey, had suggested she should breakfast in bed, which
Halcyone, thankful to be alone, had gratefully agreed to; and when on
her breakfast tray which came up at eight o'clock she saw a daily
paper, she had eagerly opened it, and after searching the unfamiliar
sheets for the political news, her eye had caught the paragraph about
John Derringham's accident. In this particular journal the notice was
merely the brief one of the evening before, but it was enough to wring
She bounded from bed and got Priscilla to dress her in the shortest
possible time, and the faithful nurse, seeing that her beloved lamb was
in some deep distress, forbore to question her.
Nothing would have stopped Halcyone from going out, but she hoped to
do so unperceived.
“Look if the way is clear to the door,” she implored Priscilla,
“while I put on my hat. I must go to the Professor at once—something
dreadful has happened.”
So Priscilla went and contrived so that she got Halcyone out of the
front door while the servants were busy in the dining-room about the
breakfast. She hailed a passing hansom, and in this, to the poor child,
novel conveyance, she was whirled safely to Cheiron's little hotel in
Jermyn Street, and Priscilla returned to her room, to make believe that
her nursling was still sleeping.
“Halcyone! My child!” the Professor exclaimed, to gain time, and
then he decided to help her out, so he went on: “I am glad to see you,
but am very distressed at the news in the paper this morning about John
Derringham—you may have seen it—and I am sure will sympathize with
Halcyone's piteous eyes thanked him.
“Yes, indeed,” she said. “What does it mean? Ought not—we—you to
go to him?”
Mr. Carlyon avoided looking at her.
“I cannot very well do that in Mrs. Cricklander's house,” he said,
tugging at his beard, to hide the emotion he felt. “But I will
telegraph this minute and ask for news, if you will give me the
forms—they are over there,” and he pointed to his writing-table.
She handed them immediately, and as he adjusted his spectacles she
rang the bell; no time must be lost, and the waiter could be there
before the words were completed.
“When can you get the answer?” she asked a little breathlessly.
“In two hours, I should think, or perhaps three,” the Professor
returned. “But there is a telephone downstairs—it has just been put
in. We might telephone to his rooms, or to the Foreign Office, and find
out if they have heard any further news there. That would relieve my
mind a little.”
“Yes—do,” responded Halcyone eagerly.
The tone of repressed anguish in her soft voice stabbed Cheiron's
heart, but they understood each other too well for any unnecessary
words to pass between them. The kindest thing he could do for her was
to show her he did not mean to perceive her trouble.
The result of the telephoning—a much longer process then than it is
now—was slightly more satisfactory. Sir Benjamin Grant's report, the
Foreign Office official informed them, was that Mr. Derringham's
condition was much more hopeful, but that the most complete quiet for
some time would be absolutely necessary.
“John is so strong,” Mr. Carlyon said, as he put down the receiver
which he had with difficulty manipulated—to Halcyone's trembling
impatience. “He will pull through. And all I can do is to wait. He will
probably be up at the end of my fortnight, when I get back home.” And
he looked relieved.
“They would not give him a letter from you, of course, I suppose?”
said Halcyone. “If his head has been hurt it will be a long time before
he is allowed to read.”
“I am interested,” she went on, looking down. “You will let me know,
at Grosvenor Gardens, directly you hear anything, will you not,
Master?—I—” and then her voice broke a little.
And Cheiron stirred in his chair. It was all paining him horribly,
but until he could be sure what would be best for her he must not show
“I will send Demetrius with the answer when it comes, and I will
telegraph to Wendover morning and night, dear child,” he said. “I knew
you would feel for me.” And with this, the sad little comedy between
them ended, for Halcyone got up to leave.
“Thank you, Cheiron,” was all she said.
Mr. Carlyon took her down to the door and put her in the waiting
hansom which she had forgotten to dismiss, and he paid the man and
reluctantly let her go back alone.
She was too stunned and wretched to take in anything. The streets
seemed a howling pandemonium upon this June morning at the season's
full height, and all the gayly dressed people just beginning to be on
their way to the park for their morning stroll appeared a mockery as
she passed down Piccadilly.
Whether she had been missed or no, she cared not, and getting out,
rang the bell with numbed unconcern, never, even noticing the surprised
face of the footman as she passed him and ran up the long flights of
stairs to her room, fortunately meeting no one on the way. Here
Priscilla awaited her, having successfully hidden her absence. It was
half past ten o'clock.
Halcyone went to the window and looked out upon the trees in the
triangular piece of green. They were not her trees, but they were still
Nature, of a stunted kind, and they would understand and comfort her
or, at all events, enable her to regain some calm.
She took in deep breaths, and gradually a peace fell upon her. Her
friend God would never desert her, she felt.
And Priscilla said to herself:
“She's prayin' to them Immortals, I expect. Well, whoever she prays
to, she is a precious saint.”
Meanwhile, John Derringham lay betwixt life and death and was
watched over by the kind eye of Arabella Clinker. She had gathered
quite a number of facts in the night, while she had listened to his
feverish ravings—he was light-headed for several hours before the
nurses came—then the fever had decreased and though extremely weak he
Arabella knew now that he loved Halcyone—that wood nymph they had
seen during their Easter Sunday walk—and that he had been going to
meet her when the accident had happened. The rest was a jumble of
incoherent phrases all giving the impression of intense desire and
anxiety for some special event. It was:
“Then we shall be happy, my sweet,” or “Halcyone, you will not think
me a brute, then, will you, my darling,” and there were more just
detached words about an oak tree, and a goddess and such like
But Arabella felt that, no doubt the moment he would be fully
conscious, he would wish to send some message—for during the two
following days whenever she went in to see him there was a hungering
demand in his haggard eyes.
So Miss Clinker took it upon herself to stop at the Professor's
house on one of her walks, meaning to beard Cheiron in his den, and
find out how—should it be necessary—she could communicate with
Halcyone. And then she was informed by Mrs. Porrit that her master
would be away for a fortnight, and that Miss Halcyone La Sarthe had
been taken off by her stepmother—she did not know where—and that the
two old ladies had actually gone that day, with Hester and old William,
to some place on the Welsh coast they had known when they were
children, for a change to the sea! La Sarthe Chase was shut up.
Arabella Clinker was not sufficiently acquainted with the habits of its
inmates to appreciate the unparalleled upheaval this dislodgment meant,
but she saw that her informant was highly surprised and impressed.
“I expect the poor old gentry felt too lonely to stop, once that
dear Miss Halcyone was gone,” Mrs. Porrit said, “but there, when I
heard it you could have knocked me down with a feather!—them to go to
All this looked hopeless as far as communicating with Halcyone
went—unless through a letter to the Professor. Arabella returned to
Wendover rather cast down.
She had been reasoning with herself severely over a point, and when
her letter went to her mother on the next Sunday, she was still
undecided as to what was her course of duty, and craved her parent's
The case is this [she wrote]. Being quite aware of M. E.'s
intentions, am I being disloyal to her, in helping to frustrate
by aiding Mr. Derringham to establish communications with the
whom I have already vaguely hinted to you I believe he is
in? I do not feel it is altogether honorable to take my salary
M. E. and to go against what I know to be the strong desire of
life at the present time. On the other hand, my feelings of
are appealed to by Mr. Derringham's weakness, and by the very
chance he will have of escaping M. E. when she begins her
during his convalescence. I have felt more easy in conscience
hitherto because I have merely stood aside, not aided the
but now there is a parting of the ways and I am greatly
like Mr. Derringham very much, he has always treated me with
courteous consideration not invariably shown to me by M. E.'s
and I cannot help being sorry for him, if—which I fear is
certainty—she will secure him in the end.
Then the letter ended.
Arabella was much worried. However, she felt she might remain
neutral so far as this, that, when Mrs. Cricklander indulged in endless
speculations as to why John Derringham should have been trying to cross
that difficult and dangerous haw-haw, she gave no hint that his
destination could have been other than the Professor's little house.
She did swerve sufficiently to the other side to remark that to cross
the haw-haw would save at least a mile by the road if one were in a
hurry. And then her loyalty caused her to repeat, with extra care, to
John Derringham in a whisper the fib which Mrs. Cricklander
wished—namely, that she, the fair Cecilia, was there ready to come to
him and sit up with him, and do anything in the world for him, and was
only prevented by the doctor's strict orders, fearing the slightest
excitement for the patient—and that these orders caused her great
John Derringham's eyes looked grateful, but he did not speak.
His head ached so terribly and his body was wracked with pain, while
his ankle, not having been set for twenty-four hours, had swollen so
that it rendered its proper setting a very difficult matter, and caused
him unspeakable suffering. Sir Benjamin Grant had to come down to
Wendover twice again before things looked in more hopeful state.
And what agonizing thoughts coursed through his poor feverish
brain—until through sheer weakness there would be hours when he was
What could Halcyone have thought waiting for him all that day! and
now she, of course, must have heard of his accident and there was no
sign or word.
Or was there—and were those cruel doctors not giving him the
message? The day came—the Wednesday after Arabella had sent her letter
to her mother—when he was strong enough to speak. He waited for the
moment when Miss Clinker always arrived with Mrs. Cricklander's bunch
of flowers and morning greeting—and then, while the nurse went from
the room for a second, he whispered with dry lips:
“Will you do me a kindness?” And Arabella's brown eyes gleamed
softly behind her glasses. “Let Miss Halcyone La Sarthe know how I
am—she would come and meet you any day at Mr. Carlyon's—” then he
stopped, disturbed by the blank look in Miss Clinker's face.
“What is it?” he gasped, and Arabella saw that pale as he had been,
with his poor head all bandaged, he grew still more pale—and she
realized how terribly weak he must be, and how carefully she must
calculate what she could reply.
“I understand that Mr. Carlyon is in London upon a visit, and that
the Misses La Sarthe have gone to the sea—” and then, as his eyes
touched her with their pitiful questioning surprise, she blurted out
“Miss Halcyone La Sarthe was fetched away on last Thursday by her
stepmother—I did not hear the name—and no one knows where she has
gone. La Sarthe Chase is shut up.”
John Derringham closed his eyes—his powers of reasoning were not
strong enough yet to grasp the actual meaning of this—it seemed to him
as though Halcyone were dead, taken away from him by some fate and that
all things were at an end.
Arabella grew very frightened.
“Mr. Carlyon telegraphs from London every day,” she ventured to
But this appeared to bring no comfort, and the nurse returning,
signed to her to leave the room, for John Derringham lay still as one
And, when Arabella arrived at her own sanctum, she burst into tears.
What a fool she had been to tell him that, she felt.
All these days, Halcyone passed in a repressed agony in spite of her
prayers and unshaken beliefs. She knew it was her winter time and she
must bear it until the spring should come, though it was none the less
hard to support. But she got through the hours with perfect surface
calm—and her stepsisters thought her stupid and dull, while Mrs.
Anderton decided there was something unnatural about a girl who took
not the slightest interest in shopping, and was perfectly indifferent
about all the attractive garments which were put upon her back. She
always expressed her thanks so gently, and was ever sweet and willing
to be of use, but the look of pain remained deep in those star-like,
mysterious eyes, and caused sensations of discomfort to grow in Mrs.
Anderton's kindly breast.
Cheiron's laconic messages were delivered to Halcyone every day by
John Derringham was no worse.
He was having every care.
Sir Benjamin Grant had gone down again.
His ankle was satisfactorily set.
But never a word that he had asked for her, and yet she read in the
morning papers each day, as well as knew from her Professor's
information, that her lover was going on splendidly, and would soon be
embarked upon a convalescence. The paper appeared to regard the
accident as safely over, and the patient as returning to health.
For Mrs. Cricklander, well-skilled in the manipulating of reporters
in her own country, knew exactly what impression she wished to give to
the press. And she had no intention of the idea getting abroad that her
injured visitor was in a very exhausted condition, because there were
those she knew who would suggest that she had bagged him while he was
at her mercy—when, later on, they heard the news of her engagement,
which she felt was each day growing more certain of becoming a fact.
And in Halcyone's brave heart not a doubt ever entered—she waited and
believed and endured, in silent pain.
After Arabella's unfortunate announcement, for two or three days
John Derringham was too ill to know or care what occurred, and then
other and further tormenting thoughts began to trouble his weary brain.
If Halcyone had a stepmother who had come and taken her away, there
were then more persons than her ancient aunts to reckon with. She could
not now slip off into a secret marriage with himself with small chance
of awkward questionings. That phase of the dream was over, he felt.
No letters of any sort were given him by the doctor's strict orders,
and his private secretary had come down, an amiable and intelligent
youth, and was dealing with the necessary official correspondence—as
best he could—growing each day more infatuated with his fair hostess
who felt that no pawn on the chessboard which contained John Derringham
as king was worth neglecting. The Professor was not enjoying his
fortnight in London, and almost tugged his silver beard out while he
smoked innumerable pipes. He had come to some conclusions.
John Derringham having been unable to keep the tryst with Halcyone
was plainly the working of the hand of Fate, which did not intend that
his sweet girl should occupy the invidious and humiliating position of
secret wife and apparent mistress to the ambitious young man. Therefore
he—Arnold Carlyon—had no right to assist her again into John
Derringham's arms. They must both suffer and work out their destinies
however cruel that might seem.
“If John really feels she is a necessity, he will brave everything
and marry her openly as soon as he is well. If he does not—then I will
not assist her into a life of misery and disillusion.”
He remembered a talk they had had long ago, when his old pupil had
given his views about women and their place in the scheme of things.
Not one must expect a man to be faithful to her, were she wife or
mistress, he had said. So starting heavily handicapped in the role of
his secret and unacknowledged wife, Halcyone would stand a very poor
chance of happiness. Cheiron pictured things—John Derringham flattered
and courted by the world and surrounded by adoring woman, while
Halcyone sat at home in some quiet corner and received the scraps of
his attentions that were left.
No! decidedly he would have no hand in aiding the sorry affair.
So he used his influence and even a little cunning in preventing
Halcyone from writing to her lover. He was too ill yet to be troubled,
and she must wait until he should send some message to her.
“You do not want Mrs. Cricklander to read your letter, child,” he
said, when she timidly suggested one day that it would seem kinder if
she wrote to say she was concerned at the accident to her old
friend.—The sad comedy was still kept up between them.—And Halcyone
had stiffened. No, indeed! not that! She was woman enough in spite of
the ennobling and broadening effects of her knowledge of nature, to
feel the stab of jealous pain, though she had resolutely crushed from
her thoughts the insinuation she had read of in the first notice of the
disaster—about Mrs. Cricklander's interest in her lover. Her pride
took fire. Certainly until he could receive letters and read them
himself, she must wait. Cheiron would, of course, inform her when that
time came. A doubt of John Derringham's loyalty to her never even cast
its shadow upon her soul, nor a suspicion that he could doubt her
All these things were the frosts and rains of their winter, but the
springtime would come and the glorious sun and flowers.
She was growing accustomed to London and the life of continual
bustle, and was almost grateful for it all as it kept her from
Her stepfather and his wife mixed in a rising half-set of society
where many people who were not fools came, and a number who were, but
to Halcyone they all seemed a weariness. No one appeared to see
anything straightly, and they seemed to be taken up with pursuits that
could not divert or interest a cat. She saw quite a number of young men
at dinners and was taken to the theater and suppers at the fashionable
restaurants, and these entertainments she loathed. She was too
desperately unhappy underneath to get even youth's exhilaration out of
them, and when she had been in London for nearly three weeks and
Cheiron was preparing to return to his cottage, having delayed his
departure much beyond his ordinary time, she felt she could endure the
martyrdom no more.
She had stilled every voice which had whispered to her that it was
indeed time that she heard some word from her lover. Because there were
now only occasional notices in the papers about his health, he was
supposed to be getting well.
“I will implore Cheiron to let me go back with him,” she decided
firmly, as she went downstairs to breakfast. “I will ask if I may not
go out and see him this morning,” and, comforted with this thought, she
entered the dining-room with a brisker step than usual. No one but her
stepfather was down.
He had grown accustomed, if not quite attached, to the quiet, gentle
girl, and he liked her noiseless, punctual way—they had often
He was reading his Chronicle propped up in front of him, and
handed her the Morning Post from the pile by his side. He
silently went on with his cutlet which an obsequious butler had placed
for his consumption. Halcyone turned rapidly to the column where she
was accustomed to look daily for news of her lover. And there she read
that Mrs. Cricklander had been entertaining a Saturday to Monday party,
and that Mr. John Derringham's recovery was now well advanced, even his
broken ankle was mending rapidly and he hoped soon to be well.
A tight feeling grew round her heart, and her eyes dropped absently
down the columns of the engagement announcements in which she took no
interest, and then it seemed that her very soul was struck with agony
as she read:
“A marriage has been arranged and will shortly take place between
the Right Honorable John Derringham of Derringham in the County of
Northampton, Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, and Mrs.
Vincent Cricklander of New York, daughter of Orlando B. Muggs of
And it was here that the La Sarthe breeding stood Halcyone in good
stead, for she neither fainted nor dropped the paper—but, after a few
seconds of acute anguish, she rose and, making some little remark about
having forgotten something, quietly left the room.
It is possible that, if his revolver had been lying quite near, the
morning John Derringham awoke to the remembrance that he was more or
less an engaged man, he would have shot himself, so utterly wretched
and debased did he feel. But no such weapon was there, and he lay in
his splendid gilt bed and groaned aloud as he covered his eyes with his
The light hurt him—he was giddy, and his head swam. Surely, among
other things in the half-indistinct nightmare of the preceding evening,
he must have had too much champagne.
From the moment, now over a week ago, that he had been allowed to
sit up in bed, and more or less distinct thought had come back to him,
he had been a prey to hideous anxiety and grief. Halcyone was gone from
him—had been snatched away by Fate, who, with relentless
vindictiveness, had filled his cup. For the first letters that he
opened, marked from his lawyers so urgently that they had been given to
him before the bandages were off his head, contained the gravest news
of his financial position. The chief mortgagee intended to foreclose in
the course of the next three months, unless an arrangement could be
come to at once, which appeared impossible.
He was actually at bay. Thus, although in his first moments of
consciousness, he had intended to go directly he was well and demand
his love openly and chance the rest, this news made that course now
quite out of the question. He could not condemn her to wretched poverty
and tie a millstone round both their necks. The doctors had absolutely
forbidden him to read or even know of any more letters—the official
ones the secretary could deal with—but he became so restless with
anxiety that Arabella Clinker was persuaded to bring them up and at
least let him glance at the addresses.
There was one from Cheiron, which he insisted upon opening—a brief
dry line of commiseration for his accident, with no mention of Halcyone
in it. The complete ignoring of his letter to announce their marriage
cut him deeply. He realized Mr. Carlyon guessed that the accident had
happened before that event could take place, and his silence about it
showed what he thought. John Derringham quivered with discomfort, he
hated to feel the whip of his old master's contempt. And he could not
explain matters or justify himself—there was nothing to be said. The
Professor, of course, knew of Halcyone's whereabouts—but, after his
broad hint of his want of sympathy about their relations, John
Derringham felt he could not open the subject with him again. This
channel for the assuagement of his anxieties was closed. The immense
pile of the rest of his correspondence was at last sorted. He knew most
of the writings, and the few he was doubtful about he opened—but none
were from his love. So he gave them all back to Arabella, and turned
his face from the light physically exhausted and with a storm of pain
in his heart.
Mrs. Cricklander had carefully gone through each post as it came,
and longed to destroy one or two suspicious-looking communications she
saw in the same female handwriting—from his old friend Lady Durend, if
she had known!—but she dared not, and indeed was not really much
disturbed. She had laid her own plans with too great a nicety and felt
perfectly sure of the ultimate result of their action. Arabella was
each day sent up with the subtlest messages to the poor invalid, which
her honor made her unwillingly repeat truthfully.
Cecilia Cricklander was an angel of sweet, watchful care, it seemed,
and John Derringham really felt deeply grateful to her.
Then the moment came when she decided she would see him.
“I will go this afternoon at tea-time, Arabella, if you can assure
me there won't be any horrid smell of carbolic or nasty drugs about—I
know there always are when people have cuts to be dressed, and I really
could not stand it. It would give me one of my bad attacks of nerves.”
And Miss Clinker was reluctantly obliged to assure her employer that
those days were passed, and that Mr. Derringham now only looked a pale,
but very interesting invalid, as he lay there with a black silk
handkerchief tied round his head.
“Then I'll go,” said Mrs. Cricklander—and, instead of sending the
message with her daily flowers, she wrote a tiny note.
I can't bear it any longer—I must come!
Arabella Clinker watched his face as he read this, and saw a flush
grow in his ivory-pale skin.
“Oh! Poor Mr. Derringham!” she thought, “it isn't fair! How can he
hold out against her when he is so weak—what ought I to do? If I only
knew what is my loyal course!”
Arabella was perfectly aware how the reports of his rapid recovery
had been circulated—and guessed the reason—and all her kind woman's
heart was touched as she watched him lying there in splints, as pitiful
and helpless as a baby. To pretend that he was making a quick return to
health was so very far from the truth. She, herself, saw little change
for the better from day to day; indeed, his large, proud eyes seemed to
grow more anxious and haggard as the time went on.
Mrs. Cricklander donned her most suitably ravishing tea-gown, one of
subdued simplicity—and, like a beautiful summer flower, she swept into
the invalid's room when the lowered sun blinds made the light restful
and the June roses filled the air with scent. It was the end of the
month and glorious weather was over the land.
Nothing could have been more exquisite than Cecilia's sympathy.
Indeed, she did feel a good deal moved, and was a superb actress at all
She only stayed a very short while, not to tire him, and John
Derringham, left alone, was conscious that he had been soothed and
pleased, and she departed leaving the impression that her love for him
was only kept within bounds by fear for his health!
She had suffered so during all the days! she told him, she
could hardly eat or sleep. And then to be debarred from nursing
him!—the cruelty of it! Why the doctors should have thought her
presence would be more disturbing than Arabella's, she could not think!
And here she looked down, and her white hand, with its perfectly kept
nails, lying upon the coverlet so near him, John Derringham lifted it
in his feeble grasp and touched it with his lips. He was so grateful
for her kindness—and affected by her beauty; he could not do less, he
And after that, with a deliciously girlish and confused gasp, Mrs.
Cricklander had hastily quitted the room.
It was not until the second day that she came again—and he had
begun to wish for her.
This time she was bright and amusing, and assumed airs of authority
over him, and was careful never to sit so that her hand might be in
reach, while she used every one of her many arts of tantalization and
enjoyed herself as only she knew how to do.
It was perfectly divine to have him there to play upon like a violin
and to know it was only a question of time before she would secure him
for her own!
After this, she had visitors in the house and did not come for three
days, and John Derringham felt a little peevish and aggrieved. It
rained, too, and his head ached still with the slightest exertion.
He now began to put all thoughts of Halcyone away from him, as far
as he was able. It was too late to do anything—she must think him
base, as she had never sent him one word. This caused him restless
anguish. What was the meaning of it all? Could she have learned in the
light of the world that it was not a very great position he had offered
her, and so despised him in consequence? What aspect of it might they
not have put into her head—these people she was with—this step-mother
of whom he had never heard? In all cases Fate had parted them, and he
must cut the pain of it from his life or it would destroy him. It never
occurred to him to reflect upon the possible agony she might be
suffering, his poor little wood-nymph, all alone. The fact of his own
unhappiness filled his mind to the exclusion of any other thought for
the time. In his dire physical weakness Cecilia Cricklander's gracious
beauty seemed to augment, and Halcyone's sylph-like charm to grow of
less potent force. For Love had not done all that he would yet do with
John Derringham's soul.
That underneath, if he could have chosen between the two women, he
would have hesitated for a second was not the case; only physical
weakness, and circumstance and propinquity were working for the one and
against the other—and so it would appear was Fate.
Thus, the day the visitors left, Mr. Hanbury-Green among them, the
invalid was experiencing a sense of exasperating neglect. He felt
extremely miserable. Life, and all he held good in it, seemed to be
over for him, and his financial position was absolutely
desperate—quite beyond any question of marriage it threatened to swamp
his actual career. He felt impotent and beaten, lying there like a log
unable to move.
Mrs. Cricklander sent him another little note in the afternoon.
Arabella had reported that the patient was restless, and this might
mean one of two things—either that he was becoming impatient to see
her, or that he was growing restive and bored with bed. In either case
it was the moment to strike—and to strike quickly.
“The doctors have said you may have a taste of champagne to-night,”
she wrote, which was quite untrue, but a small fib like this could not
count when such large issues were at stake. “And so I propose, if you
will let me and will have me for your guest, to come and dine with you
to celebrate the event. Say if I may. Cecilia.”
And he had eagerly scribbled in pencil, “Yes.”
So she came, and was all in white with just a red rose in her dress,
and she was solicitous about his comfort—had he enough pillows?—and
she spoke so graciously to the nurse who arranged things before she
went to her supper.
She, Cecilia, would be his nurse, she whispered—just for to-night!
and then her own personal footman brought in an exquisite little dinner
upon a table which he set near the bed, all noiselessly—it had been
arranged outside—and she would select just the tenderest morsels for
John Derringham, or some turtle soup?—He was not hungry!—Well, never
mind, she would feed him!—and he must be good and let her pet him as
she felt inclined.
She was looking quite extraordinarily beautiful, with all the light
of triumph in her sparkling eyes, and she sat down upon the bed and
actually pretended that if he were disobedient she would put pieces
into his mouth!
John Derringham was a man—and, although he felt very ill and
feeble, after she had made him drink some champagne, the seduction of
her began to go to his head. Stimulant of any kind was the last thing
he should have had, and would have caused the nurse a shock of horror
if she had known. How it all came about he could not tell, what she
said or he said he could never remember, only the one thing which stood
out was that as the time for the nurse's return arrived, he knew that
Cecilia Cricklander was kissing him with apparent passion, which he
felt in some measure he was returning, and that she was murmuring: “And
we shall be married, darling John, as soon as you are well.”
He must have said something definite, he supposed.
But, at that moment, the nurse was heard in the next room and his
fiancee—yes, his fiancee—got up and, when the woman came
in in her stiff nurse's dress, slightly apologetic that she had been so
long, she was greeted by this speech from the lady of the house:
“Ah, Nurse Brome, you have been so good to Mr. Derringham, you must
be the first to wish us happiness and share our news. We are going to
be married as soon as ever you get him well—so you must hasten that,
like the clever woman you are!”
And she had laughed, a soft laugh of triumph, which even in his
light-headed state had seemed to John Derringham as the mocking of some
Then she had left him quickly, while the footman carried the table
from the room—and after that he remembered nothing more, he had fallen
into a feverish sleep. But the next morning, when he awoke, he knew
captivity had indeed tumbled upon him, and that he was chained hand and
And all the day his temperature went up again, and he was not
allowed to see even Arabella of the kind heart, who would have come and
condoled with him, and even wept over him if she had dared, so moved
did the good creature feel at his fate.
It was only upon the third day, when telegrams of congratulation
began to pour in upon him by the dozen, that he knew anything about the
announcement that had appeared in the Morning Post.
Yes, he was caught and chained at last, and for the next week had
moods of gnashing his teeth, and feeling the most degraded of men,
alternating with hours of trying to persuade himself that it was the
best thing which could have happened to him.
Mrs. Cricklander, now that she had gained her end, wisely left him
for a day or two in peace to the care of Arabella and the nurses,
drawing the net closer each hour by her public parade of her position
as his fiancee. She wrote the most exquisite and womanly letter
to thank her many friends for their kind congratulations—and lamented,
now that the truth being known would not matter, that John had had a
slight relapse, and was not quite so well.
But, of course, she was taking every care of him, and so he soon
would be his old exuberant self!
Thus the period of John Derringham's purgatory began.
Grieving is such a satisfactory and dramatic thing when you can
fling yourself down upon the ground and cry aloud and tear your hair.
But if some great blow must be borne without a sign, then indeed it
wrings the heart and saps the forces of life.
When Halcyone got to her room, the housemaids were there beginning
to make her bed—so it was no refuge for her—and she was obliged to go
down again. The big drawing-rooms would be untenanted at this moment,
so she turned the handle of the door and crept in there. The modern
brightly gilt Louis XVI furniture glared at her, but she sank into a
big chair thankful to find any support.
What was this which had fallen upon her?—The winter, indeed—or,
more than that, not only the winter but the end of life, like the flash
of lightning which had struck the tree in the park the night before
that day which was to have seen her wedding?
And as she sat there in dumb, silent, hideous agony which crushed
for the moment belief and hope, a canary from the aviary beyond set up
a trilling song. She listened for a second; it seemed to hurt her more.
The poor bird was in captivity, as was her soul. And then, while the
little songster went on, undismayed by its cage, a reaction set in. If
the soft-feathered creature could sing there beyond the bars, what
right had she to doubt God for one second? No—there should never be
any disbelief. It was only the winter, after all. She was too young to
die like the tree which had been there for some hundreds of years, She
would be as brave as the bird, and those forces of nature which she had
loved and trusted so long, would comfort her.
She sat there for a quarter of an hour saying her prayers and
stilling the pain in her heart—and then she got up and deliberately
went back to the dining-room, where the family were all assembled now.
They chaffed about everything, and were boisterous and jovial as
usual, and when she asked if she might go and see her old master,
should Mrs. Anderton not wish especially for her company that morning,
her stepfather offered to drive her there in his phaeton on his way to
“She grows upon one, Lu,” he said to his wife, when Halcyone had
gone up to put on her hat. “She is like some quiet, soothing book; she
is a kind of comfort—but she looks confoundedly pale to-day. Take her
to the play to-night, or ask some young fellows in to dinner, to cheer
The drive did Halcyone good, and, to the astonishment of Cheiron who
had also read the news, she walked into his sitting-room with perfect
calm. He himself was raging with indignation and disgust.
But, when he looked into her deep eyes, his astonishment turned to
pain, for the expression in them as they burned from her lifeless face
was so pure, so pitiful and so tragic, that it left him without words
for the moment.
At last he said—when she had greeted him:
“I have been thinking, Halcyone, that I have not had a trip abroad
for a long time, but I am too old now to care about going alone. Do you
think that your aunts and these step-relations of yours would spare you
to accompany me, my dear?”
And Halcyone had to turn away to the window to hide the tears which
suddenly welled up; he was so kind and understanding always—her dear
“Yes, I am sure they would,” she said in a very low voice. “How good
of you. And if we could start at once—that would be nice, would it
not? I suppose they would not let me go without Priscilla, though,” she
added; “would that matter?”
“Not at all,” said the Professor.
They neither of them mentioned John Derringham's engagement. They
talked long about the possibilities of their foreign journey, and
Cheiron felt himself repaid when he began to observe a look of
returning life creep into her white face.
“I will call and see your stepfather in the city directly after
lunch,” he said. “If you will write to your Aunts La Sarthe, I do not
think there can be any objection.”
“We could take Aphrodite, could we not?” Halcyone asked. “She is
very heavy, I know, but I would carry her, and I do not think I would
like to leave her there in the dark away from me for all that time.”
“We would certainly take her,” said Cheiron.
Halcyone knew enough about London now to know where Kensington
Gardens were. Whenever she went to see Mr. Carlyon, it was an
understood thing he would bring her safely back, so no one would be
sent to fetch her. Might they not go to Kensington Gardens this
morning, she asked. She remembered to have noticed, when she had driven
past with Mr. Anderton, that there seemed to be big trees there. She
wanted to get into some open space, London was stifling her.
Mr. Carlyon put on his hat, and prepared to accompany her. They
drove to the first gate and got out, neither having spoken a word, as
was their habit when both were thinking.
They wandered in among the trees and found two chairs and sat down.
These were real trees, Halcyone felt. And, although she would have
preferred to be alone to-day without even Cheiron, the great trunks and
vast leafy canopy above them comforted her.
She would not permit herself to think, the beauty of the summer day
must just saturate her, and soothe the cold, sick ache in her heart.
And, presently, when she was strengthened, she would face it all and
see what it could mean, and what would be best to do to bear the blow
as a La Sarthe should, and show nothing of the anguish.
And, as she mused, her eyes absently wandered to a couple under a
tree some twenty yards beyond them. There was something familiar in the
girl's graceful back, and, as she turned her fresh face to look at her
companion, Halcyone saw that it was Cora Lutworth.
Some magnetic spark seemed to connect them, for the pretty American
girl turned completely round in her chair, and catching sight of the
two jumped up and came towards them—with glad, laughing eyes and
“To see you!” she exclaimed. “That is so good! There is no Styx
here, and we must have some fun together!”
She sat down upon a chair which Lord Freynault dragged up for her,
and he himself took another beyond the Professor—so the two girls
could talk together.
“I am going to be married—you know!” Cora announced gayly. “Freynie
and I settled it at a ball last night, but we haven't told anyone yet!
Isn't it lovely? We just slipped out here for a little quiet talk.”
“I am so glad. I hope you will be very happy,” Halcyone said, and
tried not to let the contrast of Cora's joyous prospect make her wince.
“I am always happy,” Cora returned, “and it's dear of you to wish me
Halcyone attracted her immensely, her quite remarkable personal
distinction was full of charm, and, now in fresh and pretty modern
clothes, to Cora's eyes she looked almost beautiful; but why so very
pale and quiet, she wondered; and then, with a flash, she remembered
the news she too had read in the paper that morning. Perhaps Halcyone
minded very much. She decided rapidly what to do. If she did not
mention it at all, she reasoned, this finely strung girl would know
that she guessed it would be painful to her—and that might hurt her
pride. It was kinder to plunge in and get it over.
“Isn't it wonderful about Mr. Derringham and Cecilia Cricklander?”
she said, pretending to be busy untangling her parasol tassel. “She
always intended to marry him—and she is so rich I expect he felt that
would be a good thing. Freynie says he is very much harder up then
Her kind, common sense told her that a man's doing even a low thing
for expediency would hurt a woman who loved him, less than that the
motive for his action should have been one of inclination.
Halcyone came up to the scratch, although a fierce pain tightened
her heart afresh.
“Yes,” she said, “I suppose no one was surprised to read of the
engagement in the papers to-day. I can imagine that a man requires a
great deal of money to support the position in the government which Mr.
Derringham has, and no doubt Mrs. Cricklander is glad to give it to
him—he is so clever and great.” And not a muscle of her face quivered
as she spoke.
“If it does hurt—my goodness! she is game!” Cora thought, and aloud
she went on, “Cecilia isn't a bad sort—a shocking snob, as all of us
are who are not the real thing and want to be—like your own common
pushers over here. We used to laugh at her awfully when she first came
from Pittsburgh and tried to cut in before she married my cousin. Poor
old Vin! He was crazy about her.” Then she went on reflectively, as
Halcyone did not answer. “We often think you English people are so
odd—the way you can't distinguish between us! You receive, with open
arms, the most impossible people if they are rich, that we at home
would not touch with a barge pole, and you say: 'Oh, they are just
American,' as if we were all the same! And then we are so awfully
clever as a nation that in a year or two these dreadful vulgarians, as
we would call them in New York, have picked up all your outside
polish, and pass as our best! It makes lots of the really nice
old gentle-folk at home perfectly mad—but I can't help admiring the
spirit. That is why I have stuck to Cis, though the rest of the family
have given her the cold shoulder. It is such magnificent
audacity—don't you think so?”
“Yes, indeed,” agreed Halcyone. “All people have a right to obtain
what they aspire to if they fit themselves for it.”
“That is one of Mr. Derringham's pet theories,” Cora laughed. “He
held forth one night, when I was staying at Wendover at Easter, about
it—and it was such fun. Cis did not really understand a single thing
of the classical allusions he was making—but she got through. I watch
her with delight. Men are sweetly simple bats, though, aren't they? Any
woman can take them in—” and Cora laughed again joyously. “I have sat
sometimes in fits to hear Cis keeping a whole group of your best
politicians enthralled, and not one seeing she is just repeating parrot
sentences. You have only to be rich and beautiful and look into a man's
eyes and flatter him, and you can make him believe you are what you
please. Now Freynie thinks I am absolutely perfect when I am really
being a horrid little capricious minx—don't you, Freynie, dear!” and
she leaned over and looked at her betrothed with sweet and tender
eyes—and Lord Freynault got up and moved his chair round, so that the
four were in a circle.
“What preposterous thing is Cora telling you?” he laughed, with an
adoring glance at her sparkling face. “But I am getting jealous, and
shall take her away because I want to talk to her all to myself!”
And, when they had settled that the two girls should meet at tea the
following day in Cora's sitting-room at Claridge's, where she was
staying with a friend, the newly engaged pair went off together beaming
with joy and affection.
And Halcyone gazed after them with a wistful look in her sad eyes,
which stabbed the old Professor's heart.
She was remembering the morning under their tree, when she and her
lover had sat and made their plans, and he had asked her if she had any
fear at the thought of giving him her future.
It was only three weeks ago. Surely everything was a dream. How much
he had seemed to love her. And then unconsciously she started to her
feet, and strode away among the trees, forgetful of her companion—and
Cheiron sat and watched her, knowing she would come back and it was
better to let her overcome alone the agony which was convulsing her.
Yes, John Derringham had seemed to love her—not seemed—no—it was
real—he had loved her. And she would never believe but that he
loved her still. This was only a wicked turn of those bad forces which
she knew were abroad in the world. Had she not seen evil once in a
man's face crouching in the bracken, as he set a trap for some poor
hare one dark and starry night? And she had passed on, and then, when
she thought he would be gone, she had returned and loosened the spring
before it could do any harm. That poacher had evil forces round him.
They were there always for the unwary, and had fastened upon John. She
would never doubt his love, and she herself could never change, and she
would pour upon him all her tender thoughts, and call to the night
winds to help her to do her duty.
So presently she remembered Cheiron, and turned round to see him far
away still, sitting quietly beneath a giant elm stroking his long,
“My dear, kind master!” she exclaimed to herself, and went rapidly
back to him.
“That is a charming girl—your young friend,” he said to her, as he
got up to stroll to the gate; “full of life and common sense. There is
something wonderful in the vitality of her nation. They jar dreadfully
upon us old tired peoples in their worst aspects—but in their best we
must recognize a new spring of life and youth for the world. Yonder
young woman is not troubling about a soul, if she has one; she is a
fountain of living water. She has not taken on the shadows of our
crowded past. Halcyone, my dear, you and I are the inheritance of too
much culture. When I see her I want to cry with Epicurus: 'Above all,
steer clear of Culture!'“ And then he branched from this subject and
plunged into a learned dissertation upon the worship of Dionysus, and
how it had cropped up again and again with wild fervor among the
ancient worlds whose senses and brains were wearied with the state
religions, and he concluded by analogy that this wild longing to return
to youth's follies and mad ecstasies, to get free from restraints, to
seek communion with the spiritual beyond in some exaltation of the
emotions—in short, to get back to nature—was an instinct in all human
beings and all nations, when their zeniths of art and cultivation had
And Halcyone, who had heard it all before and knew the subject to
her finger tips, wandered dreamily into a shadowland where she felt she
was of these people—those far back worshipers—and this was her winter
when Dionysus was dead, but would live again when the spring came and
Mrs. Cricklander felt it would be discreet and in perfect taste if
she announced her intention of going off to Carlsbad the week after her
engagement was settled—she was always most careful of decorum. And, if
the world of her friends thought John Derringham was well enough to be
making love to her in the seclusion of her own house, it would be much
wiser for her to show that she should always remain beyond the breath
of any gossip.
In her heart she was bored to tears. For nearly the whole of June
she had been cooped up at Wendover—for more than half the time without
even parties of visitors to keep her company—and she loathed being
alone. She had no personal resources and invariably at such times
smoked too much and got agitated nerves in consequence.
John Derringham—strong and handsome, with his prestige and his
brilliant faculties—was a conquest worth parading chained to her
chariot wheels. But John Derringham, feeble, unable to walk, his ankle
in splints and plaster of Paris, and still suffering from headaches
whenever the light was strong, was simply a weariness to her—nothing
more nor less.
So that, until he should be restored to his usual captivating vigor,
it was much better for her pleasure to leave him to his complete
recovery alone, now that she had got him securely in her keeping.
Arabella could ask her mother down and keep house and see that he
had everything in the world that he wanted—and there were the devoted
nurses. And, in short, her doctor had said she must have her usual
cure, and that was the end of the matter!
She had only made him the most fleeting visits during the week. He
had really been ill after the fever caused by the champagne. And she
had been exquisitely gentle and not too demonstrative. She had
calculated the possibility of his backing out under the plea of his
health, so she determined not to give him a chance to have the
slightest excuse by overtiring him.
No one could have better played the part of devoted, understanding
friend who by excess of love had been betrayed into one lapse of
passionate outburst, and now wished only to soothe and comfort.
“She is a good sort,” John Derringham thought, after her first
visit. “She will let me down easy in any case,” and the ceasing of his
anxiety about his financial position comforted him greatly.
The next time she came and sat by his bed, a vision of fresh summer
laces and chiffons, he determined to make the position clear to her.
She always bent and kissed him with airy grace, then sat down at a
discreet distance. She felt he was not overanxious to caress her, and
preferred that the rendering of this impossible should come from her
side. Indeed, unless kisses were necessary to gain an end, she did not
care for them herself—stupid, contemptible things, she thought them!
John Derringham would have touched the hearts of most women as he
lay there, but Cecilia Cricklander had not this tiresome appendage,
only the business brain and unemotional sensibilities of her
grandfather the pork butcher. She did realize that her fiance,
even there with the black silk handkerchief wound round his head and
his face and hands deadly pale and fragile-looking, was still a most
arrogant and distinguished-looking creature, and that his eyes, with
their pathetic shadows dimming the proud glance in them, were
wonderfully attractive. But she was not touched especially by his
weakness. She disliked suffering and never wanted to be made aware of
John Derringham went straight into the subject which was uppermost
in his thoughts. He asked her to listen to him patiently, and stated
his exact financial situation. She must then judge if she found it
worth while to marry him; he would not deceive her about one fraction
She laughed lightly when he had ended—and there was something which
galled him in her mirth.
“It is all a ridiculous nothing,” she said. “Why, I can pay off the
whole thing with only the surplus I invest every year from my income!
Your property is quite good security—if I want any. We shall probably
have to do it in a business-like way; your house will be mine, of
course, but I will make you very comfortable as my guest!” and she
smiled with suitable playfulness. “Let the lawyers talk over these
things, not you and me—you may be sure mine will look after me!”
John Derringham felt the blood tingling in his ears. There was
nothing to take exception to in what she had said, but it hurt him
“Very well,” he answered wearily, and closed his eyes for a moment.
“If you are satisfied, that is all that need be said. As things go on,
and I reach where I mean to get, I dare say to spend money to do the
thing beautifully will please you as much as it will gratify me. I will
give you what I can of the honors and glories—so shall we consider our
This was not lover-like, and Mrs. Cricklander knew it, but it was
better to have got it all over. She was well aware that the “honors and
glories” would compensate her for the outlay of her dollars, but her
red mouth shut with a snap as she registered a thought.
“When I come back it may amuse me to make him really in love with
me.” Then, watching carefully, she saw that some cloud of jar and
disillusion had settled upon her fiance's face. So with her
masterly skill she tried to banish it, talking intelligently upon the
political situation and his prospects. It looked certain that the
Government would not last beyond the session—and then what would
Mr. Hanbury-Green had given her a very clear forecast of what the
other side meant to do, but this she did not impart to John Derringham.
She made one really stupid mistake as she got up to leave the room.
“If you want a few thousands now, John,” she said, as she bent to
lightly salute his cheek, “do let me know and I will send them to your
bank. They may be useful for the wedding.”
A dull flush mounted to the roots of his hair, and then left him
He took her hand and kissed it with icy homage.
“Thank you, no—” he said. “You are far too good. I will not take
anything from you until the bargain is completed.”
Then their eyes met and in his there was a flash of steel.
And when she had gone from the room he lay and quivered, a sense of
hideous humiliation flooding his being.
The following day she came in the morning. She looked girlish in her
short tennis frock and was rippling with smiles. She sat on the bed and
kissed him—and then slipped her hand into his.
“John, darling,” she said sweetly. “People will begin to talk if I
stay here at Wendover now that you are getting better—and you would
hate that as much as I—so I have settled to go to Carlsbad with Lady
Maulevrier—just for three weeks. By that time my splendid John will be
himself again and we can settle about our wedding—” then she bent and
kissed him once more before he could speak. “Arabella is going to get
her mother to come down,” she went on, “and you will be safe here with
these devoted old ladies and your Brome who is plainly in love with
you, poor thing!” and she laughed gayly. “Say you think it is best,
too, John, dearest?”
“Whatever you wish,” he answered with some sudden quick sense of
relief. “I know I am an awful bore lying here, and I shall not be able
to crawl to a sofa even for another week, these doctors say.”
“You are not a bore—you are a darling,” she murmured, patting his
hand. “And if only I were allowed to stay with you—night and day—and
nurse you like Brome, I should be perfectly happy. But these snatched
scraps—John, darling, I can't bear it!”
He wondered if she were lying. He half thought so, but she looked so
beautiful, it enabled him to return her caresses with some tepid
“It is too sweet of you, Cecilia,” he said, as he kissed her. He had
not yet used one word of intimate endearment—she had never been his
darling, his sweet and his own, like Halcyone.
After she had gone again, all details having been settled for her
departure upon the Monday, he almost felt that he hated her. For, when
she was in this apparently loving mood, it seemed as if her bonds
tightened round his throat and strangled him to death. “Octopus arms"
he remembered Cheiron had called them.
When Mrs. Cricklander got back to her own favorite long seat out on
the terrace, she sat down, and settling the pillows under her head, she
let her thoughts ticket her advantages gained, in her usual concrete
“He is absolutely mine, body and soul. He does not love me—we shall
have the jolliest time seeing who will win presently—but I have got
the dollars, so there is no doubt of the result—and what fun it will
be! It does not matter what I do now, he cannot break away from me. He
has let me see plainly that my money has influenced him—and, although
Englishmen are fools, in his class they are ridiculously honorable.
I've got him!” and she laughed aloud. “It is all safe, he will not
break the bargain!”
So she wrote an interesting note to Mr. Hanbury-Green with a pencil
on one of the blocks which she kept lying about for any sudden use—and
then strolled into the house for an envelope.
And, as John Derringham lay in the darkened room upstairs, he
presently heard her joyous voice as she played tennis with his
secretary, and the reflection he made was:
“Good Lord, how thankful I should be that at least I do not love
Then he clenched his hands, and his aching thoughts escaped the iron
control under which since his engagement he had tried always to keep
them, and they went back to Halcyone. He saw again with agonizing
clearness her little tender face, when her soft, true eyes had melted
into his as she whispered of love.
“This is what God means in everything.” Well, God had very little to
do with himself and Cecilia Cricklander!
And then he suddenly seemed to see the brutishness of men. Here was
he—a refined, honorable gentleman—in a few weeks going to play false
to his every instinct, and take this woman whom he was growing to
despise—and perhaps dislike—into his arms and into his life, in that
most intimate relationship which, he realized now, should only be
undertaken when passionate calls of tenderest love imperatively forced
it. She would have the right to be with him day—and night. She might
be the mother of his children—and he would have to watch her
instincts, which he surely would have daily grown to loathe, coming out
in them. And all because money had failed him in his own resources and
was necessary to his ambitions, and this necessity, working with an
appeal to his senses when fired with wine, had brought about the
God Almighty! How low he felt!
And he groaned aloud.
Then from a small dispatch box, which he had got his servant to put
by his bed, he drew forth a little gold case, in which for all these
years he had kept an oak leaf. He had had it made in the enthusiasm of
his youth when he had returned to London after Halcyone, the wise-eyed
child, had given it to him, and it had gone about everywhere with him
since as a sort of fetish.
It burnt his sight when he looked at it now. For had he been “good
and true”? Alas! No—nothing but a sensual, ambitious weakling.
The Professor and his protegee spent the whole of that July
wandering in Brittany—going from one old-world spot to another. There
had not been much opposition raised by Mr. and Mrs. Anderton to
Halcyone's accompanying her old master. They themselves were going to
Scotland, and there Mabel had decided she would no longer be kept in
the schoolroom, and intended to come forward as a grown-up girl
assisting in the hospitalities of her father's shooting lodge. And Mrs.
Anderton, knowing her temper, thought a rival of any sort might make
difficulties. So, as far as they were concerned, Halcyone might start
at once. They always left for the north in the middle of the month, and
if the Professor wanted to get away sooner, they did not wish to
interfere with his arrangements. Halcyone must come and pay them
another visit later on.
As for the Aunts La Sarthe—their heads appeared to be completely
turned by their sojourn at the seaside! They proposed to remain there
all the summer, and put forward no objection to their niece's excursion
with Mr. Carlyon. The once quiet spot of their youth had developed into
a fashionable Welsh watering place, and Miss Roberta was taking on a
new lease of health and activity from the pleasure of seeing the
crowded parade, while the Aunt Ginevra allowed that the exhilarating
breezes and cerulean waters were certainly most refreshing!
Before the Professor could leave for a lengthy trip abroad, it was
necessary that he should return to the orchard house for a day, and
Halcyone accompanied him, leaving Priscilla in London. Her mission was
to secure the goddess's head—but, as there was no one at La Sarthe
Chase, she decided just to go there and get her treasure and sleep the
night at Cheiron's.
It would be an excursion of much pain to her, to be so near to her
still loved lover and to feel the cruel gulf between them, but she must
face it if she desired Aphrodite to accompany them. The Professor
suggested she might take him through the secret passage and try with
his help to open the heavy box. No such opportunity had ever occurred
before or was likely to occur again, her aunts being absent and even
old William nowhere about. It made the chance one in a thousand. So she
agreed, and determined to force herself to endure the pain which going
back would cause her.
She was perfectly silent all the way from London to Upminster—and
Mr. Carlyon watched her furtively. He knew very well what was passing
in her mind, and admired the will which suppressed the expression of
it. She grew very pale indeed in the station-fly when they passed the
gates of Wendover. It was about half past three in the afternoon—and
the Professor had promised to come to the archway opening of the secret
passage at five.
So Halcyone left him and took her way down the garden and through
the little gate into the park. It seemed like revisiting some scene in
a former life, so deep was the chasm which separated the last time she
walked that way from this day. She passed the oak tree without
stopping. She would not give way to any weakness or the grief which
threatened to overwhelm her. She kept her mind steadily fixed upon the
object she had in view, with a power of concentration which only those
who live in solitude can ever attain to.
Aphrodite was there still in the bag lying on top of the heavy
iron-bound box in the secret passage, and she carried her out into the
sunlight and once more took the wrappings from the perfect face.
“You are coming with us, sweet friend,” she whispered, and gazed
long into the goddess's eyes. What she saw there gave her comfort.
“Yes, I know,” she went on gently. “I did say that, whatever came, I
would understand that it was life—And I do—and I know this evil pain
is only for the time—and so I will not admit its power. I will wait
and some day joy will return to me, like the swallow from the south.
Mother, I will grieve not.”
And all the softest summer zephyrs seemed to caress her in answer,
and there she sat silent and absorbed, looking out to the blue hills
for more than an hour.
Then she saw Cheiron advancing up the beech avenue, and covering up
Aphrodite she went to meet him.
They came back to the second terrace and started upon their quest.
Mr. Carlyon had the greatest difficulty in keeping his old head bent
to get through the very low part of the dark arched place, and he held
Halcyone's hand. But at last they emerged into the one light spot and
there saw the breastplate and the box. But at first it seemed as if
they could not lift it; it had fallen with the lock downward. Cheiron,
although a most robust old man, had passed his seventieth year, and the
thing was of extreme heaviness. But at last they pushed and pulled and
got it upright, and finally, with tremendous exertions with a chisel
Mr. Carlyon had brought, managed to break open the ancient lock.
It gave with a sudden snap, and in breathless excitement they raised
Inside was another case of wood. This also was locked, but at its
side lay an old key. The Professor, as well as his chisel, had
prudently brought a small bottle of oil, and eventually was able to
make the key turn in the lock, and they found that the box was in two
compartments, one entirely filled with gold pieces, and the other
containing some smaller heavy object enwound with silk.
They lifted it out and carried it to the light, and then with great
excitement they unrolled the coverings. It proved to be a
gold-and-jeweled crucifix and beneath it lay a parchment with a seal.
Leaving the pieces of gold in the box, they carried the crucifix and
the parchment out on to the terrace, and then the Professor adjusted
his strongest spectacles and prepared to read what he could, while
Halcyone examined the beautiful thing.
The writing was still fairly dark and the words were in Latin. It
stated, so the Professor read, that the money and the crucifix were the
property of Timothy La Sarthe, Gentleman to Queen Henrietta Maria, and
that, should aught befall him in his flight to France upon secret
business for Her Majesty, the gold and the crucifix belonged to
whichever of his descendants should find it—or it should be handed to;
that all others were cursed who should touch it, and that it would
bring the owner fortune, as it was the work of one Benvenuto Cellini,
an artist of great renown in Florence before his day, and therefore of
great value. The quaintly phrased deed added that if it were taken to
one Reuben Zana, a Jew in the Jewry at the sign of the Golden Horn, he
would dispose of it for a large sum to the French king. The crucifix
had been brought from Florence in the dower of his wife Donna Vittoria
Tornabuoni, now dead. If his son Timothy should secure it, he was
advised not to keep it, as its possession brought trouble to the
“Then it is legally ours and not treasure-trove,” said Halcyone.
“Oh, how good! It will make the Aunts La Sarthe quite rich perhaps, and
look how beautiful it is, the jeweled thing.”
They examined it minutely. It was a masterpiece of that great
craftsman and artist and of untold value. Cheiron silently thrilled
with the delight of it—but Halcyone spoke.
“I am glad Ancestor Timothy suggested selling it,” she said. “I
would never keep a crucifix, the emblem of sorrow and pain. For me,
Christ is always glorified and happy in heaven. Now what must we do,
Master? Must we at once tell the aunts? But I will not consent to
anyone knowing of this staircase. That would destroy something which I
could never recover. We must pretend we have found it in the long
gallery; there is a recess in the paneling which no one knows of but I,
and there we can put it and find it again. It will be quite safe. Shall
we leave it there, Cheiron, until we come back from abroad? How much do
you think it is worth?”
“Anything up to fifty thousand pounds perhaps to a collector,” the
Professor said, “since it is an original and unique. Look at the
splendid rubies and emeralds and these two big diamonds at the top, and
there is so little of Benvenuto's work left that is authentic.”
“That is an unusual sum of money, is it not?” Halcyone asked. “That
would surely give them anything they want for their lives; perhaps we
ought not to keep them waiting.”
And so after much talk it was arranged that Halcyone should make
several journeys, taking the gold to the long gallery and then the
crucifix; and then the box could be lifted and repacked again there.
And, when she had it all stowed away carefully in the recess of the
paneling, she and Cheiron should go openly to the back door and let the
caretaker know they had arrived, and go into the house—and there
ostensibly find the treasure. Then they would write to the Misses La
Sarthe about their discovery, and take the box to Applewood and deposit
it in the bank until their return.
All this took a long time but was duly carried out, and about eight
o'clock Halcyone and the Professor were able to go back, carrying the
crucifix with them, to keep it safe for the night and then to put it
back with the gold and the parchment, before they took the box to the
bank on the morrow.
“It may be worth more still and there is a good deal of gold,” the
Professor said, “and their coins would be worth more now. You will be
quite a little heiress some day, dear child.”
“I do not care the least about money, Cheiron,” she said, “but I
shall be so glad for the aunts.”
And when eventually the old ladies received the news of their
fortune there was much rejoicing, and by following Cheiron's advice
they were not defrauded and might look forward to a most comfortable
end to their lives. Miss Roberta even dreamed of a villa at the seaside
and a visit to London Town!
But meanwhile the Professor and Halcyone went back to London and on
the Saturday left for Dieppe.
London, perhaps from her numbed state of misery, had said nothing to
Halcyone. It remained in her memory as a nightmare, the scene of the
confirmation of her winter of the soul. Its inhabitants were ghosts,
the young men—jolly, hearty, young fellows from the Stock Exchange,
and rising Radical politicians whom she had met—went from her record
of things as so many shadows.
The vast buildings seemed as prisons, the rush and flurry as
worrying storms, and even the parks as only feeble reminders of her
dear La Sarthe Chase.
Nothing had made the least real impression upon her except
Kensington Gardens, and they to the end of her life would probably be
only a reminder of pain.
But her first view of the sea!
That was something revivifying!
Her memory of the one occasion when she had gone to Lowestoft with
her mother was too dim to be anything of a reality, and, when they got
to Newhaven, the Professor and Priscilla and she, with a brisk summer
wind blowing the green-blue water into crested wavelets, the first cry
of life and joy escaped her and gladdened Cheiron's heart.
How wonderful the voyage was! She took in every smallest change in
the tones of the sky—she watched the waves from the forepart of the
bridge, and some new essence of life and the certainty that her night
forces would never desert her made themselves felt and cheered her.
Of John Derringham she thought constantly. He was not buried in that
outer circle of oblivion from which the thoughts unconsciously shy—as
we bury our dead, their going so shrouded in pain that we long to blot
out the memory of them. John Derringham was always with her. She prayed
for his welfare with the fervor and purity of her sweet soul. He was
her spirit lover still. He could never really belong to any other
woman, she knew. And as the days went by a fresh beauty grew in her
pale face. The night sky itself seemed to be melted in her true eyes
with the essence of all its stars.
Cheiron often wondered at her. There was never a word or allusion to
the past. She was extremely quiet, and sometimes the droop of her
graceful head and the sad curves of her tender lips would make the kind
old cynic's heart ache. But she was always cheerful, taking unfeigned
interest in the country and the people, delighting in the simple faith
of the peasants and the glory of some of the old cathedrals.
And Aphrodite traveled everywhere with them. A special case had been
made for her—and Halcyone often took her out to keep them company in
the late evenings or when a rare rain storm kept them indoors.
Mr. Carlyon had not written to John Derringham since his engagement
had been announced. He wished all connection with his former pupil to
be broken off. He had no mercy for his action, he could not even use
his customary lenient common sense towards the failings of mankind.
John Derringham had made his peerless one suffer—and his name was
anathema. As far as Cheiron was concerned he was wiped off the list of
beings who count.
Halcyone's delicate sense of obligation had been put at ease by her
stepfather. He had made over to her a few hundreds a year which he said
had belonged to her mother—the simple creature was too ignorant of all
business to be aware whether this was or was not the case. She had
grown to have a certain liking for James Anderton. There was a hard,
level-headed, shrewd honesty about him, keen to drive a bargain—even
the one about her mother to which Priscilla had alluded and to which
they had never made any further reference—but, when once he had gained
his point, he was generous and kind-hearted.
He could not help it that he was not a gentleman, Halcyone thought,
and he did his best for everybody according to his lights.
Her few hundreds a year seemed untold wealth to her who had never
had even a few sixpences for pocket money! But there was always some
instinctive dislike for the thing itself. It remained to her a rather
unpleasant medium for securing the necessities of life, though she was
glad she now possessed enough not to be a burden upon her aunts, and
could hand what was necessary for her trip over to the Professor.
They wanted to get into Italy as soon as it should be cool enough.
August saw them in an out-of-the-way village in Switzerland.
And the mountains caused Halcyone a yet deeper emotion than the sea
had done. Nature here talked to her in a voice of supreme grandeur, and
bade her never to be cast down but to go on bearing her winter with
She often stayed out the entire night and watched the stars fade and
the dawn come—Phoebus with his sun chariot! Somehow Switzerland,
although it was not at all the actual background, seemed to bring to
her the atmosphere of her “Heroes.” The lower hill near their village
could certainly be Pelion, and one day she felt she had discovered
Cheiron's cave. This was a joy—and that night, when it rained and she
and the Professor sat before their wood fire in the little inn parlor,
with Aphrodite lying near them in her silken folds, she coaxed her old
master into telling her those moving tales of old.
“You are indeed Cheiron, Master,” she said—and then her eyes
widened and she looked into the glowing ashes. “And you have one pupil,
who, like Heracles in his fight with the Centaurs, has accidentally
wounded you. But I want you not to let the poison of the arrow grow in
your blood; the wound is not incurable as his was. Master, why do you
never speak to me now of Mr. Derringham?”
Cheiron frowned. One of his eyebrows had grown in later years at
least an inch long and seemed to bristle ready for battle when he was
“I think he has behaved as no gentleman should,” he growled, “and I
would rather not mention him.”
“You know of things perhaps with which I am not acquainted,” said
Halcyone, “but from my point of view, there is nothing to judge him
for. Whatever he may have done in becoming engaged to marry this
lady—because she is rich—we do not know the forces that were
compelling him. It hurts me, Cheiron, that you take so stern a view—it
hurts me, Master.”
Mr. Carlyon put out his hand and stroked her soft hair as she sat
there on a low stool looking up at him.
“Oh, my dear,” he said, and could articulate no more because a lump
grew in his throat.
“Everything is so simple when we know of it,” she went on, “but
everyone has not had the fortune to learn nature and the forces which
we must encourage or guard against. And Mr. Derringham, who had to mix
with the world, ran many dangers which could not come to you and me at
La Sarthe Chase. Ah, Cheiron! Even you do not know of the ugly things
which creep away out of sight in the night—my night that I love! And
they could sting one if one did not know where to put one's feet. And
so it must be with him—he did not always see where just to put his
feet, so we must not judge him, must we?” she pleaded.
“Not if you do not wish,” Mr. Carlyon blurted out. And then he began
to puff wreaths of smoke from his long old pipe.
“Indeed, I do not wish, Cheiron,” she said. “Perhaps he is very
unhappy now—we do not know—so we should only send him good thoughts
to cheer him. I dream of him often,” she went on in a far-off voice, as
though she had almost forgotten the Professor's presence, “and he cries
to me in pain. And I could not bear it that you should be thinking
badly of him, and so I had to speak because thoughts can help or injure
people—and now he wants all the gentle currents we can send him to
take him through this time.”
The Professor coughed violently; his spectacles had grown dim.
Then Halcyone rubbed her soft cheek against his old withered hand.
“You knew it, of course, Master,” she said very softly. “I loved him
always and I love him still—and, if I have forgiven any hurt which he
brought me, surely it need not stand against him with you.
To-night—oh, he is suffering so! I cannot bear that there should be
one shadow going to him that I can take away. Cheiron, promise me you
won't think hardly ever any more—promise me, Cheiron, dear!”
The Professor's voice was almost the growl of a bear—but Halcyone
knew he meant to acquiesce.
“Cheiron,” she whispered, while she caressed his stiff fingers, “the
winter of our souls is almost past. I feel and know the spring is near
“I hope to God it is,” Mr. Carlyon said, very low.
Next day they moved on into Italy, crossing the frontier and
stopping the night at Turin where they proposed to hire a motor. From
thence they intended to get down to Genoa to continue their pilgrimage.
It was not such an easy matter, in those few years ago, as it is now to
hire a motor, but one was promised to them at last—and off they
started. Halcyone took the greatest interest in everything in that
quaint and grand old town. Her keen judgment and that faculty she
possessed of always seeing everything from the simplest standpoint of
truth made her an ideal companion to wander with on this journey of
“How strong a place this seems, Cheiron,” she said, after two days
of their sight-seeing. “All the spirits at the zenith of Genoa's
greatness were strong—nothing weak or ascetic. They must have been
filled with gratitude to God for giving them this beautiful life, those
old patrons of decoration. There is nothing cheap or hurried; it is all
an appreciation of the magnificence due to their noble station and
their pride of race. For the Guelphist of them seems to have
been an aristocrat and an autocrat in his personal menage. Is it
not so, Master?”
“I dare say,” agreed Cheiron. He was watching with deep interest for
her verdict upon things.
“It gives me the impression of solid riches,” she went on, “the
encouragement of looms of costly stuffs, the encouragement for workers
in marble, in bronze, in frescoes, all the material gorgeous, tangible
pleasures of sight and touch. It is not poetic; it inspires admiration
for great deeds, victorious navies, triumphs—banquets—I have no sense
of music here except the music of feasting. I have no sense of poetry
except of odes to famous admirals or party leaders, and yet it is a
great joy in its way and a noble monument to the proud manhood of the
past.” And she looked down from the balcony of the Palazzo Reale, where
they were standing, into the town below.
Her thoughts had gone as ever to the man she loved. He had this
haughty spirit—he could have lived in those days—and she saw him a
Doria, a Brignole-Sale or a Pallavicini, gorgeous, masterful and
magnificent. England in the present day was surely a supplice
for such an arrogant spirit as that of John Derringham.
The prosperous mercantile part of Genoa said nothing to her—she
wanted always to wander where she could weave romances into the things
round. She had never seen any fine pictures before. The Anderton family
were not lovers of art and, while in London, Halcyone had been too
unhappy to care or even ask to be taken to galleries—and Cheiron had
not suggested doing so; he was a good deal occupied himself. But now it
was a great pleasure to him to watch and see what impression they would
make upon a perfectly fresh eye. The immense cultivation of her mind
would guide her taste probably—but it would be an interesting
She stopped instantly in front of a Van Dyck, but she did not speak.
In fact she made no observations at all about the pictures until they
were back in their hotel. It was still very hot, although September had
come, and they had their dinner upon an open terrace.
And then her thoughts came out.
“I like the Guido Renis, Cheiron,” she said; “his Magdalen in the
Reale Palazzo is exquisite—she is pure and good. But I do not like the
saints and martyrs in the throes of their agony, they say nothing to
me, I have no sympathy for them. I adore the Madonna and the Child;
they touch me—here,” and she laid her hand upon her heart. “The
Sassoferarto Virgin in the Reale Palazzo is like Miss Lutworth, she is
full of kindness and youth. The early masters' works, which are badly
drawn and beautifully colored, I have to take apart—and it is
unsatisfying. Because, while I am trying not to see the wrong shape, I
have only half my faculties to appreciate the exquisite colors, and so
a third influence has to come in—the meaning of the artist who painted
them and perhaps put into them his soul. But that is altruistic—I
could as well admire something of very bad art for the same reason. For
me a picture should satisfy each of these points of view to be perfect
and lift me into heights. That is why perhaps I shall prefer sculpture
on the whole, when I shall have seen it, to painting.”
And Mr. Carlyon felt that, learned in art and old as he was,
Halcyone might give him a new point of view.
Next day they left for Pisa.
When Arabella Clinker and her mother were settled together at
Wendover, a strange peace seemed to fall upon the place. John
Derringham was conscious of it upstairs as he lay in his Louis XV bed.
By the time he was allowed to be carried to a sofa in the sitting-room
which had been arranged for him, July had well set in.
He had parted from his Cecilia with suitable things said upon either
side. Even in his misery and abasement, John Derringham was too assured
a spirit and too much a man of the world to have any hesitation or
awkwardness. Mrs. Cricklander had been all that was sympathetic. She
looked superbly full of vigor and the joy of life as she came to say
“John, darling,” she purred, “you will do everything you are told to
by the doctors while I am away, won't you?” and she caressed his
forehead with her soft hand. “So that I may not have to worry as
dreadfully as I have been doing, when I come back. It has made me quite
ill—that is why I must go to Carlsbad. You will be good now; so that I
may find you as strong and handsome as ever on my return.” Then she
bent and kissed him.
He promised faithfully, and she never saw the whimsical gleam in his
eyes, because for the moment having gained her end her faculties had
resumed their normal condition, which was not one of superlative
sensitiveness. Like everything else in her utilitarian equipment, fine
perceptions were only assumed when the magnitude of the goal in view
demanded their presence. And even then they merely went as far as
sentinels to warn or encourage her in the progress of her aims, never
wasting themselves upon irrelevant objects.
When her scented presence had left the room, John Derringham clasped
his hands behind his head, and, before he was aware of it, his lips had
murmured “Thank God!”
And then Nemesis fell upon him—his schoolboy sensation of
recreation-time at hand left him, and a blank sense of failure and
hopeless bondage took its place.
Surely he had bartered his soul for a very inadequate mess of
And where would he sink to under this scorpion whip? Where would go
all his fine aspirations which, even in spite of all the juggling of
political life, still lived in his aims. Halcyone would have
“Oh! my love!” he cried. “My tender love!”
Then that part of him which was strong reasserted itself. He would
not give way to this repining, the thing was done and he must make the
best of it. He asked for some volumes from the library. He would read,
and he sent the faithful and adoring Brome to request Miss Clinker to
send him up the third and fourth volume of “The Decline and Fall of the
Roman Empire.” He often turned to Gibbon when he was at war with
things. The perfect balance of the English soothed him—and he felt he
would read of Julian, for whom in his heart he felt a sympathy.
Arabella brought the volumes herself, and placed them on his table,
and then went to settle some roses in a vase before she left the room.
A thin slip of paper fell out of one of the books as he opened it,
and he read it absently while he turned the pages.
On the top was a date in pencil, and in a methodical fashion there
was written in red ink:
“Notes for the instruction of M. E.,” and then underneath, “Subjects
to be talked of at dinner to-night—Was there cause for Julian's
apostasy? What appealed most to Julian in the old religions—etc.,
For a second the words conveyed no meaning to his brain, and for
something to say, he said aloud to Arabella: “This is your writing, I
think, Miss Clinker. I see you have a taste for our friend Gibbon,
too,” and then, observing the troubled confusion of Arabella's honest
face, a sudden flash came over him of memory. He recollected distinctly
that upon the Sunday before his accident, they had talked at lunch of
Julian the Apostate, and Mrs. Cricklander had turned the conversation,
and then had referred to the subject again at dinner with an
astonishing array of facts, surprising him by her erudition.
He looked down at the slip again—yes, the date was right, and the
red-ink heading was evidently a stereotyped one; probably Arabella kept
a supply of these papers ready, being a methodical creature. And the
questions!—were they for her own education? But no—Arabella was a
cultivated person and would not require such things, and, on that
particular Sunday, had never opened the door of her lips at either
“She prompts Cecilia,” in a flash he thought, with a wild sense of
bitter mirth. “No wonder she can reel off statistics as she does.
'Subjects to be talked of at dinner'—forsooth!”
And Arabella stood there, her kind plain face crimson, and her brown
eyes blinking pitifully behind her glasses.
She was too fine to say anything, it would make the situation
impossibly difficult if she invented an explanation. So she just
blinked—and finally, after placing the fresh flowers by Mr.
Derringham's bed, she left the room by the door beyond.
When she had gone it was as if a curtain were raised upon John
Derringham's understanding. Countless circumstances came back to him
when his fiancee's apparent learning had aroused his admiration,
and with a twinge he remembered Cheiron's maliciously amused eyes which
had met his during her visit to the orchard house, when she had become
a little at sea in some of her conversation. The whole thing then was a
colossal bluff—Arabella was the brain! Arabella was the erudite,
cultured person and his admirable Cecilia played the role of extremely
clever parrot! He laughed with bitter cynical merriment until he shook
in his bed.
And he, poor fool, had been taken in by it all—he and a number of
others. He was in company at all events! Then he saw another aspect,
and almost admired the woman for her audacity. What nerve to play such
a game, and so successfully! The determination—the application it
required—and the force of character!
But the gall of it when she should be his wife! He saw pictures of
himself trembling with apprehension at some important function in case
mistakes should occur. He would have to play the part of Arabella, and
write out the notes for the subjects to be “talked of at dinner!”
He lay there, and groaned with rage and disgust.
He could not—he would not go through with it!
But next day the irony of fate fell upon him with heavy hand. He
received the news that Joseph Scroope, his maternal uncle, was dead,
not having produced an heir, so he knew that he would inherit a
comfortable fortune from him.
The noose had, indeed, tightened round his neck,—he could not now
release himself from his engagement to Cecilia Cricklander. Some
instincts of a gentleman still remained with him in full measure. The
hideous, hideous mockery of it all. If he had waited, he would now have
been free to seek his darling, his pure star, Halcyone, in all honor.
He could have taken her dear, tender hand, and led her proudly to the
seat by his side—and crowned her with whatever laurels her sweet
spirit would have inspired him to gain. And it was all too late! too
He reviewed the whole chain of events, and perceived how it had been
his own doing—what had happened in each step—and this knowledge added
to the bitterness of his pain. It was from now onward that his nights
were often agony. Every movement, every word of Halcyone came back to
him, from the old days of long ago when she had given him the oak leaf,
to the moment of her looking into his eyes, with all her soul in hers,
as she had answered his passionate question. “Afraid? How should I be
afraid—since you are my lord and I am your love? Do not we belong to
And in spite of the peace Mrs. Cricklander's absence caused in the
atmosphere, John Derringham grew more unutterably wretched as time went
His cup seemed to be filling from all sides. The Government was
going out in disaster, and, instead of being able to stand by his
colleagues and fight, and perhaps avert catastrophe by his brilliant
speeches and biting wit, he was chained like a log to a sofa and was
It was no wonder his convalescence was slow, and that Arabella grew
anxious about him. She felt that some of Mrs. Cricklander's wrath and
disgust because of this state of things would fall upon her head.
His ankle was a great deal better now, it was five weeks since the
accident, and in a day or two he hoped to leave for London. Mrs.
Cricklander would be obliged to take an after-cure at the highly
situated castle of an Austrian Prince, an old friend of hers—where the
air was most bracing, she wrote. For her strict instructions to
Arabella before she left, after telling her she might have her mother
to keep her company, and so earning the good creature's deep gratitude,
“You must keep me informed of every slightest turn in Mr.
Derringham—because, until he is perfectly well and amusing again, I
simply can't come back to England. His tragic face bores me to death.
Really, men are too tiresome when there is the slightest thing the
matter with them.”
And Arabella had faithfully carried out her instructions.
In common honesty she could not inform her employer that John
Derringham was perfectly well or amusing!
Poor Miss Clinker's happy summer with her mother was being a good
deal dimmed by her unassuaged sympathy and commiseration.
“Of course, he is grieving for that sweet and distinguished girl,
Miss Halcyone La Sarthe,” she told herself—and with the old maid's
hungering for romance, which even the highest education cannot quite
crush from the female breast, she longed to know what had parted them.
Mr. Carlyon had gone abroad, she had ascertained that, and La Sarthe
Chase was still closed.
The night before John Derringham left for London, he hobbled down to
dinner on crutches. He was not to try and use his foot for some weeks
still, but the cut on his head was mended now. It was a glorious July
evening, the roses were not over on the terrace, and every aspect of
nature was gorgeously beautiful and peaceful.
They did not delay long over their repast, and there was still
twilight when Mrs. and Miss Clinker left their invalid alone with his
wine. A letter was in his pocket, arrived by the evening post from Mrs.
Cricklander, which he had not yet opened. It would contain her
reflections upon his changed conditions of fortune, of which he had,
when he learned of its full magnitude, duly informed her.
He was alternately raging with misery now, or perfectly numb and, as
he sat there a shattered wreck of his former insouciant self,
gaunt and haggard and pitifully thin, some of his friends would hardly
have recognized him.
He felt it was his duty to read the missive presently, but he told
himself the lights were too dim, and taking a cigar he hobbled out upon
the terrace. His return to public life would now be too late to help to
avert disaster, he must just stand aside in these last weeks of the
session and see the shipwreck. An unspeakable bitterness invaded his
spirit. The moon was rising when he got outside, one day beyond its
full. It seemed like a golden ball in the twilight of opal tints,
before it should rise in its silver majesty to supreme command of the
night. Nature was in one of her most sensuously divine moods. The
summer and fulfillment had come.
John Derringham sat down in a comfortable chair and gazed in front
There had been moonlight, too, when he had spent those exquisite
hours with his love, now six weeks ago—a young half moon. Could it be
only six weeks? A lifetime of anguish appeared to have rolled between.
And where was she? Then, for the first time, the crust of his
self-absorption seemed to crumble, and he thought with new stabs of
pain how she, too, must have suffered. He began to picture her waiting
by the gate—she would be brave and quiet. And then, as the day
passed—what had she done? He could not imagine, but she must have
suffered intolerably. When could she have heard of the accident, since
the next day she had been taken away? Why had she gone? That was unlike
her, to have given in to any force which could separate them. And if he
had known this step also was unconsciously caused by his own action in
having his letter to Cheiron posted from London, it would have tortured
him the more. Another thought came, and he started forward in his
chair. Was it possible that she had written to him, and that the letter
had got mislaid, among the prodigious quantity which accumulated in
those first days of his unconsciousness?
Then he sank back again. Even if this were so, it was too late now.
Everything was too late—from that awful night when he had become
engaged to Cecilia Cricklander.
She had put the announcement into the paper not quite three weeks
after the accident. What could Halcyone have thought of him and his
unspeakable baseness? Now she could have nothing but loathing and
contempt in her heart, wherever she was—and what right had he to have
broken the beliefs and shattered the happiness of that pure, young
He remembered his old master's words about a man's honor towards
women. It was true then that it was regulated, not by the woman's
feelings or anguish, but by the man's inclination and whether or no the
world should hold him responsible. And he realized that this latter
reason was the force which now prevented his breaking his engagement
with Mrs. Cricklander. He had behaved with supreme selfishness in the
beginning, and afterwards with a weakness which would always make him
writhe when he thought of it.
His self-respect was receiving a crushing blow. He clasped his thin
hands and his head sank forward upon his breast in utter dejection; he
closed his eyes as if to shut out too painful pictures. And when he
opened them again it was darker, and the moon made misty shadows
through the trees, and out of them he seemed to see Halcyone's face
quite close to him. It was tender and pitiful and full of love. The
hallucination was so startlingly vivid that he almost fancied her lips
moved, and she whispered: “Courage, beloved.” Then he knew that he was
dreaming, and that he was gazing into space—alone.
Mrs. Cricklander, at Carlsbad, was not altogether pleased to receive
the news of her fiance's accession to fortune. She realized that
John Derringham was not the sort of man to give up his will to any
woman unless the woman had entirely the whip hand, as she would have
had if he had been dependent upon her for the financial aid wherewith
to obtain his ambitions. She would have practically no hold over him
now, and, when he was well, he was so attractive that she might even
grow to care too deeply for him for her own welfare. To allow herself
to become in love with a husband who was answerable to her for his very
food and lodging, and whom she could punish and keep in bondage when
she pleased, was quite a different matter to experiencing that emotion
towards an imperious, independent creature going his own way, and even,
perhaps, compelling her to conform to his.
“How stupid of the old man, Mr. Scroope, to have married so late!”
she said to herself, as usual finding everyone wrong who in any way
interfered with her wishes.
John Derringham's letters—only two a week she received from
him—were his usual masterpieces of style, and in them he employed his
skill to say everything—and nothing.
She felt pleased as she read, and then resentful when she thought
over them. He had never once used a word of personal endearment,
although the letters were beautifully expressed. He seemed most happy
and comfortable with Arabella. After all, perhaps she would not go and
stay with Prince Brunemetz at Brudenstein. She might make John come out
and join her and go on to St. Moritz—that would do him good. She could
wire for Arabella. The convenances were so dear to her. The
wedding should take place in October, she decided.
And two days after John Derringham had arrived in London at his old
rooms in Duke Street, she wrote and suggested this plan to him—and
then the first preliminary crossing of swords between them happened. He
answered that he would come and join her later, but until the session
was over he could not leave town, and he begged her to go and stay with
Prince Brunemetz, or do anything else which would amuse her. He was
still upon crutches, he said, and not fitted to be a cavalier to any
She shut her mouth with a snap, and, sitting down, wrote a long
letter to Mr. Hanbury-Green, with whom she kept up a brisk
correspondence. Very well, then! she would go to Brudenstein; she would
not martyrize herself by being with a man on crutches! So half of her
August passed in a most agreeable manner, and towards the end of the
month she summoned her fiance to Florence. He could walk with a
stick now—and to meet her there and go on to Venice and out to the
Lido would be quite delightful, and could not hurt him. She deserved
some attention after this long time!
The end of the session had come, and still the Government hung on,
but it was obvious that they had been so much discredited that the end
could not be long postponed, and that, as soon as Parliament met again,
a hostile vote would be carried against them. But for the time there
was nothing to keep John Derringham in England, and with intense
reluctance he started for Italy, the ever-nearing date for his wedding
looming in front of him like some heavy cloud. He had plunged headlong
into work when he had returned from Wendover, for which he was still
quite unfit. His whole system had received a terrible shock, and it
would be months before he could hope to be his old robust self again;
and an unutterable depression was upon him. The total silence of
Halcyone, her disappearance from the face of the earth as far as he was
concerned, seemed like something incredible.
There were no traces of her. Mrs. Porrit was out, and the orchard
house shut up, so, he obtained no information. He had stopped there to
enquire on his way to the station when he had left Wendover. La Sarthe
Chase was entirely closed, except for a woman and her husband from the
village who slept there. But what right had he to be interested now, in
any case? He had better shut the whole matter out of his mind, and keep
his thoughts upon his coming marriage with Cecilia Cricklander.
And it was this frame of mind which caused him to plunge recklessly
into work as soon as he reached London, though he found that nothing
really assuaged his misery.
It was a glorious day towards the end of August when he got onto the
boat at Dover, and there ran across Miss Cora Lutworth, bent upon
trousseau business in Paris. She was with her friend, the lady who
chaperoned her, and greeted him with her usual breezy charm.
They sat down together in a comfortable corner on deck, while the
lady went to have a sleep. They talked of many things and mutual
friends. He was doing what was a comparatively rare thing in those
days, taking over a motor to tour down to Venice in, and Cora was duly
interested. Freynie adored motoring, too, she said, and that was how
they intended to spend their honeymoon. She was going to be married in
a few weeks, and was radiantly happy.
This was the first time she had seen John Derringham since his
engagement and his accident, and the great change in him gave her an
unpleasant shock. There were quite a number of silver threads in his
dark hair above the temples, and he looked haggard and gaunt and
lifeless. Cora's kind heart was touched.
“I am sure he does not care a rush for Cis,” she thought to herself,
“and I am sure he did for that sweet Halcyone. He and Cis are not
married yet; there can be no harm in my mentioning her.” So aloud she
“You remember our meeting that charming Miss Halcyone La Sarthe
across the haw-haw on Easter Sunday? Well, fancy, I came across her in
London at the end of June—in Kensington Gardens, sitting with the
long-haired old Professor. I was surprised; somehow one could not
picture her out of her own park.” She watched John Derringham's face
carefully, and saw that this information moved him.
“Did you?” he said, with an intense tone in his deep voice. “What
was she doing there, I wonder?”
“She looked too sweet,” Cora went on. “She was wearing becoming
modern clothes, and seemed to me to have grown so pretty. But she was
very pale and quiet. She came to tea with me the next day—I cannot say
how she fascinates me. I just love her—and then, on the Saturday she
was to go abroad with the Professor.”
“Really?” said John Derringham, while he could feel his heart begin
to beat very fast. “Where were they going, do you know? I would like to
run across, my old master.”
“I think to Brittany for July, and then Switzerland; but they
intended to get into Italy as soon as it was cool enough. They seemed
to be going to have a lovely trip and take a long time about it.”
“I had no idea Miss La Sarthe had any relations in London,” he said.
“Who was she staying with there? Did she tell you?”
“Her stepfather, I think,” Cora said. “Her mother married twice, it
appears, and then died, and the man married again. This second wife,
her sort of stepmother, came and fetched her from La Sarthe Chase quite
suddenly one day.”
“I cannot think of her in London,” said John Derringham. “Did she
like it, do you think? And was she changed?”
“Yes, very changed,” Cora answered, and made her voice casual. “She
looked as if the joy of life had fled forever, and as if she were just
getting through the time. Perhaps she hated being with her
step-family—people often do.”
Then she glanced at him stealthily as he stared out at the sea,
while she thought: “I am sure some awful tragedy is here underneath; it
is not only his broken ankle and his illness that has made him such a
wreck. I wish I could help them. I would not care a snap for Cis, who
is a rattlesnake if she wants something.”
“When was it, exactly, you saw her?” John Derringham asked. “But
perhaps you don't remember the date?”
“Yes, I do,” Cora responded quickly. “It was the day your engagement
was announced in the papers, because we spoke about it.”
“Did you?” he said, and drew in his breath a little. “And what did
“Just the usual things—how fortunate you were. And Halcyone said
you were clever and great.”
John Derringham did not answer for a moment. This stunned him. Then
he replied, very low, “That was good of her,” and Cora noticed that
even with the fresh wind blowing in his face he had grown very pale.
“Cis writes you are going to be married at the beginning of
October,” she said, to change the conversation. “I do hope you will be
awfully happy. It is so exquisite to be in love, isn't it? I adore
But John Derringham could not bear this—the two things were so
widely severed in his case. He did not answer, and Cora saw, although
his face remained unmoved, that pain grew deep in his eyes.
“Mr. Derringham,” she said, “I am going to say something indiscreet
and perhaps in frightful taste—but I am so happy I can't bear to think
that possibly others are not quite. I know Cis awfully well—her
character, I mean. Is there anything I can do for you?”
John Derringham turned with a chillingly haughty glance intended to
wither, but when he saw her sweet face full of frank sympathy and
kindness, it touched him and his manner changed.
“We have each of us to fulfill our fates,” he said. “I suppose we
each deserve what we receive, and I am so glad yours seems to be such a
very happy one.”
Then he made some excuse to get up and leave her—he could bear no
And Cora, left alone, smiled sadly to herself while she reflected
what a foolish thing pride was, and all the other shams which robbed
life of the only thing really worth having.
“Well, I should not let any of that nonsense ever stand between
Freynie and me, thank goodness!” she concluded.
But John Derringham limped off to the bows of the ship, quivering
with pain. So Halcyone had spoken of his engagement and said he was
“clever and great.” What could it all mean? Did he no longer interest
her then—even at that period? This stung him deeply. There was no
light anywhere. When once he had grasped the full significance of his
own conduct he was much too fine an intelligence to deceive himself, or
persuade himself to see any other aspect but the hopeless one, that the
entire chain of events was the result of his own action. But surely
there must be some way out? If he wrote straight to Cecilia and told
her the truth? And then he almost laughed bitterly as he realized the
futility of this plan. What would the truth matter to Mrs. Cricklander?
She could very well retort that he had known all this truth from the
beginning, and had been willing to marry her while his financial
position made it an advantage to himself, but was now recalcitrant
only because fortune had otherwise poured gold into his lap.
No, there was no hope. He must go through with it.
So he crushed down his emotions and forced himself to return to Miss
Lutworth and talk brightly to her until they landed.
And when they parted at the Gare du Nord, Cora was left with the
impression that, whatever might be the undercurrent, John Derringham
was strong enough to face his fate, and not give anyone the
satisfaction of knowing whether in it he found pleasure or pain.
When he arrived about ten days later at the hotel in Florence, where
Mrs. Cricklander was staying, waiting for him to accompany her on to
Venice, he found her in a very bad temper. She felt that she had not
been treated with that deference and respect which was her due, to say
nothing of the ardor that a lover ought to have shown by hastening to
her side. Why had he motored, spending ten days on a journey that he
could have accomplished in two? And he made no excuses, and seemed
quite unimpressed by her mood one way or another. He was so changed,
too! Gaunt and haggard—he had certainly lost every one of his good
looks, except his distinction—that seemed more marked than ever. His
arrogant air that she had once admired so much now only caused her to
feel a great irritation. He had made the excuse of the waiter not
having quite closed the door, apparently, for only kissing her hand by
way of greeting, and then he said just the right thing about her beauty
and his pleasure in seeing her, and sat down by her side upon the sofa
in far too collected a manner for a lover to have shown after these
weeks of separation. Mrs. Cricklander grew very angry indeed. Cold and
capricious behavior should only be shown upon a woman's side, she felt!
“Your Government made a colossal mess of things before the session
was over, did they not?” she said by way of something to start upon.
“Mr. Hanbury-Green tells me you will have to face a hostile vote when
you reassemble, and that the whole thing is a played-out game. How long
would the Radicals last if they do come in?—and it looks like a
certainty that they will.”
“Seven years, most likely,” said John Derringham a little bitterly.
“Or perhaps to the end of time. Your friend Mr. Green could tell you
more accurately than I. Does the fact interest you very deeply?”
“Yes,” she said, and narrowed her eyes. “I am wildly interested in
everything that concerns you, of course—that is obvious.”
“You will help me to fight, then, for the Opposition. Your social
talents are so great, dear Cecilia, you will make a most brilliant Tory
hostess,” and he took her hand—he felt he must do something.
“I have always been on the winning side,” she said, not more than
half playfully. “I do not know how I should like seven years of
fighting an uncertain fight. I might get extremely bored by it. I had
no idea it would last so long.” And she laughed a little uncomfortably.
“However, we are perfectly modern, aren't we, John, and need not spend
the entire year fighting together—fortunately?”
“No,” he said. “I am sure we shall be an admirable pair of citizens
of the world. And now I suppose I must let you go and dress for dinner.
How is our estimable friend, Miss Clinker? She is with you, I
suppose?—or have you friends staying in the hotel? You did not tell me
in your letters.”
“I never waste sweetness upon the desert air,” she said, smiling,
with a glitter in her eyes. “You did not appear over anxious to hear of
my doings. Our correspondence made me laugh sometimes. You never wrote
as though you had received any of my letters—yours were just
masterpieces of how little to say—and of how to say it beautifully!”
John Derringham shrugged his shoulders slightly; he did not defend
himself, and her anger rose. So that she was leaving the room with her
head in the air and two bright spots of pink in her cheeks.
Then he felt constrained to vindicate his position, so he put his
arm round her and drew her to him, intending to kiss her. But she
looked up into his face with an expression in her eyes which left him
completely repulsed. It was mocking and bitter and cunning, and she put
out her hand and pushed him from her.
“I do not want any of your caresses to-night,” she said. “When I do,
I'll pay for them.” And she swept from the room, leaving him quivering
There was fortunately a company assembled for dinner when John
Derringham descended to the restaurant and again joined his fiancee
—who never dined alone if she could help it, and reveled in gay parties
for every meal, with plenty of brilliant lights and the chatter of
other groups near at hand. Wherever she went, from Carlsbad to Cairo,
in the best restaurant you could always find her amidst her many
friends, feasting every night. And now the party consisted of some of
her compatriots, a Russian Prince, and an Italian Marchese. She looked
superbly beautiful; anger had lent a sparkle to her eyes and a flush to
her cheeks; no rouge was needed to-night, and she could scintillate to
her heart's content. She flashed words occasionally at John Derringham,
and he knew, and was horribly conscious all the time, that once he
would have found her most brilliant, but that now it was exactly as
when he had looked at the X-ray photograph of his own broken ankle,
where the sole thing which made a reality was the skeleton
substructure. He could only seem to see Cecilia Cricklander's vulgar
soul—-the pink and white perfection of her body had melted into
He found himself listening for some of her parrot-utterances, as a
detached spectator, and taking a sort of ugly pleasure in recognizing
which were the phrases of Arabella. The man upon her left hand was
intelligent, and was gazing at her with the rapt attention beauty
always commands, and she was uttering her finest platitudes.
And once John Derringham leant back in his chair, when no one was
observing him, and laughed aloud. The supreme mockery of it all! And in
five weeks from this night this woman would be his wife!
His wife! Ye gods!
They had no tete-a-tete words before the party broke up, and
had hardly exchanged a sentence when, as the last guest was saying
farewell, Arabella, too, retired from the sitting-room.
So they were alone.
“Cecilia,” he said, coming up quite close to her, “we started rather
badly to-night—at least let us be friends.” And he held out his hand.
“Believe me, I wish to do all that I can to please you, but I am afraid
I make a very indifferent sort of lover. Forgive me,”
“Oh, you are well enough, I suppose,” she said. “No man values what
he has won—it is only the winning of it that is any fun. I understand
the feeling myself. Don't let us talk heroics.”
John Derringham smiled.
“Certainly not,” he said.
And then she put up her face and let him kiss her, which he did with
some sickening revolt in his heart. Even her physical beauty had no
more any effect upon him—he would as soon have kissed Arabella.
So she sailed from the room again, with her mouth shut like a vice,
and her handsome eyes glancing at him over her shoulder.
Next day, after having kept him waiting for an hour to take her out,
she decided they should spend what remained of the morning at the
Bargello. And, when they got there, she did her best to be a charming
companion, and pressed him to lean upon her instead of his stick. But
to his awakened understanding what was even probably true in her talk
and comprehension of the gems of art, seemed false and affected, and he
was only conscious of one continual jar as she spoke.
A thousand little trifles, never remarked before, now appeared to
loom large in his vision. At last they came to the galleries above, to
the collection of the Della Robbias, and Mrs. Cricklander rhapsodized
over them, mixing them up with delightful unconcern. They were all just
bits of cheap-looking crockery to her eye, and it was impossibly
difficult to distinguish which was Luca's, Andrea's, or Giovanni's;
and, security having made her careless, she committed several blunders.
John Derringham laid no pitfalls for her—indeed, he helped her out
when he could. To-day each new discovery no longer made him smile with
bitter cynicism, he was only filled with a sense of discomfort and
He stopped in front of Andrea's masterpiece, the tender young
Madonna. Something in the expression of the face made him think of
Halcyone, although the types of the two were entirely different; and
Cecilia Cricklander, watching, saw a look of deep pain grow in his
“I wish to goodness he would get well and be human and masterful and
brilliant, as he used to be,” she thought. “I am thoroughly tired out,
trying to cope with him. He is no more use now than a bump on a log. I
am sorry I made him come here!”
“It is about time for lunch,” said John Derringham, who could no
longer bear her prattle; and they returned to the hotel.
Arabella and an American man made the partie carree, and Miss
Clinker did her best to help to get through the repast, and afterwards
wrote in a letter to her mother:
Mr. Derringham has arrived. He still looks dreadfully ill and
careworn, and I can see is feeling his position acutely. Since
dreadful day when he found my notes in Gibbon, I have never
look at him when in the company of M. E. I feel that
sensation of hot and cold during the whole time. M. E., now
further great efforts are needed, chatters on with most
inconsequence. I can see she is very much upset at Mr.
attitude. The impression that the Conservative Goverment cannot
has had also a great effect upon her, and she has set me to
exactly the position and amount of prestige the wife of a
member of the Opposition would have. This morning she sent for
when she was dressing, to know if it were true, as Mr.
told her, that, if the Radicals got in, they might last seven
years—because, if so, she would then be almost thirty-eight,
best days of her youth would be over. I do not dare to think
these remarks may mean, but in connection with the fact that
receives daily letters from Mr. Hanbury-Green—that unpleasant
Socialistic person who is coming so much to the front—I almost
and yet hope, that there is some chance for Mr. Derringham's
He is bearing his trouble as only an English gentleman could
at lunch paid her every attention.
And old Mrs. Clinker smiled when she got this letter.
But by the end of the afternoon John Derringham's face wore no
smiles; a blank despair had settled upon him.
They drove along the Arno and into the Gardens.
It was warm and beautiful, but, so forceful is a hostile atmosphere
created between two people, they both found it impossible to make
Mrs. Cricklander was burning with rage and a sense of impotency. She
felt her words and all her arts of pleasing were being nullified, and
that she was up against an odious situation in which her strongest
weapons were powerless. It made her nervous and very cross. She
particularly resented not being able to ascertain the cause of the
change in him, and felt personally aggrieved at his still being a
wretched wreck hobbling with a stick. He ought to have got quite well
by now—it was perfectly ridiculous. What if, after all, he would not
be worth while? But the indomitable part of her character made her
tenacious. She felt it was a different matter, throwing away what she
had won, to having to relinquish something that she knew she had never
really gained. She would make one more determined effort, and then, if
he would not give her love, he should be made to feel his bondage, she
would extort from him to the last ounce, her pound of flesh.
“John, darling,” she said, slipping her hand into his, under the rug
as they drove, “this beautiful place makes me feel so romantic. I wish
you would make love to me. You sit there looking like Dante with a
beard, as cold as ice.”
“I am very sorry,” he answered, startled from a reverie. “I know I
am a failure in such sort of ways. What do you want me to say?”
This was not promising, and her annoyance increased.
“I want you to tell me you love me—over and over again,” she
whispered, controlling her voice.
“Women always ask these questions,” he said to gain time. “They
never take anything for granted as men do.”
“No!” she flashed. “Not when a man's actions point to the
possibility of several other interpretations of his sentiments—then
they want words to console them. But you give me neither.”
“I am not a demonstrative person,” he responded. “I will do all I
can to make you happy, but do not ask me for impossibilities. You will
have to put up with me as I am.”
“I shall decide that!” And she snatched away her hand angrily, and
then controlled herself—the moment had not yet come. He should not
have freedom, which now she felt he craved; he should remain tied until
he had at all events paid the last price of humiliation. So for the
rest of that day and those that followed she behaved with maddening
capriciousness, keeping him waiting for every meal and every
appointment—changing her mind as to what she would do—lavishing
caresses upon him which made him wince, and then treating him with
mocking coldness; but all with such extreme cleverness that she never
once gave him the chance to bring things to an open rupture. She was
beginning really to enjoy herself in this new game—it required even
more skill to torture and hold than to attract and keep at arm's
length. But at last John Derringham could bear no more.
They had continuous lunches and dinners with the gay party of
Americans who had been of the company on the first evening, and there
was never a moment's peace. A life in public was as the breath of
Cecilia Cricklander's nostrils, and she did not consider the wishes of
her betrothed. In fact, but for spoken sympathy over his shattered
condition and inability to walk much, she did not consider him at all,
and exacted his attendance on all occasions, whether too fatiguing for
him or not.
The very last shred of glamour about her had long fallen from John
Derringham's eyes, and indeed things seemed to him more bald than they
really were. His proud spirit chafed from morning to night—chafed
hopelessly against the knowledge that his own action had bound him as
no ordinary bond of an engagement could. His whole personality appeared
to be changing; he was taciturn or cynically caustic, casting jibes at
all manner of things he had once held sacred. But after a week of
abject misery, he refused to bear any more, and when Mrs. Cricklander
grew tired of Florence, and decided to move on to Venice, he announced
his intention of taking a few days' tour by himself. He wished to see
the country round, he said, and especially make an excursion to San
Gimignano—that gem of all Italy for its atmosphere of the past.
“Oh! I am thoroughly tired of these moldy places,” Mrs. Cricklander
announced. “The Maulevriers are in Venice, and we can have a delightful
time at the Lido; the new hotel is quite good—you had much better come
on with me now. Moping alone cannot benefit anyone. You really ought to
cheer up and get quite well, John.”
But he was firm, and after some bickerings she was obliged to decide
to go to Venice alone with Arabella, and let her fiance depart
in his motor early the next morning.
Their parting was characteristic.
“Good night, Cecilia,” John Derringham said. No matter how
capricious she could be, he always treated her with ceremonious
politeness. “I am leaving so very early to-morrow, we had better say
good-by now. I hope my going does not really inconvenience you at all.
I want a little rest from your friends, and, when I join you at Venice
again, I hope you will let me see more of yourself.”
She put up her face, and kissed him with all the girlish rippling
smiles she had used for his seduction in the beginning.
“Why, certainly,” she said. “We will be regular old
Darbys-and-Joans; so don't you forget while you are away that you
belong to me, and I am not going to give you up to anything or
anybody—so long as I want you myself!”
And John Derringham had gone to his room feeling more chained than
ever, and more bitterly resentful against fate.
As soon as he left her, she sat down at her writing-table and wrote
out a telegram to be sent off the first thing the next day. It
contained only three words, and was not signed.
But the recipient of it, Mr. Hanbury-Green, read it with wild
emotion when he received it in his rooms in London—and immediately
made arrangements to set off to Florence at once.
“I'll beat him yet!” he said to himself, and he romantically kissed
the pink paper. For, “You may come” was what he had read.
An hour or so before sunset the next day John Derringham in his
motor was climbing the steep roads which lead to San Gimignano, the
city of beautiful towers, which still stands, a record of things
mediaeval, untouched by the modernizing hand of men.
A helpless sense of bitterness mastered him, and destroyed the
loveliness and peace of the view. Everything fine and great in his
thoughts and aims seemed tarnished. To what stage of degradation would
his utter disillusion finally bring him! Of course, when Cecilia
Cricklander should once be his wife, he would not permit her to lead
this life of continuous racket—or, if she insisted upon it, she should
indulge in it only when she went abroad alone. He would not endure it
in his home. And what sort of home would it be? He was even doubtful
about that now. Since she had so often carelessly thrown off her mask,
he no longer felt sure that she would even come up to the mark of what
had hitherto seemed her chief charm, her power of being a clever and
accomplished hostess. He could picture the scenes which would take
place between them when their wishes clashed! The contemplation of the
future was perfectly ghastly. He remembered, with a cynical laugh, how
in the beginning, before that fateful Good Friday when the Professor
first planted ruffling thoughts in his mind, and before the spell of
Halcyone had fallen upon him, he had thought that one of the
compensations for having to take a rich wife he had found in Cecilia.
She would be his intellectual companion during the rather rare moments
he would be able to spare for her from his work. He would be able to
live with a woman cultured in all branches which interested him,
capable of discussing with him any book or any thought, polished in
brain and in methods. He had imagined them, when alone together,
spending their time in a delightful and intellectual communion of
ideas, which would make the tie of marriage seem as almost a pleasure.
And what was the reality?—An absolute emptiness, and the knowledge
that, unless Arabella Clinker continued her ministrations, he himself
would have to play her part! He actually regretted his accession to
fortune. But for it he could have broken off the engagement with
decency, but now his hands were tied. Only Cecilia could release him,
and she did not seem to have the slightest intention of doing so.
He savagely clenched his white teeth when he remembered the
ridiculous waiting lackey he had been made to turn into in the last
week. Then he looked up and tried to take interest in the quaint
gateway through which he was passing and on up to the unique town and
the square where is the ancient Podesta's palace, now the hotel. But he
was in a mood of rasping cynicism—even the exquisite evening sunlight
seemed to mock at him.
His highly trained eye took in the wonderful old-world beauty around
him with some sense of unconscious satisfaction, but the saintly calm
of the place made no impression upon him. Santa Fina and her flowers
could not soften or bring peace to his galled soul. The knowledge that
the whole situation was the result of his own doings kept his
bitterness always at white heat. The expression of his thin, haggard
face was sardonic, and the groups of simple children, accustomed to ask
any stranger for stamps for their collections—a queer habit of the
place—turned away from him when once they had looked into his eyes.
He left his motor at the hotel and wandered into the square where
the remains of the palazzos of the two great Guelph and Ghibelline
families, the Ardinghelli and the Salvucci, frown at one another not
fifty yards apart—shorn of their splendors, but the Salvucci still
with two towers from which to hurl destruction at their enemies.
John Derringham looked up at the balcony whence Dante had spoken,
and round to the Cathedral and the picturesque square. The few people
who passed seemed not in tune with his thoughts, so calm and saintly
was the type of their faces—all in keeping with a place where a house
of the sixteenth century is considered so aggressively modern as not to
be of any interest. It was too late for him now to go into the
Cathedral; nothing but the fortress battlements were possible, and he
hobbled there, desiring to see the sunset from its superb elevation.
The gate-keeper, homely and simple, opened to him courteously, and
he went in to the first little courtyard, with its fig tree in the
middle and old grass-grown well surrounded by olives and lilac bushes;
and then he climbed the open stairs to the bastion, from whose
battlements there is to be obtained the most perfect view imaginable of
the country, the like of which Benozzo Gozzoli loved to paint.
It has not changed in the least since those days, except that the
tiles of the roofs, which are now dark gray with age, were then red and
brilliant. But the cypress trees still surround the monasteries, and
the high hills are still crowned with castellos, while the fields make
a patchwork of different crops of olives and vines and grain.
John Derringham mounted the stairs with his head down, musing
bitterly, so that, until he reached the top, he was not aware that a
slender girl's figure was seated upon the old stone bench which runs
round the wall. Her hat lay upon the seat beside her, while she gazed
out over the beautiful world. He paused with a wildly beating heart in
which joy and agony fought for mastery, but, as she turned to see who
this stranger could be, thus breaking in upon her solitude, his voice,
hoarse with emotion, said aloud her name:
She started to her feet, and then sank back upon the bench again
unsteadily, and he came forward to her side. They both realized that
they were alone here in the sunset—alone upon this summit of the
He sat down beside her and then he buried his face in his hands,
letting his cap fall; and all the pent-up misery and anguish of the
past weeks seemed to vibrate in his voice as he murmured:
“Ah, God!—my love!”
Her soft eyes melted upon him in deepest tenderness and sorrow. To
see him so pale and shattered, so changed from the splendid lover she
But he was there—beside her—and what mattered anything else? She
longed to comfort him and tend him with fond care. Had he been the
veriest outcast he would ever have found boundless welcome and solace
waiting for him in her loving heart.
“John!” she whispered, and put out gentle fingers and caressed his
He shivered and let his hands fall from his haggard face.
“Darling,” he said, “I am not worthy to touch the hem of your
garment. Why do you not turn from such a weakling and brute?”
“Hush! Hush,” she exclaimed, aghast. “You must not speak so of
yourself. I love you always, as you know, and I cannot hear him whom I
And now he looked into her eyes while he took her slender hand, and
there he saw the same wells of purity and devotion brimming with divine
faith and tenderness that he had last seen glistening with happy love.
He folded her to his heart; the passionate emotion each was feeling
was too deep, too sacred for words; and then their eyes streamed with
They sat thus close for some seconds. The thirst and hunger of all
these days of rack and anguish must be assuaged before either could
talk. But at last she drew a little back and looked up into his face.
“John,” she said softly, “I read in an English paper a week ago that
your wedding was fixed for the seventh of October—my birthday. Is it
He clasped his hands in agony.
“It can never now be so,” he said. “I cannot, I will not go through
with it. Oh, Halcyone, my darling one, you would pity me, although you
would despise me, if you knew—”
“I could never despise you,” she answered, nestling once more in his
arms. “John, for me nothing you could do would make any difference—you
would still be my love; and if you were weak I would make you strong,
and if cold and hungry, I would feed and comfort you, and if wicked, I
would only see you good.”
“Oh, my dear, my dear,” he said, “you were always as an angel of
sweetness. Listen to the whole degrading story, and tell me then of
that which I must do.”
She took one of his hands and held it in both of hers; and it was as
if some stream of comfort flowed to him through their soft warm touch
and enabled him to begin his ugly task.
He told her the whole thing from the beginning. Of his ambitions,
and how they held chief place in his life, and how he had meant to
marry Cecilia Cricklander as an aid to their advancement. He glossed
over nothing of his own baseness, but went on to show how, from the
moment he had seen her upon that Good Friday at the orchard house, his
determination about Cecilia Cricklander had begun to waver, until the
night under the tree when passion overcame every barrier and he knew he
must possess her—Halcyone—for his wife.
He made no excuse for himself; he continued the plain tale of how,
his ambitions still holding him, he had selfishly tried to keep both
joy and them, by asking her—she who was so infinitely above him—to
descend to the invidious position of a secret wife.
She knew the rest until it came to the cause of his accident, and,
when she heard it occurred because of his haste to get to her before
she should reach the house, she gave a little moan of anguish and
leaned her head against his breast.
So the story went on—of his agonized thoughts and fever and
fears—of his comprehension that she had been taken from him, and of
the utter hopelessness of his financial position, and the whole
outlook, until he came to the night of his engagement; and here he
“Do not try to tell me any of this part, John, my dear lover,” she
said. “I know the standard of honor in a man is that he must never give
away the absent woman, and I understand—you need not put anything into
words. I knew you were unhappy and coerced. I never for a moment have
doubted your love. You were surrounded with strong and cruel forces,
and all my tenderness could not reach you quite, to protect you as it
should have done, because I was so full of foolish anguish myself.
Dearest, now only tell me the end and the facts that I must know.”
He held her close to him in thankfulness, and then went on to speak
of the shame and degradation he had suffered for his weakness; the
drawn-out days of aching wonder at her silence, and finally the news of
his Uncle Joseph Scroope's death and the fortune that would come to
him, and how this fact had tied and bound his hands.
“But it has grown to such a pass,” he said, “that I had come to
breaking-point, and now I can never go back to her again. I have found
you, my one dear love, and I will never leave you more.”
Halcyone shook her head sadly, and asked him to listen to her side.
And when he knew that her leaving La Sarthe Chase had been brought
about because of his letter to Cheiron having been posted from London,
so that she hoped to find him there, it added to his pain to feel that,
even in this small turn of events, his action had been the motive
But, as she went on, her pure and exquisite love and perfect faith
shining through it all seemed to draw his soul out of the mire in which
it had lain. And at last they knew each other's stories and were face
to face with the fateful moment of to-day, and he exclaimed gladly:
“My darling, now nothing else matters—we will never, never part
Then, as he looked into her eyes, he saw that not gladness but a
solemn depth of shadow grew there, and he clasped both her hands. A
cold agony chilled his whole being. What, O God, was she going to say?
“John,” she whispered, all the tenderness of the angels in her
gentle voice as she leaned and kissed the silver threads in his dark
hair. “John, do you remember, long ago when we spoke of Jason and
Medea, and you asked me the question then, Must he keep his word to her
even if she were a witch?—and I told you that was not the point at
all: it was not because she was or was not a witch, but because it was
his word?”—Here her voice broke, and he could hear the tears in
it, and he wildly kissed her hands. Then she went on:
“Oh, my dear lover, it is the same question now. You cannot break
your word. Nothing but misfortune could follow. It is a hard law,
but I know it is true, and it is fate. We put in action the force which
brings all that we receive, and we who have courage pay the price
without flinching, and, above and beyond all momentary pleasure or
pain, we must be true to ourselves.”
“I cannot, I cannot!” he groaned in agony. “How can you condemn me
to such a fate?—tied to this woman whose every influence is degrading
to me; parted from you whom I adore—I would rather be dead. It is not
fair—not just, if you only knew!”
Then he continued wildly. “Ah, God—and it is all because I forgot
the meaning of your dear and sacred, pledge with me that I must always
be good and true! If I could suffer alone—my darling, my soul!—then I
would go without a word back to hell, if you sent me. But you,
too—think, Halcyone! Can you bear your life? You who are so young,
separated for evermore from love and me. Oh! my own, my own—”
Here he stopped his mad rush of words—her face was so white and
grave—and he let her draw herself from him, and put her hands upon his
shoulders, while her eyes, with tender stars of purity melting in their
depths, gazed into his.
“John,” she said, “do not try to weaken me. All Nature, who is my
friend, and the night-winds and their voices, and that dear God Who
never deserts me, tell me that for no present good must we lower
ourselves now. Nothing can ever hurt me. Go back and do that which
being a gentleman entails upon you to do—and leave the rest to God.
This is the winter of our souls, but it will not last forever. The
spring is at hand, if you will only trust, and believe with me that
first we on our side must be ready to pay the price.”
Then she bent forward and kissed him as an angel might have done,
and, without speaking more, rose and prepared to walk towards the
stairway which descended to the lower court.
He followed her, and she turned before she began to descend the
steps, while she pointed to the beautiful country.
“Look at the vines, all heavy with grapes,” she said, “and the
fields shorn of their corn, and the olives shimmering in the sunset;
and then, dear lover, you will know that all things have their
sequence, and our time of joy will come. Ah! sweetheart, it is not
farewell for ever; it is only that we must wait for our spring.”
“Halcyone,” he said, while his proud eyes again filled with tears,
“you have the absolute worship of my being. You have taught me, as
ever, the truth. Go, my darling, and I will do as you wish, and will
try to make myself more worthy of your noble soul. God keep you until
we meet again.”
She did not speak; she only looked at him with a divine look of love
and faith, and he watched her as she went down, it seemed, out of the
very heart of the setting sun and into the shadows beneath, and so
disappeared from his adoring eyes in a peaceful purple twilight.
Then he returned to the old stone seat and leaning forward gazed out
over the exquisite scene.
A great hush had fallen upon his torn heart. And thus he stayed
motionless until the night fell.
Mrs. Cricklander awaited Mr. Hanbury-Green's coming quite
impatiently. She felt she wanted a little warmth and humanity after the
chilling week she had passed with her betrothed. What she meant to do
with this latter she had not yet made up her mind—the justice of an
affair never bothered her, and her complete unconsciousness of having
committed any wrong often averted her action's immediate consequence.
That Mr. Hanbury-Green should suffer, or that John Derringham should
suffer, mattered to her not one jot. She was really and truly under the
impression that only her personal comfort, pleasure and feelings were
of any importance in the world. Her brain always guarded these things,
and, when they were not in any jeopardy or fear of being
inconvenienced, then she was capable of numbers of kind and generous
actions. And, if she had ever been reproached about her colossal
selfishness, she would have looked up astonished, and replied:
“Well, who is nearer to oneself than oneself?”
Common sense like this is not to be controverted.
It would only be when she was growing old that she would feel the
loneliness of knowing that, apart from the passion which she had
inspired because of her sex and her beauty, not a single human being
had ever loved her. For the present she was Venus Victrix, a glorious
creature, the desired of men—and that was enough.
Mr. Hanbury-Green was a forceful person, unhampered by any of the
instincts of a gentleman, and therefore armed with a number of weapons
for winning his battles. He had determined to rise to the top upon the
wave of class hatred which he had been clever enough to create, and he
neither knew nor cared to what state of devastation he might bring the
country. He was a fitting mate in every way for Cecilia Cricklander,
and completely equipped to play with her at her own game.
So, when they met in her sitting-room in the Florentine hotel, each
experienced a pleasurable emotion.
His was tempered—or augmented—by a blunt and sufficiently brutal
passion, which only the ideal of circumspect outward conduct which
dominates the non-conformist lower middle classes, from which he had
sprung, kept him from demonstrating, by seizing his desired prize in
He was frankly in love, and meant to leave no stone unturned to oust
John Derringham from his position as fiance of the lady—John
Derringham, whom he hated from the innermost core of his heart!
Mrs. Cricklander fenced with him admirably. She did not need
Arabella's coachings in her dealings with him; he was quite uncultured,
and infinitely more appreciated what her old father had been used to
call her “horse sense” than he would have done her finest rhapsody upon
Nietzsche. Mrs. Cricklander had indeed with him that delightful sense
of rest and ceasing from toil that being herself gave. She felt she
could launch forth into as free a naturalness as if she had been
selling little pigs' feet in her grandfather's original shop. And all
to a man who was rising—rising in that great country of England, where
some day he might play a role no less than Tallien's, and she
could be “Notre dame de Thermidor.”
Arabella had once told her of this lady's story, and she felt that
the time in Bordeaux when the beautiful Therese wore the red cap of
Liberty and hung upon the arm of one who had swum in the blood of the
aristocrats, must have been an experience worth having in life. Her
study of Madame Tallien went no further; it was the lurid revolutionary
part in her career that she liked.
Mr. Hanbury-Green was very careful at first. He was quite aware that
he was only received with empressement because he was
successful; he knew and appreciated the fact that Cecilia Cricklander
only cared for members of a winning side. He felt like that about
people himself, and he respected her for the way she fought to secure a
footing among the hated upper classes, and then trampled upon their
necks. There were no shades of her character which would have disgusted
or dismayed him; even the knowledge that her erudition was merely
parrot-talk, would only have appealed to his admiration as a further
proof of her sagacity.
They went on to Venice the day after he arrived, with Arabella to
make a chaperoning third, and for the first two days afterwards Cecilia
kept him at arm's length, but not waiting for his dinner! Some instinct
told her that in his home circle he would probably have been accustomed
to worthy, punctual women, and, while she enjoyed tantalizing him, she
knew that he had a nasty temper and could not be provoked too far. No
bonds of honor or chivalry would control his actions as they would
those of John Derringham. She was dealing with as lawless a being as
herself, and it was very refreshing. Mr. Hanbury-Green knew her one
weak point—she was intensely sensitive of the world's opinion, as are
all people who inwardly know they are shams. She would have hated to be
the center of a scandal, from the point of view that it would
irreparably close doors to her; and her resentment of barriers and
barrier-makers was always present.
This he would remember as his strong card—the last to be
played.—If she continued being capricious until the moment of her
fiance's expected return, he would use all his cunning—and it was
no inconsiderable quantity—and compromise her irrevocably, and so get
her to surrender upon his terms. For he had made up his mind, as he
sped to Florence, that Cecilia Cricklander should return to England as
They had four days of the usual gay parties for every meal—there
happened to be a number of people passing through and staying at
Venice—and the early September weather was glorious and very hot.
Mrs. Cricklander delighted in a gondola. There was something about
it which set off her stately beauty, she felt, and she reveled in the
admiration she provoked; and so did Mr. Hanbury-Green—he prized that
which the crowd applauded. But time was passing, and nothing the least
definite was settled yet, although he knew he had obtained a certain
mastery over her.
On the Friday evening a telegram was received from John Derringham
saying he would return on the Saturday night, and Mr. Hanbury-Green
felt this was the moment to act. He had no intention of having any
quarrel with his rival, or of putting himself in the position of being
called upon to give an account of himself. The news of his dismissal
must be conveyed to John Derringham by the lady as that lady's free and
So Mr. Green was very cautious all the Friday evening, and made
himself as irresistible as he could, using all his clever wits to
flatter and cajole Cecilia, and leaving not a trifle unconsidered which
could interfere with his plans.
They were simple enough.
He claimed to have discovered a quite new and quite charming spot on
the Lido, which he was most anxious to take Mrs. Cricklander to see
alone—he put a stress upon the word alone, and looked into her
eyes. They would go quite early and be back before tea, as John
Derringham had timed himself to arrive upon the mainland about seven
o'clock, and would be at the Daniellis, where they were all staying,
Mrs. Cricklander felt she must have one more delightful afternoon,
and, as this excursion might contain a spice of adventure, it thrilled
her blood. She had been exquisitely discreet—in public—forcing
Arabella always to talk to Mr. Hanbury-Green, and devoting herself to
Lady Maulevrier, or any other lady or old gentleman who happened to be
present. And then she felt free to spend long hours alone with Mr.
Hanbury-Green in her sitting-room, whose balcony hung over the
beautiful canal. No one could say a word—Arabella's discretion could
always be counted upon; and pleasure was secured.
She looked, perhaps, more beautiful than she had ever done in her
life as they started. Mr. Hanbury-Green had hired a special gondola,
not the one they were accustomed to float about in,—and off they went.
Where was the harm, in broad daylight! and with Arabella to accompany
them—as far as the last steps, and then to be dropped? Cecilia felt
like a school-girl on a forbidden treat.
When they were well out of sight of all observation, Mr.
Hanbury-Green began. He told her that he loved her, in all the most
impressive language he was master of; he felt that with her he might
with safety and success use the same flamboyant metaphors and
exaggerations with which he was accustomed to move his constituents. No
restraint or attention to accuracy was necessary here. And if his voice
in his honest excitement would have sounded a little cockney in
Arabella's cultured ears, Cecilia Cricklander did not notice it. On the
contrary, she thought the whole thing was the finest-sounding harangue
she had ever heard in her life.
He went on to say that he could not live without her, and implored
her to throw over John Derringham and promise to be his wife.
“He thinks you are madly in love with him, darling,” he said,
knowing this would sting, “and will stand any of his airs. Let him see
you are not. Give him the snub he deserves for deserting you, and fling
his dismissal in his face.”
Cecilia Cricklander reddened and thrilled, too. Here, at all events,
was warmth. But she was not won yet. So she looked down, as if too full
of emotion to speak. She must gain time to consider what this would
mean, and, if worth while, how to lay her plans.
Should the scheme contain certain elevation for herself and certain
humiliation for John Derringham, then there was something worthy of
consideration in it, for undoubtedly Percy Hanbury-Green suited her the
better of the two, as far as just the men themselves were concerned.
She knew she would get desperately tired of having to live up to John
Derringham's standard, and a divorce in England would not be so easily
obtained or so free from scandal, as her original one in America had
been. But she must think well, and weigh the matter before plunging in.
Mr. Hanbury-Green saw her hesitation and instantly applied another
forceful note. He dwelt upon the political situation and grew eloquent
and magnetic, as when he was on the platform—for was he not playing
for stakes which, for the moment, he valued even more than some
thousands of votes?
It was no wonder Cecilia Cricklander's imagination grew inflamed. He
let her see that as his wife she would, for seven years or more, ride
on the crest of the wave of an ever-rising tide to undreamed-of heights
of excitement and intrigue. “With you at my side, darling,” Mr. Green
said passionately, “I could be stimulated into being Dictator myself.
The days of kings and constitutions are over. The people want a strong
despotic leader who has first brought about their downfall. And they
will get him—in ME!”
This clinched the matter, and Cecilia, seeing visions of herself as
Madame Tallien, allowed herself to be drawn into his arms!
* * * * *
“Do you know, my beauty,” the triumphant lover said as they floated
back to pick up Arabella upon the last steps, rather late in the
afternoon, “I had meant to get you somehow to-day. If you had refused
to listen, I intended to take you to the Lido and keep you there all
night—the gondolier and the people there are bribed—then you would
have had no choice but to marry me. Oh, you cannot balk me!”
And all Cecilia Cricklander replied was, with a girlish giggle of
“Oh, Percy, dear!”
In the innermost recesses of their hearts there are a number of cold
women who adore a bold buccaneer!
She had made one stipulation with him before they landed, and this
was one which in the future—little as she knew it then—would rob her
of all her triumph over John Derringham, and plant an everlasting and
bitter sting in her breast.
She insisted that, as she did not wish to create a nine days'
wonder, no mention of his engagement to herself should be made public
by Mr. Hanbury-Green for at least a month after people were aware that
she had closed hers with John Derringham. All should be done with
decency and in order, so as not to militate in any way against her
future position as queen of the winning side.
And, knowing that he had already telegraphed the announcement that
the marriage arranged between the Right Honorable John Derringham and
Mrs. Vincent Cricklander would not take place, so that it should appear
in the Monday morning papers—Mr. Hanbury-Green felt he could safely
comply with her caprice and bide his time. He had not the slightest
intention of ever permitting a whim of hers to interfere with his real
wishes in any way, and having a full command of her own weapons and
methods, he looked forward to a time of uninterrupted bliss when once
she should be his wife. To dissemble for a month or so would not hurt
him, and might even amuse him as a new game.
So they entered Daniellis in subdued triumph, and said good night
before Arabella, with prim decorum, and then Cecilia mounted to make
herself look beautiful for the flinging of his conge in John
When Halcyone left the Fortezza she was conscious of no feeling of
depression or grief. Rather a gladness and security filled her heart.
She had seen him with her mortal eyes—her dear lover—and he was in
truth greatly in need of all her care and tender thoughts. Her beliefs
were so intense in those forces of protection with which that God Whom
she worshiped so truly surrounded her, that she never for a moment
doubted but these invisible currents would be directed to the
disentangling of destiny's threads.
She made no speculations as to how this would be—God would find the
way. Her attitude was never one of pious resignation to a divine
chastisement. She did not believe God ever meant to chastise anyone.
For good or ill each circumstance was brought about by the individual's
own action in setting the sequence of events in motion, as the planting
of seed in the early spring produced fair flowers in the summer—or the
bruising of a limb produced pain. And the motion must go on until the
price had been paid or the pleasure obtained. And, when long ago she
had heard Cheiron and John Derringham having abstruse arguments upon
Chance, she used silently to wonder how they could be so dull as not to
understand there was no such thing really as Chance—if people were
only enabled to see clearly enough. If they could only trace events in
their lives to their sources, they would find that they themselves had
long ago—even perhaps in some former existence—put in motion the
currents to draw the events to themselves. What could be called
“chance” in the matter was only another name for ignorance.
And, if people knew about these wonderful forces of nature, they
could connect themselves with only the good ones, and protect
themselves from the bad. Misfortune came through—figuratively—not
knowing just where to put the feet, and through not looking ahead to
see what would be the result of actions.
Only, above and beyond all these forces of nature and these currents
of cause and effect, there was still the great, eternal Source of all
things, who was able to dispel ignorance and to endow one individual
with the power to help another by his prayers and thoughts. This God
could hasten and bring Happiness, if only He were believed in with
absolute faith. But that He would ever stoop to punish was an
unheard-of blasphemy. He was only and entirely concerned with good.
Punishments came as the results of actions. It followed then that John
Derringham, having paid the price of much sorrow for all his mistakes,
would now come into peace—and her prayers, and exceptional advantages
in having been allowed for years to learn the forces of nature, would
be permitted to help him. That he would be obliged to marry Mrs.
Cricklander would seem to be an overexaction, and not just. But they
were not the judges, and must in all cases fulfill their part of
honesty and truth, no matter what might betide.
These were her convictions, and so they caused her to feel only a
God-like calm—as she went away into the purple shadows of the old
Cheiron and she had been at San Gimignano for half a week, and
almost every child in the place knew and loved her. She had always a
gracious word or a merry smile when they clustered round her, as is
their friendly way with all travelers, when she came from the Cathedral
or the strange old solitary chapel of St. Jacopo.
The Professor was waiting for her on the hotel steps, and he saw by
some extra radiance in her face that something unusual had happened.
“What is it, my child?” he asked, as they went in and up to their
dinner in the big salle a manger upon the first floor, which was
then nearly always empty of guests.
“John Derringham is here, Master,” she said—“and we have talked,
and now all shadows are gone—and we must only wait.”
“I am glad to hear it,” replied Cheiron, and bristled his brows.
This is all that was said between them on the subject, and,
immediately the meal was over, they retired to their rooms. But when
alone in hers, Halcyone took from the silken wrappings the Goddess
Aphrodite, and in the divine eyes read a glad blessing, and, as soon as
her head touched her pillow, she fell into a soft sweet sleep, while
the warm night winds flew in at the wide-opened windows and caressed
And John Derringham, when the dark had fallen, came down from his
high watch tower, and walked slowly back to the hotel, leaning upon his
stick. He was still filled with the hush of his loved one's serene
calm. Surely, after all, there must be some truth in her beliefs, and
he would trust to them, too, and wait and hope—and above all keep his
word, as she had said, with that honor which is entailed upon a
He ordered his motor for dawn the next morning, so as to be away
before the chance of disturbing the two should occur.
The rare and wonderful sight of a motor in those days caused a crowd
to collect whenever one should arrive or depart. It was an unheard-of
thing that two should visit the city at the same time—there had only
been three in the whole year—so Halcyone, when she heard the whizz
next morning, bounded from her bed and rushed to peep between the green
shutters. Some instinct told her that the noise indicated it was
he—her dear lover—about to start, and she had the happiness of gazing
down upon his upturned face unperceived, as his eyes searched the
windows, perhaps in some vague hope of being able to discern which was
And she showered upon him blessings of love and tenderness, and
called all the currents of good from the sky and the air, to comfort
and protect him and give him strength to go back and keep his word.
And, just as he was starting, a white pigeon flew down and circled
round John Derringham's head—and he was conscious that at the same
moment the sun must have risen above the horizon, for it suddenly
gilded the highest towers. And he passed out of the dark gate into its
glory, and took the Siena road, a mighty purpose of strength in his
After a few days of wandering, during which he strove not to let
grief or depression master him again, he sent a telegram to Venice to
Cecilia Cricklander. And on that Saturday evening, he walked into her
sitting-room with a pale and composed face.
She was seated upon the sofa and arranged with every care, and was
looking triumphantly beautiful as she smoked a cigarette. Her fine eyes
had in them all the mocking of the fiend as she greeted him lazily.
“How are you, John?” she said casually—and puffed rings of smoke,
curling up her red lips to do so in a manner that, John Derringham was
unpleasantly aware, he would once have found attractive, but that now
only filled him with disgust.
“I am well,” he said, “thank you,—better for the change and the
sight of some most interesting things.”
“And I, also,” she responded with provoking glances from under her
lids, “am better—for the change! I have seen—a man, since which I
seem to be able the better to value your love!”
And she leaned back and laughed with rasping mockery, which galled
his ears—although for some strange reason she could no longer gall his
soul. He felt calm and blandly indifferent to her, like someone acting
in a dream.
“I am glad you were, and are, amused,” he said. He had not made the
slightest attempt to kiss her in greeting—and she had not even held
out her hand.
“You are quite rich now, John, aren't you?” after a short silence
she presently asked nonchalantly—“that is, as you English count
riches—ten or twelve thousand a year. I suppose it will keep you in
He leaned back and smiled one of his old cynical smiles.
“Yes,” he said, “it is extremely rich for me; my personal wants are
“That is splendid, then,” she went on, “because I shall not feel I
am really depriving you of anything by doing what I intend to do in
throwing you over—otherwise I should have been glad to settle
something upon you for life!”
As he listened, John Derringham's eyes flashed forth steel, but the
pith of her speech had in it such divine portent, as it fell upon his
ears, that the insult of its wording left him less roused than she
hoped he would have been.
She saw that it was joy, not rage, which lay deep in his eyes, and
the fury of her whole nature blazed up, so that she forgot the years of
polish that she had acquired—forgot her elaborately prepared plan that
for an hour she would torture and play with him, as a cat plays with a
mouse, and, crimsoning with wrath, she hurled forth her displeasure,
cutting things short.
“You are only a paltry fortune-hunter, John Derringham, for all your
fine talk,” she said loudly, raising her voice, and allowing it to
regain its original broad accent, “and I have kept you on just to
punish you. But, if you thought I was ever going to marry you now that
you are no better than a cripple, and don't amount to thirty cents in
the opinion of the world—you or your Government either!—you made a
great mistake. I have something much more delightful on hand—so you
can take back your ring and your freedom—and go and find some meeker
woman who will put up with your airs.”
And she picked up from a table beside her his diamond gage, which
she had taken from her hand before his entrance, and threw it over to
him—and then leaned back as if exhausted with anger among the
John Derringham had grown very pale as the insulting words fell from
her lips—and now he rose to his feet, and standing there looked at her
with pitying contempt.
“Then I will say good-by, Cecilia,” he said. “The manner of your
release of me cancels the pain it might otherwise have caused me. I can
only wish you all success with any new venture you may make—and assure
you always of my deep respect.”
And, calmly putting the ring in his pocket, he turned round and
slowly left the room—when, meeting Arabella upon the stairs, she was
startled to see him shaking with sardonic laughter.
“Good-night, and good-by, dear Miss Clinker,” he said; “I am glad to
have had this opportunity of thanking you again and again for your
sweet goodness to me when I was ill; it was something which I shall
“Oh, Mr. Derringham!” said Arabella, “you haven't parted from Mrs.
Cricklander, have you?” But she saw from his laughing eyes that he had,
and, before she was aware of it, good, honest soul, she had blurted
out: “Oh, I'm so glad!”
Then they shook hands heartily, to hide her dreadful confusion, and
John Derringham went on to his rooms at the Britannia, where he was
staying, with nothing but a mad, wild joy in his heart.
What did Cecilia Cricklander's insults matter? What did anything on
earth matter? He was free to go and seek his beloved one—and have
every sorrow healed as he held her to his heart. The only necessary
thing now was to find her immediately, which would require some
thinking out. It was too late to get an answer to any telegrams to
England—he must wait until the morning. Mrs. Porrit would know where
Cheiron's next address would be. Yes, he could hope to come up with the
wanderers perhaps not later than the day after tomorrow.
But when Arabella entered her employer's sitting-room after wishing
him good-by, she found Mrs. Cricklander in violent hysterics, and she
had to have the doctor and a sleeping draught before she could be
The hatefulness, the impossible arrogance and insolence of the man,
she had thought! and the humiliation to herself of knowing full well
that, instead of making this dismissal a scene of subtle superlative
cleverness, so that through all his torture he would be obliged to
admire and respect her skill—she had let her temper get the better of
her, and had shown him a side of herself that, she was well aware, was
most unrefined, so that he had been able to leave her, not as a
humbled, beaten cur, as she had intended, but feeling what she knew to
be unfeigned contempt.
No wonder she had hysterics! It was galling beyond compare, and not
all Mr. Hanbury-Green's devotion or flattery next day could heal the
“Oh, how I will help you, Percy!” she said, “to pull them all down
from their pedestals, and drag them to the guillotine!”
And Mr. Hanbury-Green had laughed, and said it gratified him greatly
to feel her sympathy and cooeperation would be with him, but he feared
they would never have the humorous pleasure of getting as far as that!
And, it being a Sunday, Arabella Clinker wrote to her mother to
apprise her of these events.
The engagement is over [Mrs. Clinker was told]—the advent of
Hanbury-Green (a very unpleasant personality, afraid of being
to me in case I should fancy myself his equal) seemed to clinch
matters in M. E.'s mind. I suppose he was able to give her some
definite assurance of the future of the Government. In any
could see, when they returned from their excursion in the
yesterday, that things were upon a very familiar footing
them. Mr. H.G. has none of Mr. Derringham's restraint or
and, after M. E. had seen Mr. Derringham and, I presume,
his freedom, she had a terrible fit of hysterics, only calmed
Mr. Hanbury-Green entered the room and suggested emptying the
jug over her. It appears he has a sister who is subject to
attacks, and this is the only method which has any effect upon
suppose in his circle they would have a number of crude
which we are unaccustomed to, but it seemed to be the right one
M. E., who pulled herself together at once.
They told me privately that they are engaged, but do not intend
announce it yet, and I believe they are really suited to each
I had thought at one time that Mr. Derringham might be equally
for her, because of his selfishness, but, after I grew to know
when he was ill, I saw that he was infinitely above her, and
really more selfish than other men—and, as you know, I have
to him my pity and commiseration ever since. Your liking of him
confirmed my good opinion. I am to stay on with M. E. as long
will, because Mr. Hanbury-Green, she says, is not cultivated
and I may be of use to them both, she thinks, in the future,
she has not imparted this to him. I do not believe I shall like
having to render his speeches erudite, because my political
convictions are all upon the other side. But something else may
up, and it is a comfort to know things are settled for the
Mr. Derringham looked so joyous as he came from her
after his dismissal, that I am sure he will go off at once to
person I have often given you a hint about,—and his
health may consequently be looked upon as a certainty. I fear
influences we shall have to live under now will not encourage
high tone which endeavoring to keep up with Mr. Derringham and
party entailed, and it may grow more than I can bear. The
to be drawn from M. E.'s defection to the other side is not
felicitous, and gives me cause for the most gloomy foreboding
the future of the country, because she would never have done it
she had not received from Mr. Hanbury-Green absolute guarantees
with him she will occupy the highest position. Everything
Conservative is vieux jeu now, she says, and she must go
And from this the letter wandered on to personal matters.
Meanwhile John Derringham had received Mrs. Porrit's answer and had
ascertained the Professor's probable address, and was joyously speeding
his way on to Rome.
The Palace of the Caesars was lying in blazing heat when Halcyone
and the Professor decided to spend the afternoon there. People had
warned them not to get to Rome until October, but they were both lovers
of the sun, and paid no heed. It would be particularly delightful to
have the eternal city to themselves, and they had come straight down
from San Gimignano, meaning to pick up their motor again at Perugia on
their way back, as the roads to the south were so bad.
They had only arrived the evening before, and felt the Palatine hill
should be their first pilgrimage. It was completely deserted in the
heat and they wandered in peace. They had gone all through the dark
rooms which overlook the Forum, and had reached the garden upon the
top, with its cypress and cool shade. Here Halcyone sat down on a
bench, looking over the wonderful scene. She wanted to re-read a letter
from her Aunt Roberta which had arrived as they were starting out.
The old ladies were delighted with their accession to a modest
fortune, the matter was turning out well, and they hoped to have their
ancient brougham repainted and a quiet horse to draw it, before very
long, so that, even when it rained, they could have the pleasure of
going to church.
William, the Aunt Roberta added, was really growing a little old for
so many duties, and would, under the new and more prosperous regime, confine himself to being only butler. Halcyone would find several
changes on her return; among them the four gates had been mended!
As she read this part of the letter, Halcyone almost sighed! The
gates, especially the one of the beech avenue, had always been such
friends of hers, she knew and loved each crack. And then her thoughts
wandered, as ever, to her lover. Where was he and how had it fared with
him? Her serene calm was not disturbed—she felt certainty in every
breath of the soft warm air—the certainty that the springtime of their
souls had come.
Now, that same morning, John Derringham had arrived at the Grand
Hotel, and, after breakfasting, had made his way to the hotel to which
Mrs. Porrit had informed him the Professor's letters were to be
addressed. And Demetrius, whom he asked for, hearing Mr. Carlyon was
out, was able to give him information as to where his master had gone;
so that he set off at once.
The Palace of the Caesars was rather a labyrinth to expect to find
anybody in, but he would do his best. And so it happened, after about
an hour's search, that he came upon Cheiron alone, just as he reached
Mr. Carlyon held out his hand.
“Well, John,” he said, “and so we meet again.”
His old pupil shook it heartily, and Cheiron, seeing that joyous
light in his eyes, raised his left penthouse with a whimsical smile.
“Got clear of the Octopus, I should imagine,” he said laconically.
“Well, better late than never—Halcyone is over on the bench under the
cypress, gazing upon the Tarpeian rock; perhaps you may like to go to
her—” and he pointed in that direction.
“It is what I have come at post-haste from Venice to do, Master,”
John Derringham said. “Mrs. Cricklander was kind enough to release me
on Saturday evening—she has other views, it seems!”—and he laughed
with his old boyish gayety.
“Well, I won't keep you,” Cheiron answered. “Bring my little girl
back to the hotel when these gates shut. No doubt you will have enough
to talk about till then,” and he smiled benignly.
“You will give us your blessing, Master?” John Derringham asked. But
the Professor growled as he turned to go on.
“She has my blessing always,” he said, “and you will have it, too,
if you make her happy, but you don't deserve her, you know, John.”
John Derringham drew himself up and looked straight out in front of
him—his face was moved.
“I know I do not,” he said, “but I hope you believe me, Cheiron,
when I tell you that I mean to devote the rest of my life to attain
that object—and at least no man could worship her more.”
“Get on with your courting then, lad!” said the Professor, pointing
with his stick in Halcyone's direction, while his wise eyes smiled. “I
suppose she will think you perfect in any case—it is her incredible
conviction!” And with this he shook his old pupil's hand again, and the
two men went their separate ways; John Derringham forgetful of even his
lame ankle as he rapidly approached his beloved.
She saw him coming—she had been thinking of him deeply in an
exquisite day-dream, and this seemed just the sequence of it, and quite
natural and yet divine.
She rose and held out both hands to him, the radiance of heaven in
her tender eyes. For she knew that all was well and joy had come.
And they spoke not a word as he folded her in his arms.
* * * * *
A week later they were married very quietly at the Embassy, and went
south to spend their honeymoon, leaving Mr. Carlyon to go back to
England alone. He was tired of wandering, he said, and sighed for the
comforts of the orchard house and his pipe and his Aristotle.
And Aphrodite went with the bridal pair, no doubt content.
The manner of Mrs. Cricklander's dismissal of John Derringham had
left him unhampered by any consideration for her feelings.
And when she read the announcement in the New York Herald the
day after the wedding, she burned with furious rage.
So this was the meaning of everything all along! It had not been
Cora Lutworth or his political preoccupations, or anything but simply
the odious fact that he had been in love with somebody else! This
wretched English girl had taken him from her—a creature of whose
existence she had never even heard!
And the world would know of his marriage before her own news had
been made public! The gall of the whole thing was hardly to be borne!
She felt that, had she been aware that John Derringham's affections
were really given elsewhere, nothing would have induced her to break
off the engagement! Mr. Hanbury-Green was all very well, and was being
a most exceptional lover, only this hateful humiliation and blow to her
self-love mattered more than any mere man!
But of such things the married two recked not at all. Their
springtime of bliss had come.
And, as they sat absolutely alone upon the inner steps of the Temple
of Poseidon at Paestum, looking out upon the sapphire sea and azure
sky, the noble columns in front of them all bathed in golden light, and
a solemn crow perched above as priest to bless them, Halcyone drew the
wrappings from the goddess's head.
“See, John,” she said, “Aphrodite is perfectly happy; she is smiling
as never before. She knows that we have found all her message.” And she
laid her head against his shoulder as he encircled her with his arm.
“Dear,” she went on, with that misty look in her serene eyes as
though they could see into the beyond, “for me, however much beautiful
things exalt me and take me to God, I can never go there alone. It
always seems as if I must put out my hand and take your hand.”
“Sweetheart,” he answered, holding her close, “and long ago I called
love a draught of the poison cup—what a poor blind fool was I!”
“Yes,” she said tenderly. “John, we are much wiser now—and, when we
return to the world out of this divine dream-country, you will teach me
of that life which you must live in the fierce arena where you will
fight for a principle against such odds; and I shall be always there to
comfort you and give you of my sympathy and tenderness. And, as you
instruct me in the day and its strenuous toils, I will teach you of the
soothing, peaceful currents of the night. And we shall know only joy,
because we have seen how it always comes if we go straight on and leave
the tangled threads to God.”
John Derringham bent and kissed her lips and he murmured:
“My darling—my one woman with a soul.”