As a weather prophet Masters proved more reliable than those who fill a like mission on the daily papers.
It rained heavily all the afternoon. His landlady when she brought in his tea remarked that it was pouring cats and dogs—the latter, presumably, of the Skye terrier breed.
A temporary clearance of the weather came about in the evening. Masters was glad; he went to Ivy Cottage. The bungalow-like building was curiously situate in its own square piece of grass land, fronting the sea. The back of the house looked on to the road leading to the railway station a little distance away. Admission to the cottage was gained by doors at back and front of it.
The house agent entrusted with the letting of the place had described it as possessed of advantages not to be passed over lightly.There was one—an unsurpassed convenience in the matter of not missing a train—that certainly was undeniable and evident.
So close was the back of the house to the railway that from the windows an approaching train could be seen in time enough to allow of easy walking to catch it. Masters walked up the gravel path to the front door. Touched the push of the bell.... A trim maid-servant responded. He enquired:
"Miss Mivvins—is she within?"
The girl started. Hesitated as she looked at him closely—doubtfully—for a moment. Then opened a side door in the hall, requesting him to enter and be seated.
It was a charmingly arranged room to which he was thus introduced. Evidenced woman in every insignificant little detail; her gentle touch was visible in all things. He thought of the touch of one woman in particular.
Miss Mivvins' spirit seemed to have impressed itself in every fold of the curtains; in all the quiet harmony of colouring; in the inexpensive simplicity of the whole—as distinct from cheapness.
Expensive simplicity often stamps the quality of a room; it was not to be seen here. There was nothing cheap about the furnishing; nothing meretricious; nothingto catch the eye. Nothing of the enamel paint and varnish description; all in that apartment was plainly and simply what it represented itself to be; its keynote: truth.
Masters was astonished. Because he had no idea that such signs of refinement existed in Wivernsea. But then he knew its lodging houses only—where the great god is Aspinall and an uneasy chair the only attempt at comfort.
He sat some moments waiting. Whilst doing so, he thought again of the curious way in which the maid had looked at him. Perhaps Miss Mivvins was in a less comfortable place than he had thought. He had judged by the freedom she enjoyed, that no possible harm could result from his visit to her. Was he wrong?
Perhaps that accounted for her hesitation, when he had suggested calling with the books. What a fool he had been, not to think of that! Perhaps she would get into trouble by reason of his visit to her employer's house.
The more he thought of this the more uncomfortable he became. As a result of his deliberations, determined that he would make his stay a short and formal one. There could surely be no harm accrue to her from that.
The rustle of a woman's dress warned himof her approach. Presently she entered. The moment his eyes rested on her he was amazed: she was dressed so perfectly. No scrap of colour; no scintillation of a jewel.
He had a mere man's eye for woman's dress—sensible of the tout ensemble, not of detail—but he did not despise it. It seemed fitting to him that graceful women should be gracefully attired.
All harmony was grateful to his soul; it did not seem unnatural for Miss Mivvins to be gowned in accordance with her beauty. Still he experienced astonishment, grave astonishment, when she entered.
For the life of him he could not have defined the impression which took hold of him. But he knew that her gown was of some soft, rich, silken, costly texture. Resultant upon that was the belief that her place must be an easier one than he had begun to think it.
The extension of her hand to him. Once more with it in his own, he felt thrilled. That feeling and his previous resolve to hurry away did not blend well. The thrill remained; the resolve faded.
He produced the books he had promised to bring with him. On the fly-leaf of each he had written her name; beneath it had appended his signature. So many peoplebothered him for autograph copies of his books, that it was a pardonable vanity if he had begun to think there was something around his signature which enhanced the value of his works. So he had penned the words,With kindest regards, from the Author, between her name and his own.
At sight of what he had written she laughed. At first, gently; a gentleness which passed into real hearty mirth. Then, catching sight of his face, the laugh died away ashamedly! Had she whipped him he could not have looked more hurt. His hyper-sensitive nature was suffering.
That laughter acted on Masters as if the ceiling had opened and a shower of cold water had fallen—his face showed it. To be the subject of mirth was a novelty to him. He was glad that that was so. Felt that it was not a pleasant sensation to experience. That a very little of it went an extremely long way.
She flushed with annoyance at her own rudeness; with shame for having wounded the feelings of her visitor. He had not the faintest idea why she laughed, of course; want of knowledge so often leads to misunderstanding. She said hurriedly:
"I hope you do not—oh, how can I explain what I was laughing at? Mr. Masters,don't, pray don't—I beg of you—think I was rude—intended to be rude—or that I was laughing at anything even remotely connected with these books, which, believe me, I shall always value, always prize."
That earnest humble little speech of hers did not sponge away the look from his face. In her eagerness to acquit herself she placed her hand on his arm—it was for the second time that day. It was a habit of hers when moved. Was quite an innocent gesture; but there was—in his estimation, anyway—a distinct piquancy about its naturalness.
"Oh—Mr. Masters!"
She got as far as that. Then stood at a loss for words. She had spoken in such dead earnest tones that it would have been absurd to think her lying. Finding her tongue again, she continued:
"Pray, pray believe me! I was stupid, I know, but don't be so hard as to think me capable of insulting you. Don't! Please, don't!"
His forgiveness was hers that moment. The wonder remained what she could have laughed at—but all else was forgotten. She had looked into his eyes—a pretty woman's trick, mostly always successful. When performed with such eyes as Miss Mivvins' failure was absolutely impossible.
"I don't think you rude. Don't think you insulting. I could not think any ill thing of you if I tried."
She had badly wanted to hear just some such thing. But there was that in the tone in which he spoke it that made her flush again. She drew in her breath; drew back a little.
"I am so glad!"
Miss Mivvins spoke impetuously—nervously. She to be nervous! And that, too, in speaking to such a boyish, ingenuous individual as was Masters! It was quite too absurd! She continued:
"I—I should not like you to think badly of me."
She was obviously ill at ease—the obviousness was the worst part of it. She knew that herself; knew quite well. It was because he believed in her! Because he trusted her so implicitly; had an almost childlike faith in her.
With all the other men she had known, on whom she had exerted the power of her fascination, her woman's ways and wiles had seemed fair and fitting. They were but part of the game, and understood by both sides of it. The men had been men of the world—her world—armed and armoured against her coquetry and charm.
Flirtation in those instances had been carried to the point of a fine art—it was part of the life she lived. But it had been flirtation, pure and simple. Though it was amusing enough while it lasted, it had been fencing with blunt points.
No one had any wounds—not a scratch. Experience had taught them all to play the game skilfully. No one had been deceived into taking things seriously. No soul was a scrap the worse.
But Masters was of another world than hers. Superficiality seemed unknown to him; he put his heart into what he said and did. Playing with life was evidently a thing unknown to him; he was in earnest; always would be; that was his temperament. Honest himself, he believed her to be likewise.
What a character! Of course it appealed to her—she would not have been a woman if it had not. He would face her woman's weapons—even her most innocent little deceptions—unsuspecting; unarmed. To shower on him the full force of her artillery would be grossly unfair.
She was constrained to throw off the conventional. To don the mantle of guilelessness—such as he wore himself. He made it impossible for her to act otherwise. But the experience was quite a new one to her; itwas the novelty that made her nervous. To be trusted—implicitly—was delightfully disconcerting.
Her manner filled Masters with wonder. The key to the mysterious nervousness was not in his possession. Again there flitted across his mind the idea that it arose from his visit to her employer's house.
His resolution to stay but a little time occurred to him. It would be best to go. Yet he abhorred the idea of so speedy a parting; if only he could——He paused. Thought a moment. Risked it; said tentatively:
"The rain has ceased. It is damp below but bright above."
A pause. His reference to the weather seemed out of place. She did not know the difficulty he was experiencing in screwing his courage to the sticking place. He continued:
"I am walking to the end of the parade and back."
Having voiced as much, his conversational powers failed him. He somehow hoped that she would suggest joining him in his walk. That his ignorance of women was of vast magnitude was evidenced by the nature of that hope.
He was very transparent—so much sothat there was no difficulty in guessing his thoughts. She smiled. Ingenuousness was scarcely the word for him! He should have known the impossibility of her offering to accompany him, however much she might desire to do so. As she did not speak he went even further, saying, with nervous awkwardness:
"It is a warm evening—will you walk with me?"
The smile left her face and her eyes opened wide. She was startled at the suddenness of his request. Still more at the nature of it. Then remembered the nature of the man. Felt too that there was owing to him something for that unkind laugh of hers. Then there was the trend of her own feelings! After a moment she tossed discretion to the winds; said:
"I shall be glad to—if you wish it!"
The words spoken, she was amazed at their utterance. Her ready acquiescence pleased him. It voiced that honesty he thought so precious in her, which was so sadly lacking in other women. He suspected that another member of her sex would have raised scruples, merely that he might flatter himself that he had overcome them.
The absence of such coquetry in Miss Mivvins was refreshing—refreshing as therays of the sun after electric light. So he likened her womanhood to other women's. He little knew what a whited sepulchre she felt herself to be. His admiration of what she did not possess positively hurt her.
Leaving the room for outdoor covering, she presently returned with a long warm cloak and her hat. Had got them from the hall; came back with them over her arm. Having agreed to accompany him, she lost no time.
He assisted her to put on the cloak: an expensive, fur-lined wrap. He could not but notice that as, with trembling fingers—a nervousness born of his touch of her—he helped to button the garment down the front.
Microbes multiply in darkness; sunlight kills them. Her natural manner, open as day, crushed the germ of suspicion. They left the house and walked along the parade: in the direction of the seat at the end of it.
The moon was now shining, now obscured. A capricious, gusty wind played fantastic tricks with dark clouds across its face. But by the time the eastern end of the sea wall was reached the Goddess of Night had risen clear; was shining brightly. She silvered and lighted up the rippling waters: jewelling it as only the moon can.
"Shall we rest for a few minutes?"
The suggestion was Masters'. Not that he was tired. But he had that on his mind to unload, which he felt would be easier of utterance sitting down.
They sat. After an awkward interval—she was afraid to help him—he spoke again. Not without difficulty. Love-making in his novels he had found the easiest part of his writing. He was finding reality a steed of a totally different colour.
In an imaginative man it is possible forimagination to be more real than reality; just as a painting may give a truer impression than a photograph. To Masters, just now, reality seemed frigid and limited. He felt himself bound; tied down to—and by—hard-and-fast lines.
Then again there was the horrible uncertainty: he was not sure. It was necessary to feel his way. He had heard her laugh once. He did not need a second edition of that—with himself filling the rôle of laughee. He had no desire to figure as a larger-sized ass than was possible. Putting stripes on a donkey does not make a zebra of it. He said slowly:
"I have been here, to Wivernsea, regularly for years past. Have sat on this seat scores and scores of times. Now—I shall never forget Wivernsea or this seat."
That was his heavily-shod method of feeling his way; of nearly putting his foot into it. She afforded him no fragment of assistance; being a woman, of course help was not to be expected of her. Woman is an enigma; sympathetic to the point of soft-as-silk, heart bleeding; yet there are times when she finds pleasure in a man's agony. Masters' speech simply elicited the query:
"Why?"
He gathered boldness from the sheer impudence of her question. Felt that it was impossible that she could have misunderstood; said:
"I shall always link the place—and the seat—with thoughts of you."
Her impudence had limits. She could not affect to misunderstand that. Besides, the accelerated beating of her heart warned her. She must change the subject.
"The last time we were sitting here, Mr. Masters, you hurriedly broke into the subject of palmistry, with wise prophecies of bad weather."
"Realized prophecies! Give me that credit!"
"Certainly; you deserve it! But tell me now—quite seriously—do you believe in palmistry?"
The dexterous turning of the subject annoyed him. He was, however, compelled to reply to her question; said:
"Seriously? Well, to an extent—yes."
"Really?"
"Oh, don't think I go too far! Don't for a moment suppose that I am pretending that the geography of the future, mountains, plains—the ups and downs of life—can be studied from the map of the hand."
"And yet I have heard——"
"Charlatans profess to do so? Oh, yes; scores of them. I can understand a nimble-witted, half-a-guinea—or a guinea if she can get it—Regent Street sibyl professing so. That is fraud; absolute downright fraud. But I believe that much of a man's or woman's temperament, disposition, call it what you will, can be plainly read from the lines of the hand."
"Read mine."
She spoke impulsively. Persuasively too, the while she pulled off her glove. Palmistry, if it does not truly predict fate, is ofttimes responsible for much of its direction.
To hold her warm little hand in his—she had kept it close within the recesses of her muff—was much too good an opportunity to let slip. He bent over; spent quite a time on the study of the lines on her palm. He had only the light of the moon to work by; perhaps that accounted for the time expenditure; or perhaps he—well, anyway, he was holding her hand all the while.
During the task—it was a silent one—he was tempted, sore, to put his lips in the warm centre of what he held. Possibly she divined that; gathered it perhaps from the trembling of his fingers as they grasped her own. Stiffening a little, she queried:
"Well?"
Her voice was as the application of a brake; pulled him up. Tightening his hold on himself he loosened his tongue.
"Temperament first," he answered. "Passionate—wilful—affectionate—hasty——"
The reading was wound up at that point. The cataloguer paused, as it were, in the middle of his list. In astonishment she asked:
"Why do you stop? Is that all you can read?"
"No—no. But my belief—my faith—is shaken!"
Just a faint tremor in the voice—it was not unnoticed by him—as she asked:
"Faith? In what?"
He fenced. Did not like to shape words around what he thought he read. The truth is not always pleasant. So it was that he answered:
"Palmistry as a science."
The woman's voice was steadied again. There was a ring of merriment in it, ridiculing his seriousness, as she said—
"Why this shaken faith? Because of what you read in my hand?"
"M'yes."
"Tell me——"
"No. What I have read—the indications—I know to be wrong. This is a rude shockto my credence! I shall never again believe in palmistry's infallibility!"
"Tell me?"
She spoke impatiently; her curiosity was well aroused. Scrutinizing her hand with interest; wholly disbelieving him, she said imperatively:
"What do you read?"
"There seemed to be indicated characteristics there, the exact opposite of those you possess."
"Tell me?"
"No."
She drew her hand away a trifle angrily: obstinacy opposed to curiosity is as flint to steel. Fingers, trembling a little, began putting on her glove. The look in her eyes could not be truthfully described as softness; all the same it was very becoming.
He was not insensible of her feeling, for the birth of which he was responsible. Just restrained her: put his hand out on to hers. A simple act, but one he performed more gravely than the occasion warranted; said:
"Don't be angry."
Then hesitated; conscious, now he had spoken, that the admonition—by presupposing cause for it—was not likely to improvematters. Felt that he had put a large-sized foot into it.
"Angry!"
The glitter in her eyes, as she repeated his word, warned him that his intuition was correct; made him say:
"Well—annoyed."
"You are so—so provoking!"
"I am sorry——"
"No, you are not! You are not sorry a little bit!"
"Believe me——"
"If you were sorry for your rudeness——"
"Rudeness!"
"Yes!"
She spoke with a certain tone of defiance; her anger blinding her to the fitness of things—he was really but an acquaintance; continued:
"I think so. Tell me, what did you read?"
His silence incensed her more. Tapping her foot impatiently at his manifest reluctance to answer, she went on:
"What does it matter? You say you read the exact opposite of the truth."
"If you insist——"
She was in buckram in a moment; pride stiffened her. Drawing herself up, she interrupted him; spoke with an imperious little gesture:
"Oh, no! I have no right to do that. I merely asked."
Miss Mivvins rose to her feet: a woman's way of terminating an interview. In his sorrow—disappointment—once more he touched her hand restrainingly.
"Please sit down."
The note of pleading sounded in his voice. Then—surely his good angel whispered him which line to strike out—he added:
"Don't go yet. You are right—I was wrong."
Masters took his stand on that apology and made capital out of it. Miss Mivvins resumed her seat. With all his ignorance of the treatment women expected—out of books—he had acted in strict consonance with the sex's idea of the fitness of things.
To own up to the rightness of the woman you are talking with, and your own wrong, is as oil to machinery. It is an almost infallible way of worming yourself into the woman's good graces; rarely fails. Its lack of truth is compensated for by its success: the Jesuitical theory that the end justifies the means.
"Why I said the exact opposite, was because in your hand there are lines"—he was holding her hand in his now; holding it tightly as if he did not want it to slip away again—"which signify love of admiration—society—entertainment—jewels—riches—luxury—noise—bustleand excitement."
She listened to the catalogue in silence—save for the eloquence of the lashes of her eyes.
"And if," she queried after a moment, "if I confessed to all that—that you had read correctly—what then?"
He smiled, so certain was he of the falsity of his catalogue: that her character was very different from his delineation.
"At the risk of your again calling me rude," he answered, "I should say you were speaking falsely."
"Why?"
"Because in Nature's library there is a more truthful book to read than that of the hand—the face."
She started; he had commenced the perusal of what he referred to. Her slight blush was hidden; a kindly cloud passed over the moon at the moment.
"I have read that face of yours—read it again and again. I read it each time I see you, I read it even when I do not see you; your face is never away from me now."
His voice had grown very soft. Having taken his courage in both hands he made the first real movement in their little comedy. There followed on his speech a slight pause—aninterval filled in, as it were, by the provision of accompanying music: the rippling surge.
She essayed to draw her hand away—not putting too much heart in the attempt. He needed to make no superhuman effort to be successful in its retention.
"Do you know that you are the cause of my destruction of three-fourths of a story I have written?"
Her astonishment at his utterance was due to the fact that she did not at all understand him.
"I? Why?"
"The day we met here—a red-letter day in the calendar of my life—when first we sat together on this seat, I was dissatisfied with the heroine I was creating: she was not good enough. You came; I put you in my book; put you in the place of the creation I had been dissatisfied with—the study from life was so much better. And it was so simple; I never had to wander or imagine things about her. She was always—is always—before me."
She persisted in her affected disregard—a poor sort of performance—of the meaning in his voice; asked:
"How have you painted her—me?"
"Unsophisticated, ingenuous, frank, guileless. She comes into the life of a man whohas lived away from women, who has never believed in them, never wanted to. She makes the man see the error of his ways; leads him out of the darkness and blackness of his night into the brightness of her day. She becomes his sun."
His words, the manner of their utterance, made her bosom rise and fall. The deep earnestness in his voice would have moved a much harder heart than hers.
"And he?"
His eyes lighted up as, in reply to that question, he began a sort of description of himself.
"He thanks God for the light! Lives! Lives! Sees things in life he never saw before. She has thrown a searchlight on the barrenness of his solitude: shown him its poverty. He realizes that it is not good for man to live alone."
An onlooker just then would have imagined her sole object in life to be the boring of a hole in the tarred path. She was watching her toe at work with an engrossment of the most, apparently, intense kind.
"And all this—these ideas—were born of my—our—chance meetings?"
"Yes! My work became easier; there was no labour. Your face was as a book to me; an open book. I just seemed to copyfrom it what was written there. But as for chance—who can say? Chance is but unseen direction."
The caress in his voice made itself felt. Ignoring the latter part of his speech she made hurried reply:
"And you read all this in my face? My face which contradicts my hand so?"
So earnest was he, that he grew almost petulant over the wilful misunderstanding, her changing of the subject; said:
"Let the reading of the hand go. I am content with the face."
Looking up, she realized that his eager eyes were fixed earnestly on her. Saw in them the smouldering fire waiting for the smallest draught to lick it into flame.
"Are you reading it now? Don't you know"—with a nervous little laugh—"that it is very rude to stare so?"
He felt reminded of the action of an engine's piston: his heart was pumping so furiously.
"Don't," he urged. "Please don't say so. It would wipe out half the happiness of your presence if——"
That eagerness of his must be checked! There was no knowing how far it would lead! She stepped behind the lattice of conventionality.
"It is growing late." She was on her feet; used the interview terminator again. "We must be returning."
He drew in his breath; was so afraid. Struggled in vain to control his rebellious pulse; fancied he had gone too far. Tried to retrace his steps and found—as most of us do—walking backwards gracefully to be a matter difficult of performance.
"I have not offended you by speaking as I have done, the truth?"
"Offended!"
She spoke shortly. Just repeated his word, not being in a mood for the making of long speeches; added:
"Oh no!... Now let us be going."
They went. Homeward bound the conversation perched on stilts; seemed artificially out of reach; a reserve had sprung up between them. Both were making obvious efforts to be natural. Masters was appreciative of the fact that his own were a sickly failure.
At her gate she assumed merriment; a transparent, fraudulent kind of mirth. Said laughingly, one hand on the latch, the other ready to place in his:
"And now, Mr. Prophet, what of the morrow? Think you will it hail, rain, wind or snow?"
It was not infectious, that merriment of hers. She had fallen on the first subject in Valapuk: the weather. Staple of English intercourse, how many can deny it a debt of gratitude? Common ground—a national heritage whereon we can disport ourselves at ease.
"Rain, I am afraid." He looked round. "Those banks of clouds augur badly."
"You are not a comforting sort of prophet! Assumption of your correctness means confinement to the house all day."
"Yes."
He looked at her as he answered. The glance made it hardly a laconic reply.... She stretched out her hand. With the light in her forget-me-not eyes full on, said:
"Good-bye."
Taking her hand—his retention of it was for a period considerably longer than is considered quite good form in Mayfair—he asked:
"If a wet day—to-morrow, you know—I shall not see you at all, shall I?"
Those eloquent lashes of hers helped her speech as she replied:
"It may clear in the evening, as it did to-day. I may not take Gracie out in the damp. But, unless it rains, I shall take my own walk in the evening."
Even a smaller mercy would have made him thankful. He enquired eagerly:
"At eight o'clock?"
The fringes lifted, giving him what he extravagantly labelled a glimpse of Heaven. In the moonlight he saw all the glory of her eyes, as she answered:
"Yes."
He had never thought it possible that room could be found for so delightful a tone in a woman's voice, as was in Miss Mivvins' utterance of that one-syllable word.
"If you should find me walking on the parade at that time," he suggested, "you—you would not be displeased?"
She looked at him again. What she read prompted her to think him deserving some little reward. Casting her eyes down to her hand, which he was still holding, and lowering her voice too, till it was almost a half-whisper, she said:
"What—what would you think if I said that——"
She hesitated—stopped. Quite eagerly he endeavoured to help her on; interjected:
"Yes?"
"That I might be disappointed if I did not see you?"
The sigh he drew was of a plumbless nature. He answered, his soul in his utterance:
"You will not be disappointed."
The sweetest of sweet tones, speaking in the low, tremulous voice which may say so little but mean so much:
"Good-night!"
A grip of her hand that almost hurt her; a light in his eyes which had never found place there before, and he echoed her final words:
"Good-night!"
Softness in both their voices, in their whole manner. A reciprocated hand pressure.
So they parted.
Miss Mivvins was very full of thought of the man who had left her; he was full to the point of over-brimming of thought of her. They were soulful thoughts, which lasted them both till sleep closed the windows of their souls.
In the case of the man the eyelids remained wide open till the grey dawn flushed rosily before the rising sun. Even then he dreamt: of her.
Later, when he awoke, it was evident that a halo of success would surround his weather prophecy. His prediction of wet turned out correct: it rained nearly all day. But Cupid must have bribed Pluvius; the rain ceased to fall as the grey of evening closed down on the day.
Then they met again. It was a walk only; a walk up and down the front. She did not feel equal to trusting herself on that seat again. Did not trust him—or herself.
A moonlight night, a murmuring sea and a man with eyes of greater eloquence than his tongue possessed—decidedly she thought it was best to avoid sitting down.
Miss Mivvins did not altogether seem herself; was nothing like so bright as she had been before. The sweet mouth never parted in laughter once during all the walk. It was a new mood to him; one in which he could find no pleasantness.
He taxed her with it; something was worrying her. He would have liked to plainly ask what, that he might lighten or at least share the trouble. She, not admitting it, endeavoured to shake off the depression.
As their good-byes were uttered, he exhibited a surprising fertility in the invention of hints of meetings again. She, for reasons known to herself, did not take them.
The weather afforded her a shield; she switched the conversation on to that. Clouds were shaping ominously; there was a prospect of more foul weather on the breaking of the morrow. So was avoided any open reference to another evening walk when they parted.
Clouds, of another kind, seemed to envelop him. He had counted so on the meeting; had watched the ticking away of the hours till the fall of eventide: and after, till eight o'clock came.
All the warmth of the previous evening, all his delicious anticipation, was eclipsed by the frigidity of to-night. He felt like one for whom the sun has set while it is yet day.
He worried himself to the point of haggardness: being a man possessed of strong emotions. Walked home mind-laden with fear that he had done or said something to offend her. Racking his brain, yet failed to find a record; could not imagine what had been his sin.
His slumber was not of the peaceful kind. Although his dreams were of her—the woman his waking thoughts were so full of—they were not of the pleasant kind of yesternight. Again, too, he saw the red fringe in the east grow into dawn before he slept.
A warm, drizzling rainy day; so he found the weather on awaking. So warm that at breakfast he had his window open; his landlady referred to the condition of things as being muggy. That was not the only speech of hers he heard that morning.
The proverb about listeners and the good things they hear occurred to him. By reason of the open window he was unable to avoid overhearing a conversation. It was carried on between the next door landlady and his own.
Masters would have scorned a suggestion ofeavesdropping. He was aroused from the depths of the morning paper, in the columns of which he was immersed, by hearing his own name spoken. That is usually a call to attention to most of us. The voice of the neighbour reached him:
"Yes. My Liza saw 'em walking together, so to speak. Lord, 'e don't look a gent like that, do 'e? But you never know, do you? As I was only sayin' to Mrs. Robinson this very mornin', quiet ones is always the wust. She's a 'ot lot, and no mistake!"
"Are you sure it was my lodger?"
The inquiry was from his own landlady. He recognized her voice, low pitched as it was: there were top notes in it she could never eliminate. The answer came over the garden wall:
"My Liza ain't a fool, I give you my word! There, as I says, you never know, do you? It don't always do to judge by 'pearances. Your ground floor looks as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, as the sayin' is. But she—there! You can tell with 'alf-an-eye what she is."
"Yes. I s'pose there ain't no mistake about that. Fine feathers don't always make fine birds."
"She's going about, in a manner of speaking, plainly dressed too, just now. Ev you noticedit? I see her with my own eyes in Juggins' shop without a single ring on her finger! She as used to ev a 'alf-dozen sparkling di'monds on each 'and."
"Pawned 'em, perhaps."
"No fear! She knows your lodger's well-to-do, and she's working 'im for all 'es wuth, as the sayin' is. Lor! She's up to snuff, I can tell you. As I was sayin' to Mrs. Smith, them kind of women is up to every thing."
A voice, presumably the tones of the afore-mentioned Liza, broke in. The next door neighbour was being called; some one was enquiring about lodgings. The conversation ended with the suddenness of an eye's twinkling.
Little as Masters had heard, he was the whole day trying to digest it. Material for thought was there: a pregnancy of horrible suggestions.
As to his work, he did not write a line; could not read a paragraph. After the manner of a caged beast walked up and down the room. When at last he sat, sheer exhaustion was the compelling force.
His mid-day meal was turned over on his plate; any idea of eating it was out of the question; it was taken away practically untouched. He had no room for physical food; he was so very full just then of mentalprovender. One dominating thought reigned over all others. What should—what could he do?
His habit was to drink a cup of tea in the early afternoon. His landlady entered bearing a little tray. Whilst she was spreading its contents, the thoughts consuming him found vent. He said:
"Don't go away—for a moment. I want to ask you something."
"Yes, sir?"
"You know Ivy Cottage—on the front? Do you know who lives there?"
She looked at him for a moment before answering. An autumn bird needs careful handling; if it takes flight the nest remains empty till the following summer. She passed her tongue over the thin lips which framed it; said warily:
"No, sir. That is to say, not their present names."
Memory's finger pointed out the conversation of the morning over the garden wall; this woman's share in it. He knew she was lying. His anger against things in general was smouldering; something to let it loose on would be a relief. Why this deceit and mystery?
The wisdom of keeping his foot on the brake was known to him. He was wiseenough, too, to grasp the fact that a man in a temper weakens his armour. There was battle to be done; he meant having it out before the woman left his room.
"Is that altogether correct?" he inquired. "Surely you must, living in this place, have heard?"
"Oh!"
Exclamation with a vinegary shake of her head. She was standing now with her mittened hands crossed, prepared evidently for a long talk; continued:
"We hear plenty about them, sir!"
"You know the master of the house?"
"Not the present one, sir—if there is one just now!"
In shaping the deep lines round her mouth his satanic majesty had surely held the graver! Masters thought the meaning smile with which she let loose the innuendo positively hideous in its suggestiveness. His inflammable emotions rendered it difficult for him to get proper control of his voice as he enquired:
"The mistress, then?"
Impatience in the tone of his voice. He had hoped to elicit replies without this direct inquiry. Felt ashamed of himself the while he probed. It was not a feeling the woman shared. She answered:
"Oh, yes, sir."
The readiness of her answer was apparent. She was the kind of woman to whom slander was a dainty morsel to be tongue-rolled. Her own tongue became as the pen of a ready writer. It sickened the questioner, but he continued:
"And the governess?"
Vigorous shaking of the woman's head again. In the same redolent-of-sourness style, too, as she answered:
"There is no governess there, sir. The only servints is the cook and 'ousemaid and the odd boy."
He knew that to be a lie! Hope, that he had thought entombed, rose again. One thing incorrect, why not all? He said sharply:
"You are mistaken!"
"I don't think so, sir."
Again that hideous smile. Accompanied this time by a pitying expression; pity for his simplicity! He was like the generality of men—writhed under pity. It acted on him with the irritation of a rasp. He, however, controlled himself sufficiently to enquire:
"A tall, fair, blue-eyed young lady?"
The description elicited a second edition of the pity—third of the head shaking—as the woman answered:
"That's the mistress, sir."
It is difficult to keep a watchful eye ever on the safety valve. The indignation within him was seething to boiling point. He was getting up steam so rapidly as to create the impression that his emotions were arranged on the principle of the tubular boiler. He blurted out:
"I tell you, you are wrong! Her name is Miss Mivvins!"
Combination of every unpleasant wrinkle that the human face is capable of assuming, as she replied, with the incisiveness of a knife cut:
"Very likely that's one of her names, sir! Now I come to remember, I did once in a shop 'ear her called so—called so by her own child."
That was the last straw! the safety valve was discarded. He blurted out:
"Her—own—child!"
"Yes. The little girl who's always with her. The one with the carity 'air as some people calls orebin."
Amazement! Consternation! Disappointment! A combination of these feelings, and many other indescribable ones, made him break out with:
"Then—then she is married?"
All the subtle devilish suggestions in hercame to the surface. To emphasize the point of her answer, slow head-shaking was necessary:
"I couldn't say as to that, sir."
She smiled too that horrible smile again! The desire to speak evil of others assails some natures irresistibly. She really could not resist—October lodger or no lodger.
"Thank you. That will do."
He managed to dismiss her so, and the landlady left the room. She was fearful of having gone a little too far; yet was filled with the complacency with which such utterances—to such natures—is fruitful.
Yes, he was alone—but such a loneliness!
The closing of the door behind his landlady was unheard by Masters. He did not move from the position in which the woman had left him for many, very many minutes.
When at last he rose, lifting his head, he caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror. Started back, almost cried out: there was such a deathly pallor covering his face.
His mouth felt as parched as Sahara. Mechanically he mixed a whisky and soda: drank it off. Then laughed. Not a pleasant mirth; one of those built up on a sob.
Then self-raillery: the old, old, ever sought useless salve. What a fool! What a fool he was to care! A woman! Just as he had always pictured them—always till the book he was now engaged on. When hethought how chaste and good and pure his last heroine was, on paper, he laughed again. The same laugh; with the same choking painful little catch-in-the-throat in it too.
He thought he had lost his ideals long ago; we are apt to flatter ourselves so. But their death is hard; they live on—unknown even to ourselves—to appear before us like some new star of whose existence we know nothing. Make it our guiding star, and we are—when it sinks below the horizon of fate—as children crying in the night.
The mantel clock chimed seven times. Masters' attention was thereby drawn to the fact that it was half-past that hour. Lodging-house clocks are not without their peculiarities; the fulfilled ambition of this particular one was to be half-an-hour behind time.
Masters started, too, at the sound. Memory of his neglected work came to him. Lying on his desk was a bundle of corrected galley proofs, which should have been posted to his publisher. Now it was too late: the post bag would be made up.
He was annoyed that he had allowed the incident—he was miserably failing in trying to label it so to himself—to interrupt the routine of his work. Another glance at theclock and he kicked off his slippers and horned on his shoes.
Putting on a cap, fastening his greatcoat as he went, he hurried railway stationwards. For all the thickness of his coat he was not warm. There was a coldness around his heart as if it were icebound.
The last up-train left at eight o'clock. In October the passengers made no great demand on the guard's attention; in the season he might have been, with justness, likened to a sardine packer. Entrustment of the bundle of proofs, to be posted by the railway man on arrival in London, was an easily arranged matter.
Crossing the hand with a piece of silver is as effective with the average guard as it is with a gipsy: the oracle is worked thereby. The proofs would reach the publisher by first post in the morning.
Masters had effected this arrangement by five minutes to eight; five minutes before the scheduled time for the train's departure for London. Having lighted a cigar in the shelter of the waiting-room doorway, he buttoned up his coat, prepared for his return walk home.
As—buttoned up, cigar in mouth—he emerged from the station's precincts, he could not fail to observe the lights in the backwindows of Ivy Cottage. The bungalow stood not three minutes' walk away.
That he should have avoided, he knew; but the night was dark; he would not be seen. Moreover, he was in no way different from other moths who ever flutter round candles.
So, more or less unconsciously, he was attracted; slowly walked in the direction of the light. The little god with wings is as experienced in the use of the magnet as the dart.
The corner of the road, which the rear of the house faced, was reached. Suddenly the back door of the house was opened. By the light in the passage behind he saw a man and a woman silhouetted in the door-frame, evidently engaged in actions of a farewell.
The woman had her arms lovingly round the man's neck. She fervently kissed him—his lips—again and again. Her sorrow at the parting was apparently of the deepest kind; at times she applied her handkerchief to her eyes. Not a detail of the incident escaped the attention of the man in the road.
Masters stood quite still watching them. Not an act due to ill-breeding: he was for the moment simply incapable of movement. Had his existence depended on a forwardstep, Death would have added another name to his list.
The couple came out in the garden; walked towards the gate. The path led straight from the door; the hall lamp still showed him the positions: the woman's arms clinging around the man.
It was well he stood in the shadow on that road; well that they were so occupied as to prevent their noticing him. Perhaps the iron that had entered into his soul travelled viâ his face. That would account for the seared look on it. It was as the face of the dead.
So different. Ah! So different had he thought her. Had linked up, in his mind, the purity of the snow in connexion with her. This was the woman he had pictured; who was ever so before him that his pen seemed animated when he handled it to describe her.
His thoughts—edged with keen bitterness and self-contempt—went back to the pure, guileless heroine in his book. Had he been capable of laughter at himself, for being a fool, his mirth would have been of the greatest heartiness just then.
The couple at the gate parted; the watcher was not very clear how. What followed being—by reason of a sort of indescribableveil or mist which enveloped him—blurred, almost hidden from him. Dazed as was his condition, he was cognizant that the man crossed the road, ran past up the pathway to the station. Then came the sound of a whistle, followed by the rumbling of the departing train.
Footsteps! He knew them—short as had been his acquaintance with them—along the gravel path; then the door of Ivy Cottage was shut. The blackness of the night could not have been heavier than the thoughts he was alone with. Ideas of things seemed to grow more entangled and confused every instant.
From the moment that he had despatched his parcel, he had been mentally accusing himself of folly of the highest class. Did so whilst lighting his cigar and on the way from the booking office—with the back of Ivy Cottage fronting him. Why had he believed those wretched over-the-wall gossips, when there was the face—those soulful eyes—of the woman herself to look into?
That he had listened to and questioned his landlady was an insult to the woman of whom his mind was so full. He knew how those glorious, plumbless blue eyes of hers would flash contempt for him did she but know: she must never know! Standingthere—near the house which enshrined what he thought the dearest and best in the world—he almost cursed himself. For his folly in doubting her. His future faith should obliterate the memory of that moment.
Then—then the back door had opened! It was a shock; a horrible shock. But there was confirmation of what he had been told. The scales fell from his eyes.
Minutes—they seemed to him centuries—passed. The mist before his eyes cleared away; the veiling disappeared. But he felt that it would not be a display of wisdom to turn homewards, just yet.
Masters was a sensitive—hyper-sensitive is perhaps a better word—man. To rub up against inquiries from a garrulous landlady as to his health would prove more irritating than sand paper. He knew that his appearance would provoke comment; felt how he looked; determined to try and walk the look off.
By setting his face eastward, continuing on the station road for a mile or so, he would come out on the shore at what was known as The Gap. By walking along the sands therefrom, past the private owner's wall, he would be able to mount to the parade by the steps which faced his seat.
Lips tightened and his fingers clenchedwhen he remembered the reference to this as "our" seat. The walk would do him good; he laughed a little at that last idea. As if, he thought, anything in the whole world would ever do him any good again!
Shaken faith is a wound that smarts acutely; the only surgeon able to apply a salve is Time.
It was a fitful night; one on which the clouds travelled swiftly. One moment the brightness of a silvering moon; the next comparative darkness. When the extinguishers hid the lamp of night, the illumination of the heavens was left to the stars.
There was sufficient light for Masters to find his way over the breakwaters without stumbling. At times, though, despite the brightness of the moon, his eyes saw dimly. With a swiftness bred of anger he knuckled the dimness away, cursing his own irrepressible folly the while.
His heart—soul—was full to bursting point. If he could only laugh, he thought; only laugh at himself! What an immense, great big thing it would be!
Walking, smart walking, was the only relief he experienced; physical exertion was reputedly an antidote to mental excitement. He felt sufficient energy to have moved onindefinitely. Wished he could walk on till he fell from exhaustion. In that there would have been satisfaction; rest, at any rate. Rest from that tumultuous tide of recrimination surging in his brain.
His anger was directed against himself; no one else. It upsprung from the fact that he had been such a fool, such an utter, absolute fool, as to be gulled by a woman! Scoffingly he told himself that anger against her would be unfair; that her behaviour had been merely typical of her sex!
He, who had ever with his pen written against womankind—until at last reviewers had spoken of his work as being that of a woman-hater—to have fallen such an easy victim to the first siren who spread her snare for him! The thought was fuel to the maddening fever in possession of him.
Then came before him her face; those sweet, eloquent, soulful eyes! Well, he endeavoured to comfort himself with the thought that any man would have fallen a victim as he had done. The amount of comfort in it, though, would have found resting-place on a needle's point.
There was an underlying reason for the failure. Granted that his ideal was shattered, he still loved its ruins. Therein lay the hopelessness of it all—and he knew it.Striding on, he savagely kicked out of his way, now and then, a stone. Poor sort of relief again.
The configuration of the coast line brought him to an abrupt standstill. The cliff, jutting out, was met by a barrier of high rocks. These latter were overgrown with seaweed of the slipperiest sort: defiance bidding. Nature's sudden intervention in his proceedings produced a corresponding interruption in his thoughts.
Why should he think about this woman any longer? She was not worth wasting thought over. He had been happy enough without her—before he knew her. So he would be happy without her still.
Cut the thought of her clean out of his mind; out of his heart. That, he told himself, was the correct thing to do. Life should be for him as if he had never seen her, never looked into the unfathomable depths of those forget-me-not eyes. It would be quite easy; a little effort of will was needed—that was all.
All that he meant; every word of it. Framed a resolution that he looked on as adamantine. But he ignored an important factor; made no allowance for the strange vitality of that prolific pure white flower: Love.
The axe of common sense may be laid to the root of the tree; may cut it down root and branch. Still one small remaining tendril, hidden from the sight, will work its way into the heart; spread and grow until in its magnitude it overshadows every other thought. Such is love.
Masters reached the steps which led up from the sands to the seat. Standing at their base, he looked away in the direction of the sea. It was easy to mark the spot where Gracie had worked so hard with spade and pail.
He thought of the child with a pang of pity. For his heart had gone out to her; he had been captivated by her loving, winsome ways. Even now his eyes rested on where Gracie had built her last castle. He could mentally see her gleesomely watching the waters overflowing the moat and gradually sweeping down the castle's inverted pail-shaped turrets.
Gracie! Poor little soul! And so she, whom he had mistaken for the governess—this woman—was the mother of that incarnation of innocence and purity! What of the child's future? He shuddered to think of it; it was horrible; all horrible in the extreme.
Well, he would go home to his lodgings.First he would look again—for the last time—on that portion of the sands. For he felt that he would never be able to come there again. He would have been thankful for a breeze just then: his brow was feeling so fevered.
Perhaps there was more air on the seawall; he would test it, pass up the steps. There was the seat to avoid looking at; the seat whereon they had both sat reading—heart reading heart. Where had been born to him the happiest moment in life: love's awakening.
There was other history about the seat too: pencil created. Thereon, before that meeting, had been born heroes and heroines, wicked men and wicked women. All to be bound together and pressed between covers later on, to gladden or sadden readers' hearts.
Living a romance is less alluring than writing one: Masters found it so. He had been wont to believe in the parts he cast his characters for. He was learning!
Stumbling up the steps on to the wall, he started to walk home. But he halted, suddenly, before he had taken half-a-dozen paces. No drill sergeant's command ever brought up an absent-minded beggar on parade as did the words which fell on his ear.
"I thought that was you, Mr. Masters!"
Her voice! The voice of his shattered idol! The same voice: just as fresh and soft and kind as ever! Her voice, speaking to him! Could it be? Or was it a dream simply, a chimera of his brain? Or was this voice—this voice ringing, singing in his ears now—the result of his highly fevered imagination only?
He feared to turn his head to see. To know whether it was in reality the woman for whom he had been ready to lay down his life—whom he had considered a princess among women; chaste, pure, modest; whose dethronation had been so recent. Whom he had come to think of as soiled.
Yes! She was there before him in the flesh! This perfidious parody of perfection, this transmuted ideal. He waited for a moment motionless; then raised his cap—a merely mechanical act.
Besides, being a woman, whatever else she might be, she was exempt from rudeness at his hands.
Her sex protected her.