Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

She was one of those single women with a sufficient income to dress well and live in the best hotels who spent her time studying, motoring, dancing, amusing herself in all legitimate, civilized ways, travelling widely and looking, always looking for something. With some of them if they are plain and stupid it is love they are looking for, sometimes only a kiss. Christine had never had to seek for love and kisses she could have had by dozens. It was because she was looking for a particular kind of love, a special sort of kiss, that the search had been long. She did not seek brutality nor cruelty, those are totally different from though often confused with force, intensity. The real true strength of Love that is striving to create Life in a beloved object that is what she had been seeking and had now found and she could not see that she had to make any particular sacrifice for it. She admired the grave dignity and beauty of the man himself and she had felt that strange sharp call of his individuality to hers, which is after all the basis of all love between the sexes whether civilized or uncivilized. The one quality which to her was one absolute essential in any man she was to love, tenderness and kindness to animals seemed assured by what his servant had said. Had she really known anything more of her father’s secretary, than she knew now of Lasrali? She could have married him for the sake of that golden moment in his arms and she was now going to marry Lasrali for exactly the same reason. In her eyes it was quite as good a reason as marrying to obtain a house in town, a settled income or a title. She saw very clearly that Nature, cruel as she is in the deaths, disease, pain and all the woes she sends upon us and the animals has yet in her hands for all created things this one supreme joy and consolation for all the suffering of life, the joy of simple, natural unrestrained love. No animals fail to realise this and few men and women in a natural state, but in a civilized state there are hundreds of thousands who live, marry, suffer and die without one glimpse of this Eternal Truth.

So far Christine had steadily avoided marrying anyone, between whom and herself there did not seem to be that strange wild magnetism, that irresistible call and challenge to the senses, getting out of her numerous engagements as best she could and submitting to being angrily and furiously called a jilt, which she knew was not true. She was simply one looking for gold and consistently refusing the dross that was pressed upon her in its place.

Lasrali did not sleep that night. All through the remaining hours he sat wide eyed in his chair, sometimes drawing at his pipe but more often idle staring down at the carpet that kept the stony dust of the wilderness from his fine narrow high arched feet. A very hardy struggle was going on within him and he was fighting bravely against the greatest power in the Universe, outside that still greater power that has been given to the soul of man.

Several times his wearied attendant outside raised the tent flap a tiny bit and looked in only to see his master still sitting there as a statue, lost in thought.

It is absurd to limit the good and bad impulses in man by any creed, caste, or colour. The human soul has no such limits. Nobleness, generosity, self-sacrifice, dwell indiscriminately in black, yellow, red, and white races alike. Evil, also is scattered impartially through the whole of humanity as witness the loathsome cruelties and barbarities committed by men of our own time and race under the name of Scientific Research which surpass in horror anything done by savage tribes.

At last when the morning was fairly on its way, he summoned his Arab.

“Are the English still sleeping?”

“Yes, they all sleep very soundly: a good time to kill the men now if you wish.”

Lasrali lifted his hand in protest, his brows contracting.

“Listen. When the English wake, take them water for washing and all they need. Then a good meal. While they eat, come and rouse me if I should be sleeping. When they finish their meal, bring them here to me.”

The Arab bowed and went away muttering. Lasrali, exhausted, passed through the curtains to his inner tent to sleep.

Although Christine had slept less than the others she was the first to awake, when the light was sinking in the tent and the flush of sunset was stealing over the wilderness, softening all its grim, glaring whiteness. She looked round with a feeling of surprise that the day had vanished, they had slept it away. It seemed strange to be waking to the rose of sunset instead of the rose of dawn as she was accustomed to do. She lifted herself from the rugs and looked at the sleepers beside her. Hillingford was the only one whose eyes were open and as he met her glance he smiled and as if by common consent they both rose, very quietly so as not to disturb the others and went out of the tent together, passing by the Major still soundly asleep by the door.

The encampment outside was an animated scene, cooking fires were sparkling everywhere and Arabs coming and going between them preparing the evening meal. The line of camels and other animals were feeding leisurely under their rock shelter, all the tent doors were open except the great double one, really two tents, joined together, one behind the other, which belonged to Lasrali. Of these the door flaps were closed and fastened and two Arabs sat on the ground before them.

Christine looked out on it all curiously and smelt the scent of the wood fires rising in the hot still air with a curious leaping of the heart. Why is it that the scent of the camp fire affects all or nearly all mankind with a strange feeling like nostalgia? Is it because on its fragrance our senses are borne back to primaeval times when our first camp fires smoked in the untamed forest?

She glanced across to Lasrali’s tent and the sight of its closed door struck her with a sense of loneliness. Her life henceforth would lean upon him. This scene that she looked upon would be its outside shell but there was nothing in it that she cared about except himself.

She turned to Hillingford who stood beside her. The Arabs about them glanced at them sideways, but the Mahomedan from his earliest years is taught not to stare and the long dark eyes were drooped again immediately over boiling kettle, or rice bowl as if they had seen nothing unusual.

“There are just one or two things I should like you to do for me,” she said gently, “if you will.”

“Of course, I will, anything,” he returned gazing at her in the soft rose light that fell all about them from the tinted sky. How wonderfully well she was looking he thought with no toilet made nor adjuncts of any kind. He did not realise how the great force of expectant life was awakened and moving within her, painting her cheeks and lips, kindling and softening her eyes.

“You know I have no near relations,” she went on, “so there’s no one to see or to tell about me, but I should like the money I have to be safeguarded. Will you be my trustee and look after it for me? And re-invest the income, so that in the future, if there should be any--any, well if it’s wanted it will be there. In my bag when you go back to the carriage you will find a small packet of all my papers, bank book, check book, etc. Will you take possession of it. That will give you all the details. And send me back by one of the Arabs my little case of clothes. I shall want that here.”

“I’ll do anything and everything,” he returned, “but you must authorize me about the money here,” and he drew out his pocket book and gave it to her. “Write down there that you wished me to act for you. Here’s a pen.” He gave her his own stylographic and she looked at it for a moment in silence.

“Isn’t this all funny? Doing this civilized sort of business out here in this wilderness. What an end we have had to our tour!”

“Yes, it’s awful,” groaned Hillingford, “I shall never forgive myself or feel the same again.” Christine had seated herself on a great stone and was writing rapidly in the pocket book all that she thought was necessary. When it was done, she handed up the book and pen to him.

“Will that do?”

Hillingford read it through.

“That’s all right,” he said and shut the book and replaced it. “But we shall send after you and rescue you as soon as we get back.”

Christine still seated put her hand round her knees and stared over the small space that intervened to the closed tent door of Lasrali.

“Do you remember your Roman History?” she said slowly after a minute. “You remember how the Romans carried off the Sabine women and how after a time the Sabine husbands and fathers came after them to rescue them and the Sabine women came out and said they were happy with their Roman husbands and didn’t want to be rescued? It was too late. Well it’s the same now. I am sure it will be too late. Besides this I am a sort of hostage. If you come after me to rescue me I believe you won’t find me because Lasrali will go far, far away in the mountains and hide.”

“But surely he could be found. We could get an army to scour the place,” remonstrated Hillingford in hot desperation.

Christine shook her head.

“It might be possible to find and punish him but what about me? I should think I should be killed when the news first came to him he was being followed and don’t you see he has us all in his power _now_? If he lets you go, you are on parole, as it were. You can’t pursue him afterwards,” Hillingford groaned, then he burst out, “He’s no right to keep you.”

“No, but I am staying of my own free will. Don’t attempt to rescue me. You will only make fearful trouble if you do and it seems to be dishonourable when he has had you in his power and let you go. Be quite happy about me, really. I have had so many years of ordinary civilized life I am quite prepared to accept this adventure as a change and make the best of it.”

Hillingford was silent, staring down at the ground.

“Do you despise me, too, like the Major?” she asked with a little laugh.

“Good heavens, no, I think you are a heroine. Of course, I know whatever you may say, you are only doing it for us!”

Christine’s brows contracted.

Again this wall of hopeless misunderstanding. She could not clear it away. She could not explain to him for he would never understand. They spoke the same language, they were of the same country, class and creed, yet she felt further from him, in a way, than she did from the stranger who was their host.

Hillingford who was girt about with conventions and civilization got on very well with the half of Christine that was conventional, civilized woman, the other half the simple, natural primitive woman he would not have been able to understand at all.

Christine did not attempt further explanation all she said was:

“Well, remember the Sabine women and don’t rescue me. I don’t want it. I think it would be dishonourable and extremely dangerous. When I want civilization again I’ll find a way of getting back to it. Now, promise. Then I shall feel safer and happier,” and very reluctantly Hillingford promised.

The rosy glow was fading, stars sparkled in it here and there. In the East a great pale moon came up reminding them of the approaching hour of departure.

In silence they walked back to the tent. The door was open and an Arab was lighting the central lamp, while two others were spreading out a meal on the carpet. The women were arranging their hair before scraps of looking-glass and the men sat moody and silent watching the Arabs at work.

It was a short and quiet meal, less lively than their supper last night.

There seemed nothing more to be said. No one seemed to have any ideas, or to wish to speak. A sullen sort of apathy had settled on them all as if they were a flock of overdriven sheep. Christine alone looked radiant and clear-eyed and sat looking through the door of the tent towards that other one of which she could just see the closed flaps. At last she saw movement about it. Arabs went in carrying coffee and Arabs came out and at last one crossed the space to their tent and entered.

“The horses are refreshed and ready. All is now prepared for your departure and our Master would be pleased if you will come to his tent.”

Not knowing yet whether they were all going to be executed at the last moment or not the English all rose and followed the Arab out of their tent across the now moonlit space to the other one and were ushered gravely in.

Lasrali was standing to receive them. The audience was to be short so no cushions were prepared nor offered, of which the Major was very glad. They filed in. Christine as the interpreter and the only one who could understand was pushed a little forward and stood in front of the rest. Her eyes alight, her cheeks and lips glowing, her form full of elastic strength, she looked as she felt in the first flush of womanhood. Her face was smiling as she looked up at him and Lasrali looked down at her as a man dying of thirst looks at a crystal spring. Then he began to speak very clearly and restrainedly.

“I am an Arab and a host is a host, and guests are guests. I tell you now you are all free. Last night I made conditions I should not have done. They do not exist this evening. With my escort you will all proceed to Jerusalem and may peace be with you.”

He stopped and Christine, paling a little, repeated it in English.

Then Lasrali approached her a step nearer and added: “Sacred is the law of hospitality. I infringed it last night. I touched this lady. To her I apologise.”

Utter silence. Christine stood as if actually turned to ice or stone. Her color fled. She gazed up at Lasrali as if he were demented. Her companions to whom the words conveyed nothing grew cold with fear. What now? What in heaven’s name had he said? Was all that first palaver some ghastly joke? Had he now suggested they should be eaten alive or what? They gazed at Christine, longing for her to speak and fully prepared for the worst. Her face was a study of astonishment, agony and despair. The Major couldn’t stand it. He went up behind her and shook her arm.

“What’s he said now? The scoundrel!”

Lasrali bent towards her with grave kindness.

“Perhaps you do not understand. You are free. Go with your friends. I regret that your beauty last night overcame me.”

Christine still stood white and silent and trembling. Was it possible? Here again the very idea, the actual words that had ruined her happiness at 16! Here in this man of different race and caste and blood, country and creed, the same misunderstanding. Were men all alike? Was it only Woman who saw clearly back to the primaeval fount of things and recognized in passion the joyous force of life?

“Christine!” it was Lady Hollingford’s voice sharp and thin. She was delicate and nervous and she felt she could bear the strain no longer. “Do tell us what he says, whatever it is!”

In a flash Christine saw how this little accident of knowing the language put them all in her power. Her friends, their safety, Lasrali, his reputation, were all her toys.

For the moment the temptation came to her to mistranslate his words. Just to say he dismissed them as had been arranged and was keeping her. The primaeval woman fighting for her ends prompted this. That would satisfy all these civilized fools and they would go and leave her in peace with the heroine’s halo round her head. It would be so difficult otherwise perhaps to stay.

But the impulse was pushed aside instantly by her feelings of truth and honour and responsibility to those who trusted her. Also she would not rob Lasrali of the credit for his fine feelings and his self-sacrifice.

Stammering and hesitating because of the amazement gripping her, she gave out his words in English exactly as he had spoken them and the relief of the others was mixed with surprise.

“Well, that’s all right! What’s the matter with you?” asked Lady Hillingford, but Melisande only laughed.

“Please leave me now I desire rest,” Lasrali said.

“Do thank him for us and tell him how grateful we are,” Hillingford said and Christine mechanically turned his words into Arabic. Slipping, slipping from her she saw the golden moment, never to be captured again. The English are not a graceful people. They tried to bow and salute Lasrali who stood there reposeful and dignified but they were not very good at it and in a sort of huddled bunch they got through the tent curtains. The Major marched out with flat defiance.

“Showed the white feather after all, didn’t dare to touch us, thought so, damned scoundrel!” was his farewell remark.

Christine was the last to leave. The others had preceded her and the curtains had fallen to behind them. Her hand was on the dangling fringes. She looked back. The tent was empty. At the other side of it were the curtains dividing off Lasrali’s sleeping tent. Through them he had disappeared. Should she? Dare she? Race after that fleeting, golden moment which was now eluding her for the second time? Behind her lay all those years of an existence she knew so well. Almost every form of civilised amusement that a modern age provides had been hers. And love in all its delicate restrained civilised ways had been offered her again and again but there had seemed something tame and flat about it all. Before her stood Life in another dress or rather in an unashamed barbaric nakedness which had some strength and glory about it. Above all it was something new. She seemed in those seconds to visualise it as a dancing, laughing figure, taunting her, daring her to come after it. And she would dare. Beyond the further curtains was burning a great electric force that was calling to every nerve and pulse and fibre of her frame pulling her irresistibly to itself.

The curtains dropped from her nerveless fingers. Swift, silent as a shadow, she passed across the space and drew back the curtains that had closed behind Lasrali. A dim light burned in the tent. Beyond she saw his unrolled bed. He himself was standing still gazing at the ground. He turned and saw her as she entered, not weak nor white nor trembling nor hesitant now, but alive, determined, triumphant, glowing, expanding, the future mother of a bold and hardy race. Eyes shining, she advanced towards him with outstretched hands.

“Lasrali! don’t send me away! I want to stay here with you!”

A flash came over his face as of some great enlightenment. He put both his hands on her shoulders and gazed keenly into her eyes but hers did not waver. They glowed and glowed carrying their message straight to his.

“Is it true?” he asked.

“Yes, I swear it by the Koran.”

Over his face so superbly gifted by Nature, swept that wonderful, all enveloping softness and sweetness that filled her with ecstasy.

“Then the dream of my life is realised.”

“And mine,” said Christine.

COLOUR

_Circumstances sometimes make us virtuous against our will._

George Morris was pottering about at the back of the dusty, dingy little picture shop, while the dealer had gone to fetch the picture backing George had come in for, when he noticed set away on a shelf a little sketch and paused before it fascinated. It was a most attractive little thing, all red: everything in it was a delightful warm, rich, glowing crimson. The background was red--the interior of a room full of firelight. A bed hung with red curtains occupied the centre with an undraped woman’s figure of the loveliest lines, getting into it: one ivory knee pressed the side of the bed: her fair hair, glinting with red in the firelight, fell over her shoulders and her rounded arm, uplifted to draw aside the curtain. Underneath the picture was written the one word, “RUBY.”

George Morris, city man, living in the suburbs with Mrs. Morris in the dull, solid round of English existence, felt his heart leap up suddenly in response to the call of the picture. Under a plain, prosaic exterior this man had a deep natural love for romance, a thirst for adventure, a longing for the “wine, woman and song” that seemed never to form a part of his humdrum life. He thought of Mrs. Morris and her dull, plain face and the ginger-brown gown she seemed to live in. Why did she always wear brown, he wondered? Why not red, for instance? He thought of their bedroom at Meadow View, Mervyn Road: its linoleum floor, its iron bedstead, its white walls, its narrow grate filled with tissue paper and never guilty of a fire. In fact, it was always so cold that Maria Morris wore very thick nightgowns and woolly jackets to keep warm, and the electric light was so expensive now that she would hardly allow it to be used upstairs, and always said they could just as well undress in the dark.

George sighed. Why was Maria like that and his bedroom like that? Why should he not have a rich, warm, red room like this ... and ... and...?

“There you are, sir: the best three-ply there is for picture backing.”

George turned round with a start. He had quite forgotten his errand.

The dealer was peering at him through his spectacles, the thin wood in his hand.

“Er--ah!--thank you very much,” he stammered. “Er--this picture here--what price is it?” He indicated the little red sketch.

“Oh, that’s not for sale,” replied the man. “It’s just a bit an artist brought in to show me. He’s painting quite a big picture. It’s for the Salon, I believe.”

“Oh,” murmured George, “not for the Academy?” He felt disappointed he couldn’t buy the sketch, and if the picture was going to Paris he would never see it again.

The dealer shook his head doubtfully. “No. I think not. Colour’s a bit too warm for England, I should say.”

The door bell sprang at the moment, and the dealer looked round a pile of frames into the front shop.

“Why, here is Mr. Brookes himself!” he exclaimed. And George saw a tall slight young man with the artist’s slouch-hat and a flowing tie come in and nod to the shopman. “There’s a gentleman here admiring your picture,” the latter said, and George approached him eagerly.

“I do indeed,” he said. “It’s a wonderful picture. I’m sorry I won’t ever see the big one.”

The artist flushed with pleasure. “You can come and see it now, if you like,” he said in a pleased tone. “My shanty’s only a stone’s throw from here; two tubes of purple madder, please, Smith, and chalk them up, will you? I haven’t a cent on me.”

George’s heart beat. A visit to a real studio with an artist to see this glorious red picture! He accepted at once. What a comfort that Maria had always been out to tea lately and there was no need for him to hurry back.

When the artist had got his paints and George had paid for his purchase, they left the shop together and walked to the studio.

It was in a side street, and you went down a long slope from the pavement to a wooden door which the artist opened with his latchkey, and George walked through a small passage into a great, untidy, comfortable room that, with its hint of gaiety and dissolute romance, delighted him. There were deep chairs everywhere, a huge dais in one corner all draped in gorgeous red, a stove in the centre glowing hot, a deep cushioned semi-circular lounge half round it. One corner of the room was walled off with voluminous blue curtains to form the artist’s bedroom. The whole end of the room farthest from this was window, but it only looked into a quiet green garden with high walls round affording complete seclusion. There was a delightful litter of pictures all about, a mass of flowers by the sunny window, an aviary of singing birds, soft Turkey rugs on the floor, and the perfume of scented cigarettes in the air. George liked it. He liked it much better than the stiff drawing room with the starched white curtains and high hard chairs of Meadow View.

The artist drew forward two big chairs and then, going to the dais pulled on a cord. The curtains flew apart and there was the picture! Then he threw himself into one of the chairs while George took the other, and the two men gazed at the canvas in silence.

“Wonderful woman she is,” remarked the artist after a minute between the puffs of his cigarette. “Bit of a mystery. Calls herself Mrs. Brown, but don’t believe that’s her real name. Can’t make out what she’s doing it for: whether it’s the money or for the fun of it; little of both, perhaps. She’s not a regular model evidently, but she’s one of the best I ever had. Good figure, isn’t it?”

“Oh, perfect, perfect!” replied George rapturously. He couldn’t take his eyes off the picture. He sat before it spellbound, clasping his British umbrella in both hands as it stood between his British knees gazing at the vivid, barbaric riot of beautiful colour and suggestion that appealed so to his romantic un-British heart. “What’s her face like?”

“Oh, nothing very much. Not a bad little face when she smiles and gets some colour; but you see I didn’t want the face for that picture.”

“No, quite so, quite so,” assented George.

“Larky woman, I should think,” went on the artist. “Married to a sort of dull brute of a husband--doesn’t care about her; leaves her alone all day.”

“Pig!” grunted George indignantly. “Can you imagine a man having a woman like that and neglecting her?”

The artist laughed.

“Well, marriage is a killing atmosphere. I don’t know what she may be at home, she’s amusing enough when she comes in here.”

“What do you know about her? Where did you meet her?”

“The funny part is I don’t know anything. She just walked in here one afternoon: said she was bored to death and had no romance or fun in her life, and no money of her own to spend. Said she’d sit as a model if I’d have her. I wasn’t much struck at first: she was rather badly dressed, you know; but we talked a little bit and I got rather interested. I’d had the idea for this picture for a long time, I hadn’t a model, and she was cheap and very willing to learn and be civil, which all of them are not, and so there it was. She’s been coming to me for quite a time now, and it’s good, the picture, isn’t it? I’m hoping it’ll make a big hit.”

George nodded. He was grasping his umbrella feverishly, his hands rolling and unrolling the silk flaps nervously. He would do it, he would. He’d have this one bit of romance in his life to cherish and look back upon.

He turned to the insouciant artist who, with his head tilted back and the cigarette in his teeth and his leg hanging over one arm of the chair, was contemplating his work with satisfaction through half-closed eyes.

“I think I heard you say in that shop you were a little pressed for ready money,” he said in his rather stiff way.

The artist laughed. “Dead broke, my dear sir, that’s what I am! Why? Are you thinking of making me an offer for the picture?”

George leant nearer him.

“The picture’s good,” he said hoarsely, for his throat felt dry, “but it’s the woman I want. Do you want to make twenty pounds? Well, here’s your chance. Get her for me. Get her here. Lend me the studio for a few hours. Fix up those red curtains, have it just like the picture, red lights, red fire, red roses, red everything. Get her posing just like that, mind, just like that; then you clear out and leave us alone.”

The artist was sitting bolt upright now staring at Mr. George Morris as if he could not believe his eyes or his ears, as indeed he could not. Was this really the very respectable old party he had met in the shop? His eyes were glowing, his face flushed. He looked almost young and handsome. What an astounding proposition from such an orthodox-looking old Briton! Still, twenty pounds....

“But I don’t suppose for one minute she’d consent,” he said after an astonished pause of reflection.

George made an angry movement of impatience.

“Unless you muddle things,” he said, “she won’t know anything about it. You won’t ask her anything.”

“But I don’t see....” began the other.

“Look here. You get the lady to come to an ordinary sitting; just as usual. You fix up everything, just as it is there, as you always do, I suppose. I’m waiting behind those curtains there. Then you get her to pose just like that: you step back to get something, brush or what-not. You slip behind the curtains and then clear out of the studio and I am left in your place. What’s to prevent you doing that?”

“Nothing. Only it seems rather a bad trick for me to play her and she may disappoint you, she may....”

“Never mind,” returned George calmly now. “If I muddle my own affairs when you leave us that’s my business; nothing to do with you. You get your twenty all the same.”

“When?” asked the artist dubiously.

“When I look through those curtains,” returned George intimating the artist’s walled-off bedroom behind them, “and see this picture in life. When you pass me to go out I’ll slip the notes into your hand.”

Mr. James Brookes looked down on the floor in silent thought. He didn’t like the idea at all. Still, he was very hard up and perhaps his model would not mind. She seemed very good natured. He could pass it off as a practical joke.

“I don’t half like it,” he said after a minute. “Still, I’ll do it.”

“When?”

“Day after to-morrow she’s coming--four to six. You’d better be here by three-thirty, so there’s no chance of her seeing you come in.”

George got up with a strange fire of joy in his heart. Here was romance, intrigue, adventure, coming into his life at last!

He cast his eyes round the studio with its inviting air of ease, its bright colours, its luxury, which seemed to belie, or was it the cause of its owner’s poverty?

“I envy you your life,” he said, buttoning up his coat and gazing at the innumerable portraits of brunettes and blondes on the studio walls. “There must be so much beauty, poetry, colour in it, novelty, change.” And he sighed, thinking of his eighteen years at Meadow View with Maria.

“Oh, I don’t know,” returned the artist. “One gets sick of it, you know; so many women and all jealous and squabbling with one another. One longs sometimes for a home and a little peace and quietness.”

“What a pity we can’t change places,” mused George as he walked home thinking over the artist’s words. Then he fell to wondering what the model’s face would be like. “A nice little face when she smiles and gets some colour,” the artist had said, and it rather took his fancy. Ruby! It was a sweet name! And she, like himself, was sighing for romance in her life, was evidently just as lonely and unappreciated as he was. By the time he got back to Mervyn Road, his face had assumed its usual chastened expression.

Maria seemed rather more dull and sour than usual.

“Why didn’t you come back to tea?” she enquired.

George flushed.

“You have been out so often to tea lately,” he said.

“Well, I wasn’t to-day,” she snapped. “You might let me know when you’re not coming home till dinner.”

“I’ll be at the office late, I know, the day after to-morrow,” replied George, trying to speak naturally, but getting redder and redder.

“All right,” returned Maria, “I’m glad to know it. I’ll go and have tea with Aunt Emma.”

“Do, my dear, and I’ll get back in time for dinner.”

“I should hope so,” rejoined Maria.

George was amiability itself that evening. The glow of the picture had got into his heart and warmed it, and that night he could not sleep for thinking of it. What might not this adventure lead up to? He had heard of men who had cosy little flats, the existence of which was unknown to their lawful wives. He had always thought this very wrong, but now he began to feel sympathy with those men. Perhaps, like himself they had dull, unsympathetic wives; perhaps they, too, were yearning after colour in their lives. A little flat and all furnished in red, which could be kept very warm so that its occupant could wear those nice pink and blue things he saw in the windows of the Burlington Arcade, and dispense with woolly jackets. Silk stockings, too! He had often thought it would be nice to have someone to take those neat boxes of silk stockings home to that he saw on the counter of men’s shops when he went to buy his ties. He had never thought of Maria. Silk stockings didn’t go with Meadow View--they went with little flats. Of course, it might be rather expensive, but then, why should he not spend something on his own amusements? He was very liberal with Maria. She was always buying new hats. Now last year, she had had--how many? There was the hat with the green feathers, and--er--er the hat with the green feathers, and--and--the hat with the green feathers. Well, there, he couldn’t think of any other hat, so he supposed she had had only one last year, and finally, trying to find another hat for Maria, he fell asleep.

* * * * *

The great day came and with a beating heart, Mr. George Morris left his office early and hurried to the studio, arriving there some minutes before the appointed time. The artist let him in himself, and George thought the studio looked more attractive than ever. The sun was streaming through the lowered red blinds, the stove was burning brightly, there were flowers on the many little tables and a heavy fragrance from burning pastilles in the air. He was quite sorry to have to go into the dark recesses of the bedroom in the corner, but his host insisted on it and gave him a chair well back against the wall away from the curtain. He gave him a paper, but as it was too dark to read there with any comfort and he was strictly enjoined not to make the faintest noise, so that he could not turn its pages, it was obvious the paper was not much use to him. And how could anyone read in that state of high-strung expectation in which Mr. George Morris now found himself?

After sitting there alone in the obscurity for what seemed an interminable time, he heard a ring at the main door and the artist going out to answer it. They seemed to linger a long time at the door and he thought he heard some ripples of laughter that set all his pulses beating. Then he heard the studio door open and evidently two persons entering. But he was disappointed that he could not hear their conversation, hardly their voices through the muffling folds of the heavy curtains. He was afraid to leave his seat and approach nearer the curtains for fear lest some noise of his movement might betray him. The model’s ears might be sharper than his own. There was quite a long pause of silence, and he wondered what they were doing. Perhaps the model was undressing. Then he heard the moving of furniture and supposed the scene was being arranged. The heavy bed with its elaborate red drapery that figured in the picture had to be pushed to its right position on the dais. He sat impatiently on his chair, the notes all ready in his hand to be given to the artist in that blissful moment when he should pass by him on his way out, leaving him alone with the adorable model.

At last his host’s light step approached the other side of the curtains, a hand was laid on them, and he heard his voice say: “I’ll just fetch that tube,” and then the curtains were pulled apart.

Morris sprang to his feet and stood spellbound. There was the lovely picture in the life, the warm interior, the gorgeous bed, the crimson lights and in the centre, the feminine figure of lovely whiteness with the flowing hair in the pose of just getting into bed.

The artist passed swiftly by him, pulled the notes out of George’s nerveless hand as he stood there staring, then passed on noiselessly to the door which he closed behind him with the faintest click. Faint though it was, it came to George’s ears and roused him. He was alone--the room, the scene, the model was his! With outstretched arm he rushed forward to clasp this beauty, this dream, this delight to him. He reached the dais. His arms were almost round her lovely shoulders when the model turned.

A shriek rang through the studio: “_George!_”

“_Maria!_”

A NOVEL ELOPEMENT

The train puffed its way along its line through one of the prettiest parts of Kent and carried among its many passengers a bridal couple that had that morning been married and were now _en route_ for their honeymoon.

Three weeks ago they had never seen each other, these two, who now at the respective ages of eighteen and twenty-five, had taken their solemn oath to remain together till Death. They had met at a dance. He had been in the mood to marry somebody; she was already rather tired of refusing offers and accepted his for a change. Their engagement had been a joyous whirl, and both were very happy now and were quite convinced that their choice was excellent. Eva thought Eric was so clever and had such a wonderful mind and character because he always agreed with her in conversation. Eric was so occupied with gazing into her blue eyes when he answered her searching questions, that he had not the remotest idea what it was he agreed to. If she said she loved dogs he said he thought there was nothing so jolly and faithful; if she said women should have votes, he said it would be a shame if they hadn’t. If she said she adored music, he said his happiest hours were passed listening to her playing; if she said vivisection was a blot on our civilization, he said it was a beastly, unnatural practice and ought to be stopped. If she said the traffic in old horses should be abolished he told her his idea had always been to found a home where old horses could end their days in peace. Once, when he trod on the tail of her mother’s cat, he had seemed, to her surprise, a little callous about it. She had reproached him. The cat had been picked up immediately by him, fondled on his knee and given a saucer of milk by way of consolation.

Eva simply glowed with joy and love after such conversations and incidents, and when her mother pointed out that she knew very little of the man and that the engagement was very short, she answered:

“It doesn’t matter, we are so alike and take the same view of everything. We are sure to be happy.”

She honestly thought she saw him in his words. All she saw was what he let her see--the reflection of her own warm-hearted, clear-headed self. She had really thought out the subjects on which she formed her well-founded opinions. When she offered these to him, as he never thought out anything and had no opinions, he accepted hers just as lightly and easily as he would have accepted the contrary ones, if offered!

It is always very difficult for the deep, strong nature of a woman to realise the facile worthlessness of a man’s. She was happy as she sat in the corner of the carriage, her hand tucked into his. She was sure--or _nearly_ sure--that she had found a good, great man. He was quite sure he had found a girl with a pretty face and nice figure--these were clear to the eye, no bother of thinking them out--so both young people were blissfully content and satisfied.

Suddenly the easy motion of the train stopped. A jar and a jerk, then it drew up motionless where the line ran through a pretty wood. Eric sprang up and put his head out of the window. It was autumn, the evening chill, and dusk. He could not see ahead--only that they were not stopping at any station. Presently the guard came along by the side of the train:

“There’s an obstruction on the line, sir, on ahead! Part of a tunnel fallen in. It will take some clearing away, too. We can’t get on to-night.”

Most of the other passengers were looking out and listening to his discouraging accents. Their eyes wandered over the wood in which the train was pulled up. It stood golden in autumn leaf, silent and chill. It seemed unresponsive, and to offer no solution of their difficulties. Then plans began to be made and eagerly discussed. Some of the passengers were in favor of returning to the last station and stopping there the night, being somewhat reluctantly assured by the guard they could “get on in the morning.”

Eric withdrew his head and sat down by Eva.

“What would you like to do, darling?”

Eva was gazing into the mystery of the shadowy wood.

“Could we camp there?” she said. “Under that golden canopy, it’s very lovely!”

Eric’s face lengthened.

“Hardly, dear, I think. It’s so damp and----”

“There is a lovely full moon rising behind the trees,” she answered.

Eric was silent. The wood did not appeal to him, nor the rising moon. Neither did the “Bull and Cow” which was the station inn and the only one they had seen from the last station as they passed.

In the pause that ensued the guard entered the carriage and approached the young couple confidentially.

“We’ve decided to make a run back, sir, from here; but if I may make a suggestion, there’s a nice farmhouse not a stone’s throw from here where you’d be most comfortable. I know the party as keeps it would put you up for the night and give you a good supper.”

Eva looked up brightly.

“A farmhouse? Is it a pretty one?”

“Well, I couldn’t say as it’s so very pretty,” returned the guard doubtfully, “but there’s good ale to be had and fowls and pork and nice rooms, too, what they let in the summer.”

Eric became decisive.

“I think, darling, that’s really the best we can do, and if it’s quite near we can get our light luggage carried over.”

A man was found by the guard. They gathered their wraps and light cases together. In a few moments they were standing on the damp soil by the side of the train, listening to the directions he was giving for the route.

It did not sound so very near:

“You keeps away from the wood and you goes up the hill to the top and then down on the other side till you comes to the bridge, and don’t cross the bridge, but keep along by the stream till you get to a stile, and you cross the stile and go through two fields and then there’s a bit of a wood and you go through the wood and then you comes out on a bit of a slope and the farm’s just facing you.”

“But that’s a long way,” expostulated Eric. Eva was surprised at his cross tone. She had never heard it before.

“It will be a lovely walk on this moonlight night,” she volunteered.

“It’s not more’n fifteen minutes or ’arf-an-hour’s walk,” said the guard in an aggrieved tone, “and you can’t miss it, and the ale’s good.”

Eric tipped him. The man shouldered the cases and they started. They followed their instructions to keep away from the wood and took a little narrow path that wound up to the top of the hill. The moon was just peeping over its brow and made long shadows fall from the trees that stood here and there. The air was damp and cool and full of the scent of late roses and wet leaves.

To the girl it was all pure enjoyment, only clouded a little by the fact that Eric seemed so put out. They walked side by side in silence. The man trudged along behind them, silent also. Up and up till the ridge was reached, then down and down on the other side. Eva walked with springing steps admiring the calm beauty of it all, drawing pleasure from each little detail of star in the sky or gleam of moonlight on the brook. She hazarded a few enthusiastic remarks, but Eric did not seem to hear them, and there was silence until the second field beyond the stile was reached. Then through the quiet air came suddenly to them a strange sound--a low, hollow sound of misery. Eva stopped:

“What is that sound, Eric?”

“Dog barking, I should think,” he answered shortly.

“I never heard a dog bark like that before; it has an awful, extraordinary sound.”

“Yes, because the beast has barked himself hoarse, I should think, that’s all.”

Eva stood listening.

“Yes, I suppose it is hoarse as you say, but what a terrible sound.”

It was a terrible lamenting cry of a soul in misery that came to them wailing over the wood and the stream.

“Please come along,” Eric said as she stood there with dilating eyes. “We don’t want to spend the night here.”

Eva walked on. The sound of the barking, if barking it could be called, becoming clearer and nearer as they advanced. They were in the wood now, and the moonlight falling through the trees made beautiful patterns and traceries on the moss-grown path, but Eva now had no eyes for it. She was listening to that long-drawn wail of pain that came fitfully through the silver air.

“But aren’t you sorry for it?” she asked.

“I don’t know. It’s barked itself into that condition, I expect. I suppose it’s one of the farm dogs. I hope the brute won’t go on like that all night.”

Eva was silent. It was not quite what she expected Eric to say, but she made no comment.

They were through the wood, on the slope, and there was the farmhouse at last facing them on the slope opposite.

It looked comfortable enough and cheery; well-built and solid with a warm blaze of light in its lower windows. A large farmyard was close at its side; an orchard on the other side. From behind the house the hollow, melancholy barking continued, belying the aspect of peace and rest.

At the door of the farmhouse they received a warm welcome. It was thrown open by the stout, good-tempered looking woman herself, while her husband and son, burly figures in their rough farm clothes, lounged up to the threshold, hands in pockets, to stare at the strangers. Behind them at the end of the passage or hall a door stood open to warmth and lights and a table laid for supper.

Farmer Bates and his wife let rooms in the summer, so they knew the ways of the rich and those who were not farmers. There was no difficulty. They could have a nice room, they could have hot water, they could have baths and they could have early tea in the morning; they could have roast chicken and soup and apple tart for supper.

Eric cheered up and Eva saw the expression she was familiar with come back to his face. The “engagement expression” as she now christened it in her mind. It was the only one she had seen for those three weeks--the only one she knew--but she saw now his face had others.

She was asked to go in and sit by the fire, and did so while the farmer’s young, handsome son took the place opposite. Eric was arranging terms with the woman and seeing their luggage carried upstairs.

The young farmer started a conversation as he was accustomed to do with the summer visitors. Eva was preoccupied; she wanted to ask about the dog, but she hesitated as to how best to approach the subject, and before she had decided, the others came back into the room.

The supper was quite a merry meal for all except herself. It was all quiet outside now, but in spite of the talk going on round her, her ears were only listening for that call from without. Eric grew quite jovial; he approved the farmer’s ale and drank heartily. The farming family were pleased at their guests’ appreciation, and the prospect of the good pay coming in. Bridegrooms were always generous. Suddenly, across the laughter and the talk, it came again; that awful wail of hopeless misery. The hosts did not appear to hear it, but Eva’s face blanched, and a look of annoyance flashed across Eric’s handsome countenance.

Eva turned to the young man next her:

“Why has that dog got such a peculiar bark?” she asked.

“Because he’s going mad, I think,” he answered. “We’re going to shoot him in the morning.”

The young farmer was quite surprised by the look of distress that come to the girl’s face.

“Oh, but why?” she exclaimed. “I think from his bark he wants water. Let me take him some.”

The man laughed:

“You take him water? Why you couldn’t get near him. He’s so savage he’d eat you alive.”

“What has made him so savage?”

“Well, we’ve kept him on the chain for seven years, and it’s sent him crazy, I think,” he answered indifferently. “We haven’t been able to get near him for years; we just throw him his food and push the water to him with a pole.”

“Do you mean you’ve kept him chained up and never let him free once, never given him any exercise for seven years?”

“Oh, he gets exercise enough dancing about at the end of that chain and howling. We let him howl in the winter for we don’t notice him, and it’s too much trouble to go out and bash him, but in the summer when the visitors are here we thrash him when he barks, for they don’t like it, and if it annoys you I’ll soon settle him now.”

And before she realised what he was going to do, he rose from his place, strode up to where some huge horsewhips were ranged against the wall, and then with one in his hand, went to the door. The burly farmer turned in his chair.

“That’s right, Steve, you go and give him a good hiding. Teach him to behave when we have ladies here.”

The son would have gone out, but Eva had sprung up and she put herself between him and the door.

“Pray don’t,” she said. “It does distress me to hear him, but I wouldn’t have him beaten for anything.”

The young farmer looked down into her blanched face and dilated eyes. Their beauty conquered him.

“As you like,” he said rather sullenly, and hung the whip up again on the wall.

The farmer himself laughed.

“Now then, missis,” he called banteringly. “You’ve no call to interfere. If he wants to beat our dog, why shouldn’t we?”

“Don’t be foolish, Eva. Come and sit down,” Eric said. His tone was full of annoyance.

She came back to the table and sat down facing the farmer. She was white and trembling.