I 
 
 BY NEITH BOYCE
 
 r~V 
 
 < 
 
 j /'
 
 THE BOND
 
 THE BOND 
 
 BY 
 
 NEITH BOYCE 
 
 Author of "The Eternal Spring," "The Forerunner," 
 "The Folly of Other}" 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DUFFIELD & COMPANY 
 
 1908
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY 
 DUFFIELD & COMPANY 
 
 THE PREMIER PRESS 
 NEW YORK
 
 PAKT I 
 
 2228943
 
 THE BOND 
 
 THE painter had worked for half an hour 
 almost silently, absorbed in his task; and 
 his sitter had watched him with interest which 
 finally demanded a more active expression. She 
 moved abruptly and said with a plaintive air : 
 
 " Do you know, I think I'm tired. I'd like to 
 rest a little now." 
 
 " Oh, of course I beg your pardon, I'm afraid 
 I wasn't thinking of the time," he said quickly, 
 but still hovering before his canvas he splashed 
 in another touch or two of violet colour and then 
 stood back, frowning, and blinking his eyes as 
 though suddenly roused. " Have we been at it 
 very long? " 
 
 " Hours, I think," said the lady, smiling and 
 stretching her arms languidly. " It's gone well 
 to-day, hasn't it? " 
 
 "Awfully well. But I'm afraid I've been a 
 brute, keeping you at it so." He laid down his 
 brushes and looked at his watch. " By Jove, it's 
 nearly five! Why didn't you speak before?" 
 
 " Oh, I hated to interrupt, you seemed so 
 interested. And I was interested, too, watching 
 your face. But I should like some tea now. 
 Shall I make it?"
 
 10 THEBOND 
 
 " Oh, will you? I'm not very good at it " 
 
 Still he seemed but half awake to anything 
 but the canvas, which he was studying with 
 knitted brows. The lady stepped down, moving 
 her shoulders with an expression of fatigue, and 
 her black floating skirts touched him in passing. 
 She paused behind him, glanced at fhe portrait, 
 and then at him. Her eyes caressed his bent 
 head, joined powerfully to the shoulders, rather 
 rough-hewn under the close-clipped hair, full of 
 vitality and force. With a quick breath he laid 
 down his palette and turned toward her. She 
 was looking at the portrait. 
 
 " It has got on," she said. 
 
 " Oh, yes all that modelling of the face, you 
 see it came like a flash to-day. But now let's 
 have tea, and forgive me for tiring you." 
 
 Now he looked at her as though he saw her. 
 He looked tired, too, all at once; light had gone 
 out of his face, and lines of nervous fatigue 
 showed in it. Yet it was an essentially vital 
 face; handsome, clear in form, with a warm 
 mouth, cool eyes, a determined chin. 
 
 The lady smiled at him and went to the tea- 
 table, which stood behind a painted screen and 
 was elaborately furnished. The alcohol lamp 
 had to be filled, and this Basil accomplished 
 deftly, with an ease that characterised all the 
 movements of his hands. The lamp once going, 
 he threw himself on a couch beside the table, lit
 
 THEBOND 11 
 
 a cigarette for the lady, and his own, and defi- 
 nitely gave up his work for the day. His whole 
 attitude expressed fatigue, and he hid his face for 
 a moment on his outstretched arm and yawned. 
 Then he woke to the social demand. The lady 
 was looking at him with exigent eyes. 
 
 " I don't think I shall be so good to you an- 
 other time," she said. " It tires you as well as 
 me, and then you don't talk ! " And she laughed 
 a little. "And I believe I like your talk even 
 better than your picture, though I don't doubt 
 that's going to be good. But I don't want you to 
 be entirely drowned in it ! " 
 
 " That's the worst of work," said Basil, lean- 
 ing forward and looking smilingly attentive. " It 
 prevents one from doing more interesting 
 things." 
 
 " Not more interesting to you. I watched your 
 face that last half hour, and I never saw you so 
 absorbed in anything. You change quite amaz- 
 ingly you look keener, harder, and all the 
 friendliness goes out of you. I don't think I like 
 you as much that way. But I believe it's the real 
 you, and the other thing is only a social form. 
 You don't really like people as much as you pre- 
 tend to!" 
 
 " I like some people as much as I pretend to," 
 said Basil amiably. "And I like people really 
 more than work, if that's what you mean. I en- 
 joy talking to you, for example, much more than
 
 12 THEBOND 
 
 painting your portrait only, you see, you 
 wanted the portrait painted." 
 
 " Oh, I know. I tell you, I never saw you so 
 much alive the mental part of you so com- 
 pletely awake as in that last half hour, when 
 you'd forgotten all about me! Your talk with 
 me is only play, by comparison it's like a 
 cigarette or a cup of tea." 
 
 " It's play in the sense of being pleasure, if 
 you like. But that's what talk with a charming 
 woman ought to be, if I may state my humble 
 opinion. No matter how clever the woman may 
 be, or how much what she talks about may inter- 
 est you, I maintain that the mere fact that you 
 like to look at her, that you feel her charm, 
 lightens the most intellectual conversation to a 
 point where it may be called, perhaps, play. And 
 for my part, I rejoice in it. A purely mental ef- 
 fort, a problem of form to solve, is something 
 else. It demands a narrower, fiercer concentra- 
 tion. But how many things it leaves out ! " 
 
 He laughed again, and his look expressed, cer- 
 tainly, a definite pleasure and some playful- 
 ness. 
 
 Impatience flashed from the lady's passionate 
 eyes. 
 
 " I don't say that I give you any intellectual 
 problems to solve," she said impetuously, " or 
 that I make many calls on your deep mental ca- 
 pacity. Only one would like to be taken as seri-
 
 THEBOND 13 
 
 ously, now and then, as a canvas and a handful 
 of paints ! " 
 
 " Dear Mrs. Perry," said Basil quickly, and it 
 seemed the right thing to do to lay his hand on 
 hers. But at that moment the kettle, like an 
 echo, boiled over passionately, and the lady 
 hastily made tea. 
 
 " You know," he went on, " how much I'm in- 
 terested in you, in your personality, and how 
 much I've enjoyed these talks. A human being 
 interests me much more than a canvas and a 
 handful of paints but in so many different 
 ways that the expression, at one time and an- 
 other, is different " 
 
 " Oh, I quite understand," said the lady 
 quickly, as she gave him his cup of tea. " And 
 you know I'm interested in your work," she as- 
 sured him emphatically. " One reason I wanted 
 to stop posing to-day is that you promised to 
 show me some drawings, you know." 
 
 " Yes, of course, if you like " 
 
 He started to put down his cup, but she said 
 petulantly, " Oh, finish your tea first. I'm in 
 no hurry I mean, to go away." 
 
 " I'm awfully sorry, but I've got an engage- 
 ment a little later," said Basil, and he absently 
 looked at his watch again. " Teresa's coming in. 
 She's due now, but she's always late." He 
 smiled at that. " I daresay we'll have time for 
 tea and the drawings, too, before she gets round."
 
 14 THEBOND 
 
 " Oh," said Mrs. Perry, looking suddenly 
 rather bored. She leaned back in her chair and 
 drank her tea slowly. 
 
 She was a woman of about thirty, simply but 
 richly dressed all in black. Her figure was tall, 
 slender, nervous; her face oval and heavier in 
 the lower part; her mouth thin-lipped and im- 
 perious; her eyes set rather close together, very 
 dark, full of intensity and will. Her thick black 
 hair was parted on her forehead under her 
 feathery hat. On her fingers she wore a number 
 of jewels. She was handsome, and every motion 
 she made breathed coquetry not light, however, 
 but passionate and serious not intentional, but 
 an involuntary appeal. 
 
 " This is your wife's tea-table, of course," she 
 said, glancing at the silver and porcelain. " You 
 wouldn't have anything so pretty for yourself, 
 would you?" 
 
 " I don't believe so," said Basil cheerfully. 
 " She often works here, you see. This is her 
 corner. She models little things very well. I'll 
 show you something she's doing, if you like." 
 
 " Yes, thanks, later. But the drawings first, 
 if you please. Another cup of tea? " 
 
 " No, thanks yes, I will, if you don't mind." 
 
 He put down his cup, lit another cigarette, and 
 went to get the drawings, which were in a large 
 portfolio, tucked away in a corner of the rather 
 untidy studio. He held them up one by one be-
 
 T H E B O N D 1.5 
 
 fore Mrs. Perry, who lay back in her chair and 
 looked, without other comment than a desire to 
 look at each drawing longer than Basil seemed 
 to expect. 
 
 They were nearly all in black and white ; here 
 and there a few had touches of colour; all were 
 done with apparent economy of means, with 
 hard simple lines which made a curious effect 
 of life, brutal or pathetic. The subjects helped 
 this effect. They were studies of the life of the 
 city, generally in its rougher aspects. A street- 
 girl and a man sitting at a table in a bare caf6 ; 
 two tramps on a bench in the park ; a chorus-girl, 
 singing; a vaudeville dancer; a girl lying on a 
 bed, smoking opium; a negro drinking-place ; a 
 scene from a Japanese play, a man seated in the 
 middle of the stage committing hara-kiri; the 
 audience at the Chinese theatre, a row of laugh- 
 ing faces ; the Italian puppet-show ; an East Side 
 cafe, full of Slavic types; some Eastern women 
 doing the danse du venire; street scenes in the 
 Jewish and Syrian quarters; a Bowery bar- 
 tender; some immigrants at the Barge Office; a 
 row of men at a gambling-table ; a drunken group 
 at the Haymarket. 
 
 " What life you put into them ! " said Mrs. 
 Perry as he laid the last one down, and she 
 shivered. 
 
 "You don't like that kind of life?" Basil 
 asked, laughing.
 
 ,16 THE BOND 
 
 " Why do you take those particular forms 
 sordid forms? " 
 
 " Because they interest me." 
 
 " Yes, but why do they interest you? It seems 
 to me that art ought to show us the beautiful, 
 the ideal not sordid, revolting things." She 
 was genuinely moved. Her eyes looked near to 
 tears. " Life is too terrible when you take it 
 that way you play with it ! " 
 
 " No," said Basil. " I try only to show it as it 
 seems to me in some of its significant aspects. I 
 don't claim anything large in the way of art for 
 these sketches but one might perhaps detect 
 some sort of intellectual intention in them. 
 They're comments on social man man at play, 
 trying to amuse himself. Perhaps you've no- 
 ticed that nearly all of them are that." 
 
 " Yes, and you satirise the poor creatures, 
 you make them more tragic than they are in 
 reality ! I can't see any beauty in that ! " 
 
 " You really haven't seen what I've tried to 
 do," said Basil positively. "And I believe it's 
 your fault and not mine. As to reality what, 
 dear Mrs. Perry, can you know about the reality 
 of these people? . . . And I think your idea 
 of beauty might seem rather chromo-lithographic 
 to me something like Greuze, perhaps? Or, per- 
 haps, I don't know what you mean by beauty. I 
 assure you that I see enormous interest in some 
 of those things I've done in the subjects of them,
 
 THE BOND IT 
 
 I mean. If they were to me ugly and sordid I 
 shouldn't be interested in them. You'll probably 
 think me sentimental, but almost any aspect of 
 life seems to me beautiful in some way." 
 
 " Sentimental, no ! I don't see any sentiment 
 in those things they're merciless! What you 
 mean by beauty, I suppose, is that you see some- 
 thing interesting to do technically. It's your 
 drawing you're interested in, not the poor 
 creatures themselves." 
 
 " No, no ! " said Basil, laughing. " It's really 
 the poor creatures. I'd like to show what I see, 
 that's all. And apropos of your demand for 
 beauty, I remember what a good painter said to 
 me once, in criticising one of my attempts in the 
 Paris studio : ' Ne fais pas le reve; fats les choses 
 qui font reverS ' 
 
 " But what is there to make one dream in 
 those things of yours? No, I don't mean that, 
 they do make one dream, but nightmares ! What 
 is the good of dwelling on that side of life, so 
 long as one can't really help those poor 
 people " 
 
 " Oh, you're dreaming of soup-kitchens and 
 tracts, perhaps? That's not what I meant, 
 either ! Look at this fellow again. What do you 
 see in him? " 
 
 He held up the sketch of the bar-keeper. 
 
 " I see," said Mrs. Perry slowly, " a big, mus- 
 cular body, a sharp eye, a brutal face "
 
 18 THEBOND 
 
 "That's all? Look at the grip of that hand 
 on the counter as he leans across it look at the 
 poise of his head and the square glance. That's 
 a successful man. He makes the business go, 
 and he can deal with the toughest crowd that 
 ever tried to rush the place. I sketched him the 
 other day while he told me some of his exploits. 
 Do you think that man doesn't enjoy his life? 
 Do you feel like giving him a soup ticket? . . . 
 
 And these two bums " he showed the two 
 
 tramps on the Park bench, talking over a tat- 
 tered newspaper. " That one with the spectacles 
 is well known on the Bowery. They call him 
 the Professor. He's a university man, and if 
 you give him two bad whiskies he'll talk better 
 philosophy and better English than you'd be apt 
 to hear anywhere else in town. He went to 
 pieces, 'as society would say, that is, he lost his 
 job, because of a drug habit. Well, now, as it 
 happens, he's lost the drug habit. He's ex- 
 changed a chronic dyspepsia and a worrying 
 family for a tough body and a peaceful soul. 
 Don't ask me how he did it I only know he did. 
 There's a lot of primitive man even in a Profes- 
 sor, and coming down to it may be a shock, but 
 it isn't always a misfortune. Do you really 
 think, dear Mrs.. Perry, that the pretty people 
 who ride in carriages and shine in opera-boxes 
 are dead sure to get more out of life than my 
 friends here? Do you think they exemplify bet-
 
 THE BOND 19 
 
 ter the beautiful and the ideal? Do you think 
 even they'd be better fun to draw, not to say 
 talk to?" 
 
 " No, I don't think so, and that's not what I 
 meant. I daresay tramps are more interesting 
 to talk to and even to draw than conventional 
 people at least for you. You're so curious 
 about ' life ' ! How young you seem to me ! How 
 old are you, anyway?" 
 
 " Thirty," said Basil, dropping down again 
 on the couch and taking his second cup of tea. 
 
 "And I'm thirty-two. I was married at 
 twenty. I feel about fifty. ... If you'd 
 had my experience you wouldn't think the ugly 
 tragic things of life beautiful, or make pictures 
 of them." 
 
 She looked tragic, her intense eyes fixed on his 
 face. Above all, she looked confidential. It was 
 not her first confidence. She perhaps enjoyed 
 this situation more than Basil, but he was inter- 
 ested. The stuff of human life, the story, the 
 type, appealed to him keenly under whatever 
 form he met it, and he was apt to requite warmly 
 whatever of interest people gave him in this way. 
 But it was an intellectual and not an emotional 
 warmth ; and, though it might burn with a keen 
 and deceptive flame for the time, not to be 
 counted upon for steadiness. 
 
 Of the sort of interest that Mrs. Perry wanted 
 to awaken in him, there was as yet, if she had
 
 20 THEBOND 
 
 known him better, no sign. He liked many peo- 
 ple, in the degree in which they interested him; 
 one more intimacy, of the typical sort in which 
 he contributed intellectual frankness and the 
 other person emotional frankness, was not enor- 
 mously important to him. .With the lady it was 
 otherwise.
 
 II 
 
 TERESA came down the avenue, where a 
 vague breath of spring floated above the 
 muddy pavement. She walked with her quick, 
 light step toward the little park at the end of the 
 street, seeing with pleasure the faint touch of 
 green showing through the arch; but before 
 reaching it she turned into a side street, smiling. 
 She held her light-grey dress carefully up from 
 the walk, showing pretty, carefully-shod feet. A 
 great bunch of purple violets was fastened in her 
 short coat. Her eyes looked out from the shade 
 of a broad black hat, gaily, blue as the sky. 
 
 She went toward the rushing noisy stream of 
 Sixth Avenue; midway was the studio-building, 
 her destination. In front of the building a car- 
 riage was standing; a discreet brougham, dark- 
 blue in colour; two resplendent bay horses, a 
 coachman in light livery. A footman with a lap- 
 robe over his arm walked up and down before 
 the door of the studios. Teresa seemed to see in 
 the expression of the horses and the servants 
 that they had been waiting a long time. She 
 knew the carriage, and at sight of it the smile of 
 her eyes had vanished and she blushed suddenly 
 with vexation. She went into the building, but 
 in the hall she hesitated, walked up and down 
 for a few moments, and finally stopped before a 
 
 21
 
 22 THEBOND 
 
 half-open door, from which issued husky strains 
 of a bass voice chanting, 
 
 "In deinen Augen hab* ich 
 Einst gelesen . . ." 
 
 Teresa tapped at the door. 
 
 " Come in," said the voice. 
 
 She entered, but the sculptor was not visible. 
 In the half-twilight of the studio the crowd of 
 his vast cold images, his " family," as he called 
 them, loomed up with stony chastity. They were 
 all of heroic size or more. In the middle of the 
 room a colossal horse, a palaeolithic horse, 
 arched his neck and lifted a fore-foot. If the 
 foot fell, the floor would certainly sink. But 
 Teresa had seen it poised now for two years in 
 the same spot. The horse perhaps would stand 
 there until it or the building crumbled to pieces. 
 Even the sculptor did not expect anyone to 
 buy it. 
 
 " Behiit dich Gott, es war zu schon gervesen, 
 Behilt dich Gott, es hat nicht sollen sein," 
 
 warbled Erhart behind a screen where he was 
 making coffee. 
 
 Teresa mimicked the dying fall with which he 
 rendered the last words ; and Erhart burst from 
 behind the screen, still in his loose linen work- 
 ing-apron, his powerful arms bare to the elbows, 
 a steaming coffee-pot in one hand.
 
 THEBOND 23 
 
 " You ! " he cried. " Come in, come in, and 
 have coffee with me! Excuse my looks, I have 
 just stopped work, I'll be ready in five min- 
 utes. . . ." 
 
 " Don't bother, I can't stay. I have to fetch 
 Basil," said Teresa. 
 
 " But he has a sitter. Mrs. Perry hasn't gone 
 yet." 
 
 " How do you know? " asked Teresa, smiling. 
 " Do you watch for her? " 
 
 " Not I, but I can't help knowing when she 
 goes by. There's a swish, swish that you can't 
 mistake, and a blast of perfume whew! Araby 
 the blest couldn't touch it." 
 
 " That's the reason you leave your door open, 
 I suppose," suggested Teresa, looking bored. 
 
 Erhart was busy setting out cups, plates, a 
 plum-cake, and two silver mugs containing milk 
 and sugar on a small table. He put the coffee- 
 pot on the table and disappeared behind the 
 screen. 
 
 " Do sit down," he begged eagerly. " This is 
 awfully nice. When Mrs. P. goes we'll get Basil 
 in. You know it's ages since you've been here. 
 I want to show you my new group." 
 
 " Well," said Teresa indifferently. 
 
 She sat down and poured out the coffee, lis- 
 tening in spite of herself for the rustle of per- 
 fumed skirts. Erhart's pleasure in seeing her 
 evoked no response. But she was not ungra-
 
 24 THEBOND 
 
 cious. She smiled at him as he came to sit near 
 her, and said that the coffee was delicious. 
 
 " Yes, if I could sculp as well as I can make 
 coffee . . . ! " said Erhart, " Not that the 
 new group is so bad I'll show it to you . . . 
 But how are you? I haven't seen you for " 
 
 " For three days. Why haven't you been up 
 to lunch? " enquired Teresa rather maliciously. 
 
 Erhart's cold, handsome face betrayed a slight 
 embarrassment. 
 
 " Well, I imagine you're tired of me," he said. 
 " I suppose I have been coming too often . . ." 
 
 " Nonsense. You needn't fish in that way. I 
 shan't say anything agreeable to you. I'm in a 
 bad temper. Let's see your famous group." ' 
 
 He got up and lifted the damp cloth from 
 the clay. A male and a female figure, of more 
 than life size, were shown, half interlaced in the 
 relaxation of sleep. 
 
 " It's one of the studies for my ( Night,' " said 
 the sculptor. 
 
 " How inhuman they are ! " commented Te- 
 resa. " Like all your things. I think it's be- 
 cause you make them all so big and so muscular. 
 Look at that woman's biceps! She isn't a 
 woman ; she's a monster." 
 
 " She's splendid," said the sculptor with con- 
 viction. " She's ideal. Art should show what 
 people ought to be; it should be remote from 
 what they are. As the philosopher says, ' The
 
 THE BOND 
 
 L'O 
 
 Real is an immense outrage on the Ideal.' When 
 art submits to reality it's pure treason . . ." 
 
 He stood looking at his clay figures, drinking 
 his coffee slowly. In his big frame and his clear- 
 cut, high-boned face with its contemplative, large 
 eyes and tossed blonde hair, was something of 
 the cold and rather empty power that he put into 
 his work. 
 
 " When are you going to let me do that bust 
 of you? " he asked. 
 
 " Never. I don't want to bore myself sitting 
 to you, simply to serve as a pretext for some- 
 thing which wouldn't in the least resemble me! 
 Anyone else will do quite as well. And you 
 know I hate posing." 
 
 " You pose constantly for Basil." 
 
 " That's why I won't for anybody else. I have 
 too much of it." 
 
 " I could do a very good thing of you," said 
 Erhart, looking earnestly at her. " A sort of 
 mermaiden head, with smooth hair, with lowered 
 eyelids and a streak of wildness under them 
 and it would be much more like you than Basil's 
 Madonna effects." 
 
 Teresa turned her head suddenly. She heard 
 Basil's voice. He was coming down the corridor, 
 escorting Mrs. Perry. Teresa caught a glimpse 
 of the lady's sweeping black skirts as they passed 
 the door. She rose, and ignoring Erhart's at- 
 tempt to keep her a little longer, bade him good-
 
 26 THEBOND 
 
 bye and went on up the hall. There in the bare 
 room where Basil did his calm, persevering, ar- 
 dent work, was the portrait of Mrs. Perry, the 
 figure indicated by blotches of violet colour, the 
 face quite definite. Even in Basil's impression- 
 istic sketch it might be guessed that she was 
 handsome. The painted eyes fascinated Teresa, 
 and she was studying them when Basil came 
 abruptly in. His face lighted up at sight of her 
 with a quick pleasure that made him look boyish, 
 and a feeling of relief gave impetuous energy to 
 his greeting. 
 
 " Dearest sweetheart ! Where did you come 
 from? " he cried gaily, taking her round the 
 waist. "You're late." 
 
 Teresa bent slightly away from him and said 
 neutrally : 
 
 "I've been waiting in Erhart's place for half 
 an hour. It's you who are late. You said you'd 
 be ready at five." 
 
 " By Jove, I didn't notice the time ! The light 
 was so good, and the whole thing went so well 
 that I never thought of stopping. And, besides, 
 I expected you to come in any minute. Why 
 didn't you? " 
 
 " I didn't want to interrupt you," said Teresa, 
 coldly, slipping away from his arm. 
 
 " Oh, nonsense . . . What's the matter, 
 dearest? What have I done are you angry 
 .with me?"
 
 THE BOND 27 
 
 He put both hands on her shoulders, with a 
 little roughness, and bent toward her, smiling 
 quizzically, tenderly. 
 
 "My new dress! I'm sure you're all paint," 
 cried Teresa, and writhed away from him. 
 
 Basil looked at her, puzzled and apprehensive, 
 and she looked at the picture, maintaining her 
 offended air. Basil put his hands into the pock- 
 ets of his brown corduroy coat, took out his 
 cigarette-case, put it back again, and then stood 
 quietly gazing at her, his lips compressed 
 slightly, his eyes keen, searching, somewhat 
 troubled. Teresa's moods, though he did not 
 take them very seriously, always troubled the 
 surface of things for him. He was used to coax- 
 ing her into good humour, and it was a labour 
 that he never shrank from, for until it was ac- 
 complished nothing else seemed very important, 
 
 " Well, how do you like it? " he enquired at 
 last of Teresa's chill profile. 
 
 " It is a little theatrical," she said. 
 
 " Well, so is she. That is, she would seem so 
 to you, I daresay. She's very emotional." 
 
 " Really? She looks as though she had com- 
 mitted a mortal but pleasant sin, and was about 
 to go to confession, which she would enjoy even 
 more." 
 
 " That's clever of you," said Basil with a quick 
 admiring smile. " She has the capacity for sin, 
 and for confession, too. She's of the religious
 
 28 T H E B O N D 
 
 temperament, like most women who are very 
 physical." 
 
 " Oh," said Teresa, with a contemptuous droop 
 of her eyelids. " You'll be saying next that she's 
 spiritual." 
 
 " I do say it she is. She's thoroughly mys- 
 tical something you never can comprehend, 
 you little pagan ! " 
 
 Again Basil put his arm round his wife, and 
 again she repelled him, gently, but with unmis- 
 takable irritation. 
 
 " Why, Teresa, what is it? " he demanded. 
 "What's gone wrong don't you like me any 
 more? " 
 
 " No, I don't. You're too horrid," she replied 
 with decision. 
 
 "Well, tell me how," said Basil, drawing a 
 breath of relief. Usually when Teresa was of- 
 fended she retreated into a blank silence; when 
 he could get her to express her grievance he 
 knew it was already half forgiven. 
 
 " Tell me I didn't mean to be," he said with 
 a pleading look. 
 
 Teresa was the picture of melancholy. The 
 corners of her mouth and her eyelids expressed 
 resignation to all the bitterness of life. 
 
 " I think you might have remembered you had 
 an engagement with me and on this day, too 
 I daresay you forgot even what day it is our 
 anniversary dinner "
 
 T H E B O N D 29 
 
 " Dearest ! " cried Basil. This time lie seized 
 her firmly and kissed her. " I didn't forget it 
 I've been thinking of it all day ! . . ." 
 
 " No, you haven't. You forgot we were to go 
 out at five for a walk. You only thought about 
 painting that horrid woman, while she told you 
 about her sins and said her prayers! Hypo- 
 crite! " 
 
 " Which is the hypocrite she or I? " 
 
 " Both of you. Go and change your coat, I 
 want to get out. It will be dark now; we've 
 missed the* twilight." 
 
 Basil was not yet forgiven. Teresa was still 
 melancholy. Even the consciousness of the ex- 
 cellent cut of her new dress, the perfume of her 
 extravagant bunch of violets, the feeling of 
 Basil's uneasiness and fear lest their evening 
 should be spoilt, the knowledge that she had 
 only to smile to make him radiant and gay 
 all these mollifying influences she resisted for 
 the sake of discipline. It was necessary to make 
 Basil a little miserable before making him happy. 
 And also there was a vague but real shade that 
 overcast her pleasure in the rolling spectacle of 
 the avenue along which they walked, in the soft 
 cooling blue of the sky where stars were appear- 
 ing, and the mild air that smelt of spring, the 
 perfume of flower-stands at busy corners, the 
 haze of lights, the roar from streets beyond of 
 the great cityful homeward bound all the dis-
 
 30 THEBOND 
 
 cordant sights and sounds that closed her round, 
 isolating her small, personal, absorbing life in 
 the midst of this flood of life. She drank in 
 the sad gaiety of the hour, the dividing-line be- 
 tween day and night, between the day's work 
 and the quest of repose or pleasure. Its restless- 
 ness spoke deeply to her; the fatigue or the ex- 
 pectation of the faces that flashed into view un- 
 der the lights, the glaring allurements of some 
 streets to the west and to the east, offering food 
 and drink and amusement, the quick roll of a 
 closed carriage up the avenue, a girl passing 
 whose sparkling eyes rested intently on 
 Basil. . . . 
 
 Teresa glanced up at him quickly. Yes, he 
 had seen the girl. Teresa surprised the rapid 
 return of his glance to herself. She hated that 
 other look the interested, appraising look that 
 betrayed a whole past of fleeting encounters, of 
 fugitive souvenirs. She saw it often, for often 
 Basil was unconscious of it himself, and denied 
 it. She saw the involuntary look that women 
 gave to him. And each such perception cast in 
 its tiny grain to trouble her mind, conscious 
 vaguely of a problem there to solve, of which all 
 the conditions were not as yet known to her. 

 
 Ill 
 
 nnHEY walked up to the entrance of the big 
 - Park, a wall of dark-green starred with 
 electric lights; Basil talking vigorously about 
 the events of his day his picture, a luncheon 
 with a French painter visiting the city and two. 
 Russian anarchists, an interview with a pub- 
 lisher whom he had invited to consider making 
 a book of his drawings. With Teresa's hand 
 clasped on his arm he felt forgiven for an offense 
 which he was not conscious of having committed. 
 They took the lumbering stage, with its cadaver- 
 ous horses and quaint air of decay, and rode 
 down to the restaurant where Basil had ordered 
 dinner. They were the only passengers, and 
 Teresa said, as the primitive vehicle rolled 
 pathetically against the rapid current of luxury 
 setting uptown : 
 
 " Dear old One-Hoss Shay, I hope it doesn't 
 fall to pieces before we get there! How nice it 
 is to be poor, Basil." 
 
 " What does that mean? I know it doesn't 
 mean what it says," he answered, laughing and 
 holding her close against his shoulder. 
 
 " Yes, it does. People don't bother about us, 
 and we needn't bother about them. I like to 
 
 31
 
 32 T H E B O N D 
 
 feel lost in this tremendous whirl. It makes 
 somehow my troubles seem small and my happi- 
 ness great." 
 
 " Dearest you're happy then? " Basil said 
 tenderly, half-startled. 
 
 " I'm perfectly happy. I keep wondering what 
 will happen to spoil it all. . . . Someone 
 will take you away from me ! " 
 
 He laughed out at that. 
 
 " If you cared half as seriously for me as I do 
 for you ! " 
 
 But suddenly she trembled in his clasp, and 
 hid her face on his shoulder, tilting her big hat 
 over one ear. 
 
 "Teresa! You strange child! What is the 
 matter with you to-day? " he cried, trying to see 
 her eyes. 
 
 " No nothing let me alone," she said im- 
 periously, though in a stifled voice. And she 
 clung to him silent for some moments. Then 
 she sat up, put her hat straight, and cried joy- 
 ously : 
 
 " We've gone too far stop the thing !" 
 
 Basil stopped it, and Teresa jumped gaily 
 down the steps. 
 
 " It lasted after all ! " she cried. " I always 
 feel things are going to fall to pieces what a 
 relief when they don't! ... I thought our 
 dinner was going to be spoiled, but now it isn't, 
 and you shall tell me all about your Mrs. Perry."
 
 THEBOND 33 
 
 "Mrs. Perry! What's she got to do with our 
 dinner? I'll tell you all I know with pleasure, 
 but " 
 
 As Basil opened the outer door of the restau- 
 rant for her, Teresa smiled defiantly into his 
 perplexed eyes. 
 
 " She came near spoiling our evening, I tell 
 you ! You know when I'm in a bad mood . . ." 
 
 "Oh, I know!" 
 
 He shook his head ruefully. They found their 
 little table, with a bouquet of red and white car- 
 nations upon it, and the chairs tilted up. It 
 stood next the wall, before a large mirror, which 
 reflected all the pale colouring, shaded lights, 
 and palm-trees of the room, and a vista of other 
 rooms beyond. The place had a foreign air; 
 nearly all the patrons spoke or tried to speak in 
 French to the waiters, and when the orchestra 
 began to play Strauss waltzes an air of gaiety 
 diffused itself among the mixed crowd. By 
 eight o'clock the room was full. Basil had or- 
 dered cocktails to begin their dinner and some 
 good champagne. He liked Teresa to drink a 
 little, for it made her gayer and more talkative, 
 and her melancholy moods irritated him. To- 
 night melancholy hung in the air for a time. 
 Teresa looked vaguely about the room and 
 seemed to be half-listening, half-dreaming. But 
 suddenly her eyes brightened, she leaned for- 
 ward, smiling at Basil, and began to talk.
 
 34 THEBOND 
 
 " This is nice after all," she said. " I feel the 
 spring to-day, and it always excites me and makes 
 me sad. . . . And then I've been thinking. 
 . . . It's a year to-day since we were married 
 does it seem so long to you? " 
 
 "Yes, longer. I feel as though I had been 
 born married," Basil said with his quick radiant 
 smile. 
 
 " Oh, / don't ! It seems like yesterday that we 
 ran away! It's like a dream, the time has gone 
 so fast. . . . And 7 was not born married! 
 You are the same as you were before, but I am 
 different. . . . The centre of gravity has 
 been changed, and I am tottering ! " 
 
 She said it laughing, but with a meaning that 
 Basil answered by a look of passionate tender- 
 ness. Unconscious of the people about them, he 
 put his hand across the table and touched hers. 
 Teresa glanced into the mirror. It reflected a blur 
 of bright colours, for most of the women were 
 gaily dressed; a number of ordinary and rather 
 dissipated faces and a few interesting ones. It 
 reflected Basil's fine and vigorous profile and his 
 brown colouring; and Teresa's face in three-quar- 
 ters view, her dark, silky hair, rolled in a thick 
 coil on her neck ; her narrow eyes that varied in 
 colour like sea-water, from grey to green or 
 blue; her thin but sweetly curved and sensitive 
 lips. The mirror showed also a corner of the 
 next room and a table where two persons were
 
 THEBOND 35 
 
 dining. Teresa bent forward with sudden 
 interest. 
 
 " There's Mary Addams ! In the other room 
 don't turn, she'll see we're looking at her. 
 Guess who's with her you'll never guess it's 
 Jack!" 
 
 " Jack Addams ! Oh, you're mistaken, it can't 
 be, Teresa ! " 
 
 Basil was quite as keenly interested. 
 
 " But it is, I tell you ! And they look like a 
 pair of lovers. I wonder if they can be going to 
 make it up." 
 
 " Oh, they can't be. That would be too much. 
 After the things that came out in the trial ! Even 
 Mary wouldn't dare ! " protested Basil. " Are 
 you sure, Teresa? " 
 
 " Perfectly I can see him perfectly. . . . 
 And there's no limit to the imbecility of women," 
 said Teresa. " But if she does take him 
 back . . ." 
 
 " She won't, on the children's account. She 
 wouldn't have gone into court with that case if 
 it hadn't been impossible " 
 
 "Well, why are they here together then, and 
 hid away in a corner where they think they 
 won't be seen? None of Mary's crowd ever come 
 here, I suppose. There, she's seen us." Teresa 
 quickly looked away. " Let her think we haven't 
 seen her." 
 
 " By Jove ! it's queer," said Basil. " I thought
 
 36 THEBOND 
 
 they had made a clean division into two camps 
 and never even went to the same houses." 
 
 " It's true. At least the few people that stood 
 by Jack Mary has cut," said Teresa. " It's the 
 queerest thing I've ever known." 
 
 To keep her eyes away from that reflection in 
 the mirror, invisible to Basil, she looked over 
 the room, where light veils of smoke were begin- 
 ning to rise in the warm air. The orchestra 
 was playing a Hungarian medley of wild slides 
 and shuddering thrills. The waiter lifted the 
 bottle of champagne from its ice-bath, looked at 
 it suggestively and filled their glasses. 
 
 " We'll have another, shall we? " said Basil. 
 
 " No, we won't. The place is beginning to 
 look hazy now." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense, you've only had two glasses." 
 
 "And a cocktail. It's quite, quite enough. 
 Even for an anniversary. I wonder what the 
 Jacks are celebrating! Their unwedding?" 
 
 " Never mind them, let them celebrate what- 
 ever they like. They interrupted something very 
 interesting that you were saying." 
 
 " What was it, child? " 
 
 " Why, that you are different. I can't see it. 
 You're the same cool little person that you were 
 when I made you marry me ! " 
 
 " No, I'm not. I'm in love with you now." 
 
 He threw back his head and laughed, and 
 there was a note of pain in his laughter. He
 
 THEBOND 37 
 
 looked at her, and his eyes were clouded suddenly 
 with tears. 
 
 " You ! No if you were ! " 
 
 " You foolish boy, you dear creature, can't 
 you see it? I'll prove it to you. Basil, I'm 
 frightfully jealous." 
 
 " Jealous ! Not you. How could you be what 
 is there to be jealous about? " 
 
 " Everything ! Everybody ! Every woman that 
 conies to your studio, or that you look at in the 
 street. Every woman you've ever known. Your 
 past your present your future." 
 
 She changed colour. Her eyes, deeply blue 
 now under straight, dark brows, looked fiercely 
 into Basil's. But he took her emotion lightly. 
 
 "That's absurd, you're only trying to please 
 me. You know you're the only woman in the 
 world for me, the only one who has ever existed 
 for me, really." 
 
 " Except some hundreds that you have been 
 or are interested in ! Except Mrs. Perry, except 
 Alice, except a lot that I don't know ! " 
 
 " Teresa, you little charming idiot, you know 
 perfectly well you're talking through your hat! 
 Women don't care about me. Only two or three 
 in my whole life have and I haven't cared for 
 them. They like me, they find me companion- 
 able, that's all. Alice has a purely friendly in- 
 terest in me, and I in her. Mrs. Perry comes 
 to me on business. I never see her socially "
 
 38 THEBOND 
 
 " On business ! Now, Basil, do you pretend to 
 me that she only comes to have you paint her 
 portrait? " 
 
 " You're not very flattering to my art," said 
 Basil, with an air of pique. " Now comes out 
 what you really think about me! Du sprichst 
 ein grosses Wort gelassen aus." 
 
 11 You know what I mean. You're an artist, 
 but those women don't know it. What do they 
 care about a portrait that won't flatter them and 
 that isn't signed by a big name? Mrs. Perry 
 will put hers in the garret, when she's tired of 
 you." 
 
 " Let her, so long as she pays me for it," said 
 Basil easily. " Do you think I make love to her 
 while I'm painting? " 
 
 " No, but she makes love to you and you en- 
 courage her. You wouldn't rebuff any woman. 
 Even if you didn't like her, you'd be too afraid 
 of looking ridiculous! Your vanity, Basil, will 
 be my death." 
 
 Teresa's liking for light phrases had very much 
 lightened the discussion. They both laughed. 
 She took up her champagne-glass and he touched 
 it with his. 
 
 " To the most charming woman in the world," 
 he said. 
 
 "You do well to make her anonymous but 
 I'll drink it, for your sake. May you be happy !" 
 
 " I am," he said over the rim of his glass.
 
 THEBOND 39 
 
 A moment later he said : " Here comes Mary 
 Addams she's coming to speak to us no, Jack's 
 somewhere out of sight." 
 
 He got up as a tall woman dressed plainly in 
 dark-blue cloth, with a clever and worldly face, 
 came to their table. 
 
 " Don't let me disturb you just a word just 
 to ask you not to say you've seen us ! " she said, 
 smiling at them both. 
 
 " Of course not," both answered at once in 
 some slight confusion. 
 
 "You'll think it awfully queer but we dine 
 together on the quiet now and then. Jack's im- 
 possible as a husband but he's very nice at din- 
 ner once a fortnight ! " 
 
 She nodded and went back, with her quick 
 supple motion that drew the eyes of the people 
 she passed ; and they saw her leave the place, 
 followed by the big, good-looking Addams, who 
 carefully avoided looking in their direction. 
 
 " People are queer," said Basil, as he dropped 
 into his seat again and lit a cigarette. "Will 
 you dine with me once a fortnight after you 
 divorce me? " 
 
 Teresa did not answer. She glanced dreamily 
 about the room, at the various faces which at 
 this stage of dinner all looked lightly or sod- 
 denly sensual. There were many fat, dark, for- 
 eign people, the women in tight light satins and 
 huge hats, the men with heavy eyes and heads
 
 40 THEBOND 
 
 sunk between their shoulders. " What a collec- 
 tion of Steinlens ! " said Basil. At the table 
 next to them, which had been vacant all this 
 time, now sat down a vivacious French girl, talk- 
 ing gaily to four young men. She looked curi- 
 ously at Basil and Teresa, and Teresa instantly 
 estimated her charms: Brilliant eyes and teeth, 
 a pliant figure, an effective toilette. But her 
 hands were ugly, her mouth shapeless, and her 
 complexion sallow. Basil glanced at her indif- 
 ferently. 
 
 " Odd that you almost never see a pretty 
 Frenchwoman, even in Paris. They never seemed 
 to me attractive too nervous, too mental." 
 
 " Let us go and have coffee somewhere else," 
 said Teresa suddenly. " It's too noisy here." 
 
 " You haven't enjoyed it ! What's the matter, 
 dearest? You used to like this place " 
 
 " Yes, I like it generally, but I'm tired." 
 
 She was petulant, perhaps from fatigue. But 
 when they got out into the soft spring night, and 
 walked the few squares to the little hotel with 
 the terrace-garden that Teresa had suggested, 
 and particularly when they were sitting alone 
 on the terrace, where a few lights glimmered 
 on the bare budding twigs of trees and vines, she 
 became gay. They drank their coffee and 
 liqueurs, and sat on till Basil felt it necessary to 
 have a whisky and soda talking eagerly or 
 softly, hands clasped across the table, more lov-
 
 THE BOND 41 
 
 ers now than they had been when they married 
 a year before. There were no reserves in their 
 talk. Both were of the world, with an experi- 
 mental interest in life. Teresa's interest was 
 at times the paler, perhaps for reasons of physi- 
 cal vitality, for she came of an old and rather 
 tired stock ; but at times also it was more intense 
 than Basil's. He was younger in race and in 
 temperament, full of vigour, and w T here Teresa 
 questioned and doubted he went straight on; 
 but he took life, not emotionally as Teresa did, 
 but with a cool vision that sought beauty. His 
 mind desired the closest contact w r ith reality, 
 and he desired the same mental experience for 
 Teresa. He wanted her to know the w r orld as 
 nearly as possibly as he knew it, to see it as he 
 saw it. He enjoyed a masculine intimacy of talk 
 with her. He said to her in effect, in the phrase 
 of Sainte-Beuve : " C'est toujours du plus pres 
 possible qu'il faut regarder les hommes et les 
 choses" And he unrolled to her a vivid picture 
 of the physical, mental, moral life of a man 
 which by turns amused, saddened, revolted, but 
 always fascinated her. The characters of many 
 men, of many women, come into the s.tory; the 
 men intimately known, the women generally su- 
 perficially and in a single light aspect. Basil's 
 keen interest in human beings, joined to an at- 
 tractive personality, had produced the rich har- 
 vest of reminiscences w T hich he offered up to Ter-
 
 42 THEBOND 
 
 esa. But, oddly, in the whole story there was 
 no emotional entanglement. It was the fresh- 
 ness and force of a first real passion that he 
 had brought to her. To him she had been and 
 was a magical thing; a creation of the mystical 
 sensuous beauty that he loved.
 
 IV 
 
 TERESA next morning lay late in bed, read- 
 ing the Arabian Nights in sixteen large vol- 
 umes of delicious French. The books had come 
 two days before, and were a gift in honour of her 
 anniversary, from her sister's husband, Ernesto 
 di Pepoli. Teresa had a contempt for Ernesto, 
 but she was forced to admit that he had a dis- 
 tinct grace in the small things of life. She had 
 not seen him for two years, and who else would 
 have remembered so long that she loved the 
 Arabian Nights? In her delight at getting them 
 she had written Ernesto a really affectionate let- 
 ter; in spite of her reflection that the money to 
 pay for those sixteen volumes (Ernesto had 
 had them bound at Siena) would have to come 
 out of Nina's shallow pocket. Nina had sent 
 only a cablegram. 
 
 The door of Teresa's room was open, and 
 from the tiny hall and drawing-room (the whole 
 flat was no bigger than Erhart's studio) came 
 the scent of flowers. The people who knew her 
 best had remembered yesterday for she and 
 Basil were still in the state of obvious content 
 with one another which made floral recognition 
 suitable. Most of the flowers, indeed, had been 
 
 43
 
 44 T H E B O N D 
 
 sent in by Basil. But Gerald Dallas had sent 
 her a great bunch of violets, the ones she had 
 worn at dinner; they were now reviving in a 
 vase on the table beside her. And Major Ran- 
 some, her father-in-law, had sent white roses, 
 which fact touched and amused her. Major 
 Ransome admired Teresa, and though he was 
 afraid of his second wife, he was apt to be reck- 
 less with the pocket-money she allowed him. 
 
 Unfortunately, with the roses, Major Ran- 
 some had sent a note saying that he would come 
 to lunch on the present day; and Teresa had al- 
 already asked Gerald Dallas to lunch and go to a 
 concert with her. It was not the Major's presence 
 that she minded, but the amount of thought that 
 must be spent on any meal of which he was to 
 partake. 
 
 She and Gerald would have lunched on 
 chops, baked potatoes, and salad; but now 
 there must be a clear soup and a cold lobster and 
 a cheese souffle"; and it was always touch and 
 go with the art of Mary, the temperamental Irish 
 cook. If she was in a bad temper, if the w r ind 
 stood in the east, or she had stayed out too late 
 the night before, the result would be disaster. 
 Usually she liked to cook for Major Ransome, 
 since he appreciated her success. 
 
 "Our Mr. Ransome don't care what he eats," 
 she would say with implied reproach to Teresa. 
 Teresa took no interest in cookery, and to her a
 
 T H E B O N D 45 
 
 man tremulously concerned about his food was 
 a humorous and pitiable spectacle. 
 
 Now as she lay reading she heard from the 
 kitchen the melancholy " keen " of an Irish mel- 
 ody rising and falling monotonously. It was a 
 good sign ; Mary always crooned this dirge when 
 she was happy, and Teresa endured it philo- 
 sophically. But it made her feel herself rather 
 lazy; she, too, had her work to do. Basil had 
 gone away early, after taking his coffee with her 
 in her room. Even Basil was working. The 
 roar of the city without penetrated her solitude 
 a humming, disquieting bass note with an oc- 
 casional sharp crescendo. It was necessary to 
 be active; it was impossible to read the Arabian 
 Nights after ten o'clock. She got up, took her 
 bath, and dressed quickly ; saw that the drawing- 
 room was dusted; arranged the flowers, dusted 
 the piano, which Mary invariably forgot, put a 
 match to the fire, wrote several notes of thanks, 
 posted up her accounts ; and then, having a clear 
 hour before her and a rush of energy in her veins, 
 she put on her hat and grey furs, for the morn- 
 ing was cool, and went out. The air was clear 
 and sparkling; she drew a long breath as the 
 doors of the flat-building closed behind her and 
 shut in the be-rugged entrance-hall, the potted 
 palms, and the negro boy-in-buttons. The tiny 
 leaves on the trees shivered in the wind, and 
 Teresa, breathing it in, felt as though she were
 
 46 THEBOND 
 
 walking on the downs facing the sea. She was 
 happy, light-hearted. Basil did not worry her. 
 She knew he had an appointment with Mrs. 
 Perry, who intended leaving town soon and 
 seemed to want the portrait finished in a hurry. 
 iVery well, let him have appointments ! She knew 
 he was flirting with Mrs. Perry, and she felt now 
 a light contempt for him. She, Teresa, had all 
 his heart, she had his happiness in her hand, she 
 knew her own power. In her mood of to-day she 
 recognised it calmly and felt independent of him. 
 For the moment she was free, as she had been be- 
 fore she married, and for some time afterwards. 
 The business on which she was going, too, was a 
 reminder of her bachelor freedom. 
 
 Her rooms, in which she had lived very hap- 
 pily alone for a year before her marriage, were 
 high up in an old building on the edge of the 
 roar and rush of the great middle-class business 
 thoroughfare. The endless noise of trolleys and 
 elevated road had not disturbed Teresa. She had 
 liked to live in the midst of this flood of life, as 
 she liked the view from her windows to the west 
 an endless spread of roofs, chimney-pots, 
 smoke and steam, which did not stain the clear 
 air. She had made herself a little niche in the 
 huge city; and the feeling of its vastness closed 
 her round comfortably. She was as much of it 
 as she wished to be. She regarded it and so 
 she did, at that time, life in general as a spec-
 
 T H E B O N D 47 
 
 tacle, which might roll turlmlently about one 
 and leave one amused and unmoved, with one's 
 small activities and one's dreams. 
 
 For several years, in fact since the death of her 
 surviving parent, Teresa had filled out a micro- 
 scopic income by work which was more pleasure 
 than anything else. She had a slender but real 
 artistic gift, developed in the course of her fam- 
 ily's eccentric wanderings abroad. She modelled 
 tiny bronzes, useful or purely decorative, little 
 figures of animals, naked children, or fantastic 
 beings out of fairyland; and she designed jewels 
 of worked silver and gold and semi-precious 
 stones whose colour was their chief value. These 
 things were exhibited from time to time and sold 
 through an agent, as Teresa disliked money- 
 dealings for prices such as "art" commands 
 in our country ; the price of the exotic, the mys- 
 terious. 
 
 Her rooms had old-fashioned size and square- 
 ness. The living-room served also as a studio, 
 and was ornamented by the remains of the 
 family furniture, picked up abroad with more 
 taste than money. Heavy tables and chairs 
 of Italian walnut, cabinets and a desk elabor- 
 ately inlaid, long curtains of faded but rich red 
 brocade, and some pieces of embroidery on the 
 grey walls, made a formal but agreeable setting. 
 The dining-room was furnished chiefly with 
 books collected by Teresa's father in each
 
 48 THEBOND 
 
 country they had lived in, and usually left be- 
 hind, in large boxes marked " library," when the 
 family took its unpremeditated flight. When 
 Teresa's mother, a widow, had decided to come 
 home, she had tried to reassemble her scattered 
 household goods. The " library " seemed to stand 
 the stress of time and removals better than the 
 furniture, much of which fell to pieces in tran- 
 sit; Teresa had about three thousand volumes 
 covering her walls, with space left only for a 
 portrait of her father, painted by a German 
 friend of the family in acknowledgment of an 
 unrepayable loan. It was not a bad portrait; 
 it vividly presented Konald Grange as Teresa 
 remembered him his thin, bearded face, his soft, 
 fiery eyes, his whole look of meditative fragil- 
 ity. He was a South Carolinian, and his wife an 
 energetic but unpractical New Englander; and 
 they had quarrelled so much retrospectively over 
 the war of secession and the ethics of slavery 
 that at times in their European wanderings the 
 family had split; Teresa going with the father, 
 whom she adored, and the elder daughter, Nina, 
 with the mother. Some years after her father's 
 death Nina had married an Italian of good but 
 impoverished family. She had been married for 
 her beauty and for love, having no money. But 
 soon it appeared that love was hardly enough, 
 and that money was pressingly necessary.
 
 THEBOND 49 
 
 Agonising appeals to Mrs. Grange led her to 
 relieve as much as possible Nina's situation, 
 and to leave her by will, with Teresa's con- 
 sent, two-thirds of the small property on which 
 the other two had lived. Nina had been the 
 mother's favourite, Teresa the father's; it was 
 to Teresa that he left his books, and the book- 
 plate and gold seal and few pieces of plate 
 descended from English ancestors; and the 
 sword of her grandfather, the slaveholder and 
 rebel general, whom the New England part of 
 the family repudiated. Konald Grange had lit- 
 tle more to leave except a memory to Teresa 
 full of pathetic charm. 
 
 When Teresa married, she said to Basil Ran- 
 some: 
 
 " I shall keep my rooms, you know, in 
 case we don't get on." And he, gaily admitting 
 the provisory nature of their arrangement, had 
 yet a jealous pang, which he concealed as little 
 as he concealed anything else from her. For 
 the wary Teresa had not seemed even half-tamed 
 when he did succeed in marrying her, and how 
 much she was won was known only to herself. 
 They had now had a year together, and had 
 got on marvellously, though with frequent quar- 
 rels. Teresa had not even once desired to re- 
 treat to her bachelor independence. In her flat 
 lived a young woman, an art student whom
 
 50 THEBOND 
 
 Teresa had befriended, and who looked after the 
 place. Teresa came almost every day to work 
 in the studio. Often she took people there to 
 tea. It was always a place to retreat to when 
 she had quarrelled with Basil. Once or twice 
 she had even stayed over night there with Miss 
 Pease, who cooked her own meals on a chafing- 
 dish; and curled up on a divan Teresa tasted 
 the luxury of freedom, as they chatted about the 
 old days of the studio in Paris, where she had 
 worked hard for two years. 
 
 Teresa liked enormously to have this little 
 pied-a-terre apart from Basil. He had his work 
 separately, she had hers, and they met at the 
 flat on equal terms. She clung to outward signs 
 of independence more and more, since of late 
 she had felt sometimes that its spirit was escap- 
 ing her. She was painfully aware now that she 
 could not do without Basil, and that, if she had 
 not let herself go, it was of no use : she had gone 
 just the same. In her calm moods she looked 
 back on her fits of pointless jealousy, her emo- 
 tional crises, as simple idiocy. But it seemed 
 to her more and more probable that this idiocy 
 was the woman in her waking up. Basil had 
 chosen to call the creature blind, primeval, 
 essentially a slave to life, and he must take 
 the consequences! 
 
 As his stormy courtship calmed, what he
 
 THE BOND 
 
 51 
 
 wanted was the peace of the manage; quiet, 
 sweet, though not monotonous intimacy. Teresa 
 took a perverse pleasure in making scenes, and 
 disturbing him: Had he not proceeded on the 
 theory that she was cold and indifferent, deficient 
 in instinct and emotion?
 
 TERESA was late to lunch; she found the 
 three men waiting in the drawing-room 
 when she came in, fresh and full of colour, from 
 her rapid walk. Two of them seemed not to 
 mind being kept waiting but then Gerald never 
 minded anything she did, and the Major's man- 
 ners were perfect ; and Gerald was playing Bach, 
 and the Major loved music. 
 
 Basil, however, was in a bad humour, as she 
 perceived from his walking restlessly about the 
 room, and smoking a cigarette with quick vicious 
 tugs. 
 
 " It's twenty minutes past one, Teresa ; where 
 on earth have you been? " he demanded irritably. 
 
 " Business," said Teresa blandly. " I'm aw- 
 fully sorry. Come on out, I won't even stop to 
 take off my hat. I suppose lunch is ready? " 
 
 " I should suppose so. For a wonder, it was 
 ready on time," growled Basil. 
 
 Teresa took the Major's arm and led him out, 
 wishing that Basil had some of his parent's 
 suavity. The Major said something cheerful 
 about the bright spring morning and the roses 
 in her cheeks, and put an extra shade of gal- 
 lantry into his manner of seating her. She al- 
 
 53
 
 THE BOND 53 
 
 ways felt that he was sorry for her when Basil 
 was rough; the Major never could have been 
 rude to any woman, not even to a plain woman. 
 Teresa perceived why it was that two women had 
 fallen in love with and married the Major, to 
 their own practical disadvantage. ITe was 
 purely an article of luxury. He was a very 
 neat old man, with smooth-shaven, rosy, with- 
 ered cheeks, carefully-clipped silver hair and 
 moustache, and the sweet blue eyes of a child. 
 His small figure still had the military carriage, 
 and the scar of an old wound at the corner of 
 one eye brought out oddly the gentleness of his 
 face. He was very well dressed ; his second wife 
 liked to see him looking smart; but he almost 
 never had pocket-money. 
 
 In this respect he was poorer even than Ger- 
 ald Dallas, who never had anything but pocket- 
 money. Gerald always gave the Major a drink, 
 or several, when they met, and had frequently 
 lent him five dollars till the first of the month ; 
 but Gerald's coat, buttoned closely round his 
 slim figure, was shiny at the seams and the 
 pockets, and his long nose was red from the wind. 
 He always pawned his overcoat on the first warm 
 day, " for fear of moths," as he had explained 
 to Teresa. The Major loved him because of his 
 conviviality and his music, Teresa because of 
 his Celtic melancholy and his sentiment for her- 
 self. He was one of Basil's bachelor intimates,
 
 54 THEBOND 
 
 and the hardest drinker of them all; but now 
 he had become more Teresa's friend than Basil's. 
 
 By the time the grapefruit had gone its way, 
 and the soup had proved to be really clear, and 
 the whisky decanter had been twice round the 
 table, the slight constraint in which the meal 
 began had vanished. Basil, as his hunger was 
 appeased, regained his good humour ; but Teresa 
 avoided looking at him, and her smile, as she 
 listened to the talk or joined in it now and then, 
 was by no means gay. Basil's roughness always 
 took her by surprise, and always wounded her, 
 especially when it came close on the heels of a 
 passionate expression of his love. She then felt 
 not only pain, but humiliation, and a sort of 
 anger very different from his not quick, not 
 forced to expression, but half-dormant some- 
 where in darkness, slow to disappear. Basil 
 called it " the sulks," and much preferred his 
 own kind. " At least, I get it out and over 
 with," he would argue. 
 
 Now he sought Teresa's eyes across the table, 
 which was gay with sunlight and yellow daffo- 
 dils, in little vases of Italian pottery, and silver 
 dishes full of sweets, and Mexican lace-work 
 fine as cobwebs; for, even if meals were late, 
 Teresa always had a pretty table. But she would 
 not look at him, till at last he asked her a 
 direct question. 
 
 " Teresa, will you pose for me this afternoon?
 
 THEBOND 55 
 
 I got a note from Mrs. Perry this morning, say- 
 ing she's off motoring for a fortnight, so I'm 
 out of a job for to-day." 
 
 " Can't, I'm going to a concert with Gerald," 
 she said, and now her narrow eyes, half-closed, 
 sent a knife-like glint at him. 
 
 "Well, afterwards. You could come soon 
 after four for an hour." 
 
 " No, I shall be too tired." 
 
 Basil shrugged his shoulders, and after a mo- 
 ment's pause the talk went back to politics. The 
 Major was a great politician, Gerald was a news- 
 paper man, and Basil was interested in anything 
 that anyone else could talk about. But politics 
 tiered Teresa, and though she seemed to listen 
 she was really absorbed in her own thoughts. 
 
 First she rejoiced that Mrs. Perry had dis- 
 appointed Basil. " That will show him how 
 much she cares about him and his picture," she 
 reflected. " I wonder if he is vexed about her, 
 or about the picture? That was the reason of 
 his flying out at me when I came in. But he 
 shan't be rude to me simply because other women 
 have put him out of temper. I will I will " 
 
 What she would do about it remained vague, 
 dying away in undertones of thought and feel- 
 ing; but what was perfectly definite in her mind 
 was the intention that Basil should pay for his 
 unkindness. 
 
 The lunch, she was glad to see, was good ; only
 
 56 THEBOND 
 
 the spring lamb was overdone, because of the 
 half -hour's delay. However, the Major enjoyed 
 his food with his usual zest, at times approach- 
 ing ecstasy. And Teresa, as usual, was half- 
 pleased by his enjoyment, and half-amused by its 
 triviality. He seemed to her like a child that 
 had been given a piece of cake; but so did Ger- 
 ald when he was given anything to drink; so 
 did Basil given a different sort of pleasure. They 
 were all children, she thought all greedy, all 
 absurdly anxious to enjoy themselves. But of 
 the three the Major's pleasure seemed to her 
 the most trivial. How could a man have a pas- 
 sion for food? How could a woman love a man 
 who loved new peas and lobster? . . . But 
 perhaps the Major had been less devoted to 
 eating in the days when Basil's mother fell in 
 love with him the splendid red-haired woman 
 with the strong chin and piercing dark eyes, 
 whose portrait, in black velvet and Venetian 
 lace, hung in Basil's study. At any time, though, 
 the Major must have been a child in comparison 
 with her. She had been rich, for those days, and 
 very headstrong, and had run away with the 
 Major against the wish of her relatives; and, 
 when her son was born, she had made a will 
 carefully tying up her property for his benefit, 
 and leaving the Major only a life income. A 
 year later she had died in child-birth. Basil 
 was like her. He had her vigour, her keenness, her
 
 THE BOND 57 
 
 good sense and will. From his father he took 
 his artistic impulse. . . . And that father, 
 a few years after his wife's death, had married 
 a little half-German woman, whose only merits 
 apparently were that she cooked to perfection 
 and made his physical man thoroughly comfort- 
 able. Comfortable! He could marry for that, 
 and have several more children after the fine 
 creature who had condescended to love him had 
 died in her youth. . . . 
 
 Teresa looked at the Major's scarred cheek, 
 and watched the loving care with which he ex- 
 tracted the meat from a lobster-tenacle and 
 she marvelled at the ways of man. 
 
 She and Gerald left the table when the des- 
 sert came on, and even then they were late and 
 had to wait in the corridor of the concert-hall 
 till the first number was finished. Teresa was 
 out of humour, partly because she had not had 
 time to change her dress, and she hated hav- 
 ing to hurry; partly because Basil had called 
 after her that he didn't think he should be 
 home to dinner, and she suspected he meant 
 to make a night of it, and drink more than 
 was good for him. But Gerald's attempts 
 at gaiety and his extreme nervousness ended 
 by distracting her attention from herself. She 
 had observed at lunch that he was drinking a 
 good deal of whisky; and now in his physical
 
 58 THEBOND 
 
 constraint, the tense looks of his ugly but charm- 
 ing face, and the occasional twitch of his hands, 
 she saw familiar signs of danger. These con- 
 tinued when they were seated, and even through 
 the music. The string quartette played wonder- 
 fully. Teresa could not help enjoying it, though 
 she was conscious all the time that Gerald, sit- 
 ting with his arms tightly folded across his thin 
 chest, was not listening. They did not talk 
 much during the pauses. Gerald had talked well 
 enough at lunch, and Teresa began to feel irri- 
 tated with him, and terribly sorry for him at the 
 same time. However, when she looked at him, 
 during the last of the programme, and met his 
 miserable eyes, she felt a thrill of disgust. 
 
 " Gerald, you'll come back with me and have 
 tea, won't you? " she whispered. 
 
 He shook his head, " I can't, thank you." 
 
 'Yes, do. I want to go to my studio first, 
 and Miss Pease can give us some tea there. Then 
 we might walk for an hour, and you could dine 
 with me. Basil may be out, and I hate dining 
 alone." 
 
 " I can't." 
 
 People were looking at them severely, and 
 Teresa said no more till the music ended on a 
 beautiful soft contralto strain dominated by the 
 violoncello, which kept the audience a moment 
 in their seats and silent, before the prolonged 
 applause and noise of dispersal.
 
 T H E B O N D 59 
 
 " I am going to walk down, and you must 
 come a little way with me," she commanded, as 
 they moved up the aisle in the crowd. 
 
 When they were out in the street and had dis- 
 tanced the knots and groups of people, so that 
 they could not be overheard, Teresa said, look- 
 ing straight ahead : 
 
 " Would you rather I didn't speak of it? " 
 
 Gerald made a hopeless gesture. " No use," 
 he said bitterly. " I'm only sorry I've made a 
 damned fool of myself and spoilt your afternoon. 
 Don't think about me." 
 
 " You know I can't help it. Gerald, how long 
 is it since since you " 
 
 " Since I made a beast of myself last time? 
 It's nearly three months, and now it's got to 
 come. Don't let me go now I hate myself 
 for going to your house to-day. Will you for- 
 give me? Yes, I know you will, and you despise 
 me, and you ought to despise me, Teresa. I 
 ought to have the decency to keep away from you 
 altogether it's the only sort of decency I might 
 have still." 
 
 They had reached a street corner, and Gerald 
 stopped short. Teresa felt, suddenly, very tired, 
 very weak, and inclined to cry. The look in 
 his eyes chilled and disgusted her, as it had done 
 before. She put her grey muff up to her face, 
 and two tears suddenly fell on the fur. 
 
 " Oh, Teresa don't, for God's sake ! It doesn't
 
 60 THEBOND 
 
 matter what I do. It doesn't matter, I tell you. 
 I shall never come near you again." 
 
 He turned round and fairly bolted up the side 
 street. Teresa walked on down the avenue, hold- 
 ing her muff against her face, and drying her 
 tears behind it. She became aware that she 
 must get out of the street, and that she wanted 
 some tea hot, strong, and bracing. She called 
 a cab, and drove down to her rooms. Miss Pease 
 was busy with some visitors in the studio, and 
 Teresa made her own tea in the dining-room, and 
 cried by herself on the divan while the water 
 was heating. She had taken off her hat and 
 was mopping very red eyes with a damp hand- 
 kerchief when Miss Pease, a subdued-looking 
 girl, came in with a little bronze, a finger-high 
 study of a naked child playing with a frog. 
 
 "A lady wants to know if she can have this 
 
 for thirty dollars, instead of thirty-five " she 
 
 began neutrally, then said in embarrassment, 
 " Oh, I beg your pardon " 
 
 "Tell her she can't have it at all. Tell her 
 it's sold," snapped Teresa. 
 
 " But " began timidly Miss Pease. 
 
 "Tell her it's sold!" 
 
 Teresa made her tea almost black, and drank 
 three large cups of it. Then .she took out her 
 little silver cigarette-case and began to smoke, 
 lying back on the divan. She had ceased to 
 cry, and felt perfectly indifferent to every-
 
 THEBOND 61 
 
 thing. Let Gerald Dallas drink himself to 
 death if he chose, or if he could not help it. He 
 was right she did despise him. And let Basil 
 dine out if he chose, and be angry about noth- 
 ing, and make himself odious. She suspected 
 that he was beginning to have secrets from her. 
 If so, it was all over between them. It was clear 
 that no dependence was to be placed on any of 
 the creatures. Aunt Sophia was perfectly right. 
 She thought of Aunt Sophia because that lady's 
 voice clear, slightly nasal and authoritative 
 was now to be heard dominating the slight buzz 
 in the other room.
 
 VI 
 
 AUNT SOPHIA came into the dining-room 
 tall, handsome, imposing, in grey clothes 
 that rustled and peered through her eye- 
 glasses at the limp person on the divan. 
 
 " Teresa, why don't you have a light? Can 
 you give me a cup of tea, I've just come from 
 our Friday meeting why are you feasting by 
 yourself in the dark?" 
 
 "Because I've been crying," said Teresa lan- 
 guidly, getting up to turn on the electric light. 
 
 " Crying? So you have. Have you been quar- 
 relling with Basil? " 
 
 " Basil ! Whenever I'm upset, Aunt Sophia, 
 you jump to the conclusion that it's Basil." 
 
 " Well, I'm sure it generally is. Whenever I 
 y see a woman unhappy, I know a man's at the 
 bottom of it." 
 
 Aunt Sophy poured out her tea and added 
 liberal hot water with a firm hand. 
 
 "All I say is, don't cry over them they're 
 not worth it," she added. 
 
 Aunt Sophy was the one person to whom Teresa 
 ever confided anything. This she did for two 
 reasons : First, that Aunt Sophy invariably took 
 her side with passion if passion could be as- 
 sociated with that lady. And secondly, that
 
 T H E B O N D 03 
 
 Aunt Sophy's temperament and views of life be- 
 ing diametrically opposed to her own, this sup- 
 port always had the effect of making Teresa see 
 the reason of the other side. Hence she never 
 took any of Aunt Sophy's freely offered advice, 
 but usually bore away from such an interview 
 an increased tenderness for Basil, and a convic- 
 tion that women in their own right were ab- 
 surd. But Aunt Sophy's absurdity was amus- 
 ing, and also it was a comfort occasionally to 
 Teresa to hear her husband roundly abused un- 
 der the general head of " men." 
 
 " It's more than Basil this time," she said 
 gloomily, lighting another cigarette. 
 
 "More than Basil! You don't mean 
 
 " Oh, nothing shocking. It's only a friend of 
 mine of ours who has gone off on a drunk." 
 
 " Teresa, what language ! " Aunt Sophy 
 dropped a spoon in her dismay. 
 
 " Well, it's what Basil calls it. It really is 
 too awful, Aunt Sophy. I'm so fond of the 
 poor fellow he's just as dear and sweet as pos- 
 sible and this thing is ruining him." 
 
 " Disgusting ! " said Aunt Sophy. 
 
 " Yes, it is it is, and that's the worst of it. 
 I felt this afternoon, when I looked at his face 
 and saw that fearful appetite in it, and imagined 
 what he'd be like in a few hours I thought I 
 never wanted to see him again." Teresa half- 
 sobbed as she said it.
 
 64 THEBOND 
 
 "Well, why do you see him again? Such a 
 man is unfit for decent society. If he can't or 
 won't conquer his vile habit, surely it's too much 
 to expect a woman to be his friend. And a 
 young woman, too really, Teresa. I don't 
 think it's at all proper for you. I suppose he 
 is one of Basil's friends? " 
 
 " Yes but he is mine too, now. And yet he's 
 slipping away from us. In just this year I've 
 known him, I've seen him going down. And I 
 did think for three months now he's been quite 
 straight and now, to-night " 
 
 Her voice faltered. 
 
 " It's a shame. You say you were with him 
 this afternoon and he actually told you? " 
 
 " Oh, I guessed I couldn't help knowing, from 
 his looks and he confessed it." 
 
 " Teresa, you know too much of such things ! 
 Basil ought to shelter you from such knowledge 
 as that he ought not to allow " 
 
 Teresa laughed. Aunt Sophy usually argued 
 that the husband's authority was a relic of bar- 
 barism, not to be recognised by any woman of 
 spirit. 
 
 " Basil doesn't believe in sheltering me," she 
 said. " And you know you said only the other 
 day, Aunt Sophy, that the day of the clinging 
 vine was over, and that the pretence of keeping 
 a strong right arm between us and the 
 world "
 
 THEBOND 65 
 
 " I did say it, and it's true, it is only a pre- 
 tence but I referred particularly to material 
 things," began Aunt Sophy. 
 
 "But you congratulated me on keeping my 
 independence even in the thraldom of marriage, 
 and 
 
 " I meant financial independence. Of course, 
 I don't think any woman ought to be depend- 
 ent on a man in that way or in any way she 
 can help. But what I say now is that there is 
 no need for thrusting the ugly side of life on 
 us more than is necessary. Let the men keep 
 their weaknesses to themselves as much as they 
 can. That's what I mean, child. Heaven knows 
 we see enough of them at their worst, anyhow, 
 without unnecessary disclosures." 
 
 "I wonder," said Teresa musingly. "They 
 don't seem to be able to keep anything to them- 
 selves, that's true." 
 
 "No, because they admire themselves in ev- 
 erything they do. As somebody or other says, a 
 mirror tells the truth to a woman, but it always 
 lies to a man. A man thinks his meanest ac- 
 tions are justifiable somehow, if only on the plea 
 of necessity. I daresay your friend, as you call 
 him, thinks it absolutely necessary for him to 
 intoxicate himself once in so often." 
 
 " I suppose he does. And I suppose it is/' 
 said Teresa sorrowfully. 
 
 " Teresa, Teresa ! You are taking the man's
 
 66 THEBOND 
 
 point of view ! You will end by being sorry for 
 that creature, because he makes a beast of him- 
 self! Don't lend yourself to such weakness, I 
 implore you! Any person who wants to be 
 decent can be so. ... Teresa, I wish you 
 had more women friends. You don't see enough 
 of women. It would be a wholesome corrective 
 to your ideas. It is a very bad thing to asso- 
 ciate almost exclusively with men " 
 
 " They are more interesting," said Teresa, in 
 a melancholy minor. 
 
 " They seem so now, doubtless, because you 
 are very young. I once thought so myself, be- 
 fore I married your uncle. But you will change 
 your mind, Teresa, and perhaps you will find 
 some day, as I have, the keenest interest in 
 identifying yourself with the cause of Woman." 
 
 "Aunt Sophy, you've been making a speech 
 at the club." 
 
 " Certainly I have. We had a very success- 
 ful meeting several enthusiastic speeches, and 
 six new members joined. We appointed a dele- 
 gation to go to Washington next month, to see 
 our senators and congressmen, and interview 
 the President." 
 
 "And are you one of them?" 
 
 " Yes, I was unanimously elected spokesman." 
 
 " That's because you're so handsome, Aunt 
 Sophy. They depend on you to impress the 
 flinty legislatorial bosom."
 
 T H E B O N D 07 
 
 " Really, my dear, I prefer to believe it is 
 because I have some powers of speech," said 
 Mrs. Boulter. 
 
 However, she smiled. She was, in fact, a 
 handsome woman, with remarkably little sug- 
 gestion of the clinging vine. She w r as very erect, 
 very stately, even sitting in a low chair, with 
 large blue eyes, a broad forehead, thick grey 
 hair, and a gracious white-toothed smile which 
 had something glacial in it a hint of her native 
 New Hampshire rock. 
 
 " How nice to go up to Washington, and 
 feel so important," said Teresa languidly. She 
 leaned back against the cushions and sighed. 
 
 " Well, why don't you join us? " enquired Mrs. 
 Boulter. " I'll propose your name, as you know, 
 any time you like. And I'm sure you will find 
 the work exceedingly interesting. With your in- 
 telligence you are sure to come round to us 
 sooner or later. There's nothing like marriage, 
 too, to make one see clearly the real position of 
 woman. When you do see it, Teresa, you will 
 want to stand up for your sex." 
 
 Teresa smiled rather wanly. She began to feel 
 that she should have a headache as the result 
 of her emotion about Gerald. At this moment 
 Miss Pease came in, agitated and flushed. 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Ransome," she cried, " what do you 
 think has happened! The pearl pendant Miss 
 Carruthers "
 
 68 THEBOND 
 
 " What not again ! " said Teresa. 
 
 " Yes you will think it my fault I was 
 showing it to someone else, and carelessly laid 
 it down and I meant to watch her every min- 
 ute but she slipped out. Of course I will pay 
 for it " 
 
 " Annette Pease, you little idiot ! " said 
 Teresa, getting up and arranging her hair before 
 a glass. " Pay for it, indeed ! I know you're 
 careful don't worry about it. We put these 
 things down to profit and loss." 
 
 "What is it? Miss Carruthers? Pearl pen- 
 dant? " cried Mrs. Boulter. 
 
 " Yes, the Miss Carruthers father's dear old 
 friend, w r ho takes such an interest in me ! Didn't 
 you know she was a kleptomaniac? She's run 
 off with a seed-pearl and emerald thing, and I 
 lose about eighty dollars. Never mind. Come 
 along home with me, Aunt Sophy, come to 
 dinner." 
 
 " Eighty dollars ! But, surely, you can get 
 it back." 
 
 " No, I can't, without making trouble. She 
 would just deny it. Poor old thing, she was 
 actually arrested once for shoplifting, but they 
 hushed it up. It's pure mania she has money 
 enough. I've heard of her taking the spoons off 
 the table when she goes out to dine." 
 
 " Well, she ought to be locked up ! " said Mrs. 
 Boulter sternly. " Why don't her family attend
 
 THEBOND G9 
 
 to her? It's immoral to allow people to go on 
 like that. Teresa, you ought to do something." 
 
 " I'm going to I'm taking you home to din- 
 ner. Basil said he should probably dine out." 
 
 "Well thank you I shall be very happy," 
 said Mrs. Boulter, after a moment's hesitation, 
 which seemed to weigh the chances of Basil's 
 dining out. Mrs. Boulter, in fact, was one of 
 the few people who bored Basil, and she did not 
 enjoy boring him, unless she could do it from 
 the platform; and he would not let her mount 
 the platform in his presence. Teresa bade 
 an unusually cordial adieu to Miss Pease, and 
 led her aunt, still protesting, downstairs and 
 through the dark hall. 
 
 They turned into the avenue, jammed with 
 the home-going crowd, where talk was an im- 
 possibility. Night had already fallen, between 
 the rows of high buildings ; but the lighted shop- 
 fronts, the street lamps and the electric lights of 
 the cars succeeding one another at momentary 
 intervals, made it bright as day. They walked 
 for a few blocks along the avenue, breasting the 
 rustling throng, crossed between two clanging 
 cars and a charging body of cabs and automo- 
 biles, and turned into a side street. Here it was 
 quieter, though the roar of the avenue still pur- 
 sued them, even into the palm-set hall of the 
 apartment house. 
 
 While Mrs. Boulter was admiring "the flowers
 
 70 THEBOND 
 
 in the drawing-room, Teresa changed her dress 
 for a white, short-waisted one, put a necklace of 
 green stones round her bare throat, braided her 
 hair in two braids and coiled it round her head, 
 and, returning, she took one of the Major's white 
 roses and stuck it in the braid just over her 
 left ear. 
 
 " All this just for me? " said Mrs. Boulter. 
 " I must go and make myself pretty, too or, at 
 least, presentable." 
 
 She disappeared into Teresa's bedroom, down 
 the hall. Teresa was poking up the fire when 
 the sound of a key in the outer door made her 
 turn and smile, her eyes suddenly bright and 
 soft. 
 
 Basil came in with the slam that usually 
 announced him, flinging his hat and coat on a 
 seat in the hall. 
 
 "Hello!" called Teresa. "Thought you 
 weren't coming back." 
 
 " Hello, kid," he responded cheerfully. He 
 appeared, with two parcels, which he deposited 
 on a table; then came over and kissed his wife 
 ardently, touching the rose in her hair, and the 
 curve of her neck. 
 
 " Changed my mind," he said. " In fact, I 
 met a man and asked him to dinner here." 
 
 Teresa's pleased smile faded a little. 
 
 "Did you? I'm afraid there isn't much din- 
 ner," she said.
 
 THEBOND 71 
 
 " Oh, well, you can send out for a steak, can't 
 you? And I brought some bully old whisky and 
 cigars." 
 
 " That's just like you you think a steak, 
 whisky, and cigars make a dinner, don't 
 you? " said Teresa mockingly. " Who's the 
 man? " 
 
 " Oh, an Englishman I met at the club. I 
 knew him years ago in Cairo, just for a day or 
 so he's a nice fellow, you'll like him." 
 
 " What time is he coming? " enquired Teresa 
 coolly. 
 
 " Seven. He's going to the theatre, so I made 
 it early." 
 
 " Well, I must interview Mary." Teresa added 
 reluctantly, " Aunt Sophy's here. I asked her to 
 dinner." 
 
 It was now Basil's turn to look dashed, and 
 he did so completely. 
 
 " Oh, hell ! " he remarked, the gaiety of his 
 face quite quenched ; " what on earth did you 
 do that for? " 
 
 " Why shouldn't I? You said you were going 
 out." 
 
 " I said I might go out. . . . Well, that 
 spoils everything. You can't have any talks 
 with that old bore about. I wish I'd known, I'd 
 have given him dinner at the club. If I had such 
 boring relatives as you've got, I certainly 
 wouldn't have them around."
 
 72 THEBOND 
 
 " How about your stepmother? Didn't I ask 
 her to lunch last week? Aunt Sophy's brilliant 
 in comparison." 
 
 "That's different," growled Basil. "Lunch 
 isn't dinner. One doesn't expect to be bored at 
 dinner." 
 
 Teresa shrugged her shoulders, and went out 
 to see the cook. When she returned Mrs. Boul- 
 ter was in the drawing-room and Basil in his 
 bedroom, whence he presently called to her, after 
 fruitlessly ringing his bell. 
 
 " Teresa, there isn't one single clean shirt in 
 my bureau, except some with the buttonholes 
 torn ! " he exclaimed. " Where on earth is my 
 laundry? " 
 
 He stood in the middle of the floor, a brush 
 in each hand, his hair fiercely rumpled. His 
 broad shoulders contracted nervously; an irri- 
 table fire shot from his eyes. 
 
 " I don't know," said Teresa indifferently. " I 
 suppose Mary forgot it." 
 
 " Yes, I suppose she did. Why doesn't she 
 answer the bell? It's impossible to get anything 
 done properly in this house." 
 
 Teresa, without replying, went down the hall, 
 and returned after a few moments with a large 
 paper bundle suspended by a string. 
 
 " There's your laundry, cross-patch," she ob- 
 served loftily. "And all because of poor old
 
 
 THEBOND 73 
 
 Aunt Sophy," she said to herself as she went 
 into the drawing-room. " It's odd how she puts 
 him in a bad humour. If it hadn't been for 
 her, he wouldn't have minded about the shirts. 
 Really, his temper ! "
 
 VII 
 
 TEE dinner, with this unpromising begin- 
 ning, was, in fact, a sad failure. Mary, per- 
 haps fatigued from her efforts at lunch, had not 
 risen to the sudden occasion, and the steak was 
 overdone. Mrs. Boulter was very much in the 
 foreground, and to make matters worse, Erhart 
 the sculptor, who had provided himself with a 
 standing invitation to the house, dropped in. 
 On him, at least, the excellent old whisky was 
 not lost, but Basil's guest, the Englishman, de- 
 clined it, and even the mild lure of the Chianti. 
 A guest who is given a bad dinner, and will 
 drink nothing but water, is a trying person. 
 Basil was plainly nervous, and therefore more 
 voluble than usual, and Erhart provoked as 
 much controversy as possible, according to his 
 wont. He even argued with Mrs. Boulter on 
 women's rights, while she hurled the Constitu- 
 tion, the Pilgrim Fathers, Benjamin Franklin, 
 and the doctrine of natural right at him. In 
 reply he quoted large extracts from a recently 
 published German work, in which women were 
 disposed of as " too low in the moral scale even 
 to be criminals," and were denied souls, on the 
 basis of the facts that the soul resides in the 
 
 74
 
 THEBOND 75 
 
 memory, and that women have no memory. At 
 this proposition two crimson spots rose to Mrs. 
 Boulter's cheeks, and she demanded the name 
 and presumable dwelling place of the author, 
 but, on learning that he had committed suicide 
 at the age of twenty-four, she ejaculated in stern 
 triumph : " Exactly what I should have ex- 
 pected! Beware how you give currency to his 
 ideas." 
 
 " Do you expect me to commit suicide? " re- 
 joined Erhart, his long blonde face wrinkling in 
 a sarcastic smile. " No, madam, I intend to live 
 to make the statue of the first Woman-President. 
 She will wear knee-breeches, and, for the occa- 
 sion, a Roman toga. Her pedestal will be com- 
 posed of a sewing-machine and an overturned 
 cradle, with the motto, ' Per aspera ad nau- 
 seam/ ' 
 
 At this point Teresa interfered and sup- 
 pressed Erhart, and Basil began to talk to the 
 Englishman, whose name Teresa had not made 
 out, about the East, with which apparently the 
 latter had some official connection. So far he 
 had said very little, and seemed to contemplate 
 with an amused and slightly astonished air the 
 incongruous company in which he found him- 
 self. He was a man of an unusual type, evidently 
 not of unmixed English blood, above the medium 
 height, lean and delicately made, dark, and with 
 a curious colour in which grey predominated
 
 76 THEBOND 
 
 over brown. His dark eyes were very observant, 
 his dress was meticulously careful, his man- 
 ner quiet, and especially so by contrast with 
 that of three out of the other four at the table. 
 Teresa alone had anything approaching his own 
 inexpressive repose. She was as unmoved as 
 though the dinner had turned out well, and the 
 talk had gone smoothly, and as little talkative 
 herself. Basil, on whom the social burden 
 seemed to rest, fidgetted distinctly under it, and 
 drank more of the old whisky than he might 
 have done otherwise. He and Teresa exchanged 
 the sort of cheerful glances which masked on his 
 part a grievance and on hers a calm perception 
 that he was unreasonable. True, the evening 
 was spoilt, but why allow a little passing dis- 
 comfort to disturb one's whole moral being? An 
 uncomfortable social situation was, however, a 
 positive torment to Basil. By as much as he 
 expanded and glowed when he was at ease, by 
 the extent of his possible charm, was to be meas- 
 ured the effect on him of this sort of mishap. 
 Teresa reflected about him, while talk went on 
 disjointedly, and arrived at a feeling of keen 
 liking for him ; she saw something lovable even 
 in the way he hurled himself into his coat, and 
 departed with the Englishman; for, when the 
 latter had declined coffee and liqueurs, it was 
 already rather late for his theatre. 
 
 Aunt Sophy soon went away, and Erhart was
 
 THEBOND 77 
 
 left on Teresa's hands. They drank their coffee 
 before the open fire in the drawing-room, Teresa 
 thinking about the volume of the Arabian 
 Nights, to which she would get back as soon 
 as he went, and listening absently to his un- 
 favourable remarks about the English. At last 
 he said abruptly: 
 
 " You are bored I shall go. I'm sorry I came 
 to-night. You are bored with most people, aren't 
 you? And you are almost always bored with 
 me. ... I suppose I did not behave well 
 to-night? " 
 
 " I'm tired that's all. But you were horridly 
 rude to my aunt," said Teresa. 
 
 "Well, how can I help it? She is such an 
 awful fool, you know. She knows nothing about 
 anything. What do women expect when they 
 take that tone, anyway? They are just as much 
 insulted when you're polite to them; they think 
 it's condescension. I don't know what they want 
 except a chance to lecture us. And that they 
 can do much better in private. Hasn't your 
 aunt got a husband? " 
 
 " She had one," said Teresa, with a glimmer- 
 ing smile. " But he vanished. The combina- 
 tion of lectures and boarding-house life was too 
 much for him. He evaporated." 
 
 " I'll bet he did. What a woman! You might 
 as well marry a high-pressure cylinder. She's 
 a typical American."
 
 78 THEBOND 
 
 " She would be proud to hear you say so. She 
 considers the American woman the crowning 
 triumph of civilisation." 
 
 Erhart made a profane exclamation. "Then 
 .civilisation might as well come to an end. It 
 would, too, if it depended on the American 
 woman. She would have no children, she would 
 starve out the men, and then what? A lot of 
 Kilkenny cats, they would eat one another. A 
 tough meal your aunt w r ould make, too! I be- 
 lieve she's made of whalebone and gutta-percha." 
 
 " You like women made of butter and jam, 
 don't you? " 
 
 " Oh, heavens, I don't like any kind of women," 
 said Erhart, getting up to go. " At least any 
 show kind. They ought to be kept behind the 
 veil. Tell your aunt that, from me." 
 
 He lingered a moment, moving about with his 
 oddly beautiful hands the small pieces of porce- 
 lain on the mantelpiece, then said : " I'm sorry 
 I have bored you. But I'm not sorry I was rude 
 to your aunt." 
 
 " Oh rudeness is the most boring thing, I 
 think," murmured Teresa. " I hate quarrelling, 
 especially at meals." 
 
 " You call all discussion quarrelling ! What 
 would you have? Everybody bowing and scrap- 
 ing and agreeing with one another? . . ." 
 
 " Oh, I'm not going to discuss with you ! " 
 said Teresa, laughing, and he finally took him-
 
 T H E B O N D 79 
 
 self off, with a look of pique on his cold North- 
 ern face. Teresa yawned, got herself a cigarette 
 and her volume of Arabian Nights, and made 
 herself comfortable in a long chair between lamp 
 and fire. 
 
 But she did not begin reading immediately. 
 She lay thinking vaguely of the incidents of the 
 day. She was tired, and her thoughts had the 
 incoherence of dreams. Gerald Dallas and Miss 
 Carruthers were oddly mixed up in them. She 
 remembered a visit she had paid Miss Carruth- 
 ers, when the old maid had taken her up into 
 a bedroom, and showed her a curious collection 
 of treasures rolls upon rolls of silk and chiffon, 
 boxes of lace, of long delicate gloves, and silk 
 stockings, jewelled hair ornaments, and filmy 
 scarves. All these, were dimly destined to the 
 adornment of a pathetic, withered person, and 
 yet would probably never be worn; for some- 
 thing prevented Miss Carruthers from actually 
 appearing in them. She usually wore drabs 
 and faded yellows in public, but her passion for 
 the accumulation of these frivolities of a pretty 
 woman's toilette furnished the main pleasure of 
 her life. The emerald and pearl pendant had 
 now doubtless been added to her hoard. Aunt 
 Sophy would have held her sternly responsible; 
 Aunt Sophy knew exactly where to draw the 
 line of moral responsibility. She had drawn it 
 in Gerald's case, too, with unhesitating hand.
 
 80 THEBOND 
 
 Anyone who wanted to be decent could be; and 
 decency was an exact quantity. It took no ac- 
 count of kinks in the brain, of perverted in- 
 stincts like poor Miss Carruthers' of physical 
 obsessions stronger than the will. If you were 
 afflicted in any such way you ought to be " shut 
 up." But how much pleasure and colour would 
 be taken out of life if all except rigidly recti- 
 linear and decent people were shut up ! 
 
 Even Aunt Sophy herself probably now 
 seated in her solitary room at the boarding- 
 house, before a desk loaded with papers on 
 Woman Suffrage Aunt Sophy had deserted her 
 husband. Teresa wondered if she never re- 
 gretted the domestic atmosphere, even though 
 her boarding-house was an elegant one, and she 
 was called a paying guest. But after all a do- 
 mestic atmosphere pervaded by Aunt Sophy 
 must almost itself suggest the paying guest. 
 And her favourite phrase about the vanished 
 Mr. Boulter had been : " Your uncle can be 
 more disagreeable than any man that ever 
 lived." Aunt Sophy thought marriage a hideous 
 state of bondage. Teresa's cheerful view of it 
 always astonished her, but she said, " Just wait, 
 my dear. It isn't in the first year that you learn 
 to know a man." 
 
 Poor Aunt Sophy! But she should not have 
 married a disagreeable man. Marriage was very 
 simple. You married a person you liked, and
 
 THE BOND 81 
 
 did just as you liked, exactly as before; and the 
 person adored you, and even if be lost bis tem- 
 per sometimes over a beefsteak, or a missing 
 sbirt, be was still tbe most charming person in 
 the world. 
 
 Teresa smiled, looking into the fire, which had 
 sunk together into a red core of coals. It struck 
 her that bed would be a more comfortable place 
 to read. Basil objected to her reading in bed, 
 but all the same she had had an electric light 
 hung just over her pillow, and she quoted Charles 
 Lamb to prove to him that it was the only 
 place to read in. When she had arranged her- 
 self luxuriously under this light, in her quiet 
 room, where the roar of the city ascended only 
 as a muffled bass, she unbraided her long braids, 
 and, with the book propped on her knees, she 
 slowly brushed the dark ripples of hair out to 
 their ends, and began to read : 
 
 "II y avait, dans la ville de Baghdad, un 
 homme qui etait celibatalre et aussi portefaix. 
 
 " Un jour d'entre les jours, pendant qu'il etait 
 dans le souk, nonchalamment appuye sur sa 
 hotte, void que devant lui s'arreta une femme 
 enveloppee de son ample voile en etoffe de Mous- 
 soul, en soie parsemee de paillettes d'or et 
 doublee de brocart. Elle souleva un peu son petit 
 voile de visage et, d'en dessous, alors, apparurent 
 des yeux noirs avec de longs cils et quelles pan-
 
 82 THEBOND 
 
 piercs! Et elle etait svelte et fin d'extremites, 
 parfaite des qualites. . . ." 
 
 She read on and on, for an hour; then her 
 eyelids dropped, her head sank on the pillow, 
 and she slept, still holding the book. . . . 
 
 The latchkey turning in the lock woke her. 
 She heard Basil stop outside her door, and speak 
 her name in a low voice. She answered, and he 
 came in. 
 
 " What are you doing reading at this time 
 of night? " he asked, frowning slightly, and look- 
 ing pale. 
 
 "Why, what time of night is it?" said Teresa 
 sleepily. 
 
 " Oh, late after two. Look here, you prom- 
 ised me you wouldn't " 
 
 " No, I didn't. Where have you been, you 
 dissipated wretch, tell me that ! " 
 
 " Oh, nowhere in particular. I met some fel- 
 lows, and we sat around talking " 
 
 " And drinking? " 
 
 " Well, a little " 
 
 " A good deal, I imagine. I thought you said 
 you wouldn't " 
 
 "Well, I wouldn't want to knock about at 
 night, if you'd make it comfortable at home. . . ." 
 
 Teresa made no reply, and after a moment he 
 went out. She braided her hair in the two long 
 braids, turned out the electric light, and lay
 
 T H E B O N D 83 
 
 looking at the window, vaguely lit by reflections 
 from the street. 
 
 Basil came back, as she had known he would ; 
 wrapped in his blue dressing-gown, he sat down 
 on the side of her bed, and began : 
 
 " You must admit you spoiled the dinner to- 
 night." 
 
 "No did I?" said Teresa sleepily. 
 
 "You know you did! Not only your aunt 
 perhaps that was an accident but I've asked 
 you a dozen times to get another cook, and yet 
 you will keep " 
 
 " Oh, Basil, you think cooks grow on black- 
 berry bushes! You must admit she gave us a 
 delicious lunch, and it's rather a trial to have 
 three other guests shot in unexpectedly for din- 
 ner " 
 
 " You're so soft about her ! If you gave her 
 a good hauling over now and then she might do 
 better " 
 
 " Basil, you're an idealist." 
 
 " Yes, that's right, joke about it ! Much you 
 care how things go on, and whether I'm uncom- 
 fortable or not. You don't care a damn for me, 
 that's the truth. To-day you wouldn't come 
 and pose to oblige me, you preferred to spend the 
 afternoon with Dallas " 
 
 " I had an engagement with him." 
 
 " You might have come afterwards." 
 
 " I couldn't. I was feeling too ill."
 
 84 THEBOND 
 
 "111? What made you ill?" 
 
 " He did Gerald. He told me he was going 
 to get drunk." 
 
 " He did ! By Jove, poor old Gerald I began 
 to think he might be going to run straight after 
 all. But now he'll go it, once he's broken out. 
 Poor devil ! " 
 
 "What will he do? " asked Teresa faintly. 
 
 " Do ! He'll drink whisky till he's blind drunk, 
 and then, when he's got his breath, he'll begin 
 again. He'll keep it up for a week, very likely, 
 and then somebody'll pick him up out of the 
 gutter, and he'll be sick and sorry for a month." 
 
 "What horrid idiots men are," said- Teresa. 
 
 " Perhaps they are, but they're not so egotistic 
 as women," said Basil stiffly, recollecting his 
 grievance. 
 
 He sat silent for a moment, moving his shoul- 
 ders nervously. Teresa smiled in the darkness. 
 He did not want to go to bed with that griev- 
 ance. He was tired of it. She was silent, too, 
 wickedly. 
 
 " Good-night ! " he said abruptly, getting up. 
 
 She let him get to the door, then she called him 
 back. 
 
 " Oh, come here a minute, I want to ask you 
 something." 
 
 Well, what is it? " He stood still. 
 
 " Come here, can't you? " 
 
 " Can't you ask from there? "
 
 THEBOND 85 
 
 " No. Come here, I tell you." 
 
 He approached with dignity, and sat down on 
 the extreme edge of the bed. 
 
 " Well, hurry up, I'm cold." 
 
 His tone was aggressive, but Teresa read be- 
 neath it. She reached up and put one bare arm 
 round his neck, and murmured: 
 
 "Silly old thing!" 
 
 He made an effort to hold his position. " You 
 won't do a thing I ask you to ! You won't even 
 stop reading, though you're spoiling your eyes. 
 . . . You don't care anything about me, 
 that's the real truth! If you did, you " 
 
 She drew his head down and kissed him. 
 
 " Idiot ! " she murmured. 
 
 His arms went round her, caught her up, held 
 her close. 
 \ " How I love you ! " he said angrily.
 
 yn 
 
 fTlHE May morning was warm. Its soft ra- 
 * diance penetrated the studio, even with the 
 north light, and the patch of sky seen through 
 the upper half of the open window was tenderly, 
 opaquely blue, crossed by an occasional small 
 downy cloud. The first touch of summer lan- 
 guor was in the air. The rattle of wheels and 
 whirr of cars in the streets below, and the street 
 cries, seemed oddly softened, as though the 
 world had grown more spacious. Two great 
 masses of lilacs, in brown jars, set on the floor 
 of the studio, sent out their fresh perfume. Basil 
 sang tunelessly as he worked, and his eyes 
 glowed happily. Teresa was posing for a pic- 
 ture, begun some weeks before, but interrupted 
 by her own engagements, or Basil's. Basil had 
 usually a picture of Teresa in some stage of 
 progress. He had painted her a dozen times, 
 and each time the picture had been sold. How- 
 ever, Basil was only " one of the promising 
 younger men." He had often occasion to laugh 
 at such a judgment upon himself. Newspaper 
 praise or blame merely amused him, and he did 
 not even care much whether he sold his pictures 
 or not; " except," as he said, " that one doesn't 
 want too many of them round, mussing up the 
 
 86
 
 THEBOND 87 
 
 place. I shouldn't like to live in the midst of 
 an unbroken circle of my creations, like Erhart, 
 for instance. And giving them away is an un- 
 worthy subterfuge." His successes had been 
 made so far with portraits. Character inter- 
 ested him as much as paint, and, though brother 
 artists agreed that " his colour was sour, and 
 his drawing bad," the sitters were always in- 
 terested in what he made of them. The portrait 
 was something to talk about, though usually, 
 " It doesn't half do you justice, my dear. Your 
 nose really isn't as large as that, and as for your 
 complexion well, I suppose yellow and mauve 
 are the latest discoveries, so we must say noth- 
 ing still, there is a likeness " 
 
 Teresa was sitting in a high-backed Italian 
 chair; she wore a white dress, and a flat, black 
 chip hat, tied under her chin. In her hands 
 she had a bit of red clay, from which she was 
 modelling a tiny statuette of a faun. She did 
 not like posing, and had stipulated, in this pic- 
 ture, for something to do. Basil, accordingly, 
 painted her looking down, musingly, under the 
 shadow of the hat, at the faun. He had roughly 
 sketched in the lower part of the figure, and was 
 still working on the face. 
 
 " I shall call it l The Girl and the Clay/ " he 
 said. " You may be supposed to be ' making a 
 poet out of a man ' though the ordinary thing 
 would be to make a man out of a poet." 

 
 88 THEBOND 
 
 " A man is better than a poet," said Teresa 
 lazily. " But I am only making a faun out of 
 nothing." 
 
 " Out of nothing out of nothing ! " murmured 
 Basil, studying his canvas with knitted brows. 
 He laid down his sheaf of brushes and palette, 
 and stretched his arms with a yawn. " You are 
 making it out of red dirt and borrowed ideas. 
 What so absurd as making a faun at this era 
 of the world's history? " 
 
 " It is good enough for the handle of a paper- 
 knife, anyway," said Teresa placidly. 
 
 " So inappropriate ! What on earth has a 
 faun got to do with cutting books? " 
 
 " I am making him with a leer, so that he 
 will say, every time you look at him, ' What a 
 fool you are to waste your time ! ' Of course, he 
 is only to be used for cutting German philoso- 
 phers. I think I'll engrave on the blade, 
 
 " 'Grau, meine Freund, ist alle Theorie, 
 Und griin des Lebens goldne Baum.' " 
 
 " You're an immoral little wretch, with your 
 fauns and sprites and pixies! What a day 
 o-oh ! " And he stretched out his arms again 
 with a groan. 
 
 " What's the matter with the day? It's a good 
 day. You're lazy." 
 
 " No, it's the spring ! Don't you feel it, cold 
 one? "
 
 T H E B O N D 89 
 
 " Yes, I feel it, but it doesn't make me yawn 
 like a gryphon, and deliver myself of uncouth 
 noises." 
 
 " Well, it does me. I'm an earth creature. I 
 want to get out and roll in the grass ow-woof ! 
 Let's go out in the country." 
 
 " All right ! " said Teresa, springing up. 
 " Anything to get out of this beastly posing. 
 Now, remember, you stopped this of your own 
 accord." 
 
 " So I did." Basil enveloped her in his arms 
 and bit her neck. She cried out and pushed her- 
 self away from him. 
 
 " Basil ! I'm sure that will leave a mark, and 
 you know I'm going out to dinner to-night ! " 
 She fled to the mirror, and it reflected an angry 
 countenance. 
 
 " No, it won't, and, if it does, it will only make 
 you look nicer. There forgive me, will you? 
 I didn't mean to hurt." 
 
 " You're so rough," sighed Teresa. She took 
 off the chip hat, and began changing her dress. 
 " Lock the door, will you? Some of your ladies 
 might come bursting in." 
 
 " My ladies ! " scoffed Basil. 
 
 He locked the door, and came back with some 
 letters in his hand to hinder Teresa from dress- 
 ing. To divert his attention, she snatched one 
 of the letters a fat grey envelope, addressed in 
 a dashing hand.
 
 90 THEBOND 
 
 " There love letters again ! I'm going to 
 open it ! " 
 
 " All right. But I thought we agreed not to 
 read each other's letters? How pretty you are 
 to-day, Teresa ! I must paint you in a low dress 
 something blue that white skin of yours, with 
 the ivory undertone " 
 
 Teresa had opened the grey envelope, and 
 looked at the signature, 
 
 " Isabel Perry ! Now, why should she write 
 to you, Basil? You didn't tell me " 
 
 " Don't know. I've never had a letter from 
 her before. About the picture, I daresay." 
 
 " Picture ! Eight pages about the picture ! 
 Shall I read it? " 
 
 " Oh, if you want to. But perhaps you might 
 let me read it first, as it's addressed to me." 
 
 Basil was "perfectly good-humoured and un- 
 embarrassed. He looked amused. 
 
 " No, I shall read it to you," said Teresa, sit- 
 ting down half-dressed and glancing rapidly 
 over the first pages. " The interesting parts, 
 that is. There's a lot about the motor and the 
 roads and the people she pretends to be bored 
 * I sit with a veil over my face, and he sits 
 beside me with goggles on, and he could not see 
 me even if I had no veil and he no goggles ' 
 how silly! She's a femme incomprise, is she? 
 'Can't tell you how many thousands of miles 
 distant I feel from these people, stupefied by so
 
 THEBOND 91 
 
 many hours' rushing through the fresh air, or 
 by food and drink and their own physical well- 
 being. . . . But, oh, the glory of the sea, 
 the wind, the clouds. . . .' She loves nature, 
 does she? . . . ' I've thought of you a good 
 deal, and of our talks. You have the gift of 
 making one say more than one means to say, 
 but you understand so well that it makes it all 
 right. Who taught you all you know about life? 
 I am older than you, I've seen a good deal of the 
 world, and yet you are so much surer than I, of 
 yourself and of other people. I'm sure of noth- 
 ing, except that I cannot go on as I am living 
 now. I don't know what is before me, but al- 
 ready I feel as though I had left all this crowd 
 of people that are despoiling me of my life far 
 behind, as though I were flying along the road 
 to freedom Freedom! It may be only death. 
 I'm in a machine that's beyond my control, and 
 who knows what the next turn of the road may 
 bring? Oh, God! if I could only give myself 
 to something entirely worthy, if I could get 
 away from this trivial self of mine. . . .' " 
 
 Teresa's voice faltered. She threw the letter 
 down, and sat looking at the floor, her lips pout- 
 ing with an injured expression. Basil was silent, 
 and when she glanced up at him she saw that 
 he looked uncomfortable. He took the letter, 
 folded it, and put it in his pocket. 
 / a ^hy does she write to you like that? "
 
 92 THEBOND 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. " I don't know. 
 She's an expressive person." 
 
 " Expressive ! She's hysterical. But you 
 aren't her father-confessor, are you? " 
 
 " Don't be foolish, Teresa. Why shouldn't 
 she talk or write to me, if she feels like it? She's 
 an interesting woman, and she's unhappy." 
 
 " Of course she's unhappy. It's very easy for 
 a woman who has a heap of money, good looks, 
 and a kind husband to be unhappy. To be 
 contented would be simply commonplace. It 
 would prove that she had no soul at all. And, 
 besides, what could she talk about to other 
 men? " 
 
 Basil was grave. " She isn't a trivial woman," 
 he said. " You don't understand that tempera- 
 ment, Teresa. She is really unworldly, she has 
 a lot of energy which she can't put into ordinary 
 channels " 
 
 "Very well, but she needn't employ it on 
 you ! " Teresa got up and flung herself into his 
 arms. " She is in love with you ! That's what 
 she means by ( something entirely worthy/ . . ." 
 
 "You little idiot! . . . What's the mat- 
 ter with you lately, Teresa? When did you get 
 this idea that women fall in love with me? They 
 don't! And even if they did, it wouldn't mat- 
 ter. You know perfectly well I never think of 
 anyone but you." 
 
 She made no answer, but clung to him, and he
 
 THEBOND 93 
 
 began coaxing her, with half-laughing, tender 
 phrases that showed a distinct pleasure in her 
 jealousy. 
 
 " I believe you put it on, simply to please 
 me," he suggested. 
 
 " No ! " she said passionately. 
 
 In an hour they were in a train, going out 
 through the smoky tunnel, and the bleak rec- 
 tangular outskirts of the city, into the fields. 
 The car was almost empty. They sat hand-in- 
 hand. Teresa's face was full of light and colour ; 
 her narrow eyes gleamed joyously; she leaned 
 against Basil's shoulder with a soft nestling of 
 her pliant body. They opened the window as 
 soon as they were out of the tunnel, and the 
 spring air blew in upon them, mixed with cin- 
 ders which nobody minded. Then came the 
 smell of the sea. They got out at a smart subur- 
 ban station and walked away from it, over a 
 hill, through budding woods and newly turned 
 fields and banks of green grass mixed with shelves 
 of rock. The blue sky was dappled all over now 
 with cloud-feathers that melted and formed 
 anew every moment. Teresa sang: 
 
 "' Im tvunderschonen Monat Mai, 
 'Als alle Knospen sprangen, 
 Da ist in meinem Herzen 
 Die Liebe ausgegangen.
 
 94 THEBOND 
 
 " ' Im rvunderschonen Monat Mai, 
 Als alle Vogel sangen, 
 Da hab' ich ihr gestanden 
 Mein Sehnen und Verlangen.' " 
 
 Their eyes met. The song was enwrapped 
 with memories of the first days of their mar- 
 riage. Heine had been the poet of their love. 
 
 They lunched gaily together at a little res- 
 taurant on the edge of a bay, a sort of road- 
 house with a stuffy parlour and one slow waiter, 
 like a winter-frozen fly, waiting for warm 
 weather to unlimber. They were alone on the 
 wide verandah overlooking the wet flats from 
 which the tide was still receding; and they 
 clasped hands and even kissed one another 
 across the little table. After lunch they found 
 a warm nook by the side of a rock in an old 
 apple orchard. Before them were only silent 
 fields and woods and the smooth blue Sound. 
 iThe apple trees were in bloom, a mist of pink 
 spread over the hillside, and white petals drifted 
 down on the grass with every soft breath of 
 wind. Teresa sat on the ground, leaning against 
 the rock. Basil lay with his head in her lap, and 
 his grey hat over his eyes. She hummed 
 dreamily : 
 
 " Es war ein Eonig im Thule," and prevented 
 him from going to sleep by teasing him with a 
 feathery grass. She had taken off her hat; the
 
 THEBOND 95 
 
 sun shone down on her through the pink blos- 
 soms; her eyes were as blue as the sea or sky, 
 and expressed a wistful happiness. 
 
 " What are you thinking about? " asked Basil, 
 looking up sleepily, and imprisoning her hand 
 with the tormenting grass. 
 
 " Nothing very wise." 
 
 " ' Que m'importe que tu sols sage? 
 Sois belle, et sois triste! ' 
 
 " Yes, but you don't like me when I'm triste" 
 
 " I like you any way, my child, any way if 
 only you'll talk to me, and tell me why and 
 wherefore " 
 
 " One can't talk all the time. It always makes 
 me sad to be happy, for then you dread change, 
 and everything changes." 
 
 " Dearest, would you like to go on as we are, 
 then?" 
 
 " Yes, forever. I don't want anything more, 
 nor anything less." 
 
 " You want whatever you have. You didn't 
 want me till you got me! Life has to be forced 
 on you then you like it well enough ! " 
 
 " But no more of it I don't want any more. 
 I'm afraid of you, you're so omnivorous ! You're 
 always wanting something new, always being 
 interested in new people. Some day you'll be 
 tired of me." 
 
 He laughed. " It's much more apt to be the
 
 96 THEBOND 
 
 other way round. I'm surer than you are. I 
 lived for thirty years in the world before I saw 
 you, and never saw another woman that I w r anted 
 for more than a moment. When I saw you I 
 knew I wanted you forever. But you didn't 
 want me." 
 
 " I want you now, though ! And I don't want 
 anyone else to have even a thought of you I 
 hate to think that some women have memories of 
 you. I don't like it that women write to you, and 
 tell you their secrets " 
 
 She broke off suddenly and laughed. 
 
 " What an idiot I'm getting to be ! You hardly 
 know me, do you? What would my Aunt Sophy 
 say if she could hear me? . . . No, I know 
 what I said is absurd, from any reasonable point 
 of view. And I am reasonable, you know. And 
 so I admit that I'm glad I married an attractive 
 man, and that it's necessary other women should 
 be more or less interested in him, and he in 
 them. I don't want to be a jealous idiot. I 
 want you to be perfectly free. I like you partly 
 because you know the world it amuses me 
 your experience. I don't mind your peccadil- 
 loes one bit. . . ." Again she stopped for a 
 moment. 
 
 " I know you don't," said Basil. 
 
 " Wait a bit do you? Of course you prefer to 
 think I don't, and / prefer to think I don't so 
 you bring your arguments to bear on my reason,
 
 THEBOND 97 
 
 and I bring my reason to bear on your argu- 
 ments, and we agree, and are as jolly as possible. 
 . . . But there's another person in me that's 
 quite different. You are responsible for that 
 person she never existed till you insisted that 
 she should be and she makes me very uncom- 
 fortable. She's responsible for my moods and 
 silly jealousies of women that I know you don't 
 care for. I am rational, but she is blind instinct. 
 I know you belong to me, but she doubts it. I 
 believe that even if another woman had a physi- 
 cal attraction for you, it wouldn't touch your 
 feeling for me but she would go wild at the 
 thought of it. So look out for her. / am rea- 
 sonable, as I said, but she " 
 
 " What an imagination you have ! " laughed 
 Basil, and he kissed her wrist. " Are you trying 
 to make me believe that there's primeval passion 
 in you? I know better. You're the most charm- 
 ing creature in the world, one of the most intel- 
 ligent, and deliciously pretty, and thoroughly 
 civilised. I don't believe for a minute in this 
 other person you describe. You will dramatise 
 everything ! You don't care enough about me to 
 be jealous, even with good reason. I only wish 
 you did." 
 
 " All right," said Teresa composedly. " Give 
 me a cigarette. What a heavenly day ! What a 
 delightful world! I love you, Basil. I do think 
 I'm one of the luckiest people alive."
 
 IX 
 
 fTlHEY got back to the city barely in time to 
 * dress for dinner. Basil dressed in twenty 
 minutes, and then came into Teresa's room, 
 handsome and smart, with his hat and coat on, 
 and his watch in his hand. She was doing her 
 hair ; and it did not suit her, and had to be done 
 over again. 
 
 "We ought to start in eight minutes," said 
 Basil. 
 
 "All right. Go away now, that's a good boy, 
 and don't bother," said Teresa easily. 
 
 Ten minutes passed and he returned. Teresa 
 had just finished doing her hair. This time it 
 suited her. 
 
 " Time to start," said Basil with a shade of 
 vexation. 
 
 " Do go away ! I'll be ready in three minutes, 
 if you leave me alone," said Teresa sharply. 
 " There's no use in being so beastly prompt. No- 
 body is." 
 
 " You know I hate being late," said Basil 
 shortly, and went out. 
 
 Teresa had a new dress, blue and silver, which 
 she had not even tried on. The belt was too 
 loose, and had to be taken in hastily, and the 
 
 98
 
 THEBOND 99 
 
 tulle about the dcolletage had to be adjusted. 
 She rang for Mary to hook the dress, and Basil 
 came and glowered in the doorway. 
 
 " You do fidget me so," snapped Teresa. 
 "Well, why in thunder can't you get ready, 
 on time? You drive me wild! " 
 " That's right spoil my evening." 
 " You spoil mine. I hate to go out with you." 
 Teresa did not reply, but surveyed herself in 
 the mirror. The perception that she was looking 
 extremely well helped to calm her. She put on 
 her gloves deliberately, slipped into her loose 
 white coat, and swept out past Basil, who was 
 blocking up the narrow hall. A cab was waiting 
 for them below, and Teresa half expected that 
 Basil would say something about extravagance; 
 they had had cabs three times this week. But 
 he sat silent in his corner, and she in hers, watch- 
 ing the street lights spin past. The Blackleys 
 lived uptown, and they had a drive of twenty 
 minutes, and they were twenty minutes late. 
 The other guests were assembled in the drawing- 
 room of the tiny house, squeezed in between two 
 taller houses, which Alice Blackley had deco- 
 rated according to her own aesthetic ideas, and 
 entirely without regard to her husband's. One 
 of Alice's present fads was a sparing allowance 
 of light. The drawing-room was lit only by 
 the fire and a few scattered candles. In the 
 gloom Teresa could hardly make out who were
 
 100 T H E B O N D 
 
 the other people. Alice received her coldly. She 
 was a tall, blonde woman, with a very pretty 
 figure, and large, deer-like, rather vacant eyes. 
 Dinner was instantly announced by the Japa- 
 nese butler. Teresa was taken in by a man she 
 liked a young architect with a passion for phi- 
 losophy. 
 
 She sat at the left of the host, a man of 
 middle age, who liked to be jolly, but was usu- 
 ally handicapped. Opposite her was a woman 
 of fifty, with the hard face of the society hack, a 
 high collar of pearls and diamonds, a very low- 
 cut gown, and an air of not knowing exactly 
 where she found herself. Alice had this lady's 
 husband at her right, and Basil at her left. Basil 
 had taken in Mary Addams. Then there were 
 two extra men, for Alice believed in a preponder- 
 ance of the male element. The one opposite, next 
 Mary Addams, Teresa knew she had seen some- 
 where; she gave him a bow and smile, and then 
 recollected him he was the Englishman whom 
 Basil had brought home to that unlucky dinner. 
 On her own side of the table, beyond Page, the 
 architect, she caught a glimpse of an individual 
 in an unstarched shirt-front and a large tie. 
 
 Talk burst out at once. The dining-room was 
 gloomy all done in peacock-blue, with no lights 
 except those on the table, and two or three dull 
 silver electric globes in the ceiling. 
 
 "It's Alice's idea of a summer night," mur-
 
 T H E B O N D 101 
 
 mured Page to Teresa. " Tell me what's the 
 idea of that dress she's got on." 
 
 It was a dress of black velvet, and over it Alice 
 wore a robe of Chinese embroidery of gold and 
 purple. 
 
 " That dress means," said Teresa in the same 
 tone, " that this is an artistic dinner. It is not 
 a formal dinner, nor a commonplace society 
 affair, but a gathering of intellectual people. 
 You and I and Basil are artistic, you know, Mary 
 Addams has written poems, and I imagine this 
 has been got up to amuse the guests of honour, 
 for certainly they are not artistic. As for the 
 other two, you must tell me who they are." 
 
 " Alice said there was to be an African lion, 
 and I imagine that's he, over there. He doesn't 
 look very fierce, does he? " 
 
 " I wish I knew his name. Basil brought him 
 to dinner unexpectedly one day last week. There 
 was nothing to eat, and my aunt talked Woman 
 Suffrage to us. I hoped I should never see 
 him again, but I can see from his look that 
 he remembers that steak. Basil said he was 
 something in the East. Perhaps that accounts 
 for his curious colour. Where did Alice find 
 him?" 
 
 " I don't know. She picks up all sorts of peo- 
 ple abroad. Have you noticed this person on my 
 left?" 
 
 " .Vaguely. From the coast of Bohemia? "
 
 102 T H E B O N D 
 
 " Yes, shipwrecked. A starving genius whom 
 Alice has rescued. He writes prose poems, and 
 recites them to music of his own, and he has 
 written a whole series of dances for Alice. You'll 
 see if we don't catch it after dinner ! " 
 
 "And she is introducing him to the Kerrs! 
 Now you see why we're here." 
 
 " I forgive him for existing. I pardon him 
 for sitting next to me. I remit to him even the 
 sins he's going to commit after dinner. I haven't 
 seen you for months." 
 
 " No, you're too busy building neo-Kenaissance 
 houses for the newly rich. How's Alice's villa 
 getting on?" 
 
 " Hush ! She wants a waterfall in the middle 
 of it." 
 
 " Well, you must get her one. I can't see why 
 you should deny her a trifle like that." 
 
 At this point, Mrs. Kerr having found some- 
 thing to say to the Englishman, Mr. Blackley 
 turned to Teresa. 
 
 "Well, how is Art? " he enquired. 
 
 " You ought to know. You live in the very 
 hot-bed of it," said Teresa. " You raise it under 
 glass." 
 
 He cast a glance about the room, and lowered 
 his voice, taking Page into the talk by a look. 
 
 " Say, honestly, how d'ye like the house? I 
 call it fierce simply fierce. Of course, you 
 know it's her house a woman ought to have
 
 T H E B O N D 103 
 
 her house as she likes it, for a man can always 
 get out of it, you see. But, confound it, it does 
 give me the blues. To go prowling round in this 
 kind of a dim, religious light, breaking your 
 shins against chairs and marble statues and 
 things and eating your food in a sort of Got- 
 terdammmerung that word expresses my feel- 
 ings why, you might as well be at a table- 
 d'hote, for all you know what you're eating. And 
 then, there ain't a comfortable chair in the place 
 except on my floor. I say, you two come up 
 there after dinner, and I'll show you what's my 
 idea of a room. I had to fight for that floor, too, 
 I can tell you! Alice wanted to hang my bed- 
 room with sea-green brocade and marquetry 
 furniture. You can easily slip out, you know, 
 for the drawing-rooin'll be pitch dark, except a 
 circle of light where the fellow recites, and per- 
 haps we could get Basil and Mary, too." 
 
 " I like that ! Do you think you could steal 
 away the audience and Alice not notice? Be- 
 sides, I want to hear this wonderful person." 
 
 " Oh, no, you don't ! Really, you don't. D'you 
 know why all the lights are turned out when he 
 recites? Because he's so terribly indecent that 
 people are ashamed to look each other in the 
 face. He says it's because genius won't flow if 
 he has to look at his audience, but I know better. 
 I go away when he begins I can't stand him, 
 'pon my word. I'm a modest man. I say, hang
 
 104 T H E B O N D 
 
 Art if it's got to be mixed up with indecency. 
 What's your opinion, Teresa?" 
 
 " You are perfectly right. I shall put proper 
 clothes on all the figures on that punch-bowl I'm 
 making for you." 
 
 " Oh, I say ! You know I don't mean that sort 
 of thing! I'm not a prig. But well, you wait 
 till you hear him." 
 
 Teresa thought that the poet must certainly 
 have heard some of these remarks, but he seemed 
 absorbed in explaining to Alice and to Mr. Kerr, 
 a gentleman of uncertain age and inexpressive 
 countenance, something which required a great 
 many gestures of unmanicured hands. She saw 
 that Basil was having a good time with Mary 
 Addams ; he was laughing a good deal, drinking 
 a good deal of excellent Burgundy; his eyes had 
 the attentive and warm look called out by any 
 woman he liked. There was more life and 
 vigour in his handsome head than in all the 
 others combined. Beside him Horace Blackley 
 looked fat and commonplace, Page looked con- 
 ventional, Mr. Kerr pallid and used, the poet 
 greasy and theatrical, and the Englishman 
 looked like a grave phantom a phantom of dis- 
 tinction. Teresa could hardly believe that he 
 was not an Eastern she could imagine him 
 with the white burnoose, the hood over his head, 
 a typical Arab. She said as much to Page. 
 
 "Ah, you're right I believe there is a drop
 
 T H E B O N D 105 
 
 of black blood somewhere in him Egyptian or 
 something and part of his success is due to the 
 fact that he can pass as a native among the 
 Arabs like Burton, you know. He's governor 
 of some district down in the desert. Good-look- 
 ing chap." 
 
 " Tell me his name," said Teresa. 
 
 " Crayven that's all I know of it." 
 
 Teresa judged his age to be about thirty-five, 
 though in expression he looked older looked, 
 in fact, any age. His face, with all the fineness 
 and delicacy of its lines, was strong. His fore- 
 head and eyes showed intellectual force ; his eyes 
 were frank and simple, it seemed to Teresa, on 
 this second view, and his mouth gentle. He in- 
 terested Teresa, partly because of the extreme 
 quiet and repose of his manner. Whether he was 
 talking to Mrs. Kerr or to Mary Addams, whom 
 he seemed to find attractive, or listening, which 
 he seemed to prefer, he suggested somehow a 
 world different from this. Teresa's imagination 
 was stirred by the few facts she had heard about 
 him. A simpler, a less nervous life, more primi- 
 tive and harsher externals, more space and free- 
 dom, might be his proper setting. She fancied 
 she saw in his face, in spite of its gentleness, the 
 habit of command. His grey-brown colour and 
 the lines about his eyes made her think of the 
 glare of sun on the desert. 
 
 Dinner was nearly over when for the first time
 
 106 T H E B O N D 
 
 the conversation became more general. Basil, 
 Mary Addams, Page, and the poet discussed the 
 origin of Art. The poet maintained with vigour 
 that all that was good in nature was due directly 
 to art, that art came out of the vague, a creative 
 force, and lifted nature from mere bestiality into 
 the light of civilisation. Basil maintained the 
 superior interest of nature and the imitative 
 character of art, and the other two followed his 
 lead. Soon the discussion ascended to meta- 
 physical heights, and dealt with the philosophy 
 of aesthetics. Mary dropped out, with a tolerant 
 smile. Alice threw in a vague, irrelevant ques- 
 tion now and then, and looked pleased ; this was 
 something really intellectual. Mrs. Kerr lis- 
 tened, and blinked with a faintly astonished air; 
 Mr. Kerr and the host devoted themselves to 
 game and currant jelly. The poet showed unex- 
 pected ability in dialectic; Basil and Page, who 
 considered themselves philosophers, forgot the 
 rest of the company. Crayven was silent, and 
 turned his champagne-glass round and round 
 with an abstracted look; he did not drink the 
 champagne. 
 
 Teresa, rather tired of being talked across 
 by Page and the poet, was studying Crayven's 
 grave face, when, for the third time that even- 
 ing, he interrupted her scrutiny by meeting it 
 suddenly, with eyes in which now lurked a 
 smile of irony and amusement. She smiled, too,
 
 T H E B O N D 107 
 
 and felt with interest that philosophy probably 
 bored him as much as it did her. He was a man 
 of action. Nearly all the men she knew were 
 men of talk. 
 
 She felt irritated with Alice when the men 
 were left in the dining-room and the women 
 rustled up stairs together; she saw no present 
 reason for this arrangement. Dress was the 
 topic of discussion, and over their coffee and 
 cigarettes Mrs. Kerr and Alice talked eagerly 
 about a new dressmaker, one of their acquaint- 
 ances turned to business, who was more expen- 
 sive than anything in Paris, and promised to be 
 the rage. For the first time that evening a real 
 interest lighted Alice's large eyes; she looked, 
 as she rapturously described a toilette of purple 
 velvet, almost like a sentient being. Teresa and 
 Mary Addams exchanged an expressive glance, 
 and Teresa was about to move her chair nearer 
 to Mary's, with a view to escaping further bore- 
 dom, when Crayven walked into the room alone. 
 
 "Will you send me back, please, if you don't 
 want me? " he said to Alice with a deprecating 
 smile. 
 
 " Of course, we want you we're highly flat- 
 tered," she assured him graciously, but looking 
 a little put out. 
 
 He sat down by Teresa, and offered her a 
 cigarette from his own case. Alice gave him a 
 cup of coffee.
 
 108 THE BOND 
 
 " Your own, and made according to direc- 
 tions," she said. 
 
 He tasted it, smiled, shook his head, and put 
 it down. 
 
 " It tastes like the ordinary bean of com- 
 merce," he said. "You won't taste real coffee 
 till you come to Arabia." 
 
 " I shall come next year," Alice assured him. 
 " It will be the most amusing thing I ever did. 
 Four days on a camel, straight into the desert 
 and an old fort to lire in, with a powder-maga- 
 zine under the drawing-room ! " 
 
 " We don't call it a drawing-room," said Cray- 
 ven gravely. " And you won't be able to bring 
 many boxes, you know." 
 
 " I shall come w T ith one saddlebag, and then 
 I shall dress like a native woman while I'm 
 there," said Alice with interest. 
 
 " Void que devant lui s'arreta une femme en- 
 veloppee de son ample voile en etoffe de Mous- 
 soul, en sole parsemee de paillettes d'or et 
 doublees de brocart. Elle souleva un pen son 
 petit voile de visage, et, d'en dessous, alors, ap- 
 parurent des yeux noirs avec de longs cils et 
 quelles paupieres!" murmured Teresa. 
 
 " Ah, what's that? " asked Crayven, looking at 
 her intently. 
 
 " The Thousand and One Nights." 
 
 " Ah, yes, I remember Burton. But those are 
 town Arabs, you know a very different thing
 
 THE BOND 100 
 
 from the Bedouins. You won't find any veils of 
 brocade in my part of the desert ! " 
 
 " There are some Bedouin stories, too some 
 of the time of the Prophet." 
 
 " I'd forgotten that. I'd like to see those 
 must look it up again." 
 
 He addressed himself particularly to Teresa, 
 and now, smoking silently, seemed to expect her 
 to say something more. 
 
 " Did you enjoy your play the other night? " 
 she asked idly. 
 
 " Oh no. I hate the theatre. I didn't come 
 to America to go to the theatre." 
 
 "What did you come for, then?" she en- 
 quired. 
 
 " I came for some big game shooting. I'm go- 
 ing on to the Rocky Mountains next Wednesday. 
 I've got two months clear to spend in the open." 
 
 " But don't you live in the open down 
 there? " Teresa's ideas of Eastern geography 
 were vague. 
 
 " It's rather a different thing ! . . . When 
 I get out of the desert I like to change though 
 I always want to get back there. I make for the 
 mountains when I do go away." 
 
 "And you've wasted ten whole days or more 
 in New York ! " 
 
 " Yes rather wasted. . . . May I come 
 and see you before I go say to-morrow after- 
 noon? "
 
 110 T H E B O N D 
 
 She nodded, with some amusement. In a few 
 moments the other men came in Page and Basil 
 last, with their arms on one another's shoulders, 
 and still mumbling the remnants of their argu- 
 ment. But now it was the poet's hour. The can- 
 dles were collected about the piano; and while 
 the audience sat in darkness, the poet, throwing 
 back his head in the attitude of Beata Beatrix, 
 received what light there was on his pale coun- 
 tenance and half-closed eyes; and, touching the 
 keys lightly, he chanted a mysterious poem on 
 Slumber. Horace Blackley had slipped out 
 when the piano began ; and through the curtains 
 lie beckoned appealingly to Teresa and to Page, 
 who sat near her. But he was obliged to stay 
 alone. Teresa became slightly interested in the 
 poem. It was indecent, but it was not common- 
 place. When its last sigh had died away, with- 
 out waiting for comment, the poet struck several 
 far-reaching chords, and glanced at Alice. She 
 rose and came forward to the edge of the circle of 
 candle-light. The poet played some unheard-of 
 music, and Alice danced, or rather posed, lifting 
 and swaying her arms, which emerged bare from 
 the falling sleeves of the gold robe. The purpose 
 of the robe now became apparent. Her face in 
 shadow was barely seen, and it was at all times 
 her least interesting point; but her beautiful 
 figure, straight and lithe of line, expressed itself 
 marvellously under the shimmer of the embroid-
 
 THE BOND 111 
 
 ery. The spectators were one and all intent. 
 Teresa glanced round, and saw eyes gleaming 
 with sudden wakefulness. Even Mr. Kerr was 
 awake. Page leaned forward. 
 
 " By Jove, you know, they really have struck 
 something they really have ! " he whispered, his 
 gaze on the swaying figure. Crayven said 
 nothing, but she thought she saw a faint smile 
 on his lips. Basil sat nearest to the dancer ; his 
 face was more lit up. It was animated by the 
 wine he had drunk, by energetic talk; and now 
 by a decided feeling for the plastic figure before 
 him. Teresa watched him, forgetting the others.
 
 X 
 
 T N the carriage, going home, Basil entirely 
 1 forgetting that his evening had been spoiled 
 put his arm about his wife, and kissed her with 
 a warmth which she discouraged mildly. 
 
 " Did you enjoy it? " she asked. 
 
 "Oh, fairly. I liked the food and the 
 wine " 
 
 "And Mary." 
 
 " I always like Mary. She's uncommonly 
 amusing." 
 
 " She's more so since she got rid of Jack." 
 
 " Perhaps she isn't rid of him. Remember 
 what we saw in the restaurant. Perhaps she 
 likes him as a lover, though she didn't as a hus- 
 bandeh?" 
 
 " You're wicked. So is she, rather. That's 
 why you like her. I thought you seemed inter- 
 ested in Alice." 
 
 " Alice is interesting so long as she doesn't 
 talk. She did that dance, or whatever you call 
 it, well. That's the latest fad, I suppose. I'd 
 like to paint her in that gold thing." 
 
 " Do she'd be charmed. So long as some- 
 one will look at her she's happy." 
 
 "You're a little waspish, ain't you?" said 
 Basil with amusement and another kiss. 
 
 112
 
 THE BOND 113 
 
 " I was bored." 
 
 " I thought you were having a good time with 
 Page." 
 
 " He's amusing, but not interesting. But Alice 
 always puts the most interesting man where I 
 can't talk to him." 
 
 " Oh, does she? Who was the interesting man 
 to-night the poet? " 
 
 " Poet ! The rude Englishman, of course." 
 
 " Kude, was he? I thought he was gallant. 
 He bolted off after you in no time." 
 
 " He was bored by your silly metaphysics. 
 I kept thinking all the time you and Page 
 were arguing, about Goethe's picture of the meta- 
 physician an ass led round by the nose in the 
 midst of a barren plot of ground, while all round 
 him are green fields that he never sees ! " 
 
 " You flatter us. But where were the green 
 fields to-night? Is Crayven a green field? " 
 
 " Not exactly. But something out-of-doors 
 natural and primitive." 
 
 " Hello, you've fallen in love with him ! Any 
 man is natural and primitive. The difficulty is 
 to be anything else. But I can tell you, Crayven 
 isn't primitive he's only limited." 
 
 " I thought you liked him." 
 
 " No, not much. He's rather dry." 
 
 " He hasn't a free-flowing temperament, and 
 doesn't like either whisky or philosophy is that 
 what you mean? "
 
 114 T H E B O N D 
 
 " You're satirical. You arc in love with him, 
 aren't you? " 
 
 " He's coming to see me to-morrow. Then I 
 shall decide whether I am or not." 
 
 " Better hurry a bit, for he's off to the wilds 
 in a few days, to shoot something. Who was it 
 said that if an Englishman saw an angel his first 
 impulse would be to shoot it?" 
 
 "And yours would be to give it a drink, and 
 get it to pose.- . . . Basil, you don't tell me 
 everything, do you? " 
 
 " Everything you know I do. Why do you 
 say that?" 
 
 " Because I had an idea to-night, watching 
 you. You know you told me about a person 
 before we were married a married woman. 
 . . . Was it Mary? " 
 
 " No ! What an idea why on earth ? " 
 
 " You wouldn't tell me if it was Mary, would 
 you? " 
 
 " No, I wouldn't. But it wasn't. I've told 
 you, it wasn't anyone you know." 
 
 " Yes, but if it were somebody I knew, you'd 
 lie about it, wouldn't you? " 
 
 " I don't lie to you, Teresa." 
 
 "You would, in such a case. You wouldn't 
 betray the other woman. ... So how can I 
 know you aren't lying now? " 
 
 Basil gave an exasperated groan.
 
 T H E B O N D 115 
 
 " I thought we'd settled all that ! What earthly 
 difference does it make to you, Teresa 
 
 "Oh, well, it does, that's all. I hate that 
 woman. You know you did love her." 
 
 " I didn't, and she didn't love me. I liked her 
 she was clever and amusing, and she was un 
 happy with her husband " 
 
 Teresa swayed into her corner of the carriage 
 and shut her eyes. 
 
 " Don't talk about such things, dearest," im- 
 plored Basil with a certain sad humility. 
 " There's nothing that really matters to us, you 
 know " 
 
 " There's nothing perfect in this world," said 
 Teresa, in a strange, quiet voice. " Not even 
 our not even love." 
 
 " Dearest ! " he cried, and leaned toward her 
 but she repelled him gently. 
 
 They were silent for the few minutes that re- 
 mained of their drive. . . . 
 
 In the little drawing-room the windows were 
 open, and the curtains swayed in a warm breeze. 
 Teresa took off her coat, and lay down in the 
 long chair, and Basil walked about the room, 
 smoking nervously. 
 
 " Don't you want to go to bed aren't you 
 tired? " he asked. 
 
 " No, I'm not sleepy," she answered absently. 
 Her face, her half -closed eyes, were sad; and she
 
 116 T H E B O N D 
 
 had the cold aloof look that Basil dreaded. He 
 came presently, and sat on the floor at her side, 
 laying his head against her shoulder. 
 
 " Do you hate me? " he asked. 
 
 " Sometimes I hate all men." 
 I " Oh, Teresa, you don't. That sounds like your 
 aunt." 
 
 " Perhaps my aunt is right. I hate self-in- 
 ,' dulgent, sensual, self-satisfied men. I hate com- 
 1 fortable men and you all try to be as much 
 I that as you can." 
 
 " Why shouldn't we be as comfortable as we 
 can if it hurts nobody else? I don't under- 
 stand you. I thought you believed in enjoying 
 life in all possible ways. You " 
 
 "No, it's disgusting! Disgusting to have ap- 
 petites, and coddle them as tenderly as if they 
 were your children ! It makes a man a ridiculous 
 spectacle. I wish I knew one man who didn't 
 care for physical pleasures I wish I knew a 
 good priest, or some man who was ascetic by 
 choice, who lived hard, and worked hard 
 who had something besides himself to think 
 about." 
 
 Basil raised his head, and looked at her in 
 surprise. After a moment he said : 
 
 " There are plenty of men who live hard, and 
 work hard but generally because they must 
 in which case it's no virtue. As for the few who 
 do it when they needn't, it's because they have
 
 T H E B O N D 117 
 
 some idea or some cause that possesses them 
 or some person 
 
 " Yes, if I only knew some one with a cause- 
 some prophet or other " 
 
 " All prophets are very sensual. Look at Ma- 
 homet Brigham Young " 
 
 "Oh, be quiet!" 
 
 " But it's true ! " said Basil, kissing her hand 
 and laughing. " So don't run off after the first 
 prophet you see. There are lots of them. But 
 all of them, and all the great poets and philoso- 
 phers of the world " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I've heard all that. Spiritual life, 
 intellectual life, is only another form of self-in- 
 dulgence. I'm tired of you." 
 
 " You are tired, dearest. Go to bed, won't 
 you? " 
 
 "No, I won't. . . . Sometimes I wish 
 you had something of that in you, Basil. . . ." 
 
 " Something of what, dearest one? " 
 
 " Oh, something of the mystic, the prophet ! 
 . . . You are all so clear, so defined, so 
 worldly. Not worldly in a small sense, but 
 worldly all the same. But ... if you were 
 a prophet, I suppose you wouldn't be as nice to 
 live with as you are now, perhaps." 
 
 "No you're not ascetic, my girl! You 
 wouldn't want to tread the thorny path of self- 
 mortification, prophet or no prophet." 
 
 "Who knows?"
 
 118 T H E B O N D 
 
 "I know! If there ever was a self-indulgent 
 person, it's you! What's got into you this even- 
 ing, Teresa? You talk a little bit like Mrs. 
 Perry and you're not a bit like her " 
 
 " I should hope not," said Teresa with con- 
 tempt. 
 
 She drew her hand away from Basil, in sud- 
 den irritation. 
 
 " How nasty of you to say that ! Go away, 
 and leave me alone, will you? " 
 
 " Oh, don't be cross, dearest, I didn't 
 mean " 
 
 Teresa crossed her hands under her head and 
 closed her eyes wearily. After a moment Basil 
 got up and touched the bell. Its sharp trill could 
 be heard distinctly from the region of the 
 kitchen. 
 
 " What do you want? It's Mary's night out." 
 
 " I want some whisky and water. It seems 
 to me it's always Mary's night out. Does she 
 stay out all night? " 
 
 " I think she does. She has a key." 
 
 " I suppose she goes on a bat, then." 
 
 " Very likely. Why shouldn't she, poor thing, 
 messing over horrid pots and pans all the week. 
 I hope she does. She works hard enough for it 
 and she supports her family out of us, most ad- 
 mirably." 
 
 " She does on her wages? " 
 
 " Yes and incidentals."
 
 T H E B O N D 111) 
 
 " Incidentals? Do you mean slie steals from 
 us?" 
 
 " Of course she does. A little sugar here, a 
 little tea there, a half-pound of chops to cheer 
 up her poor old mother." 
 
 "Well, look here, I didn't know that. You 
 oughtn't to let her do it ! " 
 
 " Why not? We can afford it. Property is 
 theft anyhow. I'll get you your whisky though 
 really you've had enough." 
 
 Teresa went quickly out of the room, to avoid 
 discussion, and brought back the decanters and 
 two glasses. 
 
 " I'll take a little, too, just to make you 
 happy," she said, smiling. 
 
 "Well, look here, about Mary " 
 
 " Oh, bother Mary. Let's talk about ourselves. 
 I forgive you for everything." 
 
 "Do you honestly?" He was won instantly 
 away from the theme of Mary. And he was 
 used to Teresa's jumps. 
 
 " Yes. I don't really blame you, you know. 
 I think you're a sweet, dear thing, and very good 
 to me. And I don't want you different at all 
 from what you are. Only don't make me jeal- 
 ous." 
 
 " Jealous you ! It isn't in you." 
 
 " Oh, isn't it ! Don't try it, that's all. I don't 
 mind other women liking you only don't you 
 like them!"
 
 120 T H E B O N D 
 
 " I couldn't. You're just the one and only. 
 You combine everything I like if only you 
 liked me a little more ! " 
 
 " I love you. . . . Did I look pretty to- 
 night? " 
 
 " Charming, dearest. That dress is very nice 
 is it new? " 
 
 " Yes Nina sent it to me from Rome. It cost 
 a pretty penny ! " 
 
 " You are a nice person to talk about self-in- 
 dulgence! When did you deny yourself any- 
 thing you wanted?" 
 
 " Never, if I could get it. But I admire it in 
 other people." 
 
 " I daresay ! " 
 
 " It pleases my aesthetic sense. It has beauty 
 in it. Most people are so smug. I like hungry 
 people." 
 
 " That's the reason you liked me, then be- 
 cause I was starving for you." 
 
 She kissed him tenderly. 
 
 " Not for me, but for something beautiful that 
 you mistook me for ! I'm glad you mistook me." 
 
 " I didn't I just took you." 
 
 She smiled. All the weariness was gone now 
 from her look. She looked young and joyous. 
 She went to a mirror and admired herself in 
 the blue and silver dress. 
 
 "Yes, I am pretty," she said confidingly. " I 
 like the dress it makes my eyes look bluer. Can
 
 T H E B O N D 121 
 
 you unhook it, do you think? Because if not, I 
 shall have to sleep in it." 
 
 " I can try," said Basil, manfully. 
 
 " Fraud ! As if you hadn't had enough prac- 
 tice. . . . 
 
 He looked into the mirror over her shoulder. 
 Their eyes met, and they both laughed gaily.
 
 XI 
 
 TERESA'S life was full, and, on the whole, 
 free and happy. She desired nothing more 
 for herself, except that it should not change. 
 Her occasional clouded moods were due, if not 
 to some temporary and slight disagreement with 
 Basil, in which she usually by insistence got the 
 best of him, then to a vague perception of forces 
 within and without that menaced her happiness 
 of careless youth and love. She saw that she 
 herself changed, that her love and need of Basil 
 deepened. She saw that he changed that he be- 
 came more tranquil toward her, and more inter- 
 ested in the play of life outside than he had been 
 during his year of absorption in her. And this 
 shifting of the balance frightened her. If she 
 should come to need him more than he needed 
 her, it w r ould destroy their first relation, in which 
 he had given to her out of a free abundance of 
 life and joy, and she to him calmly, tenderly, and 
 with a smile on her lips, and in her heart. And 
 this change, too, would destroy her own poise, 
 and leave her at the mercy of chance or fate, in 
 a dependence on Basil which she obscurely 
 dreaded when she thought of it. 
 
 The tragedy of life she felt all about her, like 
 the great humming city; only so far it had not 
 
 192
 
 T H E B O N D 123 
 
 touched her nearly. Since her marriage, the 
 most tragic thing in her world had been Gerald 
 Dallas. Dallas had given her his best affection, 
 admiration, and a delicate tact and sympathy 
 for her moods invariable, except on the rare oc- 
 casions not more than three when she had 
 seen him in the toils of his slavery. He had a 
 feeling for Teresa which perhaps a more re- 
 spectable man could not have had. Teresa knew 
 that poor Gerald was disreputable ; that he lived 
 with a ballet-dancer; that he had undoubtedly 
 seen his only good days, and was steadily going 
 down hill. He would end perhaps as one of 
 those beery, dirty old men that haunt the edge 
 of the city streets, wreckage cast off by the whirl- 
 ing machinery. Teresa had not remonstrated 
 with him since the early days of their friendship. 
 Once, when she had begged Basil to try to stop 
 him, she had been answered in the words of Con- 
 fucius : " Reprove your friend once and twice, 
 but if he does not heed you, stop. Do not dis- 
 grace yourself." And she had come to feel that 
 Basil was right, that nothing could be done. 
 There was no spring of regeneration in the man. 
 At forty he had lived his life, and all but burnt 
 himself out. He did not talk about himself to 
 Teresa; and it was one of his charms for her. 
 The men she saw most of mainly artists in one 
 way or another, or detached philosophers were 
 all bent, first on amusing, and secondly on ana-
 
 THE BOND 
 
 lysing themselves. Many of them had reached 
 the age when the second mode of pleasure out- 
 weighs the first. They experienced only in or- 
 der to contemplate their experience and them- 
 selves. Teresa had a way of listening, and ask- 
 ing intelligent questions. None of her acquain- 
 tances needed much coaxing. Soon or late all 
 blossomed into anecdote, narrative, and reflec- 
 tions on their lives. Some were clever men. But 
 Teresa, when she repeated what they said to 
 Basil, often made them.appear irresistibly comic ; 
 and Basil, between roars of laughter, would add 
 details discreetly omitted by the autobiographer. 
 Teresa, listening to these foot-notes with droop- 
 ing eyelids and contemptuous lips, said some- 
 times : 
 
 " I could never fall in love with a man that 
 you knew well ! " 
 
 " I don't do it on purpose ! " he had replied 
 with a joyous shout. " Only I like to tell you 
 things ! " 
 
 It was Basil who had told Teresa about the 
 ballet-dancer. Gerald never talked about him- 
 self or his affairs to her. He appeared as much 
 bored by all that related to himself as he was 
 interested in all that concerned her. On the oc- 
 casions when he buried himself in obscurity, she 
 missed him, and thought much about him. 
 . 
 
 The morning after Alice's dinner, word came
 
 T H E B O N D 125 
 
 from Gerald, after a long silence. He was ill in 
 a public hospital, and asked Basil to come to 
 him. Basil was not at home; Teresa read the 
 note, and, as she w r as going out, took it herself 
 to the studio. She found Basil hard at work with 
 a model. But he at once dismissed the girl, 
 changed his coat, and departed, promising to 
 come back in an hour at most and report to 
 Teresa. . . . 
 
 The day was hot. The smell of paint and tur- 
 pentine in the studio was stronger than the now 
 fading lilacs. The room looked disorderly, cum- 
 bered by a sort of scaffolding on which the model 
 had been posing, and by various draperies flung 
 on chairs. Teresa looked at the cartoon which 
 Basil was making for a decorative panel. The 
 model came out, dressed, and w r ith a slight salu- 
 tation to Teresa, went away. She was a tall girl, 
 with an ordinary face, and rough skin, but a 
 pretty figure. When she had closed the door 
 behind her the studio was silent, except for the 
 echoes of steps in the corridors, or a voice up- 
 lifted in. some neighbouring room, or a faint 
 whistling farther off. The building was a hive 
 of desultory business, sheltering many attempts 
 to produce the Beautiful. Teresa called it " the 
 factory." 
 
 She sat down, took her little clay statuette of 
 the faun out of its moist wrappings, and began 
 working on it languidly. Her corner was the
 
 126 T H E B O N D 
 
 most attractive part of the room. It was partly 
 shut off by a carved screen, and had cushioned 
 chairs of green wicker, and a table with a tea- 
 service, and a low pedestal with a vase of flowers. 
 The flowers were fading. Bought, like the lilacs, 
 in the city streets, they had lasted but a day. 
 Teresa frowned as she noticed their faint, sickly 
 odour, and rose to set them away. She had rolled 
 up the sleeves of her thin, white blouse, but had 
 not taken off her hat. Her head drooped as she 
 took up her work again, and she sighed, and 
 paused to look at herself in a mirror. Under 
 the shadow of the black hat her eyes looked back 
 at her with a strange melancholy and uneasi- 
 ness. After a moment her face looked to her 
 like that of a stranger, some woman oppressed 
 and sad, and this impression frightened her. She 
 turned away abruptly, and began with a little 
 tool to model the faun's thick neck and shaggy 
 shoulder. He seemed a trivial creature, as she 
 handled him; Basil's cartoon, reflected in the 
 mirror, appeared to her meaningless and absurd. 
 The air of the studio, of the building, of the whole 
 city, seemed stale and oppressive. She thought 
 of the woods, of the sea, and a desire to go far 
 away, away from Basil, from everything, came 
 upon her. She was tired, and a thought, a fear, 
 a possibility, lay heavy on her heart. It had 
 come to her in the night, and she had not slept. 
 There was a knock at the door. Teresa called,
 
 T H E B O N D 127 
 
 " Come in," but apparently was not heard. After 
 a moment the knock was repeated, sharply, and 
 she went to open the door impatiently. A woman 
 stood there, with a long, light cloak over her 
 dress, and a white veil tied over a small hat, but 
 not covering her face. 
 
 " Isn't Mr. Eansome here? " she asked in a 
 quick, decided voice, inclining her head slightly. 
 
 " No. He may be back in half an hour. .Won't 
 you come in? " 
 
 " Just a minute. I don't think I'll wait." She 
 walked in, and said with a smile : " You're Mrs. 
 Ransome. I know you from your pictures here, 
 and perhaps you know me? " 
 
 " Yes," said Teresa, also smiling, as she shut 
 the door. 
 
 "You've seen my portrait how do you like 
 it?" 
 
 She was looking about for the picture as she 
 spoke. Teresa looked at her earnestly. The 
 white veil, drawn across the brow and tied un- 
 der the chin, framed her face like a nun's garb. 
 Her dark eyes w r ere piercing and impatient un- 
 der their straight-scored brows. Her complexion 
 suffered from the white frame. 
 
 " I thought it very interesting before I had 
 seen you," said Teresa slowly. 
 
 "Ah, you can't tell with this thing on wait." 
 She untied the veil, and took off her hat, show- 
 ing black hair, thick about her low forehead, and
 
 128 T H E B O N D 
 
 parted in the middle, and beautiful modelling 
 about the chin and throat. " Now, what do you 
 think?" 
 
 "As I remember the picture, the likeness is 
 there," said Teresa. " But it looks older than 
 you do and sadder. Basil's portraits are al- 
 most always like that what the person will be 
 like in ten years, say the character accentuated, 
 the lines sharper I reproach him for it," she 
 added smiling. " It would be better to paint a 
 pretty woman as she is, don't you think so? " 
 
 Mrs. Perry had listened with interest, her big, 
 dark eyes fixed on Teresa. 
 
 " I don't know perhaps his way is more an 
 interpretation," she said abruptly. " It is inter- 
 esting, at least. Anyone almost can paint a 
 pretty woman, but to see what she is " 
 
 " He only paints what he sees, of course only 
 he sees, perhaps, what isn't there ! " 
 
 " No, it's all there all that may be, all that 
 we must be we must grow old and sad! I 
 wish we could see the picture." 
 
 Teresa waved a doubtful hand toward the 
 rows of canvases stacked face inward against the 
 wall. 
 
 "We might try," she suggested. 
 
 " No I won't wait. And, besides, you're busy. 
 I'm no, I'm not sorry I interrupted you, for 
 I'm very glad to have seen you," she said with a 
 quick smile, as she went to the mirror to put on
 
 T H E B O N D 129 
 
 her hat and veil. " I know you work here some- 
 times Mr. Kamsome showed me some of your 
 work I thought it extremely good. I wonder 
 when I could come to sit again I'm most anx- 
 ious to get on with the portrait. Do you think 
 Mr. Ransome would like me to come to-mor- 
 row?" 
 
 " I think he would." 
 
 " Well, then, would you tell him that I'll come 
 at half-past three, unless I hear from him? 
 Thank you. And I wonder would you both 
 come and dine with me one day this week? Do 
 let us say Thursday at eight? I would come to 
 see you before, but I shall be out in the country 
 almost every day, looking after a house Fm 
 building. Good-bye till Thursday, then." 
 
 She put out her hand, but Teresa smilingly 
 showed her own, moist from the clay. With a 
 nod, Mrs. Perry rustled out of the studio. A 
 perfume of iris lingered in the dead air. 
 
 Basil came back a few minutes later, grave and 
 worried. He flung his hat down and shook his 
 shoulders with a familiar impatient gesture. 
 His mouth and jaw had settled into the drag- 
 ging look of despondency, which showed the 
 weight laid on his spirit. 
 
 "Well?" said Teresa sharply, wrapping up 
 the clay faun again. 
 
 " Pneumonia. He was picked up somewhere 
 and taken to the hospital four days ago. The
 
 130 T H E B O N D 
 
 crisis came night before last. He'll get well, 
 they think, though he had a narrow shave the 
 whisky nearly did for him. I found him in the 
 common ward. He wanted me to get him a pri- 
 vate room, and send a letter to his place and 
 so on. I arranged it." 
 
 " How is he now? " asked Teresa, after a 
 pause, during which Basil tramped sombrely up 
 and down the room. 
 
 " Oh, he looks like the devil. A wreck. It 
 would have been better for him if he'd played 
 out for good, I'm afraid." 
 
 " You men are rather hard on one another 
 and for the same sort of thing that you all do, 
 more or less." 
 
 " Yes, but it's the more or less. With the less 
 a man can get on, but with the more he goes to 
 the wall and perhaps the sooner the better." 
 
 Basil's face somewhat belied the hardness of 
 his words, and showed how deeply he had been 
 disturbed. Teresa was silent for some moments, 
 then she told him of Mrs. Perry's visit. He 
 brightened. 
 
 " Oh, I'm glad she's back. I want to get on 
 with the portrait I believe it's pretty good. To- 
 morrow afternoon, she said? " 
 
 "Yes, but I w r anted you to-morrow after- 
 noon." 
 
 " What for? " 
 
 " I want you to take me into the country. I
 
 T H E B O N D 131 
 
 want to go now, this morning, and stay several 
 days. I must get away somewhere." 
 
 "Why what's the matter? oh!" A shadow 
 came over his face, his eyes softened into tender- 
 ness. 
 
 " You're still worrying? " he said gently, and 
 came and knelt beside her chair. 
 
 " I want to go away," repeated Teresa, her 
 eyes cast down, pulling on her gloves nervously. 
 " Let us go to that little place where we lunched 
 the other day, and stay two or three days will 
 you?" 
 
 " Of course I will anything in the world you 
 want, dearest." 
 
 "And by that time I shall know, I suppose, 
 and " 
 
 " No, no, don't worry about it. I don't believe 
 it is that. Come we can catch the twelve 
 o'clock train, and be out there in time for lunch." 
 
 "We must stop and tell Mary, and get a 
 bag or so. We can't exactly go without any- 
 thing." 
 
 "They'd take us for a runaway couple 
 wouldn't that amuse you?" 
 
 " I don't believe anything would amuse me 
 just now. You don't mind running away from 
 Mrs. Perry? " 
 
 " Oh, hang Mrs. Perry ! I'll write her not to 
 come." 
 
 He sat down at his table and scratched off a
 
 132 T H E B O N D 
 
 note, Teresa looking over his shoulder; then 
 caught up his hat and hurried Teresa away, 
 locking the door behind him. 
 
 
 
 It was a moonlight night, and they took a 
 boat and rowed about the smooth bay. Teresa 
 was silent. Once she began to sing Schubert's 
 " Water Song," but the light music faltered and 
 died; and she sang instead the " Kbnig im 
 Tlnule" sang it dreamily and mysteriously; then 
 the marvellous plaint of Gretchen's disturbed 
 heart for the absent Faust. And then, " Im 
 wundersclionen Monat Mai" and here she broke 
 down and cried passionately : 
 
 " Oh, we have only had a year ! " 
 
 Basil shipped his oars, and moved nearer her 
 in the rocking boat. 
 
 " Upset it, and let us both drown ! " she cried. 
 
 "Dearest my sweetheart don't be a blaz- 
 ing idiot you're cold, you're shivering we'll 
 go in, and I'll comfort you, my own " 
 
 " I never wanted to marry you anyway," she 
 cried. 
 
 "But you did. Wrap that coat round you, 
 you foolish girl." 
 
 He bent to the oars and sent the boat leaping 
 along the track of the moon toward the pier. In 
 a few moments they were in their room at the 
 inn, and Basil made Teresa drink half a wine- 
 glass of brandy. He wrapped her in blankets,
 
 T H E B O N D 133 
 
 and held her in his arms, kissing her temple, 
 her hair, her cheeks. She kept her eyes hidden. 
 
 " I hate you," she murmured once softly. 
 
 " Do you, dearest? " he said, a little drearily. 
 
 Then her arms went round his neck, and she 
 laid her wet cheek to his. 
 
 "No, not you, but life. I only wanted to 
 be left alone. I was so happy with you. And 
 now all will be different, if this is true we can 
 never be the same. And I shall be ugly, and you 
 will stop caring for me " 
 
 " I shall love you more than ever. I didn't 
 think it possible, but I shall. You're not sorry 
 you married me, are you? " 
 
 " ' Que le bonheur passe vite, mon Dieu, qu'il 
 passe vite, et quant on souffre en y pensant plus 
 tard! ' " murmured Teresa. 
 
 " Don't, you silly child. Be brave, Teresa ; you 
 won't regret in the end " 
 
 " How do you know? I don't want to be brave, 
 I want to be happy. I don't want responsibili- 
 ties, I don't want to be tied down I want noth- 
 ing but you. I hate babies." 
 
 " You won't, if you have one of your own. It 
 will be better for you in the end, for us both, 
 for our relation. I'm sure it will it's natural 
 and right " 
 
 " Don't preach. I don't want it." 
 
 " You don't want anything till you get it. You 
 didn't want me, but you're not sorry, are you? "
 
 134 T H E B O N D 
 
 " No the queer thing is, that, in spite of ev- 
 erything, I'm not sorry. I've always been glad, 
 every moment, that I married you, even when I 
 disliked you most." 
 
 " Yet you refused me seven times. So you 
 see! You don't know what you want. Take 
 what life gives you, Teresa; take it with both 
 hands, don't be afraid. Drink deep, even if you 
 suffer. Life that's the main thing it's more 
 life you need, not less." 
 
 She looked into his eyes, where the flame of 
 life indeed glowed keen and strong; and she 
 clung to him, with the first feeling that his 
 strength might protect her, with the first con- 
 scious yielding to it. She lay looking at him 
 curiously. 
 
 " I believe you're glad," she said suddenly. 
 
 " I should be, if you were not unhappy," he 
 answered, and looked almost shamefaced. 
 
 " It's odd that, though you're fond of me, you 
 don't mind my suffering, or even that I might 
 die. Eemember your mother, she " 
 
 " Oh, don't ! oh, don't ! " he cried. " I couldn't 
 live without you." 
 
 The tears rolled down his cheeks; and then 
 Teresa, as always when she had moved him, be- 
 came gentle, coaxing, and gay. 
 
 " Never mind what I say, I have no intention 
 of dying. You won't have to live without me, 
 but with me, and I warn you, that may be even
 
 T H E B O N D 135 
 
 more difficult. I shall be as nasty as possible ; I 
 shall worry the life out of you. You poor old 
 creature, you'll rue the day that you asked me 
 for the eighth time! I gave you seven chances 
 of happiness, and you refused them. Now, you're 
 bound, and this this settles it. You can 
 never get away from me, nor I from you. . . . 
 I always liked to think, you know, that we were 
 both free, and neither needed to put up with 
 the other a day longer than we both wanted. But 
 now we're both going to be slaves. Oh, you'll 
 see, you'll see! I tell you our youth is over. 
 Now we pass under the yoke. This is the real 
 S yoke, not marriage. Oh, you'll regret it, when 
 _you see me fat and ugly, my figure gone, my 
 good temper gone " 
 
 " My slim mermaid ! " 
 
 " Mermaid ! I shall look like this ! " 
 
 She made a caricature with the blankets. 
 Then she stretched out her arms and looked 
 down at her long slim body sadly. 
 
 " Good-bye to my beauty," she murmured. 
 "You will need to love me, to make up for it! 
 But when it's gone, perhaps you won't love me 
 any more." 
 
 " Is it for that only that I love you? You're 
 the love of my soul, too." And he caught her in 
 a passionate, sad embrace.
 
 PAKT II
 
 TT7ITH the first cold days of autumn, the 
 * Ransomes were settled again in town. 
 Teresa brought back from a long lazy summer 
 in the country blooming health and content. 
 Peace of soul and body had wrapped her round. 
 A calm like that of summer nature itself had 
 grown upon her, after the troubled and passion- 
 ate spring. She was conscious of withdrawing 
 herself from all that could disturb her, of retreat- 
 ing within herself, gathering her forces, mental 
 and physical, for her solitary ordeal. 
 
 One day soon after her return Alice Black- 
 ley came to see her, fresh from the sea and a 
 summer at St. Moritz, elaborately dressed, and 
 ready to condole. 
 
 "You're looking well, though really well," 
 she said. " How do you manage it? Most women 
 look such frights. And that dress is clever. 
 Why, actually you look perfectly presenta- 
 ble!" 
 
 And she examined curiously Teresa's long 
 sweeping dress of dark violet crepe, pleated in 
 innumerable narrow folds, flowing out from the 
 square-cut neck to the hem. Teresa smiled. 
 
 " I should never dare, myself," said Alice. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 139
 
 140 T H E B O N D 
 
 " Oh, a thousand reasons. First, I might lose 
 my figure. Then think of the frightful bother of 
 it all babies do upset a house so. Then, I 
 should be afraid terribly afraid. To think 
 what women go through! I don't see how they 
 can do it, unless they want a child most awfully, 
 and I know some do. But I don't. Aren't you 
 afraid, Teresa? " 
 
 " I don't think about it," said Teresa dream- 
 ily. 
 
 "But how can you help it? And you know 
 you can't get away from it, and it comes nearer 
 every day " 
 
 " The sooner it will be over. It's all in the 
 day's work." 
 
 " But one needn't, you know, unless one likes. 
 And I could never make up my mind to it. Think 
 of the responsibility! To call another human 
 being into this world by our own will, perhaps 
 to suffer " 
 
 Teresa looked at Alice's pretty, empty face 
 and large, inquisitive, stupid eyes. 
 
 " Perhaps it isn't by our own will perhaps 
 it's something bigger," she said, as though to 
 herself. 
 
 " Oh, Teresa, you are not religious ! " 
 
 " No, but the world is vast and mysterious. 
 It has been going on such a long time, think, 
 and always in the same way! Who is any one 
 of us, after all, to set herself against the cur-
 
 THE BOND 141 
 
 rent of things? It's easier to go with the tide 
 to let one's self go " 
 
 Teresa stretched out her arms with a vague, 
 sensuous gesture and sighed. 
 
 " I can't understand it," said Alice. " Is Basil 
 pleased? " 
 
 " I believe he is." 
 
 " Of course. There's more paternal instinct 
 than maternal, I think, and no wonder, as they've 
 none of the bother of it. I believe Horace would 
 like to have fifty children, if he'd married some- 
 body else. But he knows I won't. . . . 
 What shall you do all this winter to amuse 
 yourself, Teresa? Shan't you be awfully 
 bored? " 
 
 " Perhaps. People will come and see me, I 
 suppose. And I shall do some work little 
 things. I began a bust of Basil, but that must 
 wait, now, till afterwards." 
 
 "Well, I'm glad to see you so happy about 
 it. I shall send you something pretty for the 
 baby. And you'll come and dine with us soon, 
 won't you just ourselves? Give my love to 
 Basil. Has he been working? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. He's doing some panels now for a 
 bungalow that Mrs. Perry's building down on 
 her Long Island place." 
 
 Alice looked suddenly interested. 
 
 "Bungalow? But I thought she was building 
 a big house in stone."
 
 142 T H E B O N D 
 
 " Yes, but the bungalow is a bachelors' house 
 near the main one. She has big crowds staying 
 with her always." 
 
 "And what is it like the bungalow?" 
 
 " Decorations all American Indian Navajo 
 blankets, pottery, baskets, what not and half a 
 dozen panels, landscapes, old Indian hunting- 
 grounds." 
 
 " Have you seen her place? " 
 
 "Yes, we've been there two or three times for 
 a few days." 
 
 "Oh, you know her, too? Do you like her? 
 I thought she was Basil's flame." 
 
 " I like her. Basil does, too, I imagine." 
 
 "And she likes him? Aren't you jealous? 
 They say she's fascinating. I've just barely met 
 her." 
 
 Teresa smiled. " I couldn't be jealous any 
 more," she said. " All that seems so foolish, 
 now." 
 
 " Then you were jealous? ... I wonder 
 w r hat it's like! I couldn't possibly be jealous 
 of Horace, could I? But, of course, Basil's dif- 
 ferent. I don't think I should want a handsome 
 man for a husband. Husbands ought to be use- 
 ful. What's hers like? " 
 
 " Mrs. Perry's husband? Oh, he's useful, I 
 suppose. He's a peevish man, with nervous pros- 
 tration. He travels nearly all the time. He 
 seems to be interested in nothing but his symp-
 
 T H E B O N D 143 
 
 toms and archaeology. He's writing a book on 
 the Hittites. I believe he's a good banker, too." 
 
 " Well, I don't see what she has to complain 
 of. I hear she's rather too gay. I should look 
 after Basil, if I were you." 
 
 " No, you wouldn't," smiled Teresa. 
 
 This, too, Alice could not understand, and 
 she went away, convinced that Teresa did not 
 want the baby, and that she was profoundly jeal- 
 ous of Mrs. Perry, but dissembled out of pride. 
 
 When she had gone, Teresa began to walk up 
 and down the room, sighing a little wearily. She 
 moved with the pathetic clumsiness of a natur- 
 ally graceful woman, slowly, the sombre dress 
 rippling about her and hiding the lines of her 
 body. Her head drooped as though owning the 
 weight of her burden, yet its poise on the long 
 throat had a touching dignity. She sighed, for she 
 was beginning to feel the cramping conditions 
 of the city, after her free and quiet summer. 
 She did not like now to go out into the streets. 
 She drove up every day to the Park, and walked 
 there in quiet by-ways ; but she missed her phys- 
 ical freedom, the exhilaration of quick motion, 
 and the irresponsible gaiety of her former life. 
 A touch of mysticism, new to her, helped her to 
 feel that this experience must compensate for 
 itself; and, in resigning her own clear individ- 
 ual preferences, in bowing to a necessity which 
 seemed to lie in the life of love she had chosen,
 
 144 T H E B O N D 
 
 she felt the breath of a wider, vaguer horizon. 
 The world was greater to her, more terrible, but 
 more inspiring, because of this force that com- 
 pelled her, to which her will submitted. But 
 joy had always lain for her in the free expres- 
 sion of her will and the sense of her own power ; 
 her submission could not be joyous. Her face 
 was that of a pensive Madonna. Its outline was 
 fuller, and the narrow eyes had lost their gaiety, 
 their hint of wildness. She did not think much 
 about the child to come. It had not begun to 
 seem an entity to her until, lately, she had made 
 some clothes for it. A queer feeling of tender- 
 ness for it woke in her as she sewed real lace 
 about the necks of its tiny dresses, and myste- 
 rious tears fell on the muslin. 
 
 She was thinking now about a night, just 
 before their return to town, when another feel- 
 ing about the child had come to her. It was a 
 bright moonlight night, and she was walking 
 on the verandah of their cottage, facing a little 
 inlet of the Sound, that glittered restlessly as 
 the tide came in and rocked the sailboat an- 
 chored some way from the land. Charles Page, 
 the young architect, had come down to dine and 
 spend the night, and he and Basil were in the 
 living-room, smoking Teresa now could not 
 bear the smell of tobacco and talking lazily, but 
 interestedly. She glanced in now and then at 
 them in the lamplight; they had forgotten her.
 
 T H E B O N D 145 
 
 They were stretched out in two long chairs, the 
 whisky decanter and a box of cigars near by. 
 It was late; Teresa was supposed to have gone 
 to bed; they were too busy talking to observe 
 her silent passing outside. Now and then she 
 heard a fragment of their talk they were globe- 
 trotting, and their reminiscences of youth and 
 many lands were familiar echoes. Basil showed 
 Page a Japanese pipe, a light dainty thing, such 
 as the women smoke, and Teresa could see the 
 words form on his lips, and the smile, and she 
 could see the picture the little pale woman, fpr- 
 mal and soft, waking in the night, emptying the 
 pipe with a few breaths, and laying it down 
 
 And all at once the feeling had come to her: 
 " He is one and I am another I am forever 
 outside, and he is a stranger to me, in spite of 
 all. But this, this child of mine, is really mine. 
 I shall understand it, it will comfort me, it will 
 belong to me. I shall not need him so much." 
 And the feeling had brought her a new peace, 
 and the power to look at Basil more imperson- 
 ally, to be grateful for his deep and real love 
 of her, to think of him with almost maternal 
 tenderness. The child, too, in time, would have 
 needs that she could not satisfy, and live its life 
 away from her and yet it, too, she thought, 
 would always love her. 
 
 But between her and Basil something had 
 happened the first weakening of the physical
 
 146 T H E B O N D 
 
 bond that unites two who are necessary and suffi- 
 cient to one another. She did not altogether 
 realise it herself. She thought no more about 
 it than she could help, but it saddened her, and 
 touched the cup of physical suffering that she 
 must drink with a strange bitterness. The cost 
 of love was after all, perhaps, in proportion 
 to its sweetness; but one paid, not for love, but 
 for the awful physical force that moved the 
 human world, for its blind, impersonal hunger, 
 for its primeval riot 
 
 So the world was made so it must go on 
 and the tyranny of that necessity drove men like 
 sheep. The will to live, of life conscious and un- 
 conscious, the physical instinct, cruel, wasteful, 
 and careless at times it seemed to her to make 
 of human beings mere foolish puppets, without 
 will or dignity. If this was the world, who 
 would suffer to carry it on? Except that one 
 must 
 
 Was it possible that she, too, had been caught 
 in the mesh spread for all, and that love, that 
 had seemed all joy and lightness, was only a 
 cynical bait, set to entangle one? 
 
 When such thoughts beset her, she wished that 
 she were religious, that she might see spirit and 
 meaning governing the world, instead of brute 
 force; but she could not see it. Happily, her 
 dark moods were rather rare. 
 
 Basil came in now before the shadow had
 
 T H E B O N D 147 
 
 fairly settled upon her, and his caressing look 
 and touch made her cheerful again. It was a 
 point of pride with her that he should not feel 
 her a burden, now that she was not going out. 
 She liked him to go, and to come back and en- 
 tertain her with accounts of his doings; and 
 Basil readily adopted her own theory, that she 
 was never bored with her own society. Now, 
 as he dressed for dinner, she lay on his bed and 
 talked to him ; dictated what waistcoat he should 
 wear, and tied his white tie. She told him of 
 Alice's visit. 
 
 " Alice is an idiot," he said warmly. " She 
 ought to have a baby herself. It's what she 
 needs, only she doesn't know it, and I've told 
 her so." 
 
 " You have a panacea for all feminine ills, 
 haven't you? " said Teresa, with quiet sarcasm. 
 " Marriage for those who aren't married, and 
 babies for those who haven't babies " 
 
 " That's right that's what they all want, if 
 they haven't got 'em." 
 
 " Then women are divided into two classes 
 those who have worries, and those who want 
 them." 
 
 " Yes, and the last state is worse than the 
 first." 
 
 " I wonder," said Teresa, stretching her arms 
 wearily. " For me I've always had more than 
 I wanted."
 
 148 T H E B O N D 
 
 "You're a lucky girl don't put your arms 
 up that way, dearest. You know " 
 
 " Oh, be quiet, Basil ! I'm so tired of having 
 to think all the time about it!" 
 
 " Never mind, dearest, it won't be long, now." 
 He came over to kiss her tenderly. 
 
 " Long? Ah, yes it will be four long months, 
 and then that at the end " 
 
 " Dearest, dearest, I wish I could do it for 
 you." 
 
 " Yes, you do, you old silly ! " 
 
 " I do, honestly. I'd like to be a woman for 
 a while it must be a tremendous experience." 
 
 " I'm not sure that all brands of experience 
 are desirable." 
 
 "Well, you are all the better for all you've 
 had more interesting, sweeter, more beautiful. 
 You were always pretty, but now you're beau- 
 tiful." 
 
 She smiled pensively. 
 
 "And now I must go on, or I shall be late. 
 Good-night, my love. I wish you were going, 
 too." 
 
 " Good-night. Don't make love to Mrs. 
 Perry." 
 
 She held him close for a moment, kissed his 
 eyelids gently, and let him go with a smile.
 
 II 
 
 THE winter passed pleasantly enough for 
 her. Plenty of people came to the house, 
 and there were many of the little dinners she 
 enjoyed, when two, three, or more men came in 
 informally and talked of their own affairs, or 
 those of the nation, with varying degrees of 
 effectiveness. 
 
 Nearly all these men were of the sort that, as 
 she said, " lived by their wits." They were civ- 
 ilised, sophisticated, a little hard, living the 
 rapid life of the city; and few of them had 
 reached the age of forty, at which the pace would 
 begin to tell against them. She liked their free 
 speech, and the reflection of their intense and 
 interested lives. Erhart came often, and rather 
 bored her by his large and massive egotism; he 
 did not fit in well with the others. He was, 
 Basil said, too purely the artist type. Gerald 
 Dallas came back, looking much older, quieter 
 than ever, with more than his old devotion. 
 Teresa was for him, she felt, not merely an at- 
 tractive woman engaged in the laudable, but 
 disabling work of child-bearing; she was an in- 
 dividuality which, once for all, had taken its 
 place among the great facts of his life. His 
 feeling for her was above any accident of her 
 
 149
 
 150 T H E B O N D 
 
 own life, or his. He never spoke of it, but in 
 every other way he showed how important she 
 was to him. The quiet hours they spent to- 
 gether were consoling to Teresa. Gerald's deep 
 melancholy w,as like the effect of an autumn 
 evening, of rainy woods, dark gliding streams, 
 and the dull sunset gleam of defeat. He was a 
 beaten man, but in many moods his sadness was 
 more congenial to Teresa than Basil's buoyant 
 optimism. Deep within her was a conviction 
 that life, if it must be taken seriously, was a 
 desperate business. Gerald seemed to her to 
 fail not ignobly, for he at least had vision. He 
 was one of the few people whom she could im- 
 agine existing after death. The world had ob- 
 viously no use for him, but if there could con- 
 ceivably be a better world, she thought Gerald 
 suited to inhabit it. As a frivolous expression 
 of this idea she modelled one day a little stat- 
 uette of him, with wings, a halo round his bald 
 forehead and a harp in his hand, which made 
 him merry, for the first time since his illness. 
 
 
 
 On an evening when February was melting 
 into March in a wild storm of snow, sleet, and 
 wind, Basil came in just before dinner and found 
 Teresa standing by the window. She turned a 
 ghostly face upon him. 
 
 " The baby is going to be born to-night," she 
 said. " I've sent for the doctor and the nurse."
 
 T H E B O N D 151 
 
 Basil turned as white as she, and looked much 
 more terrified. 
 
 " When did you telephone? perhaps you're 
 mistaken? what time did it begin? why 
 doesn't he come?" he cried. "I'll telephone 
 again." 
 
 He did so, but the specialist was out, and 
 wouldn't be in for an hour. Basil paced the 
 flat in an agony of nervous helplessness. Te- 
 resa stood silently by the window, leaning against 
 the frame, looking out on the whirl of sleet that 
 dashed against the glass. Now and then she 
 moved slightly, but made no sound. 
 
 The nurse arrived, and Basil dashed out, got 
 a cab, and drove off in pursuit of the doctor; 
 ran him down, and haled him post-haste to the 
 flat ; where he pronounced that he would not be 
 needed for many hours to come, and to Basil's 
 dismay went off again. Two figures flickered 
 before Basil's eyes : the nurse, calm and smiling, 
 in her white uniform, moving swiftly about in 
 Teresa's room ; and Teresa, in her trailing black 
 dress, walking slowly up and down the dra\ving- 
 room, and perfectly silent. She did not reply 
 to Basil's anxious questions, and hardly looked 
 at him. He wandered about in a lost way. Din- 
 ner stood untasted in the dining-room. He 
 looked into Teresa's room. It was flooded with 
 electric light. All the orange shades, and his 
 wife's other little vanities, had been taken away.
 
 152 T H E B O N D 
 
 The bed stood out bleak and chill, with tightly- 
 drawn white sheets. The air smelt of drugs. 
 This was no more the chamber of love, but a 
 torture-chamber. Basil forgot what he had 
 meant to ask the nurse, and went away with 
 tears in his eyes. 
 
 It was a long night. No one thought of sleep. 
 Toward morning the doctor came to stay. Te- 
 resa, exhausted, dozed for moments at a time, 
 sitting on the couch in the drawing-room, hold- 
 ing Basil's hand; but after a few instants of 
 semi-consciousness her eyes would start open, her 
 pale face flush red, and Basil lifted her up, while 
 she leaned her weight upon him and gasped, her 
 lips tight closed. This went on for hours. . . . 
 Seeing her exhaustion, Basil once poured out 
 a glass of champagne and begged her to drink 
 it. But Teresa, as the agony seized her again, 
 blazed up for a moment, snatched the glass and 
 flung the champagne in Basil's face and the 
 goblet across the room, where it shivered to 
 pieces. 
 
 " Dearest ! " he murmured humbly. 
 
 Teresa looked at him murderously, then sud- 
 denly caught hold of him, and sobbed under her 
 breath. . . . 
 
 The livid dawn brought in a grey morning 
 of storm. They took Teresa away, into the room. 
 Basil was sent out two or three times on hasty 
 errands. He swallowed a cup of coffee, stand-
 
 T H E B O N D 153 
 
 ing in the dining-room. Mary the cook sat there 
 with her apron to her eyes, mumbling a prayer. 
 He looked at her with terrified eyes. 
 
 " You don't think she's going to die, do you? " 
 he said angrily. 
 
 " Oh, no, Heaven forbid, but it do be so long," 
 gasped the girl. 
 
 He went back and waited outside the door. 
 He heard the doctor's voice, now quick and 
 brusque, as he gave an order; now curiously 
 gentle, as though he spoke to a child. . . . 
 
 All night she had not made a sound of pain. 
 And, now, when the chloroform had put her 
 will to sleep, and the voice began, Basil thought 
 at first it was some animal crying in the street. 
 It was with a horrible leap of the heart that he 
 realised it that was Teresa's voice. It sounded 
 to him as though it came from far away a wail 
 from some cruel dark world of woe and anguish. 
 And it went on and on. ... 
 
 Then came a shrill scream that seemed to tear 
 the heart out of his breast another and an- 
 other. Then silence. ... He leaned against 
 the door, faint with terror. 
 
 The nurse came out to him, after a time and 
 said smiling, " You have a fine boy." He 
 seized both her hands and began to weep hys- 
 terically. . . . Later, they let him in to see 
 Teresa. She lay with her eyes closed. His tears 
 fell on her hands. She murmured:
 
 154 T H E B O N D 
 
 " The jaws of death the jaws of death I'm 
 all ground and chewed to atoms, Basil. I feel 
 as if I had died " 
 
 He could say nothing. The baby, about which 
 he had not thought at all, began to cry. The 
 nurse was bathing it, and she held it out for 
 Basil to see a red, angry creature, with bristles 
 of black hair and pale-blue eyes. It shrieked 
 lustily with wide-open mouth. 
 
 " Let me see him," said Teresa faintly. 
 
 The nurse brought the baby; and after one 
 curious look of inspection, the young mother re- 
 marked : 
 
 " How very hideous he is. Take him away." 
 
 A week later Teresa confided to Basil, tear- 
 fully, that she did not like the baby, and that 
 she was sure he was going to be a frightful nui- 
 sance and spoil their life together. She com- 
 plained viciously, too, of her continued phys- 
 ical sufferings and weakness, and her disturbed 
 nights. She had braced herself with all her 
 strength for the great ordeal of giving birth; 
 and the minor discomforts and annoyances 
 which followed she resented as something not 
 taken into the bargain. 
 
 Basil groaned, and buried his face in the pil- 
 low beside her. He had caught a fearful cold 
 on the night of the baby's birth, and he had had 
 v no rest or peace since. His household was dis-
 
 T H E B O N D 155 
 
 organised, he was nervously anxious about the 
 baby, which encountered the usual difficulties 
 in adapting itself to a new environment, and 
 signalised its displeasure by fairly continuous 
 screaming; and Teresa's rebellion was the final 
 straw. 
 
 " You see I was right," Teresa said weakly, 
 " and you were wrong. You're always so cock- 
 sure with your theories ! You were sure I should 
 love the baby, and I don't believe you even like 
 it yourself." 
 
 " I wish you'd keep quiet," growled Basil. " I 
 think you're very silly. Why don't you make the 
 best of things? " 
 
 " I won't. I never will make the best of 
 things. It's a horrid confession of weakness. 
 I insist on seeing them as they are. You're 
 afraid to. You know we were perfectly happy 
 before " 
 
 She stopped, and two tears grew in her eyes 
 and wandered down her cheeks. In spite of her 
 physical uneasiness, she had the strange new 
 beauty that women buy with the birth-pangs. 
 Her white skin glowed with freshness, her lips 
 were fuller and redder, and the two thick dark 
 braids of hair lying across her shoulders framed 
 an oval of cheeks and chin, exquisitely youthful 
 and tender. 
 
 The baby, which was being carried about in 
 the next room, a pathetic bundle of flannel over
 
 156 T H E B O N D 
 
 the nurse's brawny arm, now lifted up its voice 
 again, and Teresa cried: 
 
 " For heaven's sake, Basil, shut the doors ! 
 If that creature cries any more, I shall go mad ! " 
 
 But it was time for the baby to be fed, and 
 the nurse remorselessly brought it in. Teresa 
 sulkily turned on her side and stretched out 
 her arm to receive it. But when the baby, with 
 whimpering eagerness and frantic clutches of 
 its fingers, had settled to the breast, she looked 
 down on it and smiled half unwillingly. 
 
 " How cuddly it is ! So soft and warm ! If 
 only it wouldn't howl so I wouldn't mind so 
 much if it were always like this." 
 
 At the change in her voice Basil raised his 
 head. 
 
 " Poor little thing, it's because it's hungry, or 
 has the colic I should think you'd be sorry for 
 it," he said reproachfully. 
 
 Teresa lifted the baby's wrinkled red hands 
 and listened to the small sound of sensuous con- 
 tent which it made in feeding. 
 
 " He sings just like a kettle or an asthmatic 
 kitten," she said, looking amused. 
 
 Basil's tired face, showing deep lines of ner- 
 vous and physical strain, changed, too, as he 
 looked at the picture of Teresa and the baby 
 her profile, with the long braid across the cheek, 
 her ivory-white gleaming shoulders and breast, 
 her dark lashes drooping as she gazed at the
 
 T H E B O N D 157 
 
 child with a quizzical smile in which emotion 
 stirred physical pleasure and perhaps a spirit- 
 ual tenderness. 
 
 " You don't know how beautiful you are," 
 said Basil, in a low, rapt tone. 
 
 She looked up at him softly, put up her free 
 arm and drew his head down on her full breast. 
 
 " If I'm more beautiful for you, I don't mind 
 it all," she said. "All the babies in the world 
 aren't worth you."
 
 Ill 
 
 TERESA, however, took the baby seriously, 
 and by dint of this conscientious care be- 
 gan to be fond of him. She resigned herself to 
 the task of nursing him, supervised minutely the 
 details of his daily life, and carried out Basil's 
 theory that the baby must be saved all nervous 
 excitement. He was named Eonald Grange, 
 after her father. In the course of a few weeks 
 he lost his black bristles and began to acquire 
 a fuzz of soft brown hair ; his eyes, after waver- 
 ing in colour, decided to be brown, like Basil's; 
 his complexion from brick-red became first a 
 curious yellow, and then approached fairness. 
 Teresa began to feel that he might ultimately be 
 presentable. He was a strong child with a 
 determined will to live. Major Ransome pro- 
 nounced him a beauty, and in his grandfatherly 
 delight called on the baby three of four times 
 a week. Grandparents, however, were pecu- 
 liarly obnoxious to Basil's theory; the poor 
 Major was not allowed to hold Ronald Grange, 
 or to prod any portion of his anatomy with a 
 doting finger, or to chirrup to him. Basil con- 
 sidered that even looking at the baby as he lay 
 in his crib was self-indulgence on the part of 
 
 158
 
 THE BOND 159 
 
 the elders which might involve some nervous 
 strain for Ronald Grange. Basil was about the 
 house pretty constantly for some time after the 
 baby's birth, imforming Teresa that he couldn't 
 yet settle down to work. He kept a sharp eye 
 on the nurse, and if Teresa fed the baby too 
 early or too late he knew it. He kept many 
 visitors away from Eonald Grange, and Teresa's 
 Aunt Sophy went away in a passion because, 
 after three visits, she had not yet succeeded in 
 seeing the baby. Teresa, however, took ad- 
 vantage of Basil's occasional absences. She her- 
 self was not allowed to hold the baby any longer 
 than was strictly necessary. But several times 
 when Basil was well away she actually played 
 with Ronald Grange, tickled the soles of his 
 feet, kissed the back of his neck, and once, the 
 Major arriving in the midst of such an orgy, she 
 took pity on the poor old man and let him have 
 his share. That day Ronald Grange was trotted 
 on the Major's knee, chucked under the chin, 
 poked in the ribs, and whistled to. Teresa felt 
 guilty, and watched Ronald for some days for 
 signs of nervous prostration. But there was 
 now a bond of crime between her and the Major, 
 and they continued at intervals to furnish the 
 baby with contraband amusement. 
 
 Mrs. Perry had been, in Florida for February 
 and March. When she returned to town she 
 came at once to see Teresa. Basil was not at
 
 160 T H E B O N D 
 
 home, and Teresa allowed the baby to be brought 
 in, at Mrs. Perry's demand. 
 
 " I've brought some things for him," said the 
 lady. " Oh, what a darling ! " 
 
 Teresa looked sceptically at the baby's mot- 
 tled face, and at her visitor; but Mrs. Perry's 
 expression, as she took the baby and tucked it 
 up against her shoulder, and touched its fuzzy 
 head w r ith her cheek, silenced the sceptic. Teresa 
 watched curiously. Mrs. Perry walked up and 
 down the room with the baby, and then sat down, 
 holding him as though he were made of delicate 
 crystal. 
 
 " How warm and soft they are ! " she breathed, 
 her full-lidded dark eyes closing slowly. " I like 
 that smell of warm flannel. They're just like 
 little birds, all soft down ! What a darling ! " 
 
 Teresa said nothing. She was thoroughly sur- 
 prised. When the nurse came to take the baby. 
 Mrs. Perry produced her gift two little dresses 
 beautifully sewed by hand. " I made them every 
 stitch myself for him," she said. Teresa was 
 oddly touched by this. Alice had sent the baby 
 an ivory with gold bells. Many other gifts had 
 been sent to him, but no one else she knew had 
 actually made anything for him. Mrs. Perry 
 asked to see his bed and his wardrobe, and she 
 turned over his tiny garments with caressing 
 fingers. When she went away Teresa thought 
 Mrs. Perry was going to offer to kiss her, but to
 
 T H E B O N D 161 
 
 her relief it did not happen. She would not 
 have liked to kiss Mrs. Perry, though she liked 
 her. 
 
 She liked her with the calm and civilised part 
 0f her intelligence, and at the same time ob- 
 scurely hated her. She appreciated Mrs. Perry's 
 good qualities, liked the way she treated herself, 
 but would not have been sorry to hear that sdine 
 calamity had befallen that lady, for example, the 
 loss of her good looks. Teresa knew that an 
 intimacy existed between Mrs. Perry and Basil, 
 and she did not know the extent of it. Basil 
 had assured her that it was not an emotional 
 relation, except in so far as Mrs. Perry had an 
 emotional need for a friend to whom she could 
 talk freely and profoundly, and look for sym- 
 pathy. But Teresa believed that Basil would 
 lie in such a case, though probably in no other. 
 With her he had proceeded on a general plan of 
 extreme frankness. Eecognising the impersonal 
 and almost masculine element in her intelli- 
 gence, and allowing it, perhaps, more weight than 
 it really possessed in her total make-up, Basil 
 had laid bare to her all his ideas and feelings, 
 and most of his doings. For the first year of 
 their marriage he had had nothing to conceal, 
 and his natural disposition to frankness, rather 
 brutal sometimes and partaking a little of the 
 crystalline hardness of his nature, had had full 
 sway.
 
 162 T H E B O N D 
 
 A cardinal point of his doctrine was that only 
 emotional infidelity counted, and he passion- 
 ately assured Teresa that this was quite out of 
 the range of possibility for him. She tried to 
 believe him. 
 
 But there were so many other things besides 
 love, in this essential sense! And Basil's inter- 
 est in the sex w r as as w T ide as the world. He had 
 an inexhaustible curiosity, which he called psy- 
 chological, and which Teresa called puerile; a 
 keen, almost romantic, sense of the drama of 
 life; a need of all sorts of free and indefinite 
 human relations. His theories were in favour 
 of absolute freedom among civilised beings in 
 a generation which was profoundly anarchic. 
 Teresa distrusted all theories. At the same 
 time, intellectually, she approved of Basil; but 
 this fact, as she pointed out to him, might not 
 prevent her from hating him, and some time do- 
 ing him an injury. 
 
 " I cannot get rid of the sense of possession," 
 she said. " I regard you as my property, and 
 your interest in other women as stolen from me. 
 I know it's absurd, but you can't account for 
 feelings, or get rid of them, either." 
 
 " So I am your property," said Basil. " But 
 you don't want to lock me up, do you? You 
 wouldn't care a snap for me if I was interested 
 in nothing but you. It's because I know a lot 
 of others that I know how much nicer you are."
 
 T H E B O N D 163 
 
 " That's all very well, but I wish I didn't care. 
 Sometimes I wish you hadn't told me things. 
 Scenes come up to me pictures all sorts of 
 things. Then I hate you." 
 
 " Oh, I forget sometimes that you're a woman," 
 said Basil, with a humorous sigh. " I talk to 
 you as I would to a man. And you like it." 
 
 " Oh, I like it well enough. But perhaps it 
 isn't so awfully clever of you." 
 
 " Why not? Why? What do you mean? " 
 
 She smiled and wouldn't answer. When he 
 pressed her to speak, she shook her head enig- 
 matically. Basil took her by the throat and 
 threatened to choke her if she didn't explain; 
 whereat she laughed, and said gaily: 
 
 " Never mind. We're good friends, anyway. 
 I think we always shall be, and like each other 
 best of all. It doesn't matter if we amuse our- 
 selves a little by the way. There that's the 
 point of view I'm striving to reach." 
 
 " You are? Well, I thought you'd always had 
 that point of view." 
 
 " In a purely abstract way, but I want to feel 
 it I want to put it into practice. I hate mere 
 theories." 
 
 " That's all right but a good many theories 
 ain't practicable," said Basil, after a pause. 
 " There's a difference, you know." 
 
 " A difference where? " 
 
 "Between you and me, for example."
 
 164 T H E B O N D 
 
 " Oh, I'm sure of it. Many of your amuse- 
 ments wouldn't appeal to me at all. But I un- 
 derstand all you say about the claims of the 
 temperament, and, do you know, I believe I have 
 got a temperament, too! I'm certain I'm dying 
 to be amused. And, then, if I am amused, I 
 shan't mind if you are. You may investigate life 
 as much as you choose, and make all the psy- 
 chological experiments you please. And I won't 
 be a bit jealous. I've made up my mind to get 
 rid of that mean, sneaking feeling, and I will. 
 And this is the way to do it." 
 
 " What is? You've always had your friends, 
 if that's all. There's Page, and Alvord and 
 Dallas spends hours alone with you every week." 
 
 "Gerald! Dear old Gerald! ... No, 
 I'm not talking about him ! " 
 
 "Well, who then, you little wretch?" 
 
 Basil laughed heartily and contemplated his 
 wife with easy admiration. But she cast a 
 glance at him from under her lashes, smiled 
 slightly, and began to talk about something else. 
 
 
 
 She spent the summer with the baby at a dull 
 resort on the Maine coast ; and this rounded out 
 an entire year devoted to Ronald Grange. Ron- 
 ald was weaned, and throve, and began cer- 
 tainly to pay for himself. He was a vigorous 
 and beautiful little creature; and Teresa, who 
 bathed him herself and mixed his food and
 
 T H E B O N D 165 
 
 watched his sleep on the sands, now learned the 
 intimate sweetness of his small, definite person- 
 ality, felt the soft charm of his unfolding in- 
 telligence and expressiveness, was infinitely 
 touched by his dependence on her, and his con- 
 sciousness of it. She came to love him with part 
 of the emotion that hitherto had been given only 
 to Basil. 
 
 Except for the baby, Teresa w r as bored; she 
 lived a perfectly hygienic life, and saw that she 
 grew more beautiful. Basil's warm recognition 
 of this fact, during the month that he spent with 
 her, lent a new interest to life. Their separa- 
 tion, the first since their marriage, was due to 
 money necessities. Basil had found that an in- 
 come which sufficed for two self-indulgent peo- 
 ple was not enough for two and a baby; and he 
 had been painting pot-boilers for Mrs. Perry, 
 who had a scheme for decorating her library 
 with views of the natural beauties of America. 
 He had been bored, too, as his daily letters 
 showed Teresa; he had longed for her, restless 
 in the loss of their companionship and the do- 
 mestic atmosphere which satisfied some deep 
 need of his nature; and when he finally came 
 it was like an ardent burst of the south wind 
 a storm of happiness. He wanted to spend his 
 whole day beside Teresa, to talk to her half the 
 night ; he was even jealous of the baby. It was 
 a new honeymoon, more passionate than the
 
 166 T H E B O N D 
 
 first, and Teresa now first began to feel the full 
 power of her beauty. Basil's aesthetic apprecia- 
 tion of her had grown steadily ; she pleased him 
 now more deeply than ever; and she rejoiced, 
 for some instinct told her that, holding Basil 
 by this feeling and by his domestic side, she held 
 the real man.
 
 IV 
 
 HE was a man rather difficult to tie ; and he 
 had just escaped from a determined effort 
 to entangle him, on the part of Isabel Perry. 
 Isabel's choice seemed to lie between him and 
 a convent. For some time past she had been 
 studying the Catholic doctrine. A strong im- 
 pulse of her passionate nature forced her toward 
 that faith; but as yet she had only a desire 
 to be convinced, not a conviction. In his last 
 interview with her, at her country-house, Basil 
 had found her much moved by a long visit that 
 morning from a Catholic priest, in whom she 
 thought she had found a sort of Pascal. The 
 master of the house was away, for Isabel's ad- 
 vances to the faith were much more surreptitious 
 than her love affairs. Basil was to lunch with 
 her. He found her in tears, torn between the 
 effect of the priest's talk and a violent revul- 
 sion. 
 
 " Let us go out," she had said at once on 
 seeing him, and she had led the way out of the 
 library that opened on a broad stretch of turf, 
 into the wood. Walking there, she told him, in 
 a depressed, nervous tone, of her difficulties. 
 
 " If I could only be sure" she said, clasping 
 
 167
 
 168 T H E B O N D 
 
 her hands over the breast of her white dress. 
 "It seems to me that my religious feelings are 
 only a result of my disappointment with life. 
 I want to leave the w r orld, not because I believe, 
 really believe, that the religious life is the right 
 one, but because I can't bear the life I lead. 
 I would rather have absolute negation than the 
 desire for something that doesn't exist. It's 
 the life that attracts me. I couldn't become a 
 Catholic and stay in the world. I wish to be 
 shut out from it, to live in some narrow place, 
 in a strict rule, to feel as mortal sin what I now 
 want without really believing in it and, then, 
 I believe, I really should believe I should see 
 good and evil where now I see neither. I should 
 feel that I have sinned, as I did when I talked 
 to Father Damon just now but now I don't 
 feel it " 
 
 She turned suddenly and took Basil's arm. 
 
 " With you" she said, " I always feel the 
 other thing, the other appeal. Just the thought 
 that I was to see you to-day and it kept com- 
 ing up all the time Father Damon was talking 
 made me feel my inability to accept what he 
 represents. To me just now, Basil, you are the 
 world not the world I want to get away from, 
 my world but the other, that I want without 
 believing in it. I mean your point of view, your 
 acceptance of life, the ease with which you take 
 it it seems to jar nothing in you, to leave noth-
 
 T H E B O N D 1G9 
 
 ing unsatisfied you seem to me, in short, so 
 happy- 
 She stopped in her rapid talk, her rapid pace 
 along the grassy walk under the trees, and looked 
 up at him, pale and agitated. " You don't un- 
 derstand my unhappiness, do you? You can't 
 help me? " she asked. 
 
 Her hand, clinging to his arm, her whole at- 
 titude of appeal, moved Basil, but he felt, more 
 than emotion, a sense of constraint. Her eyes 
 were appealing, but her mouth was imperious, 
 eager. 
 
 " No one can help you," he said slowly. " We 
 can't help one another except by giving enjoy- 
 ment now and then that's my creed. I can't 
 give you my enjoyment of life. I enjoy it be- 
 cause I am made to enjoy it. It floats me. It 
 depresses you. You ask of life more than it can 
 give. Perhaps that's the nobler attitude I 
 don't know. I'm sure it's the more romantic 
 one. I'm not romantic, Isabel. Your alterna- 
 tives of ecstatic happiness or the cloister both 
 seem to me impossible. I can't understand 
 wanting to be ecstatic, in or out of religion 
 but I see that you do want to be." 
 
 " But, surely, you believe, at least in moments 
 of happiness, in a feeling of joy that might lift 
 one out of the maddening groove of life you 
 believe in love, Basil? " 
 
 " Not as you do, Isabel," he said gravely. " Not
 
 170 T H E B O N D 
 
 as anything supernatural, mystic. I believe in 
 it as a sweet, every-day food of life good and 
 wholesome and necessary, like bread and butter. 
 But you think it must be nectar and ambrosia, 
 sent down expressly from heaven ... ! " 
 
 He smiled at her their eyes were on a level. 
 
 " Ah, you see, I've never had it," she sighed. 
 
 She looked away, down a bright vista of sunny 
 grass crossed by tree-shadows. 
 
 " You mention bread and butter, and lunch 
 must be ready," she said. " Forgive me for 
 boring you with my stupid troubles. I wish I 
 could be happy in a commonplace way, like you." 
 
 Basil laughed gaily. 
 
 " I wish you could ! Commonplace isn't half 
 so bad as you think," he said. " Do resign your- 
 self to it, Isabel, and don't talk any more to 
 Father Damon! Fancy you in a nun's dress 
 your beautiful hair cut short no, you mustn't 
 do it!" 
 
 " How frivolous you are," she murmured, but 
 she smiled and blushed suddenly. She was lean- 
 ing against a great oak-trunk, and she looked 
 up at him. . . . Basil did not kiss her. He 
 was conscious that it was expected, and in his 
 mind there was a clear perception : It would be 
 fatal. Isabel's emotional demand frightened 
 him. This situation between them had been 
 growing more and more definite and difficult. 
 It was with a marked feeling of relief that
 
 T H E B O N D 171 
 
 Basil, after lunch, said good-bye to her for a 
 month. 
 
 
 
 That month Teresa finished modelling Basil's 
 bust. It was the first ambitious thing she had 
 done since her marriage. She was in love with 
 his beauty as she did it the clear essentially 
 sculptural character of his finely-modelled head, 
 the free, dominant poise of it. 
 
 " That's you, Basil all of you," she said, the 
 day it was finished, after gazing long at it. 
 
 " It's a good-looking piece of work," Basil 
 admitted. 
 
 And Erhart, who came up for a week to 
 give his opinion on it, pronounced that it had 
 bone. 
 
 ,-" Of course one sees that it's a woman's work," 
 he added patronisingly. 
 
 / " Of course," said Teresa mockingly, " but one 
 is astonished that the dog should dance so well, 
 considering that it was meant to go on all-fours 
 [-isn't that it? " 
 
 I " Something of that sort. Do I hear your 
 /Aunt Sophy talking? " 
 
 "You will, sooner or later. I am coming 
 round to her point of view." 
 
 "You a feministe! There are no young and 
 pretty ones, remember that. Wait till you're 
 thirty, at least." 
 
 " Oh, two years of being married to Basil are
 
 172 T H E B O N D 
 
 a liberal education in feminism. I'm at least 
 forty in experience." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense. You adore Basil." 
 
 " Of course I adore him. His altars smoke 
 with sacrifice. But all the same I think I shall 
 raise one to the Unknown God." 
 
 " On which no one will be allowed to sac- 
 rifice but yourself, eh?" said Erhart. "You 
 want a monopoly." 
 
 " Oh, there's no god sufficiently unknown for 
 that ! " Teresa laughed. " There's such a super- 
 fluity of adoration in this world. No wonder 
 our deities are overfed. I think I shall put 
 Basil on a meagre diet." 
 
 " Don't do anything to Basil, he's good enough. 
 He's the most married man I know." 
 
 " He? He's the aboriginal wild man, roam- 
 ing the happy hunting-grounds in Mrs. Perry's 
 automobile. And I keep the wigwam neat and 
 clean, and look after the papoose." 
 
 " You couldn't do a better job," said Erhart 
 aggressively. 
 
 Erhart came up to stay a week, but he stayed 
 a month, in fact till the Ransomes returned to 
 town, and occupied himself in making a bas- 
 relief of Teresa's head. At first his attitude 
 toward them both was what it had always been 
 friendly and frank. But soon he began to 
 show some irritation against Basil. He devoted 
 himself obviously to Teresa, tried to get her off
 
 T H E B O N D 173 
 
 on long walks alone, and was moody and bored 
 when Basil was of the party. When he was 
 alone with Teresa, he spent most of his time in 
 criticising Basil. He declared that Basil was 
 volatile, lazy ; that he only amused himself with 
 work and life; that he did not take even his 
 wife seriously enough. 
 
 " He suits me," Teresa said calmly, a good deal 
 amused. " He's a charming companion, and al- 
 ways interesting. And I can assure you that 
 he takes me and the baby with the utmost se- 
 riousness." 
 
 " But he leaves you alone here all summer." 
 
 " He had to make some money, poor dear. 
 You've no idea how expensive Ronald is. If 
 you think he wasn't glad to get here ! " 
 
 " Oh, I suppose he was. He's fond of you, 
 I think, in his way." 
 
 Teresa smiled. 
 
 " He's an awfully good fellow," Erhart pro- 
 ceeded. " It's too bad his habits are so irregu- 
 lar bad for his work and everything, I should 
 think. He's got some talent, and if he'd only 
 pitch in and work " 
 
 " Once for all, Basil isn't a grub. He knows 
 he'll never be a great painter, and he's too much 
 humour to take himself with awful seriousness. 
 He knows perfectly well the measure of his 
 ability, he can do good work and he knows it, 
 but what he cares most about is living."
 
 174 T H E B O N D 
 
 " Living? " grumbled Erhart. ' ( I really don't 
 think Basil's way of living is admirable. I wish 
 he didn't drink at all. It's no wonder he's ner- 
 vous and irritable, and his temper bad." 
 
 " I thought you liked Basil," said Teresa de- 
 murely. 
 
 "I do like him very much, in some ways. 
 And that's why I hate to see him wasting him- 
 self so. It would be a lot better for you if he 
 worked more regularly and successfully. I don't 
 think he does as much as he might for you. 
 You're the sort of woman that luxury suits, you 
 need it. I should think it would be a pleasure 
 to give it to you." 
 
 Teresa put a shade of melancholy into her far- 
 away gaze. "My tastes are very simple," she said. 
 
 " Oh, that's because you're really very sweet 
 and kind, and you never worry people; I've no- 
 ticed that. But all beautiful women need a set- 
 ting, and they all want it, too, if they haven't 
 got it. When a man's lucky enough to be mar- 
 ried to a woman like you, he ought to live up 
 to it. Basil's a good fellow, an interesting fel- 
 low, but I don't think he deserves you, really." 
 
 Teresa's amusement in this conversation was 
 so great that she repeated it word for word to 
 Basil. Basil was not at all amused. 
 
 " I'd like to know what the devil he means by 
 that sort of talk," he said. " I don't call it very 
 friendly, abusing me like that to you. He's
 
 T H E B O N D 175 
 
 making love to you, that's what it is. I've no- 
 ticed lately that he doesn't want me around. I 
 like his nerve ! " 
 
 " Don't quarrel with him," said Teresa, laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 " Quarrel ! Of course not. Only I must say I 
 don't like it. It's all right for him to admire 
 you I like men to admire you but I don't 
 see why he should turn against me. It's con- 
 foundedly unpleasant but I never did like the 
 fellow much anyway." 
 
 " He isn't the most subtle or the best-man- 
 nered person I know," murmured Teresa. " But 
 he means no harm." 
 
 " Doesn't he? He doesn't mean any good, 
 either, so far as I can see." 
 
 " Oh, yes he wants to reform your habits, and 
 make you ambitious, and me rich." 
 
 " The devil he does. He wants to make you 
 discontented with me." 
 
 " Well, he can't. So you needn't worry. Don't 
 take him seriously, or I'll never tell you an- 
 other thing." 
 
 " Yes, you will ! You'll tell me everything, 
 or I'll choke the life out of you ! " And Basil 
 playfully clasped his hands about her throat. 
 
 Teresa laughed. 
 
 " It's pure self-indulgence for me to tell you 
 everything, though at times I think it's unwise. 
 In this case, for instance. You don't like Erhart
 
 17G T H E B O N D 
 
 as much as you did before. I've done a wrong to 
 him in telling you. But I like so much to feel 
 that you know everything, and that everything 
 is clear between us, at least on my side, that I 
 don't care. I am immoral in my honesty. Only 
 you mustn't show that I've told you, you know. 
 That would be immoral of you" 
 
 " Oh, I won't, of course. Only don't let Er- 
 hart make love to you." 
 
 "Erliart! I should say not. You're un- 
 pleasant, Basil." 
 
 " No, I'm not jealous," he said, laughing. 
 " Only, if any man makes love to you, I'd like 
 it to be some fellow I like, you know some 
 really good man. And that doesn't mean you're 
 to encourage him at least not much. Other- 
 wise I don't mind at all." 
 
 " How generous of you ! " said Teresa, with 
 sarcasm. 
 
 There was now often a tinge of sharpness in 
 her tone toward Basil. She knew that he had 
 his reserves. He had been as diplomatic as 
 possible on the subject of Mrs. Perry; but his 
 practical wisdom had not quite deceived Teresa's 
 instinct. She knew there was something he had 
 not told her but she felt also that, whatever 
 it might be, it was not very important. She 
 could not be deceived in Basil's feeling for her- 
 self; and she was learning to fight against her 
 disposition to take seriously everything relat-
 
 T H E B O N D ITT 
 
 ing to him. In spite of his essential simplicity, 
 in spite of his love for her, there was, she felt 
 dimly, too much in him, in life with him, that 
 might give her pain. She tried, therefore, to 
 attain something of his own ease, of that quality 
 which would have been lightness if his essential 
 force, his reality, his will, had been less; but 
 which now seemed to her more an enviable buoy- 
 ancy and power of resistance to the ills of life.
 
 y 
 
 ONE night in the early winter a party of 
 people started out, after dining at the Ran- 
 some's flat, on a slumming expedition. The 
 affair had been arranged for Alice Blackley's 
 benefit; Alice was more eager than ever to see 
 life, and she thought she would like to see it 
 in undress. She had confided to Teresa lately 
 that she was tired of artists (except Basil, of 
 course), and that she did not believe they were 
 any more interesting, when you knew them, than 
 other people. However, Erhart was of the pres- 
 ent party, which contained besides only Basil 
 and Teresa, for Erhart was anxious to please 
 Mrs. Blackley, having an eye always to the 
 commercial side of his profession ; and Basil had 
 amiably brought the two together. 
 
 It was late when they started, the two women 
 in quiet, dark dresses, appropriate for a pure 
 tour of inspection. They went first into the 
 Tenderloin, to two or three music-halls, and a 
 place where coffee and cigarettes and Turkish 
 furnishings competed with the inevitable whisky. 
 
 The music-halls were noisy, glaring with elec- 
 tric light, and filled with a crowd of men and 
 girls, sitting or moving about the little tables,
 
 T H E B O N D 170 
 
 whose gaiety seemed as hard and tliin as the 
 light's blue flare. The tough faces of the wait- 
 ers, the careless or determined cheerfulness of 
 the women, the bored or excited look of the men 
 of widely varying types, the perpetual drinking, 
 all mixed together in a mirage of which pleasure 
 was the least discoverable element. Some of the 
 girls were very pretty, many of them were young, 
 most of them well-dressed; and all tried to dif- 
 fuse about themselves an atmosphere of reckless 
 life, zest, enjoyment. But seen in the mass, all 
 these various attempts resulted in one great ef- 
 fect of sham. 
 
 Alice's large eyes studied the scene intently. 
 She was so much interested that it was difficult 
 to get her away ; yet she had a blank look, too. 
 
 " I thought it would have been more exciting," 
 she said. " Don't they dance, or anything? " 
 
 The Turkish coffee place, with its dimmer 
 lights and languid couples, she thought more 
 interesting; but still her deer-like eyes looked 
 vainly about for something she did not see ; still 
 she seemed perplexed. " Is this really life? " she 
 seemed to ask. "Are these the haunts of vice? 
 Are these people really the horrid people we've 
 come out to see? And if so, why are they not 
 more spectacular? " 
 
 From the Tenderloin they crossed to the Bow- 
 ery, and walked slowly down the broad street, 
 howling with the noise of the cars, bright with
 
 180 T H E B O N D 
 
 electricity, crowded with undistinguished peo- 
 ple. From innumerable saloons and ten-cent 
 shows came the tinkling strains of mechanical 
 music. All the small shops which catered to the 
 needs of the undistinguished were open, to meet 
 their customers' leisure hours, and so the broad, 
 dirty sidewalk lay in one continuous glare of 
 light. 
 
 They went into one music-hall a bare, un- 
 tidy room, with a few men sitting over their 
 beer, and on the platform a stout, middle-aged 
 woman, in short skirts, rouge, and a picture hat, 
 singing a sentimental song to the accompaniment 
 of a cracked piano. Several girls walked about, 
 talking to the sallow, stolid men. One stood 
 alone near the piano. She was conspicuous in 
 her solitude, and also because, for all the loose 
 coat that hid her figure, it could be seen that 
 she was about to bear a child. One of the men 
 pointed a thumb at her over his shoulder, and 
 said something to his companion; they both 
 laughed. The girl smiled, with a piteous at- 
 tempt at bravado. 
 
 Teresa hurried her party out of the place. 
 Basil took them next to a saloon where he ex- 
 pected to find an acquaintance of his, an ex- 
 prize-fighter, whose reputation for wit extended 
 up and down and even beyond the Bowery. The 
 saloon was crowded and noisy, and a blast of 
 foul language met them as they entered. Basil
 
 T H E B O N D 181 
 
 hastily extracted his man, who saluted him with 
 a " Hello, bloke ! " Then the five went to have 
 " chop suey " at a Chinese restaurant to which 
 the ex-prize-fighter led them with the air of a 
 man who knew his world, and was quite indif- 
 ferent to any other. 
 
 He was a small, wiry man, collarless, rather 
 drunk, with a sallow face, hard as steel, in which 
 smouldered two half-extinct black eyes. Scarcely 
 a muscle of his face moved when he spoke. He 
 slid his words out of the corner of his thin im- 
 mobile, lips, and they rapped with an emphasis 
 like that of metal on metal. His eyes were per- 
 fectly expressionless as he observed the various 
 members of the party. He had seen innumerable 
 slumming parties, and while he was quite willing 
 to talk to any of them for the sake of a supper, 
 drink, and a few dollars at the end of the even- 
 ing, their world did not interest him. He patron- 
 ised them as easily as he did the Chinese waiters 
 in the small room up a dirty flight of stairs, 
 where he selected the best table, and issued his 
 curt orders. The two Chinese, in loose linen 
 coats and flapping slippers, brought rice, tea, 
 and the curious mixture of veal, bamboo-shoots, 
 and unknown condiments which figured on the 
 sign outside. The prize-fighter addressed to 
 them a few words in their own tongue, and a 
 shade which might have been a smile passed over 
 their faces, immovable as his own.
 
 182 T H E B O N D 
 
 Then he took the big bowl of rice and a pair of 
 chop-sticks, put the chop-sticks first into his 
 mouth, then into the rice, and passed the bowl 
 round the table. Rice was generally declined, 
 but the party tried eating the chop suey with 
 their bamboo sticks. The prize-fighter managed 
 his deftly, and endeavoured to instruct the 
 others. 
 
 " You've got 'em by the wrong end, see? Hold 
 y em so," he said to Alice. 
 
 She persisted in her own way, however, and he 
 said with indifference : 
 
 "All right, Sis, what you don't know won't 
 hurt you." 
 
 Then, on Erhart's lead, he began to talk about 
 a recent prize-fight. Erhart described to the 
 rest of them, with aesthetic enthusiasm, the mar- 
 vellous effect of the pink bodies of the men, seen 
 through a cloud of dust; and the ex-professional 
 listened cynically. 
 
 " I'm going to model Young, the light-weight," 
 exclaimed Erhart. "I got him to promise to 
 pose for me. I can do a bully thing of the 
 fighter!" 
 
 "What's the good of that?" demanded the 
 other. " If you want to make a statoo, you'd 
 ought to take the champion. You make a good 
 likeness of him, and I tell you, young feller, 
 every saloon in the country'd take a copy. You 
 don't know your own business."
 
 T H E B O N D 183 
 
 Basil changed the topic and asked after the 
 prize-fighter's wife. 
 
 " About the same," he answered. " A doc told 
 her she had consumption, and she'd ought to go 
 to the country. But she won't go and leave me 
 for fear I'd get drunk too much." 
 
 " Why don't you go with her, then? " enquired 
 Alice. 
 
 " Me in the country? What in hell would I 
 do in the country?" he replied contemptuously. 
 " There ain't no better air than there is right here 
 on the Bowery it's as good as Fifth Av-noo air 
 any day, mind that, Sis." 
 
 Alice looked at Basil and giggled. Basil 
 smiled wearily. He had been very silent all 
 the evening, and w r hen he was not talking 
 his face looked gloomy. Teresa, too, seemed 
 oppressed. She felt as though she were at 
 the bottom of some vast slough, where un- 
 pleasant creatures of all sorts swarmed, living 
 their pathetic lives. The perfect content of the 
 prize-fighter with his particular spot in the 
 slough was illuminating, yet it did not lighten 
 the impression of the whole. The man interested 
 her. She studied his face, but did not try to 
 talk to him. The gulf between their worlds was 
 too wide, and she knew that she was as intoler- 
 ant of his as he of hers. 
 
 He began presently to talk about politics to 
 the two men, and gave a racy outline of the Bow-
 
 184 T H E B O N D 
 
 ery's sentiments concerning a recent municipal 
 election. In the midst of this, on a hint from 
 Basil, the party moved on, the prize-fighter lead- 
 ing the way. They walked through Chinatown 
 quaint, dingy, mysterious shadow of the East 
 thrown athwart the old houses of the Knicker- 
 bockers and then they came out on the Bowery 
 again, and went into another drinking-place. 
 This was full of sailors, half or quite drunk. 
 There were a number of young girls, shabbily 
 dressed; and among them were two slight, pretty 
 creatures, who looked not older than sixteen. 
 As soon as they had taken a table, and, as a mat- 
 ter of form, ordered beer, a drunken sailor came 
 up to their party, and leaning over the table and 
 fixing a pair of child-like, sad eyes on Teresa, 
 began a long story of his sufferings and wrongs 
 on board his ship. His voice was so pathetic, his 
 incoherent unhappiness so convincing, that the 
 two women listened, quite fascinated; but he re- 
 peated himself, and finally lost himself in a maze 
 of words, lurching heavily to this side and that; 
 when Basil rose, took him by the arm, and led 
 him away to another table, gave him a drink, and 
 left him murmuring to himself. 
 
 Teresa looked about the room as though in a 
 dream. The close air, the smell of beer, the throng 
 of brutal faces, the drunken, lascivious eyes, the 
 rough words caught here and there, made up an 
 impression of naked sordidness so complete as to
 
 T H E B O N D 185 
 
 pass reality. The movements of the one waiter 
 fascinated her. He was a young man, slim and 
 powerfully built, with a face almost handsome, 
 which had the same absolute hardness and im- 
 mobility that marked the prize-fighter's. He 
 moved quickly amongst the crowd, with a busi- 
 ness-like, lordly air, his eyes everywhere at once. 
 He swept off half-filled beer-glasses, and brought 
 full ones without being asked, balancing a tray 
 in each hand. And twice in fifteen minutes he 
 put down his trays, took an obstreperous sailor 
 by the collar and jerked him through the door 
 of the place into the street without moving a 
 muscle of his face, or losing for an instant his 
 business-like calm. 
 
 " That's the bouncer," explained Erhart to 
 Alice. She wanted to know all about the 
 bouncer, whom Basil was sketching on the back 
 of a letter; but she was even more interested in 
 the two young girls, and at her request Erhart 
 asked them to come up to the table, and gave 
 them some beer. They were not at all shy. 
 The prettiest at once began to talk to Teresa 
 with easy frankness; told her that she and her 
 friend lived in a room together, and had done so 
 for two years; that she was a morphine-fiend; 
 and she showed, with a certain pride, her arm, 
 covered with punctures. Her face was round 
 and delicately coloured, without a touch of pow- 
 der or paint. She had large, blue eyes, and curl-
 
 186 T H E B O N D 
 
 ing, brown hair. The other girl was paler, more 
 nervous, but almost as pretty. Neither was over 
 seventeen. The nervous girl slipped away in a 
 few moments, and sat down at a table with a 
 sailor. Teresa was still talking with the other, 
 when at the far end of the room a disturbance 
 began. The bouncer leaped to the fray, and 
 ejected two individuals; but in a moment the 
 room was in an uproar. The crowd surged down 
 toward the door, overturning tables and chairs; 
 every second man drew a knife or pistol. Basil, 
 Erhart, and the ' prize-tighter pushed the three 
 women toward the wall, and made a buffer be- 
 tween them and the crowd ; but in spite of their 
 efforts they were caught in the jam and forced 
 under a hail of broken glass, toward the one nar- 
 row entrance. Basil stretched out his arms on 
 either side of Teresa, and with vicious digs of his 
 elbows and fists, tried to protect her. Gleaming 
 eyes turned toward him, and one man lifted a 
 knife. They were crushed in the shouting, heav- 
 ing mass. Teresa, half-suffocated, almost lost 
 consciousness, but fear for Basil sustained her. 
 In a final, fierce stampede they were pushed 
 through the door. 
 
 When they found themselves in the street, and 
 succeeded in reaching the other three, it was dis- 
 covered that Erhart had a deep knife-cut in the 
 arm, and by common consent the expedition 
 broke up. The Eansomes took Alice home. She
 
 T H E B O N D 187 
 
 was pleased by the evening; talked a good deal 
 about the two young girls, and the possibility of 
 reforming them, or at least of giving them some 
 good clothes, so that they would have a better 
 chance. 
 
 Teresa could not get to sleep that night. When 
 she closed her eyes the room was peopled by the 
 dreadful faces she had seen. The drunken 
 sailor, the " bouncer," the girl at whom those 
 men had laughed, the pretty young girl with the 
 spotted arm, stood out on a background of sod- 
 den, diseased, malevolent human wrecks. This 
 w r as worse than the sham mirth of the Tender- 
 loin ; perhaps it w r as the reality behind the sham. 
 The figures all whirled round as though in a 
 drunken dance, and behind them she seemed to 
 see uncounted myriads of other figures, all driven 
 on blindly, all mad, broken, blighted. 
 
 Basil had given her his sketch of the " boun- 
 cer " as they came home. She had seen in his eyes 
 that night not only gloom and weariness, but also 
 the impersonal interest in the scene before him 
 that meant a stirring of his impulse to expression. 
 He would put them all down on paper those 
 pathetic girls, those brutal or stupid men all 
 that complex of misery, all that waste of life. 
 And it would mean to him just fact just what 
 X what must be. 
 
 In her present mood she revolted, as she often 
 did, against his acceptation of the world, invol-
 
 188 T H E B O N D 
 
 ving even, it seemed to her, a certain pleasure in 
 its hardness, its inequalities. Perhaps this was 
 the artistic interest, the dramatic interest; but 
 to Teresa now it seemed cruel to enjoy the sight 
 of such a world, to use it as material for art. 
 The impersonal side of Basil presented itself to 
 her as a cool, observing eye, a firm noting hand ; 
 apart from his own human interests, he was not 
 moved the mass of misery did not move him. 
 He dissociated himself from it completely. His 
 attitude was : " I did not make this world I'm 
 not responsible for it I can't help it. I can 
 only observe it, recognise it for what it is and 
 make my own particular life out of it, a satisfac- 
 tion to myself." Basil was selfish, egotistic, hard 
 but he loved her, and she loved him. A sudden 
 need to be near him came upon her. She got up 
 and went into his room. 
 
 The winter dawn was faintly beginning. He 
 was asleep. His relaxed face looked sad, but 
 sleep gave it also a curiously young expression, 
 a strange beauty. She crept into the bed beside 
 him ; half waking, he put his arm about her, and 
 murmured something softly. They had quar- 
 relled bitterly the day before. But now, com- 
 forted to the soul by his nearness, and the word 
 of endearment that had come unconsciously 
 from the deep feeling that united them, from the 
 depths below all surface storms, Teresa, too, 
 could sleep.
 
 VI 
 
 DIFFICULTIES had thickened upon them 
 this winter. They had a larger flat, in a 
 more salubrious (and expensive) neighbourhood, 
 and three servants. The baby had made this 
 difference, with the result that they felt poor. 
 Teresa, with a pang, had given up her bachelor 
 rooms, for the work she was now able to do did 
 not justify her in keeping them. But the rent 
 of Basil's studio was high, and he had not sold 
 anything lately, except the work he had done 
 for Mrs. Perry. His book of drawings had been 
 published, with a definite, but not a money suc- 
 cess. The publishers had wanted to call it " The 
 City Toilers," and by including mainly types of 
 honest misery, to give it a sentimental air of 
 pity. But Basil called it " City Types," and put 
 into it what he considered his best work, irre- 
 spective of subject. The result could not please 
 the sentimental public, but it pleased Basil, and 
 also Teresa, who desired that his artistic ability 
 should be recognised. But it did not bring in 
 much money. For the first time in his life Basil 
 felt the pressure of money needs. The demands 
 of his household seemed to grow steadily, and 
 his income was comparatively a fixed quantity. 
 
 189
 
 190 T H E B O N D 
 
 He had never counted on making money, but 
 now he was obliged to speculate on his work, and 
 this brought him face to face with his own prac- 
 tical limitations. It was a standing grievance 
 that Teresa was not economical. But Teresa, 
 though she honestly tried, could not be at least 
 not more than a few days at a time. Then she 
 forgot about it. She was not extravagant, but 
 the daily worry of overseeing cheating trades- 
 men and servants, as well as watching the baby 
 and the nurse, and seeing that Basil's clothes 
 were in repair, and his meals on time, was sure 
 to overpass at some point the limits of her do- 
 mestic capacity. 
 
 They were gayer, too, this winter than ever. 
 Teresa, after her year of the baby, had a craving 
 for people, a quite new delight in going out, the 
 more so since she was more beautiful and more 
 admired. And gaiety meant expense clothes, 
 dinners, cabs and less work. It meant, also, 
 more or less emotional disturbance. Basil's 
 theory that he was not of a jealous temperament 
 had had a good test, and had been found not to 
 
 /- hold water. 
 
 Among the people that they saw most of, do- 
 mestic happiness was regarded as an amusing 
 or pathetic myth, as you happened to take it. It 
 
 'was a mirage, and the traveller in the desert, if 
 he could not help pursuing it, always recognised 
 his mistake. He did not reach the mirage ; but he
 
 T H E B O N D 191 
 
 might find a pleasant oasis or two by the way. 
 An apparently complete frankness about their 
 domestic relations was also the rule in this so- 
 ciety. People talked about their wives or hus- 
 bands as amusingly as they could, and quite 
 without sentiment. The pose of the successful 
 ones was that they were simple good friends, 
 and didn't interfere with one another. Behind 
 this mask, which Basil and Teresa assumed also, 
 went on, no doubt, many a drama like their own ; 
 and many a secret believer in the myth struggled 
 and strove to reach what he considered to be real 
 waters, spreading cool and peaceful, and real 
 protection from the glaring, grinding world. 
 Peace was, perhaps, not to be hoped for in the 
 relation of two civilised and youthful people 
 who had the ideal of freedom and enjoyment. 
 The world was too much with them for any real 
 seclusion of spirit to be possible. But they had 
 the ever-present sense of life, an unfailing inter- 
 est in one another. They might quarrel, but they 
 were never dull, and neither had as yet a need 
 for any other one person. They had days of per- 
 fect, simple happiness, when material difficulties 
 were ignored, and their real relation seemed the 
 only thing that mattered ; days of frank, wordly 
 companionship, when they talked frivolously of 
 serious things, and a light way of taking the 
 world made it all gay and amusing. And they 
 had their black days, when all went wrong, when
 
 192 T H E B O N D 
 
 they barely spoke to one another or communi- 
 cated by means of notes ; when they accused one 
 another of self-indulgence, selfishness, egotism; 
 when Teresa bitingly recalled Basil's sensual 
 weaknesses, and Basil openly regretted his bache- 
 lor freedom, and assured Teresa that she was 
 never meant for a wife. These discords were fre- 
 quent, but they never lasted long; neither could 
 stand the strain. Basil could not work under 
 it, and it blackened the entire firmament for 
 Teresa. It ended usually in a passionate recon- 
 ciliation, wherein Basil ardently told Teresa 
 that he could not live without her, nor with any 
 other woman ; and she promised to be domestic ; 
 and then the sky was blue, and the sunlight 
 golden, and a heavenly breath descended upon 
 them, and life, youth, and love seemed divine. 
 
 Their latest quarrel had been ostensibly about 
 household affairs. The monthly bills had come 
 in, and seemed to Basil enormous. And the 
 nurse had been discovered feeding Ronald 
 Grange at an undue hour. All Teresa's faults 
 as a housewife were once more gone over, and 
 Basil, with his usual vigour, had asserted that 
 she cared nothing for the household, for the baby, 
 or for him, but only for her own amusement. 
 The real reason for the explosion was that Ter- 
 esa, on the previous day, had gone out with her 
 most devoted admirer in his automobile, and 
 lunched with him in the country. He was a
 
 T H E B O N D 193 
 
 I 
 
 Southerner named Fairfax-; he had made a for- 
 tune in lumber; he was good-looking and had 
 the caressing manner of his kind toward women ; 
 and for several months now he had been coming 
 constantly to see Teresa. His time was about 
 equally divided between the South and New 
 York; and when he was away he wrote to her. 
 She always showed the letters to Basil; they 
 were friendly, gay, and interested. She admitted 
 that she liked Fairfax very much ; that she found 
 i him amusing and charming. Basil said that he 
 liked her friendship with Fairfax ; it was in line 
 with all his ideas. He said once : " It's more ex- 
 citing to drive a restive team than a quiet one; 
 only you must look out they don't get away." 
 His own interest in his wife seemed to increase. 
 It had lost the quiet of the first year; it was 
 more like the perpetual unrest of courtship. Her 
 successes, her gaiety, intensified the appeal of 
 her beauty to him. He seemed, too, to be less\ 
 sure of her, and this pleased Teresa, and added 
 to the light excitement of their life. 
 
 On the morning after their slumming expedi- 
 tion they took their coffee together amicably; 
 Basil was gentle, but gloomy. Teresa questioned 
 him keenly ; he resisted ; but at last his real feel- 
 ing came out, and he confessed to a torturing 
 jealousy. 
 
 " I didn't know I had it in me," he said sav- 
 agely angry, not with her, but with himself.
 
 194 T H E B O N D 
 
 " And I can't stand it. It makes me feel weak 
 mentally and physically. It turns me sick. I 
 think I'm wrong, but I can't help it. I believe 
 the thing is stronger than I am. You're the only 
 person in the world, Teresa, that can really make 
 me suffer. And I believe you could half-kill me ! " 
 
 His anger and resentment of his own irration- 
 ality touched Teresa, his emotion pleased her, 
 but the practical consequences thereof rather 
 vexed her. 
 
 " I've only done what you told me to do," she 
 said plaintively. " You said you wanted me to 
 have my friends among men, just as you have 
 among women. I didn't make scenes for you 
 at least not serious ones when you were so 
 much with Mrs. Perry. And yet I had more rea- 
 son to, for she was making love to you, and Jack 
 doesn't make love to me not seriously." 
 
 " Seriously ! There it is, then he does make 
 love to you. I knew it. His whole manner to 
 you shows it." 
 
 " Oh, he's Southern, you know, and they have 
 that gallant way. My father had it it's a tradi- 
 tion. He does like me, I'm sure perhaps he's 
 a little bit epris but you always said you liked 
 men to be fond of me, so long as " 
 
 "Yes, but you like him! You wouldn't want 
 to spend hours alone with him if you didn't." 
 
 " Of course I like him, silly old thing ! He's 
 charming."
 
 T H E B O N D 195 
 
 Basil groaned. " Women have a terrific ad- 
 vantage to us," he said viciously. " Nothing 
 I can do can affect you very deeply, unless I 
 should fall in love with another woman, and I 
 can't do that. But you could very easily nearly 
 kill me" 
 
 " Then it's your own fault if we have that ad- 
 vantage," said Teresa calmly. " First, you carry 
 on yourselves in such a fashion that, as you say, 
 we can't take your lapses seriously. And then 
 you put such terrific emphasis on the slightest 
 lapse on our part. Why do you put the weapon 
 into our hands, and then provoke us, if you don't 
 want to get hurt?" 
 
 " Provocation, as you call it, oughtn't to 
 count. A woman ought to be strong enough to 
 stand for herself, for what she really deeply 
 wants, without being influenced by another per- 
 son's acts." 
 
 " Two people can't live together intimately 
 without influencing one another, and deeply. 
 And especially a woman, for her character isn't 
 formed till she's married. Of course, I can see 
 how the other person would like to feel that what 
 he does counts for nothing, for so he gets rid of 
 all responsibility only it doesn't work that 
 way." 
 
 " The Orientals manage these things better," 
 said Basil gloomily. " A Mohammedan can take 
 as many women into his house as he can support,
 
 19G T H E B O N D 
 
 and they're all protected and cared for, and re- 
 spectable. And if they're unfaithful, he can bow- 
 string them. That's the right method. Monog- 
 amy is a foolish idea, and we waste an enormous 
 amount of life in trying to live up to it. The 
 Japanese are infinitely more sane than we are 
 about the whole business. Sex ought to be di- 
 , vorced from emotion. They don't belong to- 
 gether. We've sentimentalised the thing till we 
 don't know where we stand. It's all the fault 
 of feminism. Women naturally sentimentalise 
 it, and we've let them set the tone for our whole 
 society, till we can't call our souls or bodies our 
 own. It's weakness, and gets paid out as weak- 
 ness always does. We belong to you now, you 
 own us, and you make us feel it." 
 
 " Poor slaves ! " mocked Teresa. " Why don't 
 you rise and assert your rights? Put us back in 
 the harem, and then go on with your great work 
 of civilising the world in peace. I daresay we 
 should be just as well off." 
 
 *'' I think you would. You can't be men, any- 
 way, you know, and in our society you're bound 
 to try to be, more or less. It's all wrong. The 
 line ought to stand where it was drawn for all 
 time, sharp and clear. Trying to rub it away is 
 folly." 
 
 " I don't try to be a man," murmured Teresa. 
 " I wouldn't be one for any amount. Poor, fool- 
 ish creatures."
 
 T H E B O N D 197 
 
 " Yes, you do try. You want the same free- 
 dom " 
 
 "I thought we agreed the ideal was equal 
 freedom." 
 
 " So it would be if women were capable of it, 
 if they were like men, capable of dissociating 
 ideas that don't really belong together. But 
 they're not. They emotionalise everything." 
 
 " Even an automobile drive and a sedate 
 luncheon? Keally, you're silly, Basil." 
 
 " Perhaps I am," he admitted darkly. " But 
 I can't help it." 
 
 " I don't think, really, that it's a tremendous 
 compliment to me your jealousy," said Teresa 
 coldly. 
 
 " No, it isn't. But it isn't the other thing 
 either. You're so much alive, Teresa! And 
 you're beautiful, and you love admiration. And 
 really I feel that you might sometime care too 
 much for someone else." 
 
 " It's no use arguing with a feeling," said Ter- 
 esa. " I won't go out again with Fairfax." 
 
 Basil took her in his arms, in a wave of re- 
 pentant emotion. 
 
 " No, I don't mean that. You shall do just as 
 you want to do. I won't deprive you of any 
 pleasure, if I can help it. I believe you do care 
 a little for me ! " 
 
 Teresa smiled tenderly, but with a shade of 
 melancholy. She did not like the interruption
 
 198 T H E B O N D 
 
 of her friendship with Fairfax, which she felt 
 was probably inevitable. It seemed, too, like a 
 confession of defeat in the course they had meant 
 their marriage to take. If they could not trust 
 / one another freely, if they had to take serious 
 account of small things, and manage and humour 
 one another, what became of her ideal of free- 
 dom and frankness? Teresa did not want to give 
 up her ideas or her amusements but neither did 
 she want really to hurt or disturb Basil. The 
 talk left her troubled and melancholy.
 
 VII 
 
 BASIL himself saved the situation. That 
 night they were going out to dinner, and in 
 the carriage on the way he explicitly denied 
 what he had said, pronounced it only a mood, 
 and assured Teresa that he wanted her to be per- 
 fectly free, and not to give up the least of her 
 amusements because of an unreasonable feeling 
 on his part. He admitted emotionally that it was 
 unreasonable, and stated his entire trust in her 
 so convincingly that Teresa's spirits rose with a 
 leap. 
 
 " That's all right, then now we're ourselves 
 again ! " she said gaily. " I didn't quite recog- 
 nise you in the role of Bluebeard! You give me 
 carte blanche, and I promise I shan't want to look 
 into the forbidden cupboard ! " 
 
 " No, don't promise anything except that 
 you'll always like me better than anyone else." 
 
 " I needn't promise that I can't help it. Life 
 is so amusing with you, Basil ! I feel so gay and 
 young to-night all the worries seem little 
 things. The baby was so dear to-day he's the 
 most intelligent little thing, and so strong and 
 alive ! I'm going to model a little profile of him. 
 Yes, he really has got a profile. And to think I 
 
 199
 
 200 T H E B O N D 
 
 didn't want him what a fool I was! . . . 
 But there's a good side to not wanting things 
 you haven't got, and idealising them, and think- 
 ing if you only had them,, how happy you'd be. 
 I've never done that. It always seems to me that 
 if I can't be happy with what I've got, I can't 
 anyway. And I do really think I've got all there 
 is to get in life all there is for me. ... I 
 might like a little more money but nothing 
 else!" 
 
 Basil held her hand clasped in his, and lis- 
 tened. 
 
 " You like excitement," he said. 
 
 " Oh, a little, now and then a new dress, an 
 
 interesting talk But I don't need much, do 
 
 I, now? " 
 
 " I don't know. You wouldn't like to have 
 anything cut off." 
 
 " Well, would you? " 
 
 " No and I like you to be full of life, as you 
 are. You wouldn't interest me half as much if 
 you were different! You fascinate me, and al- 
 ways have. Only be good as good as you can ! " 
 
 Teresa did not protest when he rumpled her 
 hair in a quick embrace. She laughed gaily. 
 
 " Life is good," she said contentedly. 
 
 The dinner was gay, and too large for general 
 talk. Basil was near one end of the table, and 
 Teresa near the other, with Fairfax beside her 
 a provision of the hostess. Teresa thoroughly
 
 T H E B O N D 201 
 
 enjoyed her tetc-a-t$te, for it was almost that. 
 She knew that she was looking wonderfully well 
 in her white dress, but Fairfax's praise was none 
 the less welcome. He was one of the men en- 
 amoured of women's luxury, and she was aware 
 that he would have liked to see her each time in 
 a new dress, and arrayed with more coquetry 
 even than she cared to use. She laughed at this 
 trait in him it went with much else in his char- 
 acter that she thought amusing, but rather des- 
 picable. But she liked his more masculine side 
 his energy, ability, and clear-headedness. He 
 I talked about men and affairs with incisive force, 
 and had a lightly cynical attitude toward life in 
 general which went rather oddly with his de- 
 votional attitude toward women. 
 
 He was, at bottom, thoroughly conventional; 
 
 and part of Teresa's pleasure lay in shocking 
 
 him. He had from the first been amused and 
 
 interested by the freedom of her talk; then he 
 
 had taken to combating lightly her ideas ; but as 
 
 he knew her better, he became more vehement in 
 
 his protest. He thought her idea of marriage 
 
 totally wrong ; and he had been horrified at learn- 
 
 I ing the extent of her information about life in 
 
 1 general, and Basil's responsibility therein. He, 
 
 I as Teresa pointed out to him, thoroughly agreed 
 
 j with her Aunt Sophy, that women should be 
 
 ! protected as much as possible from knowledge 
 
 outside their sphere.
 
 202 T H E B O N D 
 
 " Only Aunt Sophy thinks our sphere is poli- 
 tics, while you think it's domesticity," said 
 Teresa. 
 
 " Of course I think it is. Her home and so- 
 ciety what more does any woman want? " 
 
 " Ah, society ! When you take in society, you 
 let in the serpent, and its wisdom ! Unless you 
 mean just an occasional tea-drinking, or a dove 
 luncheon. Do you think if one's to have any 
 relations with men and women one doesn't need 
 all the knowledge possible? " 
 
 " You have your instinct that can't go 
 wrong," said the bachelor. 
 
 " Oh, can't it ! You'd reduce us to the rudi- 
 ments, wouldn't you? Why shouldn't we have 
 the amusement of contemplating the world and 
 people as they really are? It's the most instruct- 
 ive spectacle possible. I can never be thank- 
 ful enough that I married a man who isn't 
 afraid of reality, for me any more than for 
 himself. You would shut your wife up in a 
 toy paradise, with everything upholstered in 
 rose-colour." 
 
 " There are a whole lot of things I know that 
 my wife would never know, you may depend on 
 that," Fairfax responded with emphasis. " What 
 nonsense, imagining that a man's view of life 
 and a woman's can ever be the same ! " 
 
 ".And can't one be supposed capable of taking 
 to some degree an impersonal view of life? Can't
 
 T H E B O N D 203 
 
 one forget occasionally that one is a woman, and 
 be simply an intelligence? " 
 
 " I should say not ! What do you make of 
 hundreds of generations of inherited prejudices 
 and ways of feeling, that colour your thought 
 unconsciously? You can't get rid of that heri- 
 tage for an instant. . . . You couldn't un- 
 derstand a man if you tried for a thousand 
 years." 
 
 " ' Wonderful son, that can so astonish a 
 mother ' ! Do you think I shan't understand my 
 son when he grows up? " 
 
 " No, you won't, and if you're wise you won't 
 try. We like women best that don't pretend to 
 understand us." 
 
 " ' We '? Speak for yourself, Jack. There are 
 plenty of men that don't believe in the doll's 
 house. I shall see that Ronald Grange, when he 
 grows up, has more modern ideas than you 
 have ! " And Teresa warbled frivolously : 
 
 " ' Woman is the chosen 
 
 Ornament of home 
 Man is what the beer is, 
 Woman is the foam/ ' : 
 
 When they talked ideas, they were always com- 
 bative; and in his sentimental moods as well, 
 Fairfax showed his conviction that Teresa was a 
 charming creature, married to the wrong sort of
 
 204 T H E B O N D 
 
 man, and in danger of being spoiled. Fairfax 
 and Basil had never been more than mere ac- 
 quaintances, and neither liked the other. Ter- 
 esa understood that a mentally conventional man 
 could never like Basil; and she was entertained 
 by the attempt which Fairfax, like most of the 
 men who had admired her, made to manufac- 
 ture domestic infelicity for her. They were so 
 sure that she could not be happy with a man like 
 Basil ! 
 
 Fairfax on this evening was full of regrets for 
 his impending departure. He would have to be 
 away from New York for two weeks on business, 
 he said, with a melancholy look. He was in a 
 mood, half of pique with her, half of more lik- 
 ing than he had ever shown. Teresa often 
 glanced down the table at Basil, during their 
 talk, but could never discover that he looked at 
 her. She thought he was looking tired and ex- 
 cited; and he seemed absorbed in his neighbour, 
 a very pretty young woman whom Teresa did 
 not know. Teresa had repeated to Fairfax 
 Basil's comment on some remark of his own, and 
 his pique was due to this. 
 
 "Do you tell your husband every earthly 
 thing? " he enquired. 
 
 " Everything ! " said Teresa joyously. 
 
 " And he reads your letters, too, I suppose." 
 
 " All of 'em. And I read his." 
 
 "You think you do, you mean?"
 
 T H E B O N D 205 
 
 " Yes, I mean I think I do ! " 
 
 "What childishness! As though two people 
 could really keep up that sort of thing." 
 
 "Ah, but they can. And I assure you it's 
 most interesting." 
 
 " It must be. But do people never tell either 
 of you things that are not meant for another 
 person? Or don't you consider confidences bind- 
 ing? Aren't you two individuals at all, but only 
 a corporation?" 
 
 " Something like that, I think. . . . And 
 you know real confidences are rare at least to 
 me. I don't care about them." 
 
 " Then can neither of you have a friend whose 
 confidences would be real, and whose friendship 
 would be for you as an individual, not for you 
 as a corporation? " 
 
 Teresa reflected. 
 
 " Isn't it conceivable that a person might care 
 for you, and mightn't care for your husband? 
 And that he mightn't care to be served up 
 for that enviable person's further enjoyment? 
 Wouldn't you have any loyalty to a feeling like 
 that? " 
 
 " It's a difficult question ! " sighed Teresa. 
 "Why bother about such things now? I came 
 in such a gay mood, feeling quite happy and 
 frivolous ! Don't spoil all my pleasure." 
 
 " I wish I felt happy and frivolous. Then I 
 suppose I might add to it instead of spoiling it."
 
 THE BOND 
 
 " Yes, you might. What is the good of being 
 serious at dinner? And such a good dinner, too 
 but not better than our lunch the other day. 
 I did enjoy that," 
 
 " Did you? " Fairfax looked a shade more 
 cheerful. " I'm glad. Perhaps we can have an- 
 other when I come back. And I'll be as frivolous 
 as I can. I need to be frivolous if I'm going to 
 amuse two people." 
 
 He came back to that again and again. He as- 
 sured Teresa that her idea of marriage was to- 
 tally wrong unsocial. 
 
 " Marriage is an institution a part of the 
 state, of the organisation of society. Two peo- 
 ple marry really for the purpose of helping one 
 another socially, I mean in a broad sense; of 
 bringing up children. The mere personal rela- 
 tion is a very small part of it. The feeling with 
 which they marry, if they're in love with each 
 other, doesn't last, can't last. It's bound to 
 change. They ought to adapt themselves to that 
 change, and make a broader relation on the basis 
 of it to take the family as the unit of their in- 
 terest, not one another." 
 
 " I don't agree with you." 
 
 "Well, you will, some day. You'll find out 
 that it doesn't work. Why marry at all, from 
 your point of view? " 
 
 "Because it's more practical, and because 
 common interests, and children, and common
 
 T H E B O N D 207 
 
 social relations help the original relation 
 they're in the line of its natural growth." 
 
 " You want to take all you can get out of so- 
 ciety, then, and not give in return? " 
 
 " I do give I give children, for example. But 
 my private affairs are no concern of society's. 
 Conventions are only made to be broken. Why 
 shouldn't I have my own way of breaking them? " 
 
 " If you hadn't this particular convention, 
 then, you admit you'd be more a social being." 
 
 " Yes, but I shouldn't be so happy." 
 
 "You risk being very unhappy sometime. 
 That's what it is to put too much stress on one 
 special relation." 
 
 Teresa shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 " If Allah wills it," she said, and her brilliant 
 eyes seemed gaily to defy fate.
 
 ym 
 
 TERESA, in a spirit of contradiction, and the 
 heat of argument, had chosen often to ex- 
 aggerate the completeness with which she and 
 Basil carried out that idea of frankness. She 
 was aware of Basil's silences; and she herself 
 was not as absolutely frank and unreserved as 
 she sometimes assumed to be ; but this arose not 
 from her wish, but from the impossibility of 
 translating everything into terms of speech. It 
 would have been impossible, for example, to re- 
 peat all of her talks with Fairfax, and as these 
 became more frequent in the course of the win- 
 ter, the impossibility of telling all led her to 
 tell little or nothing. It was not, however, be- 
 cause she had anything definite to conceal; but 
 that her interest in him and he did interest her, 
 as a type not very familiar to her was to a cer- 
 tain extent counter to her interest in Basil. The 
 extent was slight, and did not touch her real feel- 
 ing; but it absorbed a good deal of her attention. 
 Basil was working hard that winter; they went 
 out a good deal; and they spent less time to- 
 gether than ever before. Teresa was less jealous 
 of his time. She was a little more worldly. In- 
 sensibly some sort of a veil had come between 
 
 208
 
 T H E B O N D 209 
 
 them impalpable, not yet recognised by either 
 of them, but the natural result of interests super- 
 ficially divided. They lunched and dined fre- 
 quently apart. Teresa ceased to question Basil, 
 and though, of his own accord, he generally gave 
 an account of himself, he made one important 
 reservation. He was seeing Mrs. Perry often, 
 and saying nothing to Teresa about that lady. 
 Harold Perry, who played so small a part in his 
 wife's drama, was away all that winter, looking 
 up Aztec remains. Isabel, therefore, was free to 
 investigate religion. But that interest was tem- 
 porarily in the background. Basil had taken its 
 place. 
 
 . 
 
 One day he went to lunch with her, as he 
 was expected to do several times a week. He 
 had broken a dinner engagement with her two 
 days before, at the last moment, in order to dine 
 alone with Teresa ; and the excuse which he gave 
 did not satisfy Isabel. She was in the mood, in- 
 creasingly frequent with her, of dissatisfaction. 
 
 "Well, you know," he said frankly, at last, 
 "your friends bore me, Isabel. I'm older than 
 I used to be, and I prefer my own sort of peo- 
 ple. And you must remember that I'm working 
 pretty hard, and that I'm often tired. When I'm 
 tired I don't want to talk inanities." 
 
 " Inanities? Do you call Father Damon's 
 talk inanity or Madame Blaise's or "
 
 210 T H E B O N D 
 
 " No, but those people don't come to dinner 
 with you. I've enjoyed them, of course, but your 
 crowd on Tuesday was quite a different thing 
 wasn't it now? You only wanted me to fill up a 
 gap, to amuse one of the young women." 
 
 " I always want you," said Isabel. " But you 
 aren't willing to come just to please me." 
 
 " I can't really please you by boring myself. 
 You must remember that the time I can spend 
 with you is limited. Why should we waste it in 
 things we can't really enjoy, or in discussions 
 like this? If you could be content to let me come 
 just when I'm in the best mood, it would be bet- 
 ter for both of us." 
 
 " I'm afraid I should see you very little then," 
 said Isabel, with subdued bitterness. 
 
 " It must be little, comparatively, in any case. 
 But there's no reason why that little shouldn't 
 be pleasant. Keally I can amuse you much bet- 
 ter if you let me choose my own times and sea- 
 sons." 
 
 " Amuse ! I don't want to be amused ! " 
 
 " Oh, yes, you do, Isabel," said Basil, laughing. 
 " That's exactly what you want." 
 
 She was silent, and a look of deep melancholy 
 shadowed her face. Basil saw it with discom- 
 fort, which he did not allow to appear. He be- 
 gan to talk about her plans for the winter, about 
 a book which he was encouraging her to write. 
 She had in mind publishing anonymously a
 
 T H E B O N D 211 
 
 " Journal of a Woman of Thirty," and had 
 showed him some loose pages of it which had 
 rather surprised him by a certain gift of hectic 
 expression. She had also gone seriously into 
 Icharity work, had joined several societies, had 
 Set aside a tenth of her income for such con- 
 tributions, and was looking about for some 
 special work to do for the poor children of the 
 city. 
 
 In all these efforts to fill the essential void of 
 her life, Basil lent what aid he could. Her real 
 suffering touched him, though her passionate ex- 
 pression of it often irritated and repelled him. 
 There was no deep sympathy in him for people, 
 like Isabel, ill-adjusted to life, with inordinate 
 claims, with demands that seemed to him essen- 
 tially unreasonable. The quality in himself 
 which had attracted Isabel, his ability to be es- 
 sentially content, what she called his happiness, 
 was exactly what limited his sympathy, and his 
 real liking for her. She was beginning to see 
 that limitation in him, to feel that there was no 
 place for her in his life. Passionately, all of a 
 sudden, breaking in upon his talk about her 
 work, she accused him of lack of spirituality, of 
 essential materialism. 
 
 " You aren't interested in these things, in try- 
 ing to make the world a little more tolerable ! " 
 she cried. " You don't believe in anything I'm 
 trying to do. You take it only as another way
 
 212 T H E B O N D 
 
 of amusing me ! I cannot imagine, Basil, why I 
 ever liked you ! " 
 
 " Neither can I," he said readily. " Perhaps 
 you don't." 
 
 " No, I don't, I don't like you ! It is only an- 
 other instance of my making a mess of every- 
 thing. Everything I touch turns wrong. There 
 are some people who are meant to be unhappy in 
 the world, and I am one of them. I've never 
 seen anything clearly in my life except that. It 
 is not meant that I should try to live in the 
 world." 
 
 " Perhaps it is not," said Basil slowly. 
 
 She lifted her eyes, full of a mystic question- 
 ing. 
 
 " You think so, too, now, don't you, Basil? 
 You know you have always argued against that 
 feeling of mine, and it was for that, I believe, 
 that I loved you. I was seeking for something to 
 strengthen me against that feeling, and I seemed 
 to find it in you. I believe that's how it was. 
 But you have only shown me how wrong I was in 
 fighting against it. . . ." 
 
 She was silent, and Basil, too. This was the 
 first definite reappearance of her old mood for 
 some months, and Basil felt no energy within 
 himself to combat it. His interest in Isabel had 
 at all times been only a pale reflection of her 
 feeling for him, apart from the impersonal in- 
 terest which she discouraged, and his relation
 
 THE BOND 213 
 
 with her had brought him more discomfort than 
 anything else. 
 
 Basil was not happy during that winter. lie 
 regretted the emotional complication he had 
 been drawn into, and found the inevitable process 
 of getting out of it difficult and unpleasant. The 
 only cheerful thing about the situation was that 
 Teresa apparently did not suspect it. And even 
 this had a tinge of bitterness, for he thought 
 that if she had not been absorbed herself, she 
 would have suspected. 
 
 Teresa was absorbed but not in any one per- 
 son only in amusing herself. She had never be- 
 fore been so gay. She saw many people, ami 
 gaiety made her more popular ; she basked in the 
 sense of being liked. She perceived that Basil 
 was unusually moody, but now she did not al- 
 ways try to get to the bottom of his moods. He 
 said that work and money were bothering him, 
 and was no less affectionate to her, but rather 
 more so. 
 
 Isabel Perry's demands ended by wearying 
 him profoundly, and he came to Teresa for 
 peace and comfort. But he had a grievance 
 against Teresa, too, and this was that she now 
 made so few demands on him. By way of at- 
 taining peace with her, he accused her of be- 
 ing more interested in someone else. The jeal- 
 ousy of Fairfax, which he had resolutely stifled
 
 214 T H E B O N D 
 
 all winter long, appeared clearly. Teresa, with 
 a shock, realised his unhappiness, and not know- 
 ing all the reasons, put it down solely to her own 
 account. The complete story of her friendship 
 with Fairfax made it clear to Basil that he was 
 only an element in Teresa's enjoyment. Teresa 
 tenderly admitted that her winter had been friv- 
 olous, and that she had neglected Basil; Basil 
 protested that she had been quite right to have 
 as good a time as she could. Then came peace 
 between them, and a return of their old gaiety 
 together. Teresa once more became accustomed 
 to hearing how much more charming, how much 
 more beautiful she was than other women. She 
 took the other women as nameless abstractions, 
 and smiled at the praise. 
 
 In the spring she knew that she was to have 
 another child, and this one she welcomed. She 
 wanted a companion for Ronald, and she now 
 loved Ronald's baby graces so intimately that 
 all possible babies appeared beautiful to her. 
 Once more, and all at once, the world of frivolity 
 fell away from her. For the time it absolutely 
 ceased to interest her. Once more the special 
 atmosphere, cloistral quiet of spirit, seriousness, 
 and peace of mind, closed round her. She 
 showed a quiet, dreamy happiness, for which 
 Basil adored her. 
 
 They took for the summer a cottage in a quiet 
 place by the sea, not far from New York, for
 
 T H E B O N D 215 
 
 Basil was to do some work in the city. He was 
 now doing real pot-boilers illustrations for two 
 books, and some magazine-stories. Teresa as- 
 sured him that if they could only tide over thus 
 the baby's birth for they were in debt next 
 year they might live more simply, keep within 
 their income, and then he needn't do that sort of 
 work, which he detested. 
 
 They began the summer very happily together, 
 Basil going up to town two or three days a week, 
 for his drawings had to be realistic pictures of 
 some aspects of the city. They thought they 
 might keep the little cottage till near time for 
 the baby's arrival in December. June passed 
 sweetly and calmly. But at the beginning of 
 July Teresa had a great shock. Gerald Dallas 
 shot himself; and she read the news, a brief, 
 bald report, in her morning paper. 
 
 She had not seen him for months, their lives 
 had been completely separated ; but her affection 
 for him still lived, and revived suddenly under 
 the sting of pity and self-reproach. Basil that 
 morning had gone to town very early. Trem- 
 bling and faint, Teresa dressed, took the next 
 train, and went to the studio. She did not 
 find Basil. A telegram from Isabel that morn- 
 ing had summoned him to meet her. She was 
 in town for the day. Accordingly he was lunch- 
 ing at a restaurant with her, and being called 
 to account for his various deficiencies, when
 
 216 T H E B O N D 
 
 Teresa came to the studio. She hesitated a few 
 moments, then scribbled a note and dropped it 
 through the letter-slit, went down and found a 
 cab, and gave the address of Gerald's lodging, 
 taken" from the newspaper account. The place 
 was a cheap boarding-house, near one of the 
 small squares in the lower part of the city. It 
 was a broiling day, and the odours of poverty as- 
 sailed Teresa's senses as she got out at the door 
 and after some argument was admitted. In one 
 of Gerald's two rooms she found a chattering 
 group of women. One of them, red eyed and 
 flushed, a tall, robust girl, who had answered 
 her knock, seemed to be the mistress of the place. 
 To her, Teresa, half dazed, said she was Gerald's 
 friend, gave her name, and was ushered into the 
 room, where the other women, silent now, stared 
 at her curiously. The tall girl began to pour out 
 a flood of self-pitying explanations, mixed with 
 tears. 
 
 It had happened the day before. He had taken 
 the time when she, Annette, was away at re- 
 hearsal. He had written her a letter, which the 
 police had taken, telling her what he meant to 
 do, giving directions about his funeral, and say- 
 ing that she was to take whatever possessions he 
 left. The letter had been brought to her by a 
 messenger, and she had come back and found 
 him dead. He had shot himself through the 
 heart, lying on the bed. He had been ill for
 
 THE BOND 217 
 
 several weeks, and she had had a terrible time 
 of it. 
 
 Teresa went into the other room, which was 
 darkened and hot. Annette opened a blind, and 
 drew down the sheet from Gerald's face. Teresa 
 felt suddenly calm and glad. She lingered for 
 some moments, feeling tremulously the happi- 
 ness of his peace, his escape from pain ; then she 
 kissed him on the forehead and went away, say- 
 ing to Annette that she would come next day to 
 the funeral. 
 
 At the studio this time she found Basil, that 
 moment returned, and frantic with anxiety be- 
 cause of her note. She stammered out a few 
 words in his arms, and fainted. 
 
 The summer was darkened for her by this 
 event and by the physical weakness caused by 
 the shock. Basil's devotion to her was complete, 
 yet her prevailingly sad mood came to irritate 
 him, since he felt she might shake it off by a 
 sufficient effort. His remonstrances had no ef- 
 fect. Her melancholy and ill-health continued 
 up to the time of the baby's birth, and were be- 
 yond the reach of her will. She was further 
 depressed by fears for the effect of her state on 
 the coming child. She felt, as she contemplated 
 what was before her, that her strength would 
 not carry her through, and she thought she might 
 die, and feared it on Konald's account. She
 
 218 T H E B O N D 
 
 thought much about Gerald. She was sure that 
 if he had known her condition he would not have 
 dealt her this blow. But he must have known 
 in any case that it would be a blow to her; and 
 all life took a darker colour because of his in- 
 ability to bear it. 
 
 In December Teresa was very ill. She went 
 to a hospital, and there the baby was born, and 
 lived but two days. It was a boy; and at her 
 first sight of him Teresa thought she saw an epit- 
 ome of all the sorrows of man. He was totally 
 unlike her first child. His tiny face, with heavy, 
 mournful eyelids, with strange, deep lines about 
 the mouth, made him seem a creature as old as 
 the world. To Teresa all the sad experience of 
 humanity seemed foreshadowed or summed up 
 in him. 
 
 He died; and Teresa's grief was passionate 
 beyond the comprehension perhaps of any man. 
 Basil, though sad himself, and full of sympathy 
 for her suffering, could not understand its full 
 extent. To him the child had never really lived ; 
 it was hardly more than an abstract expression 
 of the terrible will to live of the unborn universe ; 
 an atom of the ever-pulsing energy which forced 
 its way into the world, causing suffering and 
 woe all for a life of two days. But to Teresa 
 the baby was a complete being, and she sorrowed 
 for him as though she had wronged him herself 
 
 of his life. And she sorrowed for herself, for the 
 
 '
 
 T H E B O N D 219 
 
 joy, comfort, recompense, she had lost. She pas- 
 sionately wanted the physical presence of the 
 baby, wanted to forget everything in such a 
 half-animal, half-spiritual peace as its small, 
 clinging life would have brought to her. She re- 
 volted against the uselessness of her suffering. 
 She desired to die, and for weeks thought she 
 might. 
 
 For a time she was indifferent to Basil, 
 and even to Konald, now nearly two years 
 old. But she was cared for in spite of herself, 
 strength began to come back to her, and soon 
 she could go to the apartment they had taken for 
 the rest of the winter. In the spring they meant 
 to go abroad, Teresa and the baby first, Basil fol- 
 lowing as soon as he could get through some 
 necessary work. He had still another book to 
 illustrate a book made up of magazine articles 
 on the foreign quarters of New York. Basil 
 despised the sentimentality of the letter-press, 
 and promised himself some recompense in mak- 
 ing his drawings as biting and brutal as possible. 
 Teresa's illness had been expensive, and Basil 
 had recently had to pay a note for a thousand 
 dollars, endorsed by Major Ransome for a friend. 
 Need of money drove him finally to agree to a 
 demand which he had fought off for some time. 
 Isabel Perry wanted another portrait of herself. 
 She wanted it, Basil knew, simply in order to 
 secure his presence at definite times. At first he
 
 220 T H E B O N D 
 
 had refused flatly, and kept to his refusal for 
 several months. But at last, in a moment partly 
 of feeling for her, and partly of harassing con- 
 sciousness of debt, he promised to do it and 
 when he had left her he cordially hated their 
 whole embroglio.
 
 IX 
 
 fTlHE portrait was begun; and Isabel, having 
 A carried her point, became for a time ex- 
 traordinarily sweet and docile. Three sittings a 
 week having been conceded, she made no other 
 demands on Basil's time, which he wished to de- 
 vote, outside of work, to his wife. He made 
 great efforts to divert Teresa, to induce her to 
 go out, to make her take care of her health, which 
 was re-established very slowly. She recognised 
 his care of her gratefully, though almost dumbly, 
 and tried at times to meet his wish, but an over- 
 whelming lassitude of mind and body left her 
 no energy of will. She wanted nothing except 
 absolute peace and quiet, and Basil's keen desire 
 that she should begin to live again interfered 
 with her recovery. She began to feel that she 
 should not get strong till she got away by her- 
 self, and at last expressed a wish to go at once 
 to Europe. This was in March ; but the dangers 
 of the winter crossing for herself and Eonald, 
 and her own physical weakness resulted in a 
 joint veto of Basil and the doctor; and Teresa 
 yielded passively. She lived on, therefore, in 
 the apartment, seeing as few people as she could 
 manage, not going out unless she was forced; 
 
 221
 
 222 T H E B O N D 
 
 disarming Basil's impatience at her persistent 
 negation by her extreme gentleness. She ceased 
 to talk about the dead baby to him, because she 
 saw he thought her morbid. Sometimes she 
 thought that Gerald Dallas would have under- 
 stood her, but there was no one else. Everyone 
 else tried to amuse her. Fairfax came a few 
 times to see her, but the great change in her, and 
 her evident lack of interest in him, discouraged 
 his visits. There was only Major Kansome whom 
 she was really willing to see. The Major's whole- 
 souled acceptance of woman, as a weak creature 
 who must be coddled and indulged in her unrea- 
 sonableness rather amusing, in view of the two 
 strong-willed women who had married him 
 somewhat comforted Teresa. But after all the 
 Major bored her. She did not want him or any- 
 one else, not even for the tiny Ronald, whose ex- 
 treme vitality made him a too exact copy of 
 Basil. Basil was not too cheerful at this time, 
 but he tried to be. His intensely positive nature 
 made him unwilling to accept grief as Teresa 
 did. He wanted to forget their misfortune, to 
 find again their joy in life, and to supply it 
 meantime by interests which seemed to Teresa 
 factitious and feverish. He was working hard 
 himself, and as a last resort he tried to get 
 Teresa to think of her work again. But her 
 first essay with the clay discouraged him. She 
 modelled in secret, only showing it to him when
 
 T H E B O N D 223 
 
 it was done, a little statuette of the dead baby, 
 as he lived in her thoughts: a tiny naked crea- 
 ture lying with relaxed limbs, its heavy-eyed, 
 deep-lined face expressing all the pathos of 
 life manque. At Basil's almost weeping protest 
 Teresa silently put away the little image, and 
 did not touch her clay again. 
 
 * 
 
 Isabel, in the second portrait, instinctively 
 wanted to have expressed her charm as a woman 
 the thing by which she had tried to attach 
 Basil, and, as she knew, failed. She had chosen 
 a dress of black velvet, which in the evening 
 brought out wonderfully the intensity of her 
 hair and eyes, and subdued her Spanish skin to 
 ivory. But the harsh light of the studio denied 
 her all charm of mystery and suggestion; even 
 as the keen reality of Basil's nature had stripped 
 their relation of the romance, the sentimentality, 
 which she had striven to give it, and brought 
 out its essential commonplace. After four sit- 
 tings under the painter's cool gaze, it became 
 apparent that the portrait would have nothing 
 of what she wanted. With her usual impetu- 
 osity Isabel expressed her dissatisfaction. 
 
 " Basil, you are making me out an old hag! I 
 won't be painted like that, I'm not like that, 
 I'm not ugly! You are doing it on pur- 
 pose! . . ." 
 
 Basil shrugged his shoulders.
 
 224 T H E B O N D 
 
 " I don't paint pretty pictures," he said in- 
 differently. " If you want to be done all rose- 
 colour and illusion, you ought to go to one of 
 the lady-painters. You said the other picture 
 was ugly, too, and yet you liked it or said you 
 did." 
 
 " It was different it was not brutal like 
 this!" 
 
 " Perhaps you can't judge it very well, at this 
 stage." 
 
 " Yes, I can see what you mean to make it 
 something that I would never in the world ex- 
 hibit, or even hang up anywhere. Perhaps it's 
 because it's so big and pretentious." 
 
 " I thought that dress demanded a big canvas," 
 said Basil ironically. 
 
 He laid down his palette and. brushes care- 
 fully, definitively, and said: 
 
 " We won't go on with it." 
 
 " I didn't mean that," said Isabel quickly. 
 
 She was standing near him, holding up the 
 sweeping velvet train with both hands, on which 
 the diamonds glittered coldly. 
 
 " No, but I mean it," said Basil. 
 
 She looked at him, dropped her train, and 
 moved to put one hand on his arm. 
 
 " Don't be silly, Basil, or sulky. I daresay 
 I'm wrong, and it will come out all right. I 
 know I oughtn't to criticise " 
 
 "No, it won't come out right. I was a fool
 
 T H E B O N D 225 
 
 to undertake it. I didn't want to do it. I can't 
 do a pot-boiler of that size ! " 
 
 He smiled, took out his cigarette-case and 
 her hand slipped from his arm and began to 
 smoke with quick, nervous exhalations of relief. 
 
 " I'm punished," he said. " I started the thing 
 to please you, Isabel, and, worse still, for the 
 money. I felt like a slave. I don't believe I 
 could have finished it. You're perfectly right 
 to dislike it. Good Lord, how glad I am you dis- 
 like it! Now, if you'll forgive me for being a 
 bungler and wasting your time, we can forget 
 it. Do forgive me, will you? " 
 
 " I really don't think I shall," said Isabel 
 slowly, clasping and unclasping her nervous 
 fingers. " I don't like to waste my time, as you 
 say. And I think it's childish of you to be so 
 piqued by a hasty word of mine " 
 
 " It isn't that, dear Isabel it really isn't 
 that, but something deeper my conviction that 
 I wasn't making a good thing of it, and couldn't. 
 I haven't liked it from the start. I hadn't the 
 mood for it. I couldn't see it. I didn't like that 
 dress, for one thing " 
 
 " Then why didn't you say so? You know I 
 would have taken any other " 
 
 " No, it was your choice, and I was trying to 
 do this simply and solely for you, and that's 
 the reason Fye failed. I'm enough of an ar- 
 tist anyhow not to be able to do anything good
 
 226 T H E B O N D 
 
 except for myself. I shall know that another 
 time." 
 
 There was a deep suppressed bitterness in his 
 tone, which indicated more than his feeling 
 about the picture. Isabel was silent for some 
 moments. In her thoughts, as well as his, per- 
 haps, the picture symbolised a deeper failure. 
 She moved restlessly, walked away from the 
 easel, trailing her rich dress carelessly over a 
 brush that had fallen on the floor; she flushed, 
 bit her lips, and finally said sharply: 
 
 " I shouldn't think you'd like to admit a fail- 
 ure like this without without really trying to 
 do as well as you can by it and by me. I want 
 you to go on perhaps the mood will come if 
 not, I shan't reproach you and I shall have got 
 something out of it some satisfaction " 
 
 " I can't," said Basil gently. " It's useless, 
 it's only wasting your time and my own. I 
 couldn't let you pay me for a picture I thought 
 bad. If I'm to do pot-boilers, they must be for 
 people who honestly want bad things. For that 
 you're too intelligent. Let's say no more about 
 it, please." 
 
 "You will not, then, do what I ask, if only 
 to please me? " 
 
 I can't." 
 
 "Then you're brutally unkind to me." 
 
 Basil's face flushed darkly. In a flash of his 
 quick temper he caught up a brush from the
 
 T H E B O N D 227 
 
 table and splashed two blue streaks across the 
 face and neck in the portrait, 
 
 Isabel burst into tears. She went waveringly 
 toward the divan, sank down on it, and wept 
 hysterically into a cushion. Basil, with his back 
 to her, stood silent, passionately resentful; his 
 fingers, clenched in the pocket of his coat, crushed 
 a handful of cigarettes to fragments. When 
 Isabel, finding that she w r as not to be consoled, 
 stopped crying and summoned the remnants of 
 her pride, it was still some time before she could 
 speak. Basil was still immobile, and there was 
 no sign of softening in his attitude. Isabel, as 
 quickly as possible, took the course which her 
 instinct pointed out as the necessary one. The 
 silence had become terrible to her. 
 
 " I was wrong," she said dully. " I have been, 
 I am, wrong. I cannot get what I have wanted. 
 And it is not your fault. I was wrong when I 
 said you had been unkind to me. Perhaps you 
 might have been kinder perhaps but I think 
 you have done your best. You aren't exactly 
 a kind person. One must just make up one's 
 mind to the bitterness of it. One must see 
 one's own folly. I have seen it oh, I have so 
 tried not to see it. I couldn't bear to see it. 
 Now I shan't try any more. I shall accept it." 
 
 Her head sank. She smoothed the folds of 
 her dress over her knees with a slow motion. 
 Basil turned toward her a tired, tormented look.
 
 228 T H E B O N D 
 
 " Let us not talk any more to-day," he begged. 
 "On my word, I'm done absolutely done " 
 
 " Yes, I'm going now. . . . And I shall 
 go away at once south somewhere, Florida, I 
 think." 
 
 " You'll let me come and see you before you 
 go." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I should like to see you once more. 
 But no more scenes, Basil I promise. Just a 
 quiet talk and then good-bye." 
 
 Her tone was dull and exhausted. She sat 
 still, looking musingly at the floor, and Basil was 
 about to go toward her when a knock sounded at 
 the door. Basil opened. It was Teresa. 
 
 In the instant of greeting her, while he stood 
 inwardly hesitating and blocking the view of 
 the studio, Mrs. Perry rose and went quickly 
 into the dressing-room. It did not take Basil 
 more than five seconds to decide that he must let 
 Teresa in, and he did so, flattering himself that 
 his hesitation had not been noticed. 
 
 " You're surprised to see me, aren't you? " 
 she said, smiling. " Are you busy? I thought, 
 suddenly, I'd like to go out and dine to-night 
 at one of our old haunts. Would you like it?" 
 
 " I would, of all things," he cried fervently. 
 " Come in, Mrs. Perry's been posing. I'm free 
 now, and we'll have a walk first, if you feel up 
 to it. Are you strong enough? How's the 
 weather?"
 
 T H E B O N D 229 
 
 " Cold, but nice. I'd like a short walk anyway 
 I feel almost energetic ! " 
 
 She came into the room, loosening her furs. 
 She was dressed in black, which she had worn 
 ever since the baby's death, and her face was 
 rather thinner and paler than before, though 
 the frosty air had given her an unusual tinge 
 of colour. 
 
 In passing she glanced at the portrait on the 
 easel and stopped in surprise. 
 
 "Why, what have you done?" she cried. 
 
 Basil wished he could have got the picture out 
 of sight, but said cheerfully : 
 
 " Spoilt it. Too bad, isn't it? " 
 
 Teresa studied the canvas. 
 
 " A fit of temper? Of course, I can't tell very 
 well now, but perhaps you were too quick. Still, 
 you can always take off that blue paint, can't 
 you?" 
 
 " No. I was working on the face, and it's 
 all gone. It was bad the whole scheme of the 
 thing. I felt from the beginning that it wouldn't 
 do. Of course, I'm sorry to have muffed it. But 
 it's a relief not to go on with it, when I see it's 
 a failure." 
 
 He spoke volubly, moving about quickly, put- 
 ting away his brushes and palette; and finally 
 he took down the canvas and set it with its face 
 to the wall. Teresa sat down on the divan, and 
 they talked cursorily for some ten minutes. Mrs.
 
 230 T H E B O N D 
 
 Perry found some difficulty in dressing without 
 a maid, and also she wanted to get rid of the 
 marks of tears. In this she was hardly success- 
 ful. Unfortunately she had no veil. When she 
 came out finally, Teresa's first glance at her 
 face resulted in a second quick scrutiny. The 
 two women met conventionally. It was their 
 first meeting for nearly a year, and whatever 
 feeling of intimacy there had been between them 
 had long since disappeared. 
 
 " Would you mind calling a cab for me? " 
 Mrs. Perry said to Basil, after the first greeting 
 to Teresa. 
 
 In her tone was a certain hint of imperious- 
 ness. Basil went out, with a naive sense of 
 escaping from an uncomfortable situation. 
 
 " Well, the picture has been judged a failure, 
 you see," Mrs. Perry said rapidly, pulling on 
 her gloves. " I'm so disappointed I'd really 
 set my heart on it. But I suppose there's no 
 appeal. Artists have their ways of feeling about 
 their work that ordinary mortals can't be ex- 
 pected to comprehend isn't that true?" 
 
 " I suppose it is," Teresa said mechanically. 
 "It's a pity. Have you wasted much time on 
 it?" 
 
 " Four sittings a good deal for a busy person 
 like myself. But I won't grumble any more." 
 
 " Basil will be sorrier than you, I'm sure. He 
 hates to make failures."
 
 T H E B O N D 231 
 
 "No I don't believe he's very sorry. He 
 wasn't interested in it. He'll never be a success 
 as a portrait-painter, will he?" 
 
 Teresa smiled. " Not a worldly success, I 
 fancy. But I don't believe he much wants to 
 be." 
 
 " Oh, I daresay not. Only great painters were, 
 weren't they? They all wanted to please a duke, 
 or a king, or somebody. Of course, when a 
 painter gets a big name, like Sargent or Whist- 
 ler, he can have as many moods and whims as 
 he likes; it only makes people run after him the 
 more. I've heard so many stories about that 
 Swedish man that painted everybody last year. 
 He did about two portraits a week, and he said 
 when he got back to Sweden that if he could have 
 painted with his left hand he might have done 
 two at once. He started pictures of all the 
 De Morgan girls, and made love to one of them, 
 and Papa de Morgan kicked him out of the 
 house; but he insisted on being paid for all the 
 pictures just the same, under threat of a law- 
 suit, and got the money. And they got him to 
 paint the King of Sweden, and he painted him 
 looking half asleep and quite idiotic, not at all 
 regal. Then one of the princesses sat to him, 
 and he came quite drunk and slapped off the 
 portrait in no time. That's what it is to be the 
 fashion ! " 
 
 Mrs. Perry laughed nervously. Her voice had
 
 232 T H E B O N D 
 
 a harshness characteristic of her in emotion. 
 Teresa listened gravely, turning her muff in her 
 hands. Her narrow eyes were coolly observant. 
 
 Basil came back and announced the cab, and 
 Mrs. Perry nodded and said: 
 
 " Thank you. I'll send for my dress to-day. 
 Don't bother to come down." 
 
 She advanced to shake hands with Teresa. 
 "Good-bye I haven't seen you for so long 
 I'm sorry you're looking a little ill, aren't you? 
 I'm awfully sorry. I shall be leaving directly 
 for Florida, else I would come to see you. Good- 
 bye I hope we shall meet next fall, and you'll 
 get strong and well meantime " 
 
 " Thank you good-bye," Teresa said indif- 
 ferently. She had risen their eyes met on a 
 level. . . . Mrs. Perry turned quickly and 
 went out.
 
 WHY was Mrs. Perry in such a rage? " 
 asked Teresa calmly, as they walked up 
 toward the Park. 
 
 She walked more easily, with more energy, 
 than she had done for many months, and her face 
 above the grey fur looked suddenly animated, 
 though by no means happy. 
 
 " In a rage, was she? Why, what did she say? 
 She didn't like my spoiling the picture," Basil 
 answered off-hand. 
 
 "Was that what she was crying about?" 
 
 " She wasn't crying Teresa ! " 
 
 " She had been, about five minutes before. She 
 was in a thorough hysterical passion. I'm not 
 exactly blind, Basil." 
 
 " You're fanciful, like all women," he said un- 
 comfortably. " Now, don't please, dearest ! 
 don't fancy things. You don't know how happy 
 I am to have you here with me, looking like your 
 dear old self again I'm so happy that you felt 
 like coming out. We'll dine together as we used 
 to do oh, how I have missed you, these last 
 months ! " 
 
 His voice shook, and he took her hand and 
 put it through his arm. It was dusk. The 
 
 233
 
 234 T H E B O N D 
 
 avenue was crowded with carriages, though the 
 walk was comparatively free. In the clear 
 frosty air the lights of the street sparkled and 
 flashed gaily. 
 
 " Were you really glad to see me? " said Te- 
 resa slowly. 
 
 "Glad? If you knew how glad " 
 
 " But you'd rather I'd have come a little 
 later after she'd gone? I'm sure she would." 
 
 Basil sighed impatiently. 
 
 " How long since you began the picture? " 
 Teresa asked meditatively. 
 
 " Oh, only a week or so. I'd only worked on 
 it four times. Thank heaven, I haven't got to 
 touch it again! She's going away, and I hope 
 I shall never see her again." 
 
 His involuntary expression was too unre- 
 strained, too savagely convincing. Teresa was 
 silent, and drew her hand away. He began to 
 talk, too quickly, about other things. She an- 
 swered in the right places, and he began to think 
 the other question had dropped; but she came 
 back to it abruptly. 
 
 " I see now what you meant by saying you 
 had missed me these months. ... I might 
 have known that your life would not stop just 
 because mine did. ... I have been half 
 dead, it's true, but you you could not be. But 
 I did not think it was this. . . ." 
 
 " You're utterly mistaken. Whatever inter-
 
 T H E B O N D 235 
 
 est I had in her stopped long before. These last 
 months for a long time it's been nothing 
 but " 
 
 He stopped suddenly. He had meant vaguely 
 to express his weariness of the whole affair, but 
 saw too late how it was committing him. He 
 was not a practiced liar. 
 
 " Long before," said Teresa slowly. " You 
 mean before the baby? " 
 
 " Yes, I mean oh, I mean she did interest me 
 somewhat, as you know, at one time some time 
 ago " 
 
 "Ah, it was then," said Teresa in a far-off 
 tone. 
 
 " But it's nothing you need care about. I was 
 never emotionally interested in her, if that's 
 what you're driving at. I don't see why you 
 question me. I tell you I don't care for her, and 
 never did, except as a friend, a person that it 
 was interesting to talk to occasionally. She is 
 interesting, objectively so much temperament 
 and energy somehow gone to waste. But even 
 in that way I'm not interested now." 
 
 " Why not? " 
 
 "Oh, because nothing interests me just now, 
 except being quiet with you. I'm infernally 
 tired. I'd like to get out of everything and go 
 away somewhere and have nothing to think of 
 but work my own work, that I haven't been 
 able to do at all this winter."
 
 236 T H E B O N D 
 
 " I'm so sorry. But you're sure there was 
 nothing else nothing but friendship nothing 
 emotional between you? " 
 
 "Absolutely sure. Not that I think you've 
 any right to question me like this, but I answer 
 this once there was nothing of what you seem 
 to suspect." 
 
 " Basil, you lie badly," was her quiet com- 
 ment. 
 
 " How dare you say I lie ! " he burst out. " I 
 won't say another word to you about it! First, 
 you cross-question me as you've no right to do, 
 and then you say I lie ! I won't stand it." 
 
 Teresa walked on a few steps farther to a 
 corner, and stopped. 
 
 "Will you get me a cab, please?" she said 
 gently. " I'll go home." 
 
 " No, Teresa ! " he cried wretchedly. " We 
 can't separate like this. I can't quarrel with 
 you now. Let us go and have our dinner don't, 
 don't quarrel with me, for heaven's sake ! " 
 
 " I don't want to quarrel," she said in the 
 same deadly quiet tone. "Let us go to dinner, 
 then. But I'd like the cab I'm cold." 
 
 In the carriage he felt her shivering beside 
 him. She hid her face in her muff, and replied 
 by monosyllables to his anxious questions. Basil 
 had given the address of a down-town restau- 
 rant where they had often dined together gaily, 
 and they had rather a long drive. When they
 
 T H E B O N D 237 
 
 were seated at the table, Basil, worried by Te- 
 resa's deadly pallor, made her drink a little 
 brandy. To his surmise that the walk was too 
 much for her, she assented absently, and then 
 said: 
 
 " But it is time I made some effort. I see that 
 myself, now. Life does not stop for one. Life 
 goes on. And one must live, too, while it 
 lasts." 
 
 She spoke without emotion; in her neutral 
 eyes, that rested everywhere except on Basil's 
 face, there was a look of suffering. 
 
 "You need a change. I've felt it for some 
 time, only you didn't seem strong enough " 
 
 " If I don't get away now, I shall die," she 
 said, in the same quiet way. " I shall start next 
 week. I want to be away, alone, all summer." 
 
 "Alone? But you're not fit, Teresa " 
 
 " Oh, you know I'm to be with Nina and her 
 family that's arranged. We shall go to some 
 quiet place, where I can be at peace, and get 
 strong." 
 
 " Alone, then, means just that you don't want 
 me." 
 
 Her assent was silence. She looked away, at 
 the faces of the other people in the room, and 
 her face was quiet as marble. 
 
 Basil's -head drooped. Neither of them had 
 made more than a pretence of tasting their food. 
 He began to make lines on the tablecloth with a
 
 238 T H E B O N D 
 
 fork. After some moments she looked at him. 
 She saw that his face was haggard, and pale 
 under its brown tone. She recognised in its 
 drawn look of nervous fatigue the accentuation 
 of a change that had been coming about for some 
 time, that she had noticed at intervals during 
 the winter. At last he glanced up, and his eyes, 
 that had always seemed to her so strangely 
 young, now in their passionate misery sent a 
 pang to , her heart. 
 
 " Perhaps it is best for you," he said with 
 some difficulty, looking down again. " Perhaps 
 you will be better off, away from me. But it 
 isn't best for me." 
 
 " For both of us, I think," she said gently. 
 
 " Not for me ! I want you, I need you, and 
 now more than ever. You could be a thousand 
 times more to me now even than you have been. 
 For this last year you've hardly been mine at 
 all you've been away in spirit you haven't 
 been conscious of me much of the time " 
 
 " And, therefore, you took a mistress." 
 
 His fork dropped with a clatter on his plate. 
 
 "I did no such thing! But if I had tried 
 to have not a mistress, I couldn't but some 
 sort of active interest in my life, most people 
 wouldn't blame me " 
 
 " It was because I was so unhappy," Teresa 
 said in her far-away voice. " Life seemed to 
 have been taken out of me for the time. I could
 
 T H E B O N D 239 
 
 not be anything else, do anything but go on from 
 day to day. . . ." 
 
 " I know, I'm not reproaching you and you 
 don't understand me, either. All these months 
 you only have been in my thoughts you have 
 been my only real interest, though I tried to be 
 interested in my work. I've wanted only to take 
 care of you if you remember, you know that's 
 true." 
 
 " Yes, you have tried. I have been a great 
 burden." 
 
 " Never to me have you been anything but the 
 dearest part of myself, the dearest thing on 
 earth. Never a burden. I've often been sad 
 because of you, but if you think I've loved you 
 less " 
 
 He could not go on. He took up his glass with 
 a shaking hand, and drank. 
 
 " I can't understand," said Teresa, and her 
 voice was a low cry of pain. 
 
 " I wish to God you could know every thought 
 of my heart, every act of mine then perhaps 
 you would understand. You would know, at 
 least, how I love you." 
 
 " But you can't tell me, can you? You can't 
 tell me the truth about this." 
 
 Basil was silent now. Uppermost in his con- 
 sciousness was a feeling of unbearable fatigue, 
 confusing his mind. He thought vaguely that 
 if he had not been so tired he would not have got
 
 240 T H E B O N D 
 
 into this intolerable predicament. How to get 
 out of it lie could not see. The impulse of con- 
 fession was so strong in him that he had to fight 
 it down consciously. He desired intensely to 
 tell Teresa everything, to make her feel as noth- 
 ing else now could, the real unimportance of his 
 liaison, to himself and to her. But a feeling 
 that he would be a cur if he told, miserably 
 held him back. He had not yet admitted any- 
 thing to her. He must deny it, not for his own 
 sake, but for that of the other woman. Only he 
 could not deny convincingly. His lies, he knew, 
 must be half hearted. Each one put another 
 barrier in the way of Teresa's understanding of 
 him, given the moral certainty of the truth 
 which, in some mysterious way, she seemed to 
 to have acquired. How she had leaped to that 
 certainty he could not see. In another woman 
 her attitude might have been a ruse, but Teresa 
 was not artful. She believed that he had been 
 deceiving her, and was still trying to do so; 
 she could not possibly know how essentially 
 truthful, so far as their own real relation went, 
 he had always been. 
 
 "You can't tell me can you?" she repeated 
 softly. 
 
 " I can't tell you more than I have already 
 said. I've not been unfaithful to you, Teresa. 
 This suspicion that you've got in your head is 
 absolutely wrong."
 
 THEBOND 241 
 
 " Will you swear it? " she asked with a faint 
 mocking smile. 
 
 " Yes, if necessary. But you might be willing 
 to take my word." 
 
 " No don't swear don't swear," she said 
 musingly. Then she looked straight at him. 
 " I'll ask you no more questions. It is finished. 
 That leaf is turned down. One lives and learns 
 unfortunately. . . . Something is changed 
 in me, Basil this day has made a difference in 
 our lives. I don't quite know what it is yet I 
 haven't got adjusted to it. It came on me so 
 suddenly like a physical blow." 
 
 " I don't know what you're talking about," 
 said Basil violently. " But I know I've had 
 as much as I can stand. Life hasn't been any 
 too pleasant of late, and this caps the climax. I 
 think it is better you should go away. Then, 
 perhaps, I can feel like a free man again, and 
 not like an infernal miserable slave ! " 
 
 "Yes poor Basil," said Teresa softly, mock- 
 ingly. 
 
 " Have you had enough to eat? " he demanded, 
 a flame of anger in his eyes. 
 
 " Oh, plenty, thanks. Pay the bill and we'll 
 go. And give the waiter a good big fee. It's 
 been such a pleasant dinner." 
 
 Basil did not look at her again till just as 
 they were leaving the restaurant. He had sent 
 for a cab, and now he said :
 
 242 T H E B O N D 
 
 "You can go home alone, can't you?" 
 
 " Perfectly." Her eyes met his wrath meet- 
 ing wrath. 
 
 She drove away in the cab. Basil walked up 
 the street, with wild desires to smash something 
 seething in his mind. Brutal dissipation pre- 
 sented itself as a means of forgetting for a time 
 the world and his tormented soul. He turned 
 into a music-hall; and sat alone at a table, and 
 drank three strong whiskies, and looked at the 
 spectacle about him with haggard, forbidding 
 eyes. In half an hour he got up and went home. 
 
 He let himself in quietly, and paused at Te- 
 resa's closed door. He heard her sobbing deep, 
 racking, choking sounds of pain. He turned 
 the handle of the door, called her name. The 
 sobs were stifled then, but he heard them still. 
 He called her again, imploringly, angrily, plead- 
 ingly, and shook the door, and threatened to 
 break it down. But it remained locked.
 
 PART III
 
 BEFORE Leonardo's picture of the Virgin, the 
 Child, and St. Anne, in the Louvre, Teresa 
 had lingered for some time. The expression of 
 maternity in its two phases fascinated her; the 
 caressing, youthful attitude of the Virgin as she 
 leans toward the child, full of joy in its grace; 
 and above all the face of St. Anne smiling on the 
 two, with a whole world of sad and deep ex- 
 perience behind the smile. Teresa stood with 
 her two gloved hands on the railing, studying the 
 marvellous sweetness of that face. Her own 
 was grave and wistful. She was pale and lan- 
 guid in the heat of the day ; dressed in thin trail- 
 ing black, except for the white gloves wrinkling 
 up to her elbows, and she was alone. 
 
 She looked with sad eyes at the Virgin's face. 
 There was happy maternity, physical and spirit- 
 ual joy. Why had not such happiness come to 
 her? Was it her fault that she had not desired 
 her first child? Was it her fault that she had lost 
 the second? Her eyes filled with tears. 
 
 She turned away, remembering an appoint- 
 ment with Nina, and came face to face with a 
 man whom she had noticed vaguely as he entered 
 the room, soon after herself. She had been con- 
 
 245
 
 216 T H E B O N D 
 
 scious several times that he was looking at her 
 rather than at the pictures, and that there was 
 something distantly familiar to her about him. 
 She stood looking at him, her blue eyes still misty 
 with tears, her face perfectly pale under the 
 thick bandeaux of her hair. He seemed slightly 
 embarrassed, but there was such distinct recog- 
 nition in his glance that she bowed to him 
 mechanically. He came up to her at once, ad- 
 dressing her by her name, and Teresa gave him 
 her hand. 
 
 " But you don't remember me, I see," he said, 
 smiling. 
 
 He was of medium height, with a wiry, sol- 
 dierly look. His thin face was deeply sunburnt ; 
 with its grave, intense eyes and impassive mouth 
 that the slight black moustache did not hide, it 
 was a sufficiently uncommon one; but Teresa 
 could not place it, quite evidently. 
 
 " My name is Crayven we met several years 
 ago in New York," he explained. 
 
 " Oh, I remember perfectly of course ! " 
 Teresa cried. " First at my house and then at 
 dinner somewhere " 
 
 " And then I went to see you, next day, and 
 you were not in. You had told me I might 
 come." 
 
 " Had I? Why wasn't I in, then? I can't re- 
 member, 'it's so long ago." 
 
 " More than three years. That was in April,
 
 T H E B O N D 247 
 
 and this is June. . . . Arc you sttiying in 
 Paris?" 
 
 " Yes, for a week or so longer. I'm with my 
 sister, Countess di Pepoli. And you? " 
 
 " I'm off in a few days for Switzerland, for a 
 little climbing." 
 
 " That's odd, we are going there, too, but only 
 to the Val d'lliez, for the summer. Your route 
 will lie quite differently, I imagine. I remember 
 you were bound for the high mountains when I 
 saw you last," 
 
 " Yes, but I shall be somewhere near you, as 
 it happens. I'm going to Chamounix, and I 
 have to meet my wife in Montreux in August. 
 . . . You forgive me, you're not looking as 
 well as when I saw you. I hope " 
 
 He stopped, and Teresa realised the meaning 
 of his glance at her black dress. 
 
 " I have been rather ill this last winter 
 hence Switzerland," she said quickly. "My 
 husband joins me there in the fall." 
 
 " Oh, I'm glad ! I mean," he said, smiling, 
 " so many things might have happened in three 
 years! I didn't know if you were in mourning." 
 
 " Yes so many things," murmured Teresa, 
 absently. She was tired, unnerved by the heat; 
 she felt the tears again in her eyes, and she 
 stammered : 
 
 " I I am in mourning. Six months ago I 
 lost my baby."
 
 " Oh," said Crayven, and she thought he looked 
 at her strangely, uncertainly. She dried her eyes 
 and added quickly : 
 
 " My other boy is with nie here. He is nearly 
 two and a half now. . . . I'm afraid I must 
 go on Fve an appointment for tea with my 
 sister." 
 
 Crayven's eyes were so frankly expressive that 
 she added at once: 
 
 " Perhaps you would come, too, and meet 
 her." 
 
 " I will, with pleasure. Thank you, very 
 much." 
 
 She turned for a final glance at the St. Anne. 
 
 " I can't get away from that picture," she said 
 musingly. " Her face haunts me. She has lived 
 through all that young joy herself, and she knows 
 what comes after it all the bitterness, all the 
 sorrow. She knows what is to come. And yet 
 she can smile on youth, too, so sweetly. . . ." 
 
 She moved abruptly away, and said to Crayven 
 as they went out together : " What was it that 
 you came in to see? " 
 
 " Well in this case, you," he answered with 
 the faint embarrassment he had shown before. 
 " I saw you in the cab." 
 
 "And recognised me, after all this time? 
 Really? How amazing! " 
 
 " No not so very. You see, in my life people 
 count for more than in most. They take the
 
 T H E B O N D 249 
 
 place of books and most other occupations. I 
 never forget a face." 
 
 Teresa glanced at him with some surprise. 
 
 " I should not have thought that people 
 counted much with you. I mean you struck me 
 somehow as a solitary person, one living apart 
 from people. But after all, what do first impres- 
 sions count?" 
 
 " They count much with me for I have to 
 act on them, generally, pretty promptly. I as- 
 sure you, my life out there is anything but soli- 
 tary. I have to deal with people every day not 
 in the afternoon-tea fashion, you know, but in 
 matters involving life and death, often for them 
 and occasionally for myself." 
 
 He said it smiling, as a matter of course, 
 and went on, as if it were a part of the same 
 subject. 
 
 " I shall never forget my first impression of 
 you or rather the second, at Mrs. Blackley's. 
 There was a radiance about you that night, a 
 look of happiness, that one somehow doesn't often 
 see." 
 
 " Yes. I was happy. . . ." 
 
 She said no more till Crayven had called a cab, 
 and they were driving toward the tea-shop. Then 
 they talked a little about Alice Blackley. Alice 
 had not carried out her plan of invading the 
 desert. 
 
 " I hope she has managed to amuse herself
 
 250 T H E B O N D 
 
 elsewhere," Crayven said with a smile. " But I 
 don't think there are many people who can make 
 a successful business of amusement. There are 
 a few generally men. Women are too much 
 handicapped." 
 
 " I know one who does one man my brother- 
 in-law. You'll see him, probably, if you come to 
 Montreux, for he'll spend most of his time there. 
 You would like him, I think at least people 
 always do. He's the most invariably pleasant 
 person I've ever known." 
 
 " People can be who live for pleasure not 
 only to get it, but to give it." 
 
 " Yes, but it isn't all they give," said Teresa. 
 
 In Nina, who was waiting at the tea-place 
 for Teresa was late and Nina was always 
 prompt Teresa now saw always the wife of the 
 man who amused himself. And Nina was more 
 a mother than a wife. Her blonde beauty, for 
 she had been really beautiful, was now somewhat 
 worn and haggard. She looked ten years older 
 than Teresa, instead of the actual three. She 
 was dressed not exactly carelessly but with- 
 out regard to her best points. Her figure, badly 
 corseted, was almost middle-aged. Beside her 
 Teresa looked like a young girl. When the other 
 two came up to her table, Nina was scanning a 
 long shopping-list and counting the money in her 
 purse with a worried air; and responding 
 brusquely to the incessant questions of her eldest
 
 T H E B O N D 251 
 
 girl, a sallow, deep-eyed child of nine. She put 
 by her business when Crayven was presented, 
 and made an effort to be social ; but it was plainly 
 an effort, Teresa saw that she was tired, and 
 her mind preoccupied by the flood of grievances 
 about the shops, and the behaviour of the 
 French governess, and the fact that Ernesto 
 would not come to Paris but had written from 
 Monte Carlo for more money which she had 
 already poured out at luncheon. Ernestine, the 
 little girl, sat silent while the tea was brought, 
 devouring cakes and studying with her uncannily 
 old eyes the persons of Crayven and Teresa. 
 She was given a large cup of tea, and then began 
 to ask her mother something, in rapid Italian. 
 
 " Speak English, child, I've told you," said 
 Nina sharply. 
 
 " Oh, I thought," said Ernestine, slowly and 
 distinctly, for her English was somewhat diffi- 
 cult, " that you said that Aunt Teresa said that 
 she had no friends in Paris." 
 
 Teresa laughed. 
 
 " One finds friends unexpectedly sometimes," 
 she said. " Everyone comes to Paris, you know, 
 Ernestine." 
 
 " Oh," said Ernestine. She added, before her 
 elders could fill the breach : " I wonder why my 
 father doesn't come? He never will come when 
 we're here. I wish he'd come, for he promised 
 to take "
 
 252 T H E B O N D 
 
 " Never mind, Ernestine," her mother inter- 
 rupted, and went on rapidly to say that Paris in 
 June was intolerable and that the weather this 
 year was worse than ever. 
 
 Ernestine looked sulky at being checked, and 
 sat pulling up her long silk mitts with an of- 
 fended air. She was dressed entirely in white, 
 with a care which contrasted strongly with her 
 mother's toilette. When she had finished study- 
 ing Crayven, which took some time, she trans- 
 ferred her attention to her own dress and her 
 fluffy, beplumed hat, reflected in a mirror oppo- 
 site, and a ray of pleasure appeared in her small 
 face. 
 
 Teresa watched her with amusement, shad- 
 owed by a certain commiseration for Nina. The 
 girl was so absolutely her father's daughter, 
 except for her sharpness, which was Nina's qual- 
 ity somehow translated into unpleasantness. 
 
 Ernestine, to Teresa, summed up all the diffi- 
 culties of Nina's marriage. She was frail physi- 
 cally, and mentally morbid. There was almost no 
 relation between the child and her mother, ex- 
 cept one of conflict. Whatever affection Ernes- 
 tine had was given to her father, and she had said 
 once: 
 
 " When I'm grown up, I shall be exactly like 
 Papa. He does have the best time. Mamma is 
 always working and worrying, and Papa just 
 enjoys himself. I shall be good-looking, too, like
 
 T H E B O N D 253 
 
 him. Mamma looks so old and fat and never 
 does her hair nicely. She never has any good 
 clothes. Papa's boots cost eighty lire a pair! 
 / shall have good clothes. Do you think I'm 
 pretty, Aunt? " 
 
 " No, not exactly. You have nice eyes and 
 hair," Teresa had said coolly. 
 
 " I have beautiful eyes you know it. And 
 that's the main thing. I know I shall be pretty." 
 
 " Is that all you think about, Ernestine 
 clothes and looks? " 
 
 " Well, no. I think about my animals I have 
 a King Charles spaniel and four cats. And 
 I think about stories, and my friends, and 
 about people a lot what grown-up people do, 
 and what / shall do when I'm grown-up. It 
 isn't very amusing being a little girl everybody 
 thinks you're a stupid thing and always in the 
 way. Mamma thinks I'm stupid because I don't 
 do my lessons well, or learn the beastly piano. 
 But you don't think so, do you, Aunt? " 
 
 " No, I think you're horridly sharp," Teresa 
 had said. 
 
 " That's what Papa says," was Ernestine's 
 satisfied response. 
 
 Teresa had perceived, at the end of two weeks' 
 stay in Paris with Nina and her two elder chil- 
 dren, that Ernestine liked her. The other daugh- 
 ter, Elaine, was a shy creature, always ailing, 
 with Nina's blue eyes. The three boys, whom
 
 254 T H E B O N D 
 
 Teresa had never seen, were already in Switzer- 
 land, with the second governess and the Italian 
 servants. None of the children was strong. 
 Teresa sincerely pitied Nina under the weight of 
 this establishment, but she had declined staying 
 at the Swiss chalet as Nina's guest. The hotel 
 would be quite near enough. She wanted to be 
 as much alone as possible, or with the small 
 Konald. She was longing now, in the midst of 
 sultry Paris, for the mountains, the pines, the 
 snow and rushing streams, and for quiet above 
 all, quiet. Nina tired her, with her incessant de- 
 mand for sympathy or at least for a listener; 
 and she thought she would be better able to re- 
 spond to this demand when she herself was a lit- 
 tle stronger. 
 
 Crayven, on the contrary, was a restful person ; 
 he gave her a foretaste of that natural calm and 
 silence she desired. She asked him to dinner, at 
 this first meeting, and then he took Nina and 
 herself out to dine and, at Teresa's request, to a 
 popular theatre, which reminded her of her slum- 
 ming expeditions in New York. He came 
 twice afterward to see her, during the week they 
 had still to spend in Paris; quietly attentive to 
 her, always looking cool and strong in the midst 
 of the wilting heat; self-contained, not amusing 
 exactly, but attentive, and an agreeable person 
 to have about. When they said good-bye it was 
 with distinct pleasure that Teresa found he had
 
 T H E B O N D 255 
 
 advanced the date of his visit to her neghbour- 
 hood from August to early in July. 
 
 " But your mountains? " she said, smiling. 
 
 "Ah, mountains they won't run away, you 
 know. One can find them any time," he an- 
 swered gravely.
 
 II 
 
 THE Val d'Hiez seemed to Teresa a cool 
 heaven, as they came to it after a trying 
 journey. The quiet of that cleft in the brilliantly 
 green hills, all one flowery meadow, with the 
 misty wastes of rock and snow above, promised 
 her at last the chance to rest and find herself. 
 For this solitude was necessary. She could not 
 help it if Nina found her rather unsocial, after 
 so many years of separation, and resented her 
 long walks alone. 
 
 Many hours of solitude each day she must 
 have. Besides, Ronald wanted her. He was a 
 shy child and did not make friends easily with 
 his noisy Italian cousins. He was generally with 
 her when she worked for she had brought some 
 clay with her and had begun with it imme- 
 diately on her arrival, doing some little groups 
 from drawings she had made long ago, and often 
 using Ronald as a model for the child-figures she 
 liked. Nina was busy all day long, organising 
 her household and wresting supplies from the 
 reluctant Swiss peasantry; finding out just 
 where real milk and cream were to be got; tele- 
 phoning for chickens to come by post ; stemming 
 the discontent of the servants; laying out a 
 
 256
 
 T H E B O N D 257 
 
 regime for the delicate Elaine and the refractory 
 Ernestine. But she wanted Teresa to come and 
 be talked to, in the intervals of these occupations. 
 It was Nina's impulse to pour out all her troubles 
 to a bosom which ought from ties of blood to be 
 sympathetic ; it was Teresa's to keep hers to her- 
 self. Nina did not mind this, if she suspected it ; 
 but the deep melancholy which Teresa could not 
 help showing, and which inclined her at present 
 to a certain fatalistic view of all troubles, was 
 not pleasing to Nina. Nina was an active per- 
 son, who believed that all unsatisfactory condi- 
 tions could be remedied, if only people had good 
 will; and she spent her life in a constant strug- 
 gle against the natures of the people about her. 
 In this idealistic warfare she reaped the usual 
 reward of militant virtue : one success for a hun- 
 dred failures, and the consciousness of being the 
 apparent cause of nearly all the unpleasantness 
 in the family life. 
 
 " I know I have a bad temper," she admitted 
 to Teresa, " but, heavens, what I have to try it ! 
 My only idea is to bring up the children properly 
 and make them strong, and live within our in- 
 come, so that they shan't be absolute beggars. 
 But I know there are always debts that I know 
 nothing about always something going on be- 
 hind my back, or under my very nose, that I 
 can't make out. Of course that makes me sus- 
 picious and irritable. Ernesto never interferes
 
 258 T H E B O N D 
 
 with my management, and yet he does work 
 against me. The children see him always pleas- 
 ant, always gay, making an amusement of life, 
 and / am always the taskmaster. It's unfair 
 but I wouldn't change with him. I'm the im- 
 portant person in the house, and they all know 
 it, and have to do as I say. And I do enjoy 
 the children only Ernestine is trying. She is 
 all her father, but the others are more like me 
 except they are not strong. They are beautiful 
 children, aren't they? If I can only see them 
 well launched in the world I shall be content." 
 
 " Content? . . . And for yourself, Nina? 
 You're young you aren't much more than 
 thirty ! For yourself what do you want? " 
 
 " What should I want? I've had my love- 
 affair. You know how much Ernesto was in love 
 with me. After the first year, when the children 
 came, of course it had to be different." 
 
 " You mean you were not in love with one 
 another any longer? " 
 
 " In love no ! How can one be in love after 
 the first? Life is too prosaic it burns out. He's 
 fond of me that's all." 
 
 " And you're resigned to being prosaic for the 
 rest of your life? " 
 
 "My dear child, what is marriage? It's an 
 affair of family, it isn't two people in love with 
 one another. You don't see it when you go into 
 it, but later you have to see it. You have to
 
 T H E B O N D 259 
 
 realise that your life is the family, and that the 
 man has his life away from you." 
 
 " I think you're wrong ! " said Teresa quickly. 
 "You gave yourself too much to the children. 
 Sometimes I think it would be better if one 
 hadn't children." 
 
 " Teresa ! You don't think so ! A marriage 
 without children you might as well be simply 
 a man's mistress. . . . It's more you want, 
 not less. It was a great, great pity about the 
 baby, poor darling. You wouldn't give up Ron- 
 ald, would you? " 
 
 " I wonder," said Teresa, " if a man one loved 
 couldn't make up ? " 
 
 " No ! They're a woman's real life, children. 
 Man's only an accident in comparison." 
 
 " I think it's the other way round." 
 
 " Then if you really think that, Teresa, you're 
 more of a mistress than a wife. But I don't be- 
 lieve you do." 
 
 Teresa was silent again, for some moments. 
 Then she asked reflectively : 
 
 " Could you have ever cared for anyone else 
 since you were married, I mean ? " 
 
 Nina flushed deeply. 
 
 " That would be committing a mortal sin," 
 she said, and her blue eyes shone with a cold 
 light. Teresa looked at her, estimating the depth 
 of the gulf that lay between them. She could 
 conceive a mortal sin, but it was not love
 
 260 T H E B O N D 
 
 " Is it a sin for a man, too, if lie is married? " 
 she asked curiously. 
 
 " Yes, it is a sin. But it's worse for a woman. 
 A woman must be faithful, no matter what the 
 man is. She must hold fast to her duty she 
 must not even think a sinful thought for women 
 are terribly weak, Teresa." 
 
 " Not so weak as men." 
 
 " Oh, much weaker ! For if their self-control 
 goes, even once, they are never the same again. 
 . . . Listen, I shall have to tell you about 
 my sister-in-law, Edith, Egisto's English wife, 
 you know. I've had a hysterical letter from her 
 this morning, and she's coming up here. They've 
 had a terrible row, and Egisto turned her out 
 of the house. Once before the same thing hap- 
 pened and she flew to me, and I made things up 
 I got Egisto to take her back. And now she's 
 done the same thing again, and he threatens to 
 get a separation of course they can't be divorced 
 and as nearly all her money is settled on him 
 it will leave her in a terrible position. That's 
 what women come to who don't run straight 
 even from a worldly point of view it's ruin for 
 them. No . *1 . it's better to resign one's 
 self to being dull, I suppose you call it." 
 
 " I do call it dull, to have nothing but your 
 house and your children ! " 
 
 "Well, what are you going to do? You can't 
 have affairs with men you can't even have one
 
 T H E B O N D 261 
 
 man to yourself. Your husband won't be faith- 
 ful to you." 
 
 "I could never live as you do," said Teresa. 
 " You've given up too much. ... I must 
 have my life somehow " 
 
 Nina studied her sister's brooding, vivid face. 
 
 " How like you are to father ! You have much 
 more of the Southern in you than I. You're made 
 to be happier and unhappier than I am. I'm not 
 unhappy." 
 
 " No but I must be, if I'm not happy," said 
 Teresa quickly. " What is life worth, if it's only 
 to be got through, a matter of routine and duty, 
 and always sacrificing yourself for other people? 
 They don't thank you for it! I would rather 
 die than live that way! I will be happy, some- 
 how." 
 
 " Poor child," said Nina suddenly. " You're 
 not happy now." 
 
 " No, but I shall be I shall be! " 
 
 And she got up and moved away, to end the 
 conversation. 
 
 She disliked having expressed even so much 
 of her feeling. She disliked seeming unhappy. 
 That was to confess failure, and she was by no 
 means ready to confess it. She had a passionate 
 conviction that things must still come right for 
 her, somehow, and the impossibility of resigning 
 herself, ever, to a grey lot like Nina's, was ab- 
 solutely clear to her. She walked away now
 
 262 T H E B O N D 
 
 down the path leading to the little Vie'ze, think- 
 ing of these things. 
 
 There had been a nominal, a partial and un- 
 satisfactory reconciliation with Basil in the week 
 before her hurried departure from New York. 
 His evident misery had broken down her first 
 stony resistance. She could not resist her own 
 tenderness for him; all they had been to one 
 ^another spoke too strongly; she could not part 
 from him in unkindness. But the passion that 
 flung them into one another's arms had not 
 healed the breach, had only deepened the wound. 
 Both knew it both were unhappy. Something 
 
 as changed, was gone the old confidence, the 
 Id assurance. Joy was gone, and trust; and 
 ove, that remained, was bitter, a torment. 
 
 Basil had begged her not to leave him just 
 then, to put off her sailing for a month at least. 
 
 " It's better we should fight it out together, 
 now and I need you, I want you with me," he 
 had said again and again. But Teresa had only 
 one idea to get away somewhere, alone to get 
 away! 
 
 " I must go, I'm ill I can't bear it," she had 
 repeated. " I must get back my strength, then 
 perhaps it will come right. I can't see anything 
 clear now, I'm just one mass of aching nerves. 
 Can't you see? If I stay here I shall only tor- 
 ment you and myself. ... It will come 
 right, if only we have time."
 
 T H E B O N D 2G3 
 
 And she consoled him with vague hopes and 
 hurried promises, with only one desire in her 
 heart to get away and hide herself like a 
 wounded animal. It was a physical blow that 
 he had dealt her, something that left no place 
 for thought, that made her consciousness all 
 pain. Talking only tortured her, she could not 
 reason about it. She could not think, she could 
 only see images and pictures that turned her 
 brain. . . . 
 
 Now, in the solitude she had craved, she was 
 beginning to think. What had happened, then, 
 after all ? Had he not, in spite of his passionate/ 
 denials, been false to the spirit of their compact, 
 to their egoistic, purely personal relation? Had 
 he not shaken the foundations of that relation, 
 and was not its whole structure falling in ruins? 
 If so, somehow she must build up her life anew, 
 without love, the keystone. Love^^as^ she loved, 
 him, meant complete spiritual possession, com- 
 plete confidence, or unhappiness. She would not 
 resign herself to unhappiness, to taking up their 
 life on a lower plane. She knew what would 
 happen she foresaw endless suspicion, sordid 
 quarrels, " nagging." No, rather than that, 
 rather than a constant demand for what he could 
 not freely give, she would live somehow without 
 him. But as yet she did not see how that could 
 be done. She had left herself no substitutes. 
 She had put too much into her feeling for him.
 
 264 T H E B O N D 
 
 He represented to her all the charm of the soul- 
 less world, of godless nature. Basil frankly 
 recognised no law outside himself, and the calm 
 buoyancy of his egotism had fascinated her more 
 volatile, more impressionable spirit. His tender- 
 ness for her had for a long time blinded her to 
 the harsh side of that egotism. Now it had 
 wounded her, so deeply that she could not yet 
 see how she was to get over it. 
 
 She had had a number of long letters from him, 
 and had replied briefly, ignoring his protesta- 
 tions. They were sincere, but she would not give 
 them credit. There was only one thing that 
 would convince her, and that was the truth about 
 the other woman; and this Basil apparently 
 would not tell. And it seemed to Teresa that if 
 he would not tell, it must be because he had too 
 much to conceal, even that spiritual infidelity 
 which he had constantly denied. She did not 
 believe that for a mere scruple of conventional 
 honour he would imperil their relation, if he 
 really cared about it. Her eyes narrowed omin- 
 ously as in her heart she denied to Basil any lofty 
 motive in his silence. Basil was not lofty, neither 
 was he conventional. It was absurd that he 
 should not have sacrificed the other woman ; and 
 Teresa recognised in herself a calm determina- 
 tion that he should still do so. 
 
 She sat on a rock beside the rushing, green, 
 foamy stream, and contemplated herself as she
 
 T H E B O N D 265 
 
 really was in spirit. She quite admitted that 
 her own attitude was not a noble one. It would 
 have been much finer to have taken Basil at his 
 word, to have risen superior to this whole 
 episode; it would also have been more sensible 
 and more worldly only it would have been quite 
 false! Teresa had longings to be sensible and 
 worldly, and longings to be noble. But more 
 deeply than anything else, instinctively, she de- 
 sired to be perfectly true to her own feeling; or 
 rather she could not help being so. And her 
 feeling was that Basil had carelessly broken 
 something beautiful and beyond all price. It 
 might not be beautiful from a high moral point 
 of view; but it had been aesthetically beautiful. 
 . . . Perhaps the barque of their happiness 
 ought to have been capable of riding out such a 
 storm calmly ; perhaps it would have been better 
 to have embarked in a craft of the ordinary pat- 
 tern, with a thick, solid, institutional bottom. 
 Only they had not done so. Their boat had been 
 a racer, slender, carrying a press of sail free to 
 all the winds of fate; and now, in the storm, 
 one could not know how much damage had been 
 done. . . . Teresa had a momentary vision 
 of a derelict mast and sails all gone by the 
 board rolling helplessly in the wash of the 
 waves. . . . 
 
 She watched the green water leaping and foam- 
 ing over the rocks, fresh from the snows above,
 
 266 T H E B O N D 
 
 which lay shining, new-fallen, within a few hun- 
 dred feet of the valley. The current of air car- 
 ried down by the stream was inexpressibly pure 
 and vital. The whole scene the dark fir-woods, 
 the bright green meadows, the great desert of rock 
 above had a wildness, a formless majesty, a 
 primitive freshness, that soothed and quieted her 
 mood. The rush of the water half-hypnotised 
 her. Her thoughts became blurred. Her face, 
 coloured by the keen air, was dreamy, and once 
 her delicate expressive lips parted in a smile. 
 
 She was conscious that she smiled, though she 
 hardly knew why. It was perhaps a mere sensa- 
 tion of physical well-being, for long strange to 
 her. Already, after a week of mountain air, the 
 weight of her winter's illness was lifted. She 
 looked even vigorous, and there was still about 
 her the suggestion of softness and luxuriance due 
 to her recent maternity, unhappy as that had 
 been. 
 
 She sighed, got up, looked vaguely about her, 
 and walked, on along the water-side to find 
 Konald. A shout announced that he had seen 
 her, and he came scrambling up from a cove a 
 small, sturdy figure, straight as a dart, with a 
 mass of bronze-coloured hair and vivid, intelli- 
 gent eyes. He was a beautiful child, and Teresa's 
 heart swelled with pride in him. She sailed his 
 boat for him till lunch-time, the stolid Swiss 
 nurse sitting on the bank like a meditative cow.
 
 T H E B O N D 2G7 
 
 Ronald had his own ideas about the sailing of 
 the boat, as about most other things in his life, 
 and he infinitely preferred his mother's society 
 to any other, because she was capable of grasping 
 those ideas. He was not a clinging baby, but an 
 an oddly independent one. He had never shown 
 much interest in other children, not even in the 
 smallest Pepoli, who was about his own age. 
 He was obviously happier alone, when he was 
 not with Teresa; and they were very happy to- 
 gether. . . . Ronald at the worst repre- 
 sented a certain amount of salvage from the 
 wreck. 
 
 Yet Teresa had often thought of late that she 
 and Basil might have been happier without chil- 
 dren. Their troubles had begun with the coming 
 of Ronald, and as she looked back to the first 
 year of their marriage, it seemed to her to have 
 an extraordinary quality of freedom and joy. It 
 might be true that they could not have gone on 
 like that, that life would have taken its revenge 
 on them somehow for shirking the ordinary lot 
 of care and responsibility. Possibly that sort of 
 happiness, as everyone said, was not meant to 
 last. Perhaps there was something trivial in it, 
 unless one took it simply as a quality of youth, 
 and let it pass, as others did, taking up in their 
 turn the burdens of maturity. There was some- 
 thing in Teresa that echoed to this deeper and 
 more serious note ; but there was also a passion-
 
 268 T H E B O N D 
 
 ate longing after that vanishing springtime, the 
 efflorescence of all that was light and bright and 
 gay. She was not yet ready to be serious like 
 the middle-aged world, grey and sober, resigned 
 to its losses. Nor did the alternative of frivolity 
 attract her. She was not frivolous ; she wanted 
 what was real to her, what was deeply valuable, 
 and she would have that or nothing. Basil had 
 in him an element of frivolity, something that 
 tended to dissipate what she regarded as her 
 own peculiar possession. And she recognised 
 now that what she wanted instinctively was to 
 rule him, to impose her own more passionate will 
 , upon him, just because she was emotionally at 
 his mercy. ... As for the ideal of perfect 
 freedom, that youthful dream, it was gone, swept 
 away by harsh contact with the facts of life. 
 Neither of them could be free. She was bound 
 in spirit, and Basil henceforth should be bound 
 by her will. . . .
 
 Ill 
 
 NINA had not yet got her establishment 
 thoroughly settled when, preceded by sev- 
 eral telegrams, Edith di Pepoli arrived, with a 
 mountain-wagon full of luggage. She came late 
 at night and went straight to bed, where she 
 stayed till four the next afternoon. 
 
 " It looks as though she meant to stop with 
 me all summer," said Nina in the morning. " She 
 said she was too tired to talk last night, but I 
 shall have it all to-day, I suppose. Of course it's 
 the best thing she can do, coming to stay with 
 us, and I daresay she expects me to make it up 
 again with Egisto." 
 
 "And shall you try?" asked Teresa. 
 
 " I don't know. One hates a scandal like that 
 in the family, but as for Edith really I don't 
 much care on her account. She promised me 
 solemnly, she swore to me, last time, that she'd 
 behave herself properly in future and now you 
 see. I've no patience with that sort of person. 
 A woman like that is no better than than a 
 creature out of the streets. In fact she's worse 
 for she has her position and her family to think 
 of. No, I won't have her in my house I won't 
 have her here with my children ! " 
 
 Nina flushed suddenly with anger and she 
 
 269
 
 270 T H E B O N D 
 
 looked into the hall, where two men were strug- 
 gling to get up the narrow stairs one of 
 Edith's huge boxes. In this mood of righteous 
 indignation Nina looked exactly like their 
 mother, Teresa thought. All her puritan an- 
 cestry spoke in the cold flame of her blue eyes 
 and the hardness of her mouth. 
 
 " Why did you make it up before? " asked 
 Teresa in a low voice. The walls of the chalet 
 were so thin, and noises echoed so through its 
 low-ceilinged rooms, that she thought the visitor, 
 in the room above, must almost have heard 
 Nina's last incisive remark. 
 
 " Oh, because because the family of course 
 didn't want a scandal and then Egisto is fond 
 of her, in spite of everything and she came and 
 begged and pleaded promised anything, if only 
 I'd help her. But now I shall tell her I really 
 must tell her that I can't have her here." 
 
 At tea-time that day Edith came down, and 
 Teresa saw a tall, fair woman, very English in 
 type, with a tea-rose complexion, large blue eyes, 
 and light-brown hair curled elaborately over her 
 forehead. She wore a loose, clinging dress of 
 pale mauve crpe, she was rather carelessly 
 powdered, and her eyelids were pink. Her hands 
 trembled nervously as she took her tea-cup, and 
 she drank several cups of almost black tea, and 
 then began to smoke. She pleaded fatigue as an 
 excuse for not talking a sleepless night in the
 
 T H E B O N D 271 
 
 train, and last night, she said, she had not slept 
 at all well, because she had forgotten her sul- 
 phonal. Her eyes looked pathetic, and if she 
 had not been overperfumed and overdecorated 
 with bracelets and other trinkets, Teresa would 
 have thought her rather attractive. Ernestine, 
 who sat on a stool by her aunt's side, was evi- 
 dently fascinated. She studied every detail of 
 the mauve dress and the curling hair with intent, 
 yearning eyes, and Edith's tea-rose skin was ex- 
 actly what, as Ernestine had told Teresa, she 
 had often prayed to have herself. 
 
 Teresa felt that her presence embarrassed 
 Edith, who had evidently counted on finding 
 Nina alone. Nina too was distrait and bothered, 
 and put wrong amounts of cream and sugar into 
 the tea, and finally poured the cream into the 
 tea-pot, by mistake for hot water. They all 
 laughed at that, but rather lamely, for the sit- 
 uation was too obvious. Teresa felt a sudden 
 keen sympathy for Nina, as she looked at her 
 worried face, and a resentment against the blonde 
 woman whose nervous movements made a con- 
 stant little noise of rustling silk and tinkling 
 ornaments. Why should she come to bother 
 Nina, who assuredly had worries enough of her 
 own? Would Nina be able to tell her to go? 
 Could one turn out anything as helpless as that, 
 with its sentimental blue eyes and tremulous 
 mouth?
 
 272 T H E B O N D 
 
 The two sisters dined alone that night at the 
 chalet, as usual. Edith had gone back to bed. 
 
 " I've had a talk with her," sighed Nina. " I've 
 been trying to persuade her that she ought to 
 go to her relatives in England, but she seems to 
 think that would be giving up any hope of Egisto 
 and the children. She has two, you know, two 
 little girls, and Egisto has declared she shall 
 never see them again. She's been crying bawl- 
 ing rather for an hour. She swears that she's 
 quite innocent this time, and that Egisto's mor- 
 bid jealousy has trumped up a case against 
 her. And then she maundered on about this 
 man, whoever he is, some Italian, and their beau- 
 tiful friendship, which people would misunder- 
 stand, and so on. Of course, if she tells the 
 truth, it is pretty hard on her. But then she's 
 been such an idiot worse than that, criminal 
 and even if she's innocent in this case, she de- 
 serves it all, I really do think. I was wrong, I 
 believe, to meddle with her affairs at all, or 
 try to help her and yet I don't know what can 
 you do when a person comes and goes on their 
 knees to you " 
 
 " And what does she want now ? " asked Teresa 
 absently. 
 
 "Why, she wants to get back what she's for- 
 feited her children, her position in society. 
 She doesn't care anything about her husband, but 
 of course she can't very well get on without him.
 
 T H E B O N D 273 
 
 She went on to me about his brutality and it's 
 true, Egisto is rather a savage. She's afraid of 
 him, too jet she wants him to take her back. 
 I'm sure he won't, this time, however so there 
 it is." 
 
 " And what are you going to do, Nina? " 
 
 " I don't knows what to do," Nina confessed, 
 and her capable face was dismally bewildered. 
 " If she really is a misunderstood victim, and all 
 that, one ought to help her, if possible. I don't 
 see how I can say to her that I absolutely won't 
 do anything. But the awful thing is, I'm afraid 
 she's lying. If she isn't, it shows what a fear- 
 ful mistake she made in the first place, putting 
 herself at Egisto's mercy. If he suspects her 
 wrongly now, it's because he knows about the 
 other time. Oh, let's talk of something else I've 
 really got a headache from it all. And then her 
 crying, and that perfume she wears ! If you could 
 see her room ! Littered from top to bottom with 
 trunkfuls of stuff corsets on the table, stock- 
 ings on the bureau, hats on the floor, cigarettes 
 everywhere, and a thousand bottles and pill- 
 boxes heavens knows what she doesn't take. 
 Her maid can't pick up things as fast as she 
 drops them." 
 
 They talked of other things, but inevitably the 
 subject of Edith came up again. Nina was pre- 
 occupied by it, in spite of herself. 
 
 " She's very pretty," said Teresa.
 
 274 T H E B O N D 
 
 " Oh, she has that kind of attraction," Nina 
 answered disdainfully. " She's always sur- 
 rounded by men, wherever she is. Really she 
 cares about nothing else. And she sentimental- 
 ises over them all talks about their souls and 
 the higher life and so on, when really all that 
 she means ... I know, because she stayed 
 with us one summer, and the other affair was go- 
 ing on then. I saw it, but I couldn't do any- 
 thing. I talked to her, though. I warned her 
 about Egisto. There's a bottom of savagery in 
 all Italians, and it's dangerous to touch it. But 
 she thought she could always manage Egisto. 
 And she always had some fine phrase ready she 
 would wrap everything up in cotton-wool and 
 make it look pretty. She told me all American 
 women were as cold as ice no temperament, no 
 feeling. Well, all I can say is, I'm glad I haven't 
 a temperament. I can't see what use it is to 
 women. A little common sense goes a long way 
 further, considering what we have to do in the 
 world. I shall telegraph to Ernesto to come at 
 once. He really must come, now she's here, and 
 take part of the responsibility." 
 
 
 
 A week later Ernesto appeared upon the scene, 
 accompanied by four large trunks, his valet, and 
 his usual air of bland content with the world, 
 which recent heavy losses at Monte Carlo and 
 even the domestic situation had not diminished
 
 T H E B O N D 275 
 
 in the least. Teresa had not seen him for five 
 years, and she found him absolutely unchanged. 
 His slim figure was as graceful as ever, his hand- 
 some face unmarked by a line of temper or dis- 
 sipation or thought. He was as careful of his 
 looks as any professional beauty, and apart from 
 this interest and the problem of enjoying him- 
 self to the utmost, Teresa had not discovered 
 that he had an idea in the world. His coming 
 filled the house with commotion. 
 
 It was a thoroughly Italian establishment 
 the servants informal, loquacious, and always in 
 evidence; the children generally sharing the 
 hours, food, and conversation of their elders. 
 Meals were long and elaborate, and all the house- 
 hold business was conducted with what appeared 
 to Teresa an incredible amount of noise and 
 bustle. Each day Nina seemed to accomplish the 
 task of bringing something like order out of a 
 chaos of rebellious wills. Meals were on time, 
 the children had their lessons, their piano-prac- 
 tise was regulated so as not to disturb Ernesto's 
 morning and afternoon siesta, the quarrels of the 
 nurse and the governess were settled with a firm 
 hand. 
 
 But the question of Edith had first to be dis- 
 cussed, and the reluctant Ernesto was called into 
 council by his wife. It appeared that Egisto had 
 gone off to Sicily to look after some property 
 there, sending his children to the care of the
 
 276 T H E B O N D 
 
 old Countess di Pepoli at the family estate 
 near Bologna. From Sicily he had written to 
 Ernesto that he would receive no more letters 
 from his wife, had requested that she should not 
 be allowed to stay in his brother's family, and 
 announced that on his return to Rome he should 
 put the case into his lawyer's hands. 
 
 In the week that had elapsed before Ernesto's 
 arrival, Teresa had seen that Nina was being 
 gradually won over to Edith's side. She could 
 not resist that desperate appeal; and the affair 
 was something to manage, and Nina had stores 
 of unused executive ability. Ernesto was non- 
 committal, but with a bias in favour of doing 
 what his brother wanted. He pronounced finally 
 that Egisto, although a younger brother, ought 
 to be allowed to manage his own domestic af- 
 fairs, and that he did not think they should 
 interfere. The affair was unpleasant, and Er- 
 nesto hated unpleasantness and bother. Nina 
 began to argue strenuously with him, and sev- 
 eral times Teresa was drawn into the debate. 
 
 As though she felt that her fate was on trial 
 here, Edith levelled her batteries at Ernesto. Up 
 to the time of his arrival, both she and Nina had 
 come to dinner in tea-gowns. But now both 
 dressed every night. Nina laced in her middle- 
 aged waist and had her hair built up into an 
 elaborate coiffure. And Edith appeared each 
 night in a different dress, looking fragile and
 
 T H E B O N D 277 
 
 filmy and pathetic, and using her soft blue eyes 
 most patently. Two days in succession, also, 
 she took Ernesto off for a ramble in the woods, 
 prolonged beyond the tea-hour. And this pro- 
 cedure came near to undoing her. As Ernesto 
 warmed toward her, Nina cooled. The balance 
 swung the other way, and now it was Nina who 
 declared that they could not keep Edith on. 
 
 Then came the day when Nina braced herself 
 to the ordeal of telling Edith that she must go 
 to England. The unfortunate result was a fit of 
 hysterics so violent that the French doctor had 
 to be called in; and he, after a long interview, 
 pronounced that Madame was on the verge of 
 nervous prostration and must be kept perfectly 
 quiet, with, above all, no mental disturbance. In 
 despair, Nina wrote off to Egisto the state of the 
 case and told him that he must come himself 
 and take his wife away. Then there was a period 
 of exhausted quiet. Edith, having gained her 
 point to stay where she was till an interview 
 with her husband could be brought about al- 
 lowed her nervous crisis to be calmed. And 
 Teresa, to whom she had begun to talk freely, 
 good-naturedly gave her a hint as to Ernesto. 
 
 " If you want anything from, my sister, that 
 isn't the way to get it," she explained. " It's 
 Nina who decides things here, and to have 
 Ernesto on your side will do more harm than 
 good with her."
 
 278 T H E B O N D 
 
 Edith's eyes widened slowly and she nodded. 
 
 " I see ; jealous," she said after a moment. 
 " Oh, what a frightful passion jealousy is ! 
 There's something so sordid, so mean about it! 
 But I'll be careful thank you." 
 
 And she was careful. She by no means gave 
 up her intention of melting Ernesto, but she pro- 
 ceeded with a cleverness which Teresa saw and 
 loathed. Ernesto was clever, too, after his initial 
 mistake. He was fond of caressing his wife in 
 public, and Nina liked this small change of af- 
 fection. They were a rather oppressively do- 
 mestic couple, on the surface. In Nina's place, 
 Teresa reflected, she would have led Ernesto 
 a life! She said as much to him one day when 
 they strolled up into the woods together. 
 
 " I wish you had had the chance," was his 
 prompt retort. "I shouldn't mind any sort of 
 a life with you." 
 
 " Don't waste your gallantry on me ! " she said, 
 laughing. " Unless of course it's by Way of keep- 
 ing your hand in. I am cross with you, when I 
 see what a slave you make of poor Nina." 
 
 " I make a slave of her ! Dearest Teresa, it's 
 she that makes the slave of herself. I've always 
 wanted her to go into the world, to enjoy her- 
 self, to dress herself, to go about with me but 
 she will not." 
 
 " How can she, when you spend all the 
 money? "
 
 T H E B O N D 279 
 
 " But that's just it. If she spent more, I would 
 spend less. She might spend at least half of it. 
 If she were with me, I should not be so extrava- 
 gant. But she always says she has no clothes to 
 go to the places I go. Why doesn't she get the 
 clothes? You see, she is what you call a frump." 
 
 " You horrid man ! Why don't you try getting 
 less for yourself and giving her the extra 
 money? " 
 
 " She would only spend it on the house or the 
 children. Besides it is not all a question of 
 money. Your clothes " he gave a critical glance 
 at her white dress "do not cost so very much. 
 Yet you are always perfectly well dressed. 
 That's what I mean by her being a frump. It's 
 the way she puts on her clothes, and then of 
 course she would not take care to keep her figure. 
 It's a great mistake for a woman to lose her 
 beauty. Nina was more beautiful than you 
 and now you are far more beautiful. You have 
 gained greatly from your marriage. You have 
 not made a slave of yourself, eh? " 
 
 " No. But then I have not five children and 
 a husband like you." 
 
 " Like me? Why do you dislike me so much? 
 I am like all other husbands, only better- 
 tempered and handsomer." 
 
 " Conceited creature ! What good does it do a 
 man to be handsome like a doll? The ugly ones 
 are much more interesting."
 
 280 T H E B O N D 
 
 " I am not like a doll. And how do you know 
 whether I'm interesting or not. You look 
 upon me only as the bad husband of the good 
 sister." 
 
 He cast a slightly sulky glance upon her from 
 his dark eyes eyes exactly like Ernestine's, deep 
 and long-lashed. No, he was not doll-like. His 
 forehead was broad and beautifully modelled, 
 his nose strongly masculine; a short pointed 
 beard and moustache hid the mouth and chin. 
 
 " No, not bad," she smiled. " Not serious 
 enough to be bad. Only frivolous." 
 
 " Well, why not be frivolous, as you call it, 
 though I am serious enough sometimes. . . . 
 I suppose you mean I do no work, but what 
 should I work at, and why work, anyway? What 
 is there to do? II ne faut pas beaucoup pour 
 passer la vie." 
 
 "Beaucoup? Beaucoup des petites choses 
 pour vous . . ." 
 
 " Oh, well, what is the difference, after all 
 big things and little things? It is important to 
 pass one's life as agreeably as possible voila 
 tout." 
 
 11 Even at the expense of other people." 
 
 " Somebody must pay the bills," said Ernesto 
 blandly. " But after all one sees that they get 
 something for their money, too. My pleasure is 
 to give pleasure to other people. It is not my 
 fault if the capacity for pleasure is limited."
 
 T H E B O N D 281 
 
 " What a brute you sound when you talk, 
 Ernesto ! " 
 
 " No, no, it's only that you won't understand 
 me! You know I am not a brute, a more kind 
 person never lived than I am ! I wish everybody 
 to be happy, and so I am happy myself. What 
 good would it do anybody if I were miserable? 
 Why are you not happy, Teresa? " 
 
 She shook her head, smiling faintly. 
 
 " It's nothing you could understand, Ernesto," 
 she said absently. 
 
 No man could understand least of all could 
 a Latin understand ! 
 
 " I understand a good deal about men and 
 women," he responded, nodding his head sagely. 
 " Much more than you think. You have had a 
 love-quarrel, and you're " 
 
 "I'm what?" said Teresa, half offended. 
 
 " Don't be angry with me. I won't say it I 
 don't know you well enough yet. . . . Tell 
 me, what is your husband like?" 
 
 " Oh, like all husbands, I suppose only hand- 
 somer," said Teresa, laughing. 
 
 " Does he bully you? " 
 
 " No perhaps I bully him." 
 
 " Ah, yes, you are a typical American ! Now 
 there is Nina, she bullies me out of my life. The 
 worst of that is, one seeks to be consoled else- 
 where. Eh?" 
 
 He cast a keen glance at Teresa, and she felt
 
 T H E B O N D 
 
 the colour rising to her cheeks. She shook her 
 head. 
 
 " Not to be drawn that way," she said. " Be- 
 sides, I don't really bully him I nag him." 
 
 "And what is the difference, please? To be 
 nagged is to be bullied it's the worst kind of 
 torment. No man can resist it no man! He 
 will sell his soul to get rid of the sound of that 
 voice, forever going on, forever " 
 
 Ernesto switched off the tops of a clump of 
 fern with his stick. 
 
 " Yes, I suppose it is pretty bad," said Teresa 
 meditatively. " But I daresay you get out of a 
 good deal of it by deceit." 
 
 " Deceit? But one must deceive ! " Can one tell 
 the truth to one's wife? Not to a woman like 
 Nina, at any rate she has no idea of the world, 
 and she is religious. And remember this ' il 
 faut la tromper, parceque'lle n'est pas de celles 
 qu'on quitte." 
 
 Again the keen glance, again Teresa's rising 
 colour answered. He had a diabolical sharpness, 
 this simple man! And the phrase had struck 
 her deeply. 
 
 " I am not of that sort," she said in a low 
 voice. 
 
 "Of what sort the sort one doesn't leave? 
 Oh, but you are absolutely. And therefore ' il 
 faut vous tromper.'"
 
 T H E B O N D 283 
 
 " It's the one thing I couldn't forgive deceit," 
 said Teresa, looking straight ahead. 
 
 " But why when it is really a compliment to 
 you? . . . For a man to tell his wife certain 
 things, for example, he must be entirely indif- 
 ferent to her, or she to him. Most things are not 
 to be told. A man is foolish, he gets into situa- 
 tions where he can't help himself or he gets 
 fond of someone else well, why should he tell 
 his wife? It will only make her unhappy and 
 make him deucedly uncomfortable. It can't be 
 done." 
 
 " I said you couldn't understand," said Teresa. 
 
 " Oh, well, you will enlighten me sometime, 
 won't you ? " 
 
 "Never!" 
 
 " Oh, yes, you will when we are really 
 friends." 
 
 He took her hand and kissed it lightly. 
 
 " Charming Teresa ! How pretty you are to- 
 day! Don't wear black any more, I beg you, 
 except in the evening. I love you in white. You 
 look more alive now than you have since I came." 
 
 " You are enlivening, Ernesto though I don't 
 agree w r ith a word you say." 
 . " Oh so long as you listen it is enough ! "
 
 IV 
 
 THE next day Teresa did not go to the chalet, 
 but worked hard at her clay modelling. The 
 desire for work was strong in her, pleasure in it 
 had waked again, and besides she had a keen 
 desire to make some money, to relieve Basil at 
 least of part of his material burden. Her things 
 had always sold, and she resolved now that she 
 would if possible pay her own expenses and 
 Eonald's. She blamed herself for not having 
 done more the past two years. Her own small 
 income had gone largely in dress for herself and 
 the child; but now, with a little help, it would 
 pay for this Swiss summer. Poor Basil, working 
 in the heat of the summer city! But he had 
 many friends too many perhaps who would 
 take him out of it. Yet she knew that he was 
 never as comfortable away from home. She had 
 not been a model housewife, but Basil had liked 
 his home. And he missed Ronald. His letters 
 were full of inquiries and suggestions about the 
 child melancholy letters, sometimes short and 
 brusque, sometimes long and argumentative. 
 The first few had been love-letters, but as she 
 did not respond in kind, Basil had become less 
 expressive. Twice Teresa had written warmly, 
 begging him to come as soon as possible but she 
 
 284
 
 T H E B O N D 285 
 
 had not sent the letters. The face of Isabel Perry 
 had risen between her and the ardent page, and 
 she had torn to scraps all she had written. . . . 
 
 In the afternoon she went out for a long 
 walk alone. The day was clouding over. 
 Mist hid the mountain-crags and trailed lower 
 and lower into the valley. She walked up 
 into the sombre pine-forest to a cascade that came 
 plunging down in huge leaps from an invisible 
 height. Beside the basin that received the final 
 dash of the fall, in foam and roar, she sat for 
 some time, the phrases of a letter to Basil shap- 
 ing themselves in her mind. She was longing for 
 him ; a sudden piercing sense of loneliness made 
 her weep. What did it matter after all that she 
 w r as angry with him, that he had been unkind? 
 Nothing mattered, except that they should not 
 waste the days of their youth, apart from one 
 another. It was far better to be together and 
 quarrel. 
 
 Basil had been right she should not have 
 gone away from him. She should have an- 
 swered his appeal. She had been wrong toward 
 him in many ways. She had never of her own 
 will sacrificed anything to their love had given 
 nothing but what she wanted to give. She had 
 yielded too much to her grief that last year; she 
 had not thought enough of Basil. What he had 
 done was only what all men did. Men were 
 cursed with a perpetual need of action. They
 
 286 T H E B O N D 
 
 CQuld not be quiet any more than vigorous chil- 
 dren. The thing was to direct their insensate 
 energising into the least harmful channels. She 
 had never tried very much to direct Basil. She 
 thought of him now as a small boy shut up in the 
 house on a rainy day, and told to make no noise. 
 Yes, that had been her attitude toward him all 
 that last winter and she had paid for it. She 
 had given the other woman her chance. A sud- 
 den flood of rage against Isabel welled up in her 
 and dried her tears. She considered ways and 
 means of being -revenged upon her. The blood 
 beating in her temples told her how it was pos- 
 sible to stab, to poison, to choke a rival. Some- 
 thing wild rose in her, as a thousand times be- 
 fore, at the thought of their caresses, and all the 
 softness of her mood was gone. The tender letter 
 to Basil, like so many others she had imagined 
 or even begun, was never written. 
 
 
 
 Crayven arrived in a pouring rain, which con- 
 tinued for a week, turning the one street of the 
 little town into a gutter of mud, and veiling all 
 its surroundings. Teresa was perfectly aware 
 that he came to see her, and she was inwardly 
 grateful for his caprice. It was difficult for her 
 to live without some society, and that of Nina, 
 Edith, and Ernesto presented too many compli- 
 cations, while the few acquaintances that she had 
 .made through them did not interest her. Cray-
 
 T H E B O N D 287 
 
 ven did interest her, largely because of his inter- 
 est in herself. They fell at once into easy com- 
 panionship, spending all the afternoons together, 
 and the evenings generally at Nina's house, where 
 Crayven made the fourth, instead of Nina, at 
 bridge, which he played by turns very well and 
 very badly. Ernesto, though greatly bored by 
 the bad weather and the place in general, and 
 threatening each day to depart, stayed on for a 
 fortnight ; by the end of which time the skies had 
 cleared into delicious warmth, and all the 
 charms of the valley were in full display. 
 
 Teresa's mood also had lightened progressively. 
 With Ernesto no real companionship had been 
 possible ; he was at once too sentimental and too 
 frivolous. Crayven was neither. Their talk was 
 generally grave, but it stimulated Teresa, and 
 she talked more than Crayven. She found his 
 point of view, as she came to know it better, 
 what she called appallingly middle-aged. Cray- 
 ven frankly said that work was the only thing in 
 the world that was decently worth while, and 
 that work was only good for its own sake and 
 without regard to results, about the value of 
 which, in any case, he showed a profound scepti- 
 cism. This was his attitude toward his own oc- 
 cupation, about which, however, he talked with 
 interest to Teresa. He described to her in detail 
 the place which had been for years for at least 
 three-fourths of each year his abode, and where
 
 288 T H E B O N D 
 
 he seemed perfectly willing to spend the rest of 
 his life: the primitive old fort, buried in the 
 desert, three days by camel from Suez. He told 
 her about his daily work there generally set- 
 tling Arab quarrels about camels, with an oc- 
 casional murderer to be tried, with an incessant 
 effort to better a little the material condition of 
 the natives, with a periodical Turkish invasion 
 to stir things up. He was building a dam now, 
 he said, which would for the first time give a 
 decent supply of water to the settlement, and in 
 which he was much more interested than the 
 natives themselves. He had some fear of being 
 transferred to another post of more technical 
 importance, in which case the work that he had 
 begun would go for nothing. 
 
 " The shiftless beggars would never think of 
 going on with it for themselves," he said. 
 " They'd let it go to ruin, and be perfectly con- 
 tent with the discomforts of their grandfathers." 
 
 " Then why trouble yourself to give them 
 something they don't really want?" asked 
 Teresa. 
 
 "Because I'm like all reformers, cursed with 
 a certain amount of surplus energy which I don't 
 know how to direct in a more reasonable way. 
 It would be better to spend it on myself except 
 that there's nothing I want." 
 
 "And you're content to live out there, out of 
 the world, indefinitely? "
 
 T H E B O N D 289 
 
 " I only hope they'll leave me there in peace. 
 It's world enough for me." 
 
 "But you do come.out of it occasionally." 
 
 " Mainly because of the climate. In winter 
 it's delightful. Then there are people one likes 
 to look up now and then." 
 
 Teresa wondered if Crayven's wife was in- 
 cluded in this category. He never spoke of her. 
 
 " It's a curious life," she said, absently. " But 
 it seems to suit you, somehow. I knew when I 
 first saw you that you had had some unusual ex- 
 perience." 
 
 He looked up at her steadily. They had 
 walked far up into the pine forest, and were sit- 
 ting on the bank of a stream, Teresa on a flat 
 rock, Crayven a little way below. Teresa met 
 his look, with a feeling of strangeness in its 
 meditative intensity. It was familiar to her now, 
 but there was something in it she did not under- 
 stand. She had seen it first the day they had met 
 in the Louvre, and then, too, had first noticed in 
 his manner toward her the peculiar interest, the 
 touch of emotion which had nothing of gallantry 
 about it, that now she had come to accept as a 
 fact, as yet unexplained. Their relation had 
 leaped the stage of acquaintanceship, and oddly 
 taken on the character of intimacy, but with- 
 out confidences on either side. Crayven had told 
 her nothing of his life, beyond the active phase 
 of his work, and she had had no impulse to tell
 
 290 T H E B O N D 
 
 him anything that counted in hers, but rather the 
 contrary. He had tried to get through this re- 
 serve of hers, had tried to make her talk about 
 herself, with an interest so marked that it de- 
 feated its own end. She asked herself why he 
 should be so much interested, why he should have 
 for her that grave, impersonal tenderness, unac- 
 counted for by anything that she knew. It made 
 her at times uncomfortable ; yet on the whole she 
 had a sense of freedom, of confidence, with him, 
 that made his companionship a deep pleasure. 
 
 "Unusual experience?" he said musingly, 
 echoing her last words. " No not that, I think. 
 The ordinary experience youth and its dreams 
 and ambitions and middle-age and its ac- 
 quiescence." 
 
 " Middle-age ! You are young." 
 
 " I'm thirty-six. It isn't altogether a matter 
 of years." 
 
 "What is it, then?" 
 
 " It's just that acquiescence. Youth is the 
 feeling of the infinite beyond the horizon of our 
 own infinite possibilities the feeling that we 
 may do anything, get anything we want. . . ." 
 
 " Yes, it is that. But, then? " . 
 
 " Then we explore our possibilities and find 
 their limits, and the world shrinks, and we see 
 the stone wall instead of the horizon. And we 
 do not beat our brains out against it. We ac- 
 quiesce."
 
 T H E B O N D 201 
 
 "And you think it's inevitable? You think it 
 must always be that? We must be shut in by the 
 stone wall? I would never submit to it I don't 
 believe in it ! " 
 
 " Ah, you haven't begun to be middle-aged/' 
 said Crayven quietly. 
 
 " Don't talk in this way ! Why do you want to 
 take all the freedom and joy out of life? You 
 enjoy your life why do you deny the good of it? 
 You're ungrateful." 
 
 "No I'm not ungrateful. I take the pleas- 
 ures of the day, and the work of the day, for 
 what they are that's all. I don't ask much of 
 life." 
 
 "Why not? Why don't you? Because you 
 haven't imagination enough or because you 
 asked too much and didn't get what you 
 wanted? " 
 
 Teresa's questions were impetuous, almost 
 angry. They had never before been so personal 
 in their talk, but often Crayven's attitude had 
 irritated her into protest. With him she felt 
 increasingly a passionate desire to assert the 
 value, the joy, of life. 
 
 He reflected, looking up at her. 
 
 " I suppose I have not much imagination. But 
 it is true that I did not get what I wanted. It's 
 not that I wanted so very much perhaps from 
 an abstract point of view. But I wanted what I 
 wanted very much. . . . And to be beaten,
 
 T H E B O N D 
 
 you know, does take it out of one. There's 
 nothing left but a kind of inept cheerfulness, a 
 prosaic, suburban way of living. You're out of 
 it, and you know it." 
 
 " How can you talk like that admit you're 
 beaten ! I wouldn't do it, if I were a man. How 
 do you know you can't get what you want? I 
 daresay you didn't half try." 
 
 " Oh, I tried," he said, very quietly. 
 
 " Perhaps you can still get it." 
 
 " No, I can never get it." 
 
 " Well there are other things in the world, 
 surely? You " 
 
 " Yes, but there isn't much that I happen to 
 want. . . . Just now I want nothing except 
 to be allowed to look at you." 
 
 "And why look at me, pray?" said Teresa 
 coolly. 
 
 " Because well, because you are beautiful." 
 
 She looked away gravely into the depths of the 
 forest. She did not like his last words. They 
 showed suddenly a lighter attitude toward her 
 than before. Her talk with him had been serious ; 
 he had not paid her compliments. 
 
 There was a change, too, in his manner, a 
 touch of excitement about it. His simple friend- 
 liness was gone; gone, too, his quiet matter-of- 
 fact English aspect, which had made her feel 
 so safe. She saw suddenly the man as he had 
 first impressed her the stranger, of alien blood,
 
 T H E B O N D 293 
 
 the unaccountable. She saw the desert behind 
 him, a world of different laws and customs, of 
 different feeling . . . and a strange breath 
 seemed to come out of the burning sands. There 
 were palm-trees, cut sharply against the pale 
 horizon. There was a line of laden camels plod- 
 ding through the sand . . . and then it was 
 a night-encampment, the black tents pitched in 
 the glare of the moonlight, and the camels snarl- 
 ing as they lay down beyond the fires. . . . 
 Her eyelids drooped with a bored look, and she 
 rose. 
 
 " It's getting late I want to see Konald before 
 he goes to bed," she said abruptly. 
 
 Crayven leaped to his feet. 
 
 " Have I are you surely you don't mind 
 what I said," he cried quickly, his face alive and 
 keen. 
 
 " Mind? No," she answered coldly. 
 
 " But you- do ! Now tell me why you mustn't 
 be offended with me, I can't have it." 
 
 He barred the path, eager and determined. 
 
 " Oh, nonsense, let us get on home. . . . 
 ,Well, then, if you must have what's obvious ex- 
 plained, one doesn't like to be turned off with a 
 banal compliment when one is talking seriously. 
 I know you don't want to talk to me about your- 
 self, but there are other ways of making it clear, 
 aren't there? ... I shall be less inquisitive 
 in future."
 
 294 T H E B O N D 
 
 She walked past him, and heard him murmur 
 to himself, " Child ! " The word by no means 
 lessened her feeling. Crayven followed, and on 
 the walk back tried earnestly to make his peace. 
 But it was long since Teresa had had a good op- 
 portunity of being unreasonable, and she seized 
 this one instinctively, and with a sense of relief. 
 And besides it was only on the surface that 
 she was unreasonable. What Crayven had said 
 was trifling enough, but the change in her feel- 
 ing was not trifling. A delicate balance had been 
 disturbed.
 
 y 
 
 IT was after all an artificial balance, she per- 
 ceived suddenly the whole relation had been 
 artificial. For three weeks now she had seen 
 Crayven every day they had been alone together 
 every day for some hours. It had been tacitly 
 assumed that both wanted this solitude a deux. 
 It had been recognised that Crayven had come 
 and was staying on Teresa's account, and she 
 had testified with the greatest frankness that 
 his presence gave her pleasure. She had not 
 asked herself exactly what sort of pleasure; it 
 had seemed simple and innocent enough. 
 
 It was impossible for her to live in isolation. 
 She must have some intimate social relation, 
 something that carried on from day to day, with 
 a dramatic interest, with an element of excite- 
 ment. Instinctively she desired to have things 
 happen ; calm was not natural to her and monot- 
 ony irritated her. The same instinct that had 
 'Jed her to make scenes for Basil when the emo- 
 tional tone of their relation showed signs of 
 lowering ever so slightly toward the common- 
 place, was working in her now. And coquetry 
 was working in her, and was stirred by Crayven's 
 change of tone. Yet she was in a way angry with 
 
 395
 
 296 T H E B O N D 
 
 him for the change ; it was a shock, it revealed to 
 her keen perception the truth that they had 
 been proceeding on a falsely romantic basis. 
 They had been living for three weeks a sort of 
 idyl practically alone together, strangers to 
 one another, wandering in the midst of this wild, 
 fresh, seductive nature, in a harmony of disagree- 
 ment which showed the strength of mutual at- 
 traction. Conventions had been thrown over- 
 board ; Teresa had ignored the surprise and mute 
 protest of her relatives. Here was a companion- 
 ship which soothed and amused and pleased her, 
 w r hich satisfied her constant need of attention and 
 interest, and in her present mood she had seized 
 upon it as a necessity. From everything else in 
 her life, at present, she suffered, in one way or 
 another; she was bruised, aching, in mind and 
 nerves. She consciously lived, really, only for 
 her moments of lyric exaltation; the essence of 
 life, all that w r as worth living for, might from 
 her actions have been summed up in those mo- 
 ments, when a passionate fervour, a passionate 
 delight in feeling, in the grace, beauty, and joy 
 of it, swept her up, rapt her away. All pleasure 
 had to her an element of intoxication, some faint 
 reflection of the ecstasy of those supreme mo- 
 ments. Crayven had been a pleasure to her, 
 apparently a calm, quiet, prosaic pleasure. They 
 had played at being old, tried, staid friends. His 
 inexpressive homage had warmed her in her mel-
 
 T H E B O N D 297 
 
 ancholy; the wings of her spirit had begun to 
 unfold from their limpness and flutter a little. 
 
 Now she saw why this had been. They could 
 no longer play at being old friends. Crayven 
 had abruptly changed the key of the tune; and 
 this key once struck, one could never go back to 
 the other. What then? . . . The first effect 
 of all this was a feeling of loneliness, of intense, 
 more bitter melancholy, which demanded relief. 
 She recognised that she was deeply restless, and 
 for the first time in her life inclined to be really 
 reckless. 
 
 Something had changed in her, as she had 
 said to Basil, long ago, it seemed. Something 
 was changed between Basil and herself. She no 
 longer felt that they belonged absolutely to one 
 another. The bond that was too strong to break, 
 that had been too strait to bear, was in some 
 way loosened. She no longer felt accountable 
 to Basil for herself. 
 
 She played bridge that night as usual played 
 absently and lost steadily and when Crayven, 
 walking with her to the hotel, suggested a walk 
 for the next day, she said she had some work 
 to do. He said calmly, " Oh, I'm sorry," and 
 made no effort to persuade her. They parted, 
 coolly. 
 
 Early in the morning he went off for a moun- 
 tain climb, starting with two other men in his 
 hotel. They refused guides. In the afternoon,
 
 298 T H E B O N D 
 
 when Teresa went to take tea with Nina, the lit- 
 tle town was buzzing with news of an accident. 
 It was late at night before the facts were known. 
 Meantime Crayven had conie back, alone. He 
 had separated from the other two, who had in- 
 sisted on taking a short cut and had been caught 
 by an avalanche; one of them had been killed 
 and the other seriously hurt. 
 
 That night there was a moon, nearly full, 
 shining down from a cloudless sky on the jagged, 
 snowy crests of the Dents du Midi, and touching 
 the mysterious black shadows of the pine forests. 
 Teresa sat on her balcony, watching, troubled in 
 mind. Crayven had come to see her for a mo- 
 ment, having heard of the accident on his return. 
 He had been grave but not moved, and in the 
 shrug of his shoulders and the curt way in which 
 he had condemned the foolhardiness of his com- 
 panions she had read his indifference to one 
 human life, as such, more or less. There had been 
 a certain physical radiance about him from his 
 long day above there on the rocks. . . . Teresa 
 wondered why he did not go away, for the 
 real climbing he had meant to do. These moun- 
 tains after all were child's play to him, and 
 she could not see what there was to content him 
 in the quiet life of the valley. In a month or 
 so he would have to go back to his post. Look- 
 ing up at the cold mountain-peaks she pictured 
 the desert the rolling hills of sand, the noise of
 
 T H E B O N D 299 
 
 the angry camels, the long march made on the 
 Arab fare of dates and coarse bread, the blazing 
 sun and she saw herself there with Crayven. 
 It was an image so clear, so vivid, that she shut 
 her eyes and bowed her head on her hands. . . . 
 She thought coolly, as she went in to bed, that 
 when he did go, as he must soon, she would miss 
 him enormously. The accident of the day had 
 moved her to a keener feeling about him. If the 
 avalanche had caught him instead of the two 
 Frenchmen no, she said to herself, it could not 
 have made any great difference to her. All the 
 same, she was glad that he was alive, and that 
 she was to see him the next day. 
 
 
 
 They started at ten in the morning for a long 
 walk, meaning to lunch at a chalet up in the 
 mountains. The day was glorious clear, warm, 
 and fresh. Teresa, in her short white dress, with 
 a sweater tied round her waist for they were 
 going up into the snow felt once more young, 
 vigorous, and gay. She sang a little as they 
 walked along the road between the flowery 
 meadows, which the peasants were beginning 
 now to mow dull, unpicturesque figures, like 
 automatons wound up to a slow, steady motion 
 of the arm and the scythe. 
 
 " They are exactly like their cows," she said 
 lightly. " It's strange they should be brutalised 
 so by all this nature. It excites me, stimulates
 
 300 T H E B O N D 
 
 me it's so wonderfully fresh and full of life, 
 this air " 
 
 " Yes but living in it forever, year after 
 year I rather think there wouldn't be anything 
 left of one except the brute," said Crayven. 
 " One could forgive the Swiss if they were nice 
 brutes, like the cows. But how they drink ! " 
 
 A look of disgust crossed his face. 
 
 "You hate drinking, don't you?" said Teresa 
 curiously. " Do you never, yourself? " 
 
 " Never touch it. Why should I ? Beastly 
 stuff." 
 
 " I've noticed that you never take any wine or 
 anything. Is it principle? " 
 
 " No, just taste. Don't see any use in mud- 
 dling one's brain further than nature has already 
 done it. My mother died of it drugs and things. 
 Went quite off her head, the last years of her 
 life lived in the dark, like a cat. Not pleasant." 
 
 " How oddly you English talk about your rela- 
 tives ! " said Teresa. " Now, if ice have a person 
 not quite right in the family, we try to keep 
 it dark." 
 
 "Why? It's not your affair, after all, what 
 your relatives do. Everybody's got some queer 
 person or other about." 
 
 " You see, people like to muddle their heads," 
 reflected Teresa. " Some of them have to do it 
 some of the best. A man, a very clever one, 
 once said to me that some sort of ' dope ' was
 
 T H E B O N D 301 
 
 absolutely necessary, when one had once got one's 
 eyes open. The strongest dope, he said, was re- 
 ligion. The others were love, work, and whisky. 
 His was whisky he said it was the most reli- 
 able. . . . Yours, I suppose, is work." 
 
 "Well, it isn't religion, love, or whisky," said 
 Crayven drily. " But yes, perhaps my work is 
 that, to a certain extent. It keeps one from 
 thinking too much. Out there in the desert one 
 would get a bit queer sometimes, I fancy, if there 
 weren't a perpetual round of little daily affairs 
 to keep one going. . . . Yes, I suppose it is 
 a dope. And yours what is yours? " 
 
 " Mine? I'm not sure that I have one yet. 
 I never thought I needed one " 
 
 " You had one, when I saw you first. It was 
 love." 
 
 Teresa flushed hotly. 
 
 " It is not a ' dope ' it is the only real thing 
 in the w r orld," she said passionately. 
 
 "Is it?" murmured Crayven. 
 
 " It is the only thing that lifts one out of the 
 ruck of the world, that makes one feel happy and 
 free and alive ! " 
 
 " No whisky '11 do that," said Crayven. 
 " It's but a temporary intoxication, in any case." 
 
 His tone was subacid, with all its lightness. 
 It seemed to Teresa that he delighted in making 
 her combative on this subject. He always 
 watched her face when she asserted her belief in
 
 302 T H E B O N D 
 
 joy, in happiness; when her cheeks flushed and 
 her narrow eyes flamed. 
 
 " You don't believe that," she said suddenly. 
 
 "What does it matter what I believe? The 
 grapes are sour that's what it amounts to. . I 
 told you I had not got what I wanted." 
 
 "Ah, it was that, then," she murmured. 
 
 They were silent. The wood was silent, too, 
 except for the rush of the stream, up the bank of 
 which the road mounted steeply. Crayven 
 walked with long, easy strides, and Teresa was 
 always conscious that he was subduing his pace 
 to hers. Mentally, too, he always seemed to be 
 taking her pace, and not his own natural gait. 
 He seemed to be following her, waiting on her 
 mood, watching her. He had no need, ap- 
 parently, of expressing himself the essentially 
 masculine need, Teresa had always considered 
 it. She often found herself wondering what he 
 was really like for example, what woman 
 counted in his life. It was not his wife, she 
 was sure of that. Was it, perhaps, some Eastern 
 woman, someone behind the veil? She had tried, 
 but Crayven was not to be drawn on that point. 
 His reserve irritated her, especially as he plainly 
 wanted to find out all he could about herself. 
 But just now he had said something that broke 
 that reserve. She took it seriously, and glanced 
 even timidly at his face. He met her with a long, 
 grave look, which seemed to weigh her somehow.
 
 T H E B O N D 303 
 
 " If I tell you something," lie said, " promise 
 me not to be angry." 
 
 "Angry? Why what could you tell me that 
 could make me angry? What is it? " 
 
 He smiled. "I know you will not like it." 
 
 Her eyes questioned him eagerly, but half- 
 offended already. 
 
 " It's this. Ages ago ten years ago I was 
 tremendously in love. And you are like her. 
 That's it." 
 
 " Like her? How am I like her? And is that 
 what you meant I should be angry at? I don't 
 understand. How am I like her? " 
 
 " You look like her. It's the same type. It's 
 quite extraordinary. Though she was blonde, 
 rather light-brown hair. But there's the same 
 modelling of the face, the same eyes. ... Is 
 your family, by any chance, English, do you 
 know? What was your maiden name? " 
 
 " Grange. My father's family was English. 
 How odd!" 
 
 " That isn't the name but there may be some 
 connection somewhere. Her name was Mow- 
 bray." 
 
 Teresa shook her head. " I've got a family 
 tree somewhere or other, but I don't remember 
 all the names. Perhaps she's a far-away cousin. 
 But it must be your fancy that I look like her." 
 
 " It's no fancy. I was struck by it the first 
 time I saw you still more so the second time,
 
 304 T H E B O N D 
 
 that night at the dinner. You even wore her 
 colour blue. She was stronger, more robust 
 physically than you, but you have the same look 
 of vitality, of life. There's so much vigour in 
 your face and when I saw you in Paris you 
 looked as she did when I saw her the last time. 
 She was in mourning then, and sad but one felt 
 that she couldn't be sad forever." 
 
 He spoke quietly, without emotion, and seemed 
 more interested in Teresa than in what he was 
 telling her. 
 
 " But she but why " 
 
 " Why was it no good, you mean ? Oh, it was 
 very simple. She happened not to like me pre- 
 ferred somebody else. Absurd, isn't it? " 
 
 " I don't understand that ! She must have 
 liked you ! " 
 
 " You're very good. Or perhaps you believe 
 that love wins love. It generally does. But in 
 this case, you see, I didn't get her. ... It 
 was rather a knock-down blow. A man ought 
 to succeed, you see, in that adventure. If he 
 doesn't, he never feels quite sure afterward that 
 he's the admirable creature he ought to be. 
 Something has beaten him, and he rather expects 
 to be beaten again." 
 
 "Again? But not in that way " 
 
 "Why not? Does one love only once and for- 
 ever? . . . That may be, I grant you, when 
 from being in love you come really to love when
 
 T H E B O N D 305 
 
 habit and experience hold you to it. But re- 
 member, she never belonged to me. She was only 
 a wonderful possibility." 
 
 They were in the depths of the fir-wood now, 
 climbing steeply. Teresa paused for breath, and 
 sat down, panting a little, on a log by the road- 
 side. The stream hummed far below, invisible. 
 Crayven lit a cigarette, first offering Teresa one, 
 and stood leaning against a tree beside her. 
 
 " You were twenty-six then," she said, looking 
 off into the forest. 
 
 " Yes, I was a boy. It was the time to love 
 I needed it, and " 
 
 " Have you a picture of her? " asked Teresa, 
 after a moment. 
 
 " Not here. I don't carry it next my heart." 
 
 " Was she unkind to you? " 
 
 " I didn't want her to be kind. I wanted her." 
 
 " I can't understand why you didn't get her. 
 You seem to me the sort " 
 
 " Women didn't like me then. I was too eager. 
 I've observed that they like me better now be- 
 cause I don't want anything much of them, I 
 suppose." 
 
 "And you never have since?" 
 
 He was silent, till she looked up at him and 
 met his eyes. 
 
 " Not in the same way," he said. He moved 
 abruptly, and sat down on the log beside her. 
 " Not with the same belief and hope. That was
 
 30G T H E B O N D 
 
 youth. . . . You I meet you . . . and you 
 happen to be married, you see." 
 
 "I? . . . Was she married, then? " 
 
 " No, no, she wasn't, then. But you are." 
 
 " This is a little difficult. You are married, 
 too, aren't you?" 
 
 " Well, I am, I suppose." 
 
 He laughed and dropped his cigarette-end. 
 
 " But there are degrees in being married," he 
 added. " I am married in the least degree pos- 
 sible." 
 
 When he did speak he was frank enough! 
 Teresa felt he was moving now rather too rapidly. 
 
 " We were cousins," he went on calmly. " It 
 wa.s a family arrangement, I am sorry we have 
 no children. It has been rather a failure except 
 that Adela has her freedom and can live where 
 she likes. She hates the East, and, of course, it's 
 no place out there for a woman no theatres, 
 no places to dine, no bridge a savage place. 
 Adela uses all her influence to get me into a bet- 
 ter one, and I use mine to stay where I am. It's 
 unfortunate she hasn't a husband that could be 
 pushed on." 
 
 After a silence he asked : 
 
 " What are you thinking about dreaming 
 about? Your eyes are full of dreams." 
 
 "About what you've told me," she answered 
 with a certain effort. " Come, let's walk on." 
 
 They were silent till they had passed the pine-
 
 T H E B O N D 307 
 
 wood and come out into the Champs de Barmaz, a 
 field shut in by a sheer wall of rocks on one side 
 and on the other sloping up to the foot of the 
 high peaks. 
 
 " Sit down a minute you look pale and tired," 
 said Crayven, gently. " I'll bring you some 
 gentians." 
 
 He went off to a great patch of snow lying 
 at the edge of the Champs, and Teresa watched 
 his alert, strong figure with a curious feeling of 
 disenchantment. So this was the reason of his 
 interest in her a fancied resemblance to a boy- 
 ish love! He had said she would not like it 
 and she did not like it. Her vanity was hurt, 
 and she felt suddenly remote from him, bored, 
 and thought of Basil. Why had she buried her- 
 self here? At least with Basil one lived. Her 
 quarrel with him appeared absurd. How fool- 
 ish, in a world of such mischances and mal- 
 adjustments, to throw away a day of happiness ! 
 Who knew what the next day might bring forth ? 
 Who knew what change there might be in Basil, 
 when she saw him again? His letters indicated 
 no change, but what were letters after all? They 
 said only what one wanted them to say. She 
 felt a sudden hatred of the casual, the mean- 
 ingless, in human relations. Why waste time 
 on people who, after all, counted for nothing? 
 There was only one person who really counted to 
 her, Basil. Why not allow, once for all, for a
 
 308 T H E B O N D 
 
 certain amount of the casual and meaningless in 
 his life since men were made in such a foolish 
 fashion? Why not forgive him his folly, as she 
 did Ronald when he frescoed the wall-paper with 
 ink, in pathetic male ignorance what else to do 
 with himself? . . . But that woman! She 
 could forgive Basil easily enough, if it were not 
 for the insistent figure of Isabel her eyes, her 
 mouth, her nervous, seeking hands, her perfumes. 
 . . . If only it had been a woman she did not 
 know ! She turned hot and cold with a desire to 
 rend Isabel limb from limb, to crush her. She 
 remembered women she had seen fighting in the 
 streets in London. Happy world, where people 
 could give their instincts full sway, where one 
 could tell an interloper what one really thought 
 of her! She remembered the last scene in the 
 studio that look she had given Isabel with 
 thirsty satisfaction. Isabel knew that she knew 
 that was something. But Basil must still pay 
 the score that he had heaped up for himself by 
 trying to stand between them an absurd male 
 buffer between two frank female egotisms 
 which at least did not attempt to deny the 
 obvious. . . . 
 
 She had forgotten Crayven, and she started 
 when he came up to her, his hands full of the 
 vivid indigo-blue and dark-purple flowers of the 
 snow. But she smiled at him warmly and took 
 the gentians with joy in their wonderful colour.
 
 T H E B O N D 309 
 
 " How intense everything is here in nature ! " 
 she said. " What a flame in that blue ! And 
 even the dandelions are orange instead of yellow. 
 And the green of the meadows, the green brook, 
 the black shadow of the pines, and then that sky 
 what a day ! " She sprang up. " On, on ! " she 
 cried. " I wish I could climb up there on those 
 peaks, up into the clouds ! " 
 
 " I'm afraid you'll find Barmaz high enough," 
 said Crayven. " It's rather a pull, this last bit. 
 Sure you're not too tired? " 
 
 " I'm not tired at all. And I want my lunch. 
 Do I look tired?" 
 
 She did not, now. Her face was eager and full 
 of life. They walked on rapidly. The road shot 
 steeply up, then doubled and redoubled and 
 doubled again on itself along the pine-clad rock. 
 They met a dull-faced peasant coming down, 
 leading a huge cow. 
 
 " Here, as Heine said of Gottingen, the cows 
 are the most intelligent part of the population ! " 
 Teresa gasped, as they stood aside to let the 
 animals pass. Then, getting her breath, she re- 
 peated a verse that always sang in her memory: 
 
 f ' Mir trdumte einst von rvildern Liebesgliihn 
 Von Tiubschen Locken, Myrten und Resede, 
 Von siissen Lippen und von bittrer Rede, 
 Von diistrer Lieder, dilstern Melodien . . .' 
 
 " What melody ! What a poet ! How, he
 
 310 T H E B O N D 
 
 handles that German language of horses! What 
 a singing quality in that 
 
 " ' Myrten und Resede 
 Von stissen Lippen und bittrer Rede . . .' 
 
 He knew the touch of sweet lips and of bitter 
 herbs! ... I feel like singing myself." 
 
 " Do," said Crayven gravely. 
 
 " Not going up a hill like this ! Immer zu t 
 immer zu, ohne Rast und Ruh!" 
 
 She led the way, breathless, and Crayven fol- 
 lowed, taking one long step to her two. The 
 sun was hot on the face of the rock, but when 
 they reached the top and Teresa sank down, pant- 
 ing and smiling, by the roadside, a cool wind met 
 them, a rollicking wind fresh from the snows. 
 She took off her hat and lifted her face to drink 
 it in. 
 
 " Put on your sweater, or you'll take cold," 
 said Crayven, standing before her with his hands 
 in his pockets and looking suddenly stolid and 
 British. 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 " How odd when you give an order I see 
 you are a real Englishman ! Or, perhaps, it was 
 the poetry I quoted, was it? . . . Don't mind 
 me; this day, this air, has gone to my head! I 
 must laugh at you, at anything, at nothing ! " 
 
 " Well, laugh, but put on your sweater. I 
 hate women with colds in their heads."
 
 T H E B O N D 311 
 
 He stooped down, took the sweater from round 
 her waist and put her into it. 
 
 " Now, come on you must have some hot milk 
 to drink, or you may be a little dizzy. People 
 often are, getting up here." 
 
 " Dizzy? No, I am only drunk with this air! " 
 
 But warned by a slight beating in her ears and 
 temples, she got up and they rounded the corner 
 into the plateau of Barmaz, dotted with cows and 
 a few small chalets. A charging troop of cows 
 drove them off the path. Crayven caught Teresa 
 with one arm and swept her up on a hillock, and 
 the cows tore past, their heads down, their tails 
 in the air, their huge bodies gambolling wildly. 
 Teresa shrieked with laughter. 
 
 " That's exactly how I feel ! " she cried. 
 "Now I know how a Swiss would look, if he 
 ever enjoyed himself! But he doesn't it's only 
 the cows that are sensitive to the skyey in- 
 fluences !" 
 
 Crayven took her hand and led her down, still 
 laughing, to the chalet which promised "Bon, 
 repos " ; and ordered hot milk and lunch on the 
 veranda. 
 
 " If it isn't too cold for you out here," he 
 added. 
 
 "Not a bit it's perfect," said Teresa 
 promptly, establishing herself at a table. 
 
 But the waitress, with sloe-black, keen eyes 
 under her scarlet head-dress, enquired if a room
 
 312 T H E B O N D 
 
 inside was desired by Madame. There was, she 
 said, a very nice private room. When she had 
 gone, Teresa laughed again. 
 
 " One sees that we are on the Continent ! " she 
 said. 
 
 Crayven made no response, and looked gravely 
 at her. 
 
 " How sadly you take your pleasure," she pro- 
 tested. " You haven't smiled since we left the 
 Champs. I feel gay, light-hearted, for the first 
 time in oh, ages you mustn't be dull! I've 
 forgiven you freely for being interested in me 
 only because I remind you of someone else. I'm 
 glad if I give you any such pleasure. Now, don't 
 spoil mine, will you? " 
 
 " I'll try not to, Teresa," he said, gazing stead- 
 ily at her.
 
 yi 
 
 TERESA'S pleasure was not to be spoiled. 
 Crayven's grave mood only added to the 
 wild gaiety of her own, which lasted all the way 
 home. She drank from a mountain stream and 
 sprang up, declaring that the draught was more 
 intoxicating than champagne. She sang, run- 
 ning down the steep descent ahead of Crayven. 
 Once she stopped to fasten up the loosened knot 
 of her hair, and enquired with an elfish look : 
 
 " Do I remind you of anybody now? " 
 
 " You are like her," he answered coolly. 
 
 "And what was her name you haven't told 
 me." 
 
 " Rosamond." 
 
 " Rosamond ! I have always liked that name 
 so much ' Rose of the world ' " 
 
 She stopped, gazing at him with a sudden soft- 
 ness, a sudden feeling for his romance. 
 
 "Was she beautiful enough for that name?" 
 she asked. 
 
 " Beautiful yes, she had beauty but there 
 was a grace about her everything she did was 
 right, somehow. The way in which she finally 
 rejected me was a model of its kind. She was a 
 thorough artist." 
 
 313
 
 314 T H E B O N D 
 
 His tone was mildly reminiscent, his look any- 
 thing but romantic or sentimental. Teresa's 
 sympathy was checked, and she walked on more 
 soberly. 
 
 That night she was dining at Nina's house, 
 w r ith some of the French colony. She arrived a 
 little early and went up to Nina's room. Nina 
 was dressing with her usual rapidity; she never 
 spent more than twenty minutes on a toilette. 
 To-night she had not even given herself time to 
 have her hair done by the Italian maid. Non- 
 chalantly pinning on a coil of false hair, she said 
 over her shoulder to Teresa: 
 
 " You must be tired from your day's expe- 
 dition." 
 
 "Not a bit I haven't felt so well for years. 
 That air up there puts life into one, I've never 
 known anything so wonderful! It's a pity you 
 don't walk, Nina you've no idea how delicious 
 this country is," Teresa answered happily, con- 
 templating her own long black figure in a mir- 
 ror. She was wearing a gauze dress that she 
 especially liked, and she had a charming colour 
 from her day on the heights. 
 ! " Would you take me as third on your walks? " 
 asked Nina, satirically. 
 
 " Of course why not? " 
 
 " Don't be hypocritical you wouldn't. But 
 do you think you ought to go off like this, alone, 
 every day? People notice it."
 
 T H E B O N D 315 
 
 "People? What people?" said Teresa, dis- 
 dainfully. 
 
 " Well, for example, Miss Melton stopped in 
 here at six o'clock for tea, and said she had seen 
 you coming down through the wood, with your 
 hands full of flowers, your hat hanging on your 
 back, singing, she said, like a dryad, or some- 
 thing of that sort. You can hear her say- 
 ing it." 
 
 " What do I care what a sharp old maid says? 
 What do I care about any of these people? 
 They've nothing to do but gossip. I don't care 
 one single " 
 
 " I know you don't but perhaps you 
 
 Well, I've told you, anyway, what's being said." 
 
 " You have. Let us drop the topic." 
 
 Teresa serenely gave a last touch to her hair, 
 and went downstairs, the colour in her cheeks 
 slightly heightened. 
 
 She had been quite aware, before this, that 
 Nina disapproved her walks with Crayven. 
 Ernesto, too, had been for the first time sulky 
 and cool to her. He had spent the last week at 
 Montreux, but now he was back, and lie met 
 her in the drawing-room with a smiling compli- 
 ment to her appearance. 
 
 " You look radiant your long country walks 
 do agree with you," he remarked, kissing the 
 tips of her fingers in his most feline manner. 
 
 " Why are you trying to be disagreeable? "
 
 316 T H E B O N D 
 
 asked Teresa with a direct glance at him. " Do 
 you really want me to dislike you? " 
 
 Ernesto shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " It isn't for me to choose. You do dislike me, 
 or at least you don't like me, which is the same 
 thing, or worse. You threw me over in a minute 
 when this dear friend appeared. Certainly, I am 
 hurt." 
 
 His deep, impenetrable eyes rested upon her 
 sentimentally, with something of mockery in 
 their soft gaze. Teresa looked back at him curi- 
 ously, wondering what his mind really was like, 
 and feeling tolerably sure that it was a sink of 
 iniquity. Or, rather, after all, he was a thorough 
 Italian what else could one expect him to 
 think? . . . The worst was, that Nina would 
 think as he did. 
 
 Next day Konald was ill. The child had 
 strayed into a patch of currant bushes and 
 gorged himself, and his carefully guarded 
 digestion had succumbed to the sudden shock; 
 he was prostrated with fever. Teresa stayed 
 beside him all day, banishing the nurse, to 
 whom she had given a furious scolding. In 
 the afternoon Konald wanted to be amused, 
 and tiring finally of the clay animals which 
 Teresa was modelling for him, he demanded " the 
 Man." This was his name for Crayven, for whom 
 he had had, at first, a great liking. Crayven had 
 given him a number of toys, and played with him
 
 T H E B O N D 317 
 
 delightfully, showing a genuine interest and 
 pleasure in the child. But of late this had fallen 
 off somewhat, and Teresa had more than one 
 compunctious memory of Ronald's small, lonely 
 figure and wistful glance as he besought her to 
 come and sail his boats or " play horse," but was 
 left behind while she went off with Crayven. 
 His fondness for " the Man " had visibly cooled, 
 and Teresa wondered what vague perception 
 might be stirring in his mind. Ronald knew 
 more than he could or would say, she was sure 
 of that; this characteristic of childhood he had 
 in unusual measure, being naturally reflective 
 and reserved. Teresa now, as she poured out her 
 tenderness for him, loving every lock of his dis- 
 hevelled bronze hair, every movement of his 
 dimpled brown hands, resolved to be much more 
 with him in future. She blamed herself for leav- 
 ing him so much to the nurse, whom she knew he 
 did not especially like. 
 
 At his reiterated demand she sent a note to 
 Crayven, who came over at once. 
 
 " I thought you might have been walking to- 
 day it's such wonderful weather," she said as 
 she took him to Ronald's room. 
 
 " No I thought perhaps you'd go out after 
 tea for a stroll." 
 
 " I can't, I'm afraid. Ronald can't bear the 
 sight of his nurse, now he's ill. I must stay with 
 him."
 
 318 T H E B O N D 
 
 Eonald greeted Crayven with a faint smile, 
 and listened indifferently to remarks about his 
 health and the advisability of letting currants 
 alone in future. Then he said : 
 
 " Want to see the tick-tick." 
 
 Crayven took out his repeater and rang the 
 hour, opened the case and showed the wheels. 
 Ronald devoted ten minutes to a grave considera- 
 tion of the watch, then said : " Show us the knife." 
 
 Crayven produced a bunch of gold trinkets 
 attached to a chain ; a cigarette- and match-case, 
 a cigar-cutter, a pencil, and penknife. These oc- 
 cupied Ronald for some twenty minutes. 
 
 " Have you got the dog?" he enquired next. 
 
 Crayven fetched his walking-stick, the top of 
 which was admirably carved into an animal-head, 
 and laid it on the bed, saying : 
 
 " I brought this for you to keep, old fellow. 
 It's yours now." 
 
 Ronald clutched the stick with an expression 
 of such joy that Teresa had not the heart to pro- 
 test, and smiled radiantly at Crayven, whose 
 dark eyes softened oddly as he looked at the 
 child and then up at Teresa. 
 
 " Now sing," said Ronald. 
 
 With a look at Teresa, Crayven said apolo- 
 getically : 
 
 " Well, old man, perhaps your mother would 
 rather I didn't. It makes a good deal of noise 
 in a room "
 
 T H E B O N D 319 
 
 " Sing! " said Ronald, and his face contracted 
 with a menace of tears. 
 
 " Oh, do, if you don't mind/' urged Teresa 
 hastily. 
 
 Crayven, with a deprecating smile, threw back 
 his head and gave the Moslem call to prayer, in 
 a clear, ringing, echoing falsetto, an astonishing 
 volume of sound, penetrating, strange, dying 
 away in a long melancholy high note. Ronald's 
 face lit up with a look of perfect satisfaction; 
 throwing out a toy elephant, which had occupied 
 the post of honour in his bed, and putting the 
 walking-stick in its place, he lay back on his 
 pillow, languidly content. 
 
 "Aunt Teresa, can I come in?" said a small, 
 sharp voice at the door. 
 
 It was Ernestine, befrilled and beplumed, 
 bringing a bunch of flowers for Ronald. 
 
 " Oh, poor little fellow," she murmured, 
 bending coquettishly over the bed to kiss him. 
 
 Ronald repulsed her vigorously and would 
 have none of the flowers. Ernestine had once 
 slapped him, and his dignified little personality 
 had never forgiven the affront. He now began 
 to cry with fatigue, and both the visitors had to 
 go. Crayven said, as he took Teresa's hand: 
 
 "This is good-bye for a day or so, I'm sorry 
 to say. I've had a telegram from Adela she ar- 
 rives to-night at Montreux for a few days. She's 
 motoring about. I'm going down by the night
 
 320 T H E B O N D 
 
 post. ... I wonder if you and your sister and 
 sister-in-law and Count Pepoli would conae down 
 for a day and lunch or dine with her? " 
 
 " I'll find out and telegraph you, or telephone," 
 said Teresa. 
 
 He gave her his hotel address, and, with a 
 melancholy look, and a long pressure of the hand, 
 departed. 
 
 The meeting was arranged for two days later. 
 Crayven had included Edith in his invitation, 
 though he was ordinarily barely courteous to her. 
 He disliked her, and her sad, melting smiles had 
 impressed him in exactly the opposite way to that 
 designed. He was, of course, not informed of her 
 present circumstances, and therefore her attitude 
 of the pathetic victim was lost upon him. It did 
 not occur to Nina that Edith would want to go 
 and lunch at Montreux. She had played the in- 
 valid ever since her nervous attack; appeared 
 not to be able to walk more than a few steps from 
 the house ; and declared that because of Egisto's 
 continued silence and his returning her letters 
 unopened, she could not sleep a moment without 
 the aid of drugs. Therefore, Nina was surprised 
 and discomfited when Edith announced her in- 
 tention of going with the others. 
 
 " I can't see how she can want to meet people 
 strangers just now, can you? " she said to 
 Teresa. " And I don't want to take her. There's 
 a party of them we don't know whom we may
 
 T H E B O N D 321 
 
 meet and it will look as though we'd definitely 
 taken her side, if anything comes out and I be- 
 lieve that's what she wants. Egisto would be 
 furious if he knew we were taking her about like 
 that. Ernesto doesn't want her to go. And it's 
 foolish from her own point of view her only 
 chance is in keeping quiet. I told her that, and 
 she cried, and said we treated her as if she were 
 a criminal, in disgrace. Well, so she is." 
 
 " The world is hard on women," said Teresa, 
 after a pause. " Poor thing." 
 
 " You mean I'm hard on her? But I " 
 
 " No, I don't mean you, I mean society in 
 general." 
 
 "Well, a woman can't be a fool, you know, 
 without paying for it. We are held more strictly 
 to account than men, if that's what you mean 
 but we all know it and know it must be so. I 
 wish you'd talk to her, Teresa. She thinks I'm 
 down on her, and Ernesto won't say a word. 
 She'll take it from you she likes you." 
 
 " Does she? I can't see why," said Teresa, re- 
 luctantly. 
 
 "Well, she does. Do make her see reason, 
 there's a good soul. I'm fairly bothered out of 
 my life. If she insists on going, I shall telegraph 
 that the whole thing is off." 
 
 Teresa did not want the whole thing to be off, 
 and, moved partly by this feeling and partly by 
 pity for Nina, she went up to Edith's room. It
 
 322 T H E B O N D 
 
 was midday, but Edith was not yet up. The 
 room smelt of perfumes and cigarettes and the 
 windows were shut, as there was a fog outside. 
 Edith lay in bed reading the Confessions of St. 
 Augustine, with her hair in curl papers. 
 
 " I've had an awful night," she said pathetic- 
 ally. "Nina knows I oughtn't to have any sort 
 of disturbance, and yet she made a scene yester- 
 day about my going down to Montreux. Don't 
 you think it's unkind of her to try to shut me up, 
 as though I were insane or something? " And 
 her chin quivered piteously. 
 
 " All the same, you mustn't go," said Teresa 
 calmly. 
 
 " Why not? Are you, too, against me? " 
 
 " You must do as Nina wishes, else she won't 
 help you and you need her. And if your hus- 
 band heard of your going about like that, he 
 wouldn't believe much in your well, it wouldn't 
 make him feel more kindly toward you, would it, 
 now? " 
 
 " It isn't from lack of feeling I wanted to go. 
 Heaven knows I feel things enough too much. 
 That's just it." 
 
 " Yes, I know, but I assure you, you mustn't 
 do it. You mustn't offend Nina." 
 
 Edith looked sullen, and after a pause cried 
 passionately : 
 
 " Shall I ever again be able to do anything I 
 choose or shall I be somebody's slave all my
 
 T H E B O N D 323 
 
 life? Oh, what a fool, what a fool I have been 
 to let people get me into their power this 
 way ! " 
 
 And she began to weep again with rage and 
 nervous misery, crumpling up the St. Augustine 
 under her feverish, flabby body. 
 
 Teresa felt a shudder of pitying repulsion. 
 How was it possible that anyone could so utterly * 
 go to pieces morally, could so sink to be, as 
 Edith herself had said, the slave of other people? 
 Weakness made one a slave, true but not nec- 
 essarily as Nina meant when she pointed her 
 moral with Edith. Edith had been a fool but 
 she might have done whatever she had done, and 
 not have been a fool. To love was not folly it 
 was only folly to be trivial. 
 
 
 
 Two days later Teresa drove down with the 
 Pepolis, and without Edith, reluctant to leave 
 Ronald for a whole day, though he was now quite 
 recovered, but unable to resist her curiosity to 
 see Crayven's wife. It was hot in the plain, com- 
 ing down out of the freshness of the mountain 
 heights; and the little town of Montreux glit- 
 tered meretriciously in imitation smartness, 
 crowded in between the hills and the swimming 
 turquoise-blue of the lake. The luncheon-party 
 had the same air of smartness, the misfortune of 
 which was that it, too, had a factitious air. 
 Adela Crayven and her friends were all of the
 
 324 T H E B O N D 
 
 same tone a tone maintained as artificially as 
 were their looks. They all had the air of exist- 
 ing on stimulants, of one sort or another, and of 
 dreading a single lapse from briskness. 
 
 Adela was a woman who suggested forty years 
 by the very elaboration of her youthful get- 
 up; beautifully dressed, wonderfully cared-for, 
 'breathing a luxury which could never forget 
 itself for a moment. She was tall and blonde, 
 and her porcelain-blue eyes had a look of know- 
 ing the price of everything, and of being quite 
 determined to have the worth of her money. She 
 greeted Teresa without effusion, with a certain 
 frank, amused curiosity; much in the same way 
 she seemed to regard her husband, but without 
 the curiosity. 
 
 Ernesto was in his element and happy, dis- 
 cussing the frivolous menu and flirting to right 
 and left ; Nina was out of it. Teresa, placed be- 
 tween Crayven and the other man of the party, 
 a bald young man with a drooping blonde mous- 
 tache and an eye as knowing as Adela's, but more 
 languid, felt a keener liking, a keener sympathy, 
 . for Crayven. They two, after all, belonged to the 
 same world a world which ignored Adela's, as 
 she ignored theirs. She was thoroughly glad to 
 have seen Crayven's wife, to have this additional 
 light on him, and to feel that he had wanted her 
 to have it. The marriage itself was a mystery to 
 her. Adela apparently had the money. Why
 
 T H E B O N D 325 
 
 had she married Crayven? Why had he been 
 willing to marry her? 
 
 Teresa was quite aware that her own position 
 in the company was that of " Crayven's flame.'* 
 Adela, no doubt, had heralded her in that capac- 
 ity to her friends. She could see it in the eyes 
 of the other two women mother and daughter, 
 with a puzzlingly equal quality of jaded youth. 
 She knew that Crayven's plan for the summer 
 had been altered because of her, and undoubtedly 
 Adela knew it, too. Possibly he had been ex- 
 pected to join the motoring-party. That seemed 
 unlikely, yet a few words of Adela's indicated it. 
 Nothing, at any rate, was farther from his idea 
 at present, as he plainly showed. 
 
 The luncheon prolonged itself in liqueurs and 
 cigarettes till after three o'clock. Ernesto ar- 
 ranged that they should all meet again for tea, 
 to the music of the band. Then he was to dine 
 with Adela, who was obviously pleased with him ; 
 but Nina and Teresa started at six on their drive 
 back up the mountain. Crayven said, as he put 
 them into the carriage : 
 
 " They're all off to-morrow, thank heaven. I 
 shall come up by the late post." 
 
 Next morning came a telephone message from 
 Ernesto to Nina, ordering clothes to be sent 
 down to him by special messenger. He was going 
 off for a fortnight in the motor. Nina sent the 
 clothes, and came to pour out her woes to Teresa.
 
 326 T H E B O N D 
 
 " When he knows that we came up here only 
 to have a cheap summer, and that it's absolutely 
 necessary for us to economise! Heaven knows 
 what he won't spend now expensive hotels and 
 
 cards and Did you see how that woman 
 
 looked at him? She just put out her hand and 
 gathered him in and he, of course anybody 
 can make a fool of Ernesto ! I must say, Teresa, 
 I think your Mr. Crayven would do well to go 
 and look after his wife, instead of " 
 
 " Poor man," said Teresa feelingly. " It's 
 quite evident now why he lives in the desert, isn't 
 it?" 
 
 But Nina's sense of injury, though its expres- 
 sion died away inarticulately, remained. Teresa 
 felt that she was blamed because Ernesto had 
 gone off in the motor, whereas the real reason 
 undoubtedly was that his domestic situation was 
 uncomfortable and boring.
 
 VII 
 
 THREE days later, without warning, Egisto 
 di Pepoli arrived. He walked into the 
 drawing-room where Nina, Teresa, and Crayven 
 were taking tea a rather short, powerfully 
 made man with a ruddy face and gleaming black 
 eyes. Teresa had never seen him before, but 
 Nina sprang to her feet and cried, " Egisto ! " 
 
 He kissed her cheek perfunctorily, bowed to 
 the others, and said, abruptly, " Where is 
 Edith?" 
 
 " Lying down with a headache," Nina said. 
 She had turned quite pale. 
 
 " Will you tell her I am here? " 
 
 Nina went into the hall, beckoning to Teresa. 
 
 " Don't go," she whispered. " But do get 
 Crayven away there's going to be an awful row. 
 You wait up in my room, will you? Don't go, 
 Teresa I don't know what will happen. . . ." 
 
 She seemed terrified, and was urging Teresa to 
 take Crayven away, and not to leave her, when 
 Crayven himself came out to take leave. His face 
 was inexpressive, but it was clear that he had 
 felt something of the situation. He went away ; 
 Teresa stood on the verandah for a moment with 
 him, and promised a long walk next day " if 
 I can," she added absently. 
 
 327
 
 328 T H E B O N D 
 
 His eyes rested on her with a look of separat- 
 ing her from the rest of the world a soft, im- 
 perious look. 
 
 " You must come I've only a few days left," 
 he said. 
 
 Then he walked away slowly, and Teresa went 
 upstairs. As she reached the landing a door 
 opened and Nina came out with Edith. Edith 
 passed Teresa without seeing her, and Teresa 
 stared at her, fascinated. Edith was wrapped in 
 a silk dressing-gown, her hair was carelessly 
 rolled up; she had not stopped to think of her 
 appearance. Her face was pale, her blue eyes 
 looked intensely dark and large, her mouth was 
 firmly set. Teresa did not know the flabby crea- 
 ture who had wept and hung upon them all. 
 She held herself erect and walked quickly down- 
 stairs, and half-way down she turned and said 
 with calm resolution: 
 
 " No, Nina, I don't want you." 
 
 Nina stopped, her hand on the railing, till 
 Edith had gone into the drawing-room and shut 
 the door. The two sisters, in Nina's room, could 
 hear the murmur of voices echoing between the 
 wooden walls. At first it was only Egisto's voice, 
 harsh and vehement, pouring out a flood of rapid 
 staccato Italian. Then Edith's, ringing and 
 hard. Then the two together, rising in key, till 
 what they said was audible. Nina shut her door 
 and sat down, putting her hands over her ears.
 
 329 
 
 " Thank heaven, they're talking it out," she 
 said. " I was afraid he'd come up to murder her. 
 . . . But, oh, the talking's bad enough. You've 
 no idea what an Italian family row is like ! " 
 
 Teresa got some idea of what it was like as the 
 voices went on for an hour ; Egisto's like a bull's 
 bellow; Edith's breaking in, sharp and hard as 
 steel, gradually predominating, bearing down 
 with a sheer nervous intensity of will, under 
 which, at last, the male violence sank into an ex- 
 hausted mumble. Nina sat the whole time with 
 her hands over her ears and an expression of 
 such misery on her face that Teresa went and 
 put her arms about her. 
 
 " Don't feel so about them I daresay it will 
 come out all right," she urged. 
 
 " It can't come right ! " cried Nina. " She will 
 get the better of him now she'll get her way. 
 But she's bad bad ! " 
 
 Suddenly the door below was flung open and 
 Egisto cried out for Nina. She sprang up and 
 ran downstairs. Teresa heard a confused mur- 
 mur, then Nina called out to her to bring some 
 water and the smelling-salts from Edith's room. 
 She got a glass of water, but could not find the 
 salts. As she came out on the landing they were 
 bringing Edith upstairs. Nina was supporting 
 her, but after mounting a few steps Edith's tall 
 figure seemed to collapse. She wavered back 
 toward Egisto, who was a step below, and with
 
 330 T H E B O N D 
 
 an exclamation he pushed Nina aside, gathered 
 his wife up in his arms and carried her upstairs, 
 stumbling once or twice on her loose gown. 
 Teresa saw his face, drawn and passionate; hate 
 was in it, and a feeling stronger than hate. And 
 over his shoulder, as he brushed past her, she saw 
 the white face of the victorious woman a cruel 
 face, with lowered eyelids and contented mouth. 
 
 That night Edith kept her room, and kept 
 Egisto beside her. Her maid was hurriedly pack- 
 ing. They were to leave the next morning. 
 Egisto had made his conditions. Edith was to go 
 to the family place at Castiglione di Pepoli and 
 live there with her mother-in-law, whom she 
 hated, at Egisto's pleasure. She yielded without 
 question, having won her victory; other things 
 could be arranged later. 
 
 Nina kept Teresa to dinner, which neither of 
 them could eat. Ernestine was with them, her 
 cheeks aflame, asking inconvenient questions, 
 which the governess pretended to repress. The 
 murmur of those two voices, heard now from 
 above, seemed somehow to fill the house. The 
 closed room and its drama was in the thoughts 
 of all, even the uncanny child was preoccupied 
 with it. Teresa felt herself trembling with desire 
 to be gone. An overwhelming sense of disgust 
 was upon her. She fled as soon as the farce of 
 dinner was over, and walked alone through the
 
 T H E B O N D 331 
 
 fields in the soft night, where starlight, and the 
 cool breath sifting down from the mountain- 
 peaks, and the murmur of the streams, quieted 
 after a time her racked nerves. It was not alto- 
 gether clear to her why this event should disurb 
 her so deeply, why she should so hate the whole 
 affair and want passionately as she did to erase 
 it from her mind. Above all she desired that 
 Crayven should not know of it, and she wondered 
 how much he did know. At least he would not 
 speak of it. 
 
 But she knew what he would think of it, what 
 Basil would think, what any man she knew would 
 think the light contempt that would be Edith's 
 portion from them all. Men were harder on 
 women than other women, she thought. No man 
 was above taking his advantage from a woman's 
 weakness none that would not despise her for 
 it after. Men were more conventional than 
 women, she thought. Basil was conventional in 
 that way, Crayven undoubtedly was. . . . 
 
 There was the other side, too. Women took 
 terrible revenges. There were men possessed, as 
 Egisto was, by a passion that carried hatred with 
 it, a pure torment. There were women who 
 reached out for men, captured them perhaps for 
 a month or a year as Isabel had done. Only in 
 this case, too, the woman usually got the worst 
 of it. Isabel, she was fairly sure, had got the 
 worst of it. What could a woman do, in fact, and
 
 332 T H E B O N D 
 
 not get the worst of it? Absolute faithfulness to 
 a man meant being treated as Nina was treated, 
 as Basil had treated her. She stopped still in 
 the middle of the road, her head bowed and her 
 hands clenched in the physical suffering that 
 always came with this thought. It hurt her too 
 much the sting of it had only grown sharper 
 with time and she saw that it might be a per- 
 petual suffering, and that she could never get 
 free from Basil, no matter what he did. He 
 was to her what Edith was to Egisto a passion 
 and she felt that she might hate him, too. One 
 could not help hating unkindness, selfishness, 
 hardness and Basil had injured her, had made 
 her harder and more indifferent about hurting 
 him. No more that that. She wanted to hurt 
 him. 
 
 She walked on a few steps and stopped again, 
 and repeated to herself, recognising it fully for 
 the first time, that she wanted to hurt Basil. 
 And it would be easy to hurt him he had shown 
 himself susceptible enough. He had even said 
 that she could make him suffer infinitely more 
 than she could suffer through him. The world 
 said, too, that a man's infidelity was nothing; 
 even the wife's pride need not suffer because of 
 it. ... Well, all that she knew was that she 
 suffered, world or no world, convention or no 
 convention and that the pain of her jealousy 
 was as sharp as her love of Basil's beauty. . . .
 
 ,T H E B O N D 333 
 
 His face came up before her now, as she stood 
 with closed eyes its clear, vigorous lines, the 
 beautiful mouth, the keen eyes and tawny hair. 
 It seemed to her that a year had gone since she 
 left him. All the same, she would not go back 
 until. . . . 
 
 She went on, shaking her head; and moodily 
 wondered, on a sudden, what was Crayven's real 
 idea of her. She had not heretofore cared much 
 what it was. She had liked him, and had taken 
 him as an anodyne to her mental pain. He was 
 the only person near her at present who did not 
 throw her back distressingly upon herself. It 
 was his strength that he was a stranger to her, 
 that he gave her, a new outlook, different ideas, 
 and, perhaps, feelings. With him all her in- 
 stincts for gaiety, for play, woke again. She had 
 been conscious that she was charming him, that 
 there was an emotional element in their relation, 
 and she had done nothing to guard against it. 
 Nina's protest was not necessary to show her 
 that she had been unconventional. But she had 
 a serene contempt for convention and, at bottom, 
 in spite of her desire to be liked, for other peo- 
 ple's opinion of her. In the people she liked, she 
 counted upon enough intelligence to see her for 
 what she was. 
 
 But after all, what did she know really about 
 Crayven's intelligence? All that she did know 
 of him went to show that his relations with hu-
 
 THE BOND 
 
 man beings had not been successful. His love- 
 affair his marriage both had been failures. 
 There must be a lack of comprehension in him, of 
 himself, of people, of life. His matter-of-fact bit- 
 terness, the aridity of his feeling about the world, 
 showed that.' It did not show lack of feeling 
 but disappointment, frustration. An emotion 
 of pity and of tenderness for him stirred in her, 
 and regret for what she felt had been her own 
 egotistic attitude toward him. She had not 
 really thought of him at all, but only of the pleas- 
 ure he gave her. Now she began to care how she 
 appeared to him, to care for his feeling about 
 her, to wonder how far it was genuine, to desire 
 that it should not be any commonplace sense of 
 adventure that attracted him. She felt suddenly 
 insecure, and both proud and humble con- 
 scious of the faults she had shown him, no longer 
 indifferent to his opinion of them, but not able 
 to endure the thought that he should take her at 
 anything but her best. . . . But what was her 
 best, after all? Why should anyone seriously 
 like her? She sat down on a bench by the road- 
 side, and bowed her head in real humility. It 
 was still early evening, and groups of people from 
 the hotels passed by before her. Down the one 
 street, in a glare of electric light, the band was 
 playing sentimental w r altzes. She felt suddenly 
 very much alone, very small. " An egotist 
 that's what I am," she was saying to herself.
 
 T H E B O N D 335 
 
 Why should anyone care for her unless it were 
 indeed with that amour passion which takes no 
 account of liking or disliking, approval or dis- 
 approval? She had that feeling for Basil, and 
 she doubted that he had it for her. What he had 
 for her was really the amour gout; he found her 
 amusing, he delighted in her beauty, he had ten- 
 derness for her, deep affection but he had not 
 the passion that could bind him to her beyond 
 possibility of change. Here here was the rea- 
 son of her intense feeling at the discovery of his 
 relation with another woman. Instinct told her 
 had told her from the first that she might 
 lose him. Her jealousy was a spasm of fear. 
 . . . She thought of Edith and of the look on 
 Egisto's dark face. There was a man who was 
 held who was forced to act in spite of himself, 
 against his will, by a woman he despised at 
 heart. And it was in that way that she herself 
 was held. There must be something base in such 
 
 a passion . But, no! something in her cried 
 
 out it was terrible, terribly beautiful, deep as 
 the nature that held it, deeper than right OP 
 wrong. She had wished sometimes that she could 
 kill her love for Basil but she knew that with it 
 would go her life.
 
 ym 
 
 YOU might call it fidelity to type, I suppose," 
 said Crayven, with an odd, twisted smile. 
 "At any rate, there it is. I don't expect it to 
 make any difference to you why should it? You 
 have your own life happy, or at least full of 
 interest. You don't need me. I saw that from 
 the first. But if it had been different good 
 Lord, what a difference ! " 
 
 " How different? " murmured Teresa. 
 
 " Oh, if you had not been bound really 
 bound I would have taken you away with me. 
 You would like the life out there or if not, I'd 
 have gone anywhere, done anything else you 
 liked. I've money enough, and Adela could 
 shift for herself. I could divorce her any day." 
 
 Crayven's eyes gleamed hard and fierce. In 
 emotion, the strain of un-English blood in him 
 came out strongly. He was another creature. 
 The imperious will to live and to enjoy, the un- 
 reflective, passionate surge of life, had broken up 
 and swept away all the mask of indifference and 
 control. His face was ten years younger. 
 
 Teresa looked at him, fascinated. He set a 
 new world about her. The strange possibilities 
 of life the fact that all one's life might have 
 
 336
 
 T H E B O N D 337 
 
 been different might even be different rushed 
 upon her in a dizzying flood. Her world seemed 
 suddenly to become unreal, pale she lost her 
 grasp upon it, in the feeling that another choice 
 had been possible. And something deep in her 
 answered to Crayven's emotion a deep corre- 
 spondence of temperament, some sort of inevit- 
 able affinity. And a wild sense of the adventure 
 of life, a desire to set back once more the bound- 
 aries of experience, to launch into the unfamiliar, 
 stirred in her. 
 
 " Strange I could have loved you," she said 
 wonderingly. 
 
 " Then love me ! Good God ! if you only knew 
 how lonely I am how stale life seems to me! 
 I want a little happiness before I die ! " 
 
 He was sitting beside her on the turf, and now 
 he flung himself full-length, hiding his face on 
 his arms. 
 
 Before them the green meadow sloped sharply 
 to the edge of a precipice, below which, two thou- 
 sand feet below, lay the valley they had climbed 
 from. Behind them lay a tiny lake, fed by a 
 glacier, and the sheer, naked, rough walls of 
 rock, the untrodden peaks of the range. The 
 horizon was one round of serrated peaks. They 
 were in absolute solitude. Far below in the val- 
 ley cow-bells tinkled faintly; and a swarm of 
 insects danced and hummed in the warm sun 
 over the meadow-flowers.
 
 338 T H E B O N D 
 
 Teresa was silent. Clasping her hands about 
 her knees she gazed inscrutably at the blue cone 
 of a mountain that rose in France. The sun 
 burned her shoulders, the distant snow sparkled 
 coolly, a light wind swept the feathery tops of 
 the grass and the purple hare-bells. 
 
 " What a delicious day," she said vaguely. 
 
 Then, after a silence, how long it was she did 
 not know, she said: 
 
 " I wish I could." 
 
 At last Crayven moved, sat up, took out his 
 cigarette-case. 
 
 " Will you have one? " he said with a tired 
 smile. 
 
 She looked at his eyes there had been tears 
 in them and bent forward and kissed him. 
 
 " I do love you," she said softly. 
 
 " Ah, yes," he murmured resignedly. " That 
 way." 
 
 " That way? Are there so many ways, then? " 
 
 " There's only one way. Either it is that or it 
 isn't. . . . But I knew it from the first. I 
 saw that you were satisfied." 
 
 " Satisfied ! I'm anything but that." 
 
 " Oh, you may not be happy, but you're satis- 
 fied. You have no need of anyone. . . . And 
 I think it was partly that that attracted me in 
 you that's the irony of my fate! There's 
 nothing beautiful about a need unless one hap- 
 pens to have the response to it. It's absurd to
 
 T H E B O N D 339 
 
 be hungry, at my time of life. Don't you find 
 me very absurd? " 
 
 " I find you very appealing." 
 
 " Oh," he murmured. " It's hard to be absurd 
 twice over." 
 
 " Oh, it's life that's absurd. There's such 
 horrid waste in it," said Teresa, almost angrily. 
 " I don't see why one shouldn't love where one 
 likes." 
 
 "Because love's like hunger. When it's satis- 
 fied you're not hungry any more, that's all. 
 Brown bread and cheese may satisfy you and 
 then it doesn't matter if Lucullus asks you to 
 dinner I don't mean that I'm Lucullus ! . . . 
 We can't bear loneliness, any of us. Do you 
 remember Maupassant's ' Solitude '? It's that 
 solitude that we're driven at any cost to get away 
 from. We can't stand too much of ourselves. 
 We must have somebody who answers us ... 
 and most of us never find that person. But 
 you've found it." 
 
 "Have I? I don't know. I thought I had. 
 But who really knows or understands another 
 person, after all? " 
 
 " Not all at once. But it comes. And the 
 process of finding out is interesting." 
 
 " Not always pleasant. There are some things 
 one would prefer not to find out." 
 
 " What things, for example? " 
 
 " Well other women."
 
 340 T H E B O N D 
 
 "But there are always other women. Man 
 isn't a monogamous animal. How little they 
 count, though, when there's the one ! Don't you 
 know that, you foolish, adorable child? " 
 
 " They count to the one," said Teresa, moodily. 
 
 " Surely it's what they count for to the man 
 that matters." 
 
 "Well, how is one to know how much they 
 count for? Of course, he always says it's 
 nothing." 
 
 " And very likely he tells the truth. But you 
 never will understand. ... So you have 
 quarrelled with him? " 
 
 " Yes, I have quarrelled." 
 
 "Foolish creature! Why should you care? 
 You must always be the main one., No man could 
 ever get tired of you." 
 
 " I don't care about being the favourite in a 
 harem. I wish I were like him." 
 
 " You are foolish. . . . But you'll work out 
 of it all right. I wish look here, Teresa, do you 
 know what made me half -wild to-day? For I 
 was. . . . I've had despatches there's trouble 
 threatening out there, and I shall have to go back, 
 any moment. I wish I could take you with me. 
 Not exactly where the Turks may come down on 
 us any minute but I'd like to carry you off 
 where he'd never find you. Why do you happen 
 to be in love with him? I'd bolt the Turks, and 
 we'd be off to the South Seas somewhere." Cray-
 
 T H E B O N D 341 
 
 ven laughed excitedly, and took her hand and 
 kissed it. " Never mind, I shall take what I can 
 get! You do like me, don't you? " 
 
 " Very much. I should like to run away with 
 you, Turks or no Turks." 
 
 " Keckless Teresa ! Would he mind your lik- 
 ing me, even as much as you do? Is he jealous? " 
 
 " He'd mind enormously, if he knew how much 
 I like you. That's one reason I like to do it. I 
 shall tell him." 
 
 " You will? " said Crayven drily. " Then why 
 shouldn't you have more to tell? If I'm to be 
 the instrument of chastisement for an erring hus- 
 band, let me at least be an effective one." 
 
 " Oh, if you're going to be sarcastic at my ex- 
 pense, I shall go home." 
 
 Teresa sprang up and turned to look at the 
 glacier and the towering rocks, among whose 
 peaks a few fleecy clouds were tangled. 
 
 " I shall not go back by that tiresome path," 
 she said. " I want to cut across there." 
 
 She pointed to a spur of the hill up which a 
 trail had been worn by falling water. 
 
 " It's steeper than it looks. Much better stick 
 to the beaten path." 
 
 " I'm tired of the beaten path ! Come along." 
 
 Crayven rose slowly and followed. 
 
 " I'll come along. But I warn you, you may 
 get into difficulties. That's all sliding slate 
 above."
 
 342 T H E B O N D 
 
 " I thought you were a mountaineer ! " 
 
 " I am. That's why I know that a path is bet- 
 ter than an apparently easy short-cut especially 
 for a woman. Suppose you sprain your ankle 
 on that slate? I should have to carry you all 
 the way back to Anthemoz. Do you realise how 
 lonely it is here? There isn't a human being 
 within two miles of us." He came close to her. 
 His eyes still burned with an excited fire. 
 
 " Don't be foolish," he said in a low voice. " I 
 shall go where you lead. I'm not your lord and 
 master." 
 
 " I have none never had," said Teresa firmly. 
 " Come." 
 
 She hurried on to the beginning of the sharp 
 ascent, and began to climb, catching at tufts of 
 coarse grass to help herself up. Soon there was 
 no more grass nothing but loose stones and 
 crumbling slate. But she went on, with deter- 
 mination and a sense of joy in her recklessness. 
 What had looked like an easy ascent now towered 
 above her, straight up, a wall of rock covered 
 with treacherous debris. She turned, bracing 
 herself carefully, and looked down. Crayven was 
 just behind her. Over his shoulder she caught 
 a sudden glimpse of the abyss that seemed to 
 open below them there seemed nothing to stop 
 the fall and the circle of mountain-peaks swam 
 before her eyes. 
 
 " Dizzy? Want to come down? " he enquired.
 
 T H E B O N D 343 
 
 His smile irritated her, and she turned and 
 went on, choosing a difficult and uncertain foot- 
 hold with each step. A little further above, the 
 mild eminence which had lured her on suddenly 
 reared a vertical surface, as high again as the 
 distance she had climbed. She looked, aghast, 
 her foot slipped and she went sliding down on a 
 fall of loose slate. Crayven caught her, but he, 
 too, slipped down a dozen feet, and they just 
 saved themselves, clinging flat on the treacherous 
 surface, from a bad fall. They had no alpen- 
 stocks, for the climb, except for this deviation of 
 Teresa's, was an easy one. Crayven cautiously 
 lifted himself, found a firm point of rock, and 
 helped Teresa to her feet. 
 
 " Give me your hand, and come down," he said 
 sharply. 
 
 " Oh, please, let me do it by myself ! I can get 
 
 down and I'm afraid of making you slip " 
 
 she said, rather frightened. 
 
 " Give me your hand ! " 
 
 She obeyed. The descent was much more 
 difficult than the climb. Looking down, the 
 height was a dizzy one, and each step had to be 
 taken with slow care, Crayven half-supporting 
 her. Even so she reached the bottom with her 
 dress stained with dirt and grass, her arms 
 stained, her hands scratched by the rough stones. 
 She sank down on the ground, her head swim- 
 ming.
 
 344 T H E B O N D 
 
 "Horrid little tiling!" she cried. "Who 
 would have thought it was such a monster as 
 that! I was sure I could do it easily." 
 
 " Next time you'll know better. I was a fool 
 to let you try it," said Crayven grimly. He took 
 her drinking-cup and brought some water from 
 the stream. Teresa drank and smiled at him 
 pensively. 
 
 "Were we really in danger?" she asked. 
 
 " Oh, we might have got a very nasty fall 
 and there wouldn't have been any first aid to the 
 injured." 
 
 " Well, why did you let me do it, then? You 
 said it was dangerous." 
 
 " That's right blame me. I told you I was a 
 fool. Always have been epecially where women 
 are concerned and they know it." 
 
 " Well," said Teresa, confidentially, " I have 
 never known a nice man who wasn't." 
 
 " Thank you for the adjective. When you've 
 rested a bit we'd better go down to the chalet 
 and get some warm milk. I thought you were 
 going to faint when I'd got you down." 
 
 " Nonsense, that would have been too tactless. 
 I feel perfectly all right, except that my shoulder 
 is strained and I'm covered with bruises and my 
 hands are cut. I shouldn't mind if only I'd got 
 to the top. I hate having to pay for something 
 I haven't got." 
 
 " Then you shouldn't want something you
 
 T H E B O N D 345 
 
 can't get," said Crayven, sombrely. " I am an 
 excellent person to preach on that text." 
 
 As she did not move he sat down again beside 
 her. 
 
 " I do not believe," said Teresa, " that you 
 are as badly off as you make out. If you were 
 you wouldn't admit it. The real bankrupts 
 never do." 
 
 " You don't believe I care for you, then? " 
 
 " As the pale shadow of Rosamond, perhaps ! " 
 
 She was punished for her coquetry for Cray- 
 ven's rough and passoniate kiss woke nothing but 
 repulsion in her. She sprang away from him and 
 stood trembling with a desire to weep. She had 
 turned quite white. After a moment she began 
 to walk away from him down the slope. 
 
 " Not that way," he said coldly. " The path is 
 here." 
 
 He went on ahead and she turned and followed 
 him. Presently he stopped and waited, with his 
 back to her and his head bent, looking at the 
 ground, till she came near. Then he faced her. 
 
 " You should not play with me," he said 
 hoarsely. 
 
 " No, I should not," she said. 
 
 She passed him and went on down to the chalet 
 where shiftless human beings, cattle, pigs, and 
 chickens huddled together on the very edge of 
 the majestic cliffs. There Teresa drank her 
 warm milk, sitting on a bench in the sun, while
 
 346 T H E B O N D 
 
 Crayven walked back and forth behind her, 
 nervously smoking one cigarette after another. 
 Teresa felt suddenly very tired, and her strained 
 shoulder ached furiously. There was a long walk 
 still before them. But she had quite got back 
 her composure, and when she had finished the 
 milk she was ready to start at once. 
 
 " Won't you rest half an hour? You must be 
 tired," said Crayven, with pleading eyes. 
 
 " No, I'd rather 20 on." she answered indif- 
 ferently. 
 
 They went silently along the winding path 
 down the hot, stony hillside w T here grey herbs 
 sent out a sharp fragrance, and into the depths of 
 the pine-forest, dusky, cool, and sweet. Teresa, 
 still pale and looking melancholy, walked ahead 
 in the narrow path, but when it widened Crayven 
 Walked beside her. At last he said : 
 
 " Don't be too angry with me. . . . Did you 
 hate so to have me touch you? " 
 
 " I'm not angry. ... I don't know don't 
 talk about it," she said impatiently. 
 
 He uttered not a word after that. About them 
 the sleepy, alluring silence of the forest stretched 
 out, glade after glade, mossy, fresh, untrodden, 
 with a light dreamy motion in its high crests, 
 with a soft murmur in its distances.
 
 IX 
 
 THAT evening Teresa sat watching the bridge- 
 table in Nina's drawing-room. Ernesto had 
 come back from his week in the motor, bland 
 and content with himself, and full of stories 
 and silences about Adela Crayven. At present 
 he and Crayven were playing against the bellicose 
 .Vicomte, whose duel somehow had not come off, 
 and his sister, and Ernesto, as always, was ex- 
 citedly absorbed in the game. 
 
 "Contre!" he cried, when "no trumps" had 
 been declared against him, slapping his cards 
 down on the table and folding his arms fren- 
 ziedly. He played out the hand fiercely, pound- 
 ing each trick with his fist as he took it in and 
 turned it; lost the odd; and leaned across the 
 table, demanding of his partner with con- 
 centrated fury: 
 
 " For God's sake, why didn't you lead me a 
 heart!" 
 
 " Heart? Heart? " said Crayven vaguely. " I 
 don't think I had one." 
 
 " You had ! Haven't you just played the king 
 on my ace? You've lost us the game ! " 
 
 " Very sorry, indeed," murmured Crayven. 
 
 " Sorry ! " snorted Ernesto, dealing round a 
 fresh pack with desperation. 
 
 347
 
 348 T H E B O N D 
 
 Nina, crocheting on an endless piece of white 
 wool, glanced at him with alarmed sympathy, 
 and Teresa smiled faintly. Ernesto was never 
 ill-tempered except at cards, but his card-man- 
 ners were atrocious. Teresa always remembered, 
 when she saw him at play, the phrase of a clever 
 Italian, " Siamo civili mas non civili" No, 
 decidedly, Ernesto was not civilised. The pas- 
 sion to win swept away all his surface civility. 
 
 Crayven was undeniably an irritating partner. 
 To-night he was playing his worst; it was clear 
 that his mind was anywhere but on the game. 
 Teresa, from where she sat, a little behind him, 
 glanced now and then at his grave profile, the 
 weary droop of his eyelids. Midway in the last 
 game of the rubber she got up and said good- 
 night to Nina. Ernesto, studying his cards with 
 knitted brows, did not notice her move till the 
 other two men at the table rose; then he pro- 
 tested : 
 
 " Oh, don't go now ! Wait a few minutes and 
 cut in, Teresa, we're almost done you take 
 Crayven's place, or mine." 
 
 "No, I'm tired I don't want to play," she 
 said, with a perverse pleasure in Crayven's look 
 of suppressed anger. She knew he had come only 
 in order to walk home with her, but she had not 
 meant that he should ; and now she went away, 
 firmly refusing any escort. It was only a few 
 steps to the hotel. But, in the one lighted street
 
 THE BOND 3 49 
 
 of the little town, she turned the other way and 
 walked slowly, past the lights of the village, out 
 on the quiet road that led down to a bridge over 
 the brawling Vieze. The night was cool, and a 
 current of colder air, swept down by the stream, 
 made her shiver slightly as she wrapped her 
 cloak about her and leaned to look down at the 
 foaming water. She was extremely tired, but 
 nervous restlessness and melancholy dominated 
 her physical fatigue. That was the impression 
 the day had left with her a mordant melancholy 
 and she had seen the same thing in Crayven's 
 face that evening. What had happened, after 
 all, and why was it that suddenly all had fallen 
 to ruins in their relation to one another? Why 
 was it that at a touch that world of which he was 
 the centre, and which had for a moment beck- 
 oned to her, had crumbled away, vanished like 
 a mirage? It was gone, and she felt desolately 
 ennuyee. 
 
 Hard reality stared her in the face the 
 sense of her bondage. She was not free for a 
 moment, she could never love Crayven nor any- 
 one else. Something far deeper than convention, 
 which she would willingly have thrown over- 
 board, bound her, body and soul. She liked 
 Crayven thoroughly, she felt affection for him, 
 and in her rebellion she wished passionately that 
 she could care more for him or could be deceived 
 into thinking she cared but she could not. All 
 
 > 
 
 x*\ /
 
 350 T H E B O N D 
 
 that pleasant, shimmering illusion of possibility 
 was gone. He was more sympathetic to her in 
 many ways than Basil, she even liked him better, 
 but she had no real emotion for him. Basil had 
 taken it all all ! He had taken her whole self, 
 her will, her imagination, her entire power of 
 loving. She was drained of it all. There was 
 nothing left. She was bound bound ! And she 
 wept with anger as she realised how completely 
 
 she was delivered into his hands, how vain had 
 
 ' 
 
 been her pretense that she could do without him, 
 could " console " herself. He might be unfaith- 
 ful, but she never could. How strange was that 
 bond, deeper than the will, deeper than any 
 sympathy of mind, taking no account of the many 
 things in him that she deeply disliked, of the fact 
 that she really disliked his character! It. was 
 infinitely more than a physical bond, it was a 
 passion of the soul. How strange and how ter- 
 rible ! 
 
 She looked up at the mountain-chain, black 
 as midnight, cutting with its jagged edge the 
 starry sky; and all its mass suddenly seemed to 
 her an illusion, something immaterial that might 
 I Y dissolve away at a breath. Why was she here in 
 the midst of this unreality, this play-scene set 
 for a drama which did not begin? She felt as 
 though she were in a dream one of those fatigu- 
 ing nightmares where endless time passes in 
 preparation for something that never happens.
 
 T H E B O N D 351 
 
 Longing caught at her heart desire for the one 
 reality, even though a wounding one, in this 
 world of shadow. 
 
 When she met Crayven next day she was 
 sweetly gentle to him. She seemed to want to 
 show her liking for him, to forget the untoward 
 incident at Anthemoz; and Crayven, at first a 
 little bewildered by her kindness, ended by ac- 
 cepting it sadly. They went out as usual after 
 tea into the forest. Teresa had never seen Cray- 
 ven so intensely melancholy, so almost childish 
 in his depression. He was unreasonable and 
 petulant as a child whom one tries to console for 
 the deprivation of sweets to-day by the promise 
 of a walk to-morrow. All his strength and grip 
 of himself were in abeyance. He complained, 
 and Teresa tried to coax him. She offered to 
 write to him when he went away, which must 
 be, she knew, within a few days. 
 
 " Oh, letters," he said ungraciously. " What 
 are they, when I can't see you? " 
 
 " Oh, you will like them," she said. " Surely 
 you don't want me to disappear altogether." 
 
 " You will disappear. What does a mere 
 friendly liking count, after all? You'll forget 
 all about me in three months. I shall be only an 
 incident. I wish it had never happened. I wish 
 I'd never seen you. I've been shaken up and 
 bothered for nothing just as I was settling com-
 
 T H E B O N D 
 
 fortably into middle-ago, and not caring whether 
 anyone cared much for me or not ! Oh, well, 
 no fool like a middle-aged fool. I hope I shall 
 get knocked on the head in this row, if there's 
 going to be one that'll make it all right." 
 
 " Don't be Byronic. I never thought you were 
 sentimental." 
 
 " Yes, but I am. I want to be. Bear with me 
 for a little. ... I want a photograph of you. 
 Have you got one? " 
 
 " Not here, but I'll send you one." 
 
 This time Teresa was careful not to say any- 
 thing about Rosamond. The hour for coquetry 
 was decidedly past, and the freedom of their 
 earlier talks. She was oppressed by Crayven's 
 seriousness, and a little frightened by it. 
 
 " That's all I shall have of you," he said 
 moodily. " A photograph that won't give me 
 anything real of you not your beautiful 
 colour, nor all that changing expression of your 
 face. But don't forget that I have cared a lot 
 about you don't forget. I'm a constant brute, a 
 faithful one. If you ever needed me but that's 
 absurd." 
 
 He flung away a half-smoked cigarette, and be- 
 gan tearing up the moss near him with nervous 
 fingers. 
 
 " You believe that, don't you? " he went on 
 hurriedly. " You believe there's been something 
 real in this that it's been real to me? "
 
 T H E B O N D 353 
 
 " It's hard to believe it's so unreasonable," 
 she said. 
 
 " That's just what reality is unreason. Who 
 can reason about a thing of this sort? It comes 
 nobody knows why." 
 
 " I've been so little to you, after all not so 
 much as I might have been, even." 
 
 " You've been yourself. There's always one 
 person that cares and one that submits to being 
 cared for. ... I wish I could take care of 
 you " 
 
 It seemed foolish to mind his taking her hand 
 quietly and holding it; but when she withdrew 
 it abruptly, he looked rather pleased than other- 
 wise. 
 
 "Want to soothe my wounded self-esteem? I 
 wish I didn't see through it ! You know that one 
 doesn't like to be considered perfectly harmless 
 what a lot you do know ! " 
 
 Teresa smiled vaguely, looking into the shad- 
 ows of the forest. 
 
 " Don't you want to walk on? " she asked. 
 
 " No, it's better here. Stay a little longer." 
 
 He lit another cigarette and smoked silently, 
 looking at her now and then with a long, reflect- 
 ive gaze. Teresa was silent, too, conscious that 
 it would be better to talk, but unable to find the 
 right words. And the living, breathing silence 
 of the forest, enveloping them softly, with golden 
 lights, with mysterious shadows, made itself felt,
 
 354 T H E B O N D 
 
 a lulling, sensuous power, a mighty influence, a 
 will. It dissolved all things into dream. One 
 seemed to feel the world swinging through space, 
 wild, primeval, obedient only to a single law 
 which crushed the individual will to dust. 
 Danger ! Danger to one's small individuality, to 
 one's little world, opposing this vast, impersonal, 
 indifferent force! 
 
 The blood came to Teresa's face. At the touch 
 of Crayven's lips on her hand she did not move, 
 but the sound of his voice he murmured her 
 name sent her to her feet with a leap. 
 
 " Come away from here ! " she cried, pale and 
 laughing a little. " This place is bewitched ! 
 Come at once, or you will turn into something 
 queer ! I felt myself turning into a tree as I sat 
 there a birch-tree, all white and silver and 
 taking root by that rock ! " 
 
 "Ah, why couldn't you let the dream come 
 true," he said, his black eyes glowing. 
 
 " No, no no dreams ! I'm afraid of t^em. 
 One does such odd things in dreams and if they 
 should come true ! And this place ! . . . Why, 
 here one could murder one's grandmother, or do 
 anything odd, and it would seem perfectly 
 natural only I daresay the Swiss police would 
 find it out ! " 
 
 She laughed again restlessly, and her eyes, 
 blue as the sky, glanced about the place. Cray- 
 yen got up and came close to her.
 
 T H E B O N D 355 
 
 " Well before we go since it is an en- 
 chanted wood, kiss me once, will you? " His 
 voice trembled, and he caught his breath sud- 
 denly. " I'm Teresa, I'm going to-morrow." 
 
 "To-morrow? . . . No, you can't be ! You 
 don't mean it. . . ." 
 
 "Ah, but I do. I got a despatch this morn- 
 ing. I must go. So. . . ." 
 
 He waited, looking at her with eyes that seemed 
 suddenly tired, seared. 
 
 " So, kiss me good-bye, dear," he said. 
 
 " To-morrow? " said Teresa confusedly. 
 "Why didn't you tell me? Don't go. . . ." 
 
 He was silent, waiting his face set and sad. 
 She leaned toward him, flushing suddenly, her 
 eyes veiling themselves. Crayven took her face 
 in his two hands, and his gaze lingered on its 
 every line and contour, its trembling colour, the 
 tremor of the eyelashes and lips. Then he 
 clasped her close and kissed her a long kiss. 
 
 For him it was the end. There was a deep 
 tenderness, a protecting gentleness, in his re- 
 linquishment, as he set her free.
 
 ONLY an incident ! " He had said that that 
 was all he should be, in her memory, and 
 that she would forget him in three months. 
 
 She knew that she should never forget him. 
 That last scene in the forest had made it im- 
 possible. 
 
 It was not for himself alone, nor even the fact 
 of his emotion for her. That had left with her 
 a tenderness for him but a faint, a gentle ten- 
 derness. It was the least emotional recognition 
 she could give of what nevertheless had touched 
 her heart that he should really, genuinely, care 
 anything for her, after all her frank egotism 
 toward him, her absorption in herself, her crude- 
 ness. . . . That speech, for example, up at 
 Anthemoz, about using her relation with him as 
 a spur to Basil ! In spite of all that, and of the 
 fact that she could give him nothing really, he 
 had liked her. She was grateful. And she was 
 dimly, passionately grateful for his bearing 
 toward her at that last moment. . . . 
 
 There was the reason why she should never 
 forget him. He had understood. There, at the 
 end, he had protected her. 
 
 And it was like a flash of light over a new 
 
 356
 
 T H E B O N D 357 
 
 scene her knowledge that she had needed pro- 
 tection. It was a blinding illumination. She 
 could not take in at once all it meant it came 
 slowly, as she lay sleepless at night, or lost her- 
 self in reverie, in the days after Crayven's going. 
 
 One thing appeared clearly at once. She 
 cabled to Basil: "Shall I come home?" And 
 she began packing before the answer came: 
 " Bather ! " She laughed as she read it. " What 
 a boy he is, after all ! " she said aloud. 
 
 A week later she and Bonald were on the 
 water. 
 
 She followed Crayven's journey mentally, step 
 by step the steamer to Port Said, the plunge 
 into the desert. As she lay at night on deck, 
 motionless for hours under her rugs, and 
 watched the rush of the dark water into dark- 
 ness, she thought of his long ride through the 
 sands. She seemed to see him wrapped in the 
 Arab cloak, his face rather tired but philosophi- 
 cally calm, as when she had seen it first. He 
 was going back to his work to danger, perhaps. 
 The incident, for him, was over. 
 
 It was probable that she would never see him 
 again. She breathed out an intense wish for his 
 safety and well-being, into the vague night.
 
 PART IV
 
 BASIL was there on the pier, when, crippled 
 by a mid-Atlantic storm, the ship crept in, 
 a day late. A haze of summer heat hung over 
 the bay and the city ; a hot breath came from the 
 land. In the crowd she caught sight of him, a 
 head above his neighbours, his eyes eagerly lifted, 
 searching the crowded deck. He saw her, and 
 waved his straw hat. It was a smart Panama, 
 and his light-grey coat looked new. But Basil 
 was always smart. When they met, with a quick 
 clasp of both hands, in the midst of the crowd, 
 Teresa's glance devoured his face, noting its 
 slight pallor, slight sallowness about the eyes. 
 
 " You're well? " she said breathlessly. 
 
 " Oh, all right. But it's beastly hot ! Must 
 get you and the boy straight out of town " 
 
 Smiling, he caught Ronald up and kissed him, 
 laughing with pleasure. 
 
 " How you've grown, old man ! Forgotten me? 
 Do you know who I am? " 
 
 " Papa," said Ronald, with his superior smile. 
 
 " Good for you what a memory you've 
 got! .' . ." 
 
 He put Teresa, Ronald, and the nurse into a 
 carriage and sent them to a hotel, staying himself 
 to see the luggage through the Custom-house. It 
 
 361
 
 362 T H E B O N D 
 
 was nearly seven o'clock, and Eonald had been 
 put to bed, when Basil came. Teresa was lying 
 on her bed, her head still whirling from the ef- 
 fect of the voyage. Basil wanted first to see 
 Ronald again. The child was in the next room, 
 not yet asleep. He went in, and Teresa heard 
 his voice pleasant-toned, fond, and joking and 
 heard Ronald laugh sleepily. At last Basil came 
 back, shutting the door, and sat down beside 
 Teresa. 
 
 " What a splendid fellow he is what a 
 beauty! " he said, with a little shake in his voice. 
 " I'm fond of that boy, Teresa." 
 
 " Turn on the light I want to see you," said 
 Teresa lazily. 
 
 Basil turned on the light and took off his coat, 
 showing a pale-blue silk shirt which fastened 
 neatly about his strong throat with a blue tie and 
 a gold pin; then he sat down again on the edge 
 of the bed. Teresa lay looking at him. Her 
 loose dark hair swept across her forehead and 
 cheek, and her lowered eyelids showed a narrow 
 line of blue. 
 
 " How hot you look, poor dear," she said softly, 
 looking at his forehead. 
 
 " Yes beastly weather. Must have a bath be- 
 fore dinner. Are you too tired to go out some- 
 where? I'll find a cool place to eat." 
 
 " Tired no. Only my head's queer yet. We 
 had a rough voyage."
 
 T H E B O N D 303 
 
 " I know odd at this time of year." 
 
 She touched his sleeve caressingly. 
 
 "What a nice rig! Blue's your colour mine 
 too, oddly. Red suits Ronald best. He's looking 
 well, isn't he? " 
 
 " Like a fighting-cock ! You've taken good care 
 of him. And you . . . you're looking very 
 
 " You haven't said you're glad to see us 
 back." 
 
 " And you . . . are you glad . . . ? " 
 
 "If I'm glad!" 
 
 Basil bent to look into her eyes, gathered her 
 up in her loose white dress, and her arms went 
 round him in a clasp that seemed as if it could 
 never loosen. They held one another, silent, for 
 long, long moments, and to Teresa all bitterness, 
 all chance of misunderstanding, seemed to ebb 
 away out of consciousness. Just to have him 
 there, in her arms, was like bread to a gnawing 
 hunger, like water to a biting thirst. 
 
 They dined together at one of their old haunts, 
 on a balcony overlooking a broad street. It was 
 not a fashionable quarter. The restaurant and 
 the street were full of foreign bourgeois people, 
 less noisy because of the heat. Low thunder- 
 clouds hung over the city; it seemed to gasp for 
 breath. Teresa wore the white dress and hat 
 which she had put into her steamer-trunk with
 
 364 T H E B O N D 
 
 an idea of this occasion. Basil studied her face 
 with keen attention. 
 
 "You look younger you look awfully strong 
 and well it has done you a lot of good. It's too 
 bad to pull you back into this heat we must get 
 out of town to-morrow. You haven't told me 
 what made you decide so suddenly to come back," 
 he said abruptly. 
 
 " Because I wanted to I was bored there. 
 Are you put out with me for coming so soon? " 
 
 "Am I? Did I want you to go? Did I, 
 Teresa? " 
 
 " No. But you might have got used to my 
 being away. You look at me as though I'd been 
 gone a year." 
 
 "And it seems to me you have. You seem 
 strange to me, Teresa." 
 
 " That's it ! That's the very way you look at 
 me as though I were a stranger! You'd for- 
 gotten me." 
 
 " Forgotten you ! " 
 
 " Yes, you were forgetting me if I'd stayed 
 a few months longer, you'd have forgotten how 
 I look ! It's true you said so yourself." 
 
 " I didn't. I said you seem strange, and you 
 do. It's as though you were a person that I 
 must begin to know all over again. Don't you 
 like that? Would you rather have me feel that 
 I know you like a book, like an old hat? Drink 
 some of that white wine."
 
 T H E B O N D 3G5 
 
 " You were forgetting me," murmured Teresa, 
 as she took up her glass. " Confess that you're 
 surprised to find how nice I really am. Had you 
 forgotten that I'm pretty? Could you tell the 
 colour of my eyes? You've got no memory, Basil, 
 and therefore no soul. All you have is a habit." 
 She smiled at him. " You've a habit of me, or a 
 habit of getting on without me. Oh, 7 see that you 
 could get on without me, and I shall never give 
 you the chance again ! " 
 
 " Will you swear to that? " 
 
 " By sun and moon I swear ! " 
 
 " Well, I'm content then. I get on damn badly 
 without you, that's the truth." 
 
 " But you get on. And I can't get on at all 
 without you not at all. I've found that out." 
 
 " Then I'm glad you went aw r ay, if that's true." 
 
 " Yes, only I knew it before." 
 
 They looked at one another, and drank a silent 
 toast. To Teresa the world about her the sti- 
 fling night, the breathless air, the crowd of or- 
 dinary people had taken on the colour and glow 
 of the wine, a mysterious radiance. She was 
 eating very little, but the food seemed good. The 
 waiter in his musty black coat, with a tired nap- 
 kin over his arm, seemed a pathetic and amiable 
 human creature. She glanced at his grave face, 
 as he awaited the order for the entree, with sym- 
 pathy. How dreary he must be of people choosing 
 their entree! But no he was pleased to suggest
 
 366 T H E B O N D 
 
 that one of those queerly-named dishes was bet- 
 ter than the other he looked interested. How 
 amiable ! 
 
 She smiled joyously at Basil. " And now tell 
 me what you've been doing with your unchar- 
 tered freedom confess how you've enjoyed being 
 a bachelor ! " 
 
 " You can't be a bachelor when you've been 
 married," said Basil with conviction. " It's liv- 
 ing at table d'hbtes when you've had your own 
 house it ain't the cheese. I hate bumming 
 round." 
 
 And he looked at her with deep content in his 
 eyes. 
 
 " We'll get a little place in the country some- 
 where for the autumn, and I shall sit down and 
 do some work. I haven't done anything decent 
 since you went away." 
 
 " What have you done, then, you fraud? " 
 
 " Oh, I wrote you those beastly illustrations 
 and another thing or two. But it's been hot, 
 and every day or so I had to pick up and go out 
 of town. I couldn't settle down to anything. I 
 want my own place and you in it." 
 
 " But, dear boy, you don't like my house- 
 keeping ! " 
 
 " Bother housekeeping ! You do it as well as 
 you can, that's all. I don't care much what I- 
 eat." 
 
 " Poor, dear Basil ! But I will do it better this
 
 T H E B O N D 3G7 
 
 time I really will. I want a settled place too, 
 a place where we belong. I'm so tired, as you 
 say, of bumming. I thought when I came home 
 this time that I never wanted to see Europe again. 
 It's the fourteenth time I've crossed that stupid 
 ocean and oh, I thought of all the years of wan- 
 dering when I was a child, and how we never 
 had a home. And I'm sick of it. And you and 
 I, Basil, have never had a place of our own. 
 We've lived like two sparrows, building our nest 
 under somebody else's eaves. And I want my 
 own eaves! I want a house somewhere, I don't 
 care if it's in a beastly suburb, or where and a 
 garden, and about ten acres of trees, and an 
 asparagus-bed, and a cow ! " 
 
 Basil laughed. 
 
 " We'll have it, then by Jove, that would 
 suit me! But where shall we get the money? " 
 
 " Why, we have thirty-five hundred a year, 
 haven't we? We could pay for it in three or four 
 years." 
 
 " Yes, but what should we live on, then? " 
 
 Teresa looked slightly dashed. 
 
 " Oh, w r e'll make enough to live on," she said, 
 recovering herself. " I can make a good deal if 
 I try and I won't have any new clothes, and I'll 
 buy all our food at the cheapest shops. I'm sure 
 we can do it." 
 
 " Very well, we'll do it. I'll do anything you 
 really want, Teresa."
 
 368 T H E B O N D 
 
 " Will you? " she murmured. 
 
 She drank her wine absently and set the glass 
 down, and looked at him with a strange, pas- 
 sionate expression of doubt. 
 
 " Who knows? " 
 
 " What do you mean? " asked Basil. 
 
 " Who knows what you would do for me? Who 
 knows what I am to you? " 
 
 " / know, pretty well, I should think. Try me. 
 I don't think there's much I wouldn't do for 
 you." 
 
 " Would you " 
 
 She stopped suddenly, made an impatient ges- 
 ture, and said, " No that's nothing. I won't say 
 that." 
 
 " Won't say what? What is it? Say what you 
 had in your mind." 
 
 She refused, but Basil pressed her eagerly. For 
 some ten minutes she resisted, but at last she 
 said: 
 
 " Oh, I'll tell you, then. All that came into 
 my mind that thing about Mrs. Perry." The 
 name cost her a slight effort. " And I started to 
 ask if you would tell me now all about it. But 
 I don't really care that's why I stopped. It 
 would make it seem too important to me. I don't 
 care what happened only tell me this, you didn't 
 care about her? " 
 
 " I have told you not an atom." 
 
 " Then she was a fool."
 
 
 T H E B O N D 3G9 
 
 " I suppose she was." 
 
 " Oh, well, that's all keep the rest to your- 
 self. As I should do, in a similar case." 
 
 " As you would? How do you mean, Teresa 
 in my place, you mean? " 
 
 " No, I mean in my place." 
 
 With her elbows leaning on the table and her 
 chin in her palms, she smiled at him slightly. 
 Basil studied her delicate, subtle face. It struck 
 him suddenly that there was a new force about it. 
 It might only the poise of recovered health and 
 energy but it seemed more. She looked some- 
 how surer, more experienced, with more reserve. 
 There was a suggestion of malice in her look. He 
 considered her profoundly. 
 
 " I don't know what you mean, you little devil," 
 he said caressingly, " but I know you're more 
 charming than ever. It's about time you came 
 back." 
 
 " Yes, said Teresa softly. " It was time if 
 I meant to come back. And, on the whole, I did." 
 
 " What do you mean? There's something in 
 your mind there's something you haven't told 
 me." 
 
 " Is there? Is it possible? " 
 
 " Now come, Teresa ! Don't grill a fellow, and 
 on a night like this and the first minute you get 
 back, too! You don't hate me, do you? I'm so 
 confoundedly happy to get you back I've never 
 been so happy in my life."
 
 370 T H E B O N D 
 
 Basil's voice quavered, and he seized her hand 
 across the table. 
 
 Teresa looked at him strangely, and was silent. 
 She smiled as he filled her glass again with the 
 topaz-coloured wine, and gazed out dreamily over 
 the street. The black night, mysterious and 
 ominous, with the roll of thunder coming nearer, 
 seemed now to have left only a core of radiance 
 about them. The low clouds, the flaring light- 
 ning, all threats, all uncertainties, pressed in 
 upon the sensuous dream, and seemed to concen- 
 trate it into an infinite moment, inexpressibly 
 sweet.
 
 II 
 
 THEY found a house on Long Island, and 
 Teresa took a perverse pleasure in the fact 
 that it was within an easy distance of Mrs. 
 Perry's big country-place. Basil had objected to 
 this neighbourhood, but had been overruled. The 
 house was exactly what they wanted an old 
 farmstead, which had been made habitable by a 
 painter of their acquaintance. It had a big 
 studio, a straggling old-fashion garden, and an 
 orchard where Konald could play. There were 
 glimpses of the sea. They put in some of their 
 furniture, which had been stored, and Teresa an- 
 nounced that they were settled till December, by 
 which time they might perhaps have found their 
 permanent home. This, she said, must be in some 
 place not infested by the rich; where, therefore, 
 land needn't be bought by the square inch. 
 
 Meantime she devoted herself with great energy 
 to the task of making their temporary abode com- 
 fortable. She became an active housewife, and 
 sang gaily as she went about with her sleeves 
 rolled up, ordering the place. Basil had settled 
 himself promptly into the studio, where he wel- 
 comed interruption. He announced that he was 
 hard at work, but when Teresa passed the door 
 or Eonald looked in at the window, he seized 
 
 371
 
 372 T H E B O N D 
 
 upon their society, and would come out to lounge 
 about the house or the garden, smoking and 
 cheerfully inspecting their activities. His tune- 
 less whistle was frequently heard. He was very 
 happy. Teresa too had recovered her old gaiety. 
 The clouds of the past year seemed all to have 
 disappeared. 
 
 Basil left all practical arrangements com- 
 pletely in Teresa's hands. She was to choose their 
 home, and everything was to be exactly as she 
 wished. He applauded the meals that she caused 
 to be set before him, made light of any drawbacks, 
 and proclaimed that he had never in his life been 
 so comfortable. He was disinclined to stir from 
 their domestic precincts even for half a day, and 
 neither of them wanted to see any people. He 
 took Ronald down to the beach every day, and 
 taught him to swim. He wanted Teresa always 
 within sight or hearing. He wanted, he said, to 
 wallow in unbridled domesticity. 
 
 One morning Teresa, idly looking over the 
 newspaper as she sat in a hammock, with Ronald, 
 scantily clad, making mud-pies near by, saw on 
 the first page an article, under portentous head- 
 lines, on the threatened war between England 
 and Turkey. Turkey had marched troops into 
 the Sinai Peninsula, on the pretext that it was 
 not a part of Egpyt. England had let it be un- 
 derstood that if the Turkish forces were not with- 
 drawn she would bombard Constantinople. This
 
 T H E B O N D 373 
 
 was the gist of the despatches, eked out by com- 
 ment and prophecy from various sources to make 
 a startling column and a half. 
 
 Teresa read the article several times. It had 
 come, then, the " trouble " that Crayven had fore- 
 seen, and that had called him back to his post. 
 And what had come to him there, in his old fort 
 in the desert, with his handful of soldiers? An 
 emergency like this, she knew, had been always 
 before him. Half civilian, half soldier, he was 
 one of those many Englishmen on the outposts 
 of the Empire, living and working obscurely, per- 
 haps fighting and dying obscurely it was all, 
 as he had said, in the day's work. 
 
 She dropped the newspaper and lay back, 
 thinking of him. 
 
 She was sure that he would meet his emergency 
 well, with the quiet courage that gives a touch 
 of the heroic to even the simplest human figure. 
 He was steady of nerve and strong of will. He 
 would be calm under fire, he would make the most 
 of his resources. He would assuredly not give 
 way. If there were any dispute about that old 
 powder-magazine and that well the only water 
 to be had within three days' journey she could 
 quite see him declining to give it up to a Turkish 
 army camped about him. He was the sort of man 
 who would shut his eyes naturally to the odds 
 against him and even, out of pure obstinacy 
 perhaps, put a match to the powder-magazine.
 
 374 T H E B O N D 
 
 Ronald came up to her, to exhibit a particu- 
 larly fine pie, and she said to him : 
 
 " Do you remember the man that gave you 
 your stick, you know? " 
 
 "Yes," said Ronald thoughtfully. "Is he 
 here? " 
 
 " No he's far away, across the big ocean and 
 the desert. And he's in a fort, with cannon, and 
 there are a lot of soldiers who want to shoot him 
 and take the fort." 
 
 Eonald brought his two bare heels together and 
 his hand to his forehead, in the military salute 
 that Crayven had taught him. 
 
 " Salute, sir ! " he said. " If he has cannons, 
 why doesn't he shoot the soldiers? " 
 
 " Perhaps he will, but there are such a lot of 
 them." 
 
 Ronald looked very solemn, and dug his thumb 
 into the mud-pie, destroying its symmetry. 
 
 " How many are there? " he asked after a 
 pause. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know thousands, perhaps 
 heaps of them." 
 
 "Will he fight with a sword, like granpa, or 
 will he shoot their heads off with the cannons? " 
 
 " I don't know, dearest. Go and make another 
 pie, will you? That one's quite spoilt." 
 
 " No, make me a fort, with cannons." 
 
 " No, I can't now, dearest, I'm going to write 
 a letter."
 
 T H E B O N D 375 
 
 She went into the house, meaning to write to 
 Crayven. But Basil called her into the studio to 
 show her a drawing he had just finished, and 
 presently it was lunch-time. The letter was not 
 written that day, nor the next. After all, why 
 write to him? He had said that he didn't want 
 letters. 
 
 But within the week there came a letter to her 
 from Crayven. It had been sent to Switzerland, 
 and forwarded by Nina. As it happened, Teresa 
 was out when the rural postman brought that 
 day's mail ; and Basil, according to his frank cus- 
 tom, opened and read the letter. When Teresa 
 came back from her walk with Eonald, Basil gave 
 it to her, with a number of others, without com- 
 ment, She sat down on the step and began to 
 look them over. Basil, smoking rather nervously, 
 was walking up and down the verandah. When 
 she came to Crayven's letter and looked at the 
 signature, she changed colour slightly and 
 glanced up at Basil. He met her glance sombrely. 
 She read the letter, which had been written a day 
 or so after Crayven's arrival at his post, and 
 which was rather too expressive. Then she folded 
 it up carefully and glanced up again at Basil. 
 
 " I wish ^ou would not open my letters," she 
 said calmly. 
 
 " I daresay. I won't in future. I didn't know 
 it was a love-letter. Perhaps you'll tell me, if 
 you don't mind, who the devil is i Athelstan ' ? "
 
 376 T H E B O N D 
 
 " Oh, a man you know Crayven, that Eng- 
 lishman, you remember." 
 
 " And how does he happen to write to you like 
 that? Where have you seen him? " 
 
 " He was in the Val d'lliez this summer." 
 
 " You never mentioned him to me." 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Why didn't you?" 
 
 " I didn't choose to." 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me about this now? " 
 
 Teresa was silent, looking away through the 
 slanting shadows of the orchard. Basil w r as look- 
 ing at her, quite pale. She shook her head 
 finally. 
 
 " Not on demand. You've no right to demand 
 it. I shall tell you if I choose, when I choose." 
 
 " Very well, Teresa. I don't know what you've 
 done, I don't know whether you know what you're 
 doing now I don't understand the thing. Do 
 as you like, of course, about telling me." 
 
 He went into the house, and Teresa sat still, 
 in one position, till tea was brought out, when she 
 V got up, her whole body ach-ing from constraint. 
 Basil sent out word that he didn't want any tea 
 J, and that he was going to town for dinner. Kon- 
 ald ran up for his bit of cake; and when Basil, 
 with a curt " Good-bye," departed, trotted down 
 to the gate with him. Basil called over his 
 shoulder : 
 
 " I may not be back to-night." 
 

 
 T H E B O N D 377 
 
 Teresa made no answer, but smiled faintly and 
 scornfully. 
 
 It took no more than this, then, to break up the 
 peace of their reunion! How absurd, to quarrel 
 about Crayven ! She was angry at Basil's ready 
 distrust of her. The letter was over-expressive, 
 but 
 
 She read 'it again. Yes, it was a love-letter, 
 but a melancholy one. It was by no means the 
 letter of a happy or triumphant lover. It was not 
 very long: and at the end Crayven said that his 
 district had already been invaded, and that a 
 force of three thousand Turks were camped at 
 two days' journey from him. 
 
 " I may not write again," he ended. " But if 
 I get out of this I will, just to let you know. Of 
 course it's a chance whether this letter gets 
 through but if it does you'll know why I wrote 
 it. I can't help it I can't go out without a word 
 to you. I was a fool to say I didn't want letters 
 I do want them. But don't bother about me. 
 Write if you like. But if anything happens to me 
 there's only one chance out of many that it 
 will don't let it trouble you. It doesn't matter 
 very much to me, you know." 
 
 She sat down and wrote to him, and then 
 walked to the post-office to mail her letter, taking 
 Konald with her. A way of getting news of him 
 had occurred to her. She sent a cablegram to a 
 friend of hers in London, asking him to find out
 
 378 T H E B O N D 
 
 for her Crayven's situation. She also bought an 
 evening paper, but there was nothing in that ex- 
 cept scarehead prophecies of the despatch of an 
 English fleet to Constantinople. She threw the 
 paper away and went slowly home along the quiet 
 country road. A fresh wind was blowing from 
 the sea. The September heats were coming to 
 an end. The first hint of autumn was in the air. 
 
 So far, since she had read Crayven's letter, she 
 had been thinking only of him. It was not at all 
 like him, she thought, to alarm her for nothing. 
 He must have believed himself in danger, and, as 
 he was not a timorous nor an hysterical person, 
 the danger must be real. She was touched that 
 he should have thought of her and have wished 
 to send her that message, which might be the last. 
 After all, it had been a genuine feeling that he 
 had had for her; she had been sure of it ever 
 since that last day in the Swiss forest. And she 
 felt affection for him, and a longing to know that 
 he was safe. 
 
 She regretted nothing about the affair; not 
 even the fact that his letter had made trouble for 
 her with Basil. She did not regret her silence 
 to Basil, nor that he now knew that she had con- 
 cealed something from him. Of course he would 
 be angry. He had believed always that she had 
 no secrets from him; and in fact, till this, she 
 had had none. It was Basil's doing, that she had 
 kept this from him. If he had his secrets, she
 
 T H E B O N D 379 
 
 also bad a right to hers. She had not deliberately 
 resolved to practise any deception upon him ; she 
 had not deliberately engaged in a relation which 
 she knew he would resent. She had been led into 
 it instinctively by her feeling of partial estrange- 
 ment from him, and for this he was responsible. 
 He had made her feel that, after all, she was 
 separate from him; he was one person and she 
 was another. They loved one another, but each, 
 after all, had a life outside that love. Basil had 
 not sacrificed to her his caprice for Mrs. Perry, 
 nor his loyalty to the consequences of that ca- 
 price. He had no right then to demand an 
 account from her. He had taken the wrong tone. 
 He had gone off in a rage. No doubt he could 
 not help that he had been taken by surprise and 
 deeply disturbed. He would come back, perhaps, 
 more reasonable and then she might, or might 
 not, explain. Meantime, she was not sorry that 
 he was disturbed. It would not hurt Basil to 
 suffer a little. He had made her suffer. And 
 with her return she had forgiven him, she had 
 given herself to him again completely, without 
 the shadow of a reproach ; less joyously than be- 
 fore, but more seriously, more passionately. She 
 had loved him more because she had from his 
 point of view offended against him, and because 
 the account was balanced. She did not feel in the 
 least sinful because of this, but she knew that he 
 would think her so. This consciousness gave her
 
 380 T H E B O N D 
 
 an additional tenderness for him, and it freed 
 her absolutely from her resentment of the affair 
 with Isabel. It had enabled her to forgive Basil, 
 and to put the thing entirely out of her mind. 
 
 Well, and now? She did not quite know what 
 would happen now, but for the moment she was 
 indifferent. Basil must come back sometime, and 
 then they would see. 
 
 She dined alone ; and afterward walked by the 
 light of a half moon down to the sea. This w r as 
 the side of the island which faced the open ocean, 
 and great breakers rolled in to fling themselves 
 on the shore. The wind was still rising. It blew 
 her hair about as she sat on the sand, and 
 whipped it into strings over her forehead, and 
 left on her lips the salt taste of the sea. She sat 
 there till the moon was near setting, feeling with 
 deep pleasure the tumult of the night, and, with 
 something that was not pain, the tumult, the ex- 
 citing uncertainty of life.
 
 Ill 
 
 BASIL returned by the last train that night. 
 Next morning he breakfasted in his room, 
 and Teresa did not see him till near noon, when 
 she went into the studio to get a half-finished 
 clay model. They usually worked side by side 
 some hours of the morning, but now Teresa gath- 
 ered up her materials, with a cool " Good-morn- 
 ing," and went out again. Basil did not answer, 
 but looked up from his drawing-board with a 
 haggard, sombre glance. She noticed that the 
 sheet of paper before him was entirely blank. 
 
 Luncheon came and went in perfect silence, 
 except for Teresa's conversation with Eonald, 
 who had lately been promoted to take his dinner 
 at the family board. After luncheon Teresa put 
 Konald to bed, and went into the studio. There 
 was the blank sheet of paper, over which Basil 
 had spent the morning. From the window she 
 could see him walking up and down in the gar- 
 den, and she saw the well-known nervous motion 
 of his hands as he threw away a half-smoked 
 cigarette, lit another, and presently threw that 
 away too. The day was cool and clouding over. 
 She lit the fire ready-laid in the big grate, and 
 moved about the room, putting it in order, and 
 clearing away the litter of pipes and cigarette- 
 
 381
 
 382 T H E B O N D 
 
 ends and burnt matches which Basil had left. 
 Then she looked out at him again, irresolute. 
 Basil was capable, she knew, of sulking for a 
 week straight on. It was not now as it had been 
 in the first years of their marriage, when any con- 
 straint between them was more pain to him than 
 to herself, when he was always the first to insist 
 on an understanding. But this was not an or- 
 dinary case of sulking. At luncheon he had eaten 
 almost nothing and his eyes looked as though he 
 had not slept. He was suffering. 
 
 After a little, she put a white scarf over her 
 head and shoulders and went out to him. He 
 looked at her with that same sombre expression, 
 and when she slipped her hand through his arm 
 he drew away. 
 
 " Basil, aren't you making too much of this? " 
 she asked, walking on beside him. 
 
 " No," he said curtly. 
 
 " It seems to me you are putting on tragedy- 
 airs without much reason." 
 
 " Does it? " 
 
 " You are trying to bully me." , 
 
 He made an impatient gesture. 
 
 " I'm not. You can do as you damn please. 
 Apparently you have done so. Only if you think 
 it's going to make no difference " 
 
 " What difference? " 
 
 " Just this that we won't live together any 
 more."
 
 T H E B O N D 383 
 
 "Basil! . . ." 
 
 " Yes, I mean it. I shall go away." 
 
 " How absurd you are ! " 
 
 " Perhaps so but if you think I could endure 
 
 to live like this You simply don't realise 
 
 what you've done. You seem to think it's 
 nothing ! " 
 
 " I'm not aware that I've done anything so 
 frightfully serious." 
 
 " No? Well, you've shaken my whole idea of 
 you, my belief in you that's all. It never oc- 
 curred to me not to trust you. It never occurred 
 
 to me But now I wonder if you've lied to 
 
 me all along." 
 
 " I've never lied to you never." 
 
 " How can I know? How do I know what you 
 are? I don't know you at all. I call that lying 
 to come back to me with a secret like that, I 
 should never have known, except by accident, 
 that you had had a lover." 
 
 "A lover? No." 
 
 " Yes! A man doesn't write that sort of letter 
 
 unless And a man that you barely knew a 
 
 stranger My God, Teresa, what has come to 
 you? " 
 
 He stopped short, clenching his fists, deathly 
 pale, the muscles about his mouth twitching vio- 
 lently. 
 
 (i And you refuse to tell me " 
 
 " I haven't refused. I said you had no right to
 
 384 T H E B O N D 
 
 demand that I should tell you. You have your 
 secrets 1 why shouldn't I have mine? " 
 
 " How you talk ! " he burst out. " Like the sil- 
 liest, shallowest sort of a new woman ! ' Eights' ! 
 It isn't a question of rights it's a question of 
 necessity. Some things can be and others can't. 
 Secrets! I've never had a secret from you that 
 counted for anything. And you can't have this 
 sort of a secret from me. You can't, if we're to go 
 on at all. Understand? " 
 
 " Don't bully, Basil." 
 
 " Bully ! ... By the Lord, you shall tell me ! " 
 
 He turned like a flash and his two hands, 
 trembling, closed tight round her throat, 
 
 " Basil . . ." she murmured, looking at him 
 with half-shut eyes, almost smiling. 
 
 With as abrupt a movement he released her, 
 flung himself down on the bench under the apple- 
 tree and hid his face on his arms. Teresa stood 
 still and looked at him. 
 
 " Basil ... I can't understand why you 
 behave in this way. You don't trust me, then, 
 at all, really? There was nothing in that letter 
 to cause all this." 
 
 He was silent. 
 
 " I've never loved anyone but you." 
 
 " All the worse ! " He lifted his head and 
 looked at her. " What was it, then, that made you 
 do this? Vanity? I could forgive you if you 
 loved someone else, but this ... ! "
 
 T H E B O N D 385 
 
 " Vanity? Perhaps, and perhaps you had some- 
 thing to do with it, Basil." 
 
 " I had? What do you mean? " 
 
 " You know well enough. You know what hap- 
 pened before I went away. You know how I felt 
 about it or perhaps you don't know." 
 
 " What idiocy ! " said Basil savagely. " Do you 
 mean to say that because of that ... I don't 
 believe you." 
 
 " I'm lying, then? " 
 
 " I don't believe that made any real difference 
 to you. How could it? You know well enough 
 it didn't, to me." 
 
 " And this doesn't, to me." 
 
 " But it does to me ! It makes all the difference 
 to me! Don't tell me you don't care for that man 
 I know you do." 
 
 " Yes, in a way I am fond of him. It's 
 true." 
 
 " Yes, it's true. And you've written to 
 him." 
 
 " Yes. And Fve sent a cable to London to find 
 out whether he's dead or alive." 
 
 " Yes ! " 
 
 Basil got up and walked a few steps down the 
 path, and stood still. Teresa wrapped her scarf 
 more closely about her and shivered slightly. A 
 cold wind swept through the orchard ; dry leaves 
 came fluttering down from the apple-trees. 
 
 " We can't go on," said Basil, hollowly.
 
 386 T H E B O N D 
 
 " What did you say? " she asked, moving 
 toward him. 
 
 " I don't know . . . but I don't think we can 
 go on. I can't stand this ... I shall go 
 away." 
 
 " Go away where? " 
 
 " Anywhere. I shall go away from you." 
 
 " You mean you'll leave us Konald and me? " 
 
 " Ronald . . . yes." 
 
 " As you please, Basil." 
 
 She turned and went back to the house by an- 
 other path. There she took her work and shut 
 herself up in her own room. It was cold; the 
 fire was not lit. She shivered, walking up and 
 down the room, but it did not occur to her to 
 light the fire. Her discomfort seemed part of a 
 general past that had enveloped the world. And 
 yet there was a core of warmth somewhere, a 
 thought that caused her a certain exultation. It 
 was absurd of Basil to take this thing so seri- 
 ously, but she was glad he was absurd in that 
 way she was thoroughly glad that he cared so 
 much! Only, if he did take it seriously, who 
 knew? She had no intention of being humble 
 about what she had done. Perhaps it had been 
 foolish, but had Basil alone the right to be fool- 
 ish? Where was his right to sit in judgment 
 upon her? How angry he had been at that word 
 " right " ! Possibly it was a foolish word they 
 could not theorise about this situation. It was a
 
 T H E B O N D 387 
 
 question of necessity, Basil had said in other 
 words, of his demand. And he had enforced that 
 demand by a threat . . . Yes, he might go 
 away and she could not let him go. Ne- 
 cessity . . . 
 
 She sat down and took up her damp clay, but 
 her fingers were stiff with cold. She shivered, 
 and all of a sudden tears came to her eyes. Why 
 had she hurt Basil so? How had she been able 
 to look at him, to see that he was suffering, and 
 almost rejoice in it? What had come to her? 
 " My God, what has come to you, Teresa? " he 
 had cried. Yes, what? An instinct of cruelty, for 
 one thing. Never before had she deliberately 
 made any person suffer, as she had been con- 
 scious of doing just now. A feeling of reckless- 
 ness, carelessness of herself . . . Crayven . . . 
 that day in the forest . . . 
 
 She did not regret it. If Basil suffered for it, 
 she must suffer for it, that was all. Of course 
 she would not let him go. What he demanded she 
 must yield. There was something behind his de- 
 mand, something more than his own egotism. 
 Necessity . . .
 
 IV 
 
 THE question of his right to know was then 
 waived. That night she told him what there 
 was to tell, with complete frankness. He would 
 leave no detail to the imagination. He wanted 
 to know all, all. 
 
 It seemed to Teresa that there was not very 
 much to tell. It seemed to her that Basil's in- 
 finite questions wanted to wring more out of the 
 facts than they contained, almost. It seemed to 
 her that some part of his intelligence was trying 
 to construct, quite impersonally, a drama, in 
 which she figured merely as an actor. This was 
 a momentary impression, swept away by the out- 
 break of his emotion. 
 
 He was moved as she had never seen him. 
 Never before had she seen hate in his eyes, and 
 she saw it now. It was as though an earthquake 
 had convulsed the depths of an heretofore quiet 
 sea, and all sorts of monsters came tossing to the 
 surface monstrous thoughts, blind words. She 
 sat silent while the storm raged, her hands 
 clenched on the arms of her chair, her eyes fixed 
 on Basil's face, which for the first time looked 
 ugly to her. All the strength and brightness of 
 his aspect were gone, swamped in the nervous 
 frenzy that shook him. 
 
 388
 
 T H E B O N D 389 
 
 " It is his pride that is hurt," thought Teresa. 
 " It is his vanity, his sense of possession . . ." 
 And she felt farther removed from him at that 
 moment than ever before. It seemed possible to 
 her that this might really mean a break between 
 them. It was clearly in his mind, the idea of 
 separation. And he threw out a fierce threat 
 he would take the child. At that, every atom of 
 colour left her face. She sat, ashy-white, staring 
 at him. She felt her heart beating with great dull 
 throbs she felt the life ebbing out of her body 
 in anguish. He might ruin her life, then. It 
 was an enemy that she saw before her, and one 
 that she could not fight. He had not the right 
 to take the child, but the thought of such a con- 
 test between them was impossible. If it came 
 to that, she would kill herself. 
 
 There came a silence, at last. Basil had hurled 
 at her everything he had to say, and he stood at 
 the far end of the room, not looking at her. She 
 had no impulse to defend herself it would have 
 been physically impossible for her to utter a 
 word, to move even. At last he went abruptly 
 out of the room, and a moment later she heard 
 him leave the house. She sat where he had left 
 her, while the fire died down into a bed of coals, 
 and grey ashes gathered over it and killed the 
 last red gleam, and the chill of the frosty night 
 crept into the room. . . . 
 
 .When she heard him come back, hours later,
 
 390 
 
 THE BOND 
 
 she went shivering to her bed, but she did not 
 sleep. He was there, under the same roof with 
 her, but a freezing terror lay between them the 
 terror of the end of love, of ugliness where there 
 had been beauty, of death where there had been 
 life. Was it possible that such a failure could 
 be theirs? Was this thing real, or was it a spectre, 
 a shadow, that they might still escape from? She 
 did not know . . . 
 
 Whose was the fault? Hers directly, she knew. 
 How prodigal they had both been of the real 
 treasure of their lives, how careless of the pre- 
 cious thing they held! But who could have 
 guessed that it was fragile? How had it been 
 possible to think that what held them together 
 needed cherishing, needed care? Had either of 
 them really conceived before that that bond 
 could be broken? Had either of them imagined 
 such bankruptcy? 
 
 And now it was facing them. She knew in- 
 stinctively that this was the real test of their 
 relation. She knew that Basil's fault could not 
 have ruined the scheme of their life together; 
 she knew that hers could. She saw herself as 
 the key-stone of the structure; she saw suddenly 
 ;hat there was, that there must be a structure, 
 ,nd that it must depend upon her. All the labo- 
 iousness of life, the grey aspect of duty, the ne- 
 essity for infinite, incessant exertion of the will, 
 ior self-control, for self-sacrifice all the puritan 
 
 
 
 

 
 T H E B O N D 391 
 
 conception of the world and the human soul 
 surged over her like a cold muddy sea. Was this, 
 ijthen, what one must live in? And to what end? 
 tTo pass the endless struggle on to someone else? 
 
 For the first time, it seemed to her, in the long 
 hours of that night, she saw the world as it really 
 was. She saw it as a long combat, and she saw 
 that no relation could escape this law of struggle 
 and change, certainly not hers and Basil's. Be- 
 tween them, too, it must be a combat, a struggle 
 to keep what they had conquered, a fight against 
 those things in one another, in themselves, that 
 tended to destroy, a long fight against decay and 
 the death of what was precious. 
 
 She saw in a flash how she had injured a cer- 
 tain ideal of herself in Basil's mind ; she saw all 
 the power of that ideal to bind, to anchor him. 
 She saw how he had set her apart, because of it, 
 from all feminine lightness and weakness, too 
 well known. And the violence of his reaction 
 against the having to change his idea of her 
 ' showed her how much it had meant to him. It 
 was perhaps unreasonable, his ideal, his idea of 
 her, but she acknowledged that he was right to 
 want her to realise it. Now, perhaps, it would 
 never be real to him again. She had broken one 
 of the cords that bound him to her. She saw be- 
 fore her a battle to regain what she had lost, or 
 to replace it by something else. She took up her 
 courage in both hands and vowed herself to that
 
 392 T H E B O N D 
 
 battle. If she could not be to him, now, what he 
 had thought her, she would make herself a new 
 value to him. They might be fellow-sinners, but 
 he should not, for all that, hold her for less. 
 
 ' 
 
 At dawn he came into her room, came and put 
 his head down on her pillow, and said wearily 
 that he could not sleep. At that she burst out 
 crying wildly, sobbed out passionately her hu- 
 mility, her regret, her fear, her love. And they 
 clung together like two waifs in a storm, feeling 
 darkness and danger all about them . . . 
 
 All that day Basil spent moodily by himself, 
 fitfully trying to work, or tramping about the 
 place. In the afternoon a cablegram came for 
 Teresa her informant said that the danger was 
 past, and Crayven safe and the storm broke out 
 afresh. Basil's resentment surged up furiously 
 Teresa replied bitterly. 
 
 " You treat me like a slave," she said at last, 
 in deep humiliation. " I am an individual as 
 much as you. You haven't the right to judge 
 me." 
 
 " But I do judge you. Either you belong to 
 me, or you don't. It's as simple as that, and you 
 can choose. If you belong to me, you don't belong 
 even by a thought to anyone else. That's all there 
 is to it. If you're my wife, you'll have no lovers, 
 by letter or any other way. You'll have no more 
 letters from Crayven "
 
 T H E B O N D 393 
 
 "You issue your commands as though I had 
 nothing to do but obey." 
 
 " It isn't a question of commands and obeying. 
 It's a question of seeing a clear situation, recog- 
 nising what it means to me and to you . . . 
 and I'm not sure, even if you do recognise it, that 
 I can ever trust you again. I can't feel toward 
 you as I did before. You'll always be different 
 less mine than you were ... I can't under- 
 stand how you could do this . . ." 
 
 "And you? You keep the full right to do 
 exactly as you choose, yourself? You won't 
 recognise any responsibility in what has hap- 
 pened . . ." 
 
 " The question is entirely different for me and 
 you you know it must be so. If I made a mis- 
 take I paid for it, long before this, and now you 
 have made me pay a thousand times over. But 
 you'll have to pay too, inevitably. If you were 
 trying for revenge ! " 
 
 " No, it wasn't quite so crude as that ! But 
 perhaps it was inevitable, too, that you should 
 suffer for what you made me suffer " 
 
 "You suffer? You didn't, you didn't really 
 care deeply " 
 
 " Oh, didn't I ! Didn't I ! Do you believe that, 
 Basil? I had no idea of making you pay, though. 
 I had impulses to hurt you, I hated you some- 
 times, but I never deliberately meant to make you 
 suffer but perhaps you ought to, for what you
 
 394 T H E B O N D 
 
 did to me. You made me worse than I was, 
 Basil." 
 
 " Don't say that it isn't true ! " he cried. 
 "Haven't you given me enough? ... It isn't 
 only for myself I feel this," he went on. " It's 
 for you, too. It's because I know in the end it's 
 always the woman that pays. If you injure our 
 life together, you'll pay even more than I shall. 
 If you, being what you are, should have a lover, 
 you'd have to pay for that pay in injury to your 
 pride, in a thousand ways. A woman that gives 
 herself to a man who doesn't deeply love her a 
 woman who has anything to lose is a fool. The 
 reaction takes him away from her, as sure as 
 fate, and even a man who isn't a brute can't help 
 making her feel it. You've nothing to gain in 
 that game, Teresa, and everything to lose. And 
 first of all you lose me if you care anything 
 about me. For I tell you, I couldn't stand it. If 
 you did that sort of thing again, I believe I'd 
 kill you at least I'd take myself off where you'd 
 never see me again. . . I've had more than 
 one impulse to do it, anyway." 
 
 " What kill me? " said Teresa, with a wan 
 smile. 
 
 " No, go away from you. I'm not sure that I 
 shan't, as it is. I can never believe now that you 
 really care about me. You might find somebody 
 else, who'd make you happier. You've always 
 disliked a lot about me, anyway."
 
 T H E B O N D 395 
 
 "And you what would you do? " 
 
 " Oh, I'd knock about somehow and work. I've 
 had enough of women. There isn't one that I've 
 any respect for now." 
 
 Basil's anger sank into a cool and biting mood, 
 which lasted on from day to day. He talked less 
 and less to Teresa, and finally became almost 
 altogether silent. He shut himself up in the 
 studio for the greater part of the day, and now 
 he was really working. He was forcing himself 
 to work, and Teresa saw the marks of this fierce 
 effort of will in his face. And she saw in it a new 
 hardness, forming like a mask a jaded, an older 
 look . . . 
 
 Basil was cutting himself off from her. They 
 were very little together now. She felt that some 
 change was impending. Something was going 
 on in his mind, of which he would not speak. 
 Whatever it was, it would have some practical 
 effect. She felt that he was deciding something, 
 and without her. Was he slipping away from 
 her . . . ? Was she to lose him, really, and 
 for a thing so slight in itself as her relation with 
 Crayven, whatever that relation might have in- 
 dicated to Basil? She could not believe it pos- 
 sible. But she was proudly silent, too, while her 
 very heart seemed turning to ice within her.
 
 came to be the atmosphere of the 
 ^ house a silence with no peace in it. Basil 
 was now working hard, at a picture for w T hich he 
 had made innumerable studies from models in 
 town a group of nude figures in a sylvan land- 
 scape, in astonishing tones of blue and yellow 
 colour. He was absorbed, and he had no moments 
 of relaxation. When he was not working he 
 roamed moodily about by himself. When Teresa 
 spoke of his picture he looked at her gloomily and 
 answered shortly; and once when she pressed 
 him with questions he said, " Don't talk about it. 
 You're not interested in my work." She saw in 
 him a desire to bury himself in that work, to shut 
 her out. Yet he might have retreated to his stu- 
 dio in town, and he did not do so. He sought no 
 other person. Apparently he wished to be near 
 her and yet apart from her ; and to make her feel 
 daily, hourly, the cold pain of this separation of 
 spirit. 
 
 After a week or more it grew intolerable to 
 Teresa. She went into town, spent the day with 
 Alice Blackley, looked up her Aunt Sophy, who 
 had just come back from a lecture-tour in the 
 West, and finally telegraphed to Basil that she 
 would dine and stay the night with Alice. The 
 
 396
 
 T H B B O N D 307 
 
 dinner was gay. Alice made up a little party 
 on the spur of the moment. One of the men was 
 Jack Fairfax. They went to a theatre and ended 
 with supper at a restaurant, prolonged into the 
 early hours of the morning. Teresa threw herself 
 into the rather boisterous merriment of the oc- 
 casion; her gaiety had a sharper, harder edge 
 than of old. Fairfax talked to her and watched 
 her with reawakened and growing interest. She 
 talked to him as though she found him interest- 
 ing ; and before they parted it had been arranged 
 that he was to motor out with Alice on the next 
 day but one and lunch at Teresa's house. 
 
 That luncheon was also boisterous, owing, as 
 Teresa now perceived, to Alice's new atmosphere. 
 Alice had quite done being aesthetic. She was 
 living now with smarter people, and she was con- 
 scientiously playing at being fast, as she had 
 before played at being artistic. She drank two 
 cocktails before luncheon, and during the meal 
 alternately chaffed Basil and made eyes at him. 
 Basil returned the chaff and the eyes with inter- 
 est and rather brutally. Alice was beautifully 
 dressed; Basil, with the frankness of a student 
 of the human form, admired her figure, and re- 
 ceived on the spot a request to paint her portrait. 
 
 " Only in town, you know," she said. " I 
 can't come out to this dreary place. Why on 
 earth do you stay here? Only a pair of turtle- 
 doves like you two could stand it."
 
 398 T H E B O N D 
 
 " Hard up," said Basil laconically. 
 
 " Oh, nonsense corne to town and I'll get you 
 heaps of people to paint. Or if you've got a few 
 thousands by you, ask Horace for a tip. He can 
 put you on to something good, he's been making 
 pots of money." 
 
 Basil smiled at Teresa, and she flushed hotly 
 over all her face. It was the first smile for ten 
 days! It meant, she knew, only an ironic com- 
 ment on that " few thousands " of Alice's they 
 would have felt rich with a few thousands by 
 them. At least they still had their poverty in 
 common! Alice noticed her flush and stared 
 curiously at her. 
 
 " Flirting across the table," she said. " I al- 
 ways say you are the most domestic people I 
 know. By the way, do you know Isabel Perry's 
 back? She's somewhere near you here, isn't 
 she? " 
 
 " Half a mile away," said Teresa. 
 
 " No, really ! I'm coming down to stay a week- 
 end with her next month. How jolly ! You'll be 
 there, too, perhaps you're great chums, aren't 
 you? " 
 
 " I haven't seen her for nearly a year." 
 
 "Oh, but you w<ere great chums? Or was it 
 Basil? Yes, now I think of it, it was Basil," and 
 Alice smiled wantonly. She was not ill-natured, 
 but she was a little excited. 
 
 Basil looked at Teresa and she saw boredom
 
 T H E B O N D 399 
 
 and disgust in his quick glance. He became cere- 
 moniously polite to his guests, which always 
 meant, with Basil, that he wished them away. 
 His finely-cut face, with the new look of austerity 
 that the last fortnight had given it, with its new 
 hardness, took on an expression of satiric pa- 
 tience. He paid Alice some outrageous compli- 
 ments, and at last even her not very acute sensi- 
 bilities were touched. 
 
 " What an old prig you're getting to be, Basil," 
 she said carelessly, as they left the table. " You're 
 so different from what you used to be there 
 isn't any more jollity about you now than there 
 is about a town-pump. And you look as if butter 
 wouldn't melt in your mouth. Eeally, you're a 
 wet blanket. I'm going to take Teresa off with 
 me in the motor. I'm sure she wants a little life, 
 poor dear." 
 
 " By all means, give it to her," said Basil. " I'm 
 quite aware that I'm dull company, as you say 
 I'm only a poor grub, plugging away. I don't 
 pretend to compete with bright butterflies like 
 you and Fairfax." 
 
 Teresa went off in the motor, which Alice in- 
 sisted on driving herself at a flying speed, and 
 which came to grief, descending a hill, at a sharp 
 turn. A tire burst, and the machine was left 
 with the chauffeur. Alice and Fairfax walked 
 to a near-by station and took a train, and Teresa 
 walked home six miles along the silent country
 
 400 T H E B O N D 
 
 roads. It was dark when she reached the house, 
 and Basil came out to meet her. 
 
 "An accident? " he said irritably. " I thought 
 there would be one it's lucky your neck isn't 
 broken. I wish you wouldn't go out on that sort 
 of a tear again." 
 
 " Oh, it's amusing," said Teresa coldly. 
 
 "Amusing! You find those people amusing! 
 Or was it the chance of breaking your neck that 
 amused you? " 
 
 "Both, I think. I like the sensation of some- 
 thing happening, even if it's only rushing along 
 in a motor." 
 
 " Or swilling cocktails at lunch and flirting, 
 I suppose? " 
 
 "I didn't swill any cocktails. Really, Basil, 
 you're turning over a new leaf." 
 
 " I'm not the only one. I don't care much for 
 this last leaf that you've turned over. Alice is 
 getting too vulgar " 
 
 "Anything is better than living in an ice-box, 
 as I've been doing lately." 
 
 " Is it? All right, but if you want to bring 
 that sort out here, I shall have to work in 
 town." 
 
 He went into the studio, and Teresa looked 
 after him despairingly. After a few moments 
 she followed him. The room was dark, except 
 for the firelight. He had thrown himself into a 
 big chair before the fire, and was staring into it,
 
 T H E B O N D 401 
 
 his head bent in an attitude of weariness. She 
 went over to him and put her arm about his 
 shoulders. Brusquely he shook it off. 
 
 " Don't do that," he said sombrely. 
 
 "Bas . . ." 
 
 His name died on her lips. She stood for some 
 moments, looking dumbly at his head, at the 
 gleam of the fire-light on his hair and his averted 
 cheek, then turned and went out of the room. 
 
 That week Basil's father came out to spend a 
 day. He had been ill, at his suburban home, 
 for a month or more. Twice Teresa had been out 
 there to see him, in a little house full of half- 
 grown children and the odours of liberal German 
 cooking. The Major seemed much more himself, 
 away from that atmosphere. Yet he was greatly 
 changed, physically, by his illness. His smart 
 clothes hung upon a wasted figure, his cheeks had 
 fallen in, and the old scar near his eye showed 
 more distinctly against his present pallor. He 
 was changed mentally, too. He talked about 
 himself and his ailments, and the old wounds he 
 had received in the war, which were troubling 
 him again. His voice was querulous, and he 
 moved feebly. 
 
 But he had all his habitual fondness for Teresa, 
 and showed it. Several times he called her 
 " Daughter " the name was sweet to her. He 
 brightened up to talk to Konald, but a half-hour
 
 402 T H E B O N D 
 
 with the child fatigued him. It tired him, too, 
 to talk to Basil, and Teresa caught more than one 
 troubled and puzzled glance as the old man began 
 to feel some change in his son. It frightened him, 
 she could see; and she saw, too, that he dreaded 
 any fresh blow to his sapped strength; his own 
 troubles were all he could bear. When Basil 
 went away, saying he had work to do, and leaving 
 them together, the Major was visibly relieved. 
 He did not ask about Basil, but leaning over the 
 fire he began to talk again about himself. He 
 told Teresa in what battles he had been wounded, 
 and strayed into detailed war-time reminiscences, 
 and talked about his hero, Grant; and rambled 
 and wandered on, while she half-listened, putting 
 in a gentle word now and then, and looking at 
 the fire. 
 
 She was thinking, first about the Major, and 
 realising with a shock his physical breaking-up. 
 Then she thought what a blow to him would be 
 any trouble between herself and Basil, and how 
 an open rupture would affect him. If it came 
 to that and she was thinking it might they 
 ought, if possible, to spare the Major the knowl- 
 edge of it. They would not have very long to 
 wait. ... He was the only one of the family 
 on either side who would keenly feel it. Her own 
 parents were dead, her Aunt Sophy would rejoice 
 at her freedom, and Nina Nina would say she 
 had deserved it, perhaps. A hot flush blazed up
 
 T H E B O N D 403 
 
 in her face at the thought of Nina and she be- 
 came aware suddenly that she had not been list- 
 ening to the Major, and that he was talking in a 
 new tone. 
 
 He was talking about Basil's mother. He 
 seemed to-day to be living altogether in the past 
 He seemed now to be living over again vividly 
 the love of his youth. Physical weakness had 
 made him garrulous and he talked as though he 
 were talking to himself. He murmured and 
 crooned over old scenes of his wooing; her 
 looks and words; her daring, her cleverness, her 
 beauty. 
 
 " I've never seen a woman like her, my dear," 
 he said. " I've lived thirty years in the world 
 since she died, and I've never seen a woman fit 
 to tie her shoes. / used to tie 'em, by Jove, and 
 put 'em on for her. She'd never put on her own 
 shoes and stockings in her life before she married 
 me. She might have had many a more brilliant 
 match than / was, but she took me, a poor young 
 soldier. Good God, what was I, to deserve such a 
 creature? The day she promised herself to /me, 
 it seemed to me as if a goddess had stooped down 
 and kissed me. And she was proud ! . . . You 
 can't imagine how beautiful she was . . . 
 when she took down her hair it covered her to 
 her knees in a glory like copper and gold . . ." 
 
 Something like a sob broke the old man's voice. 
 "My happiness was brief," he whispered, and
 
 THE BOND 
 
 became silent; his lips moving now and then, 
 without sound. 
 
 Teresa thought : He is dying, though perhaps 
 he does not know it. He is thinking of her be- 
 cause she was the great emotion of his life, and 
 he feels that he is going to find her again. Per- 
 haps he will find her. But then what will become 
 of poor Agatha, who has cooked for him these 
 many years and what will she do when she gets 
 to heaven and looks for him? He is her husband, 
 too. But he's forgotten her, and her children, 
 and even Basil and he remembers only the 
 woman with the copper hair that he loved thirty 
 years ago and has loved ever since. But per- 
 haps there will be different heavens. The Major 
 and his lady with the copper hair will live in one 
 full of bright armour and glorious warriors and 
 champing steeds; and Agatha will have one full 
 of the most wonderful things to cook and I 
 daresay the Major will drop in to dinner with 
 her occasionally, and fib to the beautiful lady 
 about it. . . . 
 
 She glanced up at him. His eyelids had dropped 
 and she thought he was asleep. She sat perfectly 
 quiet for fear of waking him, and her face was 
 tender as she looked at him. 
 
 But all the same she thought there might 
 have been some difficulties in living with Basil's 
 mother. Perhaps the Major hadn't had time to 
 find them out. But if he had ever offended her,
 
 T H E B O N D 405 
 
 he might have found his goddess a stern judge. 
 . . . And she smiled with bitter melancholy. 
 
 The Major, when he came to go away, as she 
 walked out with him to the carriage, took her 
 hand and looked wistfully at her, and said : 
 
 " You're not looking well, Teresa." 
 
 " Oh, I'm quite well," she said in surprise. 
 
 The Major shook his head. 
 
 " No, you're not," he said, and she caught again 
 that look of troubled apprehension in his eyes. 
 
 Basil, who was going to take the Major home, 
 looked at her too, a sudden quick scrutiny, but 
 he said nothing. 
 
 Ronald came to kiss his grandfather good-bye, 
 and Teresa, too, kissed him; and as she leaned 
 over the gate and watched the carriage drive away 
 down the darkening road, it seemed to her that 
 all the world was sinking in decay : the old man 
 there, the fading sunset that she saw through 
 leafless trees, her own fading life. For the Major 
 was quite right the strain of the last weeks was 
 beginning to show in her face. The colour and 
 the life had died out of it, under the freeezing 
 pressure of pain and dread.
 
 yi 
 
 SOME days later Mrs. Perry came to see her 
 greeted her without affectation of cordiality, 
 with a square, straight look in the eyes, and 
 said: 
 
 " I've just found out you were here. I live near 
 by, you know." 
 
 "Yes, I know," said Teresa, perfectly at her 
 ease. 
 
 " I have a good many people coming down to 
 see me. Perhaps you would both come to dine 
 some night." 
 
 " I think so with pleasure." 
 
 " Do you like it here? Shall you stay long? " 
 
 " I don't know how long. Basil finds he can 
 work well here. I'm sorry he happens to be in 
 town to-day." 
 
 " Perhaps you would come on Sunday to 
 dinner? Eight o'clock. I don't know that 
 it will be very amusing for you it isn't for 
 me." 
 
 And Isabel smiled listlessly. She had changed 
 much in the year past. She was much quieter. 
 She sat quiet in her chair, and her long hands 
 lay quiet in her lap. She was pale, and looked 
 ten years older than when Teresa had seen her 
 
 406
 
 T H E B O N D 407 
 
 last. She was plainly dressed in black, had left 
 off all her jewels, and all the restless, nervous 
 animation of her former manner had gone, with 
 the glitter of the diamonds of which she had been 
 so fond. 
 
 Teresa watched her curiously, while they 
 chatted about Alice Blackley and various peo- 
 ple they knew in common. She was surprised 
 to find that the sight of Isabel moved her so little. 
 She thought of the emotions Isabel had cost her, 
 almost with a smile. All that seemed far away 
 since then she had travelled far. She could look 
 at the other woman quite calmly, and realise 
 impersonally her interest. Isabel was a person, 
 one could not deny that and much more a per- 
 son now than she had been a year before. Some 
 experience that meant a good deal to her had in- 
 tervened. Teresa found herself wondering what 
 it was. She felt she might risk a question or 
 two. Whatever Isabel might have been once, she 
 now plainly had herself well in hand. She could 
 carry off a rather difficult situation, like the pres- 
 ent, without a fault of taste. There was no dan- 
 ger of any scene. They understood one another. 
 Isabel was honest she had made no attempt to 
 put things on a false basis. Things, as they 
 stood, were tacitly taken for granted, that was 
 all. And, as they talked about indifferent mat- 
 ters, simply, without constraint, they were ap- 
 proaching one another: not sentimentally or
 
 408 THE BOND 
 
 with any impulse toward embarrassing confi- 
 dences, but with the feeling of one definite per- 
 sonality for another, with a certain pleasure in 
 this non-hostile contact. 
 
 " Have you been ill? " Teresa asked finally. 
 
 " Nervous prostration, I believe it was," Isabel 
 answered sceptically. " I'm supposed to be still 
 having it, whatever it is. It is rather pleasant 
 now. It's simply a disinclination to do any 
 mortal thing, and I like that. After nearly forty 
 years of activity for its own sake, it's pleasant 
 not to want to do anything, and to have a head- 
 ache at the back of your neck if you try to do 
 anything." 
 
 " But Alice said you were seeing a lot of 
 people." 
 
 " Oh, just seeing them. One needn't talk, you 
 know. They come and dine and gamble. Some- 
 times I don't even appear. If they didn't come I 
 should be trying to read or something. As it is, 
 I watch them, and enjoy my own decay. . . . 
 Well, then you'll come on Sunday? I shall send 
 a motor over for you. You can't drive in these 
 country cabs you'd freeze to death. May I see 
 the boy?" 
 
 Eonald was brought in, and envisaged the lady 
 with his cool but not unfriendly gaze. They en- 
 tered upon the subject of automobiles, or 
 "Wongs," as Eonald called them; and finding 
 that the lady was the possessor of the splendid
 
 THE BOND 
 
 red Wong now waiting outside the gate, Ronald 
 warmed up, asked for a ride, and departed cheer- 
 fully in company with the stranger. 
 
 Basil, when informed of the dinner-engagement, 
 looked blankly at Teresa. 
 
 " You said we'd go? You might have asked 
 me first. I don't want to go, and I don't think I 
 shall. What have we to do with that crowd? " 
 
 Teresa's reply was less cold because of the 
 we." 
 
 " I think perhaps we ought to go once. It 
 would be rather awkward not to go at all, after 
 her visit." 
 
 Basil was plainly disconcerted. He looked at 
 Teresa with astonishment not quite sufficiently 
 veiled by indifference. 
 
 " You can call on her if you like. I can't see 
 why I should go." 
 
 " It would be mere politeness to do so, I should 
 think." 
 
 " Should you? I'm not going in for mere po- 
 liteness." 
 
 "Well, there's no need for going in for bear- 
 like savagery. I should think you'd hibernated 
 long enough." 
 
 " I supose you're bored and want to see some 
 men. But if we go there we shall lose a lot more 
 money than we can afford, at bridge." 
 
 " We needn't go again. But I think she'd feel
 
 410 T H E B O N D 
 
 cut if we didn't, this once. She was rather nice 
 to-day I liked her." 
 
 Basil dropped the talk abruptly there, but 
 Teresa felt that her wish would prevail, and it 
 did. And this gave her a pleasure which seemed 
 to herself pathetic and almost humiliating. 
 
 She dressed on the night of the dinner with 
 extraordinary care. She had chosen a mauve 
 dress with touches of silver, which brought out 
 the colour of her eyes. It was a French dress, 
 of rather an extreme fashion; and she followed 
 out the same note of exaggeration in the way she 
 did her hair, making its natural mass appear 
 more strikingly, just as her slight and supple 
 figure was shown to the greatest advantage. Us- 
 ually she was content to leave her good points 
 more or less to make their own effect, simply; 
 but on this evening her appearance had the touch 
 of obvious art. It would not have been more ob- 
 vious if she had put rouge on her cheeks. She 
 'preferred to look pale; and her pallor was as 
 intense and striking as the rouge would have 
 been. 
 
 She came down from her room ready cloaked 
 and hooded, and Basil did not see her otherwise 
 till she entered Mrs. Perry's drawing-room, where 
 a dozen people were assembled. Teresa was aware 
 on her entry that she was frankly stared at, and 
 that Basil was, for a moment, staring too. Among 
 the guests were several that she knew the Kerrs,
 
 T H E B O N D 411 
 
 Alice Blackley, and Fairfax. Isabel Perry made 
 a simple and rather majestic figure in black vel- 
 vet, which had seen several seasons, with her hair 
 quite carelessly done. Simplicity w r as decidedly 
 her note now, a perfectly genuine one, and there 
 was a certain air of the great lady about her. As 
 she had said to Teresa, she made no effort for her 
 guests. They seemed to have been asked because 
 they could amuse themselves. 
 
 Isabel's husband, as usual, was not present, 
 and Teresa found herself at table between Fair- 
 fax and a tall, blonde, very handsome youth of 
 the smartest aspect. She saw that Basil sat at 
 his hostess' left hand, and that Isabel talked im- 
 partially to him and to the dull Mr. Kerr on her 
 right. Isabel's Spanish eyes looked sad, and 
 seemed to explore remote horizons. Basil also 
 looked remote, and Teresa noted that he drank 
 steadily each wine in succession, even champagne, 
 which he did not like. 
 
 There were more men than women in the party, 
 and Teresa soon found that she had an audience 
 of four and that she was talking with animation. 
 She would not let Fairfax absorb her attention, 
 and his frankly amorous manner interested her 
 less than the ingenuous remarks of the blonde 
 youth, who openly admired her also and told her 
 why. He had evidently been drinking a little 
 too much, but his exuberance amused her. 
 
 " I can't stand sly-looking women," he con-
 
 412 T H E B O N D 
 
 fided to her. " And I can't stand the bread-and- 
 butter sort either. I like women who have a 
 spice of the devil in them, you know, and yet 
 look good, too. Women who've seen the world 
 and all the kingdoms thereof. And they needn't 
 be too young, either. I admire them most about 
 your age. I don't mean you're not young. Why, 
 you might be eighteen, hang it I beg your par- 
 don but what I mean is, there's experience in 
 your face. I like experience. I never care to 
 talk to a young girl they've got no ideas of their 
 own. And I don't like women that pretend to 
 know it all, either like Mrs. Blackley. She's 
 so awfully knowing. I don't like that dress she's 
 got on it's affected. I hate those Empire things 
 they're only suitable for teagowns and I hate 
 women wearing artificial flowers and things in 
 their hair." 
 
 " You're rather hard to please, it seems to me," 
 said Teresa. 
 
 " Well, I know what I like, and why shouldn't 
 I? I like your dress it's a lovely colour, and 
 that silver embroidery on the chiffon is beautiful. 
 Do you live in New York?" 
 
 " No, I live out here in the country. My hus- 
 band is a painter there he is up at the end of 
 the table. I have one child and we live on four 
 thousand a year." 
 
 " How how clever of you," stammered the 
 boy. Teresa smiled sweetly on him and turned
 
 THE BOND 413 
 
 back to the others. There was no talk that in- 
 terested her, but under her boredom she was con- 
 scious of a kind of excitement. It was pleasant 
 after all to be among people again, to be ad- 
 mired, to have a certain feeling of lightness. She 
 was frivolous in her talk with Fairfax, and sharp 
 when he tried to be serious. 
 
 " I wish I knew what has happened to you," 
 he murmured at last, exasperatedly. " We were 
 friends once, you know. And you have changed 
 completely not only to me, but your very looks 
 have changed. The lines of your face are sharper 
 and harder " 
 
 "Age, of course," interposed Teresa, " but it 
 isn't gallant of you to point it out. And to-night, 
 too, when I really tried hard to make myself pre- 
 sentable." 
 
 " You are beautiful to-night, and you know 
 it. ,What I mean has nothing to do with that. 
 It's a spiritual hardness and sharpness it's as 
 though your face had been worked over, re- 
 modelled " 
 
 " Massage, perhaps? No, I don't go in for any 
 of those beautifying processes." 
 
 Fairfax stifled an angry ejaculation. 
 
 " Well, so be it," he said, and his rather sensual 
 face showed a dark flush. " I see you don't want 
 to talk to me as you did once. I don't know that 
 I'm given you any reason to snub me, but if it 
 amuses you ?-"
 
 414 T H E B O N D 
 
 " No, it doesn't, Jack," said Teresa, with sud- 
 den feeling partly regret at having hurt what- 
 ever feeling he had, partly fear lest something 
 ugly in him should revenge that former friend- 
 ship he spoke of. " I don't want to snub you. 
 But I am changed, that's true. And the reason 
 is, I'm unhappy. Now, for Heaven's sake, don't 
 say another word." 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said in a low voice. 
 In his startled, grave look she saw this time gen- 
 uine feeling. He was silent, while Teresa plunged 
 back into chatter with her younger neighbours. 
 At the end of the dinner, amid the brilliant dis- 
 order of the dessert, with the women leaning 
 their bare elbows on the table and most of them 
 talking loud, Fairfax leaned toward the laughing 
 Teresa and said: 
 
 " I say, if you ever want anything or anybody, 
 you know, I'm at your service, and anything I've 
 got." 
 
 She nodded, barely looking at him, as the 
 women left the table. His words sent a cold 
 shiver over her. That it could be supposed pos- 
 sible that she should need a service from Fairfax ! 
 What did he imagine? Why had she said that 
 to him that she was unhappy? Need the world 
 know it, if she was? Were people to comment 
 on her inmost life was her soul to go in rags 
 before them? " Have you heard? The Ransomes 
 have separated ! I thought it couldn't last ! He
 
 T H E B O N D 415 
 
 was rather gay, you know and she ? " Her 
 
 pride flamed up, and anger against herself, for 
 that betrayal to Fairfax. 
 
 In the drawing-room Alice Blackley began to 
 talk to her in a high key of frivolity, but to Te- 
 resa's relief a message was brought in by a serv- 
 ant: Would Mrs. Blackley go to the library for 
 a few moments and see Mr. Perry? Alice swept 
 out with a conscious smile. Teresa knew this 
 little custom of the dyspeptic and semi-invisible 
 host; he liked to chat occasionally with someone 
 who amused him. 
 
 When the men came in, bridge began. Teresa's 
 partner was the blonde youth, who played ex- 
 tremely well, and she won nearly forty dollars. 
 She was watchful of herself now, self-possessed 
 and coolly gay. 
 
 
 
 Her high spirits left her suddenly when she 
 and Basil got into the motor for their homeward 
 ride. She was silent, muffled in her furs. Some- 
 thing of her old feeling about Isabel had come 
 up again, and the fact that she was riding in 
 Isabel's motor irritated her. A mere nothing 
 had reillumined that feeling she had seen Basil 
 and Isabel look at one another, and in that look 
 she seemed to see their past intimacy. It was 
 nothing, for Basil could not very well altogether 
 avoid looking at Isabel. There had been no 
 ardour in that glance, certainly, but there had
 
 416 T H E B O N D 
 
 been, or so Teresa fancied, an equally unavoidable 
 recognition. Now she passionately regretted 
 having insisted on going. 
 
 " Did you enjoy it? " asked Basil coolly. 
 
 "No! . . . Why, did you?" 
 
 " Certainly not. I was bored to tears but I 
 expected to be. I thought you seemed to be 
 amusing yourself." 
 
 " I wasn't, though." 
 
 "At any rate, you were amusing Fairfax and 
 some of those college boys. And I haven't seen 
 you look as gay for weeks. Why don't you admit 
 that you enjoyed your flirtations? " 
 
 Basil had become aggressive and rather excited. 
 
 " Don't talk nonsense," said Teresa wearily. 
 
 " Nonsense, is it? Why, you were got up so 
 that no man in the room could help looking at 
 you. I never saw you dressed that way before. 
 I thought it rather bad form." 
 
 " I daresay you prefer Mrs. Perry's form. I 
 thought you looked at her appreciatively." 
 
 " You thought nothing of the sort. I don't 
 know what you call the way Fairfax looked at 
 you. It was indecent." 
 
 " Was it? How interesting. I didn't observe 
 it." 
 
 " Then you were the only person in the room 
 who didn't. You mean you liked it, I suppose. 
 Of course, you can get plenty of that sort of thing, 
 if you like it. You're beautiful, and you can have
 
 THE BOND 417 
 
 all sorts of men after you if you look and behave 
 as you did to-night." 
 
 " Be quiet, Basil," said Teresa dully. 
 
 "Why should I be quiet? Why shouldn't I 
 admire you, too? You were beautiful you 
 took my breath away when you came into the 
 room . . ." 
 
 The automobile stopped. They were at home. 
 Basil helped Teresa out, stopped to tip the chauf- 
 feur, and hurried into the house. He came into 
 Teresa's room, where she stood in the middle of 
 the floor, staring at the fire, which was almost 
 out. 
 
 " Why don't you have them keep your room 
 warmer? " he asked sharply. " You'll freeze 
 here why hasn't somebody stayed up to look 
 after the fire? I'll ring." 
 
 " No, don't they've gone to bed. It doesn't 
 matter." 
 
 " Well, it does." 
 
 Basil threw off his coat and vigorously made 
 up the fire. Teresa emerged from her furs and 
 sat down before it. 
 
 " Keep your wraps on till the place gets warm, 
 why don't you? You've got nothing on." 
 
 " I don't feel it," she said indifferently. 
 
 Basil looked at her, shivered slightly looked 
 away looked at her again. He took her coat 
 and put it about her. 
 
 " I wish you'd take some care of yourself you
 
 418 THE BOND 
 
 look ill, and apparently you're trying to be 
 ill." 
 
 " I thought you said I looked well," said Teresa, 
 still staring at the mounting flames. 
 
 "I said you looked beautiful . . ." 
 
 He bent down and touched her arm, kissed it, 
 and suddenly clasped her in a fierce embrace. 
 
 Teresa pushed him away and got up. 
 
 " Don't do that," she said under her breath. 
 
 She stood looking at him, her body tense, her 
 eyes shining like steel under half-lowered lids. 
 
 " Don't you don't you care for me any more? " 
 he stammered. 
 
 " I hate you ! " 
 
 He waited a moment, then turned toward the 
 door. 
 
 But to see him go, like that, to feel that silence 
 shut down upon her again! No at any price, 
 on any terms, not that! She called him, and her 
 voice was almost a shriek. She ran to him and 
 threw herself into his arms.
 
 VII 
 
 rriWO days later came the first snow storm of 
 A the winter. The house was cold and un- 
 comfortable. Basil was alone in it all day, for 
 Teresa had gone, early in the morning, to look 
 up a real estate agent. Their plan of buying a 
 house had lain dormant all this time, but now the 
 idea had taken possession of her mind, and with 
 all her energy she was bent on working it out. 
 For one element of doubt, which had lately re- 
 duced all plans to chaos, was now removed. It 
 was certain, at least, that she and Basil were not 
 to separate. They would go on together ; on what 
 terms Teresa was not yet absolutely sure, but, 
 she rather thought, on her terms. 
 
 She came back late for dinner, tired, chilled, 
 unsuccessful in her first search, but cheerful, to 
 find Basil hanging restlessly about the house, 
 not having been able, he said, to work that day. 
 Over their dinner she described gaily the out- 
 rageous defects of the houses she had seen, and 
 praised their present domicile by comparison. 
 Basil was gloomy, drank a great deal of whisky, 
 listened absently to what she was saying, and 
 finally said that he thought they would have to 
 stay where they were for the winter ; they couldn't 
 
 419
 
 420 T H E B O N D 
 
 afford anything better. Teresa disagreed in- 
 stantly. She had her plan. " We are going into 
 town for three months," she announced firmly. 
 "At least, as soon as your picture is finished. 
 And we shall do that every year. Neither of us 
 can live absolutely buried as we are here, all the 
 year round. We're too young or not young 
 enough for that! You need people and I need 
 them." 
 
 " I don't need anything but work and peace," 
 said Basil sombrely, "and* we're in debt." 
 
 " No matter. You'll sell your picture, and I 
 shall make something. And we'll make up next 
 year. We shall take this house on a long lease, 
 or buy it on the instalment plan. We shall live 
 here nine months of the year. We can live quietly 
 and cheaply, and you can work. This studio 
 suits you, and I can make a charming garden. 
 After what I've seen to-day, I'm sure we can't do 
 much better. By degrees we'll make the house 
 over to suit us. It will be comfortable, except 
 in the dead of winter, and then we shall take a 
 little apartment in New York. There, Basil, 
 that's my idea do you like it? " 
 
 " Well enough. But I don't believe we can 
 make it go." 
 
 " I shall make it go," said Teresa. " To-morrow 
 I shall look for a place in town something over 
 in the old Chelsea district cheap and not too 
 nasty. How did work go to-day? "
 
 T H E B O N D 421 
 
 " Not so well. I'm still trying to pull those 
 two figures together. It'll come, I think. But I 
 couldn't work to-day. Everything seems so grey 
 all the colour gone out of the world. I feel ter- 
 ribly old." 
 
 " You've been working hard this month." 
 
 " It isn't that. But I'm sad. I've been sadder 
 to-day than ever before in my life. I've been tak- 
 ing account of stock." 
 
 They had dined at a small table before the 
 great log-fire in the studio. Now the table had 
 been pushed away. Teresa was leaning back in a 
 low chair, very tired and drowsy from the heat 
 after her long drive. Basil got up and walked 
 about the room, stopping before his picture, of 
 which the glowing blue and yellow colour and 
 the sharp lines made an almost violent effect, 
 even in the subdued light. 
 
 " Yes, Basil? " 
 
 " An account of stock," he repeated. " I've 
 done a lot of thinking to-day, because I couldn't 
 work. And I couldn't work because you weren't 
 in the house. I thought about you. And I was 
 sad because I know now that I can never get away 
 from you. For a while I thought I might I 
 wanted to. I wanted to have some new experi- 
 ence, new life, apart from you something that 
 wouldn't cost me so dear. I want it still but I 
 know I can't get it. I can't get away from you. 
 You're in my blood . . ."
 
 THE BOND 
 
 He turned and walked abruptly up and down. 
 Teresa was silent, spreading her long fingers to 
 the blaze of the fire. 
 
 " Always before," he went on, " I've had a feel- 
 ing that there were any amount of things before 
 me, in work, in life. It's still so more than ever 
 so in my work. I'm at the beginning of some- 
 thing infernally interesting. If you've consid- 
 ered that thing I'm doing, you can see it. . . . 
 But I don't care about work alone, if I can't live 
 too . . . if I can't be happy or at peace. . ." 
 
 Still she was silent, and after a moment, stand- 
 ing before the picture but not looking at it, he 
 said: 
 
 " Here I am then thirty-three years old, with 
 a family, not enough money to live on comfort- 
 ably, with an idea of painting which it will take 
 me years to work out, and which probably won't 
 bring in any money for some time to come, if it 
 ever does. I believe in it. I could work with more 
 interest, more intensity than ever before, if the 
 other conditions of my life were right. But I'm 
 not sure that I can work in spite of them." 
 
 "What conditions?" 
 
 " Well, money. I feel I ought to be making 
 some, but if I do that, I can't do anything else." 
 
 "As to money, give my plan a trial for a year. 
 Let me see what I can do. I've ideas for some 
 work too some models for little things in silver 
 that I'm sure will sell. And we are not so far
 
 T H E B O N D 423 
 
 behind now. I'm sure by next year we shall have 
 caught up. If necessary I'll borrow from Aunt 
 Sophy. She'd be glad to lend me anything." 
 
 " Borrow? I can't see that that would make 
 us better off." 
 
 " Only for the time. We've been extravagant 
 this last year, and then my my illness - 
 
 Teresa's head drooped, and her eyes closed 
 sadly. Basil looked at her for a moment, then 
 came up and touched her hair. 
 
 " Poor Teresa," he said softly. 
 
 That note of tenderness had been missing these 
 many weeks. Teresa sat motionless; two tears 
 rolled from under her closed eyelids. 
 
 " Well . . . what else was it, besides 
 money? " she asked, after a moment. 
 
 " Oh, I have been thinking about you and 
 how we are bound together." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "And yet you did a great deal to break that 
 down. You made me want to break it. You've 
 made me suffer and I can't love you as I did 
 before." 
 
 "Can't you, " 
 
 " No, you don't belong to me as you did. You 
 were such a beautiful thing to me. I care for 
 you more in one way than I did, now that I real- 
 ise all the strength of your hold on me. I couldn't 
 work to-day because you weren't in the house. I 
 want you with me, all the more perhaps because
 
 424 
 
 you're not really with me. But it isn't as it was 
 once. The peace and sweetness of it is gone . . ." 
 
 He spoke almost dreamily, as though the whole 
 thing were remote, objective, and he looked at 
 Teresa as though she were miles away. 
 
 " We shall get it back," said Teresa. 
 
 '' No . . . never . . ." 
 
 " Then we shall get something better. Peace 
 and sweetness aren't all ... what I see," 
 she said, still with her eyes closed and the tears 
 on her cheeks, " is that what we have is the main 
 thing, the best thing. I feel now that it can't 
 be destroyed, neither by what I do nor by what 
 you do ... You take me with my weak- 
 nesses, as I take you with yours. I don't say 
 it will be all peace and sweetness we're too near 
 one another for that. I suppose you will often 
 hurt or irritate me perhaps I shall hurt or irri- 
 tate you. I don't want to do it but I can't 
 promise that I shan't I promise, though, to leave 
 you as free as possible." 
 
 " But I can't promise to leave you free," said 
 Basil darkly. 
 
 "No matter." 
 
 " No you mean you'll take as much freedom 
 as you want. But what I can't endure is suspect- 
 ing you." 
 
 With sudden violence he took up a letter that 
 had been lying on his desk and threw it into Te- 
 resa's lap. She saw Crayven's writing on the en-
 
 T H E B O N D 425 
 
 velope. Without hesitation she took it, bent for- 
 ward and dropped the unopened letter into the 
 hottest part of the fire. 
 
 "Why did you do that? Were you afraid I 
 should want to read it? " demanded Basil. 
 
 " No. I'm tired of all that.:' 
 
 " Of what? Not of his letters?" 
 
 " Yes everything about it. It doesn't matter " 
 
 " But it does ... ! " 
 
 " I tell you it doesn't ! What you do matters 
 more, because you don't love me as much as I do 
 you." 
 
 " Love me? You're in love with Crayven ! " 
 
 " You've let me nearly die this last month of 
 your indifference ..." A sob broke Teresa's 
 voice. " I tell you I can't live in that way. If 
 you didn't love me " 
 
 " Someone else would, I suppose." 
 
 " No, if you didn't, I should die. I have been 
 dying this last month I've been really ill. Look 
 at me do you see how thin I am? " 
 
 She sprang up and went close to Basil. 
 
 " I see that you're beautiful," he said softly. 
 "Ah, you have me! . . ." 
 
 " Then be good to me ! We shan't live for- 
 ever ! " 
 
 " I feel that I've lived a hundred years or so." 
 
 She answered with Lady Macbeth's appeal : 
 " ' We are but young ' ! " 
 
 And half-smiling, passionately, she drew him
 
 426 T H E B O N D 
 
 clown, in her arms, into the great chair, and 
 curled against him. They were both silent for a 
 time, cheek to cheek, looking into the fire . . . 
 Each of them was seeing, perhaps, their past to- 
 gether, and its many memories. Each of them 
 was silent before the future. 
 
 THE END
 
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