Book + 

V + 

XL + 

I + 

Early in April Stephen and Mary returned to the house in Paris. This second homecoming seemed wonderfully sweet by reason of its peaceful and happy completeness, so that they turned to smile at each other as they passed through the door, and Stephen said very softly: + 

“Welcome home, Mary.” + 

And now for the first time the old house was home. Mary went quickly from room to room humming a little tune as she did so, feeling that she saw with a new understanding the inanimate objects which filled those rooms⁠—were they not Stephen’s? Every now and again she must pause to touch them because they were Stephen’s. Then she turned and went into Stephen’s bedroom; not timidly, dreading to be unwelcome, but quite without fear or restraint or shyness, and this gave her a warm little glow of pleasure. + 

Stephen was busily grooming her hair with a couple of brushes that had been dipped in water. The water had darkened her hair in patches, but had deepened the wide wave above her forehead. Seeing Mary in the glass she did not turn round, but just smiled for a moment at their two reflections. Mary sat down in an armchair and watched her, noticing the strong, thin line of her thighs; noticing too the curve of her breasts⁠—slight and compact, of a certain beauty. She had taken off her jacket and looked very tall in her soft silk shirt and her skirt of dark serge. + 

“Tired?” she inquired, glancing down at the girl. + 

“No, not a bit tired,” smiled Mary. + 

Stephen walked over to the stationary basin and proceeded to wash her hands under the tap, spotting her white silk cuffs in the process. Going to the cupboard she got out a clean shirt, slipped in a pair of simple gold cufflinks, and changed; after which she put on a new necktie. + 

Mary said: “Who’s been looking after your clothes⁠—sewing on buttons and that sort of thing?” + 

“I don’t know exactly⁠—Puddle or Adèle. Why?” + 

“Because I’m going to do it in future. You’ll find that I’ve got one very real talent, and that’s darning. When I darn the place looks like a basket, crisscross. And I know how to pick up a ladder as well as the Invisible Mending people! It’s very important that the darns should be smooth, otherwise when you fence they might give you a blister.” + 

Stephen’s lips twitched a little, but she said quite gravely: “Thanks awfully, darling, we’ll go over my stockings.” + 

From the dressing-room next door came a series of thuds; Pierre was depositing Stephen’s luggage. Getting up, Mary opened the wardrobe, revealing a long, neat line of suits hanging from heavy mahogany shoulders⁠—she examined each suit in turn with great interest. Presently she made her way to the cupboard in the wall; it was fitted with sliding shelves, and these she pulled out one by one with precaution. On the shelves there were orderly piles of shirts, crêpe de Chine pyjamas⁠—quite a goodly assortment, and the heavy silk masculine underwear that for several years now had been worn by Stephen. Finally she discovered the stockings where they lay by themselves in the one long drawer, and these she proceeded to unfurl deftly, with a quick and slightly important movement. Thrusting a fist into toes and heels she looked for the holes that were nonexistent. + 

“You must have paid a lot for these stockings, they’re hand knitted silk;” murmured Mary gravely. + 

“I forget what I paid⁠—Puddle got them from England.” + 

“Who did she order them from; do you know?” + 

“I can’t remember; some woman or other.” + 

But Mary persisted: “I shall want her address.” + 

Stephen smiled: “Why? Are you going to order my stockings?” + 

“Darling! Do you think I’ll let you go barefoot? Of course I’m going to order your stockings.” + 

Stephen rested her elbow on the mantelpiece and stood gazing at Mary with her chin on her hand. As she did so she was struck once again by the look of youth that was characteristic of Mary. She looked much less than her twenty-two years in her simple dress with its leather belt⁠—she looked indeed little more than a schoolgirl. And yet there was something quite new in her face, a soft, wise expression that Stephen had put there, so that she suddenly felt pitiful to see her so young yet so full of this wisdom; for sometimes the coming of passion to youth, in spite of its glory, will be strangely pathetic. + 

Mary rolled up the stockings with a sigh of regret; alas, they would not require darning. She was at the stage of being in love when she longed to do womanly tasks for Stephen. But all Stephen’s clothes were discouragingly neat; Mary thought that she must be very well served, which was true⁠—she was served, as are certain men, with a great deal of nicety and care by the servants. + 

And now Stephen was filling her cigarette case from the big box that lived on her dressing table; and now she was strapping on her gold wrist watch; and now she was brushing some dust from her coat; and now she was frowning at herself in the glass for a second as she twitched her immaculate necktie. Mary had seen her do all this before, many times, but today somehow it was different; for today they were in their own home together, so that these little intimate things seemed more dear than they had done at Orotava. The bedroom could only have belonged to Stephen; a large, airy room, very simply furnished⁠—white walls, old oak, and a wide, bricked hearth on which some large, friendly logs were burning. The bed could only have been Stephen’s bed; it was heavy and rather austere in pattern. It looked solemn as Mary had seen Stephen look, and was covered by a bedspread of old blue brocade, otherwise it remained quite guiltless of trimmings. The chairs could only have been Stephen’s chairs; a little reserved, not conducive to lounging. The dressing table could only have been hers, with its tall silver mirror and ivory brushes. And all these things had drawn into themselves a species of life derived from their owner, until they seemed to be thinking of Stephen with a dumbness that made their thoughts more insistent, and their thoughts gathered strength and mingled with Mary’s so that she heard herself cry out: “Stephen!” in a voice that was not very far from tears, because of the joy she felt in that name. + 

And Stephen answered her: “Mary⁠—” + 

Then they stood very still, grown abruptly silent. And each of them felt a little afraid, for the realization of great mutual love can at times be so overwhelming a thing, that even the bravest of hearts may grow fearful. And although they could not have put it into words, could not have explained it to themselves or to each other, they seemed at that moment to be looking beyond the turbulent flood of earthly passion; to be looking straight into the eyes of a love that was changed⁠—a love made perfect, discarnate. + 

But the moment passed and they drew together.⁠ ⁠… + 

II + 

The spring they had left behind in Orotava overtook them quite soon, and one day there it was blowing softly along the old streets of the Quarter⁠—the Rue de Seine, the Rue des Saints Pères, the Rue Bonaparte and their own Rue Jacob. And who can resist the first spring days in Paris? Brighter than ever looked the patches of sky when glimpsed between rows of tall, flat-bosomed houses. From the Pont des Arts could be seen a river that was one wide, ingratiating smile of sunshine; while beyond in the Rue des Petits Champs, spring ran up and down the Passage Choiseul, striking gleams of gold from its dirty glass roof⁠—the roof that looks like the vertebral column of some prehistoric monster. + 

All over the Bois there was bursting of buds⁠—a positive orgy of growth and greenness. The miniature waterfall lifted its voice in an effort to roar as loud as Niagara. Birds sang. Dogs yapped or barked or bayed according to their size and the tastes of their owners. Children appeared in the Champs Élysées with bright coloured balloons which tried to escape and which, given the ghost of a chance, always did so. In the Tuileries Gardens boys with brown legs and innocent socks were hiring toy boats from the man who provided Bateaux de Location. The fountains tossed clouds of spray into the air, and just for fun made an occasional rainbow; then the Arc de Triomphe would be seen through an arc that was, thanks to the sun, even more triumphal. As for the very old lady in her kiosk⁠—the one who sells bocks, groseille, limonade, and such simple foodstuffs as brioches and croissants⁠—as for her, she appeared in a new frilled bonnet and a fine worsted shawl on one memorable Sunday. Smiling she was too, from ear to ear, in spite of the fact that her mouth was toothless, for this fact she only remembered in winter when the east wind started her empty gums aching. + 

Under the quiet, grey wings of the Madeleine the flower-stalls were bright with the glory of God⁠—anemones, jonquils, daffodils, tulips; mimosa that left gold dust on the fingers, and the faintly perfumed ascetic white lilac that had come in the train from the Riviera. There were also hyacinths, pink, red and blue, and many small trees of sturdy azalea. + 

Oh, but the spring was shouting through Paris! It was in the hearts and the eyes of the people. The very dray-horses jangled their bells more loudly because of the spring in their drivers. The debauched old taxis tooted their horns and spun round the corners as though on a race track. Even such glacial things as the diamonds in the Rue de la Paix, were kindled to fire as the sun pierced their facets right through to their entrails; while the sapphires glowed as those African nights had glowed in the garden at Orotava. + 

Was it likely that Stephen could finish her book⁠—she who had Paris in springtime with Mary? Was it likely that Mary could urge her to do so⁠—she who had Paris in springtime with Stephen? There was so much to see, so much to show Mary, so many new things to discover together. And now Stephen felt grateful to Jonathan Brockett who had gone to such pains to teach her her Paris. + 

Idle she was, let it not be denied, idle and happy and utterly carefree. A lover, who, like many another before her, was under the spell of the loved one’s existence. She would wake in the mornings to find Mary beside her, and all through the day she would keep beside Mary, and at night they would lie in each other’s arms⁠—God alone knows who shall dare judge of such matters; in any case Stephen was too much bewitched to be troubled just then by hairsplitting problems. + 

Life had become a new revelation. The most mundane things were invested with glory; shopping with Mary who needed quite a number of dresses. And then there was food that was eaten together⁠—the careful perusal of wine-card and menu. They would lunch or have dinner at Lapérouse; surely still the most epicurean restaurant in the whole of an epicurean city. So humble it looks with its modest entrance on the Quai des Grands Augustins; so humble that a stranger might well pass it by unnoticed, but not so Stephen, who had been there with Brockett. + 

Mary loved Prunier’s in the Rue Duphot, because of its galaxy of sea-monsters. A whole counter there was of incredible creatures⁠—Oursins, black armoured and covered with prickles; Bigorneaux; serpent-like Anguilles Fumées; and many other exciting things that Stephen mistrusted for English stomachs. They would sit at their own particular table, one of the tables upstairs by the window, for the manager came very quickly to know them and would smile and bow grandly: “Bon jour, mesdames.” When they left, the attendant who kept the flower-basket would give Mary a neat little bouquet of roses: “Au revoir, mesdames. Merci bien⁠—à bientôt!” For everyone had pretty manners at Prunier’s. + 

A few people might stare at the tall, scarred woman in her well-tailored clothes and black slouch hat. They would stare first at her and then at her companion: “Mais regardez moi ça! Elle est belle, la petite; comme c’est rigolo!” There would be a few smiles, but on the whole they would attract little notice⁠—ils en ont vu bien d’autres⁠—it was postwar Paris. + 

Sometimes, having dined, they would saunter towards home through streets that were crowded with others who sauntered⁠—men and women, a couple of women together⁠—always twos⁠—the fine nights seemed prolific of couples. In the air there would be the inconsequent feeling that belongs to the night life of most great cities, above all to the careless night life of Paris, where problems are apt to vanish with sunset. The lure of the brightly lighted boulevards, the lure of the dim and mysterious bystreets would grip them so that they would not turn homeward for quite a long while, but would just go on walking. The moon, less clear than at Orotava, less innocent doubtless, yet scarcely less lovely, would come sailing over the Place de la Concorde, staring down at the dozens of other white moons that had managed to get themselves caught by the standards. In the cafés would be crowds of indolent people, for the French who work hard know well how to idle; and these cafés would smell of hot coffee and sawdust, of rough, strong tobacco, of men and women. Beneath the arcades there would be the shop windows, illuminated and bright with temptation. But Mary would usually stare into Sulka’s, picking out scarves or neckties for Stephen. + 

“That one! We’ll come and buy it tomorrow. Oh, Stephen, do wait⁠—look at that dressing-gown!” + 

And Stephen might laugh and pretend to be bored, though she secretly nurtured a weakness for Sulka’s. + 

Down the Rue de Rivoli they would walk arm in arm, until turning at last, they would pass the old church of St. Germain⁠—the church from whose Gothic tower had been rung the first call to a most bloody slaying. But now that tower would be grim with silence, dreaming the composite dreams of Paris⁠—dreams that were heavy with blood and beauty, with innocence and lust, with joy and despair, with life and death, with heaven and hell; all the curious composite dreams of Paris. + 

Then crossing the river they would reach the Quarter and their house, where Stephen would slip her latchkey into the door and would know the warm feeling that can come of a union between door and latchkey. With a sigh of contentment they would find themselves at home once again in the quiet old Rue Jacob. + 

III + 

They went to see the kind Mademoiselle Duphot, and this visit seemed momentous to Mary. She gazed with something almost like awe at the woman who had had the teaching of Stephen. + 

“Oh, but yes,” smiled Mademoiselle Duphot, “I teached her. She was terribly naughty over her dictée; she would write remarks about the poor Henri⁠—très impertinente she would be about Henri! Stévenne was a queer little child and naughty⁠—but so dear, so dear⁠—I could never scold her. With me she done everything her own way.” + 

“Please tell me about that time,” coaxed Mary. + 

So Mademoiselle Duphot sat down beside Mary and patted her hand: “Like me, you love her. Well now let me recall⁠—She would sometimes get angry, very angry, and then she would go to the stables and talk to her horse. But when she fence it was marvellous⁠—she fence like a man, and she only a baby but extrémement strong. And then.⁠ ⁠…” The memories went on and on, such a store she possessed, the kind Mademoiselle Duphot. + 

As she talked her heart went out to the girl, for she felt a great tenderness towards young things: “I am glad that you come to live with our Stévenne now that Mademoiselle Puddle is at Morton. Stévenne would be desolate in the big house. It is charming for both of you this new arrangement. While she work you look after the ménage; is it not so? You take care of Stévenne, she take care of you. Oui, oui, I am glad you have come to Paris.” + 

Julie stroked Mary’s smooth young cheek, then her arm, for she wished to observe through her fingers. She smiled: “Very young, also very kind. I like so much the feel of your kindness⁠—it gives me a warm and so happy sensation, because with all kindness there must be much good.” + 

Was she quite blind after all, the poor Julie? + 

And hearing her Stephen flushed with pleasure, and her eyes that could see turned and rested on Mary with a gentle and very profound expression in their depths⁠—at that moment they were calmly thoughtful, as though brooding upon the mystery of life⁠—one might almost have said the eyes of a mother. + 

A happy and pleasant visit it had been; they talked about it all through the evening. + 

XLI + 

I + 

Burton, who had enlisted in the Worcesters soon after Stephen had found work in London, Burton was now back again in Paris, loudly demanding a brand-new motor. + 

“The car looks awful! Snub-nosed she looks⁠—peculiar⁠—all tucked up in the bonnet;” he declared. + 

So Stephen bought a touring Renault and a smart little landaulette for Mary. The choosing of the cars was the greatest fun; Mary climbed in and out of hers at least six times while it stood in the showroom. + 

“Is it comfortable?” Stephen must keep on asking, “Do you want them to pad it out more at the back? Are you perfectly sure you like the grey whipcord? Because if you don’t it can be re-upholstered.” + 

Mary laughed: “I’m climbing in and out from sheer swank, just to show that it’s mine. Will they send it soon?” + 

“Almost at once, I hope,” smiled Stephen. + 

Very splendid it seemed to her now to have money, because of what money could do for Mary; in the shops they must sometimes behave like two children, having endless things dragged out for inspection. They drove to Versailles in the new touring car and wandered for hours through the lovely gardens. The Hameau no longer seemed sad to Stephen, for Mary and she brought love back to the Hameau. Then they drove to the forest of Fontainebleau, and wherever they went there was singing of birds⁠—challenging, jubilant, provocative singing: “Look at us, look at us! We’re happy, Stephen!” And Stephen’s heart shouted back: “So are we. Look at us, look at us, look at us! We’re happy!” + 

When they were not driving into the country, or amusing themselves by ransacking Paris, Stephen would fence, to keep herself fit⁠—would fence as never before with Buisson, so that Buisson would sometimes say with a grin: + 

“Mais voyons, voyons! I have done you no wrong, yet it almost appears that you wish to kill me!” + 

The foils laid aside, he might turn to Mary, still grinning: “She fence very well, eh, your friend? She lunge like a man, so strong and so graceful.” Which considering all things was generous of Buisson. + 

But suddenly Buisson would grow very angry: “More than seventy francs have I paid to my cook and for nothing! Bon Dieu! Is this winning the war? We starve, we go short of our butter and chickens, and before it is better it is surely much worse. We are all imbeciles, we kindhearted French; we starve ourselves to fatten the Germans. Are they grateful? Sacré Nom! Mais oui, they are grateful⁠—they love us so much that they spit in our faces!” And quite often this mood would be vented on Stephen. + 

To Mary, however, he was usually polite: “You like our Paris? I am glad⁠—that is good. You make the home with Mademoiselle Gordon; I hope you prevent her injurious smoking.” + 

And in spite of his outbursts Mary adored him, because of his interest in Stephen’s fencing. + 

II + 

One evening towards the end of June, Jonathan Brockett walked in serenely: “Hallo, Stephen! Here I am, I’ve turned up again⁠—not that I love you, I positively hate you. I’ve been keeping away for weeks and weeks. Why did you never answer my letters? Not so much as a line on a picture postcard! There’s something in this more than meets the eye. And where’s Puddle? She used to be kind to me once⁠—I shall lay my head down on her bosom and weep.⁠ ⁠…” He stopped abruptly, seeing Mary Llewellyn, who got up from her deep armchair in the corner. + 

Stephen said: “Mary, this is Jonathan Brockett⁠—an old friend of mine; we’re fellow writers. Brockett, this is Mary Llewellyn.” + 

Brockett shot a swift glance in Stephen’s direction, then he bowed and gravely shook hands with Mary. + 

And now Stephen was to see yet another side of this strange and unexpected creature. With infinite courtesy and tact he went out of his way to make himself charming. Never by so much as a word or a look did he once allow it to be inferred that his quick mind had seized on the situation. Brockett’s manner suggested an innocence that he was very far from possessing. + 

Stephen began to study him with interest; they two had not met since before the war. He had thickened, his figure was more robust, there was muscle and flesh on his wide, straight shoulders. And she thought that his face had certainly aged; little bags were showing under his eyes, and rather deep lines at the sides of his mouth⁠—the war had left its mark upon Brockett. Only his hands remained unchanged; those white and soft skinned hands of a woman. + 

He was saying: “So you two were in the same Unit. That was a great stroke of luck for Stephen; I mean she’d be feeling horribly lonely now that old Puddle’s gone back to England. Stephen’s distinguished herself I see⁠—Croix de Guerre and a very becoming scar. Don’t protest, my dear Stephen, you know it’s becoming. All that happened to me was a badly sprained ankle;” he laughed, “fancy going out to Mesopotamia to slip on a bit of orange peel! I might have done better than that here in Paris. By the way, I’m in my own flat again now; I hope you’ll bring Miss Llewellyn to luncheon.” + 

He did not stay embarrassingly late, nor did he leave suggestively early; he got up to go at just the right moment. But when Mary went out of the room to call Pierre, he quite suddenly put his arm through Stephen’s. + 

“Good luck, my dear, you deserve it;” he murmured, and his sharp grey eyes had grown almost gentle: “I hope you’ll be very, very happy.” + 

Stephen quietly disengaged her arm with a look of surprise: “Happy? Thank you, Brockett,” she smiled, as she lighted a cigarette. + 

III + 

They could not tear themselves away from their home, and that summer they remained in Paris. There were always so many things to do, Mary’s bedroom entirely to refurnish for instance⁠—she had Puddle’s old room overlooking the garden. When the city seemed to be growing too airless, they motored off happily into the country, spending a couple of nights at an auberge, for France abounds in green, pleasant places. Once or twice they lunched with Jonathan Brockett at his flat in the Avenue Victor Hugo, a beautiful flat since his taste was perfect, and he dined with them before leaving for Deauville⁠—his manner continued to be studiously guarded. The Duphots had gone for their holiday and Buisson was away in Spain for a month⁠—but what did they want that summer with people? On those evenings when they did not go out, Stephen would now read aloud to Mary, leading the girl’s adaptable mind into new and hitherto unexplored channels; teaching her the joy that can lie in books, even as Sir Philip had once taught his daughter. Mary had read so little in her life that the choice of books seemed practically endless, but Stephen must make a start by reading that immortal classic of their own Paris, Peter Ibbetson, and Mary said: + 

“Stephen⁠—if we were ever parted, do you think that you and I could dream true?” + 

And Stephen answered: “I often wonder whether we’re not dreaming true all the time⁠—whether the only truth isn’t in dreaming.” Then they talked for a while of such nebulous things as dreams, which will seem very concrete to lovers. + 

Sometimes Stephen would read aloud in French, for she wanted the girl to grow better acquainted with the lure of that fascinating language. And thus gradually, with infinite care, did she seek to fill the more obvious gaps in Mary’s none too complete education. And Mary, listening to Stephen’s voice, rather deep and always a little husky, would think that words were more tuneful than music and more inspiring, when spoken by Stephen. + 

At this time many gentle and friendly things began to bear witness to Mary’s presence. There were flowers in the quiet old garden for instance, and some large red carp in the fountain’s basin, and two married couples of white fantail pigeons who lived in a house on a tall wooden leg and kept up a convivial cooing. These pigeons lacked all respect for Stephen; by August they were flying in at her window and landing with soft, heavy thuds on her desk where they strutted until she fed them with maize. And because they were Mary’s and Mary loved them, Stephen would laugh, as unruffled as they were, and would patiently coax them back into the garden with bribes for their plump little circular crops. In the turret room that had been Puddle’s sanctum, there were now three cagefuls of Mary’s rescues⁠—tiny bright coloured birds with dejected plumage, and eyes that had filmed from a lack of sunshine. Mary was always bringing them home from the terrible bird shops along the river, for her love of such helpless and suffering things was so great that she in her turn must suffer. An ill-treated creature would haunt her for days, so that Stephen would often exclaim half in earnest: + 

“Go and buy up all the animal shops in Paris⁠ ⁠… anything, darling, only don’t look unhappy!” + 

The tiny bright coloured birds would revive to some extent, thanks to Mary’s skilled treatment; but since she always bought the most ailing, not a few of them left this disheartening world for what we must hope was a warm, wild heaven⁠—there were several small graves already in the garden. + 

Then one morning, when Mary went out alone because Stephen had letters to write to Morton, she chanced on yet one more desolate creature who followed her home to the Rue Jacob, and right into Stephen’s immaculate study. It was large, ungainly and appallingly thin; it was coated with mud which had dried on its nose, its back, its legs and all over its stomach. Its paws were heavy, its ears were long, and its tail, like the tail of a rat, looked hairless, but curved up to a point in a miniature sickle. Its face was as smooth as though made out of plush, and its luminous eyes were the colour of amber. + 

Mary said: “Oh, Stephen⁠—he wanted to come. He’s got a sore paw; look at him, he’s limping!” + 

Then this tramp of a dog hobbled over to the table and stood there gazing dumbly at Stephen, who must stroke his anxious, dishevelled head: “I suppose this means that we’re going to keep him.” + 

“Darling, I’m dreadfully afraid it does⁠—he says he’s sorry to be such a mongrel.” + 

“He needn’t apologize,” Stephen smiled, “he’s all right, he’s an Irish water-spaniel, though what he’s doing out here the Lord knows; I’ve never seen one before in Paris.” + 

They fed him, and later that afternoon they gave him a bath in Stephen’s bathroom. The result of that bath, which was disconcerting as far as the room went, they left to Adèle. The room was a bog, but Mary’s rescue had emerged a mass of chocolate ringlets, all save his charming plush-covered face, and his curious tail, which was curved like a sickle. Then they bound the sore pad and took him downstairs; after which Mary wanted to know all about him, so Stephen unearthed an illustrated dog book from a cupboard under the study bookcase. + 

“Oh, look!” exclaimed Mary, reading over her shoulder, “He’s not Irish at all, he’s really a Welshman: ‘We find in the Welsh laws of Howell Dda the first reference to this intelligent spaniel. The Iberians brought the breed to Ireland.⁠ ⁠…’ Of course, that’s why he followed me home; he knew I was Welsh the moment he saw me!” + 

Stephen laughed: “Yes, his hair grows up from a peak like yours⁠—it must be a national failing. Well, what shall we call him? His name’s important; it ought to be quite short.” + 

“David,” said Mary. + 

The dog looked gravely from one to the other for a moment, then he lay down at Mary’s feet, dropping his chin on his bandaged paw, and closing his eyes with a grunt of contentment. And so it had suddenly come to pass that they who had lately been two, were now three. There were Stephen and Mary⁠—there was also David. + 

XLII + 

I + 

That October there arose the first dark cloud. It drifted over to Paris from England, for Anna wrote asking Stephen to Morton but with never a mention of Mary Llewellyn. Not that she ever did mention their friendship in her letters, indeed she completely ignored it; yet this invitation which excluded the girl seemed to Stephen an intentional slight upon Mary. A hot flush of anger spread up to her brow as she read and reread her mother’s brief letter: + 

“I want to discuss some important points regarding the management of the estate. As the place will eventually come to you, I think we should try to keep more in touch.⁠ ⁠…” Then a list of the points Anna wished to discuss; they seemed very trifling indeed to Stephen. + 

She put the letter away in a drawer and sat staring darkly out of the window. In the garden Mary was talking to David, persuading him not to retrieve the pigeons. + 

“If my mother had invited her ten times over I’d never have taken her to Morton,” Stephen muttered. + 

Oh, but she knew, and only too well, what it would mean should they be there together; the lies, the despicable subterfuges, as though they were little less than criminals. It would be: “Mary, don’t hang about my bedroom⁠—be careful⁠ ⁠… of course while we’re here at Morton⁠ ⁠… it’s my mother, she can’t understand these things; to her they would seem an outrage, an insult.⁠ ⁠…” And then the guard set upon eyes and lips; the feeling of guilt at so much as a hand-touch; the pretence of a careless, quite usual friendship⁠—“Mary, don’t look at me as though you cared! you did this evening⁠—remember my mother.” + 

Intolerable quagmire of lies and deceit! The degrading of all that to them was sacred⁠—a very gross degrading of love, and through love a gross degrading of Mary. Mary⁠ ⁠… so loyal and as yet so gallant, but so pitifully untried in the war of existence. Warned only by words, the words of a lover, and what were mere words when it came to actions? And the ageing woman with the faraway eyes, eyes that could yet be so cruel, so accusing⁠—they might turn and rest with repugnance on Mary, even as once they had rested on Stephen: “I would rather see you dead at my feet.⁠ ⁠…” A fearful saying, and yet she had meant it, that ageing woman with the faraway eyes⁠—she had uttered it knowing herself to be a mother. But that at least should be hidden from Mary. + 

She began to consider the ageing woman who had scourged her but whom she had so deeply wounded, and as she did so the depth of that wound made her shrink in spite of her bitter anger, so that gradually the anger gave way to a slow and almost reluctant pity. Poor, ignorant, blind, unreasoning woman; herself a victim, having given her body for Nature’s most inexplicable whim. Yes, there had been two victims already⁠—must there now be a third⁠—and that one Mary? She trembled. At that moment she could not face it, she was weak, she was utterly undone by loving. Greedy she had grown for happiness, for the joys and the peace that their union had brought her. She would try to minimize the whole thing; she would say: “It will only be for ten days; I must just run over about this business,” then Mary would probably think it quite natural that she had not been invited to Morton and would ask no questions⁠—she never asked questions. But would Mary think such a slight was quite natural? Fear possessed her; she sat there terribly afraid of this cloud that had suddenly risen to menace⁠—afraid yet determined not to submit, not to let it gain power through her own acquiescence. + 

There was only one weapon to keep it at bay. Getting up she opened the window: “Mary!” + 

All unconscious the girl hurried in with David: “Did you call?” + 

“Yes⁠—come close. Closer⁠ ⁠… closer, sweetheart.⁠ ⁠…” + 

II + 

Shaken and very greatly humbled, Mary had let Stephen go from her to Morton. She had not been deceived by Stephen’s glib words, and had now no illusions regarding Anna Gordon. Lady Anna, suspecting the truth about them, had not wished to meet her. It was all quite clear, cruelly clear if it came to that matter⁠—but these thoughts she had mercifully hidden from Stephen. + 

She had seen Stephen off at the station with a smile: “I’ll write every day. Do put on your coat, darling; you don’t want to arrive at Morton with a chill. And mind you wire when you get to Dover.” + 

Yet now as she sat in the empty study, she must bury her face and cry a little because she was here and Stephen in England⁠ ⁠… and then of course, this was their first real parting. + 

David sat watching with luminous eyes in which were reflected her secret troubles; then he got up and planted a paw on the book, for he thought it high time to have done with this reading. He lacked the language that Raftery had known⁠—the language of many small sounds and small movements⁠—a clumsy and inarticulate fellow he was, but unrestrainedly loving. He nearly broke his own heart between love and the deep gratitude which he felt for Mary. At the moment he wanted to lay back his ears and howl with despair to see her unhappy. He wanted to make an enormous noise, the kind of noise wild folk make in the jungle⁠—lions and tigers and other wild folk that David had heard about from his mother⁠—his mother had been in Africa once a long time ago, with an old French colonel. But instead he abruptly licked Mary’s cheek⁠—it tasted peculiar, he thought, like sea water. + 

“Do you want a walk, David?” she asked him gently. + 

And as well as he could, David nodded his head by wagging his tail which was shaped like a sickle. Then he capered, thumping the ground with his paws; after which he barked twice in an effort to amuse her, for such things had seemed funny to her in the past, although now she appeared not to notice his capers. However, she had put on her hat and coat; so, still barking, he followed her through the courtyard. + 

They wandered along the Quai Voltaire, Mary pausing to look at the misty river. + 

“Shall I dive in and bring you a rat?” inquired David by lunging wildly backwards and forwards. + 

She shook her head. “Do stop, David; be good!” Then she sighed again and stared at the river; so David stared too, but he stared at Mary. + 

Quite suddenly Paris had lost its charm for her. After all, what was it? Just a big, foreign city⁠—a city that belonged to a stranger people who cared nothing for Stephen and nothing for Mary. They were exiles. She turned the word over in her mind⁠—exiles; it sounded unwanted, lonely. But why had Stephen become an exile? Why had she exiled herself from Morton? Strange that she, Mary, had never asked her⁠—had never wanted to until this moment. + 

She walked on not caring very much where she went. It grew dusk, and the dusk brought with it great longing⁠—the longing to see, to hear, to touch⁠—almost a physical pain it was, this longing to feel the nearness of Stephen. But Stephen had left her to go to Morton⁠ ⁠… Morton, that was surely Stephen’s real home, and in that real home there was no place for Mary. + 

She was not resentful. She did not condemn either the world, or herself, or Stephen. Hers was no mind to wrestle with problems, to demand either justice or explanation; she only knew that her heart felt bruised so that all manner of little things hurt her. It hurt her to think of Stephen surrounded by objects that she had never seen⁠—tables, chairs, pictures, all old friends of Stephen’s, all dear and familiar, yet strangers to Mary. It hurt her to think of the unknown bedroom in which Stephen had slept since the days of her childhood; of the unknown schoolroom where Stephen had worked; of the stables, the lakes and the gardens of Morton. It hurt her to think of the two unknown women who must now be awaiting Stephen’s arrival⁠—Puddle, whom Stephen loved and respected; Lady Anna, of whom she spoke very seldom, and who, Mary felt, could never have loved her. And it came upon Mary with a little shock that a long span of Stephen’s life was hidden; years and years of that life had come and gone before they two had finally found each other. How could she hope to link up with a past that belonged to a home which she might not enter? Then, being a woman, she suddenly ached for the quiet, pleasant things that a home will stand for⁠—security, peace, respect and honour, the kindness of parents, the goodwill of neighbours; happiness that can be shared with friends, love that is proud to proclaim its existence. All that Stephen most craved for the creature she loved, that creature must now quite suddenly ache for. + 

And as though some mysterious cord stretched between them, Stephen’s heart was troubled at that very moment; intolerably troubled because of Morton, the real home which might not be shared with Mary. Ashamed because of shame laid on another, compassionate and suffering because of her compassion, she was thinking of the girl left alone in Paris⁠—the girl who should have come with her to England, who should have been welcomed and honoured at Morton. Then she suddenly remembered some words from the past, very terrible words: “Could you marry me, Stephen?” + 

Mary turned and walked back to the Rue Jacob. Disheartened and anxious, David lagged beside her. He had done all he could to distract her mind from whatever it was that lay heavy upon it. He had made a pretence of chasing a pigeon, he had barked himself hoarse at a terrified beggar, he had brought her a stick and implored her to throw it, he had caught at her skirt and tugged it politely; in the end he had nearly got run over by a taxi in his desperate efforts to gain her attention. This last attempt had certainly roused her: she had put on his lead⁠—poor, misunderstood David. + 

III + 

Mary went into Stephen’s study and sat down at the spacious writing-table, for now all of a sudden she had only one ache, and that was the ache of her love for Stephen. And because of her love she wished to comfort, since in every fond woman there is much of the mother. That letter was full of many things which a less privileged pen had best left unwritten⁠—loyalty, faith, consolation, devotion; all this and much more she wrote to Stephen. As she sat there, her heart seemed to swell within her as though in response to some mighty challenge. + 

Thus it was that Mary met and defeated the world’s first tentative onslaught upon them. + 

XLIII + 

I + 

There comes a time in all passionate attachments when life, real life, must be faced once again with its varied and endless obligations, when the lover knows in his innermost heart that the halcyon days are over. He may well regret this prosaic intrusion, yet to him it will usually seem quite natural, so that while loving not one whit the less, he will bend his neck to the yoke of existence. But the woman, for whom love is an end in itself, finds it harder to submit thus calmly. To every devoted and ardent woman there comes this moment of poignant regretting; and struggle she must to hold it at bay. “Not yet, not yet⁠—just a little longer”; until Nature, abhorring her idleness, forces on her the labour of procreation. + 

But in such relationships as Mary’s and Stephen’s, Nature must pay for experimenting; she may even have to pay very dearly⁠—it largely depends on the sexual mixture. A drop too little of the male in the lover, and mighty indeed will be the wastage. And yet there are cases⁠—and Stephen’s was one⁠—in which the male will emerge triumphant; in which passion combined with a real devotion will become a spur rather than a deterrent; in which love and endeavour will fight side by side in a desperate struggle to find some solution. + 

Thus it was that when Stephen returned from Morton, Mary divined, as it were by instinct, that the time of dreaming was over and past; and she clung very close, kissing many times⁠— + 

“Do you love me as much as before you went? Do you love me?” The woman’s eternal question. + 

And Stephen, who, if possible, loved her more, answered almost brusquely: “Of course I love you.” For her thoughts were still heavy with the bitterness that had come of that visit of hers to Morton, and which at all costs must be hidden from Mary. + 

There had been no marked change in her mother’s manner. Anna had been very quiet and courteous. Together they had interviewed bailiff and agent, scheming as always for the welfare of Morton; but one topic there had been which Anna had ignored, had refused to discuss, and that topic was Mary. With a suddenness born of exasperation, Stephen had spoken of her one evening. “I want Mary Llewellyn to know my real home; some day I must bring her to Morton with me.” She had stopped, seeing Anna’s warning face⁠—expressionless, closed; while as for her answer, it had been more eloquent far than words⁠—a disconcerting, unequivocal silence. And Stephen, had she ever entertained any doubt, must have known at that moment past all hope of doubting, that her mother’s omission to invite the girl had indeed been meant as a slight upon Mary. Getting up, she had gone to her father’s study. + 

Puddle, who had held her peace at the time, had spoken just before Stephen’s departure. “My dear, I know it’s all terribly hard about Morton⁠—about⁠ ⁠…” She had hesitated. + 

And Stephen had thought with renewed bitterness: “Even she jibs, it seems, at mentioning Mary.” She had answered: “If you’re speaking of Mary Llewellyn, I shall certainly never bring her to Morton, that is as long as my mother lives⁠—I don’t allow her to be insulted.” + 

Then Puddle had looked at Stephen gravely. “You’re not working, and yet work’s your only weapon. Make the world respect you, as you can do through your work; it’s the surest harbour of refuge for your friend, the only harbour⁠—remember that⁠—and it’s up to you to provide it, Stephen.” + 

Stephen had been too sore at heart to reply; but throughout the long journey from Morton to Paris, Puddle’s words had kept hammering in her brain: “You’re not working, and yet work’s your only weapon.” + 

So while Mary lay sleeping in Stephen’s arms on that first blessed night of their reunion, her lover lay wide-eyed with sleeplessness, planning the work she must do on the morrow, cursing her own indolence and folly, her illusion of safety where none existed. + 

II + 

They soon settled down to their more prosaic days very much as quite ordinary people will do. Each of them now had her separate tasks⁠—Stephen her writing, and Mary the household, the paying of bills, the filing of receipts, the answering of unimportant letters. But for her there were long hours of idleness, since Pauline and Pierre were almost too perfect⁠—they would smile and manage the house their own way, which it must be admitted was better than Mary’s. As for the letters, there were not very many; and as for the bills, there was plenty of money⁠—being spared the struggle to make two ends meet, she was also deprived of the innocent pleasure of scheming to provide little happy surprises, little extra comforts for the person she loved, which in youth can add a real zest to existence. Then Stephen had found her typing too slow, so was sending the work to a woman in Passy; obsessed by a longing to finish her book, she would tolerate neither let nor hindrance. And because of their curious isolation, there were times when Mary would feel very lonely. For whom did she know? She had no friends in Paris except the kind Mademoiselle Duphot and Julie. Once a week, it is true, she could go and see Buisson, for Stephen continued to keep up her fencing; and occasionally Brockett would come strolling in, but his interest was centred entirely in Stephen; if she should be working, as was often the case, he would not waste very much time over Mary. + 

Stephen often called her into the study, comforted by the girl’s loving presence. “Come and sit with me, sweetheart, I like you in here.” But quite soon she would seem to forget all about her. “What⁠ ⁠… what?” she would mutter, frowning a little. “Don’t speak to me just for a minute, Mary. Go and have your luncheon, there’s a good child; I’ll come when I’ve finished this bit⁠—you go on!” But Mary’s meal might be eaten alone; for meals had become an annoyance to Stephen. + 

Of course there was David, the grateful, the devoted. Mary could always talk to David, but since he could never answer her back the conversation was very one-sided. Then too, he was making it obvious that he, in his turn, was missing Stephen; he would hang around looking discontented when she failed to go out after frequent suggestions. For although his heart was faithful to Mary, the gentle dispenser of all salvation, yet the instinct that has dwelt in the soul of the male, perhaps ever since Adam left the Garden of Eden, the instinct that displays itself in club windows and in other such places of male segregation, would make him long for the companionable walks that had sometimes been taken apart from Mary. Above all would it make him long intensely for Stephen’s strong hands and purposeful ways; for that queer, intangible something about her that appealed to the canine manhood in him. She always allowed him to look after himself, without fussing; in a word, she seemed restful to David. + 

Mary, slipping noiselessly out of the study, might whisper: “We’ll go to the Tuileries Gardens.” + 

But when they arrived there, what was there to do? For of course a dog must not dive after goldfish⁠—David understood this; there were goldfish at home⁠—he must not start splashing about in ponds that had tiresome stone rims and ridiculous fountains. He and Mary would wander along gravel paths, among people who stared at and made fun of David: “Quel drôle de chien, mais regardez sa queue!” They were like that, these French; they had laughed at his mother. She had told him never so much as to say: “Wouf!” For what did they matter? Still, it was disconcerting. And although he had lived in France all his life⁠—having indeed known no other country⁠—as he walked in the stately Tuileries Gardens, the Celt in his blood would conjure up visions: great beetling mountains with winding courses down which the torrents went roaring in winter; the earth smell, the dew smell, the smell of wild things which a dog might hunt and yet remain lawful⁠—for of all this and more had his old mother told him. These visions it was that had led him astray, that had treacherously led him half starving to Paris; and that, sometimes, even in these placid days, would come back as he walked in the Tuileries Gardens. But now his heart must thrust them aside⁠—a captive he was now, through love of Mary. + 

But to Mary there would come one vision alone, that of a garden at Orotava; a garden lighted by luminous darkness, and filled with the restless rhythm of singing. + 

III + 

The autumn passed, giving place to the winter, with its short, dreary days of mist and rain. There was now little beauty left in Paris. A grey sky hung above the old streets of the Quarter, a sky which no longer looked bright by contrast, as though seen at the end of a tunnel. Stephen was working like someone possessed, entirely rewriting her prewar novel. Good it had been, but not good enough, for she now saw life from a much wider angle; and moreover, she was writing this book for Mary. Remembering Mary, remembering Morton, her pen covered sheet after sheet of paper; she wrote with the speed of true inspiration, and at times her work brushed the hem of greatness. She did not entirely neglect the girl for whose sake she was making this mighty effort⁠—that she could not have done even had she wished to, since love was the actual source of her effort. But quite soon there were days when she would not go out, or if she did go, when she seemed abstracted, so that Mary must ask her the same question twice⁠—then as likely as not get a nebulous answer. And soon there were days when all that she did apart from her writing was done with an effort, with an obvious effort to be considerate. + 

“Would you like to go to a play one night, Mary?” + 

If Mary said yes, and procured the tickets, they were usually late, because of Stephen who had worked right up to the very last minute. + 

Sometimes there were poignant if small disappointments when Stephen had failed to keep a promise. “Listen, Mary darling⁠—will you ever forgive me if I don’t come with you about those furs? I’ve a bit of work here I simply must finish. You do understand?” + 

“Yes, of course I do.” But Mary, left to choose her new furs alone, had quite suddenly felt that she did not want them. + 

And this sort of thing happened fairly often. + 

If only Stephen had confided in her, had said: “I’m trying to build you a refuge; remember what I told you in Orotava!” But no, she shrank from reminding the girl of the gloom that surrounded their small patch of sunshine. If only she had shown a little more patience with Mary’s careful if rather slow typing, and so given her a real occupation⁠—but no, she must send the work off to Passy, because the sooner this book was finished the better it would be for Mary’s future. And thus, blinded by love and her desire to protect the woman she loved, she erred towards Mary. + 

When she had finished her writing for the day, she frequently read it aloud in the evening. And although Mary knew that the writing was fine, yet her thoughts would stray from the book to Stephen. The deep, husky voice would read on and on, having in it something urgent, appealing, so that Mary must suddenly kiss Stephen’s hand, or the scar on her cheek, because of that voice far more than because of what it was reading. + 

And now there were times when, serving two masters, her passion for this girl and her will to protect her, Stephen would be torn by conflicting desires, by opposing mental and physical emotions. She would want to save herself for her work; she would want to give herself wholly to Mary. + 

Yet quite often she would work far into the night. “I’m going to be late⁠—you go to bed, sweetheart.” + 

And when she herself had at last toiled upstairs, she would steal like a thief past Mary’s bedroom, although Mary would nearly always hear her. + 

“Is that you, Stephen?” + 

“Yes. Why aren’t you asleep? Do you realize that it’s three in the morning?” + 

“Is it? You’re not angry, are you, darling? I kept thinking of you alone in the study. Come here and say you’re not angry with me, even if it is three o’clock in the morning!” + 

Then Stephen would slip off her old tweed coat and would fling herself down on the bed beside Mary, too exhausted to do more than take the girl in her arms, and let her lie there with her head on her shoulder. + 

But Mary would be thinking of all those things which she found so deeply appealing in Stephen⁠—the scar on her cheek, the expression in her eyes, the strength and the queer, shy gentleness of her⁠—the strength which at moments could not be gentle. And as they lay there Stephen might sleep, worn out by the strain of those long hours of writing. But Mary would not sleep, or if she slept it would be when the dawn was paling the windows. + 

IV + 

One morning Stephen looked at Mary intently. “Come here. You’re not well! What’s the matter? Tell me.” For she thought that the girl was unusually pale, thought too that her lips drooped a little at the corners; and a sudden fear contracted her heart. “Tell me at once what’s the matter with you!” Her voice was rough with anxiety, and she laid an imperative hand over Mary’s. + 

Mary protested. “Don’t be absurd; there’s nothing the matter, I’m perfectly well⁠—you’re imagining things.” For what could be the matter? Was she not here in Paris with Stephen? But her eyes filled with tears, and she turned away quickly to hide them, ashamed of her own unreason. + 

Stephen stuck to her point. “You don’t look a bit well. We shouldn’t have stayed in Paris last summer.” Then because her own nerves were on edge that day, she frowned. “It’s this business of your not eating whenever I can’t get in to a meal. I know you don’t eat⁠—Pierre’s told me about it. You mustn’t behave like a baby, Mary! I shan’t be able to write a line if I feel you’re ill because you’re not eating.” Her fear was making her lose her temper. “I shall send for a doctor,” she finished brusquely. + 

Mary refused point-blank to see a doctor. What was she to tell him? She hadn’t any symptoms. Pierre exaggerated. She ate quite enough⁠—she had never been a very large eater. Stephen had better get on with her work and stop upsetting herself over nothing. + 

But try as she might, Stephen could not get on⁠—all the rest of the day her work went badly. + 

After this she would often leave her desk and go wandering off in search of Mary. “Darling, where are you?” + 

“Upstairs in my bedroom!” + 

“Well, come down; I want you here in the study.” And when Mary had settled herself by the fire: “Now tell me exactly how you feel⁠—all right?” + 

And Mary would answer, smiling: “Yes, I’m quite all right; I swear I am, Stephen!” + 

It was not an ideal atmosphere for work, but the book was by now so well advanced that nothing short of a disaster could have stopped it⁠—it was one of those books that intend to get born, and that go on maturing in spite of their authors. Nor was there anything really alarming about the condition of Mary’s health. She did not look very well, that was all; and at times she seemed a little downhearted, so that Stephen must snatch a few hours from her work in order that they might go out together. Perhaps they would lunch at a restaurant; or drive into the country, to the rapture of David; or just wander about the streets arm in arm as they had done when first they had returned to Paris. And Mary, because she would be feeling happy, would revive for these few hours as though by magic. Yet when she must once more find herself lonely, with nowhere to go and no one to talk to, because Stephen was back again at her desk, why then she would wilt, which was not unnatural considering her youth and her situation. + 

V + 

On Christmas Eve Brockett arrived, bringing flowers. Mary had gone for a walk with David, so Stephen must leave her desk with a sigh. “Come in, Brockett. I say! What wonderful lilac!” + 

He sat down, lighting a cigarette. “Yes, isn’t it fine? I brought it for Mary. How is she?” + 

Stephen hesitated a moment. “Not awfully well⁠ ⁠… I’ve been worried about her.” + 

Brockett frowned, and stared thoughtfully into the fire. There was something that he wanted to say to Stephen, a warning that he was longing to give, but he did not feel certain how she would take it⁠—no wonder that wretched girl was not fit, forced to lead such a deadly dull existence! If Stephen would let him he wanted to advise, to admonish, to be brutally frank if need be. He had once been brutally frank about her work, but that had been a less delicate matter. + 

He began to fidget with his soft, white hands, drumming on the arms of the chair with his fingers. “Stephen, I’ve been meaning to speak about Mary. She struck me as looking thoroughly depressed the last time I saw her⁠—when was it? Monday. Yes, she struck me as looking thoroughly depressed.” + 

“Oh, but surely you were wrong⁠ ⁠…” interrupted Stephen. + 

“No, I’m perfectly sure I was right,” he insisted. Then he said: “I’m going to take a big risk⁠—I’m going to take the risk of losing your friendship.” + 

His voice was so genuinely regretful, that Stephen must ask him: “Well⁠—what is it, Brockett?” + 

“You, my dear. You’re not playing fair with that girl; the life she’s leading would depress a mother abbess. It’s enough to give anybody the hump, and it’s going to give Mary neurasthenia!” + 

“What on earth do you mean?” + 

“Don’t get ratty and I’ll tell you. Look here, I’m not going to pretend any more. Of course we all know that you two are lovers. You’re gradually becoming a kind of legend⁠—all’s well lost for love, and that sort of thing.⁠ ⁠… But Mary’s too young to become a legend; and so are you, my dear, for that matter. But you’ve got your work, whereas Mary’s got nothing⁠—not a soul does that miserable kid know in Paris. Don’t please interrupt, I’ve not nearly finished; I positively must and will have my say out! You and she have decided to make a ménage⁠—as far as I can see it’s as bad as marriage! But if you were a man it would be rather different; you’d have dozens of friends as a matter of course. Mary might even be going to have an infant. Oh, for God’s sake, Stephen, do stop looking shocked. Mary’s a perfectly normal young woman; she can’t live by love alone, that’s all rot⁠—especially as I shrewdly suspect that when you’re working the diet’s pretty meagre. For heaven’s sake let her go about a bit! Why on earth don’t you take her to Valérie Seymour’s? At Valérie’s place she’d meet lots of people; and I ask you, what harm could it possibly do? You shun your own ilk as though they were the devil! Mary needs friends awfully badly, and she needs a certain amount of amusement. But be a bit careful of the so-called normal.” And now Brockett’s voice grew aggressive and bitter. “I wouldn’t go trying to force them to be friends⁠—I’m not thinking so much of you now as of Mary; she’s young and the young are easily bruised.⁠ ⁠…” + 

He was perfectly sincere. He was trying to be helpful, spurred on by his curious affection for Stephen. At the moment he felt very friendly and anxious; there was nothing of the cynic left in him⁠—at the moment. He was honestly advising according to his lights⁠—perhaps the only lights that the world had left him. + 

And Stephen could find very little to say. She was sick of denials and subterfuges, sick of tacit lies which outraged her own instincts and which seemed like insults thrust upon Mary; so she left Brockett’s bolder statements unchallenged. As for the rest, she hedged a little, still vaguely mistrustful of Valérie Seymour. Yet she knew quite well that Brockett had been right⁠—life these days must often be lonely for Mary. Why had she never thought of this before? She cursed herself for her lack of perception. + 

Then Brockett tactfully changed the subject; he was far too wise not to know when to stop. So now he told her about his new play, which for him was a very unusual proceeding. And as he talked on there came over Stephen a queer sense of relief at the thought that he knew.⁠ ⁠… Yes, she actually felt a sense of relief because this man knew of her relations with Mary; because there was no longer any need to behave as if those relations were shameful⁠—at all events in the presence of Brockett. The world had at last found a chink in her armour. + 

VI + 

“We must go and see Valérie Seymour one day,” Stephen remarked quite casually that evening. “She’s a very well-known woman in Paris. I believe she gives rather jolly parties. I think it’s about time you had a few friends.” + 

“Oh, what fun! Yes, do let’s⁠—I’d love it!” exclaimed Mary. + 

Stephen thought that her voice sounded pleased and excited, and in spite of herself she sighed a little. But after all nothing really mattered except that Mary should keep well and happy. She would certainly take her to Valérie Seymour’s⁠—why not? She had probably been very foolish. Selfish too, sacrificing the girl to her cranks⁠— + 

“Darling, of course we’ll go,” she said quickly. “I expect we’ll find it awfully amusing.” + 

VII + 

Three days later, Valérie, having seen Brockett, wrote a short but cordial invitation: “Do come in on Wednesday if you possibly can⁠—I mean both of you, of course. Brockett’s promised to come, and one or two other interesting people. I’m so looking forward to renewing our acquaintance after all this long time, and to meeting Miss Llewellyn. But why have you never been to see me? I don’t think that was very friendly of you! However, you can make up for past neglect by coming to my little party on Wednesday.⁠ ⁠…” + 

Stephen tossed the letter across to Mary. “There you are!” + 

“How ripping⁠—but will you go?” + 

“Do you want to?” + 

“Yes, of course. Only what about your work?” + 

“It will keep all right for one afternoon.” + 

“Are you sure?” + 

Stephen smiled. “Yes, I’m quite sure, darling.” + 

XLIV + 

I + 

Valérie’s rooms were already crowded when Stephen and Mary arrived at her reception, so crowded that at first they could not see their hostess and must stand rather awkwardly near the door⁠—they had not been announced; one never was for some reason, when one went to Valérie Seymour’s. People looked at Stephen curiously; her height, her clothes, the scar on her face, had immediately riveted their attention. + 

“Quel type!” murmured Dupont the sculptor to his neighbour, and promptly decided that he wished to model Stephen. “It’s a wonderful head; I adore the strong throat. And the mouth⁠—is it chaste, is it ardent? I wonder. How would one model that intriguing mouth?” Then being Dupont, to whom all things were allowed for the sake of his art, he moved a step nearer and stared with embarrassing admiration, combing his greyish beard with his fingers. + 

His neighbour, who was also his latest mistress, a small fair-haired girl of a doll-like beauty, shrugged her shoulders. “I am not very pleased with you, Dupont, your taste is becoming peculiar, mon ami⁠—and yet you are still sufficiently virile.⁠ ⁠…” + 

He laughed. “Be tranquil, my little hen, I am not proposing to give you a rival.” Then he started to tease. “But what about you? I dislike the small horns that are covered with moss, even although they are no bigger than thimbles. They are irritating, those mossy horns, and exceedingly painful when they start to grow⁠—like wisdom teeth, only even more foolish. Ah, yes, I too have my recollections. What is sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose, as the English say⁠—such a practical people!” + 

“You are dreaming, mon pauvre bougre,” snapped the lady. + 

And now Valérie was making her way to the door. “Miss Gordon! I’m most awfully glad to see you and Miss Llewellyn. Have you had any tea? No, of course not, I’m an abominable hostess! Come along to the table⁠—where’s that useless Brockett? Oh, here he is. Brockett, please be a man and get Miss Llewellyn and Miss Gordon some tea.” + 

Brockett sighed. “You go first then, Stephen darling, you’re so much more efficient than I am.” And he laid a soft, white hand on her shoulder, thrusting her gently but firmly forward. When they reached the buffet, he calmly stood still. “Do get me an ice-vanilla?” he murmured. + 

Everyone seemed to know everyone else, the atmosphere was familiar and easy. People hailed each other like intimate friends, and quite soon they were being charming to Stephen, and equally charming and kind to Mary. + 

Valérie was introducing her new guests with tactful allusions to Stephen’s talent: “This is Stephen Gordon⁠—you know, the author; and Miss Llewellyn.” + 

Her manner was natural, and yet Stephen could not get rid of the feeling that everyone knew about her and Mary, or that if they did not actually know, they guessed, and were eager to show themselves friendly. + 

She thought: “Well, why not? I’m sick of lying.” + 

The erstwhile resentment that she had felt towards Valérie Seymour was fading completely. So pleasant it was to be made to feel welcome by all these clever and interesting people⁠—and clever they were there was no denying; in Valérie’s salon the percentage of brains was generally well above the average. For together with those who themselves being normal, had long put intellects above bodies, were writers, painters, musicians and scholars, men and women who, set apart from their birth, had determined to hack out a niche in existence. Many of them had already arrived, while some were still rather painfully hacking; not a few would fall by the way, it is true, but as they fell others would take their places. Over the bodies of prostrate comrades those others must fall in their turn or go on hacking⁠—for them there was no compromise with life, they were lashed by the whip of self-preservation. There was Pat who had lost her Arabella to the golden charms of Grigg and the Lido. Pat, who, originally hailing from Boston, still vaguely suggested a new England schoolmarm. Pat, whose libido apart from the flesh, flowed into entomological channels⁠—one had to look twice to discern that her ankles were too strong and too heavy for those of a female. + 

There was Jamie, very much more pronounced; Jamie who had come to Paris from the Highlands; a trifle unhinged because of the music that besieged her soul and fought for expression through her stiff and scholarly compositions. Loose limbed, raw boned and short sighted she was; and since she could seldom afford new glasses, her eyes were red-rimmed and strained in expression, and she poked her head badly, forever peering. Her tow-coloured mop was bobbed by her friend, the fringe being only too often uneven. + 

There was Wanda, the struggling Polish painter; dark for a Pole with her short, stiff black hair, and her dusky skin, and her colourless lips; yet withal not unattractive, this Wanda. She had wonderful eyes that held fire in their depths, hellfire at times, if she had been drinking; but at other times a more gentle flame, although never one that it was safe to play with. Wanda saw largely. All that she envisaged was immense, her pictures, her passions, her remorses. She craved with a well-nigh insatiable craving, she feared with a well-nigh intolerable terror⁠—not the devil, she was brave with him when in her cups, but God in the person of Christ the Redeemer. Like a whipped cur she crawled to the foot of the Cross, without courage, without faith, without hope of mercy. Outraged by her body she must ruthlessly scourge it⁠—no good, the lust of the eye would betray her. Seeing she desired and desiring she drank, seeking to drown one lust in another. And then she would stand up before her tall easel, swaying a little but with hand always steady. The brandy went into her legs, not her hands; her hands would remain disconcertingly steady. She would start some gigantic and heartbroken daub, struggling to lose herself in her picture, struggling to ease the ache of her passion by smearing the placid white face of the canvas with ungainly yet strangely arresting forms⁠—according to Dupont, Wanda had genius. Neither eating nor sleeping she would grow very thin, so that everybody would know what had happened. They had seen it before, oh, but many times, and therefore for them the tragedy was lessened. + 

“Wanda’s off again!” someone might say with a grin. “She was tight this morning; who is it this time?” + 

But Valérie, who hated drink like the plague, would grow angry; outraged she would feel by this Wanda. + 

There was Hortense, Comtesse de Kerguelen; dignified and reserved, a very great lady, of a calm and rather old-fashioned beauty. When Valérie introduced her to Stephen, Stephen quite suddenly thought of Morton. And yet she had left all for Valérie Seymour; husband, children and home had she left; facing scandal, opprobrium, persecution. Greater than all these most vital things had been this woman’s love for Valérie Seymour. An enigma she seemed, much in need of explaining. And now in the place of that outlawed love had come friendship; they were close friends, these onetime lovers. + 

There was Margaret Roland, the poetess, a woman whose work was alive with talent. The staunchest of allies, the most fickle of lovers, she seemed likely enough to end up in the workhouse, with her generous financial apologies which at moments made pretty large holes in her savings. It was almost impossible not to like her, since her only fault lay in being too earnest; every fresh love affair was the last while it lasted, though of course this was apt to be rather misleading. A costly business in money and tears; she genuinely suffered in heart as in pocket. There was nothing arresting in Margaret’s appearance, sometimes she dressed well, sometimes she dressed badly, according to the influence of the moment. But she always wore ultra feminine shoes, and frequently bought model gowns when in Paris. One might have said quite a womanly woman, unless the trained ear had been rendered suspicious by her voice which had something peculiar about it. It was like a boy’s voice on the verge of breaking. + 

And then there was Brockett with his soft, white hands; and several others there were, very like him. There was also Adolphe Blanc, the designer⁠—a master of colour whose primitive tints had practically revolutionized taste, bringing back to the eye the joy of the simple. Blanc stood in a little niche by himself, which at times must surely have been very lonely. A quiet, tawny man with the eyes of the Hebrew, in his youth he had been very deeply afflicted. He had spent his days going from doctor to doctor: “What am I?” They had told him, pocketing their fees; not a few had unctuously set out to cure him. Cure him, good God! There was no cure for Blanc, he was, of all men, the most normal abnormal. He had known revolt, renouncing his God; he had known despair, the despair of the godless; he had known wild moments of dissipation; he had known long months of acute self-abasement. And then he had suddenly found his soul, and that finding had brought with it resignation, so that now he could stand in a niche by himself, a pitiful spectator of what, to him, often seemed a bewildering scheme of creation. For a living he designed many beautiful things⁠—furniture, costumes and scenery for ballets, even women’s gowns if the mood was upon him, but this he did for a physical living. To keep life in his desolate, long-suffering soul, he had stored his mind with much profound learning. So now many poor devils went to him for advice, which he never refused though he gave it sadly. It was always the same: “Do the best you can, no man can do more⁠—but never stop fighting. For us there is no sin so great as despair, and perhaps no virtue so vital as courage.” Yes, indeed, to this gentle and learned Jew went many a poor baptized Christian devil. + 

And such people frequented Valérie Seymour’s, men and women who must carry God’s mark on their foreheads. For Valérie, placid and self-assured, created an atmosphere of courage; everyone felt very normal and brave when they gathered together at Valérie Seymour’s. There she was, this charming and cultured woman, a kind of lighthouse in a storm-swept ocean. The waves had lashed round her feet in vain; winds had howled; clouds had spewed forth their hail and their lightning; torrents had deluged but had not destroyed her. The storms, gathering force, broke and drifted away, leaving behind them the shipwrecked, the drowning. But when they looked up, the poor spluttering victims, why what should they see but Valérie Seymour! Then a few would strike boldly out for the shore, at the sight of this indestructible creature. + 

She did nothing, and at all times said very little, feeling no urge towards philanthropy. But this much she gave to her brethren, the freedom of her salon, the protection of her friendship; if it eased them to come to her monthly gatherings they were always welcome provided they were sober. Drink and drugs she abhorred because they were ugly⁠—one drank tea, iced coffee, sirops and orangeade in that celebrated flat on the Quai Voltaire. + 

Oh, yes, a very strange company indeed if one analysed it for this or that stigma. Why, the grades were so numerous and so fine that they often defied the most careful observation. The timbre of a voice, the build of an ankle, the texture of a hand, a movement, a gesture⁠—since few were as pronounced as Stephen Gordon, unless it were Wanda, the Polish painter. She, poor soul, never knew how to dress for the best. If she dressed like a woman she looked like a man, if she dressed like a man she looked like a woman! + 

II + 

And their love affairs, how strange, how bewildering⁠—how difficult to classify degrees of attraction. For not always would they attract their own kind, very often they attracted quite ordinary people. Thus Pat’s Arabella had suddenly married, having wearied of Grigg as of her predecessor. Rumour had it that she was now blatantly happy at the prospect of shortly becoming a mother. And then there was Jamie’s friend Barbara, a wisp of a girl very faithful and loving, but all woman as far as one could detect, with a woman’s clinging dependence on Jamie. + 

These two had been lovers from the days of their childhood, from the days when away in their Highland village the stronger child had protected the weaker at school or at play with their boisterous companions. They had grown up together like two windswept saplings on their bleak Scottish hillside so starved of sunshine. For warmth and protection they had leaned to each other, until with the spring, at the time of mating, their branches had quietly intertwined. That was how it had been, the entwining of saplings, very simple, and to them very dear, having nothing mysterious or strange about it except inasmuch as all love is mysterious. + 

To themselves they had seemed like the other lovers for whom dawns were brighter and twilights more tender. Hand in hand they had strolled down the village street, pausing to listen to the piper at evening. And something in that sorrowful, outlandish music would arouse the musical soul in Jamie, so that great chords would surge up through her brain, very different indeed from the wails of the piper, yet born of the same mystic Highland nature. + 

Happy days; happy evenings when the glow of the summer lingered for hours above the grim hills, lingered on long after the flickering lamps had been lit in the cottage windows of Beedles. The piper would at last decide to go home, but they two would wander away to the moorland, there to lie down for a space side by side among the short, springy turf and the heather. + 

Children they had been, having small skill in words, or in life, or in love itself for that matter. Barbara, fragile and barely nineteen; the angular Jamie not yet quite twenty. They had talked because words will ease the full spirit; talked in abrupt, rather shy broken phrases. They had loved because love had come naturally to them up there on the soft, springy turf and the heather. But after a while their dreams had been shattered, for such dreams as theirs had seemed strange to the village. Daft, the folk had thought them, mouching round by themselves for hours, like a couple of lovers. + 

Barbara’s grand-dame, an austere old woman with whom she had lived since her earliest childhood⁠—Barbara’s grand-dame had mistrusted this friendship. “I dinna richtly unnerstan’ it,” she had frowned; “her and that Jamie’s unco throng. It’s no richt for lass-bairns, an’ it’s no proaper!” + 

And since she spoke with authority, having for years been the village postmistress, her neighbours had wagged their heads and agreed. “It’s no richt; ye hae said it, Mrs. MacDonald!” + 

The gossip had reached the minister, Jamie’s white-haired and gentle old father. He had looked at the girl with bewildered eyes⁠—he had always been bewildered by his daughter. A poor housewife she was, and very untidy; if she cooked she mucked up the pots and the kitchen, and her hands were strangely unskilled with the needle; this he knew, since his heels suffered much from her darning. Remembering her mother he had shaken his head and sighed many times as he looked at Jamie. For her mother had been a soft, timorous woman, and he himself was very retiring, but their Jamie loved striding over the hills in the teeth of a gale, an uncouth, boyish creature. As a child she had gone rabbit stalking with ferrets; had ridden a neighbour’s farmhorse astride on a sack, without stirrup, saddle or bridle; had done all manner of outlandish things. And he, poor lonely, bewildered man, still mourning his wife, had been no match for her. + 

Yet even as a child she had sat at the piano and picked out little tunes of her own inventing. He had done his best; she had been taught to play by Miss Morrison of the next-door village, since music alone seemed able to tame her. And as Jamie had grown so her tunes had grown with her, gathering purpose and strength with her body. She would improvise for hours on the winter evenings, if Barbara would sit in their parlour and listen. He had always made Barbara welcome at the manse; they had been so inseparable, those two, since childhood⁠—and now? He had frowned, remembering the gossip. + 

Rather timidly he had spoken to Jamie. “Listen, my dear, when you’re always together, the lads don’t get a chance to come courting, and Barbara’s grandmother wants the lass married. Let her walk with a lad on Sabbath afternoons⁠—there’s that young MacGregor, he’s a fine, steady fellow, and they say he’s in love with the little lass.⁠ ⁠…” + 

Jamie had stared at him, scowling darkly. “She doesn’t want to walk out with MacGregor!” + 

The minister had shaken his head yet again. In the hands of his child he was utterly helpless. + 

Then Jamie had gone to Inverness in order the better to study music, but every weekend she had spent at the manse, there had been no real break in her friendship with Barbara; indeed they had seemed more devoted than ever, no doubt because of these forced separations. Two years later the minister had suddenly died, leaving his little all to Jamie. She had had to turn out of the old, grey manse, and had taken a room in the village near Barbara. But antagonism, no longer restrained through respect for the gentle and childlike pastor, had made itself very acutely felt⁠—hostile they had been, those good people, to Jamie. + 

Barbara had wept. “Jamie, let’s go away⁠ ⁠… they hate us. Let’s go where nobody knows us. I’m twenty-one now, I can go where I like, they can’t stop me. Take me away from them, Jamie!” + 

Miserable, angry, and sorely bewildered, Jamie had put her arm round the girl. “Where can I take you, you poor little creature? You’re not strong, and I’m terribly poor, remember.” + 

But Barbara had continued to plead. “I’ll work, I’ll scrub floors, I’ll do anything, Jamie, only let’s get away where nobody knows us!” + 

So Jamie had turned to her music master in Inverness, and had begged him to help her. What could she do to earn her living? And because this man believed in her talent, he had helped her with advice and a small loan of money, urging her to go to Paris and study to complete her training in composition. + 

“You’re really too good for me,” he had told her; “and out there you could live considerably cheaper. For one thing the exchange would be in your favour. I’ll write to the head of the Conservatoire this evening.” + 

That had been shortly after the Armistice, and now here they were together in Paris. + 

As for Pat, she collected her moths and her beetles, and when fate was propitious an occasional woman. But fate was so seldom propitious to Pat⁠—Arabella had put this down to the beetles. Poor Pat, having recently grown rather gloomy, had taken to quoting American history, speaking darkly of blood-tracks left on the snow by what she had christened: “The miserable army.” Then too she seemed haunted by General Custer, that gallant and very unfortunate hero. “It’s Custer’s last ride, all the time,” she would say. “No good talking, the whole darned world’s out to scalp us!” + 

As for Margaret Roland, she was never attracted to anyone young and wholehearted and free⁠—she was, in fact, a congenital poacher. + 

While as for Wanda, her loves were so varied that no rule could be discovered by which to judge them. She loved wildly, without either chart or compass. A rudderless bark it was, Wanda’s emotion, beaten now this way now that by the gale, veering first to the normal, then to the abnormal; a thing of torn sails and stricken masts, that never came within sight of a harbour. + 

III + 

These, then, were the people to whom Stephen turned at last in her fear of isolation for Mary; to her own kind she turned and was made very welcome, for no bond is more binding than that of affliction. But her vision stretched beyond to the day when happier folk would also accept her, and through her this girl for whose happiness she and she alone would have to answer; to the day when through sheer force of tireless endeavour she would have built that harbour of refuge for Mary. + 

So now they were launched upon the stream that flows silent and deep through all great cities, gliding on between precipitous borders, away and away into no-man’s-land⁠—the most desolate country in all creation. Yet when they got home they felt no misgivings, even Stephen’s doubts had been drugged for the moment, since just at first this curious stream will possess the balm of the waters of Lethe. + 

She said to Mary: “It was quite a good party; don’t you think so?” + 

And Mary answered naively: “I loved it because they were so nice to you. Brockett told me they think you’re the coming writer. He said you were Valérie Seymour’s lion; I was bursting with pride⁠—it made me so happy!” + 

For answer, Stephen stooped down and kissed her. + 

XLV + 

I + 

By February Stephen’s book was rewritten and in the hands of her publisher in England. This gave her the peaceful, yet exhilarated feeling that comes when a writer has given of his best and knows that that best is not unworthy. With a sigh of relief she metaphorically stretched, rubbed her eyes and started to look about her. She was in the mood that comes as a reaction from strain, and was glad enough of amusement; moreover the spring was again in the air, the year had turned, there were sudden bright days when the sun brought a few hours of warmth to Paris. + 

They were now no longer devoid of friends, no longer solely dependent upon Brockett on the one hand, and Mademoiselle Duphot on the other; Stephen’s telephone would ring pretty often. There was now always somewhere for Mary to go; always people who were anxious to see her and Stephen, people with whom one got intimate quickly and was thus saved a lot of unnecessary trouble. Of them all, however, it was Barbara and Jamie for whom Mary developed a real affection; she and Barbara had formed a harmless alliance which at times was even a little pathetic. The one talking of Jamie, the other of Stephen, they would put their young heads together very gravely. “Do you find Jamie goes off her food when she’s working?” “Do you find that Stephen sleeps badly? Is she careless of her health? Jamie’s awfully worrying sometimes.” + 

Or perhaps they would be in a more flippant mood and would sit and whisper together, laughing; making tender fun of the creatures they loved, as women have been much inclined to do ever since that rib was demanded of Adam. Then Jamie and Stephen would pretend to feel aggrieved, would pretend that they also must hang together, must be on their guard against feminine intrigues. Oh, yes, the whole business was rather pathetic. + 

Jamie and her Barbara were starvation-poor, so poor that a square meal came as a godsend. Stephen would feel ashamed to be rich, and, like Mary, was always anxious to feed them. Being idle at the moment, Stephen would insist upon frequently taking them out to dinner, and then she would order expensive viands⁠—copper-green oysters straight from the Marennes, caviar and other such costly things, to be followed by even more sumptuous dishes⁠—and since they went short on most days in the week, these stomachic debauches would frequently upset them. Two glasses of wine would cause Jamie to flush, for her head had never been of the strongest, nor was it accustomed to such golden nectar. Her principal beverage was crème-de-menthe because it kept out the cold in the winter, and because, being pepperminty and sweet, it reminded her of the bull’s-eyes at Beedles. + 

They were not very easy to help, these two, for Jamie, pride-galled, was exceedingly touchy. She would never accept gifts of money or clothes, and was struggling to pay off the debt to her master. Even food gave offence unless it was shared by the donors, which though very praiseworthy was foolish. However, there it was, one just had to take her or leave her, there was no compromising with Jamie. + 

After dinner they would drift back to Jamie’s abode, a studio in the old Rue Visconti. They would climb innumerable dirty stone stairs to the top of what had once been a fine house but was now let off to such poor rats as Jamie. The concierge, an unsympathetic woman, long soured by the empty pockets of students, would peer out at them from her dark ground floor kennel, with sceptical eyes. + 

“Bon soir, Madame Lambert.” + 

“Bon soir, mesdames,” she would growl impolitely. + 

Jamie’s studio was large, bare, and swept by draughts. The stove was too small and at times it smelt vilely. The distempered grey walls were a mass of stains, for whenever it hailed or rained or snowed the windows and skylight would always start dripping. The furniture consisted of a few shaky chairs, a table, a divan and a hired grand piano. Nearly everyone seated themselves on the floor, robbing the divan of its moth-eaten cushions. From the studio there led off a tiny room with an eye-shaped window that would not open. In this room had been placed a narrow camp-bed to which Jamie retired when she felt extra sleepless. For the rest, there was a sink with a leaky tap; a cupboard in which they kept crème-de-menthe, what remnants of food they possessed at the moment, Jamie’s carpet slippers and blue jean jacket⁠—minus which she could never compose a note⁠—and the pail, cloths and brushes with which Barbara endeavoured to keep down the accumulating dirt and confusion. For Jamie with her tow-coloured head in the clouds, was not only shortsighted but intensely untidy. Dust meant little to her since she seldom saw it, while neatness was completely left out of her makeup; considering how limited were her possessions, the chaos they produced was truly amazing. Barbara would sigh and would quite often scold⁠—when she scolded she reminded one of a wren who was struggling to discipline a large cuckoo. + 

“Jamie, your dirty shirt, give it to me⁠—leaving it there on the piano, whatever!” Or, “Jamie, come here and look at your hairbrush; if you haven’t gone and put it next-door to the butter!” + 

Then Jamie would peer with her strained, red-rimmed eyes and would grumble: “Oh, leave me in peace, do, lassie!” + 

But when Barbara laughed, as she must do quite often at the outrageous habits of the great loose-limbed creature, why then these days she would usually cough, and when Barbara started to cough she coughed badly. They had seen a doctor who had spoken about lungs and had shaken his head; not strong, he had told them. But neither of them had quite understood, for their French had remained very embryonic, and they could not afford the smart English doctor. All the same when Barbara coughed Jamie sweated, and her fear would produce an acute irritation. + 

“Here, drink this water! Don’t sit there doing nothing but rack yourself to bits, it gets on my nerves. Go and order another bottle of that mixture. God, how can I work if you will go on coughing!” She would slouch to the piano and play mighty chords, pressing down the loud pedal to drown that coughing. But when it had subsided she would feel deep remorse. “Oh, Barbara, you’re so little⁠—forgive me. It’s all my fault for bringing you out here, you’re not strong enough for this damnable life, you don’t get the right food, or anything proper.” + 

In the end it would be Barbara who must console. “We’ll be rich some day when you’ve finished your opera⁠—anyhow my cough isn’t dangerous, Jamie.” + 

Sometimes Jamie’s music would go all wrong, the opera would blankly refuse to get written. At the Conservatoire she would be very stupid, and when she got home she would be very silent, pushing her supper away with a frown, because coming upstairs she had heard that cough. Then Barbara would feel even more tired and weak than before, but would hide her weakness from Jamie. After supper they would undress in front of the stove if the weather was cold, would undress without speaking. Barbara could get out of her clothes quite neatly in no time, but Jamie must always dawdle, dropping first this and then that on the floor, or pausing to fill her little black pipe and to light it before putting on her pyjamas. + 

Barbara would fall on her knees by the divan and would start to say prayers like a child, very simply. “Our Father,” she would say, and other prayers too, which always ended in: “Please God, bless Jamie.” For believing in Jamie she must needs believe in God, and because she loved Jamie she must love God also⁠—it had long been like this, ever since they were children. But sometimes she would shiver in her prim cotton nightgown, so that Jamie, grown anxious, would speak to her sharply: + 

“Oh, stop praying, do. You and all your prayers! Are you daft to kneel there when the room’s fairly freezing? That’s how you catch cold; now tonight you’ll cough!” + 

But Barbara would not so much as turn round; she would calmly and earnestly go on with her praying. Her neck would look thin against the thick plait which hung neatly down between her bent shoulders; and the hands that covered her face would look thin⁠—thin and transparent like the hands of a consumptive. Fuming inwardly, Jamie would stump off to bed in the tiny room with its eye-shaped window, and there she herself must mutter a prayer, especially if she heard Barbara coughing. + 

At times Jamie gave way to deep depression, hating the beautiful city of her exile. Homesick unto death she would suddenly feel for the dour little Highland village of Beedles. More even than for its dull bricks and mortar would she long for its dull and respectable spirit, for the sense of security common to Sabbaths, for the kirk with its dull and respectable people. She would think with a tenderness bred by forced absence of the greengrocer’s shop that stood on the corner, where they sold, side by side with the cabbages and onions, little neatly tied bunches of Scottish heather, little earthenware jars of opaque heather honey. She would think of the vast, stretching, windy moorlands; of the smell of the soil after rain in summer; of the piper with his weather-stained, agile fingers, of the wail of his sorrowful, outlandish music; of Barbara as she had been in the days when they strolled side by side down the narrow high street. And then she would sit with her head in her hands, hating the sound and the smell of Paris, hating the sceptical eyes of the concierge, hating the bare and unhomely studio. Tears would well up from heaven alone knew what abyss of half-understood desolation, and would go splashing down upon her tweed skirt, or trickling back along her red wrists until they had wetted her frayed flannel wristbands. Coming home with their evening meal in a bag, this was how Barbara must sometimes find her. + 

II + 

Jamie was not always so full of desolation; there were days when she seemed to be in excellent spirits, and on one such occasion she rang Stephen up, asking her to bring Mary round after dinner. Everyone was coming, Wanda and Pat, Brockett, and even Valérie Seymour; for she, Jamie, had persuaded a couple of negroes who were studying at the Conservatoire to come in and sing for them that evening⁠—they had promised to sing Negro Spirituals, old slavery songs of the Southern plantations. They were very nice negroes, their name was Jones⁠—Lincoln and Henry Jones, they were brothers. Lincoln and Jamie had become great friends; he was very interested in her opera. And Wanda would bring her mandolin⁠—but the evening would be spoilt without Mary and Stephen. + 

Mary promptly put on her hat; she must go and order them in some supper. As she and Stephen would be there to share it, Jamie’s sensitive pride would be appeased. She would send them a very great deal of food so that they could go on eating and eating. + 

Stephen nodded: “Yes, send them in tons of supper!” + 

III + 

At ten o’clock they arrived at the studio; at ten thirty Wanda came in with Brockett, then Blanc together with Valérie Seymour, then Pat wearing serviceable goloshes over her house shoes because it was raining, then three or four fellow students of Jamie’s, and finally the two negro brothers. + 

They were very unlike each other, these negroes; Lincoln, the elder, was paler in colour. He was short and inclined to be rather thickset with a heavy but intellectual face⁠—a strong face, much lined for a man of thirty. His eyes had the patient, questioning expression common to the eyes of most animals and to those of all slowly evolving races. He shook hands very quietly with Stephen and Mary. Henry was tall and as black as a coal; a fine, upstanding, but coarse-lipped young negro, with a roving glance and a self-assured manner. + 

He remarked: “Glad to meet you, Miss Gordon⁠—Miss Llewellyn,” and plumped himself down at Mary’s side, where he started to make conversation, too glibly. + 

Valérie Seymour was soon talking to Lincoln with a friendliness that put him at his ease⁠—just at first he had seemed a little self-conscious. But Pat was much more reserved in her manner, having hailed from abolitionist Boston. + 

Wanda said abruptly: “Can I have a drink, Jamie?” Brockett poured her out a stiff brandy and soda. + 

Adolphe Blanc sat on the floor hugging his knees; and presently Dupont the sculptor strolled in⁠—being minus his mistress he migrated to Stephen. + 

Then Lincoln seated himself at the piano, touching the keys with firm, expert fingers, while Henry stood beside him very straight and long and lifted up his voice which was velvet smooth, yet as clear and insistent as the call of a clarion: + 

“Deep, river, my home is over Jordan. + 

Deep river⁠—Lord, I want to cross over into camp ground, + 

Lord, I want to cross over into camp ground, + 

Lord, I want to cross over into camp ground, + 

Lord, I want to cross over into camp ground.⁠ ⁠…” + 

And all the hope of the utterly hopeless of this world, who must live by their ultimate salvation, all the terrible, aching, homesick hope that is born of the infinite pain of the spirit, seemed to break from this man and shake those who listened, so that they sat with bent heads and clasped hands⁠—they who were also among the hopeless sat with bent heads and clasped hands as they listened.⁠ ⁠… Even Valérie Seymour forgot to be pagan. + 

He was not an exemplary young negro; indeed he could be the reverse very often. A crude animal Henry could be at times, with a taste for liquor and a lust for women⁠—just a primitive force rendered dangerous by drink, rendered offensive by civilization. Yet as he sang his sins seemed to drop from him, leaving him pure, unashamed, triumphant. He sang to his God, to the God of his soul, Who would some day blot out all the sins of the world, and make vast reparation for every injustice: “My home is over Jordan, Lord, I want to cross over into camp ground.” + 

Lincoln’s deep bass voice kept up a low sobbing. From time to time only did he break into words; but as he played on he rocked his body: “Lord, I want to cross over into camp ground. Lord, I want to cross over into camp ground.” + 

Once started they seemed unable to stop; carried away they were by their music, drunk with that desperate hope of the hopeless⁠—far drunker than Henry would get on neat whisky. They went from one spiritual into another, while their listeners sat motionless, scarcely breathing. While Jamie’s eyes ached from unshed tears quite as much as from her unsuitable glasses; while Adolphe Blanc, the gentle, the learned, grasped his knees and pondered many things deeply; while Pat remembered her Arabella and found but small consolation in beetles; while Brockett thought of certain brave deeds that he, even he had done out in Mespot⁠—deeds that were not recorded in dispatches, unless in those of the recording angel; while Wanda evolved an enormous canvas depicting the wrongs of all mankind; while Stephen suddenly found Mary’s hand and held it in hers with a painful pressure; while Barbara’s tired and childish brown eyes turned to rest rather anxiously on her Jamie. Not one of them all but was stirred to the depths by that queer, half defiant, half supplicating music. + 

And now there rang out a kind of challenge; imperious, loud, almost terrifying. They sang it together, those two black brethren, and their voices suggested a multitude shouting. They seemed to be shouting a challenge to the world on behalf of themselves and of all the afflicted: + 

“Didn’t my Lord deliver Daniel, + 

Daniel, Daniel! + 

Didn’t my Lord deliver Daniel, + 

Then why not every man?” + 

The eternal question, as yet unanswered for those who sat there spellbound and listened.⁠ ⁠… “Didn’t my Lord deliver Daniel, then why not every man?” + 

Why not?⁠ ⁠… Yes, but how long, O Lord, how long? + 

Lincoln got up from the piano abruptly, and he made a small bow which seemed strangely foolish, murmuring some stilted words of thanks on behalf of himself and his brother Henry: “We are greatly obliged to you for your patience; we trust that we have satisfied you;” he murmured. + 

It was over. They were just two men with black skins and foreheads beaded with perspiration. Henry sidled away to the whisky, while Lincoln rubbed his pinkish palms on an elegant white silk handkerchief. Everyone started to talk at once, to light cigarettes, to move about the studio. + 

Jamie said: “Come on, people, it’s time for supper,” and she swallowed a small glass of crème-de-menthe; but Wanda poured herself out some more brandy. + 

Quite suddenly they had all become merry, laughing at nothing, teasing each other; even Valérie unbent more than was her wont and did not look bored when Brockett chaffed her. The air grew heavy and stinging with smoke; the stove went out, but they scarcely noticed. + 

Henry Jones lost his head and pinched Pat’s bony shoulder, then he rolled his eyes: “Oh, boy! What a gang! Say, folks, aren’t we having the hell of an evening? When any of you folk decide to come over to my little old New York, why, I’ll show you around. Some burg!” and he gulped a large mouthful of whisky. + 

After supper Jamie played the overture to her opera, and they loudly applauded the rather dull music⁠—so scholarly, so dry, so painfully stiff, so utterly inexpressive of Jamie. Then Wanda produced her mandolin and insisted upon singing them Polish love songs; this she did in a heavy contralto voice which was rendered distinctly unstable by brandy. She handled the tinkling instrument with skill, evolving some quite respectable chords, but her eyes were fierce as was also her touch, so that presently a wire snapped with a ping, which appeared completely to upset her balance. She fell back and lay sprawled out upon the floor to be hauled up again by Dupont and Brockett. + 

Barbara had one of her bad fits of coughing: “It’s nothing⁠ ⁠…” she gasped, “I swallowed the wrong way; don’t fuss, Jamie⁠ ⁠… darling⁠ ⁠… I tell you it’s⁠ ⁠… nothing.” + 

Jamie, flushed already, drank more crème-de-menthe. This time she poured it into a tumbler, tossing it off with a dash of soda. But Adolphe Blanc looked at Barbara gravely. + 

The party did not disperse until morning; not until four o’clock could they decide to go home. Everybody had stayed to the very last moment, everybody, that is, except Valérie Seymour⁠—she had left immediately after supper. Brockett, as usual, was cynically sober, but Jamie was blinking her eyes like an owl, while Pat stumbled over her own goloshes. As for Henry Jones, he started to sing at the top of his lungs in a high falsetto: + 

“Oh, my, help, help, ain’t I nobody’s baby? + 

Oh, my, what a shame, I ain’t nobody’s baby.” + 

“Shut your noise, you poor mutt!” commanded his brother, but Henry still continued to bawl: “Oh, my, what a shame, I ain’t nobody’s baby.” + 

They left Wanda asleep on a heap of cushions⁠—she would probably not wake up before midday. + 

XLVI + 

I + 

Stephen’s book, which made its appearance that May, met with a very sensational success in England and in the United States, an even more marked success than The Furrow. Its sales were unexpectedly large considering its outstanding literary merit; the critics of two countries were loud in their praises, and old photographs of Stephen could be seen in the papers, together with very flattering captions. In a word, she woke up in Paris one morning to find herself, for the moment, quite famous. + 

Valérie, Brockett, indeed all her friends were wholehearted in their congratulations; and David’s tail kept up a great wagging. He knew well that something pleasant had happened: the whole atmosphere of the house was enough to inform a sagacious person like David. Even Mary’s little bright-coloured birds seemed to take a firmer hold on existence; while out in the garden there was much ado on the part of the proudly parental pigeons⁠—fledglings with huge heads and bleary eyes had arrived to contribute to the general celebration. Adèle went singing about her work, for Jean had recently been promised promotion, which meant that his savings, perhaps in a year, might have grown large enough for them to marry. + 

Pierre bragged to his friend, the neighbouring baker, anent Stephen’s great eminence as a writer, and even Pauline cheered up a little. + 

When Mary impressively ordered the meals, ordered this or that delicacy for Stephen, Pauline would actually say with a smile: “Mais oui, un grand génie doit nourrir le cerveau!” + 

Mademoiselle Duphot gained a passing importance in the eyes of her pupils through having taught Stephen. She would nod her head and remark very wisely: “I always declare she become a great author.” Then because she was truthful she would hastily add: “I mean that I knowed she was someone unusual.” + 

Buisson admitted that perhaps, after all, it was well that Stephen had stuck to her writing. The book had been bought for translation into French, a fact which had deeply impressed Monsieur Buisson. + 

From Puddle came a long and triumphant letter: “What did I tell you? I knew you’d do it!⁠ ⁠…” + 

Anna also wrote at some length to her daughter. And wonder of wonders, from Violet Peacock there arrived an embarrassingly gushing epistle. She would look Stephen up when next she was in Paris; she was longing, so she said, to renew their old friendship⁠—after all, they two had been children together. + 

Gazing at Mary with very bright eyes, Stephen’s thoughts must rush forward into the future. Puddle had been right, it was work that counted⁠—clever, hardheaded, understanding old Puddle! + 

Then putting an arm round Mary’s shoulder: “Nothing shall ever hurt you,” she would promise, feeling wonderfully self-sufficient and strong, wonderfully capable of protecting. + 

II + 

That summer they drove into Italy with David sitting up proudly beside Burton. David barked at the peasants and challenged the dogs and generally assumed a grand air of importance. They decided to spend two months on Lake Como, and went to the Hotel Florence at Bellagio. The hotel gardens ran down to the lake⁠—it was all very sunny and soothing and peaceful. Their days were passed in making excursions, their evenings in drifting about on the water in a little boat with a gaily striped awning, which latter seemed a strange form of pleasure to David. Many of the guests at the Florence were English, and not a few scraped an acquaintance with Stephen, since nothing appears to succeed like success in a world that is principally made up of failure. The sight of her book left about in the lounge, or being devoured by some engrossed reader, would make Stephen feel almost childishly happy; she would point the phenomenon out to Mary. + 

“Look,” she would whisper, “that man’s reading my book!” For the child is never far to seek in the author. + 

Some of their acquaintances were country folk and she found that she was in sympathy with them. Their quiet and painstaking outlook on life, their love of the soil, their care for their homes, their traditions were after all a part of herself, bequeathed to her by the founders of Morton. It gave her a very deep sense of pleasure to see Mary accepted and made to feel welcome by these grey-haired women and gentlemanly men; very seemly and fitting it appeared to Stephen. + 

And now, since to each of us come moments of respite when the mind refuses to face its problems, she resolutely thrust aside her misgivings, those misgivings that whispered: “Supposing they knew⁠—do you think they’d be so friendly to Mary?” + 

Of all those who sought them out that summer, the most cordial were Lady Massey and her daughter. Lady Massey was a delicate, elderly woman who, in spite of poor health and encroaching years, was untiring in her search for amusement⁠—it amused her to make friends with celebrated people. She was restless, self-indulgent and not over sincere, a creature of whims and ephemeral fancies; yet for Stephen and Mary she appeared to evince a liking which was more than just on the surface. She would ask them up to her sitting-room, would want them to sit with her in the garden, and would sometimes insist upon communal meals, inviting them to dine at her table. Agnes, the daughter, a jolly, red-haired girl, had taken an immediate fancy to Mary, and their friendship ripened with celerity, as is often the way during idle summers. As for Lady Massey she petted Mary, and mothered her as though she were a child, and soon she was mothering Stephen also. + 

She would say: “I seem to have found two new children,” and Stephen, who was in the mood to feel touched, grew quite attached to this ageing woman. Agnes was engaged to a Colonel Fitzmaurice who would probably join them that autumn in Paris. If he did so they must all foregather at once, she insisted⁠—he greatly admired Stephen’s book and had written that he was longing to meet her. But Lady Massey went further than this in her enthusiastic proffers of friendship⁠—Stephen and Mary must stay with her in Cheshire; she was going to give a house party at Branscombe Court for Christmas; they must certainly come to her for Christmas. + 

Mary, who seemed elated at the prospect, was forever discussing this visit with Stephen: “What sort of clothes shall I need, do you think? Agnes says it’s going to be quite a big party. I suppose I’ll want a few new evening dresses?” And one day she inquired: “Stephen, when you were younger, did you ever go to Ascot or Goodwood?” + 

Ascot and Goodwood, just names to Stephen; names that she had despised in her youth, yet which now seemed not devoid of importance since they stood for something beyond themselves⁠—something that ought to belong to Mary. She would pick up a copy of The Tatler or The Sketch, which Lady Massey received from England, and turning the pages would stare at the pictures of securely established, self-satisfied people⁠—Miss this or that sitting on a shooting stick, and beside her the man she would shortly marry; Lady so-and-so with her latest offspring; or perhaps some group at a country house. And quite suddenly Stephen would feel less assured because in her heart she must envy these people. Must envy these commonplace men and women with their rather ridiculous shooting sticks; their smiling fiancés; their husbands; their wives; their estates, and their well cared for, placid children. + 

Mary would sometimes look over her shoulder with a new and perhaps rather wistful interest. Then Stephen would close the paper abruptly: “Let’s go for a row on the lake,” she might say, “it’s no good wasting this glorious evening.” + 

But then she would remember the invitation to spend Christmas with Lady Massey in Cheshire, and would suddenly start to build castles in the air; supposing that she herself bought a small place near Branscombe Court⁠—near these kind new friends who seemed to have grown so fond of Mary? Mary would also have her thoughts, would be thinking of girls like Agnes Massey for whom life was tranquil, easy and secure; girls to whom the world must seem blessedly friendly. And then, with a little stab of pain, she would suddenly remember her own exile from Morton. After such thoughts as these she must hold Stephen’s hand, must always sit very close to Stephen. + 

III + 

That autumn they saw a good deal of the Masseys, who had taken their usual suite at the Ritz, and who often asked Mary and Stephen to luncheon. Lady Massey, Agnes and Colonel Fitzmaurice, a pleasant enough man, came and dined several times at the quiet old house in the Rue Jacob, and those evenings were always exceedingly friendly, Stephen talking of books with Colonel Fitzmaurice, while Lady Massey enlarged upon Branscombe and her plans for the coming Christmas party. Sometimes Stephen and Mary sent flowers to the Ritz, hothouse plants or a large box of special roses⁠—Lady Massey liked to have her rooms full of flowers sent by friends, it increased her sense of importance. By return would come loving letters of thanks; she would write: “I do thank my two very dear children.” + 

In November she and Agnes returned to England, but the friendship was kept up by correspondence, for Lady Massey was prolific with her pen, indeed she was never more happy than when writing. And now Mary bought the new evening dresses, and she dragged Stephen off to choose some new ties. As the visit to Branscombe Court drew near it was seldom out of their thoughts for a moment⁠—to Stephen it appeared like the first fruits of toil; to Mary like the gateway into an existence that must be very safe and reassuring. + 

IV + 

Stephen never knew what enemy had prepared the blow that was struck by Lady Massey. Perhaps it had been Colonel Fitzmaurice who might all the time have been hiding his suspicions; he must certainly have known a good deal about Stephen⁠—he had friends who lived in the vicinity of Morton. Perhaps it had merely been unkind gossip connected with Brockett or Valérie Seymour, with the people whom Mary and Stephen knew, although, as it happened, Lady Massey had not met them. But after all, it mattered so little; what did it matter how the thing had come about? By comparison with the insult itself, its origin seemed very unimportant. + 

It was in December that the letter arrived, just a week before they were leaving for England. A long, rambling, pitifully tactless letter, full of awkward and deeply wounding excuses: + 

“If I hadn’t grown so fond of you both,” wrote Lady Massey, “this would be much less painful⁠—as it is the whole thing has made me quite ill, but I must consider my position in the county. You see, the county looks to me for a lead⁠—above all I must consider my daughter. The rumours that have reached me about you and Mary⁠—certain things that I don’t want to enter into⁠—have simply forced me to break off our friendship and to say that I must ask you not to come here for Christmas. Of course a woman of my position with all eyes upon her has to be extra careful. It’s too terribly upsetting and sad for me; if I hadn’t been so fond of you both⁠—but you know how attached I had grown to Mary⁠ ⁠…” and so it went on; a kind of wail full of self-importance combined with self-pity. + 

As Stephen read she went white to the lips, and Mary sprang up. “What’s that letter you’re reading?” + 

“It’s from Lady Massey. It’s about⁠ ⁠… it’s about⁠ ⁠…” Her voice failed. + 

“Show it to me,” persisted Mary. + 

Stephen shook her head: “No⁠—I’d rather not.” + 

Then Mary asked: “Is it about our visit?” + 

Stephen nodded: “We’re not going to spend Christmas at Branscombe. Darling, it’s all right⁠—don’t look like that⁠ ⁠…” + 

“But I want to know why we’re not going to Branscombe.” And Mary reached out and snatched the letter. + 

She read it through to the very last word, then she sat down abruptly and burst out crying. She cried with the long, doleful sobs of a child whom someone has struck without rhyme or reason: “Oh⁠ ⁠… and I thought they were fond of us⁠ ⁠…” she sobbed, “I thought that perhaps⁠ ⁠… they understood, Stephen.” + 

Then it seemed to Stephen that all the pain that had so far been thrust upon her by existence, was as nothing to the unendurable pain which she must now bear to hear that sobbing, to see Mary thus wounded and utterly crushed, thus shamed and humbled for the sake of her love, thus bereft of all dignity and protection. + 

She felt strangely helpless: “Don’t⁠—don’t,” she implored; while tears of pity blurred her own eyes and went trickling slowly down her scarred face. She had lost for the moment all sense of proportion, of perspective, seeing in a vain, tactless woman a kind of gigantic destroying angel; a kind of scourge laid upon her and Mary. Surely never before had Lady Massey loomed so large as she did in that hour to Stephen. + 

Mary’s sobs gradually died away. She lay back in her chair, a small, desolate figure, catching her breath from time to time, until Stephen went to her and found her hand which she stroked with cold and trembling fingers⁠—but she could not find words of consolation. + 

V + 

That night Stephen took the girl roughly in her arms. + 

“I love you⁠—I love you so much⁠ ⁠…” she stammered; and she kissed Mary many times on the mouth, but cruelly so that her kisses were pain⁠—the pain in her heart leapt out through her lips: “God! It’s too terrible to love like this⁠—it’s hell⁠—there are times when I can’t endure it!” + 

She was in the grip of strong nervous excitation; nothing seemed able any more to appease her. She seemed to be striving to obliterate, not only herself, but the whole hostile world through some strange and agonized merging with Mary. It was terrible indeed, very like unto death, and it left them both completely exhausted. + 

The world had achieved its first real victory. + 

XLVII + 

I + 

Their Christmas was naturally overshadowed, and so, as it were by a common impulse, they turned to such people as Barbara and Jamie, people who would neither despise nor insult them. It was Mary who suggested that Barbara and Jamie should be asked to share their Christmas dinner, while Stephen who must suddenly pity Wanda for a misjudged and very unfortunate genius, invited her also⁠—after all why not? Wanda was more sinned against than sinning. She drank, oh, yes, Wanda drowned her sorrows; everybody knew that, and like Valérie Seymour, Stephen hated drink like the plague⁠—but all the same she invited Wanda. + 

An ill wind it is that blows no one any good. Barbara and Jamie accepted with rapture; but for Mary’s most timely invitation, their funds being low at the end of the year, they two must have gone without Christmas dinner. Wanda also seemed glad enough to come, to leave her enormous, turbulent canvas for the orderly peace of the well-warmed house with its comfortable rooms and its friendly servants. All three of them arrived a good hour before dinner, which on this occasion would be in the evening. + 

Wanda had been up to Midnight Mass at the Sacré Cœur, she informed them gravely; and Stephen, reminded of Mademoiselle Duphot, regretted that she had not offered her the motor. No doubt she too had gone up to Montmartre for Midnight Mass⁠—how queer, she and Wanda. Wanda was quiet, depressed and quite sober; she was wearing a straight-cut, simple black dress that somehow suggested a species of cassock. And as often happened when Wanda was sober, she repeated herself more than when she was drunk. + 

“I have been to the Sacré Cœur,” she repeated, “for the Messe de Minuit; it was very lovely.” + 

But she did not reveal the tragic fact that her fear had suddenly laid hold upon her at the moment of approaching the altar rails, so that she had scuttled back to her seat, terrified of receiving the Christmas Communion. Even a painfully detailed confession of intemperance, of the lusts of the eyes and the mind, of the very occasional sins of the body; even the absolution accorded by a white-haired old priest who had spoken gently and pitifully to his penitent, directing her prayers to the Sacred Heart from which his own heart had derived its compassion⁠—even these things had failed to give Wanda courage when it came to the Christmas Communion. And now as she sat at Stephen’s table she ate little and drank but three glasses of wine; nor did she ask for a cognac brandy when later they went to the study for coffee, but must talk of the mighty temple of her faith that watched day and night, night and day over Paris. + 

She said in her very perfect English: “Is it not a great thing that France has done? From every town and village in France has come money to build that church at Montmartre. Many people have purchased the stones of the church, and their names are carved on those stones forever. I am very much too hard up to do that⁠—and yet I would like to own a small stone. I would just say: ‘From Wanda,’ because of course one need not bother about the surname; mine is so long and so difficult to spell⁠—yes, I would ask them to say: ‘From Wanda.’ ” + 

Jamie and Barbara listened politely, yet without sympathy and without comprehension; while Mary must even smile a little at what seemed to her like mere superstition. But Stephen’s imagination was touched, and she questioned Wanda about her religion. Then Wanda turned grateful eyes upon Stephen and suddenly wanted to win her friendship⁠—she looked so reassuring and calm sitting there in her peaceful, book-lined study. A great writer she was, did not everyone say so? And yet she was surely even as Wanda⁠ ⁠… Oh, but Stephen had got the better of her fate, had wrestled with her fate so that now it must serve her; that was fine, that was surely true courage, true greatness! For that Christmas none save Mary might know of the bitterness that was in Stephen’s heart, least of all the impulsive, erratic Wanda. + 

Wanda needed no second invitation to talk, and very soon her eyes were aglow with the fire of the born religious fanatic as she told of the little town in Poland, with its churches, its bells that were always chiming⁠—the Mass bells beginning at early dawn, the Angelus bells, the Vesper bells⁠—always calling, calling they were, said Wanda. Through the years of persecution and strife, of wars and the endless rumours of wars that had ravaged her most unhappy country, her people had clung to their ancient faith like true children of Mother Church, said Wanda. She herself had three brothers, and all of them priests; her parents had been very pious people, they were both dead now, had been dead for some years; and Wanda signed her breast with the Cross, having regard for the souls of her parents. Then she tried to explain the meaning of her faith, but this she did exceedingly badly, finding that words are not always easy when they must encompass the things of the spirit, the things that she herself knew by instinct; and then, too, these days her brain was not clear, thanks to brandy, even when she was quite sober. The details of her coming to Paris she omitted, but Stephen thought she could easily guess them, for Wanda declared with a curious pride that her brothers were men of stone and of iron. Saints they all were, according to Wanda, uncompromising, fierce and relentless, seeing only the straight and narrow path on each side of which yawned the fiery chasm. + 

“I was not as they were, ah, no!” she declared, “Nor was I as my father and mother; I was⁠—I was⁠ ⁠…” She stopped speaking abruptly, gazing at Stephen with her burning eyes which said quite plainly: “You know what I was, you understand.” And Stephen nodded, divining the reason of Wanda’s exile. + 

But suddenly Mary began to grow restless, putting an end to this dissertation by starting the large, new gramophone which Stephen had given her for Christmas. The gramophone blared out the latest foxtrot, and jumping up Barbara and Jamie started dancing, while Stephen and Wanda moved chairs and tables, rolled back rugs and explained to the barking David that he could not join in, but might, if he chose, sit and watch them dance from the divan. Then Wanda slipped an arm around Mary and they glided off, an incongruous couple, the one clad as sombrely as any priest, the other in her soft evening dress of blue chiffon. Mary lay gently against Wanda’s arm, and she seemed to Stephen a very perfect dancer⁠—lighting a cigarette, she watched them. The dance over, Mary put on a new record; she was flushed and her eyes were considerably brighter. + 

“Why did you never tell me?” Stephen murmured. + 

“Tell you what?” + 

“Why, that you danced so well.” + 

Mary hesitated, then she murmured back: “You didn’t dance, so what was the good?” + 

“Wanda, you must teach me to foxtrot,” smiled Stephen. + 

Jamie was blundering round the room with Barbara clasped to her untidy bosom; then she and Barbara started to sing the harmless, but foolish words of the foxtrot⁠—if the servants were singing their old Breton hymns along in the kitchen, no one troubled to listen. Growing hilarious, Jamie sang louder, spinning with Barbara, gyrating wildly, until Barbara, between laughing and coughing, must implore her to stop, must beg for mercy. + 

Wanda said: “You might have a lesson now, Stephen.” + 

Putting her hands on Stephen’s shoulders, she began to explain the more simple steps, which did not appear at all hard to Stephen. The music seemed to have got into her feet so that her feet must follow its rhythm. She discovered to her own very great amazement that she liked this less formal modern dancing, and after a while she was clasping Mary quite firmly, and they moved away together while Wanda stood calling out her instructions: + 

“Take much longer steps! Keep your knees straight⁠—straighter! Don’t get so much to the side⁠—look, it’s this way⁠—hold her this way; always stand square to your partner.” + 

The lesson went on for a good two hours, until even Mary seemed somewhat exhausted. She suddenly rang the bell for Pierre, who appeared with the tray of simple supper. Then Mary did an unusual thing⁠—she poured herself out a whiskey and soda. + 

“I’m tired,” she explained rather fretfully in answer to Stephen’s look of surprise; and she frowned as she turned her back abruptly. But Wanda shied away from the brandy as a frightened horse will shy from fire; she drank two large glasses of lemonade⁠—an extremist she was in all things, this Wanda. Quite soon she announced that she must go home to bed, because of her latest picture which required every ounce of strength she had in her; but before she went she said eagerly to Stephen: + 

“Do let me show you the Sacré Cœur. You have seen it of course, but only as a tourist; that is not really seeing it at all, you must come there with me.” + 

“All right,” agreed Stephen. + 

When Jamie and Barbara had departed in their turn, Stephen took Mary into her arms: “Dearest⁠ ⁠… has it been a fairly nice Christmas after all?” she inquired almost timidly. + 

Mary kissed her: “Of course it’s been a nice Christmas.” Then her youthful face suddenly changed in expression, the grey eyes growing hard, the mouth resentful: “Damn that woman for what she’s done to us, Stephen⁠—the insolence of it! But I’ve learnt my lesson; we’ve got plenty of friends without Lady Massey and Agnes, friends to whom we’re not moral lepers.” And she laughed, a queer, little joyless laugh. + 

Stephen flinched, remembering Brockett’s warning. + 

II + 

Wanda’s chastened and temperate mood persisted for several weeks, and while it was on her she clung like a drowning man to Stephen, haunting the house from morning until night, dreading to be alone for a moment. It cannot be said that Stephen suffered her gladly, for now with the New Year she was working hard on a series of articles and short stories; unwilling to visualize defeat, she began once again to sharpen her weapon. But something in Wanda’s poor efforts to keep sober, in her very dependence, was deeply appealing, so that Stephen would put aside her work, feeling loath to desert the unfortunate creature. + 

Several times they made a long pilgrimage on foot to the church of the Sacré Cœur; just they two, for Mary would never go with them; she was prejudiced against Wanda’s religion. They would climb the steep streets with their flights of steps, grey streets, grey steps leading up from the city. Wanda’s eyes would always be fixed on their goal⁠—pilgrim eyes they would often seem to Stephen. Arrived at the church she and Wanda would stand looking down between the tall, massive columns of the porch, on a Paris of domes and mists, only half revealed by the fitful sunshine. The air would seem pure up there on the height, pure and tenuous as a thing of the spirit. And something in that mighty temple of faith, that amazing thrust towards the sublime, that silent yet articulate cry of a nation to its God, would awaken a response in Stephen, so that she would seem to be brushing the hem of an age-old and rather terrible mystery⁠—the eternal mystery of good and evil. + 

Inside the church would be brooding shadows, save where the wide lakes of amber fire spread out from the endless votive candles. Above the high altar the monstranced Host would gleam curiously white in the light of the candles. The sound of praying, monotonous, low, insistent, would come from those who prayed with extended arms, with crucified arms, all day and all night for the sins of Paris. + 

Wanda would make her way to the statue of the silver Christ with one hand on His heart, and the other held out in supplication. Kneeling down she would sign herself with His Cross, then cover her eyes and forget about Stephen. Standing quietly behind her Stephen would wonder what Wanda was saying to the silver Christ, what the silver Christ was saying to Wanda. She would think that He looked very weary, this Christ Who must listen to so many supplications. Queer, unbidden thoughts came to her at such moments; this Man Who was God, a God Who waited, could He answer the riddle of Wanda’s existence, of her own existence? If she asked, could He answer? What if she were suddenly to cry out loudly: “Look at us, we are two yet we stand for many. Our name is legion and we also are waiting, we also are tired, oh, but terribly tired⁠ ⁠… Will You give us some hope of ultimate release? Will You tell us the secret of our salvation?” + 

Wanda would rise from her prayers rather stiffly to purchase a couple of votive candles, and when she had stuck them into the sconce she would touch the foot of the silver Christ as she bade Him farewell⁠—a time-honoured custom. Then she and Stephen might turn again to the lake of fire that flowed round the monstrance. + 

But one morning when they arrived at the church, the monstrance was not above the high altar. The altar had just been garnished and swept, so the Host was still in the Lady Chapel. And while they stood there and gazed at the Host, came a priest and with him a grey-haired server; they would bear their God back again to His home, to the costly shrine of His endless vigil. The server must first light his little lantern suspended from a pole, and must then grasp his bell. The priest must lift his Lord from the monstrance and lay Him upon a silken cover, and carry Him as a man carries a child⁠—protectively, gently, yet strongly withal, as though some frustrated paternal instinct were finding in this a divine expression. The lantern swung rhythmically to and fro, the bell rang out its imperative warning; then the careful priest followed after the server who cleared his path to the great high altar. And even as once very long ago, such a bell had been the herald of death in the putrefying hand of the leper: “Unclean! Unclean!” death and putrefaction⁠—the warning bell in the dreadful hand that might never again know the clasp of the healthful⁠—so now the bell rang out the approach of supreme purity, of the Healer of lepers, earthbound through compassion; but compassion so vast, so urgent, that the small, white disc of the Host must contain the whole suffering universe. Thus the Prisoner of love Who could never break free while one spiritual leper remained to be healed, passed by on His patient way, heavy-laden. + 

Wanda suddenly fell to her knees, striking her lean and unfruitful breast, for as always she very shamefully feared, and her fear was a bitter and most deadly insult. With downcast eyes and trembling hands she cowered at the sight of her own salvation. But Stephen stood upright and curiously still, staring into the empty Lady Chapel. + 

XLVIII + 

I + 

That spring they made their first real acquaintance with the garish and tragic night life of Paris that lies open to such people as Stephen Gordon. + 

Until now they had never gone out much at night except to occasional studio parties, or occasional cafés of the milder sort for a cup of coffee with Barbara and Jamie; but that spring Mary seemed fanatically eager to proclaim her allegiance to Pat’s miserable army. Deprived of the social intercourse which to her would have been both natural and welcome, she now strove to stand up to a hostile world by proving that she could get on without it. The spirit of adventure that had taken her to France, the pluck that had steadied her while in the Unit, the emotional, hotheaded nature of the Celt, these things must now work together in Mary to produce a state of great restlessness, a pitiful revolt against life’s injustice. The blow struck by a weak and thoughtless hand had been even more deadly than Stephen had imagined; more deadly to them both, for that glancing blow coming at a time of apparent success, had torn from them every shred of illusion. + 

Stephen, who could see that the girl was fretting, would be seized with a kind of sick apprehension, a sick misery at her own powerlessness to provide a more normal and complete existence. So many innocent recreations, so many harmless social pleasures must Mary forego for the sake of their union⁠—and she still young, still well under thirty. And now Stephen came face to face with the gulf that lies between warning and realization⁠—all her painful warnings anent the world had not served to lessen the blow when it fell, had not served to make it more tolerable to Mary. Deeply humiliated Stephen would feel, when she thought of Mary’s exile from Morton, when she thought of the insults this girl must endure because of her loyalty and her faith⁠—all that Mary was losing that belonged to her youth, would rise up at this time to accuse and scourge Stephen. Her courage would flicker like a lamp in the wind, and would all but go out; she would feel less steadfast, less capable of continuing the war, that ceaseless war for the right to existence. Then the pen would slip from her nerveless fingers, no longer a sharp and purposeful weapon. Yes, that spring saw a weakening in Stephen herself⁠—she felt tired, and sometimes very old for her age, in spite of her vigorous mind and body. + 

Calling Mary she would need to be reassured; and one day she asked her: “How much do you love me?” + 

Mary answered: “So much that I’m growing to hate⁠ ⁠…” Bitter words to hear on such young lips as Mary’s. + 

And now there were days when Stephen herself would long for some palliative, some distraction; when her erstwhile success seemed like Dead Sea fruit, her will to succeed a grotesque presumption. Who was she to stand out against the whole world, against those ruthless, pursuing millions bent upon the destruction of her and her kind? And she but one poor, inadequate creature. She would start to pace up and down her study; up and down, up and down, a most desolate pacing; even as years ago her father had paced his quiet study at Morton. Then those treacherous nerves of hers would betray her, so that when Mary came in with David⁠—he a little depressed, sensing something amiss⁠—she would often turn on the girl and speak sharply. + 

“Where on earth have you been?” + 

“Only out for a walk. I walked round to Jamie’s, Barbara’s not well; I sent her in a few tins of Brand’s jelly.” + 

“You’ve no right to go off without letting me know where you’re going⁠—I’ve told you before I won’t have it!” Her voice would be harsh, and Mary would flush, unaware of those nerves that were strained to breaking. + 

As though grasping at something that remained secure, they would go to see the kind Mademoiselle Duphot, but less often than they had done in the past, for a feeling of guilt would come upon Stephen. Looking at the gentle and foal-like face with its innocent eyes behind the strong glasses, she would think: “We’re here under false pretences. If she knew what we were, she’d have none of us, either. Brockett was right, we should stick to our kind.” So they went less and less to see Mademoiselle Duphot. + 

Mademoiselle said with her mild resignation: “It is natural, for now our Stévenne is famous. Why should she waste her time upon us? I am more than content to have been her teacher.” + 

But the sightless Julie shook her head sadly: “It is not like that; you mistake, my sister. I can feel a great desolation in Stévenne⁠—and some of the youngness has gone from Mary. What can it be? My fingers grow blind when I ask them the cause of that desolation.” + 

“I will pray for them both to the Sacred Heart which comprehends all things,” said Mademoiselle Duphot. + 

And indeed her own heart would have tried to understand⁠—but Stephen had grown very bitterly mistrustful. + 

And so now, in good earnest they turned to their kind, for as Puddle had truly divined in the past, it is “like to like” for such people as Stephen. Thus when Pat walked in unexpectedly one day to invite them to join a party that night at the Ideal Bar, Stephen did not oppose Mary’s prompt and all too eager acceptance. + 

Pat said they were going to do the round. Wanda was coming and probably Brockett. Dickie West the American aviator was in Paris, and she also had promised to join them. Oh, yes, and then there was Valérie Seymour⁠—Valérie was being dug out of her hole by Jeanne Maurel, her most recent conquest. Pat supposed that Valérie would drink lemon squash and generally act as a douche of cold water, she was sure to grow sleepy or disapproving, she was no acquisition to this sort of party. But could they rely upon Stephen’s car? In the cold, grey dawn of the morning after, taxis were sometimes scarce up at Montmartre. Stephen nodded, thinking how absurdly prim Pat looked to be talking of cold, grey dawns and all that they stood for up at Montmartre. After she had left, Stephen frowned a little. + 

II + 

The five women were seated at a table near the door when Mary and Stephen eventually joined them. Pat, looking gloomy, was sipping light beer. Wanda, with the fires of hell in her eyes, in the hell of a temper too, drank brandy. She had started to drink pretty heavily again, and had therefore been avoiding Stephen just lately. There were only two new faces at the table, that of Jeanne Maurel, and of Dickie West, the much discussed woman aviator. + 

Dickie was short, plump and very young; she could not have been more than twenty-one and she still looked considerably under twenty. She was wearing a little dark blue beret; round her neck was knotted an apache scarf⁠—for the rest she was dressed in a neat serge suit with a very well cut double-breasted jacket. Her face was honest, her teeth rather large, her lips chapped and her skin much weather-beaten. She looked like a pleasant and nice-minded schoolboy well soaped and scrubbed for some gala occasion. When she spoke her voice was a little too hearty. She belonged to the younger, and therefore more reckless, more aggressive and self-assured generation; a generation that was marching to battle with much swagger, much sounding of drums and trumpets, a generation that had come after war to wage a new war on a hostile creation. Being mentally very well clothed and well shod, they had as yet left no bloodstained footprints; they were hopeful as yet, refusing point-blank to believe in the existence of a miserable army. They said: “We are as we are; what about it? We don’t care a damn, in fact we’re delighted!” And being what they were they must go to extremes, must quite often outdo men in their sinning; yet the sins that they had were the sins of youth, the sins of defiance born of oppression. But Dickie was in no way exceptionally vile⁠—she lived her life much as a man would have lived it. And her heart was so loyal, so trustful, so kind that it caused her much shame and much secret blushing. Generous as a lover, she was even more so when there could not be any question of loving. Like the horseleech’s daughter, her friends cried: “Give! Give!” and Dickie gave lavishly, asking no questions. An appeal never left her completely unmoved, and suspecting this, most people went on appealing. She drank wine in moderation, smoked Camel cigarettes till her fingers were brown, and admired stage beauties. Her greatest defect was practical joking of the kind that passes all seemly limits. Her jokes were dangerous, even cruel at times⁠—in her jokes Dickie quite lacked imagination. + 

Jeanne Maurel was tall, almost as tall as Stephen. An elegant person wearing pearls round her throat above a low cut white satin waistcoat. She was faultlessly tailored and faultlessly barbered; her dark, severe Eton crop fitted neatly. Her profile was Greek, her eyes a bright blue⁠—altogether a very arresting young woman. So far she had had quite a busy life doing nothing in particular and everything in general. But now she was Valérie Seymour’s lover, attaining at last to a certain distinction. + 

And Valérie was sitting there calm and aloof, her glance roving casually round the café, not too critically, yet as though she would say: “Enfin, the whole world has grown very ugly, but no doubt to some people this represents pleasure.” + 

From the stained bar counter at the end of the room came the sound of Monsieur Pujol’s loud laughter. Monsieur Pujol was affable to his clients, oh, but very, indeed he was almost paternal. Yet nothing escaped his cold, black eyes⁠—a great expert he was in his way, Monsieur Pujol. There are many collections that a man may indulge in; old china, glass, pictures, watches and bibelots; rare editions, tapestries, priceless jewels. Monsieur Pujol snapped his fingers at such things, they lacked life⁠—Monsieur Pujol collected inverts. Amazingly morbid of Monsieur Pujol, and he with the face of an ageing dragoon, and he just married en secondes noces, and already with six legitimate children. A fine, purposeful sire he had been and still was, with his young wife shortly expecting a baby. Oh, yes, the most aggressively normal of men, as none knew better than the poor Madame Pujol. Yet behind the bar was a small, stuffy sanctum in which this strange man catalogued his collection. The walls of the sanctum were thickly hung with signed photographs, and a good few sketches. At the back of each frame was a neat little number corresponding to that in a locked leather notebook⁠—it had long been his custom to write up his notes before going home with the milk in the morning. People saw their own faces but not their numbers⁠—no client suspected that locked leather notebook. + 

To this room would come Monsieur Pujol’s old cronies for a bock or a petit verre before business; and sometimes, like many another collector, Monsieur Pujol would permit himself to grow prosy. His friends knew most of the pictures by heart; knew their histories too, almost as well as he did; but in spite of this fact he would weary his guests by repeating many a threadbare story. + 

“A fine lot, n’est-ce pas?” he would say with a grin, “See that man? Ah, yes⁠—a really great poet. He drank himself to death. In those days it was absinthe⁠—they liked it because it gave them such courage. That one would come here like a scared white rat, but Crénom! when he left he would bellow like a bull⁠—the absinthe, of course⁠—it gave them great courage.” Or: “That woman over there, what a curious head! I remember her very well, she was German. Else Weining, her name was⁠—before the war she would come with a girl she’d picked up here in Paris, just a common whore, a most curious business. They were deeply in love. They would sit at a table in the corner⁠—I can show you their actual table. They never talked much and they drank very little; as far as the drink went those two were bad clients, but so interesting that I did not much mind⁠—I grew almost attached to Else Weining. Sometimes she would come all alone, come early. ‘Pu,’ she would say in her hideous French; ‘Pu, she must never go back to that hell.’ Hell! Sacrénom⁠—she to call it hell! Amazing they are, I tell you, these people. Well, the girl went back, naturally she went back, and Else drowned herself in the Seine. Amazing they are⁠—ces invertis, I tell you!” + 

But not all the histories were so tragic as this one; Monsieur Pujol found some of them quite amusing. Quarrels galore he was able to relate, and light infidelities by the dozen. He would mimic a manner of speech, a gesture, a walk⁠—he was really quite a good mimic⁠—and when he did this his friends were not bored; they would sit there and split their sides with amusement. + 

And now Monsieur Pujol was laughing himself, cracking jokes as he covertly watched his clients. From where she and Mary sat near the door, Stephen could hear his loud, jovial laughter. + 

“Lord,” sighed Pat, unenlivened as yet by the beer; “some people do seem to feel real good this evening.” + 

Wanda, who disliked the ingratiating Pujol, and whose nerves were on edge, had begun to grow angry. She had caught a particularly gross blasphemy, gross even for this age of stupid blaspheming. “Le salaud!” she shouted, then, inflamed by drink, an epithet even less complimentary. + 

“Hush up, do!” exclaimed the scandalized Pat, hastily gripping Wanda’s shoulder. + 

But Wanda was out to defend her faith, and she did it in somewhat peculiar language. + 

People had begun to turn round and stare; Wanda was causing quite a diversion. Dickie grinned and skilfully egged her on, not perceiving the tragedy that was Wanda. For in spite of her tender and generous heart, Dickie was still but a crude young creature, one who had not yet learnt how to shiver and shake, and had thus remained but a crude young creature. Stephen glanced anxiously at Mary, half deciding to break up this turbulent party; but Mary was sitting with her chin on her hand, quite unruffled, it seemed, by Wanda’s outburst. When her eyes met Stephen’s she actually smiled, then took the cigarette that Jeanne Maurel was offering; and something in this placid, self-assured indifference went so ill with her youth that it startled Stephen. She in her turn must quickly light a cigarette, while Pat still endeavoured to silence Wanda. + 

Valérie said with her enigmatic smile: “Shall we now go on to our next entertainment?” + 

They paid the bill and persuaded Wanda to postpone her abuse of the ingratiating Pujol. Stephen took one arm, Dickie West the other, and between them they coaxed her into the motor; after which they all managed to squeeze themselves in⁠—that is, all except Dickie, who sat by the driver in order to guide the innocent Burton. + 

III + 

At Le Narcisse they surprised what at first appeared to be the most prosaic of family parties. It was late, yet the mean room was empty of clients, for Le Narcisse seldom opened its eyes until midnight had chimed from the church clocks of Paris. Seated at a table with a red and white cloth were the Patron and a lady with a courtesy title. “Madame,” she was called. And with them was a girl, and a handsome young man with severely plucked eyebrows. Their relationship to each other was⁠ ⁠… well⁠ ⁠… all the same, they suggested a family party. As Stephen pushed open the shabby swing door, they were placidly engaged upon playing belotte. + 

The walls of the room were hung with mirrors thickly painted with cupids, thickly sullied by flies. A faint blend of odours was wafted from the kitchen which stood in proximity to the toilet. The host rose at once and shook hands with his guests. Every bar had its social customs, it seemed. At the Ideal one must share Monsieur Pujol’s lewd jokes; at Le Narcisse one must gravely shake hands with the Patron. + 

The Patron was tall and exceedingly thin⁠—a clean-shaven man with the mouth of an ascetic. His cheeks were delicately tinted with rouge, his eyelids delicately shaded with kohl; but the eyes themselves were an infantile blue, reproachful and rather surprised in expression. + 

For the good of the house, Dickie ordered champagne; it was warm and sweet and unpleasantly heady. Only Jeanne and Mary and Dickie herself had the courage to sample this curious beverage. Wanda stuck to her brandy and Pat to her beer, while Stephen drank coffee; but Valérie Seymour caused some confusion by gently insisting on a lemon squash⁠—to be made with fresh lemons. Presently the guests began to arrive in couples. Having seated themselves at the tables, they quickly became oblivious to the world, what with the sickly champagne and each other. From a hidden recess there emerged a woman with a basket full of protesting roses. The stout vendeuse wore a wide wedding ring⁠—for was she not a most virtuous person? But her glance was both calculating and shrewd as she pounced upon the more obvious couples; and Stephen watching her progress through the room, felt suddenly ashamed on behalf of the roses. And now at a nod from the host there was music; and now at a bray from the band there was dancing. Dickie and Wanda opened the ball⁠—Dickie stodgy and firm, Wanda rather unsteady. Others followed. Then Mary leant over the table and whispered: + 

“Won’t you dance with me, Stephen?” + 

Stephen hesitated, but only for a moment. Then she got up abruptly and danced with Mary. + 

The handsome young man with the tortured eyebrows was bowing politely before Valérie Seymour. Refused by her, he passed on to Pat, and to Jeanne’s great amusement was promptly accepted. + 

Brockett arrived and sat down at the table. He was in his most prying and cynical humour. He watched Stephen with coldly observant eyes, watched Dickie guiding the swaying Wanda, watched Pat in the arms of the handsome young man, watched the whole bumping, jostling crowd of dancers. + 

The blended odours were becoming more active. Brockett lit a cigarette. “Well, Valérie darling? You look like an outraged Elgin marble. Be kind, dear, be kind; you must live and let live, this is life.⁠ ⁠…” And he waved his soft, white hands. “Observe it⁠—it’s very wonderful, darling. This is life, love, defiance, emancipation!” + 

Said Valérie with her calm little smile: “I think I preferred it when we were all martyrs!” + 

The dancers drifted back to their seats and Brockett manoeuvred to sit beside Stephen. “You and Mary dance well together,” he murmured. “Are you happy? Are you enjoying yourselves?” + 

Stephen, who hated this inquisitive mood, this mood that would feed upon her emotions, turned away as she answered him, rather coldly: “Yes, thanks⁠—we’re not having at all a bad evening.” + 

And now the Patron was standing by their table; bowing slightly to Brockett he started singing. His voice was a high and sweet baritone; his song was of love that must end too soon, of life that in death is redeemed by ending. An extraordinary song to hear in such a place⁠—melancholy and very sentimental. Some of the couples had tears in their eyes⁠—tears that had probably sprung from champagne quite as much as from that melancholy singing. Brockett ordered a fresh bottle to console the Patron. Then he waved him away with a gesture of impatience. + 

There ensued more dancing, more ordering of drinks, more dalliance by the amorous couples. The Patron’s mood changed, and now he must sing a song of the lowest boîtes in Paris. As he sang he skipped like a performing dog, grimacing, beating time with his hands, conducting the chorus that rose from the tables. + 

Brockett sighed as he shrugged his shoulders in disgust, and once again Stephen glanced at Mary; but Mary, she saw, had not understood that song with its inexcusable meaning. Valérie was talking to Jeanne Maurel, talking about her villa at St. Tropez; talking of the garden, the sea, the sky, the design she had drawn for a green marble fountain. Stephen could hear her charming voice, so cultured, so cool⁠—itself cool as a fountain; and she marvelled at this woman’s perfect poise, the genius she possessed for complete detachment; Valérie had closed her ears to that song, and not only her ears but her mind and spirit. + 

The place was becoming intolerably hot, the room too overcrowded for dancing. Lids drooped, mouths sagged, heads lay upon shoulders⁠—there was kissing, much kissing at a table in the corner. The air was fetid with drink and all the rest; unbreathable it appeared to Stephen. Dickie yawned an enormous, uncovered yawn; she was still young enough to feel rather sleepy. But Wanda was being seduced by her eyes, the lust of the eye was heavy upon her, so that Pat must shake a lugubrious head and begin to murmur anent General Custer. + 

Brockett got up and paid the bill; he was sulky, it seemed, because Stephen had snubbed him. He had not spoken for quite half an hour, and refused point-blank to accompany them further. “I’m going home to my bed, thanks⁠—good morning,” he said crossly, as they crowded into the motor. + 

They drove to a couple more bars, but at these they remained for only a very few minutes. Dickie said they were dull and Jeanne Maurel agreed⁠—she suggested that they should go on to Alec’s. + 

Valérie lifted an eyebrow and groaned. She was terribly bored, she was terribly hungry. “I do wish I could get some cold chicken,” she murmured. + 

IV + 

As long as she lived Stephen never forgot her first impressions of the bar known as Alec’s⁠—that meeting-place of the most miserable of all those who comprised the miserable army. That merciless, drug-dealing, death-dealing haunt to which flocked the battered remnants of men whom their fellow men had at last stamped under; who, despised of the world, must despise themselves beyond all hope, it seemed, of salvation. There they sat, closely herded together at the tables, creatures shabby yet tawdry, timid yet defiant⁠—and their eyes, Stephen never forgot their eyes, those haunted, tormented eyes of the invert. + 

Of all ages, all degrees of despondency, all grades of mental and physical ill-being, they must yet laugh shrilly from time to time, must yet tap their feet to the rhythm of music, must yet dance together in response to the band⁠—and that dance seemed the Dance of Death to Stephen. On more than one hand was a large, ornate ring, on more than one wrist a conspicuous bracelet; they wore jewelry that might only be worn by these men when they were thus gathered together. At Alec’s they could dare to give way to such tastes⁠—what was left of themselves they became at Alec’s. + 

Bereft of all social dignity, of all social charts contrived for man’s guidance, of the fellowship that by right divine should belong to each breathing, living creature; abhorred, spat upon, from their earliest days the prey to a ceaseless persecution, they were now even lower than their enemies knew, and more hopeless than the veriest dregs of creation. For since all that to many of them had seemed fine, a fine, selfless and at times even noble emotion, had been covered with shame, called unholy and vile, so gradually they themselves had sunk down to the level upon which the world placed their emotions. And looking with abhorrence upon these men, drink-sodden, doped as were only too many, Stephen yet felt that some terrifying thing stalked abroad in that unhappy room at Alec’s; terrifying because if there were a God His anger must rise at such vast injustice. More pitiful even than her lot was theirs, and because of them mighty should be the world’s reckoning. + 

Alec the tempter, the vendor of dreams, the dispenser of illusions whiter than snow; Alec, who sold little packets of cocaine for large bundles of notes, was now opening wine, with a smile and a flourish, at the next-door table. + 

He set down the bottle: “Et voilà, mes filles!” + 

Stephen looked at the men; they seemed quite complacent. + 

Against the wall sat a bald, flabby man whose fingers crept over an amber chaplet. His lips moved; God alone knew to whom he prayed, and God alone knew what prayers he was praying⁠—horrible he was, sitting there all alone with that infamous chaplet between his fingers. + 

The band struck up a onestep. Dickie still danced, but with Pat, for Wanda was now beyond dancing. But Stephen would not dance, not among these men, and she laid a restraining hand upon Mary. Despite her sense of their terrible affliction, she could not dance in this place with Mary. + 

A youth passed with a friend and the couple were blocked by the press of dancers in front of her table. He bent forward, this youth, until his face was almost on a level with Stephen’s⁠—a grey, drug-marred face with a mouth that trembled incessantly. + 

“Ma sœur,” he whispered. + 

For a moment she wanted to strike that face with her naked fist, to obliterate it. Then all of a sudden she perceived the eyes, and the memory came of a hapless creature, distracted, bleeding from bursting lungs, hopelessly pursued, glancing this way, then that, as though looking for something, some refuge, some hope⁠—and the thought: “It’s looking for God who made it.” + 

Stephen shivered and stared at her tightly clenched hands; the nails whitened her flesh. “Mon frère,” she muttered. + 

And now someone was making his way through the crowd, a quiet, tawny man with the eyes of the Hebrew; Adolphe Blanc, the gentle and learned Jew, sat down in Dickie’s seat beside Stephen. And he patted her knee as though she were young, very young and in great need of consolation. + 

“I have seen you for quite a long time, Miss Gordon. I’ve been sitting just over there by the window.” Then he greeted the others, but the greeting over he appeared to forget their very existence; he had come, it seemed, only to talk to Stephen. + 

He said: “This place⁠—these poor men, they have shocked you. I’ve been watching you in between the dances. They are terrible, Miss Gordon, because they are those who have fallen but have not risen again⁠—there is surely no sin so great for them, so unpardonable as the sin of despair; yet as surely you and I can forgive.⁠ ⁠…” + 

She was silent, not knowing what she should answer. + 

But he went on, in no way deterred by her silence. He spoke softly, as though for her ears alone, and yet as a man might speak when consumed by the flame of some urgent and desperate mission. “I am glad that you have come to this place, because those who have courage have also a duty.” + 

She nodded without comprehending his meaning. + 

“Yes, I am glad that you have come here,” he repeated. “In this little room, tonight, every night, there is so much misery, so much despair, that the walls seem almost too narrow to contain it⁠—many have grown callous, many have grown vile, but these things in themselves are despair, Miss Gordon. Yet outside there are happy people who sleep the sleep of the so-called just and righteous. When they wake it will be to persecute those who, through no known fault of their own, have been set apart from the day of their birth, deprived of all sympathy, all understanding. They are thoughtless, these happy people who sleep⁠—and who is there to make them think, Miss Gordon?” + 

“They can read,” she stammered, “there are many books.⁠ ⁠…” + 

But he shook his head. “Do you think they are students? Ah, but no, they will not read medical books; what do such people care for the doctors? And what doctor can know the entire truth? Many times they meet only the neurasthenics, those of us for whom life has proved too bitter. They are good, these doctors⁠—some of them very good; they work hard trying to solve our problem, but half the time they must work in the dark⁠—the whole truth is known only to the normal invert. The doctors cannot make the ignorant think, cannot hope to bring home the sufferings of millions; only one of ourselves can some day do that.⁠ ⁠… It will need great courage but it will be done, because all things must work toward ultimate good; there is no real wastage and no destruction.” He lit a cigarette and stared thoughtfully at her for a moment or two. Then he touched her hand. “Do you comprehend? There is no destruction.” + 

She said: “When one comes to a place like this, one feels horribly sad and humiliated. One feels that the odds are too heavily against any real success, any real achievement. Where so many have failed who can hope to succeed? Perhaps this is the end.” + 

Adolphe Blanc met her eyes. “You are wrong, very wrong⁠—this is only the beginning. Many die, many kill their bodies and souls, but they cannot kill the justice of God, even they cannot kill the eternal spirit. From their very degradation that spirit will rise up to demand of the world compassion and justice.” + 

Strange⁠—this man was actually speaking her thoughts, yet again she fell silent, unable to answer. + 

Dickie and Pat came back to the table, and Adolphe Blanc slipped quietly away; when Stephen glanced round his place was empty, nor could she perceive him crossing the room through the press and maze of those terrible dancers. + 

V + 

Dickie went sound asleep in the car with her head against Pat’s inhospitable shoulder. When they got to her hotel she wriggled and stretched. “Is it⁠ ⁠… is it time to get up?” she murmured. + 

Next came Valérie Seymour and Jeanne Maurel to be dropped at the flat on the Quai Voltaire; then Pat who lived a few streets away, and last but not least the drunken Wanda. Stephen had to lift her out of the car and then get her upstairs as best she could, assisted by Burton and followed by Mary. It took quite a long time, and arrived at the door, Stephen must hunt for a missing latchkey. + 

When they finally got home, Stephen sank into a chair. “Good Lord, what a night⁠—it was pretty awful.” She was filled with the deep depression and disgust that are apt to result from such excursions. + 

But Mary pretended to a callousness that in truth she was very far from feeling, for life had not yet dulled her finer instincts; so far it had only aroused her anger. She yawned. “Well, at least we could dance together without being thought freaks; there was something in that. Beggars can’t be choosers in this world, Stephen!” + 

XLIX + 

I + 

On a fine June day Adèle married her Jean in the church of Notre-Dame-des-Victoires⁠—the shrine of innumerable candles and prayers, of the bountiful Virgin who bestows many graces. From early dawn the quiet old house in the Rue Jacob had been in a flutter⁠—Pauline preparing the déjeuner de noces, Pierre garnishing and sweeping their sitting-room, and both of them pausing from time to time to embrace the flushed cheeks of their happy daughter. + 

Stephen had given the wedding dress, the wedding breakfast and a sum of money; Mary had given the bride her lace veil, her white satin shoes and her white silk stockings; David had given a large gilt clock, purchased for him in the Palais Royal; while Burton’s part was to drive the bride to the church, and the married pair to the station. + 

By nine o’clock the whole street was agog, for Pauline and Pierre were liked by their neighbours; and besides, as the baker remarked to his wife, from so grand a house it would be a fine business. + 

“They are after all generous, these English,” said he; “and if Mademoiselle Gordon is strange in appearance, one should not forget that she served la France and must now wear a scar as well as ribbon.” Then remembering his four sons slain in the war, he sighed⁠—sons are sons to a king or a baker. + 

David, growing excited, rushed up and down stairs with offers to help which nobody wanted, least of all the flustered and anxious bride at the moment of putting on tight satin slippers. + 

“Va donc! Tu ne peux pas m’aider, mon chou, veux tu te taire, alors!” implored Adèle. + 

In the end Mary had had to find collar and lead and tie David up to the desk in the study, where he brooded and sucked his white satin bow, deciding that only the four-legged were grateful. But at long last Adèle was arrayed to be wed, and must show herself shyly to Mary and Stephen. She looked very appealing with her good, honest face; with her round, bright eyes like those of a blackbird. Stephen wished her well from the bottom of her heart, this girl who had waited so long for her mate⁠—had so patiently and so faithfully waited. + 

II + 

In the church were a number of friends and relations; together with those who will journey for miles in order to attend a funeral or wedding. Poor Jean looked his worst in a cheap dress suit, and Stephen could smell the pomade on his hair; very greasy and warm it smelt, although scented. But his hand was unsteady as he groped for the ring, because he was feeling both proud and humble; because, loving much, he must love even more and conceive of himself as entirely unworthy. And something in that fumbling, unsteady hand, in that sleekly greased hair and those ill-fitting garments, touched Stephen, so that she longed to reassure, to tell him how great was the gift he offered⁠—security, peace, and love with honour. + 

The young priest gravely repeated the prayers⁠—ancient, primitive prayers, yet softened through custom. In her mauve silk dress Pauline wept as she knelt; but Pierre’s handkerchief was spread out on the stool to preserve the knees of his new grey trousers. Next to Stephen were sitting Pauline’s two brothers, one in uniform, the other retired and in mufti, but both wearing medals upon their breasts and thus worthily representing the army. The baker was there with his wife and three daughters, and since the latter were still unmarried, their eyes were more often fixed upon Jean in his shoddy dress suit than upon their Missals. The greengrocer accompanied the lady whose chickens it was Pauline’s habit to prod on their breastbones; while the cobbler who mended Pierre’s boots and shoes, sat ogling the buxom and comely young laundress. + 

The Mass drew to its close. The priest asked that a blessing might be accomplished upon the couple; asked that these two might live to behold, not only their own but their children’s children, even unto the third and fourth generation. Then he spoke of their duty to God and to each other, and finally moistened their bowed young heads with a generous sprinkling of holy water. And so in the church of Notre-Dame-des-Victoires⁠—that bountiful Virgin who bestows many graces⁠—Jean and his Adèle were made one flesh in the eyes of their church, in the eyes of their God, and as one might confront the world without flinching. + 

Arm in arm they passed out through the heavy swing doors and into Stephen’s waiting motor. Burton smiled above the white favour in his coat; the crowd, craning their necks, were also smiling. Arrived back at the house, Stephen, Mary, and Burton must drink the health of the bride and bridegroom. Then Pierre thanked his employer for all she had done in giving his daughter so splendid a wedding. But when that employer was no longer present, when Mary had followed her into the study, the baker’s wife lifted quizzical eyebrows. + 

“Quel type! On dirait plutôt un homme; ce n’est pas celle-là qui trouvera un mari!” + 

The guests laughed. “Mais oui, elle est joliment bizarre”; and they started to make little jokes about Stephen. + 

Pierre flushed as he leaped to Stephen’s defence. “She is good, she is kind, and I greatly respect her and so does my wife⁠—while as for our daughter, Adèle here has very much cause to be grateful. Moreover she gained the Croix de Guerre through serving our wounded men in the trenches.” + 

The baker nodded. “You are quite right, my friend⁠—precisely what I myself said this morning.” + 

But Stephen’s appearance was quickly forgotten in the jollification of so much fine feasting⁠—a feasting for which her money had paid, for which her thoughtfulness had provided. Jokes there were, but no longer directed at her⁠—they were harmless, well meant if slightly broad jokes made at the expense of the bashful bridegroom. Then before even Pauline had realized the time, there was Burton strolling into the kitchen, and Adèle must rush off to change her dress, while Jean must change also, but in the pantry. + 

Burton glanced at the clock. “Faut dépêcher vous, ’urry, if you’re going to catch that chemin de fer,” he announced as one having authority. “It’s a goodish way to the Guard de Lions.” + 

III + 

That evening the old house seemed curiously thoughtful and curiously sad after all the merrymaking. David’s second white bow had come untied and was hanging in two limp ends from his collar. Pauline had gone to church to light candles; Pierre, together with Pauline’s niece who would take Adèle’s place, was preparing dinner. And the sadness of the house flowed out like a stream to mingle itself with the sadness in Stephen. Adèle and Jean, the simplicity of it⁠ ⁠… they loved, they married, and after a while they would care for each other all over again, renewing their youth and their love in their children. So orderly, placid and safe it seemed, this social scheme evolved from creation; this guarding of two young and ardent lives for the sake of the lives that might follow after. A fruitful and peaceful road it must be. The same road had been taken by those founders of Morton who had raised up children from father to son, from father to son until the advent of Stephen; and their blood was her blood⁠—what they had found good in their day, seemed equally good to their descendant. Surely never was outlaw more law-abiding at heart, than this, the last of the Gordons. + 

So now a great sadness took hold upon her, because she perceived both dignity and beauty in the coming together of Adèle and Jean, very simply and in accordance with custom. And this sadness mingling with that of the house, widened into a flood that compassed Mary and through her David, and they both went and sat very close to Stephen on the study divan. As the twilight gradually merged into dusk, these three must huddle even closer together⁠—David with his head upon Mary’s lap, Mary with her head against Stephen’s shoulder. + 

L + 

I + 

Stephen ought to have gone to England that summer; at Morton there had been a change of agent, and once again certain questions had arisen which required her careful personal attention. But time had not softened Anna’s attitude to Mary, and time had not lessened Stephen’s exasperation⁠—the more so as Mary no longer hid the bitterness that she felt at this treatment. So Stephen tackled the business by writing a number of long and wearisome letters, unwilling to set foot again in the house where Mary Llewellyn would not be welcome. But as always the thought of England wounded, bringing with it the old familiar longing⁠—homesick she would feel as she sat at her desk writing those wearisome business letters. For even as Jamie must crave for the grey, windswept street and the windswept uplands of Beedles, so Stephen must crave for the curving hills, for the long green hedges and pastures of Morton. Jamie openly wept when such moods were upon her, but the easement of tears was denied to Stephen. + 

In August Jamie and Barbara joined them in a villa that Stephen had taken at Houlgate. Mary hoped that the bathing would do Barbara good; she was not at all well. Jamie worried about her. And indeed the girl had grown very frail, so frail that the housework now tried her sorely; when alone she must sit down and hold her side for the pain that was never mentioned to Jamie. Then too, all was not well between them these days; poverty, even hunger at times, the sense of being unwanted outcasts, the knowledge that the people to whom they belonged⁠—good and honest people⁠—both abhorred and despised them, such things as these had proved very bad housemates for sensitive souls like Barbara and Jamie. + 

Large, helpless, untidy and intensely forlorn, Jamie would struggle to finish her opera; but quite often these days she would tear up her work, knowing that what she had written was unworthy. When this happened she would sigh and peer round the studio, vaguely conscious that something was not as it had been, vaguely distressed by the dirt of the place to which she herself had helped to contribute⁠—Jamie, who had never before noticed dirt, would feel aggrieved by its noxious presence. Getting up she would wipe the keys of the piano with Barbara’s one clean towel dipped in water. + 

“Can’t play,” she would grumble, “these keys are all sticky.” + 

“Oh, Jamie⁠—my towel⁠—go and fetch the duster!” + 

The quarrel that ensued would start Barbara’s cough, which in turn would start Jamie’s nerves vibrating. Then compassion, together with unreasoning anger and a sudden uprush of sex-frustration, would make her feel well-nigh beside herself⁠—since owing to Barbara’s failing health, these two could be lovers now in name only. And this forced abstinence told on Jamie’s work as well as her nerves, destroying her music, for those who maintain that the North is cold, might just as well tell us that hell is freezing. Yet she did her best, the poor uncouth creature, to subjugate the love of the flesh to the pure and more selfless love of the spirit⁠—the flesh did not have it all its own way with Jamie. + 

That summer she made a great effort to talk, to unburden herself when alone with Stephen; and Stephen tried hard to console and advise, while knowing that she could help very little. All her offers of money to ease the strain were refused point-blank, sometimes almost with rudeness⁠—she felt very anxious indeed about Jamie. + 

Mary in her turn was deeply concerned; her affection for Barbara had never wavered, and she sat for long hours in the garden with the girl who seemed too weak to bathe, and whom walking exhausted. + 

“Let us help,” she pleaded, stroking Barbara’s thin hand, “after all, we’re much better off than you are. Aren’t you two like ourselves? Then why mayn’t we help?” + 

Barbara slowly shook her head: “I’m all right⁠—please don’t talk about money to Jamie.” + 

But Mary could see that she was far from all right; the warm weather was proving of little avail, even care and good food and sunshine and rest seemed unable to ease that incessant coughing. + 

“You ought to see a specialist at once,” she told Barbara rather sharply one morning. + 

But Barbara shook her head yet again: “Don’t, Mary⁠—don’t, please⁠ ⁠… you’ll be frightening Jamie.” + 

II + 

After their return to Paris in the autumn, Jamie sometimes joined the nocturnal parties; going rather grimly from bar to bar, and drinking too much of the crème-de-menthe that reminded her of the bull’s eyes at Beedles. She had never cared for these parties before, but now she was clumsily trying to escape, for a few hours at least, from the pain of existence. Barbara usually stayed at home or spent the evening with Stephen and Mary. But Stephen and Mary would not always be there, for now they also went out fairly often; and where was there to go to except the bars? Nowhere else could two women dance together without causing comment and ridicule, without being looked upon as freaks, argued Mary. So rather than let the girl go without her, Stephen would lay aside her work⁠—she had recently started to write her fourth novel. + 

Sometimes, it is true, their friends came to them, a less sordid and far less exhausting business; but even at their own house the drink was too free: “We can’t be the only couple to refuse to give people a brandy and soda,” said Mary, “Valérie’s parties are awfully dull; that’s because she’s allowed herself to grow cranky!” + 

And thus, very gradually just at first, Mary’s finer perceptions began to coarsen. + 

III + 

The months passed, and now more than a year had slipped by, yet Stephen’s novel remained unfinished; for Mary’s face stood between her and her work⁠—surely the mouth and the eyes had hardened? + 

Still unwilling to let Mary go without her, she dragged wearily round to the bars and cafés, observing with growing anxiety that Mary now drank as did all the others⁠—not too much perhaps, but quite enough to give her a cheerful outlook on existence. + 

The next morning she was often deeply depressed, in the grip of a rather tearful reaction: “It’s too beastly⁠—why do we do it?” she would ask. + 

And Stephen would answer: “God knows I don’t want to, but I won’t let you go to such places without me. Can’t we give it all up? It’s appallingly sordid!” + 

Then Mary would flare out with sudden anger, her mood changing as she felt a slight tug on the bridle. Were they to have no friends? she would ask. Were they to sit still and let the world crush them? If they were reduced to the bars of Paris, whose fault was that? Not hers and not Stephen’s. Oh, no, it was the fault of the Lady Annas and the Lady Masseys who had closed their doors, so afraid were they of contamination! + 

Stephen would sit with her head on her hand, searching her sorely troubled mind for some ray of light, some adequate answer. + 

IV + 

That winter Barbara fell very ill. Jamie rushed round to the house one morning, hatless, and with deeply tormented eyes: “Mary, please come⁠—Barbara can’t get up, it’s a pain in her side. Oh, my God⁠—we quarrelled⁠ ⁠…” Her voice was shrill and she spoke very fast: “Listen⁠—last night⁠—there was snow on the ground, it was cold⁠—I was angry⁠ ⁠… I can’t remember⁠ ⁠… but I know I was angry⁠—I get like that. She went out⁠—she stayed out for quite two hours, and when she came back she was shivering so. Oh, my God, but why did we quarrel, whatever? She can’t move; it’s an awful pain in her side⁠ ⁠…” + 

Stephen said quietly: “We’ll come almost at once, but first I’m going to ring up my own doctor.” + 

V + 

Barbara was lying in the tiny room with the eye-shaped window that would not open. The stove had gone out in the studio, and the air was heavy with cold and dampness. On the piano lay some remnants of manuscript music torn up on the previous evening by Jamie. + 

Barbara opened her eyes: “Is that you, my bairn?” + 

They had never heard Barbara call her that before⁠—the great, lumbering, big-boned, long-legged Jamie. + 

“Yes, it’s me.” + 

“Come here close⁠ ⁠…” The voice drifted away. + 

“I’m here⁠—oh, I’m here! I’ve got hold of your hand. Look at me, open your eyes again⁠—Barbara, listen, I’m here⁠—don’t you feel me?” + 

Stephen tried to restrain the shrill, agonized voice: “Don’t speak so loud, Jamie, perhaps she’s sleeping;” but she knew very well that this was not so; the girl was not sleeping now, but unconscious. + 

Mary found some fuel and lighted the stove, then she started to tidy the disordered studio. Flakes of flue lay here and there on the floor; thick dust was filming the top of the piano. Barbara had been waging a losing fight⁠—strange that so mean a thing as this dust should, in the end, have been able to conquer. Food there was none, and putting on her coat Mary finally went forth in quest of milk and other things likely to come in useful. At the foot of the stairs she was met by the concierge; the woman looked glum, as though deeply aggrieved by this sudden and very unreasonable illness. Mary thrust some money into her hand, then hurried away intent on her shopping. + 

When she returned the doctor was there; he was talking very gravely to Stephen: “It’s double pneumonia, a pretty bad case⁠—the girl’s heart’s so weak. I’ll send in a nurse. What about the friend, will she be any good?” + 

“I’ll help with the nursing if she isn’t,” said Mary. + 

Stephen said: “You do understand about the bills⁠—the nurse and all that?” + 

The doctor nodded. + 

They forced Jamie to eat: “For Barbara’s sake⁠ ⁠… Jamie, we’re with you, you’re not alone, Jamie.” + 

She peered with her red-rimmed, shortsighted eyes, only half understanding, but she did as they told her. Then she got up without so much as a word, and went back to the room with the eye-shaped window. Still in silence she squatted on the floor by the bed, like a dumb, faithful dog who endured without speaking. And they let her alone, let her have her poor way, for this was not their Calvary but Jamie’s. + 

The nurse arrived, a calm, practical woman: “You’d better lie down for a bit,” she told Jamie, and in silence Jamie lay down on the floor. + 

“No, my dear⁠—please go and lie down in the studio.” + 

She got up slowly to obey this new voice, lying down, with her face to the wall, on the divan. + 

The nurse turned to Stephen: “Is she a relation?” + 

Stephen hesitated, then she shook her head. + 

“That’s a pity, in a serious case like this I’d like to be in touch with some relation, someone who has a right to decide things. You know what I mean⁠—it’s double pneumonia.” + 

Stephen said dully: “No⁠—she’s not a relation.” + 

“Just a friend?” the nurse queried. + 

“Just a friend,” muttered Stephen. + 

VI + 

They went back that evening and stayed the night. Mary helped with the nursing; Stephen looked after Jamie. + 

“Is she a little⁠—I mean the friend⁠—is she mental at all, do you know?” The nurse whispered, “I can’t get her to speak⁠—she’s anxious, of course; still, all the same, it doesn’t seem natural.” + 

Stephen said: “No⁠—it doesn’t seem natural to you.” And she suddenly flushed to the roots of her hair. Dear God, the outrage of this for Jamie! + 

But Jamie seemed quite unconscious of outrage. From time to time she stood in the doorway peering over at Barbara’s wasted face, listening to Barbara’s painful breathing, and then she would turn her bewildered eyes on the nurse, on Mary, but above all on Stephen. + 

“Jamie⁠—come back and sit down by the stove; Mary’s there, it’s all right.” + 

Came a queer, halting voice that spoke with an effort: “But⁠ ⁠… Stephen⁠ ⁠… we quarrelled.” + 

“Come and sit by the stove⁠—Mary’s with her, my dear.” + 

“Hush, please,” said the nurse, “you’re disturbing my patient.” + 

VII + 

Barbara’s fight against death was so brief that it hardly seemed in the nature of a struggle. Life had left her no strength to repel this last foe⁠—or perhaps it was that to her he seemed friendly. Just before her death she kissed Jamie’s hand and tried to speak, but the words would not come⁠—those words of forgiveness and love for Jamie. + 

Then Jamie flung herself down by the bed, and she clung there, still in that uncanny silence. Stephen never knew how they got her away while the nurse performed the last merciful duties. + 

But when flowers had been placed in Barbara’s hands, and Mary had lighted a couple of candles, then Jamie went back and stared quietly down at the small, waxen face that lay on the pillow; and she turned to the nurse: + 

“Thank you so much,” she said, “I think you’ve done all that there is to do⁠—and now I suppose you’ll want to be going?” + 

The nurse glanced at Stephen. + 

“It’s all right, we’ll stay. I think perhaps⁠—if you don’t mind, nurse⁠ ⁠…” + 

“Very well, it must be as you wish, Miss Gordon.” + 

When she had gone Jamie veered round abruptly and walked back into the empty studio. Then all in a moment the floodgates gave way and she wept and she wept like a creature demented. Bewailing the life of hardship and exile that had sapped Barbara’s strength and weakened her spirit; bewailing the cruel dispensation of fate that had forced them to leave their home in the Highlands; bewailing the terrible thing that is death to those who, still loving, must look upon it. Yet all the exquisite pain of this parting seemed as nothing to an anguish that was far more subtle: “I can’t mourn her without bringing shame on her name⁠—I can’t go back home now and mourn her,” wailed Jamie; “oh, and I want to go back to Beedles, I want to be home among our own people⁠—I want them to know how much I loved her. Oh God, oh God! I can’t even mourn her, and I want to grieve for her home there in Beedles.” + 

What could they speak but inadequate words: “Jamie, don’t, don’t! You loved each other⁠—isn’t that something? Remember that, Jamie.” They could only speak the inadequate words that are given to people on such occasions. + 

But after a while the storm seemed to pass, Jamie seemed to grow suddenly calm and collected: “You two,” she said gravely, “I want to thank you for all you’ve been to Barbara and me.” + 

Mary started crying. + 

“Don’t cry,” said Jamie. + 

The evening came. Stephen lighted the lamp, then she made up the stove while Mary laid the supper. Jamie ate a little, and she actually smiled when Stephen poured her out a weak whiskey. + 

“Drink it, Jamie⁠—it may help you to get some sleep.” + 

Jamie shook her head: “I shall sleep without it⁠—but I want to be left alone tonight, Stephen.” + 

Mary protested but Jamie was firm: “I want to be left alone with her, please⁠—you do understand that, Stephen, don’t you?” + 

Stephen hesitated, then she saw Jamie’s face; it was full of a new and calm resolution: “It’s my right,” she was saying, “I’ve a right to be alone with the woman I love before they⁠—take her.” + 

Jamie held the lamp to light them downstairs⁠—her hand, Stephen thought, seemed amazingly steady. + 

VIII + 

The next morning when they went to the studio quite early, they heard voices coming from the topmost landing. The concierge was standing outside Jamie’s door, and with her was a young man, one of the tenants. The concierge had tried the door; it was locked and no one made any response to her knocking. She had brought Jamie up a cup of hot coffee⁠—Stephen saw it, the coffee had slopped into the saucer. Either pity or the memory of Mary’s large tips, had apparently touched the heart of this woman. + 

Stephen hammered loudly: “Jamie!” she called, and then again and again: “Jamie! Jamie!” + 

The young man set his shoulder to a panel, and all the while he pushed he was talking. He lived just underneath, but last night he was out, not returning until nearly six that morning. He had heard that one of the girls had died⁠—the little one⁠—she had always looked fragile. + 

Stephen added her strength to his; the woodwork was damp and rotten with age, the lock suddenly gave and the door swung inwards. + 

Then Stephen saw: “Don’t come here⁠—go back, Mary!” + 

But Mary followed them into the studio. + 

So neat, so amazingly neat it was for Jamie, she who had always been so untidy, she who had always littered up the place with her large, awkward person and shabby possessions, she who had always been Barbara’s despair⁠ ⁠… Just a drop or two of blood on the floor, just a neat little hole low down in her left side. She must have fired upwards with great foresight and skill⁠—and they had not even known that she owned a revolver! + 

And so Jamie who dared not go home to Beedles for fear of shaming the woman she loved, Jamie who dared not openly mourn lest Barbara’s name be defiled through her mourning, Jamie had dared to go home to God⁠—to trust herself to His more perfect mercy, even as Barbara had gone home before her. + 

LI + 

I + 

The tragic deaths of Barbara and Jamie cast a gloom over everyone who had known them, but especially over Mary and Stephen. Again and again Stephen blamed herself for having left Jamie on that fatal evening; if she had only insisted upon staying, the tragedy might never have happened, she might somehow have been able to impart to the girl the courage and strength to go on living. But great as the shock undoubtedly was to Stephen, to Mary it was even greater, for together with her very natural grief, was a new and quite unexpected emotion, the emotion of fear. She was suddenly afraid, and now this fear looked out of her eyes and crept into her voice when she spoke of Jamie. + 

“To end in that way, to have killed herself; Stephen, it’s so awful that such things can happen⁠—they were like you and me.” And then she would go over every sorrowful detail of Barbara’s last illness, every detail of their finding of Jamie’s body. + 

“Did it hurt, do you think, when she shot herself? When you shot that wounded horse at the front, he twitched such a lot, I shall never forget it⁠—and Jamie was all alone that night, there was no one there to help in her pain. It’s all so ghastly; supposing it hurt her!” + 

Useless for Stephen to quote the doctor who had said that death had been instantaneous; Mary was obsessed by the horror of the thing, and not only its physical horror either, but by the mental and spiritual suffering that must have strengthened the will to destruction. + 

“Such despair,” she would say, “such utter despair⁠ ⁠… and that was the end of all their loving. I can’t bear it!” And then she would hide her face against Stephen’s strong and protective shoulder. + 

Oh, yes, there was now little room for doubt, the whole business was preying badly on Mary. + 

Sometimes strange, amorous moods would seize her, in which she must kiss Stephen rather wildly: “Don’t let go of me, darling⁠—never let go. I’m afraid; I think it’s because of what’s happened.” + 

Her kisses would awaken a swift response, and so in these days that were shadowed by death, they clung very desperately to life with the passion they had felt when first they were lovers, as though only by constantly feeding that flame could they hope to ward off some unseen disaster. + 

II + 

At this time of shock, anxiety and strain, Stephen turned to Valérie Seymour as many another had done before her. This woman’s great calm in the midst of storm was not only soothing but helpful to Stephen, so that now she often went to the flat on the Quai Voltaire; often went there alone, since Mary would seldom accompany her⁠—for some reason she resented Valérie Seymour. But in spite of this resentment Stephen must go, for now an insistent urge was upon her, the urge to unburden her weary mind of the many problems surrounding inversion. Like most inverts she found a passing relief in discussing the intolerable situation; in dissecting it ruthlessly bit by bit, even though she arrived at no solution; but since Jamie’s death it did not seem wise to dwell too much on this subject with Mary. On the other hand, Valérie was now quite free, having suddenly tired of Jeanne Maurel, and moreover she was always ready to listen. Thus it was that between them a real friendship sprang up⁠—a friendship founded on mutual respect, if not always on mutual understanding. + 

Stephen would again and again go over those last heartrending days with Barbara and Jamie, railing against the outrageous injustice that had led to their tragic and miserable ending. She would clench her hands in a kind of fury. How long was this persecution to continue? How long would God sit still and endure this insult offered to His creation? How long tolerate the preposterous statement that inversion was not a part of nature? For since it existed what else could it be? All things that existed were a part of nature! + 

But with equal bitterness she would speak of the wasted lives of such creatures as Wanda, who beaten down into the depths of the world, gave the world the very excuse it was seeking for pointing at them an accusing finger. Pretty bad examples they were, many of them, and yet⁠—but for an unforeseen accident of birth, Wanda might even now have been a great painter. + 

And then she would discuss very different people whom she had been led to believe existed; hardworking, honourable men and women, but a few of them possessed of fine brains, yet lacking the courage to admit their inversion. Honourable, it seemed, in all things save this that the world had forced on them⁠—this dishonourable lie whereby alone they could hope to find peace, could hope to stake out a claim on existence. And always these people must carry that lie like a poisonous asp pressed against their bosoms; must unworthily hide and deny their love, which might well be the finest thing about them. + 

And what of the women who had worked in the war⁠—those quiet, gaunt women she had seen about London? England had called them and they had come; for once, unabashed, they had faced the daylight. And now because they were not prepared to slink back and hide in their holes and corners, the very public whom they had served was the first to turn round and spit upon them; to cry: “Away with this canker in our midst, this nest of unrighteousness and corruption!” That was the gratitude they had received for the work they had done out of love for England! + 

And what of that curious craving for religion which so often went hand in hand with inversion? Many such people were deeply religious, and this surely was one of their bitterest problems. They believed, and believing they craved a blessing on what to some of them seemed very sacred⁠—a faithful and deeply devoted union. But the church’s blessing was not for them. Faithful they might be, leading orderly lives, harming no one, and yet the church turned away; her blessings were strictly reserved for the normal. + 

Then Stephen would come to the thing of all others that to her was the most agonizing question. Youth, what of youth? Where could it turn for its natural and harmless recreations? There was Dickie West and many more like her, vigorous, courageous and kindhearted youngsters; yet shut away from so many of the pleasures that belonged by right to every young creature⁠—and more pitiful still was the lot of a girl who, herself being normal, gave her love to an invert. The young had a right to their innocent pleasures, a right to social companionship; had a right, indeed, to resent isolation. But here, as in all the great cities of the world, they were isolated until they went under; until, in their ignorance and resentment, they turned to the only communal life that a world bent upon their destruction had left them; turned to the worst elements of their kind, to those who haunted the bars of Paris. Their lovers were helpless, for what could they do? Empty-handed they were, having nothing to offer. And even the tolerant normal were helpless⁠—those who went to Valérie’s parties, for instance. If they had sons and daughters, they left them at home; and considering all things, who could blame them? While as for themselves, they were far too old⁠—only tolerant, no doubt because they were ageing. They could not provide the frivolities for which youth had a perfectly natural craving. + 

In spite of herself, Stephen’s voice would tremble, and Valérie would know that she was thinking of Mary. + 

Valérie would genuinely want to be helpful, but would find very little to say that was consoling. It was hard on the young, she had thought so herself, but some came through all right, though a few might go under. Nature was trying to do her bit; inverts were being born in increasing numbers, and after a while their numbers would tell, even with the fools who still ignored Nature. They must just bide their time⁠—recognition was coming. But meanwhile they should all cultivate more pride, should learn to be proud of their isolation. She found little excuse for poor fools like Pat, and even less for drunkards like Wanda. + 

As for those who were ashamed to declare themselves, lying low for the sake of a peaceful existence, she utterly despised such of them as had brains; they were traitors to themselves and their fellows, she insisted. For the sooner the world came to realize that fine brains very frequently went with inversion, the sooner it would have to withdraw its ban, and the sooner would cease this persecution. Persecution was always a hideous thing, breeding hideous thoughts⁠—and such thoughts were dangerous. + 

As for the women who had worked in the war, they had set an example to the next generation, and that in itself should be a reward. She had heard that in England many such women had taken to breeding dogs in the country. Well, why not? Dogs were very nice people to breed. “Plus je connais les hommes, plus j’aime les chiens.” There were worse things than breeding dogs in the country. + 

It was quite true that inverts were often religious, but churchgoing in them was a form of weakness; they must be a religion unto themselves if they felt that they really needed religion. As for blessings, they profited the churches no doubt, apart from which they were just superstition. But then of course she herself was a pagan, acknowledging only the god of beauty; and since the whole world was so ugly these days, she was only too thankful to let it ignore her. Perhaps that was lazy⁠—she was rather lazy. She had never achieved all she might have with her writing. But humanity was divided into two separate classes, those who did things and those who looked on at their doings. Stephen was one of the kind that did things⁠—under different conditions of environment and birth she might very well have become a reformer. + 

They would argue for hours, these two curious friends whose points of view were so widely divergent, and although they seldom if ever agreed, they managed to remain both courteous and friendly. + 

Valérie seemed well-nigh inhuman at times, completely detached from all personal interest. But one day she remarked to Stephen abruptly: “I really know very little about you, but this I do know⁠—you’re a bird of passage, you don’t belong to the life here in Paris.” Then as Stephen was silent, she went on more gravely: “You’re rather a terrible combination: you’ve the nerves of the abnormal with all that they stand for⁠—you’re appallingly oversensitive, Stephen⁠—well, and then we get le revers de la médaille; you’ve all the respectable county instincts of the man who cultivates children and acres⁠—any gaps in your fences would always disturb you; one side of your mind is so aggressive tidy. I can’t see your future, but I feel you’ll succeed; though I must say, of all the improbable people⁠ ⁠… But supposing you could bring the two sides of your nature into some sort of friendly amalgamation and compel them to serve you and through you your work⁠—well then I really don’t see what’s to stop you. The question is, can you ever bring them together?” She smiled. “If you climb to the highest peak, Valérie Seymour won’t be there to see you. It’s a charming friendship that we two have found, but it’s passing, like so many charming things; however, my dear, let’s enjoy it while it lasts, and⁠ ⁠… remember me when you come into your kingdom.” + 

Stephen said: “When we first met I almost disliked you. I thought your interest was purely scientific or purely morbid. I said so to Puddle⁠—you remember Puddle, I think you once met her. I want to apologize to you now; to tell you how grateful I am for your kindness. You’re so patient when I come here and talk for hours, and it’s such a relief; you’ll never know the relief it is to have someone to talk to.” She hesitated. “You see it’s not fair to make Mary listen to all my worries⁠—she’s still pretty young, and the road’s damned hard⁠ ⁠… then there’s been that horrible business of Jamie.” + 

“Come as often as you feel like it,” Valérie told her; “and if ever you should want my help or advice, here I am. But do try to remember this: even the world’s not so black as it’s painted.” + 

LII + 

I + 

One morning a very young cherry-tree that Mary herself had planted in the garden was doing the most delightful things⁠—it was pushing out leaves and tight pink buds along the whole length of its childish branches. Stephen made a note of it in her diary: “Today Mary’s cherry-tree started to blossom.” This is why she never forgot the date on which she received Martin Hallam’s letter. + 

The letter had been redirected from Morton; she recognized Puddle’s scholastic handwriting. And the other writing⁠—large, rather untidy, but with strong black downstrokes and firmly crossed T’s⁠—she stared at it thoughtfully, puckering her brows. Surely that writing, too, was familiar? Then she noticed a Paris postmark in the corner⁠—that was strange. She tore open the envelope. + 

Martin wrote very simply: “Stephen, my dear. After all these years I am sending you a letter, just in case you have not completely forgotten the existence of a man called Martin Hallam. + 

“I’ve been in Paris for the past two months. I had to come across to have my eye seen to; I stopped a bullet with my head here in France⁠—it affected the optic nerve rather badly. But the point is: if I fly over to England as I’m thinking of doing, may I come and see you? I’m a very poor hand at expressing myself⁠—can’t do it at all when I put pen to paper⁠—in addition to which I’m feeling nervous because you’ve become such a wonderful writer. But I do want to try and make you understand how desperately I’ve regretted our friendship⁠—that perfect early friendship of ours seems to me now a thing well worth regretting. Believe me or not, I’ve thought of it for years; and the fault was all mine for not understanding. I was just an ignorant cub in those days. Well, anyhow, please will you see me, Stephen? I’m a lonely sort of fellow, so if you’re kindhearted you’ll invite me to motor down to Morton, supposing you’re there; and then if you like me, we’ll take up our friendship just where it left off. We’ll pretend that we’re very young again, walking over the hills and jawing about life. Lord, what splendid companions we were in those early days⁠—like a couple of brothers! + 

“Do you think it’s queer that I’m writing all this? It does seem queer, yet I’d have written it before if I’d ever come over to stay in England; but except when I rushed across to join up, I’ve pretty well stuck to British Columbia. I don’t even know exactly where you are, for I’ve not met a soul who knows you for ages. I heard of your father’s death of course, and was terribly sorry⁠—beyond that I’ve heard nothing; still, I fancy I’m quite safe in sending this to Morton. + 

“I’m staying with my aunt, the Comtesse de Mirac; she’s English, twice married and once more a widow. She’s been a perfect angel to me. I’ve been staying with her ever since I came to Paris. Well, my dear, if you’ve forgiven my mistake⁠—and please say you have, we were both very young⁠—then write to me at Aunt Sarah’s address, and if you write don’t forget to put ‘Passy.’ The posts are so erratic in France, and I’d hate to think that they’d lost your letter. Your very sincere friend, Martin Hallam.” + 

Stephen glanced through the window. Mary was in the garden still admiring her brave little cherry-tree; in a minute or two she would feed the pigeons⁠—yes, she was starting to cross the lawn to the shed in which she kept pigeon-mixture⁠—but presently she would be coming in. Stephen sat down and began to think quickly. + 

Martin Hallam⁠—he must be about thirty-nine. He had fought in the war and been badly wounded⁠—she had thought of him during that terrible advance, the smitten trees had been a reminder.⁠ ⁠… He must often have been very near her then; he was very near now, just out at Passy, and he wanted to see her; he offered his friendship. + 

She closed her eyes the better to consider, but now her mind must conjure up pictures. A very young man at the Antrims’ dance⁠—oh, but very young⁠—with a bony face that glowed when he talked of the beauty of trees, of their goodness⁠ ⁠… a tall, loose-limbed young man who slouched when he walked, as though from much riding. The hills⁠ ⁠… winter hills rust-coloured by bracken⁠ ⁠… Martin touching the ancient thorns with kind fingers. “Look, Stephen⁠—the courage of these old fellows!” How clearly she remembered his actual words after all these years, and her own she remembered: “You’re the only real friend I’ve ever had except Father⁠—our friendship’s so wonderful somehow.⁠ ⁠…” And his answer: “I know, a wonderful friendship.” A great sense of companionship, of comfort⁠—it had been so good to have him beside her; she had liked his quiet and careful voice, and his thoughtful blue eyes that moved rather slowly. He had filled a real need that had always been hers and still was, a need for the friendship of men⁠—how very completely Martin had filled it, until.⁠ ⁠… But she resolutely closed her mind, refusing to visualize that last picture. He knew now that it had been a ghastly mistake⁠—he understood⁠—he practically said so. Could they take up their friendship where they had left it? If only they could⁠ ⁠… + 

She got up abruptly and went to the telephone on her desk. Glancing at his letter, she rang up a number. + 

“Hallo⁠—yes?” + 

She recognized his voice at once. + 

“Is that you, Martin? It’s Stephen speaking.” + 

“Stephen⁠ ⁠… oh, I’m so glad! But where on earth are you?” + 

“At my house in Paris⁠—35, Rue Jacob.” + 

“But I don’t understand, I thought⁠ ⁠…” + 

“Yes, I know, but I’ve lived here for ages⁠—since before the war. I’ve just got your letter, sent back from England. Funny, isn’t it? Why not come to dinner tonight if you’re free⁠—eight o’clock.” + 

“I say! May I really?” + 

“Of course⁠ ⁠… come and dine with my friend and me.” + 

“What number?” + 

“Thirty-five⁠—35, Rue Jacob.” + 

“I’ll be there on the actual stroke of eight!” + 

“That’s right⁠—goodbye, Martin.” + 

“Goodbye, and thanks, Stephen.” + 

She hung up the receiver and opened the window. + 

Mary saw her and called: “Stephen, please speak to David. He’s just bitten off and swallowed a crocus! Oh, and do come here: the scyllas are out, I never saw anything like their blueness. I think I shall go and fetch my birds, it’s quite warm in the sun over there by the wall. David, stop it; will you get off that border!” + 

David wagged a bald but ingratiating tail. Then he thrust out his nose and sniffed at the pigeons. Oh, hang it all, why should the coming of spring be just one colossal smell of temptation! And why was there nothing really exciting that a spaniel might do and yet remain lawful? Sighing, he turned amber eyes of entreaty first on Stephen, and then on his goddess, Mary. + 

She forgave him the crocus and patted his head. “Darling, you get more than a pound of raw meat for your dinner; you mustn’t be so untruthful. Of course you’re not hungry⁠—it was just pure mischief.” + 

He barked, trying desperately hard to explain. “It’s the spring; it’s got into my blood, oh, Goddess! Oh, Gentle Purveyor of all Good Things, let me dig till I’ve rooted up every damned crocus; just this once let me sin for the joy of life, for the ancient and exquisite joy of sinning!” + 

But Mary shook her head. “You must be a nice dog; and nice dogs never look at white fantail pigeons, or walk on the borders, or bite off the flowers⁠—do they, Stephen?” + 

Stephen smiled. “I’m afraid they don’t, David.” Then she said: “Mary, listen⁠—about this evening. I’ve just heard from a very old friend of mine, a man called Hallam that I knew in England. He’s in Paris; it’s too queer. He wrote to Morton and his letter has been sent back by Puddle. I’ve rung him up, and he’s coming to dinner. Better tell Pauline at once, will you, darling?” + 

But Mary must naturally ask a few questions. What was he like? Where had Stephen known him?⁠—she had never mentioned a man called Hallam⁠—where had she known him, in London or at Morton? + 

And finally: “How old were you when you knew him?” + 

“Let me think⁠—I must have been just eighteen.” + 

“How old was he?” + 

“Twenty-two⁠—very young⁠—I only knew him for quite a short time; after that he went back to British Columbia. But I liked him so much⁠—we were very great friends⁠—so I’m hoping that you’re going to like him too, darling.” + 

“Stephen, you are strange. Why haven’t you told me that you once had a very great friend⁠—a man? I’ve always thought that you didn’t like men.” + 

“On the contrary, I like them very much. But I haven’t seen Martin for years and years. I’ve hardly ever thought about him until I got his letter this morning. Now, sweetheart, we don’t want the poor man to starve⁠—you really must go off and try to find Pauline.” + 

When she had gone Stephen rubbed her chin with thoughtful and rather uncertain fingers. + 

II + 

He came. Amazing how little he had changed. He was just the same clean-shaven, bony-faced Martin, with the slow blue eyes and the charming expression, and the loose-limbed figure that slouched from much riding; only now there were a few faint lines round his eyes, and the hair had gone snow-white on his temples. Just beside the right temple was a deep little scar⁠—it must have been a near thing, that bullet. + 

He said: “My dear, it is good to see you.” And he held Stephen’s hand in his own thin brown ones. + 

She felt the warm, friendly grip of his fingers, and the years dropped away. “I’m so glad you wrote, Martin.” + 

“So am I. I can’t tell you how glad I am. And all the time we were both in Paris, and we never knew. Well, now that I’ve found you, we’ll cling like grim death, if you don’t mind, Stephen.” + 

As Mary came into the room they were laughing. + 

She looked less tired, Stephen thought with satisfaction, or perhaps it was that her dress became her⁠—she was always at her best in the evening. + 

Stephen said quite simply: “This is Martin, Mary.” + 

They shook hands, and as they did so they smiled. Then they stared at each other for a moment, almost gravely. + 

He proved to be wonderfully easy to talk to. He did not seem surprised that Mary Llewellyn was installed as the mistress of Stephen’s home; he just accepted the thing as he found it. Yet he let it be tacitly understood that he had grasped the exact situation. + 

After dinner Stephen inquired about his sight: was it badly injured? His eyes looked so normal. Then he told them the history of the trouble at full length, going into details with the confidence displayed by most children and lonely people. + 

He had got his knockout in 1918. The bullet had grazed the optic nerve. At first he had gone to a base hospital, but as soon as he could he had come to Paris to be treated by a very celebrated man. He had been in danger of losing the sight of the right eye; it had scared him to death, he told them. But after three months he had had to go home; things had gone wrong on some of his farms owing to the mismanagement of a bailiff. The oculist had warned him that the trouble might recur, that he ought to have remained under observation. Well, it had recurred about four months ago. He had got the wind up and rushed back to Paris. For three weeks he had lain in a darkened room, not daring to think of the possible verdict. Eyes were so tiresomely sympathetic: if the one went the other might easily follow. But, thank God, it had proved to be less serious than the oculist had feared. His sight was saved, but he had to go slow, and was still under treatment. The eye would have to be watched for some time; so here he was with Aunt Sarah at Passy. + 

“You must see my Aunt Sarah, you two; she’s a darling. She’s my father’s sister. I know you’ll like her. She’s become very French since her second marriage, a little too Faubourg St. Germain perhaps, but so kind⁠—I want you to meet her at once. She’s quite a well-known hostess at Passy.” + 

They talked on until well after twelve o’clock⁠—very happy they were together that evening, and he left with a promise to ring them up on the following morning about lunch with Aunt Sarah. + 

“Well,” said Stephen, “what do you think of my friend?” + 

“I think he’s most awfully nice,” said Mary. + 

III + 

Aunt Sarah lived in the palatial house that a grateful second husband had left her. For years she had borne with his peccadilloes, keeping her temper and making no scandal. The result was that everything he possessed apart from what had gone to her stepson⁠—and the Comte de Mirac had been very wealthy⁠—had found its way to the patient Aunt Sarah. She was one of those survivals who look upon men as a race of especially privileged beings. Her judgment of women was more severe, influenced no doubt by the ancien régime, for now she was even more French than the French whose language she spoke like a born Parisian. + 

She was sixty-five, tall, had an aquiline nose, and her iron-grey hair was dressed to perfection; for the rest she had Martin’s slow blue eyes and thin face, though she lacked his charming expression. She bred Japanese spaniels, was kind to young girls who conformed in all things to the will of their parents, was particularly gracious to good-looking men, and adored her only surviving nephew. In her opinion he could do no wrong, though she wished that he would settle down in Paris. As Stephen and Mary were her nephew’s friends, she was predisposed to consider them charming, the more so as the former’s antecedents left little or nothing to be desired, and her parents had shown great kindness to Martin. He had told his aunt just what he wished her to know and not one word more about the old days at Morton. She was therefore quite unprepared for Stephen. + 

Aunt Sarah was a very courteous old dame, and those who broke bread at her table were sacred, at all events while they remained her guests. But Stephen was miserably telepathic, and before the déjeuner was halfway through, she was conscious of the deep antagonism that she had aroused in Martin’s Aunt Sarah. Not by so much as a word or a look did the Comtesse de Mirac betray her feelings; she was gravely polite, she discussed literature as being a supposedly congenial subject, she praised Stephen’s books, and asked no questions as to why she was living apart from her mother. Martin could have sworn that these two would be friends⁠—but good manners could not any more deceive Stephen. + 

And true it was that the Comtesse de Mirac saw in Stephen the type that she most mistrusted, saw only an unsexed creature of pose, whose cropped head and whose dress were pure affectation; a creature who aping the prerogatives of men, had lost all the charm and the grace of a woman. An intelligent person in nearly all else, the Comtesse would never have admitted of inversion as a fact in nature. She had heard things whispered, it is true, but had scarcely grasped their full meaning. She was innocent and stubborn; and this being so, it was not Stephen’s morals that she suspected, but her obvious desire to ape what she was not⁠—in the Comtesse’s set, as at county dinners, there was firm insistence upon sex-distinction. + 

On the other hand, she took a great fancy to Mary, whom she quickly discovered to be an orphan. In a very short time she had learnt quite a lot about Mary’s life before the war and about her meeting with Stephen in the Unit; had learnt also that she was quite penniless⁠—since Mary was eager that everyone should know that she owed her prosperity entirely to Stephen. + 

Aunt Sarah secretly pitied the girl who must surely be living a dull existence, bound, no doubt, by a false sense of gratitude to this freakish and masterful-looking woman⁠—pretty girls should find husbands and homes of their own, and this one she considered excessively pretty. Thus it was that while Mary in all loyalty and love was doing her best to extol Stephen’s virtues, to convey an impression of her own happiness, of the privilege it was to serve so great a writer by caring for her house and her personal needs, she was only succeeding in getting herself pitied. But as good luck would have it, she was blissfully unconscious of the sympathy that her words were arousing; indeed she was finding it very pleasant at Aunt Sarah’s hospitable house in Passy. + 

As for Martin, he had never been very subtle, and just now he must rejoice in a long-lost friendship⁠—to him it appeared a delightful luncheon. Even after the guests had said goodbye, he remained in the very highest of spirits, for the Comtesse was capable of unexpected tact, and while praising Mary’s prettiness and charm, she was careful in no way to disparage Stephen. + 

“Oh, yes, undoubtedly a brilliant writer, I agree with you, Martin.” And so she did. But books were one thing and their scribes another; she saw no reason to change her opinion with regard to this author’s unpleasant affectation, while she saw every reason to be tactful with her nephew. + 

IV + 

On the drive home Mary held Stephen’s hand. “I enjoyed myself awfully, didn’t you? Only⁠—” and she frowned; “only will it last? I mean, we mustn’t forget Lady Massey. But he’s so nice, and I liked the old aunt⁠ ⁠…” + 

Stephen said firmly: “Of course it will last.” Then she lied. “I enjoyed it very much too.” + 

And even as she lied she came to a resolve which seemed so strange that she flinched a little, for never before since they had been lovers, had she thought of this girl as apart from herself. Yet now she resolved that Mary should go to Passy again⁠—but should go without her. Sitting back in the car she half closed her eyes; just at that moment she did not want to speak lest her voice should betray that flinching to Mary. + 

LIII + 

I + 

With Martin’s return Stephen realized how very deeply she had missed him; how much she still needed the thing he now offered, how long indeed she had starved for just this⁠—the friendship of a normal and sympathetic man whose mentality being very much her own, was not only welcome but reassuring. Yes, strange though it was, with this normal man she was far more at ease than with Jonathan Brockett, far more at one with all his ideas, and at times far less conscious of her own inversion; though it seemed that Martin had not only read, but had thought a great deal about the subject. He spoke very little of his studies, however, just accepting her now for the thing that she was, without question, and accepting most of her friends with a courtesy as innocent of patronage as of any suspicion of morbid interest. And thus it was that in these first days they appeared to have achieved a complete reunion. Only sometimes, when Mary would talk to him freely as she did very often of such people as Wanda, of the night life of the cafés and bars of Paris⁠—most of which it transpired he himself had been to⁠—of the tragedy of Barbara and Jamie that was never very far from her thoughts, even although a most perfect spring was hurrying forward towards the summer⁠—when Mary would talk to him of these things, Martin would look rather gravely at Stephen. + 

But now they seldom went to the bars, for Martin provided recreations that were really much more to Mary’s liking. Martin the kindly, the thoroughly normal, seemed never at a loss as to what they should do or where they should go when in search of pleasure. By now he knew Paris extremely well, and the Paris he showed them during that spring came as a complete revelation to Mary. He would often take them to dine in the Bois. At the neighbouring tables would be men and women; neat, well tailored men; pretty, smartly dressed women who laughed and talked very conscious of sex and its vast importance⁠—in a word, normal women. Or perhaps they would go to Claridge’s for tea or to Giro’s for dinner, and then on to supper at an equally fashionable restaurant, of which Mary discovered there were many in Paris. And although people still stared a little at Stephen, Mary fancied that they did so much less, because of the protective presence of Martin. + 

At such places of course, it was out of the question for a couple of women to dance together, and yet everyone danced, so that in the end Mary must get up and dance with Martin. + 

He had said: “You don’t mind, do you, Stephen?” + 

She had shaken her head: “No, of course I don’t mind.” And indeed she had been very glad to know that Mary had a good partner to dance with. + 

But now when she sat alone at their table, lighting one cigarette from another, uncomfortably conscious of the interest she aroused by reason of her clothes and her isolation⁠—when she glimpsed the girl in Martin’s arms, and heard her laugh for a moment in passing, Stephen would know a queer tightening of her heart, as though a mailed fist had closed down upon it. What was it? Good God, surely not resentment? Horrified she would feel at this possible betrayal of friendship, of her fine, honest friendship for Martin. And when they came back, Mary smiling and flushed, Stephen would force herself to smile also. + 

She would say: “I’ve been thinking how well you two dance⁠—” + 

And when Mary once asked rather timidly: “Are you sure you’re not bored, sitting there by yourself?” + 

Stephen answered: “Don’t be so silly, darling; of course I’m not bored⁠—go on dancing with Martin.” + 

But that night she took Mary in her arms⁠—the relentless, compelling arms of a lover. + 

On warm days they would all drive into the country, as Mary and she had so frequently done during their first spring months in Paris. Very often now it would be Barbizon, for Martin loved to walk in the forest. And there he must start to talk about trees, his face glowing with its curious inner light, while Mary listened half fascinated. + 

One evening she said: “But these trees are so small⁠—you make me long to see real forests, Martin.” + 

David loved these excursions⁠—he also loved Martin, not being exactly disloyal to Stephen, but discerning in the man a more perfect thing, a more entirely fulfilling companion. And this little betrayal, though slight in itself, had the power to wound out of all proportion, so that Stephen would feel very much as she had done when ignored years ago by the swan called Peter. She had thought then: “Perhaps he thinks I’m a freak,” and now she must sometimes think the same thing as she watched Martin hurling huge sticks for David⁠—it was strange what a number of ridiculous trifles had lately acquired the power to hurt her. And yet she clung desperately to Martin’s friendship, feeling herself to be all unworthy if she harboured so much as a moment’s doubt; indeed they both loyally clung to their friendship. + 

He would beg her to accept his aunt’s invitations, to accompany Mary when she went to Passy: + 

“Don’t you like the old thing? Mary likes her all right⁠—why won’t you come? It’s so mean of you, Stephen. It’s not half as much fun when you’re not there.” He would honestly think that he was speaking the truth, that the party or the luncheon or whatever it might be, was not half as much fun for him without Stephen. + 

But Stephen always made her work an excuse: “My dear, I’m trying to finish a novel. I seem to have been at it for years and years; it’s growing hoary like Rip Van Winkle.” + 

II + 

There were times when their friendship seemed well-nigh perfect, the perfect thing that they would have it to be, and on such a day of complete understanding, Stephen suddenly spoke to Martin about Morton. + 

They two were alone together in her study, and she said: “There’s something I want to tell you⁠—you must often have wondered why I left my home.” + 

He nodded: “I’ve never quite liked to ask, because I know how you loved the place, how you love it still⁠ ⁠…” + 

“Yes, I love it,” she answered. + 

Then she let every barrier go down before him, blissfully conscious of what she was doing. Not since Puddle had left her had she been able to talk without restraint of her exile. And once launched she had not the least wish to stop, but must tell him all, omitting no detail save one that honour forbade her to give⁠—she withheld the name of Angela Crossby. + 

“It’s so terribly hard on Mary,” she finished; “think of it, Mary’s never seen Morton; she’s not even met Puddle in all these years! Of course Puddle can’t very well come here to stay⁠—how can she and then go back to Morton? And yet I want her to live with my mother⁠ ⁠… But the whole thing seems so outrageous for Mary.” She went on to talk to him of her father: “If my father had lived, I know he’d have helped me. He loved me so much, and he understood⁠—I found out that my father knew all about me, only⁠—” She hesitated, and then: “Perhaps he loved me too much to tell me.” + 

Martin said nothing for quite a long time, and when he did speak it was very gravely: “Mary⁠—how much does she know of all this?” + 

“As little as I could possibly tell her. She knows that I can’t get on with my mother, and that my mother won’t ask her to Morton; but she doesn’t know that I had to leave home because of a woman, that I was turned out⁠—I’ve wanted to spare her all I could.” + 

“Do you think you were right?” + 

“Yes, a thousand times.” + 

“Well, only you can judge of that, Stephen.” He looked down at the carpet, then he asked abruptly: “Does she know about you and me, about⁠ ⁠…” + 

Stephen shook her head: “No, she’s no idea. She thinks you were just my very good friend as you are today. I don’t want her to know.” + 

“For my sake?” he demanded. + 

And she answered slowly: “Well, yes, I suppose so⁠ ⁠… for your sake, Martin.” + 

Then an unexpected, and to her very moving thing happened; his eyes filled with pitiful tears: “Lord,” he muttered, “why need this have come upon you⁠—this incomprehensible dispensation? It’s enough to make one deny God’s existence!” + 

She felt a great need to reassure him. At that moment he seemed so much younger than she was as he stood there with his eyes full of pitiful tears, doubting God, because of his human compassion: “There are still the trees. Don’t forget the trees, Martin⁠—because of them you used to believe.” + 

“Have you come to believe in a God then?” he muttered. + 

“Yes,” she told him, “it’s strange, but I know now I must⁠—lots of us feel that way in the end. I’m not really religious like some of the others, but I’ve got to acknowledge God’s existence, though at times I still think: ‘Can He really exist?’ One can’t help it, when one’s seen what I have here in Paris. But unless there’s a God, where do some of us find even the little courage we possess?” + 

Martin stared out of the window in silence. + 

III + 

Mary was growing gentle again; infinitely gentle she now was at times, for happiness makes for gentleness, and in these days Mary was strangely happy. Reassured by the presence of Martin Hallam, reestablished in pride and self-respect, she was able to contemplate the world without her erstwhile sense of isolation, was able for the moment to sheathe her sword, and this respite brought her a sense of well-being. She discovered that at heart she was neither so courageous nor so defiant as she had imagined, that like many another woman before her, she was well content to feel herself protected; and gradually as the weeks went by, she began to forget her bitter resentment. + 

One thing only distressed her, and this was Stephen’s refusal to accompany her when she went to Passy; she could not understand it, so must put it down to the influence of Valérie Seymour who had met and disliked Martin’s aunt at one time, indeed the dislike, it seemed, had been mutual. Thus the vague resentment that Valérie had inspired in the girl, began to grow much less vague, until Stephen realized with a shock of surprise that Mary was jealous of Valérie Seymour. But this seemed so absurd and preposterous a thing, that Stephen decided it could only be passing, nor did it loom very large in these days that were so fully taken up by Martin. For now that his eyesight was quite restored he was talking of going home in the autumn, and every free moment that he could steal from his aunt, he wanted to spend with Stephen and Mary. When he spoke of his departure, Stephen sometimes fancied that a shade of sadness crept into Mary’s face, and her heart misgave her, though she told herself that naturally both of them would miss Martin. Then too, never had Mary been more loyal and devoted, more obviously anxious to prove her love by a thousand little acts of devotion. There would even be times when by contrast her manner would appear abrupt and unfriendly to Martin, when she argued with him over every trifle, backing up her opinion by quoting Stephen⁠—yes, in spite of her newly restored gentleness, there were times when she would not be gentle with Martin. And these sudden and unforeseen changes of mood would leave Stephen feeling uneasy and bewildered, so that one night she spoke rather anxiously: + 

“Why were you so beastly to Martin this evening?” + 

But Mary pretended not to understand her: “How was I beastly? I was just as usual.” And when Stephen persisted, Mary kissed her scar: “Darling, don’t start working now, it’s so late, and besides⁠ ⁠…” + 

Stephen put away her work, then she suddenly caught the girl to her roughly: “How much do you love me? Tell me quickly, quickly!” Her voice shook with something very like fear. + 

“Stephen, you’re hurting me⁠—don’t, you’re hurting! You know how I love you⁠—more than life.” + 

“You are my life⁠ ⁠… all my life,” muttered Stephen. + 

LIV + 

I + 

Fate, which by now had them well in its grip, began to play the game out more quickly. That summer they went to Pontresina since Mary had never seen Switzerland; but the Comtesse must make a double cure, first at Vichy and afterwards at Bagnoles de l’Orne, which fact left Martin quite free to join them. Then it was that Stephen perceived for the first time that all was not well with Martin Hallam. + 

Try as he might he could not deceive her, for this man was almost painfully honest, and any deception became him so ill that it seemed to stand out like a badly fitting garment. Yet now there were times when he avoided her eyes, when he grew very silent and awkward with Stephen, as though something inevitable and unhappy had obtruded itself upon their friendship; something, moreover, that he feared to tell her. Then one day in a blinding flash of insight she suddenly knew what this was⁠—it was Mary. + 

Like a blow that is struck full between the eyes, the thing stunned her, so that at first she groped blindly. Martin, her friend⁠ ⁠… But what did it mean? And Mary⁠ ⁠… The incredible misery of it if it were true. But was it true that Martin Hallam had grown to love Mary? And the other thought, more incredible still⁠—had Mary in her turn grown to love Martin? + 

The mist gradually cleared; Stephen grew cold as steel, her perceptions becoming as sharp as daggers⁠—daggers that thrust themselves into her soul, draining the blood from her innermost being. And she watched. To herself she seemed all eyes and ears, a monstrous thing, a complete degradation, yet endowed with an almost unbearable skill, with a subtlety passing her own understanding. + 

And Martin was no match for this thing that was Stephen. He, the lover, could not hide his betraying eyes from her eyes that were also those of a lover; could not stifle the tone that crept into his voice at times when he was talking to Mary. Since all that he felt was a part of herself, how could he hope to hide it from Stephen? And he knew that she had discovered the truth, while she in her turn perceived that he knew this, yet neither of them spoke⁠—in a deathly silence she watched, and in silence he endured her watching. + 

It was rather a terrible summer for them all, the more so as they were surrounded by beauty, and great peace when the evening came down on the snows, turning the white, unfurrowed peaks to sapphire and then to a purple darkness; hanging out large, incredible stars above the wide slope of the Roseg Glacier. For their hearts were full of unspoken dread, of clamorous passions, of bewilderment that went very ill with the quiet fulfilments, with the placid and smiling contentment of nature⁠—and not the least bewildered was Mary. Her respite, it seemed, had been pitifully fleeting; now she was torn by conflicting emotions; terrified and amazed at her realization that Martin meant more to her than a friend, yet less, oh, surely much less than Stephen. Like a barrier of fire her passion for the woman flared up to forbid her love of the man; for as great as the mystery of virginity itself, is sometimes the power of the one who has destroyed it, and that power still remained in these days, with Stephen. + 

Alone in his bare little hotel bedroom, Martin would wrestle with his soul-sickening problem, convinced in his heart that but for Stephen, Mary Llewellyn would grow to love him, nay more, that she had grown to love him already. Yet Stephen was his friend⁠—he had sought her out, had all but forced his friendship upon her; had forced his way into her life, her home, her confidence; she had trusted his honour. And now he must either utterly betray her or through loyalty to their friendship, betray Mary. + 

And he felt that he knew, and knew only too well, what life would do to Mary Llewellyn, what it had done to her already; for had he not seen the bitterness in her, the resentment that could only lead to despair, the defiance that could only lead to disaster? She was setting her weakness against the whole world, and slowly but surely the world would close in until in the end it had utterly crushed her. In her very normality lay her danger. Mary, all woman, was less of a match for life than if she had been as was Stephen. Oh, most pitiful bond so strong yet so helpless; so fruitful of passion yet so bitterly sterile; despairing, heartbreaking, yet courageous bond that was even now holding them ruthlessly together. But if he should break it by taking the girl away into peace and security, by winning for her the world’s approbation so that never again need her back feel the scourge and her heart grow faint from the pain of that scourging⁠—if he, Martin Hallam, should do this thing, what would happen, in that day of his victory, to Stephen? Would she still have the courage to continue the fight? Or would she, in her turn, be forced to surrender? God help him, he could not betray her like this, he could not bring about Stephen’s destruction⁠—and yet if he spared her, he might destroy Mary. + 

Night after night alone in his bedroom during the miserable weeks of that summer, Martin struggled to discover some ray of hope in what seemed a well-nigh hopeless situation. And night after night Stephen’s masterful arms would enfold the warm softness of Mary’s body, the while she would be shaken as though with great cold. Lying there she would shiver with terror and love, and this torment of hers would envelop Mary so that sometimes she wept for the pain of it all, yet neither would give a name to that torment. + 

“Stephen, why are you shivering?” + 

“I don’t know, my darling.” + 

“Mary, why are you crying?” + 

“I don’t know, Stephen.” + 

Thus the bitter nights slipped into the days, and the anxious days slipped back into the nights, bringing to that curious trinity neither helpful counsel nor consolation. + 

II + 

It was after they had all returned to Paris that Martin found Stephen alone one morning. + 

He said: “I want to speak to you⁠—I must.” + 

She put down her pen and looked into his eyes: “Well, Martin, what is it?” But she knew already. + 

He answered her very simply: “It’s Mary.” Then he said: “I’m going because I’m your friend and I love her⁠ ⁠… I must go because of our friendship, and because I think Mary’s grown to care for me.” + 

He thought Mary cared⁠ ⁠… Stephen got up slowly, and all of a sudden she was no more herself but the whole of her kind out to combat this man, out to vindicate their right to possess, out to prove that their courage was unshakable, that they neither admitted of nor feared any rival. + 

She said coldly: “If you’re going because of me, because you imagine that I’m frightened⁠—then stay. I assure you I’m not in the least afraid; here and now I defy you to take her from me!” And even as she said this she marvelled at herself, for she was afraid, terribly afraid of Martin. + 

He flushed at the quiet contempt in her voice, which roused all the combative manhood in him: “You think that Mary doesn’t love me, but you’re wrong.” + 

“Very well then, prove that I’m wrong!” she told him. + 

They stared at each other in bitter hostility for a moment, then Stephen said more gently: “You don’t mean to insult me by what you propose, but I won’t consent to your going, Martin. You think that I can’t hold the woman I love against you, because you’ve got an advantage over me and over the whole of my kind. I accept that challenge⁠—I must accept it if I’m to remain at all worthy of Mary.” + 

He bowed his head: “It must be as you wish.” Then he suddenly began to talk rather quickly: “Stephen, listen, I hate what I’m going to say, but by God, it’s got to be said to you somehow! You’re courageous and fine and you mean to make good, but life with you is spiritually murdering Mary. Can’t you see it? Can’t you realize that she needs all the things that it’s not in your power to give her? Children, protection, friends whom she can respect and who’ll respect her⁠—don’t you realize this, Stephen? A few may survive such relationships as yours, but Mary Llewellyn won’t be among them. She’s not strong enough to fight the whole world, to stand up against persecution and insult; it will drive her down, it’s begun to already⁠—already she’s been forced to turn to people like Wanda. I know what I’m saying, I’ve seen the thing⁠—the bars, the drinking, the pitiful defiance, the horrible, useless wastage of lives⁠—well, I tell you it’s spiritual murder for Mary. I’d have gone away because you’re my friend, but before I went I’d have said all this to you; I’d have begged and implored you to set Mary free if you love her. I’d have gone on my knees to you, Stephen⁠ ⁠…” + 

He paused, and she heard herself saying quite calmly: “You don’t understand, I have faith in my writing, great faith; some day I shall climb to the top and that will compel the world to accept me for what I am. It’s a matter of time, but I mean to succeed for Mary’s sake.” + 

“God pity you!” he suddenly blurted out. “Your triumph, if it comes, will come too late for Mary.” + 

She stared at him aghast: “How dare you!” she stammered, “How dare you try to undermine my courage! You call yourself my friend and you say things like that⁠ ⁠…” + 

“It’s your courage that I appeal to,” he answered. He began to speak very quietly again: “Stephen, if I stay I’m going to fight you. Do you understand? We’ll fight this thing out until one of us has to admit that he’s beaten. I’ll do all in my power to take Mary from you⁠—all that’s honourable, that is⁠—for I mean to play straight, because whatever you may think I’m your friend, only, you see⁠—I love Mary Llewellyn.” + 

And now she struck back. She said rather slowly, watching his sensitive face as she did so: “You seem to have thought it all out very well, but then of course, our friendship has given you time⁠ ⁠…” + 

He flinched and she smiled, knowing how she could wound: “Perhaps,” she went on, “you’ll tell me your plans. Supposing you win, do I give the wedding? Is Mary to marry you from my house, or would that be a grave social disadvantage? And supposing she should want to leave me quite soon for love of you⁠—where would you take her, Martin? To your aunt’s for respectability’s sake?” + 

“Don’t, Stephen!” + 

“But why not? I’ve a right to know because, you see, I also love Mary, I also consider her reputation. Yes, I think on the whole we’ll discuss your plans.” + 

“She’d always be welcome at my aunt’s,” he said firmly. + 

“And you’ll take her there if she runs away to you? One never knows what may happen, does one? You say that she cares for you already⁠ ⁠…” + 

His eyes hardened: “If Mary will have me, Stephen, I shall take her first to my aunt’s house in Passy.” + 

“And then?” she mocked. + 

“I shall marry her from there.” + 

“And then?” + 

“I shall take her back to my home.” + 

“To Canada⁠—I see⁠—a safe distance of course.” + 

He held out his hand: “Oh, for God’s sake, don’t! It’s so horrible somehow⁠—be merciful, Stephen.” + 

She laughed bitterly: “Why should I be merciful to you? Isn’t it enough that I accept your challenge, that I offer you the freedom of my house, that I don’t turn you out and forbid you to come here? Come by all means, whenever you like. You may even repeat our conversation to Mary; I shall not do so, but don’t let that stop you if you think you may possibly gain some advantage.” + 

He shook his head: “No, I shan’t repeat it.” + 

“Oh, well, that must be as you think best. I propose to behave as though nothing had happened⁠—and now I must get along with my work.” + 

He hesitated: “Won’t you shake hands?” + 

“Of course,” she smiled; “aren’t you my very good friend? But you know, you really must leave me now, Martin.” + 

III + 

After he had gone she lit a cigarette; the action was purely automatic. She felt strangely excited yet strangely numb⁠—a most curious synthesis of sensations; then she suddenly felt deathly sick and giddy. Going up to her bedroom she bathed her face, sat down on the bed and tried to think, conscious that her mind was completely blank. She was thinking of nothing⁠—not even of Mary. + 

LV + 

I + 

A bitter and most curious warfare it was that must now be waged between Martin and Stephen, but secretly waged, lest because of them the creature they loved should be brought to suffer; not the least strange aspect being that these two must quite often take care to protect each other, setting a guard upon eyes and lips when they found themselves together with Mary. For the sake of the girl whom they sought to protect, they must actually often protect each other. Neither would stoop to detraction or malice, though they fought in secret they did so with honour. And all the while their hearts cried out loudly against this cruel and insidious thing that had laid its hand upon their doomed friendship⁠—verily a bitter and most curious warfare. + 

And now Stephen, brought suddenly face to face with the menace of infinite desolation, fell back upon her every available weapon in the struggle to assert her right to possession. Every link that the years had forged between her and Mary, every tender and passionate memory that bound their past to their ardent present, every moment of joy⁠—aye, and even of sorrow, she used in sheer self defence against Martin. And not the least powerful of all her weapons, was the perfect companionship and understanding that constitutes the great strength of such unions. Well armed she was, thanks to both present and past⁠—but Martin’s sole weapon lay in the future. + 

With a new subtlety that was born of his love, he must lead the girl’s thoughts very gently forward towards a life of security and peace; such a life as marriage with him would offer. In a thousand little ways must redouble his efforts to make himself indispensable to her, to surround her with the warm, happy cloak of protection that made even a hostile world seem friendly. And although he forbore to speak openly as yet, playing his hand with much skill and patience⁠—although before speaking he wished to be certain that Mary Llewellyn, of her own free will, would come when he called her, because she loved him⁠—yet nevertheless she divined his love, for men cannot hide such knowledge from women. + 

Very pitiful Mary was in these days, torn between the two warring forces; haunted by a sense of disloyalty if she thought with unhappiness of losing Martin, hating herself for a treacherous coward if she sometimes longed for the life he could offer, above all intensely afraid of this man who was creeping in between her and Stephen. And the very fact of this fear made her yield to the woman with a new and more desperate ardour, so that the bond held as never before⁠—the days might be Martin’s, but the nights were Stephen’s. And yet, lying awake far into the dawn, Stephen’s victory would take on the semblance of defeat, turned to ashes by the memory of Martin’s words: “Your triumph, if it comes, will come too late for Mary.” In the morning she would go to her desk and write, working with something very like frenzy, as though it were now a neck-to-neck race between the world and her ultimate achievement. Never before had she worked like this; she would feel that her pen was dipped in blood, that with every word she wrote, she was bleeding! + 

II + 

Christmas came and went, giving place to the New Year, and Martin fought on but he fought more grimly. He was haunted these days by the spectre of defeat, painfully conscious that do what he might, nearly every advantage lay with Stephen. All that he loved and admired most in Mary, her frankness, her tender and loyal spirit, her compassion towards suffering of any kind, these very attributes told against him, serving as they did to bind her more firmly to the creature to whom she had given devotion. One thing only sustained the man at this time, and that was his conviction that in spite of it all, Mary Llewellyn had grown to love him. + 

So careful she was when they were together, so guarded lest she should betray her feelings, so pitifully insistent that all was yet well⁠—that life had in no way lessened her courage. But Martin was not deceived by these protests, knowing how she clung to what he could offer, how gladly she turned to the simple things that so easily come to those who are normal. Under all her parade of gallantry he divined a great weariness of spirit, a great longing to be at peace with the world, to be able to face her fellow men with the comforting knowledge that she need not fear them, that their friendship would be hers for the asking, that their laws and their codes would be her protection. All this Martin perceived; but Stephen’s perceptions were even more accurate and far-reaching, for to her there had come the despairing knowledge that the woman she loved was deeply unhappy. At first she had blinded herself to this truth, sustained by the passionate stress of the battle, by her power to hold in despite of the man, by the eager response that she had awakened. Yet the day came when she was no longer blind, when nothing counted in all the world except this grievous unhappiness that was being silently borne by Mary. + 

Martin, if he had wished for revenge, might have taken his fill of it now from Stephen. Little did he know how, one by one, Mary was weakening her defences; gradually undermining her will, her fierce determination to hold, the arrogance of the male that was in her. All this the man was never to know; it was Stephen’s secret, and she knew how to keep it. But one night she suddenly pushed Mary away, blindly, scarcely knowing what she was doing; conscious only that the weapon she thus laid aside had become a thing altogether unworthy, an outrage upon her love for this girl. And that night there followed the terrible thought that her love itself was a kind of outrage. + 

And now she must pay very dearly indeed for that inherent respect of the normal which nothing had ever been able to destroy, not even the long years of persecution⁠—an added burden it was, handed down by the silent but watchful founders of Morton. She must pay for the instinct which, in earliest childhood, had made her feel something akin to worship for the perfect thing which she had divined in the love that existed between her parents. Never before had she seen so clearly all that was lacking to Mary Llewellyn, all that would pass from her faltering grasp, perhaps never to return, with the passing of Martin⁠—children, a home that the world would respect, ties of affection that the world would hold sacred, the blessed security and the peace of being released from the world’s persecution. And suddenly Martin appeared to Stephen as a creature endowed with incalculable bounty, having in his hands all those priceless gifts which she, love’s mendicant, could never offer. Only one gift could she offer to love, to Mary, and that was the gift of Martin. + 

In a kind of dream she perceived these things. In a dream she now moved and had her being; scarcely conscious of whither this dream would lead, the while her every perception was quickened. And this dream of hers was immensely compelling, so that all that she did seemed clearly predestined; she could not have acted otherwise, nor could she have made a false step, although dreaming. Like those who in sleep tread the edge of a chasm unappalled, having lost all sense of danger, so now Stephen walked on the brink of her fate, having only one fear; a nightmare fear of what she must do to give Mary her freedom. + 

In obedience to the mighty but unseen will that had taken control of this vivid dreaming, she ceased to respond to the girl’s tenderness, nor would she consent that they two should be lovers. Ruthless as the world itself she became, and almost as cruel in this ceaseless wounding. For in spite of Mary’s obvious misgivings, she went more and more often to see Valérie Seymour, so that gradually, as the days slipped by, Mary’s mind became a prey to suspicion. Yet Stephen struck at her again and again, desperately wounding herself in the process, though scarcely feeling the pain of her wounds for the misery of what she was doing to Mary. But even as she struck the bonds seemed to tighten, with each fresh blow to bind more securely. Mary now clung with every fibre of her sorely distressed and outraged being; with every memory that Stephen had stirred; with every passion that Stephen had fostered; with every instinct of loyalty that Stephen had aroused to do battle with Martin. The hand that had loaded Mary with chains was powerless, it seemed, to strike them from her. + 

Came the day when Mary refused to see Martin, when she turned upon Stephen, pale and accusing: “Can’t you understand? Are you utterly blind⁠—have you only got eyes now for Valérie Seymour?” + 

And as though she were suddenly smitten dumb, Stephen’s lips remained closed and she answered nothing. + 

Then Mary wept and cried out against her: “I won’t let you go⁠—I won’t let you, I tell you! It’s your fault if I love you the way I do. I can’t do without you, you’ve taught me to need you, and now⁠ ⁠…” In half-shamed, half-defiant words she must stand there and plead for what Stephen withheld, and Stephen must listen to such pleading from Mary. Then before the girl realized it she had said: “But for you, I could have loved Martin Hallam!” + 

Stephen heard her own voice a long way away: “But for me, you could have loved Martin Hallam.” + 

Mary flung despairing arms round her neck: “No, no! Not that, I don’t know what I’m saying.” + 

III + 

The first faint breath of spring was in the air, bringing daffodils to the flower-stalls of Paris. Once again Mary’s young cherry tree in the garden was pushing out leaves and tiny pink buds along the whole length of its childish branches. + 

Then Martin wrote: “Stephen, where can I see you? It must be alone. Better not at your house, I think, if you don’t mind, because of Mary.” + 

She appointed the place. They would meet at the Auberge du Vieux Logis in the Rue Lepic. They two would meet there on the following evening. When she left the house without saying a word, Mary thought she was going to Valérie Seymour. + 

Stephen sat down at a table in the corner to await Martin’s coming⁠—she herself was early. The table was gay with a new check cloth⁠—red and white, white and red, she counted the squares, tracing them carefully out with her finger. The woman behind the bar nudged her companion: “En voilà une originale⁠—et quelle cicatrice, bon Dieu!” The scar across Stephen’s pale face stood out livid. + 

Martin came and sat quietly down at her side, ordering some coffee for appearances’ sake. For appearances’ sake, until it was brought, they smiled at each other and made conversation. But when the waiter had turned away, Martin said: “It’s all over⁠—you’ve beaten me, Stephen⁠ ⁠… The bond was too strong.” + 

Their unhappy eyes met as she answered: “I tried to strengthen that bond.” + 

He nodded: “I know⁠ ⁠… Well, my dear, you succeeded.” Then he said: “I’m leaving Paris next week;” and in spite of his effort to be calm his voice broke, “Stephen⁠ ⁠… do what you can to take care of Mary⁠ ⁠…” + 

She found that she was holding his hand. Or was it someone else who sat there beside him, who looked into his sensitive, troubled face, who spoke such queer words? + 

“No, don’t go⁠—not yet.” + 

“But I don’t understand⁠ ⁠…” + 

“You must trust me, Martin.” And now she heard herself speaking very gravely: “Would you trust me enough to do anything I asked, even although it seemed rather strange? Would you trust me if I said that I asked it for Mary, for her happiness?” + 

His fingers tightened: “Before God, yes. You know that I’d trust you!” + 

“Very well then, don’t leave Paris⁠—not now.” + 

“You really want me to stay on, Stephen?” + 

“Yes, I can’t explain.” + 

He hesitated, then he suddenly seemed to come to a decision: “All right⁠ ⁠… I’ll do whatever you ask me.” + 

They paid for their coffee and got up to leave: “Let me come as far as the house,” he pleaded. + 

But she shook her head: “No, no, not now. I’ll write to you⁠ ⁠… very soon⁠ ⁠… Goodbye, Martin.” + 

She watched him hurrying down the street, and when he was finally lost in its shadows, she turned slowly and made her own way up the hill, past the garish lights of the Moulin de la Galette. Its pitiful sails revolved in the wind, eternally grinding out petty sins⁠—dry chaff blown in from the gutters of Paris. And after a while, having breasted the hill, she must climb a dusty flight of stone steps, and push open a heavy, slow-moving door; the door of the mighty temple of faith that keeps its anxious but tireless vigil. + 

She had no idea why she was doing this thing, or what she would say to the silver Christ with one hand on His heart and the other held out in a patient gesture of supplication. The sound of praying, monotonous, low, insistent, rose up from those who prayed with extended arms, with crucified arms⁠—like the tides of an ocean it swelled and receded and swelled again, bathing the shores of heaven. + 

They were calling upon the Mother of God: “Sainte Marie, Mère de Dieu, priez pour nous, pauvres pêcheurs, maintenant et à l’heure de notre mort.” + 

“Et à l’heure de notre mort,” Stephen heard herself repeating. + 

He looked terribly weary, the silver Christ: “But then He always looks tired,” she thought vaguely; and she stood there without finding anything to say, embarrassed as one so frequently is in the presence of somebody else’s sorrow. For herself she felt nothing, neither pity nor regret; she was curiously empty of all sensation, and after a little she left the church, to walk on through the windswept streets of Montmartre. + 

LVI + 

I + 

Valérie stared at Stephen in amazement: “But⁠ ⁠… it’s such an extraordinary thing you’re asking! Are you sure you’re right to take such a step? For myself I care nothing; why should I care? If you want to pretend that you’re my lover, well, my dear, to be quite frank, I wish it were true⁠—I feel certain you’d make a most charming lover. All the same,” and now her voice sounded anxious, “this is not a thing to be done lightly, Stephen. Aren’t you being absurdly self-sacrificing? You can give the girl a very great deal.” + 

Stephen shook her head: “I can’t give her protection or happiness, and yet she won’t leave me. There’s only one way⁠ ⁠…” + 

Then Valérie Seymour, who had always shunned tragedy like the plague, flared out in something very like temper: “Protection! Protection! I’m sick of the word. Let her do without it; aren’t you enough for her? Good heavens, you’re worth twenty Mary Llewellyns! Stephen, think it over before you decide⁠—it seems mad to me. For God’s sake keep the girl, and get what happiness you can out of life.” + 

“No, I can’t do that,” said Stephen dully. + 

Valérie got up: “Being what you are, I suppose you can’t⁠—you were made for a martyr! Very well, I agree”; she finished abruptly, “though of all the curious situations that I’ve ever been in, this one beats the lot!” + 

That night Stephen wrote to Martin Hallam. + 

II + 

Two days later as she crossed the street to her house, Stephen saw Martin in the shadow of the archway. He stepped out and they faced each other on the pavement. He had kept his word; it was just ten o’clock. + 

He said: “I’ve come. Why did you send for me, Stephen?” + 

She answered heavily: “Because of Mary.” + 

And something in her face made him catch his breath, so that the questions died on his lips: “I’ll do whatever you want,” he murmured. + 

“It’s so simple,” she told him, “it’s all perfectly simple. I want you to wait just under this arch⁠—just here where you can’t be seen from the house. I want you to wait until Mary needs you, as I think she will⁠ ⁠… it may not be long⁠ ⁠… Can I count on your being here if she needs you?” + 

He nodded: “Yes⁠—yes!” He was utterly bewildered, scared too by the curious look in her eyes; but he allowed her to pass him and enter the courtyard. + 

III + 

She let herself into the house with her latchkey. The place seemed full of an articulate silence that leapt out shouting from every corner⁠—a jibing, grimacing, vindictive silence. She brushed it aside with a sweep of her hand, as though it were some sort of physical presence. + 

But who was it who brushed that silence aside? Not Stephen Gordon⁠ ⁠… oh, no, surely not⁠ ⁠… Stephen Gordon was dead; she had died last night: “A l’heure de notre mort⁠ ⁠…” Many people had spoken those prophetic words quite a short time ago⁠—perhaps they had been thinking of Stephen Gordon. + 

Yet now someone was slowly climbing the stairs, then pausing upon the landing to listen, then opening the door of Mary’s bedroom, then standing quite still and staring at Mary. It was someone whom David knew and loved well; he sprang forward with a sharp little bark of welcome. But Mary shrank back as though she had been struck⁠—Mary pale and red-eyed from sleeplessness⁠—or was it because of excessive weeping? + 

When she spoke her voice sounded unfamiliar: “Where were you last night?” + 

“With Valérie Seymour. I thought you’d know somehow⁠ ⁠… It’s better to be frank⁠ ⁠… we both hate lies⁠ ⁠…” + 

Came that queer voice again: “Good God⁠—and I’ve tried so hard not to believe it! Tell me you’re lying to me now; say it, Stephen!” + 

Stephen⁠—then she wasn’t dead after all; or was she? But now Mary was clinging⁠—clinging. + 

“Stephen, I can’t believe this thing⁠—Valérie! Is that why you always repulse me⁠ ⁠… why you never want to come near me these days? Stephen, answer me; are you her lover? Say something, for Christ’s sake! Don’t stand there dumb⁠ ⁠…” + 

A mist closing down, a thick black mist. Someone pushing the girl away, without speaking. Mary’s queer voice coming out of the gloom, muffled by the folds of that thick black mist, only a word here and there getting through: “All my life I’ve given⁠ ⁠… you’ve killed⁠ ⁠… I loved you⁠ ⁠… Cruel, oh, cruel! You’re unspeakably cruel⁠ ⁠…” Then the sound of rough and pitiful sobbing. + 

No, assuredly this was not Stephen Gordon who stood there unmoved by such pitiful sobbing. But what was the figure doing in the mist? It was moving about, distractedly, wildly. All the while it sobbed it was moving about: “I’m going⁠ ⁠…” + 

Going? But where could it go? Somewhere out of the mist, somewhere into the light? Who was it that had said⁠ ⁠… wait, what were the words? “To give light to them that sit in darkness⁠ ⁠…” + 

No one was moving about any more⁠—there was only a dog, a dog called David. Something had to be done. Go into the bedroom, Stephen Gordon’s bedroom that faced on the courtyard⁠ ⁠… just a few short steps and then the window. A girl, hatless, with the sun falling full on her hair⁠ ⁠… she was almost running⁠ ⁠… she stumbled a little. But now there were two people down in the courtyard⁠—a man had his hands on the girl’s bowed shoulders. He questioned her, yes, that was it, he questioned; and the girl was telling him why she was there, why she had fled from that thick, awful darkness. He was looking at the house, incredulous, amazed; hesitating as though he were coming in; but the girl went on and the man turned to follow⁠ ⁠… They were side by side, he was gripping her arm⁠ ⁠… They were gone; they had passed out under the archway. + 

Then all in a moment the stillness was shattered: “Mary, come back! Come back to me, Mary!” + 

David crouched and trembled. He had crawled to the bed, and he lay there watching with his eyes of amber; trembling because such an anguish as this struck across him like the lash of a whip, and what could he do, the poor beast, in his dumbness? + 

She turned and saw him, but only for a moment, for now the room seemed to be thronging with people. Who were they, these strangers with the miserable eyes? And yet, were they all strangers? Surely that was Wanda? And someone with a neat little hole in her side⁠—Jamie clasping Barbara by the hand; Barbara with the white flowers of death on her bosom. Oh, but they were many, these unbidden guests, and they called very softly at first and then louder. They were calling her by name, saying: “Stephen, Stephen!” The quick, the dead, and the yet unborn⁠—all calling her, softly at first and then louder. Aye, and those lost and terrible brothers from Alec’s, they were here, and they also were calling: “Stephen, Stephen, speak with your God and ask Him why He has left us forsaken!” She could see their marred and reproachful faces with the haunted, melancholy eyes of the invert⁠—eyes that had looked too long on a world that lacked all pity and all understanding: “Stephen, Stephen, speak with your God and ask Him why He has left us forsaken!” And these terrible ones started pointing at her with their shaking, white-skinned, effeminate fingers: “You and your kind have stolen our birthright; you have taken our strength and have given us your weakness!” They were pointing at her with white, shaking fingers. + 

Rockets of pain, burning rockets of pain⁠—their pain, her pain, all welded together into one great consuming agony. Rockets of pain that shot up and burst, dropping scorching tears of fire on the spirit⁠—her pain, their pain⁠ ⁠… all the misery at Alec’s. And the press and the clamour of those countless others⁠—they fought, they trampled, they were getting her under. In their madness to become articulate through her, they were tearing her to pieces, getting her under. They were everywhere now, cutting off her retreat; neither bolts nor bars would avail to save her. The walls fell down and crumbled before them; at the cry of their suffering the walls fell and crumbled: “We are coming, Stephen⁠—we are still coming on, and our name is legion⁠—you dare not disown us!” She raised her arms, trying to ward them off, but they closed in and in: “You dare not disown us!” + 

They possessed her. Her barren womb became fruitful⁠—it ached with its fearful and sterile burden. It ached with the fierce yet helpless children who would clamour in vain for their right to salvation. They would turn first to God, and then to the world, and then to her. They would cry out accusing: “We have asked for bread; will you give us a stone? Answer us: will you give us a stone? You, God, in Whom we, the outcast, believe; you, world, into which we are pitilessly born; you, Stephen, who have drained our cup to the dregs⁠—we have asked for bread; will you give us a stone?” + 

And now there was only one voice, one demand; her own voice into which those millions had entered. A voice like the awful, deep rolling of thunder; a demand like the gathering together of great waters. A terrifying voice that made her ears throb, that made her brain throb, that shook her very entrails until she must stagger and all but fall beneath this appalling burden of sound that strangled her in its will to be uttered. + 

“God,” she gasped, “we believe; we have told You we believe⁠ ⁠… We have not denied You, then rise up and defend us. Acknowledge us, oh God, before the whole world. Give us also the right to our existence!” + 