[p97]CHAPTER IXA CONFLICT OF WILLS

[p97]CHAPTER IXA CONFLICT OF WILLS‘What things wilt thou leave me,Now this thing is done?’Wednesdayloosened itself from the other pearls and dropped off the string of days into the strange awful place where have fallen all the days that have ever been. Thursday slid along the thread, trembled and fell. Friday moved on to fill its place. Such a little time, and it too, and the things of it would be gone beyond recall for ever.Larrie had grown visibly thinner in the short space. He was staking all the happiness of his life on the issue of this. To him the thing was almost terrible in its plain simplicity. He had looked at it from every[p98]point of view, had reasoned it out and thought of nothing else, all through the two waking nights and the long day between. And he could only see two paths for Dot to walk in, one that was right and would lead to happiness once more, and one that was so utterly wrong that she would step into it not carelessly and unknowingly, but wilfully and with wide open eyes.It could only be love that would make her do another man’s bidding rather than his.From that second path he told himself there could be no return.Dot went about with a feverish look in her eyes, and lips almost as set as Larrie’s own. She was going to make this strike for her rights, and in future have the independence due to the nineteenth century married woman.Larrie spoke of the irrevocableness of the step. To him it was as grave as life and death. But deep in Dot’s heart was the knowledge of her power over him. She called to mind all the quarrels of their wedded[p99]life—had he not always forgiven her? Even the times when he had not been the first to make up, her tears and grief had made his arms open for her immediately. She only whispered this to herself, it made her a little ashamed to think of trading on it.Then out loud she told her conscience several things.First, that this was only one of Larrie’s aggravating fits of opposition, and when he got over it and knew what a name she had made for herself, he would be glad she had not taken him at his word.Second, that since her gift was so great, it would be wrong not to give the world the benefit of it, she remembered the scriptural napkin-wrapped talent.Third, that it would be sheer ingratitude after all Mr Wooster’s trouble, to spoil his concert at the last minute.And fourth, that no one literally interpreted that word ‘obey’ in the marriage service, now that the equality of the sexes was recognised.It was merely a relic of darker ages when[p100]woman had been little more than a chattel; the progress of the century had made it elastic, before long it would be removed altogether.On Friday they had eggs for tea. At least, Peggie had put a stand on the table, with bread and butter, and other eatables, but they were both too agitated to do more than crack the tops, and take salt and pepper on the edge of their plates. This was to be the last chance. Peggie removed baby, and looked anxiously at the quiet young couple as she did so. She was afraid there was something really serious this time, so pale was her master’s face, so brilliant Dot’s eyes.‘Well?’ Larrie said heavily.‘I’m going,’ answered Dot. ‘I’ve got my dress ready, and made all arrangements, it’s too late to stop now.’Larrie swallowed some tea and went even whiter. This was the final wrecking of their lives. ‘Dot, Ibegof you to think of it again,’ he said.She slipped from her chair and went to his[p101]end of the table. ‘Darling, let me go!’ she said, ‘see, I beg of you—you could give in and let me, and then it wouldn’t be disobedience.’ She put her arms round his neck, her flushed cheek against his, ‘Dear old Larrie, do! I have set my heart on it so! do let me go happy, dearest, dearest!’If only at that minute she had said she would give it up, he could almost have let her go, greatly as he disliked the publicity for her, and the connection with Wooster. But he could not help mentally finishing her last sentence—‘Or I shall have to go unhappy.’‘I can’t,—you must see I can’t,—how can I, Dot? it is impossible,’ he said. But she clung tighter.‘Once you loved me too well to refuse me such a thing, my husband, don’t let me think I am so little to you now.’ He tried to put her away, but her arms held him.‘Darling, let me,’ she begged, ‘let me, let me,’—the tears were running down her cheeks. ‘I will be so good afterwards, oh this is everything to me, Larrie,—Larrie, don’t be cruel to[p102]me, I must, must go—oh, darling, let me, let me.’He was making a promise to himself to be kept faithfully, since he saw how very much this was to her. If she would give in now, say she would give in as a true wife should to her husband, he would let her go, he would even take her himself, for it would prove she did not put that man before him.‘Dot,’ he said, and lifted her on to his knee and held her hands tenderly in his own, ‘you must obey me in this, can’t you see you must, my darling? Perhaps I have been harsh or unkind about it. Yesterday Itoldyou to obey me, now Iaskyou, my darling, my little girl, Dot, little, little wife. Say you will.’But she only stirred restlessly.He put his face down to hers.‘Darling, think of our happiness, how can we go on living if you persist in breaking up everything like this. Theremustbe a head, Dot, in everything, there must be obedience. What would a ship be without a captain, or[p103]soldiers without their chief, an office with no one in authority? And the husbandmustbe the head of the wife. Darling, say you will obey me in this.’But Dot could not. All her pleading had gone for nothing, why should she listen to Larrie’s? She moved his arms away and stood up, her eyes dry and bright again.‘You have refused me the only thing I have ever asked specially since we were married, Larrie,’ she said.‘You will stay?’ he said.‘You profess to love me, and then you act like a tyrant to me. Why should you always haveyourway in things?’There was a red spot on her cheek.‘You will obey me, Dot?’She walked restlessly up and down the room. She moved some ornaments on the mantelpiece and put the curtains straight with trembling fingers. She remembered she ought to be dressing even now. In two hours the concert would begin, and if she gave in her opportunity would be gone for[p104]ever, and just because Larrie was obstinate and stupid!Baby’s ivory rattle, still wet from his mouth, lay on the sofa. She picked it up and put it in her work-basket. Then she altered the position of two photographs on the mantelpiece. She moved one of Larrie’s silver cups—in it there was a green programme crumpled up into a ball.‘Dot, you will obey me?’‘No, I willnot,’ she said passionately. ‘I am tired of being told to do things. I want a little liberty as well as you. I willnotspoil my future just because you want to be a petty czar.’She crossed to the door. A flame sprang up in Larrie’s eyes.‘You will be sorry to the end of your life if you go,’ he said.‘No, I shall be glad,’ said Dot.Peggie came in to know if they wanted hot water, or if the master would have another egg. She was really too anxious to keep away.[p105]‘I’ve got a nice brown one, laid to-day, sir,’ she said persuasively.He shook his head impatiently. The woman looked over to Dot, standing with the door handle in her hand, ‘Shall I fetch the baby for you?’ she asked.‘No,’ said Dot sharply.So she went out to the kitchen again, and looked grave as she lifted baby from his high chair, where he was perfectly happy with a saucepan lid and a tin spoon.‘Thatobstreperous,’ she said, and sighed. Then she added, ‘poor man,’ under her breath.Someway she generally sided with Larrie at such times, though she was devotedly fond of Dot.‘I’m going to dress,’ Dot said from the door.‘How do you propose getting there?’ He did not look at her as he spoke.She twisted the handle. ‘Of course I had expected you would come. As it is I have sent word to mother, she is coming down in the buggy for me at seven. Mr Wooster[p106]is going there for dinner, he will drive. No, mother doesn’t know; I only said you couldn’t come.’Larrie got up and walked to the window; he could not answer her.She looked at his big square back for a minute and the short-clipped curls on his head. Then she turned and went away to dress. Only a thin partition separated her bedroom. He heard every sound as he stood in the window, the opening and shutting of drawers, the plashing of water, her hurrying steps across the floor, the creak of the wardrobe door. Every minute he thought she would repent and come in to him, his own sweet, small wife again; then the thought became a hope, and when the wardrobe creaked the hope died, and there was almost a prayer instead. But the door opened and she came in fully dressed.It was her wedding dress she wore, the white, trailing, exquisite silk she had knelt beside him in at the altar eighteen months ago. It was cut a little low now, and showed[p107]her white, soft neck and chest; her arms were bare between the shoulder puff and glove top.‘Larrie,’ she said with a little cry, ‘oh, let me, Larrie!’But he stood still.‘Thatdress!’ he said hoarsely.In very truth she had not thought of the associations of it as she had slipped it on to-night in excitement and anger.‘You—you know I had it made into an evening dress,’ she faltered.‘But for this!’‘I had nothing else to wear.’He turned from her one minute, then back again, and looked at her with wrathful eyes. He had a wild impulse to force her to stay, to compel her to obey him by the superiority of his physical strength. Was she not his wife, his property, did she not belong to him till death? He almost thought he would get a whip and beat her, beat her savagely. She would love him better he felt certain; he told himself there was more truth than half the world dreamt in the saying that wife-beaters,[p108]always provided they are neither drunk nor brutal, are best beloved by their wives.But he knew in a calmer mood he would despise himself for doing it, and he felt, too, how imperfect would be the victory.‘You are going?’ was all he said, and ‘Yes,’ she answered.Wheels sounded a little distance off, they both knew what it was.‘As surely as you go, Dot, you will repent it.’ Larrie spoke slowly, quietly, his face was deathly pale.She was trembling from excitement, there was a vague fear in her eyes.‘What would you do?’ she said with a little nervous half laugh.‘I would never forgive you, never have you for my wife again,’ he answered, and his face looked as if he meant it.She shivered a little, but held her head proudly. ‘Perhaps you would be glad of the excuse,’ she said, with a pitiful attempt at scorn.He did not speak. The buggy rattled up[p109]to the door, they heard Wooster’s voice checking the horses, the mother’s saying she would not get out as it was so late.‘Why don’t you go?’ he said coldly, seeing she stood perfectly still.‘I—’ she said. It was the sound of a sob strangling in her throat.He would not help her though her eyes were speaking imploringly. If he had put his arms round her that minute and begged her as at tea to stay, even now she would have given it up. But he stood like a rock, his face hard, his chin square, his lips bitter.The bell rang, and Peggie’s heel-down slippers went up the hall.Dot moved a step nearer to him.‘Askme to stay, Larrie,’ she whispered, and this time the sob would not be strangled.But he turned right away from her.‘I would rather die than ask you again,’ he said with passion in his voice.‘Mr Wooster,’ said Peggie cheerfully.She had quite beamed at the man when she opened the door, the quarrel would have[p110]to be smoothed over now a guest was here.But five minutes later Dot came out into the hall, her train a yard behind her, a great white fur-trimmed cloak around her.There was a beautiful angry colour in her cheeks, a defiant light in her eyes; but her lips were saying smiling things. Mr Wooster was behind with a roll of music and an opossum rug.Peggie watched them through the front door and down the steps, she saw Dot lifted in beside her mother and well tucked up; she watched the buggy lamps flash passing out of the gates and disappear round a curve in the road. Then with quite a weight at her kindly heart, she went in to see if the ‘poor master’ wanted anything. But he was standing in the middle of the room with folded arms, and such a look on his face, that she shut the door softly behind her, and went away.

‘What things wilt thou leave me,Now this thing is done?’

‘What things wilt thou leave me,Now this thing is done?’

‘What things wilt thou leave me,Now this thing is done?’

‘What things wilt thou leave me,

Now this thing is done?’

Wednesdayloosened itself from the other pearls and dropped off the string of days into the strange awful place where have fallen all the days that have ever been. Thursday slid along the thread, trembled and fell. Friday moved on to fill its place. Such a little time, and it too, and the things of it would be gone beyond recall for ever.

Larrie had grown visibly thinner in the short space. He was staking all the happiness of his life on the issue of this. To him the thing was almost terrible in its plain simplicity. He had looked at it from every[p98]point of view, had reasoned it out and thought of nothing else, all through the two waking nights and the long day between. And he could only see two paths for Dot to walk in, one that was right and would lead to happiness once more, and one that was so utterly wrong that she would step into it not carelessly and unknowingly, but wilfully and with wide open eyes.

It could only be love that would make her do another man’s bidding rather than his.

From that second path he told himself there could be no return.

Dot went about with a feverish look in her eyes, and lips almost as set as Larrie’s own. She was going to make this strike for her rights, and in future have the independence due to the nineteenth century married woman.

Larrie spoke of the irrevocableness of the step. To him it was as grave as life and death. But deep in Dot’s heart was the knowledge of her power over him. She called to mind all the quarrels of their wedded[p99]life—had he not always forgiven her? Even the times when he had not been the first to make up, her tears and grief had made his arms open for her immediately. She only whispered this to herself, it made her a little ashamed to think of trading on it.

Then out loud she told her conscience several things.

First, that this was only one of Larrie’s aggravating fits of opposition, and when he got over it and knew what a name she had made for herself, he would be glad she had not taken him at his word.

Second, that since her gift was so great, it would be wrong not to give the world the benefit of it, she remembered the scriptural napkin-wrapped talent.

Third, that it would be sheer ingratitude after all Mr Wooster’s trouble, to spoil his concert at the last minute.

And fourth, that no one literally interpreted that word ‘obey’ in the marriage service, now that the equality of the sexes was recognised.

It was merely a relic of darker ages when[p100]woman had been little more than a chattel; the progress of the century had made it elastic, before long it would be removed altogether.

On Friday they had eggs for tea. At least, Peggie had put a stand on the table, with bread and butter, and other eatables, but they were both too agitated to do more than crack the tops, and take salt and pepper on the edge of their plates. This was to be the last chance. Peggie removed baby, and looked anxiously at the quiet young couple as she did so. She was afraid there was something really serious this time, so pale was her master’s face, so brilliant Dot’s eyes.

‘Well?’ Larrie said heavily.

‘I’m going,’ answered Dot. ‘I’ve got my dress ready, and made all arrangements, it’s too late to stop now.’

Larrie swallowed some tea and went even whiter. This was the final wrecking of their lives. ‘Dot, Ibegof you to think of it again,’ he said.

She slipped from her chair and went to his[p101]end of the table. ‘Darling, let me go!’ she said, ‘see, I beg of you—you could give in and let me, and then it wouldn’t be disobedience.’ She put her arms round his neck, her flushed cheek against his, ‘Dear old Larrie, do! I have set my heart on it so! do let me go happy, dearest, dearest!’

If only at that minute she had said she would give it up, he could almost have let her go, greatly as he disliked the publicity for her, and the connection with Wooster. But he could not help mentally finishing her last sentence—‘Or I shall have to go unhappy.’

‘I can’t,—you must see I can’t,—how can I, Dot? it is impossible,’ he said. But she clung tighter.

‘Once you loved me too well to refuse me such a thing, my husband, don’t let me think I am so little to you now.’ He tried to put her away, but her arms held him.

‘Darling, let me,’ she begged, ‘let me, let me,’—the tears were running down her cheeks. ‘I will be so good afterwards, oh this is everything to me, Larrie,—Larrie, don’t be cruel to[p102]me, I must, must go—oh, darling, let me, let me.’

He was making a promise to himself to be kept faithfully, since he saw how very much this was to her. If she would give in now, say she would give in as a true wife should to her husband, he would let her go, he would even take her himself, for it would prove she did not put that man before him.

‘Dot,’ he said, and lifted her on to his knee and held her hands tenderly in his own, ‘you must obey me in this, can’t you see you must, my darling? Perhaps I have been harsh or unkind about it. Yesterday Itoldyou to obey me, now Iaskyou, my darling, my little girl, Dot, little, little wife. Say you will.’

But she only stirred restlessly.

He put his face down to hers.

‘Darling, think of our happiness, how can we go on living if you persist in breaking up everything like this. Theremustbe a head, Dot, in everything, there must be obedience. What would a ship be without a captain, or[p103]soldiers without their chief, an office with no one in authority? And the husbandmustbe the head of the wife. Darling, say you will obey me in this.’

But Dot could not. All her pleading had gone for nothing, why should she listen to Larrie’s? She moved his arms away and stood up, her eyes dry and bright again.

‘You have refused me the only thing I have ever asked specially since we were married, Larrie,’ she said.

‘You will stay?’ he said.

‘You profess to love me, and then you act like a tyrant to me. Why should you always haveyourway in things?’

There was a red spot on her cheek.

‘You will obey me, Dot?’

She walked restlessly up and down the room. She moved some ornaments on the mantelpiece and put the curtains straight with trembling fingers. She remembered she ought to be dressing even now. In two hours the concert would begin, and if she gave in her opportunity would be gone for[p104]ever, and just because Larrie was obstinate and stupid!

Baby’s ivory rattle, still wet from his mouth, lay on the sofa. She picked it up and put it in her work-basket. Then she altered the position of two photographs on the mantelpiece. She moved one of Larrie’s silver cups—in it there was a green programme crumpled up into a ball.

‘Dot, you will obey me?’

‘No, I willnot,’ she said passionately. ‘I am tired of being told to do things. I want a little liberty as well as you. I willnotspoil my future just because you want to be a petty czar.’

She crossed to the door. A flame sprang up in Larrie’s eyes.

‘You will be sorry to the end of your life if you go,’ he said.

‘No, I shall be glad,’ said Dot.

Peggie came in to know if they wanted hot water, or if the master would have another egg. She was really too anxious to keep away.

[p105]‘I’ve got a nice brown one, laid to-day, sir,’ she said persuasively.

He shook his head impatiently. The woman looked over to Dot, standing with the door handle in her hand, ‘Shall I fetch the baby for you?’ she asked.

‘No,’ said Dot sharply.

So she went out to the kitchen again, and looked grave as she lifted baby from his high chair, where he was perfectly happy with a saucepan lid and a tin spoon.

‘Thatobstreperous,’ she said, and sighed. Then she added, ‘poor man,’ under her breath.

Someway she generally sided with Larrie at such times, though she was devotedly fond of Dot.

‘I’m going to dress,’ Dot said from the door.

‘How do you propose getting there?’ He did not look at her as he spoke.

She twisted the handle. ‘Of course I had expected you would come. As it is I have sent word to mother, she is coming down in the buggy for me at seven. Mr Wooster[p106]is going there for dinner, he will drive. No, mother doesn’t know; I only said you couldn’t come.’

Larrie got up and walked to the window; he could not answer her.

She looked at his big square back for a minute and the short-clipped curls on his head. Then she turned and went away to dress. Only a thin partition separated her bedroom. He heard every sound as he stood in the window, the opening and shutting of drawers, the plashing of water, her hurrying steps across the floor, the creak of the wardrobe door. Every minute he thought she would repent and come in to him, his own sweet, small wife again; then the thought became a hope, and when the wardrobe creaked the hope died, and there was almost a prayer instead. But the door opened and she came in fully dressed.

It was her wedding dress she wore, the white, trailing, exquisite silk she had knelt beside him in at the altar eighteen months ago. It was cut a little low now, and showed[p107]her white, soft neck and chest; her arms were bare between the shoulder puff and glove top.

‘Larrie,’ she said with a little cry, ‘oh, let me, Larrie!’

But he stood still.

‘Thatdress!’ he said hoarsely.

In very truth she had not thought of the associations of it as she had slipped it on to-night in excitement and anger.

‘You—you know I had it made into an evening dress,’ she faltered.

‘But for this!’

‘I had nothing else to wear.’

He turned from her one minute, then back again, and looked at her with wrathful eyes. He had a wild impulse to force her to stay, to compel her to obey him by the superiority of his physical strength. Was she not his wife, his property, did she not belong to him till death? He almost thought he would get a whip and beat her, beat her savagely. She would love him better he felt certain; he told himself there was more truth than half the world dreamt in the saying that wife-beaters,[p108]always provided they are neither drunk nor brutal, are best beloved by their wives.

But he knew in a calmer mood he would despise himself for doing it, and he felt, too, how imperfect would be the victory.

‘You are going?’ was all he said, and ‘Yes,’ she answered.

Wheels sounded a little distance off, they both knew what it was.

‘As surely as you go, Dot, you will repent it.’ Larrie spoke slowly, quietly, his face was deathly pale.

She was trembling from excitement, there was a vague fear in her eyes.

‘What would you do?’ she said with a little nervous half laugh.

‘I would never forgive you, never have you for my wife again,’ he answered, and his face looked as if he meant it.

She shivered a little, but held her head proudly. ‘Perhaps you would be glad of the excuse,’ she said, with a pitiful attempt at scorn.

He did not speak. The buggy rattled up[p109]to the door, they heard Wooster’s voice checking the horses, the mother’s saying she would not get out as it was so late.

‘Why don’t you go?’ he said coldly, seeing she stood perfectly still.

‘I—’ she said. It was the sound of a sob strangling in her throat.

He would not help her though her eyes were speaking imploringly. If he had put his arms round her that minute and begged her as at tea to stay, even now she would have given it up. But he stood like a rock, his face hard, his chin square, his lips bitter.

The bell rang, and Peggie’s heel-down slippers went up the hall.

Dot moved a step nearer to him.

‘Askme to stay, Larrie,’ she whispered, and this time the sob would not be strangled.

But he turned right away from her.

‘I would rather die than ask you again,’ he said with passion in his voice.

‘Mr Wooster,’ said Peggie cheerfully.

She had quite beamed at the man when she opened the door, the quarrel would have[p110]to be smoothed over now a guest was here.

But five minutes later Dot came out into the hall, her train a yard behind her, a great white fur-trimmed cloak around her.

There was a beautiful angry colour in her cheeks, a defiant light in her eyes; but her lips were saying smiling things. Mr Wooster was behind with a roll of music and an opossum rug.

Peggie watched them through the front door and down the steps, she saw Dot lifted in beside her mother and well tucked up; she watched the buggy lamps flash passing out of the gates and disappear round a curve in the road. Then with quite a weight at her kindly heart, she went in to see if the ‘poor master’ wanted anything. But he was standing in the middle of the room with folded arms, and such a look on his face, that she shut the door softly behind her, and went away.

[p111]CHAPTER XA DARN ON A DRESS‘Come in at last,Inside the melancholy little houseWe built to be so gay with.’Itwas raining again, and there was that sound of wind in the trees that only the Australian bush knows. Eastward, stars were out in the sky, but, from the south, blue-grey masses were drifting up to the low rain cloud that had put out all the lights of the southern cross, and only left the two pale pointers. An hour ago the sky had been blue, for there was a great moon, but now the rain had washed all the colour out of it, and it was dull grey with midnight cloud banks. On the cottage roof and in the garden there[p112]were patches of pale light from the drenched moon, but all the bush beyond was black as death.‘Don’t come in,’ Dot said.She leaped down from her seat before Wooster could put down the reins to open the gate and drive in.‘She’ll get wet,’ the mother cried.But the white figure went hurrying up the drive, all its long silken train down on the wet gravel.There was a lamp alight in the drawing room, and a circle of white from it lay on a pool at the end of the verandah. But the long French windows were closed. Dot beat on the window panes with wet fingers.‘We may as well get home,’ said the mother, seeing her safe. But Wooster only picked up the reins.‘Larrie!’ the sharp whisper came through the rain to the gate; the little metallic sound was made by her rings on the glass.Then the door opened and Larrie drew her into the room, the blind fell down from its[p113]pin at the movement, and now there was only a bar of light on the verandah.‘It’s very cold,’ said the little mother with a shiver. And Wooster turned his eyes away and drove her home.Dot went forward almost blindly towards Larrie, but he moved backwards, and she took two more steps but he fell back again. The room was small and he was against the wall now, but he put his arms behind him and stood sideways; he knew she wanted to put her head on his breast and cry. The attitudes would have looked almost comic, only something prevented it.‘I wasn’t a success,’ she said with a great sob.He did not speak or move a muscle.‘Oh, Iamso miserable,’ she said. Her arms went out towards the stiff figure, but he moved again.‘Larrie!’ she cried, exceeding longing and misery in her voice.But he let the cry die away into the midnight silence and he let her drop down on her[p114]knees by the sofa and sob her young heart out on the piled cushions. He had frozen altogether during the hours of waiting.Once she looked up during her bitter weeping.‘You are hard,’ she said, ‘cruel—like a rock, what can I do? I was wrong, I am sorry, sorry, sorry, I didn’t even succeed. I was too miserable, oh, how cruel you are! whatcanI do? I will do anything,anything, oh, Larrie, Larrie, Larrie, don’t be hard, when I’m down, Larrie, and broken, and sorry, and miserable—oh, it is cruel, cruel.’ Her sobs choked her, there were wet warm patches on the green cushion, her eyes were drenched, she was shivering with excitement and misery. There was another great silence broken only by her passionate weeping.Then she lifted her head again.‘Ican’tbear it,’ she said wildly, ‘for God’s sake, say something, I shall go mad if you stand there like that any longer. How unmanly you are!—oh, how cruel!—Larrie, kiss me. Oh, darling, darling, forgive[p115]me—my husband, my darling, kiss me, kiss me,kissme!’The last words died away with almost a wail, for though he looked at her all the time he did not move nearer to her and his eye took no softer light.Then she dropped her head on the cushions again, with her arms flung round them and he stood watching her, and away down in the East the stars went out, and the sickly creeping light was the new dawn.When Dot stood up she was stiff, and chilled to the bone. She was no longer sorry, all the aching for a loving word and kiss had gone, she was only very very tired and very cold. She looked at Larrie with eyes heavy and indifferent, if he had come and kissed her then she could not have responded or warmed in the slightest degree. She drew her wrap closer about her bare neck and arms and shivered again.‘Well?’ she said dully.But he went and brought a rug from the[p116]hall stand and put it around her before he answered.‘I think you had better go to bed now,’ he said, ‘we can talk to-morrow.’‘No, now,’ she said.‘It is very late,’ he put back the blind and disclosed the grey struggling dawn. ‘It is four o’clock, to-morrow will do.’But she sat down on the sofa where the green cushion was quite dry again.‘If you have anything to say, say it now,’ she said, ‘it is too late for bed now, what is it you are going to do?’There was a curious look of suffering on his face and in his eyes.‘I think I had better go away,’ he said.Dot only stared at him.‘There seems no other way, I have thought of everything; there is nothing else left.’‘You mean separate?’ she asked.He nodded. She bit her lip, but was surprised to find how easily she kept calm. She waited for him to continue.‘You could stay here—it needn’t be talked[p117]of, your mother would look after you. I’ll go to Melbourne or Coolgardie or somewhere.’‘For always, you mean?’‘We could see, perhaps it would look differently afterwards—for the present I mean—we can’t go on living together, and I can’t see anything better to do.’Dot’s eyes grew hard. ‘If you go,’ she said, ‘I will never live with you again. But I don’t ask you not to go.’‘Yes, it is the best thing,’ he said, which answered his own thoughts rather than fitted in with her words.She looked at him strangely. ‘When were you thinking of going?’‘To-morrow,’ he said, ‘to-day, rather. There is no use in delaying—I arranged everything to-night—last night.’‘Very well,’ Dot said, ‘that is settled then.’ She pulled the cloak up tightly and rose, then she loosened it again and sat down. Her eyes were cold, her lips very firm.‘Remember,’ she said ‘this is final. I committed a fault—perhaps. I cannot do[p118]more than ask your forgiveness. Do not think I shall be put away and taken back at pleasure. Go—I would not put out my finger to keep you, but never again so long as both of us live will I be your wife in anything except name.’He sat down on the chair near the little writing table, the light was full on his white face and lips.‘I can only see a little way,’ he said. ‘Later—say in some months—we will decide further: feelings change wonderfully, perhaps I shall look at your act—differently; if we live together I can’t; it would always look the same. It is best, I can see. Wecouldn’tjust go on living as before. I couldn’t, at least, so I will go, for a time at any rate, and you—you will be glad to be alone I know.’‘Yes, I shall be glad,’ Dot said with great steadiness.Baby’s portrait smiled at him from the stand on the table.‘There is the child, of course,’ he said heavily.[p119]Dot sprang up. Husband had been so far before child that she had forgotten there was any one else in the world. But she remembered now.‘He is mine,’ she said, ‘mine, of course, there is no question about that. What are you thinking of? you can go if you like, but he is mine.’ Her eyes glittered.He had known this would be the worst difficulty; him she gave up easily—gladly even, but the child she would fight for to the last.His anger came to white heat again.‘Ishall keep the child,’ he said slowly, ‘he is mine equally, he will be better with me.’Dot laughed hysterically. ‘The mother always keeps it in these cases. I believe you are going mad, Larrie.’‘I believe I am,’ he said very quietly.He pulled up the blind for want of anything else to do, and the dawn struggled in and took away the brightness of the lamp.It was only this minute he had really meant to keep the child, his first idea had been merely to go away and leave them, not[p120]altogether, perhaps as he said, but until he could find life bearable again.But when he saw how quickly she consented and how her only care was to keep the child, he told himself he would move heaven and hell before she had it.‘I shall keep it,’ he repeated, ‘it is not a question of a mother’s care, any nurse I get will know more about it than you do—I shall keep it. You have chosen your life, you can go on the stage altogether if you like, but I shall not let you have the child.’In all he said he would not degrade either of them by the mention of Wooster’s name, but there was nothing else in his thoughts, and only everything else in the world in hers.A great weariness came to Dot, a weariness of all her present life. She dropped her chin on her hands, and stared out at the pale, creeping light. Her heart was quite cold, she did not seem to care about anything in the world. She looked at Larrie and away again. A tiny darn on her skirt caught her eye and she stared at it fixedly.[p121]It lifted all her tired thoughts back to the day it was made and pushed the present out of sight. It was her wedding morning, and she had put on the dress, she remembered she had said it was a ‘holy’ dress, it was so purely white and billowy and beautiful.And she had dressed very early, for Larrie had been unorthodox enough to want to see her before she came up the aisle to him. And when she saw him coming up the path, looking oddly uncomfortable in his tall new hat and frock coat, she had flown down the hall and into his arms. And at the same minute the gate had clicked to admit a string of relations eager to fall on the bride, and he had picked her up in his arms, sweeping train and veil and all, and whisked her upstairs on to the landing to have her to himself for the last few minutes before he had her for ever. The darn had been necessary, because in the quick passage up a fold had caught in a splinter in the bannisters, made by her travelling trunk.To-night she saw Larrie looking at the[p122]mud on the hem. She imagined herself without the darn, without the dress, without the wedding.It was eighteen months out of her life, that was all; all the wish she had on earth just now was to wipe out that time and be a girl again.She had tried marriage, and it had been a failure for them both; Larrie was right, the plan he offered was the best to be found; the vulgarity and misery of publicity she could not have borne, but there was no reason why they should not quietly set each other free, and go on their separate ways again.There was the child of course. She knew nothing about law and supposed Larrie had first right, since as she had often said to him the law always gave the man the best of everything. And cold, utterly tired and miserable as she was, she told herself she did not mind very much. She could not put away those eighteen months as if they had never been, if the child was always before her eyes to remind[p123]her of them. She promised herself she would go to Italy or Germany with her mother and give up her life to music, she had only failed through nervousness and misery last night, the future was full of glorious possibilities.Larrie was speaking again, there was a look of judicial fairness in his eyes.‘Since we have both an equal right to him,’ he said, ‘we will draw lots if you like.’‘Very well,’ she said coldly.‘Will you let me make you some coffee first, you will be taking cold,’ he looked at her quite without anxiety. ‘I can make up a fire in the kitchen in five minutes.’‘No,’ she said, ‘get some paper. There are some backs of letters in the blotter.’

‘Come in at last,Inside the melancholy little houseWe built to be so gay with.’

‘Come in at last,Inside the melancholy little houseWe built to be so gay with.’

‘Come in at last,Inside the melancholy little houseWe built to be so gay with.’

‘Come in at last,

Inside the melancholy little house

We built to be so gay with.’

Itwas raining again, and there was that sound of wind in the trees that only the Australian bush knows. Eastward, stars were out in the sky, but, from the south, blue-grey masses were drifting up to the low rain cloud that had put out all the lights of the southern cross, and only left the two pale pointers. An hour ago the sky had been blue, for there was a great moon, but now the rain had washed all the colour out of it, and it was dull grey with midnight cloud banks. On the cottage roof and in the garden there[p112]were patches of pale light from the drenched moon, but all the bush beyond was black as death.

‘Don’t come in,’ Dot said.

She leaped down from her seat before Wooster could put down the reins to open the gate and drive in.

‘She’ll get wet,’ the mother cried.

But the white figure went hurrying up the drive, all its long silken train down on the wet gravel.

There was a lamp alight in the drawing room, and a circle of white from it lay on a pool at the end of the verandah. But the long French windows were closed. Dot beat on the window panes with wet fingers.

‘We may as well get home,’ said the mother, seeing her safe. But Wooster only picked up the reins.

‘Larrie!’ the sharp whisper came through the rain to the gate; the little metallic sound was made by her rings on the glass.

Then the door opened and Larrie drew her into the room, the blind fell down from its[p113]pin at the movement, and now there was only a bar of light on the verandah.

‘It’s very cold,’ said the little mother with a shiver. And Wooster turned his eyes away and drove her home.

Dot went forward almost blindly towards Larrie, but he moved backwards, and she took two more steps but he fell back again. The room was small and he was against the wall now, but he put his arms behind him and stood sideways; he knew she wanted to put her head on his breast and cry. The attitudes would have looked almost comic, only something prevented it.

‘I wasn’t a success,’ she said with a great sob.

He did not speak or move a muscle.

‘Oh, Iamso miserable,’ she said. Her arms went out towards the stiff figure, but he moved again.

‘Larrie!’ she cried, exceeding longing and misery in her voice.

But he let the cry die away into the midnight silence and he let her drop down on her[p114]knees by the sofa and sob her young heart out on the piled cushions. He had frozen altogether during the hours of waiting.

Once she looked up during her bitter weeping.

‘You are hard,’ she said, ‘cruel—like a rock, what can I do? I was wrong, I am sorry, sorry, sorry, I didn’t even succeed. I was too miserable, oh, how cruel you are! whatcanI do? I will do anything,anything, oh, Larrie, Larrie, Larrie, don’t be hard, when I’m down, Larrie, and broken, and sorry, and miserable—oh, it is cruel, cruel.’ Her sobs choked her, there were wet warm patches on the green cushion, her eyes were drenched, she was shivering with excitement and misery. There was another great silence broken only by her passionate weeping.

Then she lifted her head again.

‘Ican’tbear it,’ she said wildly, ‘for God’s sake, say something, I shall go mad if you stand there like that any longer. How unmanly you are!—oh, how cruel!—Larrie, kiss me. Oh, darling, darling, forgive[p115]me—my husband, my darling, kiss me, kiss me,kissme!’

The last words died away with almost a wail, for though he looked at her all the time he did not move nearer to her and his eye took no softer light.

Then she dropped her head on the cushions again, with her arms flung round them and he stood watching her, and away down in the East the stars went out, and the sickly creeping light was the new dawn.

When Dot stood up she was stiff, and chilled to the bone. She was no longer sorry, all the aching for a loving word and kiss had gone, she was only very very tired and very cold. She looked at Larrie with eyes heavy and indifferent, if he had come and kissed her then she could not have responded or warmed in the slightest degree. She drew her wrap closer about her bare neck and arms and shivered again.

‘Well?’ she said dully.

But he went and brought a rug from the[p116]hall stand and put it around her before he answered.

‘I think you had better go to bed now,’ he said, ‘we can talk to-morrow.’

‘No, now,’ she said.

‘It is very late,’ he put back the blind and disclosed the grey struggling dawn. ‘It is four o’clock, to-morrow will do.’

But she sat down on the sofa where the green cushion was quite dry again.

‘If you have anything to say, say it now,’ she said, ‘it is too late for bed now, what is it you are going to do?’

There was a curious look of suffering on his face and in his eyes.

‘I think I had better go away,’ he said.

Dot only stared at him.

‘There seems no other way, I have thought of everything; there is nothing else left.’

‘You mean separate?’ she asked.

He nodded. She bit her lip, but was surprised to find how easily she kept calm. She waited for him to continue.

‘You could stay here—it needn’t be talked[p117]of, your mother would look after you. I’ll go to Melbourne or Coolgardie or somewhere.’

‘For always, you mean?’

‘We could see, perhaps it would look differently afterwards—for the present I mean—we can’t go on living together, and I can’t see anything better to do.’

Dot’s eyes grew hard. ‘If you go,’ she said, ‘I will never live with you again. But I don’t ask you not to go.’

‘Yes, it is the best thing,’ he said, which answered his own thoughts rather than fitted in with her words.

She looked at him strangely. ‘When were you thinking of going?’

‘To-morrow,’ he said, ‘to-day, rather. There is no use in delaying—I arranged everything to-night—last night.’

‘Very well,’ Dot said, ‘that is settled then.’ She pulled the cloak up tightly and rose, then she loosened it again and sat down. Her eyes were cold, her lips very firm.

‘Remember,’ she said ‘this is final. I committed a fault—perhaps. I cannot do[p118]more than ask your forgiveness. Do not think I shall be put away and taken back at pleasure. Go—I would not put out my finger to keep you, but never again so long as both of us live will I be your wife in anything except name.’

He sat down on the chair near the little writing table, the light was full on his white face and lips.

‘I can only see a little way,’ he said. ‘Later—say in some months—we will decide further: feelings change wonderfully, perhaps I shall look at your act—differently; if we live together I can’t; it would always look the same. It is best, I can see. Wecouldn’tjust go on living as before. I couldn’t, at least, so I will go, for a time at any rate, and you—you will be glad to be alone I know.’

‘Yes, I shall be glad,’ Dot said with great steadiness.

Baby’s portrait smiled at him from the stand on the table.

‘There is the child, of course,’ he said heavily.

[p119]Dot sprang up. Husband had been so far before child that she had forgotten there was any one else in the world. But she remembered now.

‘He is mine,’ she said, ‘mine, of course, there is no question about that. What are you thinking of? you can go if you like, but he is mine.’ Her eyes glittered.

He had known this would be the worst difficulty; him she gave up easily—gladly even, but the child she would fight for to the last.

His anger came to white heat again.

‘Ishall keep the child,’ he said slowly, ‘he is mine equally, he will be better with me.’

Dot laughed hysterically. ‘The mother always keeps it in these cases. I believe you are going mad, Larrie.’

‘I believe I am,’ he said very quietly.

He pulled up the blind for want of anything else to do, and the dawn struggled in and took away the brightness of the lamp.

It was only this minute he had really meant to keep the child, his first idea had been merely to go away and leave them, not[p120]altogether, perhaps as he said, but until he could find life bearable again.

But when he saw how quickly she consented and how her only care was to keep the child, he told himself he would move heaven and hell before she had it.

‘I shall keep it,’ he repeated, ‘it is not a question of a mother’s care, any nurse I get will know more about it than you do—I shall keep it. You have chosen your life, you can go on the stage altogether if you like, but I shall not let you have the child.’

In all he said he would not degrade either of them by the mention of Wooster’s name, but there was nothing else in his thoughts, and only everything else in the world in hers.

A great weariness came to Dot, a weariness of all her present life. She dropped her chin on her hands, and stared out at the pale, creeping light. Her heart was quite cold, she did not seem to care about anything in the world. She looked at Larrie and away again. A tiny darn on her skirt caught her eye and she stared at it fixedly.

[p121]It lifted all her tired thoughts back to the day it was made and pushed the present out of sight. It was her wedding morning, and she had put on the dress, she remembered she had said it was a ‘holy’ dress, it was so purely white and billowy and beautiful.

And she had dressed very early, for Larrie had been unorthodox enough to want to see her before she came up the aisle to him. And when she saw him coming up the path, looking oddly uncomfortable in his tall new hat and frock coat, she had flown down the hall and into his arms. And at the same minute the gate had clicked to admit a string of relations eager to fall on the bride, and he had picked her up in his arms, sweeping train and veil and all, and whisked her upstairs on to the landing to have her to himself for the last few minutes before he had her for ever. The darn had been necessary, because in the quick passage up a fold had caught in a splinter in the bannisters, made by her travelling trunk.

To-night she saw Larrie looking at the[p122]mud on the hem. She imagined herself without the darn, without the dress, without the wedding.

It was eighteen months out of her life, that was all; all the wish she had on earth just now was to wipe out that time and be a girl again.

She had tried marriage, and it had been a failure for them both; Larrie was right, the plan he offered was the best to be found; the vulgarity and misery of publicity she could not have borne, but there was no reason why they should not quietly set each other free, and go on their separate ways again.

There was the child of course. She knew nothing about law and supposed Larrie had first right, since as she had often said to him the law always gave the man the best of everything. And cold, utterly tired and miserable as she was, she told herself she did not mind very much. She could not put away those eighteen months as if they had never been, if the child was always before her eyes to remind[p123]her of them. She promised herself she would go to Italy or Germany with her mother and give up her life to music, she had only failed through nervousness and misery last night, the future was full of glorious possibilities.

Larrie was speaking again, there was a look of judicial fairness in his eyes.

‘Since we have both an equal right to him,’ he said, ‘we will draw lots if you like.’

‘Very well,’ she said coldly.

‘Will you let me make you some coffee first, you will be taking cold,’ he looked at her quite without anxiety. ‘I can make up a fire in the kitchen in five minutes.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘get some paper. There are some backs of letters in the blotter.’

[p124]CHAPTER XIA QUESTION OF OWNERSHIP‘And laid her face between her handsAnd wept (I heard her tears).’‘See, they are ready,’ Larrie said. He had folded the slips of paper up into two little square pieces. ‘Will you draw or shall I?’‘What have you put on them?’ Dot asked.‘L and D,’ he said.‘You could have put baby on one and left the other blank,’ she said, ‘and then I could have drawn one and left the other.’ She gained half a minute by the statement.‘It comes to the same,’ he said, and held them out to her on the Japanese pen tray.But she looked at the little pieces as if they[p125]had been dynamite; a faint colour stole up into her cheeks, her eyes dilated.‘Draw,’ he said.She put out her hand and drew it back again trembling like a leaf and empty.‘Wait a minute,’ she said with a little gasp. She covered her eyes for a second, then, suspiciously, ‘how do I know you have not marked one so you may know it?’‘If you draw it will make no difference,’ he answered patiently.She put out her hand again and touched them, first one and then the other.‘IknowI shall draw the wrong one,’ she said in a choking voice, she turned them over and examined them with pitiful criticism.‘What did you make this one narrower than the other for?’‘Is it?’ he said and looked.His hand was not trembling at all, but in his heart there was a great aching for his little son.‘I think I had better draw and have done with it.’[p126]The quick movement of her hand again showed her trust in him was not all it might have been—her fingers closed and unclosed round the wider piece. Her cheeks were burning, her breath coming in little quick pants.‘Get it over, Dot,’ he said very gently.She shut her eyes, her hand groped forward, her face grew very white. Then she unclosed her fingers and showed both little slips lying in her palm.‘Iwon’tdo it that way,’ she said with sudden passion, ‘as if he were a cushion in a bazaar, or a lottery ticket. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Larrie.’ She tore the paper into a hundred fragments and looked at him with wide, angry eyes.‘But how shall we decide?’ he said heavily. He put the little tray back on the table and mechanically replaced the pens and paper knife, the darning needle and broken bit of coral he had emptied from it a few minutes ago.‘He shall decide himself,’ she said. She[p127]got up and went towards the door. ‘Write two more pieces of paper, and he shall draw.’Larrie wrote L and D again with a heavy J nib, and again folded them up; then he followed his wife.She was standing by the cot in an inner room looking down at the little sleep-flushed face. One little curled up hand was flung out on the counterpane, the other, with a thumb still wet, was drooped just below his chin. Damp little rings of hair lay on his forehead, his lips were apart, his long eyelashes motionless. Larrie came in on tip-toe.‘You can’t wake him,’ he said in a low voice.She shook her head, there was almost a fierce look in her eyes.‘What will you do then?’ he asked. And ‘Wait,’ she returned.He brought a wicker chair to the bedside for her, a stiff-backed one for himself.They sat and watched in utter silence till the sun kissed the grey dawn white. Then the child stirred, flung off the blanket, sighed—and[p128]slept again. Dot had gone pale as death, and even Larrie’s heart had beaten faster. But they composed themselves again, and watched without speaking. And blue was born in the sky, and the white tossed itself into cloud shapes that a wind drove over the sky to the west. Away at the back a gate banged, there was a sound of the contact of a tin and milk jug on the verandah. Then the gate fell to again.Baby uncurled his hands, sighed and changed his cuddled-up side position for one flat on his back. Then he opened his eyes.‘Are you ready?’ Larrie said in rather a thick voice.But Dot looked at him indignantly. ‘Wait till he is awake and knows what he is doing,’ she said.He was laughing up at them, holding up his arms. There was some soft fur at his mother’s neck that he was convinced would be good to eat, he had a desire also to pull the crisp curls on his father’s head.[p129]‘Goo—goo—goo,’ he said, with an impatient kick and an adorable smile.How white Dot was! How Larrie’s hand trembled as he picked up the tray!‘He is awake now,’ he said in a low voice.‘Let them be quite even,’ Dot returned, with an agitated look, ‘of course he will take the nearest one.’Larrie arranged them with mathematical precision, then put the tray near the little baby hands. For one wild second, Dot looked away, she could not have watched, then a low, mirthless laugh from Larrie recalled her eyes.The child had taken the two without a moment’s hesitation, and stuffed them instantly into his little open hungry mouth.The diversion occupied some little time for both knew that paper was bad for infantile digestion, but the touch of humour about it did not strike either, or divert them from the tragedy they were bent upon.‘Howarewe to settle it?’ Larrie said wearily.[p130]Dot lifted the child suddenly up on the pillow,—there was a look of resolution in her eyes.‘We will both hold out our arms,’ she said, ‘whomever he goes to shall have him; it is the fairest way.’They bent down to the little fellow, father and mother, with faces that would whiten, and arms that trembled despite themselves.‘Come,’ they both said.One little roseleaf hand buried itself in Larrie’s curls, one clutched the fur at Dot’s neck.‘Come,’ they said again, and this time there was a desperate look in Dot’s eyes.He looked gravely from one to the other and loosened his hold of their separate persons. There was a thoughtful expression in his eyes though his lips smiled. He half turned to Dot, and the intense look of her mouth relaxed faintly. But then suddenly he stretched out his arms and with a rapturous little leap flung himself at Larrie.

‘And laid her face between her handsAnd wept (I heard her tears).’

‘And laid her face between her handsAnd wept (I heard her tears).’

‘And laid her face between her handsAnd wept (I heard her tears).’

‘And laid her face between her hands

And wept (I heard her tears).’

‘See, they are ready,’ Larrie said. He had folded the slips of paper up into two little square pieces. ‘Will you draw or shall I?’

‘What have you put on them?’ Dot asked.

‘L and D,’ he said.

‘You could have put baby on one and left the other blank,’ she said, ‘and then I could have drawn one and left the other.’ She gained half a minute by the statement.

‘It comes to the same,’ he said, and held them out to her on the Japanese pen tray.

But she looked at the little pieces as if they[p125]had been dynamite; a faint colour stole up into her cheeks, her eyes dilated.

‘Draw,’ he said.

She put out her hand and drew it back again trembling like a leaf and empty.

‘Wait a minute,’ she said with a little gasp. She covered her eyes for a second, then, suspiciously, ‘how do I know you have not marked one so you may know it?’

‘If you draw it will make no difference,’ he answered patiently.

She put out her hand again and touched them, first one and then the other.

‘IknowI shall draw the wrong one,’ she said in a choking voice, she turned them over and examined them with pitiful criticism.

‘What did you make this one narrower than the other for?’

‘Is it?’ he said and looked.

His hand was not trembling at all, but in his heart there was a great aching for his little son.

‘I think I had better draw and have done with it.’

[p126]The quick movement of her hand again showed her trust in him was not all it might have been—her fingers closed and unclosed round the wider piece. Her cheeks were burning, her breath coming in little quick pants.

‘Get it over, Dot,’ he said very gently.

She shut her eyes, her hand groped forward, her face grew very white. Then she unclosed her fingers and showed both little slips lying in her palm.

‘Iwon’tdo it that way,’ she said with sudden passion, ‘as if he were a cushion in a bazaar, or a lottery ticket. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Larrie.’ She tore the paper into a hundred fragments and looked at him with wide, angry eyes.

‘But how shall we decide?’ he said heavily. He put the little tray back on the table and mechanically replaced the pens and paper knife, the darning needle and broken bit of coral he had emptied from it a few minutes ago.

‘He shall decide himself,’ she said. She[p127]got up and went towards the door. ‘Write two more pieces of paper, and he shall draw.’

Larrie wrote L and D again with a heavy J nib, and again folded them up; then he followed his wife.

She was standing by the cot in an inner room looking down at the little sleep-flushed face. One little curled up hand was flung out on the counterpane, the other, with a thumb still wet, was drooped just below his chin. Damp little rings of hair lay on his forehead, his lips were apart, his long eyelashes motionless. Larrie came in on tip-toe.

‘You can’t wake him,’ he said in a low voice.

She shook her head, there was almost a fierce look in her eyes.

‘What will you do then?’ he asked. And ‘Wait,’ she returned.

He brought a wicker chair to the bedside for her, a stiff-backed one for himself.

They sat and watched in utter silence till the sun kissed the grey dawn white. Then the child stirred, flung off the blanket, sighed—and[p128]slept again. Dot had gone pale as death, and even Larrie’s heart had beaten faster. But they composed themselves again, and watched without speaking. And blue was born in the sky, and the white tossed itself into cloud shapes that a wind drove over the sky to the west. Away at the back a gate banged, there was a sound of the contact of a tin and milk jug on the verandah. Then the gate fell to again.

Baby uncurled his hands, sighed and changed his cuddled-up side position for one flat on his back. Then he opened his eyes.

‘Are you ready?’ Larrie said in rather a thick voice.

But Dot looked at him indignantly. ‘Wait till he is awake and knows what he is doing,’ she said.

He was laughing up at them, holding up his arms. There was some soft fur at his mother’s neck that he was convinced would be good to eat, he had a desire also to pull the crisp curls on his father’s head.

[p129]‘Goo—goo—goo,’ he said, with an impatient kick and an adorable smile.

How white Dot was! How Larrie’s hand trembled as he picked up the tray!

‘He is awake now,’ he said in a low voice.

‘Let them be quite even,’ Dot returned, with an agitated look, ‘of course he will take the nearest one.’

Larrie arranged them with mathematical precision, then put the tray near the little baby hands. For one wild second, Dot looked away, she could not have watched, then a low, mirthless laugh from Larrie recalled her eyes.

The child had taken the two without a moment’s hesitation, and stuffed them instantly into his little open hungry mouth.

The diversion occupied some little time for both knew that paper was bad for infantile digestion, but the touch of humour about it did not strike either, or divert them from the tragedy they were bent upon.

‘Howarewe to settle it?’ Larrie said wearily.

[p130]Dot lifted the child suddenly up on the pillow,—there was a look of resolution in her eyes.

‘We will both hold out our arms,’ she said, ‘whomever he goes to shall have him; it is the fairest way.’

They bent down to the little fellow, father and mother, with faces that would whiten, and arms that trembled despite themselves.

‘Come,’ they both said.

One little roseleaf hand buried itself in Larrie’s curls, one clutched the fur at Dot’s neck.

‘Come,’ they said again, and this time there was a desperate look in Dot’s eyes.

He looked gravely from one to the other and loosened his hold of their separate persons. There was a thoughtful expression in his eyes though his lips smiled. He half turned to Dot, and the intense look of her mouth relaxed faintly. But then suddenly he stretched out his arms and with a rapturous little leap flung himself at Larrie.

[p131]CHAPTER XIIA LITTLE DIPLOMAT‘Alas to be as we have been,And to be as we are to-day.’Fora few days life was a confused tangle; then to prevent themselves going mad, each assiduously tried to pick out the beginning of a new thread to follow.Dot was up at the house, she had the little sitting-room and bedroom of her girlhood again, and she had sent to Sydney for a parcel of new music.Strange wisdom came to the little anxious mother. That it was really a serious quarrel this time she could not help acknowledging, and at first could hardly restrain herself from flying down to the cottage and upbraiding[p132]Larrie vigorously. But then again she knew her child had been to blame as well, and felt that interference just at the present stage of things would work harm. A little time apart she told herself, would do them both good, so she remained strictly neutral, and though her heart ached sometimes at the sight of Dot’s unhappy eyes and carefully smiling lips, she made no obvious attempt to bring about a reconciliation. She did not even throw cold water upon Dot’s wild plans that embraced an instantaneous sale of the house and a voyage to Italy.Dot had all the trunks and portmanteaus in the house carried into her bedroom, and began to pack her own and her mother’s favourite possessions into them.‘This might be useful on board,’ she would say, putting in a huge workbasket or writing desk, or ‘You would miss this, even in Italy,’ taking down an old print of the Madonna and Child that had hung in her mother’s bedroom as long as she could remember.The family solicitor was visited. Dot was to[p133]come in to about £3000 by the terms of her father’s will when she was twenty-one. She arranged for a sufficient advance of it to take her mother and herself to Italy.‘You will like to go, of course,’ she said to her mother, ‘you are losing your spirits staying in this wretched place year after year. Travel is just what you need, isn’t it now, small woman?’The mother acquiesced; she would like the voyage very much, but she could not be ready quite as soon as Dot wished. She must have six weeks at least to settle about the house and different business matters.Dot chafed at the delay, she had wanted to take passages in a boat that went the very next week, and to leave any arrangements to the solicitor, but the mother for once held her own.The cottage was to be let, but until a tenant was found, Larrie was compelled to stay there with the baby and Peggie who had thrown in her fortunes with the child, and regarded her master and mistress as being for the time[p134]of unsound mind. She treated Larrie with cold severity, and no words could express the scorn she felt for the absent Dot. But on the baby, she lavished all the tenderness of her nature, and told it half-a-dozen times a day that it was a poor deserted lamb, and if she was the law she would handcuff ‘them two’ so fast together they could not move apart the rest of their lives.The third day of Dot’s residence at the house, Mr Wooster came. He had called at the cottage, but Peggie had informed him her mistress was up at the house. So he turned his steps uphill. Dot talked a great deal and seemed in an excited mood, but he had no suspicion of the real state of affairs, and merely thought she was spending the afternoon at her mother’s.But he was staying in the district again for his health, and when he came the next evening with a promised book for the little mother, she was there again.She was sitting at a table with a quantity of paper books and maps spread out before her.[p135]‘I am deciding which way to go home,’ she said, in answer to his questioning glance, ‘you have often said I ought to study in Italy.’He thought she was doing it for a pleasant mental recreation and only smiled.‘We go in about a month. Did not mother tell you?’ she said, and followed up a dotted line through the Red Sea with a careful pen.He looked the surprise he felt. So friendly had he become with Dot and the little mother, that he felt quite hurt to be so tardily informed.‘Mr Armitage is fortunate to be able to get away,’ was all he said and there was a little stiffness in his voice.Dot went slowly overland from Brindisi to Calais, then she looked up.‘No, he is not fortunate,’ she said, ‘for he cannot get away at all. I am going alone—at least, mother and I are going.’‘And your little boy of course?’Dot yawned with discernible difficulty.‘Oh,’ she said lightly, ‘children block the[p136]road to success, besides I must leave him as compensation to my husband while I hunt for fame.’He was too amazed to speak. Larrie had struck him as certainly the one other man in the world capable of fully appreciating the worshipfulness of this dear little girl. And to hear he was content to part with her like this after only eighteen months!He felt a sudden contempt for Larrie and an overwhelming sorrow for himself; what a very sweet little child she was with those soft flushed cheeks and wide darkening eyes! And to think there was a lifetime of hunger for one man because he could never touch one of those soft, boyish curls, and the other who had all of her, held her so lightly.‘I suppose you think it is a mad quest after my failure,’ she said, finding him silent.But he disclaimed that. He was as assured of her ultimate success as ever, and knew that it was only through nervousness that she had failed to win immediate recognition. As[p137]it was, several of the best critics had spoken of her hopefully.‘No, you will succeed of course,’ he said, quietly. He did not look at her, he was thinking, wondering whether he should be able to do without travelling too when Australia no longer held her.Then he wished hair shirts were sold by modern mercers, and thanked God she was going. He talked cheerfully of the route, advised the best places for study, the best masters, offered letters of introduction, and all manner of things.The talk stimulated Dot, her eyes and cheeks grew bright; two hours ago the ache at her heart had been intolerable, but the thought of Italy and music was easing it greatly.From her corner, her needle in a wee muslin pinafore, the little mother looked at them with troubled brows. This kind of thing was inimical to the baby, to Larrie, to all of them, she almost wished her little girl had been born without music in her soul.[p138]Then something made her catch her breath and pale suddenly under the brown of her skin. She had seen and interpreted the look of strange wistfulness in Sullivan Wooster’s eyes, and it made her heart grow cold. Dot looking up from her plans met his earnest gaze, and for some inexplicable reason blushed; the little mother in the corner said ‘God’ below her breath—she was not a woman of strong expressions, but her thoughts had leapt to terrible possibilities.When Wooster rose to go, she went downstairs with him; they had been all the evening in Dot’s little sitting room.‘You want me?’ he said half way down the hall, for her large eyes were speaking. They went into the drawing-room and he waited for her to speak, hat in hand.‘I do not think this place is good for you,’ she said gently.He looked down at the little fragile woman, her worn, lined face and great sad eyes were infinitely beautiful to him.[p139]‘No place ever agreed with me better,’ he said, puzzled.Her lips grew severe.‘It does not agree with you,’ she said very quietly.Then he understood what the anxious eyes were saying, and was inexpressibly shocked that she should have guessed what he hardly allowed himself to know. For a moment he could find no words, he stood before her with bent head and paling face, then he looked up and saw grief and tenderness were in her face as well as anxiety. Terrible though the thing was, the little brown faced woman whom the waves of life had so buffeted, was sorry for him, her eyes grew humid, she put out her thin, tiny hand.‘It is not good for you,’ she repeated very softly.He lifted the hand to his lips and kissed it reverently.‘No,’ he said, ‘it is not good for me. I will go.’

‘Alas to be as we have been,And to be as we are to-day.’

‘Alas to be as we have been,And to be as we are to-day.’

‘Alas to be as we have been,And to be as we are to-day.’

‘Alas to be as we have been,

And to be as we are to-day.’

Fora few days life was a confused tangle; then to prevent themselves going mad, each assiduously tried to pick out the beginning of a new thread to follow.

Dot was up at the house, she had the little sitting-room and bedroom of her girlhood again, and she had sent to Sydney for a parcel of new music.

Strange wisdom came to the little anxious mother. That it was really a serious quarrel this time she could not help acknowledging, and at first could hardly restrain herself from flying down to the cottage and upbraiding[p132]Larrie vigorously. But then again she knew her child had been to blame as well, and felt that interference just at the present stage of things would work harm. A little time apart she told herself, would do them both good, so she remained strictly neutral, and though her heart ached sometimes at the sight of Dot’s unhappy eyes and carefully smiling lips, she made no obvious attempt to bring about a reconciliation. She did not even throw cold water upon Dot’s wild plans that embraced an instantaneous sale of the house and a voyage to Italy.

Dot had all the trunks and portmanteaus in the house carried into her bedroom, and began to pack her own and her mother’s favourite possessions into them.

‘This might be useful on board,’ she would say, putting in a huge workbasket or writing desk, or ‘You would miss this, even in Italy,’ taking down an old print of the Madonna and Child that had hung in her mother’s bedroom as long as she could remember.

The family solicitor was visited. Dot was to[p133]come in to about £3000 by the terms of her father’s will when she was twenty-one. She arranged for a sufficient advance of it to take her mother and herself to Italy.

‘You will like to go, of course,’ she said to her mother, ‘you are losing your spirits staying in this wretched place year after year. Travel is just what you need, isn’t it now, small woman?’

The mother acquiesced; she would like the voyage very much, but she could not be ready quite as soon as Dot wished. She must have six weeks at least to settle about the house and different business matters.

Dot chafed at the delay, she had wanted to take passages in a boat that went the very next week, and to leave any arrangements to the solicitor, but the mother for once held her own.

The cottage was to be let, but until a tenant was found, Larrie was compelled to stay there with the baby and Peggie who had thrown in her fortunes with the child, and regarded her master and mistress as being for the time[p134]of unsound mind. She treated Larrie with cold severity, and no words could express the scorn she felt for the absent Dot. But on the baby, she lavished all the tenderness of her nature, and told it half-a-dozen times a day that it was a poor deserted lamb, and if she was the law she would handcuff ‘them two’ so fast together they could not move apart the rest of their lives.

The third day of Dot’s residence at the house, Mr Wooster came. He had called at the cottage, but Peggie had informed him her mistress was up at the house. So he turned his steps uphill. Dot talked a great deal and seemed in an excited mood, but he had no suspicion of the real state of affairs, and merely thought she was spending the afternoon at her mother’s.

But he was staying in the district again for his health, and when he came the next evening with a promised book for the little mother, she was there again.

She was sitting at a table with a quantity of paper books and maps spread out before her.

[p135]‘I am deciding which way to go home,’ she said, in answer to his questioning glance, ‘you have often said I ought to study in Italy.’

He thought she was doing it for a pleasant mental recreation and only smiled.

‘We go in about a month. Did not mother tell you?’ she said, and followed up a dotted line through the Red Sea with a careful pen.

He looked the surprise he felt. So friendly had he become with Dot and the little mother, that he felt quite hurt to be so tardily informed.

‘Mr Armitage is fortunate to be able to get away,’ was all he said and there was a little stiffness in his voice.

Dot went slowly overland from Brindisi to Calais, then she looked up.

‘No, he is not fortunate,’ she said, ‘for he cannot get away at all. I am going alone—at least, mother and I are going.’

‘And your little boy of course?’

Dot yawned with discernible difficulty.

‘Oh,’ she said lightly, ‘children block the[p136]road to success, besides I must leave him as compensation to my husband while I hunt for fame.’

He was too amazed to speak. Larrie had struck him as certainly the one other man in the world capable of fully appreciating the worshipfulness of this dear little girl. And to hear he was content to part with her like this after only eighteen months!

He felt a sudden contempt for Larrie and an overwhelming sorrow for himself; what a very sweet little child she was with those soft flushed cheeks and wide darkening eyes! And to think there was a lifetime of hunger for one man because he could never touch one of those soft, boyish curls, and the other who had all of her, held her so lightly.

‘I suppose you think it is a mad quest after my failure,’ she said, finding him silent.

But he disclaimed that. He was as assured of her ultimate success as ever, and knew that it was only through nervousness that she had failed to win immediate recognition. As[p137]it was, several of the best critics had spoken of her hopefully.

‘No, you will succeed of course,’ he said, quietly. He did not look at her, he was thinking, wondering whether he should be able to do without travelling too when Australia no longer held her.

Then he wished hair shirts were sold by modern mercers, and thanked God she was going. He talked cheerfully of the route, advised the best places for study, the best masters, offered letters of introduction, and all manner of things.

The talk stimulated Dot, her eyes and cheeks grew bright; two hours ago the ache at her heart had been intolerable, but the thought of Italy and music was easing it greatly.

From her corner, her needle in a wee muslin pinafore, the little mother looked at them with troubled brows. This kind of thing was inimical to the baby, to Larrie, to all of them, she almost wished her little girl had been born without music in her soul.[p138]Then something made her catch her breath and pale suddenly under the brown of her skin. She had seen and interpreted the look of strange wistfulness in Sullivan Wooster’s eyes, and it made her heart grow cold. Dot looking up from her plans met his earnest gaze, and for some inexplicable reason blushed; the little mother in the corner said ‘God’ below her breath—she was not a woman of strong expressions, but her thoughts had leapt to terrible possibilities.

When Wooster rose to go, she went downstairs with him; they had been all the evening in Dot’s little sitting room.

‘You want me?’ he said half way down the hall, for her large eyes were speaking. They went into the drawing-room and he waited for her to speak, hat in hand.

‘I do not think this place is good for you,’ she said gently.

He looked down at the little fragile woman, her worn, lined face and great sad eyes were infinitely beautiful to him.

[p139]‘No place ever agreed with me better,’ he said, puzzled.

Her lips grew severe.

‘It does not agree with you,’ she said very quietly.

Then he understood what the anxious eyes were saying, and was inexpressibly shocked that she should have guessed what he hardly allowed himself to know. For a moment he could find no words, he stood before her with bent head and paling face, then he looked up and saw grief and tenderness were in her face as well as anxiety. Terrible though the thing was, the little brown faced woman whom the waves of life had so buffeted, was sorry for him, her eyes grew humid, she put out her thin, tiny hand.

‘It is not good for you,’ she repeated very softly.

He lifted the hand to his lips and kissed it reverently.

‘No,’ he said, ‘it is not good for me. I will go.’

[p140]CHAPTER XIIIDOT GOES BABY-LIFTING‘Me do you leave aghastWith the memories we amassed?’Dothad picked up a book in morocco covers. It was lying on the sitting room table with a dozen others and she took it at random. The little mother was persisting in bringing the conversation round to the baby this evening, for the new fear in her heart would not allow her to let things take their own course any longer. She dwelt on his hair, the funny little habit he had of drawing in his lips, the dimple that dented one little cheek just below the left eye.So Dot took up a book to show she was too much occupied for conversation, but her lips[p141]were trembling. They had hitherto eschewed this subject entirely.The book might easily have been any of the twelve others, but it happened to be Browning. She turned over the leaves, then, as that mechanical action did not quieten the little mother, she was forced to read.And the very words Larrie had marked for her once quite years ago when they had only been engaged and used to play at quarreling! It was a finger nail mark and ran along one whole verse.‘Love, if you knew the lightThat your soul casts in my sight,How I look to youFor the good and true.And the beauteous and the right,Bear with a moment’s spiteWhen a mere mote threats the white.’A great tear splashed down upon it. Dot wiped it off with a hasty hand, she was angry because the coldness and bitterness around her heart were melting. But two more fell, and two again, a host of little sweet recollections[p142]of their married and unmarried life came thronging unbidden. How could she bear life if on every hand episodes of the dead days were going to rise up in this way?Dear tender eyes watched her from the corner.‘He looked ill, my darling,—as if he had not slept or eaten for a week,—I saw him at thestation—’ the soft voice paused for a minute.‘It is nothing to me,’ was the cold, piteous answer.‘He hadn’t his obstinate look at all,—when he saw me he looked suddenly as if he was going to cry, then he turned round and walked up the road again quickly.’Dot saw his face, the quick softening of his mouth and eyes. She could hear his very footsteps going away.‘I shall never forgive him while I live,’ she said, but she had crept round to the chair in the dim corner and was feeling for her mother’s arms.[p143]They drew her down, down,—two women were rocking and crying just out of the reach of the lamplight.Half an hour later they were hurrying down the hill to the cottage. Dot’s eyes were tender, the great peace of forgiving was in her heart; she was going to her husband, the one man in the world who was all her own and God-given,—between them what question could there be of pride?Two hundred yards from the gate she stopped, there was a fallen tree worn smooth with years of sitting upon.‘Wait here, little mother,’ she said; ‘let me go alone. Then we will come back and fetch you.’She pressed on by herself, a tender smile parted her lips. Larrie thin and sleepless! Larrie aching for the touch of her hand—Larrie whose love was so desperate he could not help being cruel!She crushed herself through the broken palings at the bottom of the bush paddock, then she crept along in the shadow of the[p144]trees, up through the garden till voices floated down to her and stopped her. Laughter came from the verandah and smoke, and there were two decanters on a little table, with a flickering lamp.Larrie was entertaining two bachelor friends and was holding a pipe with one side of his mouth, and with the other telling a late witticism of a Supreme Court judge. The men had come up about taking the cottage, and almost suspected a domestic crisis; Larrie’s forced spirits deceived no one but Dot in the shadow of the pepper trees.She felt frozen with shame and horror. This was the man she would have humbled herself for! She turned to go back in silence the way she had come. But on the verandah there was a sudden movement; someone had discovered it was half-past eight, and being a Thursday evening the last train went down in eight minutes. They had their hats and sticks in ten seconds, and were halfway down the path. Larrie went with them.[p145]‘I’ll see you safe in,’ he said, ‘we’ll have to run for it.’ His shadow fell at Dot’s feet, then raced him down the road leading to the station.Dot breathed freely once more, then with steady steps she went up the path and round the verandah to Peggie’s window.The woman was on her knees by the bedside, reading theBulletinby candlelight. She always abstracted it from the dining-room on Thursdays, the moment Larrie laid it down, for she had a strange passion for political caricatures, though to her knowledge she had never seen a Member of Parliament in her life. To-night she was convulsed over a minister of the crown portrayed in an eye-glass and ballet skirts.Dot crept in through the back door and went on tiptoe down the hall to the second room there. She made a warm bundle of the baby with the cot blankets and a New Zealand rug, then she went out into the hall again, holding it close to her happy breast. Larrie had left the front door just ajar, so she[p146]stole out noiselessly and walked down the path to the gate.The next minute she was fleeing up the road again to her mother, the burden in her arms the lightest thing in the world.

‘Me do you leave aghastWith the memories we amassed?’

‘Me do you leave aghastWith the memories we amassed?’

‘Me do you leave aghastWith the memories we amassed?’

‘Me do you leave aghast

With the memories we amassed?’

Dothad picked up a book in morocco covers. It was lying on the sitting room table with a dozen others and she took it at random. The little mother was persisting in bringing the conversation round to the baby this evening, for the new fear in her heart would not allow her to let things take their own course any longer. She dwelt on his hair, the funny little habit he had of drawing in his lips, the dimple that dented one little cheek just below the left eye.

So Dot took up a book to show she was too much occupied for conversation, but her lips[p141]were trembling. They had hitherto eschewed this subject entirely.

The book might easily have been any of the twelve others, but it happened to be Browning. She turned over the leaves, then, as that mechanical action did not quieten the little mother, she was forced to read.

And the very words Larrie had marked for her once quite years ago when they had only been engaged and used to play at quarreling! It was a finger nail mark and ran along one whole verse.

‘Love, if you knew the lightThat your soul casts in my sight,How I look to youFor the good and true.And the beauteous and the right,Bear with a moment’s spiteWhen a mere mote threats the white.’

‘Love, if you knew the lightThat your soul casts in my sight,How I look to youFor the good and true.And the beauteous and the right,Bear with a moment’s spiteWhen a mere mote threats the white.’

‘Love, if you knew the lightThat your soul casts in my sight,How I look to youFor the good and true.And the beauteous and the right,Bear with a moment’s spiteWhen a mere mote threats the white.’

‘Love, if you knew the light

That your soul casts in my sight,

How I look to you

For the good and true.

And the beauteous and the right,

Bear with a moment’s spite

When a mere mote threats the white.’

A great tear splashed down upon it. Dot wiped it off with a hasty hand, she was angry because the coldness and bitterness around her heart were melting. But two more fell, and two again, a host of little sweet recollections[p142]of their married and unmarried life came thronging unbidden. How could she bear life if on every hand episodes of the dead days were going to rise up in this way?

Dear tender eyes watched her from the corner.

‘He looked ill, my darling,—as if he had not slept or eaten for a week,—I saw him at thestation—’ the soft voice paused for a minute.

‘It is nothing to me,’ was the cold, piteous answer.

‘He hadn’t his obstinate look at all,—when he saw me he looked suddenly as if he was going to cry, then he turned round and walked up the road again quickly.’

Dot saw his face, the quick softening of his mouth and eyes. She could hear his very footsteps going away.

‘I shall never forgive him while I live,’ she said, but she had crept round to the chair in the dim corner and was feeling for her mother’s arms.

[p143]They drew her down, down,—two women were rocking and crying just out of the reach of the lamplight.

Half an hour later they were hurrying down the hill to the cottage. Dot’s eyes were tender, the great peace of forgiving was in her heart; she was going to her husband, the one man in the world who was all her own and God-given,—between them what question could there be of pride?

Two hundred yards from the gate she stopped, there was a fallen tree worn smooth with years of sitting upon.

‘Wait here, little mother,’ she said; ‘let me go alone. Then we will come back and fetch you.’

She pressed on by herself, a tender smile parted her lips. Larrie thin and sleepless! Larrie aching for the touch of her hand—Larrie whose love was so desperate he could not help being cruel!

She crushed herself through the broken palings at the bottom of the bush paddock, then she crept along in the shadow of the[p144]trees, up through the garden till voices floated down to her and stopped her. Laughter came from the verandah and smoke, and there were two decanters on a little table, with a flickering lamp.

Larrie was entertaining two bachelor friends and was holding a pipe with one side of his mouth, and with the other telling a late witticism of a Supreme Court judge. The men had come up about taking the cottage, and almost suspected a domestic crisis; Larrie’s forced spirits deceived no one but Dot in the shadow of the pepper trees.

She felt frozen with shame and horror. This was the man she would have humbled herself for! She turned to go back in silence the way she had come. But on the verandah there was a sudden movement; someone had discovered it was half-past eight, and being a Thursday evening the last train went down in eight minutes. They had their hats and sticks in ten seconds, and were halfway down the path. Larrie went with them.

[p145]‘I’ll see you safe in,’ he said, ‘we’ll have to run for it.’ His shadow fell at Dot’s feet, then raced him down the road leading to the station.

Dot breathed freely once more, then with steady steps she went up the path and round the verandah to Peggie’s window.

The woman was on her knees by the bedside, reading theBulletinby candlelight. She always abstracted it from the dining-room on Thursdays, the moment Larrie laid it down, for she had a strange passion for political caricatures, though to her knowledge she had never seen a Member of Parliament in her life. To-night she was convulsed over a minister of the crown portrayed in an eye-glass and ballet skirts.

Dot crept in through the back door and went on tiptoe down the hall to the second room there. She made a warm bundle of the baby with the cot blankets and a New Zealand rug, then she went out into the hall again, holding it close to her happy breast. Larrie had left the front door just ajar, so she[p146]stole out noiselessly and walked down the path to the gate.

The next minute she was fleeing up the road again to her mother, the burden in her arms the lightest thing in the world.

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