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 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA
 
 IRew Stj=SbiUino IRovels. 
 
 THE EBB-TIDE. By Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd 
 
 OsBOURNE. Fourteenth Thousand. 
 THE MANXMAN. ByHallCaine. Thirty-ninth Thousand- 
 THE HEAVENLY TWINS. I'.y Sarah Grand. Forty-fifth 
 
 Thousand. 
 IDEALA. By Sarah Grand. Tenth Thousand. 
 OUR MANIFOLD NATURE. By Sarah Grand. 
 ELDER CONKLIN, and other Stories. By Frank Harris. 
 THE STORY OF A MODERN WOMAN. By Ella Hepworth 
 
 Dixon. 
 A SUPERFLUOUS WOMAN. Seventh Thousand. 
 A DAUGHTER OF THIS WORLD. By F. Battershall. 
 THE COUNTESS RADNA. By W. E. Norris. 
 FROM THE FIVE RFV^ERS. By Flora Annie Steel. 
 RELICS. Fragments of a Life. By Frances MacNab. 
 A RECIPE FOR DIAMONDS. By C. J. Cutcliffe Hyne. 
 THE LAST SENTENCE. By Maxwell Gray. Sixth 
 
 Thousand. 
 THE TOWER OF TADDEO. By Ouida. New Edition, with 
 
 Illustrations hy Holland Tringham. 
 
 THE KING OF SCHNORRERS. By I. Zangwill. Illustrated. 
 
 CHILDREN OF THE GHETTO. By I. Zangwill. Eighth 
 Thousand. 
 
 THE PREMIER AND THE PAINTER. By I. Zangwill and 
 Louis CowEN. Third Edition. 
 
 THE NAULAHKA. By RuDV-iVRD Kipling and Wolcott 
 Balestier. .Second Edition. 
 
 THE O'CONNORS OF BALLINAHINCH. By Mrs. Hunger- 
 ford. 
 
 APPASSIONATA. By Elsa d'Esterre Keeling. 
 
 AVENGED ON SOCIETY. By H. F. Wood. 
 
 A COMEDY OF MASKS. By Ernest Dowson and Arthur 
 
 MoOKK. 
 
 THE JUSTIFICATION OF ANDREW LEBRUN. By Frank 
 Barrett. 
 
 LONDON : WM. HEINEMANN, 21 Bedford St., W.C. 
 And at all Booksellers and Bookstalls.
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAA4ARIA 
 
 a IRovel 
 
 f 
 
 
 RY 
 
 W. j: LOCKE 
 
 LONDON 
 WILLIAM HEINEMANN 
 
 1895 
 
 [All rights reserved^
 
 PRtoz3
 
 BeMcation. 
 
 TO ONE WHOSE WORK IT IS AS MUCH AS MINE 
 I INSCRIBE THIS BOOK.
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It was a severe room, scriipulously neat. Along one 
 side ran a bookcase, with beaded glass doors, contain- 
 ing, as one might see by peering through the spaces, 
 the collected, unread literature of two stern generations. 
 A few old prints, placed in bad lights, hung on the walls. 
 In the centre of the room was a leather-covered library 
 table, with writing materials arranged in painful pre- 
 cision. A couch was lined along one wall, in the draught 
 of the door. On either side of the fireplace were ranged 
 two stiff leather armchairs. 
 
 In one of these chairs sat an old man, in the other a 
 faded woman just verging upon middle age. The old 
 man was looking at a picture which he supported on his 
 knees — a narrow, oblong strip of canvas nailed on to a 
 rough wooden frame. The woman eyed him with some 
 interest, as if awaiting a decision. 
 
 They were father and daughter, and bore a strange 
 family resemblance to each other. Both faces were 
 pale, their foreheads high and narrow, marked by faint 
 horizontal lines, their eyes gray and cold, their upper 
 lips long and thin, setting tightly, without mobility, upon 
 the lower. The only essential point of difference was 
 that the father's chin was weakly pointed, the daughter's 
 squarer and harder. Both faces gave one the impres- 
 sion of negativeness, joylessness, seeming to lack the 
 power of strong emotive expression. One can see such, 
 minus the refinement of gentle birth and social ameni- 
 ties, in the pews of obscure dissenting chapels, testifying 
 that they have been led thither not by strong convic- 
 tions, but by the force of mild circumstance. 
 
 Indeed, as is the case with hundreds of our upper 
 
 I
 
 2 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 middle-class families, the Davenants had descended from 
 a fierce old Puritan stock, and though the reality of 
 their Puritanism had gradually lost itself in the current 
 of more respectable orthodoxy, its shadow hung over 
 them still. The vigorous enthusiasm that spurred the 
 Puritan on to lofty action was gone ; the vague dread 
 of sin that kept him in moral and mental inactivity alone 
 remained. Perhaps it is this survival amongst us of the 
 negative element of Puritanism that produces in Eng- 
 land the curious anomaly of education without enlight- 
 enment. It has dulled our perception of life as an 
 art, whose " great incidents," as Fielding finely says, 
 " are no more to be considered as mere accidents than 
 the several members of a fine statue or a noble poem." 
 It has caused us to live in a perpetual twilight in which 
 the possibilities of existence loom fantastic and indis- 
 tinct. The Davenants were gentlefolk, holding a good 
 position in the small country town of Durdleham ; they 
 visited among the county families, and, on ordinary, 
 conventional grounds, considered themselves to belong 
 to the cultured classes. They were the curious yet 
 familiar product of the old-fashioned, high-church Tory- 
 ism impregnated with the Puritan taint. 
 
 The light was fading through the French window 
 behind the old man's chair. He laid down the canvas 
 on his lap and looked in a puzzled way at the fire. 
 Then he raised it nearer to his eyes for further exami- 
 nation. 
 
 "This is really very dreadful," he said at last, looking 
 at his daughter. 
 
 " Something will have to be done soon," replied the 
 latter. 
 
 " It is so horribly vulgar, Grace," said the old man ; 
 " look at that boy's nose — and that drunken man — his 
 face is a nightmare of evil. I really must begin to talk 
 seriously to Clytie." 
 
 Mrs. Blather smiled somewhat pityingly. Since the 
 earliest days of her long widowhood she had undertaken 
 the charge of her father's house and the care of her two 
 younger sisters, Janet and Clytie. Her familiarity, there- 
 fore, with the seamy side of Clytie's nature had been of 
 long duration.
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 3 
 
 "You might as well talk to that fender, papa," she 
 said. " Clytie has got it into her head that she is going 
 to be an artist, and no amount of talking will get 
 it out." 
 
 " It's all through her visiting those friends of hers, 
 the Farquharsons. They are not nice people for her to 
 know. I shall not let her go there again." 
 
 " If she goes on like this there is no knowing what 
 will happen." 
 
 " Where did the child get these repulsive and ungirlish 
 notions from ? " the old man asked querulously. 
 
 The conception of the picture was not that of a young 
 girl, and though the execution was crude and untrained, 
 there was a bold cruelty of touch that saved it from being 
 amateurish. The canvas was divided into two panels. 
 On the one was painted a tiny bully of a boy with his 
 arm rounded across his throat, about to strike a weakly, 
 poverty-stricken little girl. They were children of the 
 poorest classes, the boy realistically, offensively dirty — 
 ihe petit morveux in its absolute sense. Behind them was 
 the open doorway of a red-brick, jerry-built cottage, 
 showing a strip of torn and dirty matting along the pas- 
 sage that lost itself in the gloom beyond. On the other 
 panel was the corner of a public house in a low slum, 
 the window lights and a gas-lamp throwing a lurid glare 
 upon wet pavement and the figures of a woman and a 
 drunken man. The faces were those of the children in 
 the first picture, and the eternal tragedy was repeating 
 itself. The man's face was loathsome in its sodden 
 ferocity ; the woman, with a child in her arms, was reel- 
 ing from the blow. The evident haste in which the 
 panels had been painted, the glaring, unsoftened colour- 
 ing, heightened as if by impressionist design the coarse 
 realism of the effect. Above was written the legend, 
 ''Lajoiede mvr," and in the left-hand bottom corner, 
 " Clytie Davenant pinxity 
 
 " She has certainly grown much worse of late," sighed 
 Mrs. Blather, holding out her thin, short hand to shield 
 her face from the fire. 
 
 There was a pause of some moments. Mr. Davenant 
 ceased nursing the picture and stood it on the floor. 
 
 " Have you quite made up your mind, papa," said Mrs.
 
 4 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 Blather at length, " not to let Clytie go to the Slade 
 School in London ? " 
 
 " It is out of the question," replied the old man. 
 
 " I don't think so, papa. It would perhaps do her 
 good. A year or so's hard work would take all these 
 silly ideas out of her." 
 
 " I question it," said Mr. Davenant. " They are not 
 silly ideas. They are debased, degraded ideas." 
 
 " My dear papa, they are only fads. All young girls 
 have them. Look how crazy Janet was to join the 
 cookery classes. We let her join, and now she hates the 
 sight of a pie-dish. With Clytie it is quite the same, 
 only she wants to daub." 
 
 " Well, let her daub in a decent way at home," replied 
 the old man testily. 
 
 Mrs. Blather shrugged her lean shoulders. 
 
 " We have tried that and it hasn't succeeded, appar- 
 ently," she said drily, " You seldom come in her way ; 
 you don't know how unpleasant things are for Janet and 
 myself. What do you think she had the impertinence to 
 tell me this morning ? She said that we were not real 
 people. We were machines or abstractions based, I 
 think she said, on a formula, or something of that sort. 
 She was pining to live amongst living human beings. 
 And then she is so rude to visitors. What do you think 
 she said to the vicar, who came, at Janet's request, to 
 talk to her about her shameful neglect of her religious 
 duties ? She said, if he was a pillar of the Church, she 
 saw no reason why she should be a seat-cushion." 
 
 " Tut, tut," said the old man angrily. He was vicar's 
 churchwarden, and a power in the parish. 
 
 " And then," continued Mrs. Blather, " when I 
 scolded her for her rudeness, she said that if she had 
 been a man she would have sworn at him for his imper- 
 tinence. Really people will soon be afraid of coming to 
 the house." 
 
 " They will indeed," said Mr. Davenant. 
 
 Like a wise woman, Mrs. Blather did not press her 
 point. She knew she had thoroughly alarmed her father 
 and had shown him but one way out of the difficulty. His 
 taking it, if left to himself, was only a question of time. 
 She rang the bell for the servant to come and light
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 5 
 
 Mr. Davenant's gas, and then she left him to his 
 reflections. 
 
 Mr. Davenant possessed some landed property, which 
 he had occupied his life in mismanaging. Fortunately 
 for him, his wife had brought him a small fortune which 
 sufficed to keep up a position, modest when com- 
 pared with that of the Davenants of former days, but 
 still high enough to satisfy the social aspirations of his 
 family. He had lived a colourless life, severe and re- 
 spectable. Even his university days had passed in a 
 dull uniformity, leaving no glamour behind them. He 
 had walked honourably and blindly in the paths his 
 parents had indicated, and, now that he was nearing the 
 end of the journey, thanked God for having given him 
 the grace not to err from them. He had married when 
 still fairly young, and he had loved his wife in a gentle- 
 manly, passionless way. She, poor thing, had filled up 
 so small a space in life that she had faded out of it 
 almost unnoticed — even by himself. He had no storms 
 of joy or sorrow to look back upon. His thoughts, as he 
 brooded over the fireside, generally wandered back to 
 trifling incidents : ancient municipal interests, the mort- 
 gages on his estate, the boundary quarrels with the old 
 earl, his neighbour. 
 
 But lately he had been thinking anxiously over his 
 daughter Clytie. She had suddenly developed out of a 
 naughty, rebellious child into a problem. He assumed 
 as a matter of course that he bore her the ordinary well- 
 regulated parental affection, but in his heart of hearts he 
 never really loved her. Until lately it had not occurred 
 to him to think of her as anything but a child of his 
 with a singularly unfortunate disposition which time 
 would modify. But time, on the contrar}', was accentu- 
 ating it, and he realised at last that Clytie had a distinct 
 individuality. His philosophy had left many things in 
 heaven and earth undreamed of. He was mystified, 
 puzzled. How could he and his delicate wife have 
 brought this bright-haired, full-blooded, impulsive crea- 
 ture into existence ? Her sisters were gentle, quiet 
 women, possessing the virtues inculcated in his concep- 
 tion of life. Clytie seemed to possess none of them. 
 The peasant woman in the legend could not have won-
 
 6 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 dered more over her changeling. How could a daugh- 
 ter of his and a sister of Janet's scoff at sacred things, 
 defy social rules, and have an imagination that ran riot 
 in scenes of drunkenness and outcast life ? 
 
 Physiology might grant a solution to the old man's 
 problem in the law of the alternation of heredity. His 
 father's youngest brother had been a family black sheep, 
 and being the only one of the generation who had led 
 an eventful career, was naturally never mentioned by his 
 relations, and the record of his life perished with him. 
 But it is possible that the positive enthusiastic principle 
 of Clytie's Puritan descent, reasserting itself once in every 
 other generation, to the horror of the negative principle 
 that otherwise ran through the race continuously, came 
 out in her with all its strength and vigour. It brought 
 her eager, panting up to the brink of our surging nine- 
 teenth century life, imperiously bidding her plunge in 
 and take her part in the tumult. 
 
 She was now nineteen, an age when girls try to realise 
 themselves. She discovered that she was a greater prob- 
 lem to herself than to her sisters. They simply looked 
 upon her as odd, eccentric, unpleasant to live with, and 
 if she had not been their sister would have almost gathered 
 up their skirts around them as they passed her by. But 
 she was conscious of a craving within her that did not 
 proceed from mere wilful caprice. In her earlier girl- 
 hood she had thought long and humbly over her short- 
 comings. Why could she not be as contented and dutiful 
 as Janet ? Why could not the interests that satisfied her 
 sisters' life satisfy hers ? Often and often an impulse 
 of scorn and ridicule at the littleness of Durdleham 
 would overmaster her, and then would follow a passion- 
 ate fit of remorse and repentance, received with coldness 
 and ruffled dignity on her sisters' part, that would send 
 her back humiliated and rebellious to her room. From 
 what springs of desire did all this proceed ? Whither 
 were these impulses tending ? 
 
 Ever since she could hold a pencil she had been able 
 to draw. She had received lessons in painting later on, 
 and had covered canvas after canvas with the graceful 
 futilities the Durdleham art teacher suggested. He was 
 a landscape painter, and Clytie had little or no feeling
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 7 
 
 for landscape. Bright colour, vivid contrast, sharp tone, 
 attracted her, but the quiet grays and faint blues of our 
 English scenery came out dull and mechanical when she 
 tried to paint them. At last she gave up her lessons in 
 despair, much to the wonderment of Janet, who improved 
 greatly under instruction, and turned out neat, compla- 
 cent little water-colours which she sold at bazaars or 
 distributed among her friends. For months Clytie never 
 touched a brush. Art of this sort revolted her. It was 
 soulless, futile. But by degrees, as the breach between 
 herself and her sisters widened, her power of painting 
 became a source of ineffable consolation — a means of 
 self-commune. She could give external expression to 
 the voices that haunted her. She read books with the 
 eagerness only-exhibited by the young girl craving for 
 self-development ; and the pictures they vividly im- 
 pressed on her young imaginative brain she transferred 
 to paper or canvas — not lovingly, tenderly, with the pure 
 artistic delight of gradual creation, but hurriedly, fever- 
 ishly, longing to see the thing done, the impression 
 realised in a way in which she could understand it. 
 When finished, or rather as soon as it had reached an 
 impressionist stage of artistic completeness, she would 
 feast her heart upon it for a day or two, and then throw 
 it away, or let it lie about in a corner disregarded and 
 forgotten. 
 
 Until she was nearly eighteen Mrs. Blather had scru- 
 pulously supervised her reading, and Clytie, chafing with 
 irritation, had been compelled either to submit or to 
 smuggle condemned books into the house and read 
 them surreptitiously. But at last her angry impatience 
 at the impeccable literature that satisfied her sisters' 
 needs burst its restraints, and resisted vehemently and 
 finally all censorship on the part of Mrs. Blather. 
 
 It was not wholesome, this solitary, emotional, imagina- 
 tive life. Her health showed signs of giving way. They 
 called in a doctor, who prescribed rest and a change of 
 air. One of her aunts, who lived in London, happened 
 to want a companion for a tour on the Continent, 
 and with many misgivings undertook to take Clytie with 
 her. To the girl the trip was an endless succession of 
 delight. Impressions followed each other too fast for
 
 8 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 her to realise them. The superficial features of conti- 
 nental life, familiar and commonplace enough to the 
 ordinary traveller, were new to her. Groups at street 
 corners, strangely attired soldiers, odd un-English-looking 
 shops, the very waiters hurrying along through the 
 intricacies of cafe tables with their fantastically laden 
 trays, all excited her, filled her with the exhilaration of 
 life and movement. Her aunt, who had hitherto shared 
 the family opinion of Clytie, wondered greatly at the 
 transformation. It never occurred to her that this was 
 the natural Clytie filling her heart at last with the 
 emotions it had hungered for. 
 
 It was during this time, at a pension in Dresden, that 
 she formed the acquaintance of the Farquharsons. Miss 
 Davenant discovered that they and herself had common 
 acquaintances in London, and that she had heard of Mr. 
 Farquharson as an archsologist of some repute. 
 
 The acquaintance thus formed developed quickly 
 into a pleasant intimacy of travel. Mrs. Farquharson, a 
 bright, clever woman of forty, was attracted toward 
 Clytie, who, for her part, found in her new friend a 
 natural sympathy that touched her heart. So far did 
 their sudden friendship go, that before they parted 
 Clytie had conditionally accepted an invitation to visit 
 the archaeologist and his wife in Harley Street. 
 
 When Mr. Davenant's permission was asked he at 
 first demurred. He had the country-bred man's dis- 
 trust of strangers ; but when his sister vouched for the 
 social position of the Farquharsons he reluctantly con- 
 sented. Clytie paid her promised visit the following 
 winter. This was one' of the turning points of her life. 
 For the first time she found herself in an intellectual, 
 artistic society. It was a glimpse of another world. At 
 Durdleham young men seldom came to the house. 
 When they did, they avoided her and talked platitudes 
 to her sisters. At dinner parties the men remained in 
 the dining-room long after the ladies had left. They 
 seemed to regard them as somewhat picturesque but 
 wearisome household adjuncts, whose absence their 
 masculine intellects unreservedly welcomed ; conversa- 
 tion with their partner was a dinner incident to be got 
 through, like shaving or putting on their white ties
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 9 
 
 beforehand. And the Durdleham ladies seemed to take 
 this as a matter of course, and were equally happy to 
 get by themselves and gossip mildly. 
 
 But in Harley Street Clytie found a different order of 
 things. Men and \vomen seemed to have interests in 
 common and to discuss them on a basis of perfect 
 equality. She found, too, women speaking authorita- 
 tively on certain subjects and listened to with deference 
 by men. All, young and old, talked to her as if she were 
 as much absorbed in life as themselves. No one made 
 her rage with humiliation by tolerating her with an air 
 of languid or pompous condescension. Even the frivol- 
 ities and platitudes of everyday conversation were 
 treated in a way new to her experience. The talk was 
 keen, incisive, exaggerated. Everyone could say what 
 he wished without fear of springing some mine of 
 prejudice or prudery. The atmosphere of the house 
 breathed freedom of thought and action. She beheld 
 others putting into form her own vague aspirations. 
 She saw people who wrote, painted, acted, living fully 
 and intensely every day. Even the professed idlers 
 whom she met seemed to hold their fingers on the throb 
 of life around them. 
 
 In the streets — she had been but little in London 
 before — she saw things strange and fascinating — things 
 she had read about, dreamed of, painted, and yet not 
 understood. She was appalled by her ignorance, the 
 narrow gauge of her sympathies. What did all this rest- 
 less life in the great city mean, its wild cries and 
 passions that struck upon her tightly strung nerves with 
 a deep, mysterious resonance ? 
 
 She filled a sketch-book with the vivid impressions 
 each day brought her, seeking, as her way was, to realise 
 them by tearing them out of herself, and giving them 
 objectivity. A royal academician picked up the book 
 from the corner of a table in the drawing-room, where 
 Clytie, falling easily into the careless ways of the house- 
 hold, had thrown it. He was turning over the pages 
 when Clytie perceived him, and rushed impulsively to 
 him across the room. 
 
 " Oh ! you mustn't look at that, Mr. Redgrave. Please 
 don't ! "
 
 lo AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 He looked up at her amusedly. 
 
 " Why not ? It is rather interesting. AVhy don't you 
 learn to draw ? " 
 
 " What would be the good ? " she said. " This suits 
 my purpose." 
 
 The other shrugged his shoulders good-humouredly. 
 
 " That all depends upon what your purpose is," he 
 replied. " If you want to become an artist you must 
 train properly for it." 
 
 Become an artist ! The words haunted her all that 
 night. They opened up before her infinite vistas of 
 possibilities, life in the midst of the world, the knowledge 
 of its greatnesses and its mysteries. 
 
 In the morning she wrote to him. He invited her to 
 come to his studio and talk over the matter. She asked 
 Mrs. Farquharson to accompany her, but her hostess 
 was engaged at the hour in question. Clytie looked 
 disappointed. The home traditions asserted themselves 
 and prevented her from thinking it possible to go 
 unchaperoned. Mrs. Farquharson divined this and 
 laughed in her bright way. 
 
 "Goodness gracious, my dear," she said, " the man 
 isn't going to eat you ! " 
 
 So Clytie went alone to the studio to learn her 
 destiny. 
 
 " You have great talent," said the artist, "but it needs 
 cultivation. After two or three years' severe training 
 you may do something." 
 
 Then Clytie asked him the question that had been 
 burning her heart for two days. 
 
 " Do you think I shall ever be able to earn my own 
 living?" 
 
 " You might do that now, if you chose, and had 
 patience," he replied. 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " By book illustrating." 
 
 " But I want to become a great artist." 
 
 " Doubtless. Most of us do. You may if you try 
 hard, and love art for art's sake. But," he added, 
 looking at her keenly — " there always is a ' but,' Miss 
 Davenant." 
 
 " Why do you say that ? " she asked quickly.
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. ii 
 
 ''Farce que, as the French say — begging your pardon." 
 And that was practically the end of the conversation. 
 
 All this had happened to Clytie three months before 
 Mrs. Blather had discovered the offending picture in 
 Clytie's attic studio and had carried it to her father. 
 After this foretaste of life the girl wearied more than 
 ever of Durdleham with its souUessness, its stagnation, 
 its prim formulas. A dangerous reaction of spirit set 
 in, leading her to long spells of hopeless melancholy, 
 alternating with outbursts of passionate rebellion. She 
 would stand for hours in the recess of her window 
 gazing over the flat stretch of country, and dreaming 
 strange dreams of the world that lay beyond the dreary 
 horizon — dreams in which sharp reminiscence mingled 
 with fancy in vague, weird shapes. But still she was 
 beginning to realise herself, her needs, her vague crav- 
 ings. Her passionate desires now flowed into some 
 definite channel — to escape at all costs from Durdle- 
 ham, and consequently to enter that free world of art 
 the glimpse of which had enchanted her. 
 
 The scenes between her sisters and herself were of 
 daily occurrence. The narrower, gentler women were 
 shocked at her wilfulnesses, her unladylike behaviour ; 
 she was revolted to her soul at the pettiness and sordid- 
 ness of the disputes. Existence at Durdleham had 
 become impossible. 
 
 " For God's sake, Gracie, let me go away from here," 
 she cried one day, " or I shall hate you — and I want to 
 love you if I can. Let me go to London. Auntie will 
 take me in. Oh, my God ! I shall go mad in this place 
 among you." 
 
 And Mrs. Blather, for the sake of her own tranquillity 
 and the reputation of the family, made up her mind that 
 Clytie should have her desire and that Durdleham should 
 know her no more. And in the end Mrs. Blather gained 
 her father's consent to the arrangement ; but the old 
 man looked upon Clytie almost as a lost soul.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 When the eager young soul starts out unaided to 
 solve the riddle of life, it meets with many paradoxes 
 that admit of no solution, and many sordid simplicities 
 that only unfamiliarity made it regard as enigmas. 
 Despair in the one instance and disgust in the other 
 not unfrequently drive it into a hopeless pessimism, in 
 which inaction seems to be the least pain. Or else the 
 soul bruises itself in vain against the mocking bars, 
 shrinks in loathing from the disveiled corruption, and 
 flies back to the unavailing aids that it spurned afore- 
 time. It is cast in the valley of the shadow of death 
 which only the stout-hearted can pass through unshaken. 
 
 The multitude stands by the formulas that profess to 
 solve the eternal problem. It follows them blindly, like 
 the schoolboy who cares not whether they are right or 
 wrong, or whether the answer is conclusive. So long as 
 there is an answer of some sort its mind is easy. But 
 there are earnester inquirers whom these formulas do 
 not satisfy — who see that they are followed for their 
 own sake, that they never can lead to any conclusions. 
 The soul, now of a people, now of an individual, rebels ; 
 it rejects the formulas ; it starts from the first princi- 
 ples of being, asserting fiercely its individuality, its 
 inalienable right to seek after truth according to its 
 own methods. These are prejudiced. All great action 
 must be. Because a system is rotten and incomplete the 
 perfervid spirit judges that every factor must be false. 
 It misses the fact that every great human system con- 
 tains elemental truths of vital importance, without which 
 it must fall in its struggle. And at last, when the forces 
 of endeavour are well nigh spent, it finds the key of the 
 great enigma inwrapped in a greater one still, in the 
 eternal tragedy of things. 
 
 It was with this burning protest against formulas that 
 
 X3
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 1 3 
 
 Clytie entered into the world. They had been presented 
 to her in their smug complacency as solving all mysteries 
 human and divine. She had seen them worshipped as 
 fetiches, and her soul revolted against the futile idolatry. 
 She was too young to examine them carefully, to see 
 that the sacrosanctity of some was miserably justified 
 by human experience. She spurned them all, and she 
 plunged into the waters of Life, a rudderless bark in 
 search of the unknown. 
 
 She spent two years in study at the Slade School in 
 University College, living under the protection of her 
 aunt, who had a house in Russell Square. The training 
 was severe and at times irksome. But she learned strict 
 academical rules of drawing, in spite of her repugnance 
 to the stern coldness of the antique. After her term 
 of hard training was over she went for a year into a 
 painter's studio and learned colour and painting from 
 the live model. 
 
 They were years of probation, as Clytie well knew, 
 and they brought her lessons in self-restraint, both in 
 art and in the conduct of life. Her aunt, Miss Davenant, 
 was shrewder and broader-minded than her brother, 
 having lived more in the whirl of humanity, but the 
 formulas of Durdleham were ranged as household gods 
 upon her hearthstone, and Clytie, out of pure self-interest, 
 was bound to show them outward respect. To compen- 
 sate, however, for this, Clytie found in her student life 
 many experiences, as she had found during her con- 
 tinental trip, with which she could fill her heart without 
 violating her aunt's Lares and Penates. 
 
 She seldom went to Durdleham. She had an odd 
 feeling that she was in disgrace there for having wished 
 to leave it. Besides, both Mrs. Blather and Janet, as is 
 the inconsequent way of such women, spoke tauntingly 
 of her gay life in town, and contrasted it enviously with 
 their country dulness. And then, too, her father was 
 always querulous, complaining, not of her absence from 
 home, but of her dissimilarity to her sisters. 
 
 " My dear papa," she said one day, " I could no more 
 be like them than they could be like me." 
 
 " You might if you had tried," said the old man.
 
 14 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 Clytie looked hopelessly out of window. What possi- 
 ble reply could be made ? 
 
 The happiest, most expansive hours that Clytie spent 
 during these three years were in Harley Street with the 
 Farquharsons. At first her aunt was rather averse to a 
 continuance of the intimacy. Although she had kept up 
 a visiting acquaintance with the Farquharsons since 
 their return from Switzerland, and liked them both per- 
 sonally, she was conscious of an unfamiliar atmosphere 
 in their house. The instinctive shrinking from the 
 unknown made her seek to draw Clytie back with her 
 towards the security of her own accustomed circle. 
 But eventually, when she saw that the girl, to whom she 
 had grown sincerely attached, found real happiness in 
 going to Harley Street, she withdrew her tentative 
 restrictions altogether. Perhaps she read deeper into 
 the girl's heart than either was conscious of, and realised 
 that in the Farquharsons' society Clytie found a relief 
 from the strain of everyday life with her, which otherwise 
 might have been unbearable. 
 
 The conditions of the household in Harley Street were 
 favourable to the development of unceremonious inti- 
 macy. Mrs. Farquharson herself was bred in that strange 
 London world we call Bohemia. Her father, long since 
 dead, had been a journalist, a hack story-writer, a maker 
 of plays, sometimes editor of a smart weekly, at others 
 acting manager of a provincial company. Like most 
 men of his type he spent his money as fast as he earned 
 it, and when work came to a temporary standstill drew 
 upon the prospects of his next success. His daughter 
 Caroline had grown up in cheerful familiarity with this 
 hand to mouth, makeshift existence. She had been 
 called upon so often from her earliest childhood to con- 
 done the faults of her father and those of his intimates, 
 who were men of much the same mould as himself, that 
 a general habit of indulgence became natural to her. 
 Folly seemed so inherent a quality in humanity that not 
 to smile tolerantly, even though reprovingly, upon it was 
 with her an impossibility. The lowering of moral tone 
 that might have resulted from this mental attitude, and 
 from a continuance of the same conditions of life, was 
 prevented by her early marriage with a man of assured
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 15 
 
 income and position. Her father died shortly afterwards 
 and her connection with the seamy side of Bohemianism 
 was thoroughly broken off. But the ingrained habits 
 of freedom and carelessness still remained. She could 
 never learn to be methodical, systematic. She had an 
 inherited dread of account-books, household rules, fixed 
 hours for meals, and appointed places for every domestic 
 article. It was fortunate for her that she had married a 
 man who worshipped her, and himself shared her distaste 
 for rigidly organised life. His means had placed him 
 beyond the necessity of working for his livelihood, and 
 so the free life in a home where he could work, idle, eat, 
 and receive his friends at any hour of the day or night 
 was as much to his own taste as to that of his wife. 
 
 It was impossible that such a house should not possess 
 a charm for those to whom the Farquharsons gave 
 their friendship. The absence of formality encouraged 
 expansiveness and individuality. There was a tacit 
 understanding that one had a right not only to oneself, 
 but to the appreciation of oneself by the host and 
 hostess. It was this that Clytie had felt during her first 
 visit, and it attracted her more and more to them as 
 time went on. Gradually the house became a second 
 home to her, and Mrs. Farquharson a friend such as she 
 had never known before. She could go to her for 
 strength and comfort during her fits of depression when 
 the time seemed out of joint, and she did not in the least 
 seem called upon to set it right. The restraints of 
 strict draughtsmanship, academic modelling and group- 
 ing, chafed her as her simple arithmetic had done at 
 school. She longed to throw them off and to plunge 
 back into her old artistic wilfulnesses. But these occa- 
 sions generally coincided with fresh sensations of 
 restraint in her home life, and she was wise enough to 
 appreciate the fact. 
 
 During this period an incident occurred in her life, 
 giving it fresh colour and helping her to realise herself 
 more fully. Her girlhood had been far removed from 
 the lax sphere of idle flirtation in which many girls are 
 brought up. The young men of Durdleham, who might 
 have been attracted towards her by her beauty, were 
 frozen by her scarcely veiled impatience at their society.
 
 l6 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 The dominant impulse towards active search after life 
 had swayed her to the exclusion of any less powerful 
 motive, and it had scarcely yet occurred to her that her 
 personality might interest and possibly influence others. 
 She was too absorbed in her work, in her dimly shadowed 
 yet ever-haunting plans for the future, in the individ- 
 ualities round her, in the foretaste of that full sense of 
 living, in the stirring objectivity of London life, to dwell 
 at all earnestly on subjective matters and to devote 
 much attention to self-analysis. It is only when the 
 question, " How do others affect me? " ceases to interest 
 that the other question, " How does my personality affect 
 others?" begins to assume a paramount importance. 
 The possibility of a man falling in love with her was 
 a factor as yet absent from her scheme of practical 
 life. 
 
 She learned that such an event had occurred from 
 Mrs. Farquharson. She had gone to her one INIonday 
 morning, depressed, out of tune, to seek consolation. 
 
 " Oh, why am I not a man ? " she exclaimed petulantly. 
 " Why can't I live by myself, go where I like, and see 
 what I want to see ? " 
 
 Her friend laughed good-humouredly. 
 
 " You want to do too much at once, my dear. The 
 world's your oyster, as ancient Pistol said, and you would 
 force it open with one wrench. As for wishing to be a 
 man, you are by no means original. Lots of girls say 
 that, but when they grow older they think it's just as well 
 for them that they are women." 
 
 "What on earth's the good of being a woman!" 
 asked Clytie, with rather unnecessary emphasis. 
 
 One of her studio companions had asked her to join 
 a party at a theatre, and her aunt had demurred on 
 the ground that ladies ought not to go to that particular 
 house. It showed a certain knowledge of the world on 
 the old lady's part, but Clytie did not realise it, and 
 although she accepted the decision with good grace, it 
 fretted her. These trivial things fret even the wisest 
 amongst us quite as much as the important ones do. 
 
 Mrs. Farquharson did not reply, but continued placidly 
 her usual Alonday morning's occupation of putting her 
 music in order, while Clytie watched her from the long
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 17 
 
 rocking-chair where she was sitting, her hands clasped 
 behind her head. 
 
 " What's the good of being a woman when one has to 
 pass half one's life shut up in darkness ? It's bad enough 
 being a human being as it is, and having to sleep the 
 other half." 
 
 " How old are 5'ou, my dear ? " asked Mrs. Farquharson, 
 looking at a song. 
 
 " You know," replied Clytie. " Twenty." 
 
 " Then how would you like to be a young man of 
 twenty — or even two-and-twenty ? How would you like 
 to be young Beaumont, for instance ? Do you think he 
 knows so very much more than you do ? " 
 
 " He's such a boy," said Clytie. 
 
 " And you, my dear, are such a girl," said Mrs. Far- 
 quharson, com.ing up behind her chair and smoothing her 
 cheeks. " But you are many years older than he is — and 
 likely to remain so. Do you know why we women like 
 to be women ? Because we see so many things that men 
 would give the eyes of their heads to know. Hasn't it 
 ever struck you that we are familiar with a side of life 
 that is almost forever hidden from men ? And as for 
 that particular side that men have exclusively to them- 
 selves, it is neither very pretty nor comfortful." 
 
 " I suppose that is why men stop talking when one 
 goes into the smoking-room," said Clytie. "You hear 
 shouts of laughter outside the door, and you think they 
 must be having an awfully good time, and when you 
 appear in the doorway they seem to pull themselves 
 together, and one or two always look red and sheepish," 
 
 " I should advise you to read the story of Bluebeard," 
 said Mrs. Farquharson. 
 
 "You are just as bad as the rest," cried Clytie, half 
 laughing and half vexed. " I never thought it of you. 
 That's what I have always been told : Never try to find 
 out what you don't know. Always remain in a state of 
 blissful ignorance. Men are superior beings, and a 
 good little girl ought to accept her position with 
 meekness." 
 
 "I could a tale unfold," said her friend, "but I 
 won't. It is too early for you. If you want to make 
 experiments on your own account there is young Beau- 
 
 s
 
 1 8 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 mont for you. He will tell you the sum total of his 
 knowledge in ten minutes." 
 
 *• Do you know, I like him," said Clytie, leaving the 
 main track of the conversation. " He always looks so 
 clean, and his clothes fit him so well, and he is so ser- 
 viceable. He always seems to be trying to make the 
 best of himself, since God has done so little for him. 
 And it's very plucky of him to try to improve on the 
 Almighty." 
 
 " I would not like him too much." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " My poor Clytie ! You haven't even got the elements 
 of woman's knowledge yet. Can't you see why Beau- 
 mont wears those very chaste ties and those wonderfully 
 shiny boots, and does errands all over London for you ? 
 Oh, dear ! " 
 
 " Do you mean that he ? " 
 
 Mrs. Farquharson looked at her quizzically and 
 nodded. 
 
 " Therefore I would not like him too much." 
 
 Obeying a first impulse, Clytie burst out laughing. 
 It seemed so ridiculous. Beaumont was a good-look- 
 ing, fresh-faced young fellow of two-and-twenty, a dis- 
 tant relation of the Farquharsons, and a habitue of the 
 house. She had met him there many times and had 
 begun to feel quite friendly towards him. Besides, he 
 had fetched and carried for her in the most useful way. 
 She had never thought of his falling in love with her. 
 As he was the last man she herself would have thought 
 of falling in love with, she found the event ludicrous. 
 
 She stopped laughing suddenly, and crimsoned to her 
 hair ; then rushed impulsively up to Mrs. Farquharson, 
 and put her arm round her waist. 
 
 " I am sorry ; forgive me. What must you think of 
 me ! I could not help it, indeed I couldn't. You put 
 me in such a new light before myself. And, dear Mrs. 
 Farquharson, I do so want you to see the best side of 
 me." 
 
 " My dear girl," said her friend, " you don't suppose 
 that with your face and your nature you are going to 
 pass through life without having men falling in love with 
 you ! You see what a lot you have to learn. You want
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 1 9 
 
 to have a man's experiences before you have passed 
 through the elementary ones of a woman." 
 
 •' And Mr. Beaumont — what shall I do ? " 
 
 " Oh ! don't fret yourself about him. He will get 
 over it. He has no end of this sort of thing to go 
 through before his life is up. It will do him good." 
 
 Clytie had not much time to map out any fixed plan 
 of treatment of her would-be lover, for he met her an 
 afternoon or two afterwards outside University College, 
 where he had been waiting for her, and pleaded that she 
 would walk a little way up towards the Regent's Park, as 
 the afternoon was fine. 
 
 Clytie looked at him and hesitated. 
 
 " Only just a little way. I have something I must 
 tell you." 
 
 " Perhaps you had best never tell it," said Clytie. 
 
 The red-waistcoated gate porter behind them beamed 
 on them smilingly. He had seen something of youthful 
 love in his professional career. 
 
 " I must, whatever happens," replied the young fellow. 
 " I know it's wrong to ask you to walk in the street with 
 me, but I don't know when I shall get another chance." 
 
 "I don't see anything wrong about it," said Clytie. 
 " I will go with you wherever you wish." 
 
 So they wandered up Gower Street and the Euston 
 Road into the park, and there, for the first time in her 
 life, Clytie heard a man confess his love for her and ask 
 her to marry him. He was only a boy after all, but he 
 was in great earnest. Clytie felt humbled, almost guilty, 
 and yet a great, unknown pleasure thrilled through her. 
 Although she knew that the sooner and more summarily 
 the interview was brought to an end the better for both 
 herself and him, she could scarcely resist the temptation 
 of allowing him to pour out the fulness of his boyish love 
 for her. 
 
 She suddenly found herself listening to the sound but 
 not the meaning of his words, her senses filled with the 
 sweetness of the new sensations and the pure May sun- 
 light that flooded the trees and the gay flower-bed oppo- 
 site the bench where they were sitting. Then she real- 
 ised her situation, and in a few kind words, harder to 
 speak than she would have expected, dismissed him.
 
 20 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 And that was the end of the matter. He went off 
 whither young men in his predicament generally betake 
 themselves, and Clytie returned slowly home to Russell 
 Square. 
 
 When she had reached her own room she went delib- 
 erately up to the glass and scanned her features. Then 
 she laughed a strange, contented little laugh, and taking 
 off her hat and gloves, went downstairs to tea. She had 
 advanced several steps along the road to knowledge. 
 
 Three years ! How quickly they passed ! How sure 
 yet dimly working were their influences ! If they were 
 years of probation and self-restraint for Clytie, they also 
 brought with them softening influences. Hitherto her 
 life had been one of revolt and harsh, crude judgments 
 that had turned away friendship and had left her solitary. 
 Mutual misconception and misunderstanding had crushed 
 sisterly love. Her heart had never been touched by real 
 affection. Now she had friends, real ones, in the Far- 
 quharsons whom she could love for their own sakes, and 
 pleasant, sympathetic ones in her companions at the 
 Slade School and at the studio. She learned, too, the 
 sweetness of active protection and helpfulness. Her 
 aunt, though somewhat stronger-fibred than the rest of 
 the Davenants, possessed their essential physical charac- 
 teristics. Her health, which had been failing for some 
 years, gradually gave way altogether. During the few 
 months of her last illness she depended entirely upon 
 Clytie for care and tenderness. It was a new, strange 
 experience for the girl. She learned to love the faded 
 elderly lady who bore her sufferings so calmly, so cheer- 
 fully. Both Mrs. Blather and Janet offered to come and 
 nurse her, but Miss Davenant would have none but 
 Clytie. If this period of selflessness and sacrifice had 
 lasted, who knows what sweet efl'acement of individu- 
 ality might have resulted ? Who knows into what chan- 
 nels of pity and sublime endeavours of mercy the girl's 
 full, ardent nature might have been directed ? But the 
 high gods had ordained otherwise. Miss Davenant died, 
 and Clytie again found herself with the unknown destiny 
 before her that had to be worked out unaided. 
 
 It was only after the first outburst of grief that she 
 realised this fully. She had gone back to Durdleham,
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 21 
 
 with a new range of feelings freshly revealed. Her sis- 
 ters she found were gentle, quiet women like her aunt, 
 narrower perhaps, with thin currents of old prejudice 
 still running through them, but still lovable and sympa- 
 thetic in her sorrow. They welcomed her back like a lost 
 sheep to the fold. Never had her home life seemed so 
 peaceful, comfortful ; London was scarcely mentioned, 
 and her sisters agreed between themselves that Clytie's 
 absence from home was an episode of the past, never 
 to recur. 
 
 But time wears and effaces the deepest intaglio of 
 impression, even that of a young girl's first knowledge 
 of death and eternal loss. Gradually the quietude of 
 eventless life, as the need for it wore away, grew weari- 
 some, oppressive, and the old restless cravings began to 
 gnaw at her heart. The breach that death had closed 
 slowly widened again, so gradually that not till it was 
 fully appreciable did the sisters recognise it. The 
 formulas seemed narrower, more lifeless than ever. She 
 had viewed dimly the potentialities of life, and her soul 
 burned within her with a fiercer hunger. Almost against 
 her will she revolted finally. 
 
 " What is this that Janet has been telling me," said 
 Mrs. Blather one morning, " about your wanting to 
 go back to London ? You cannot be in earnest, 
 Clytie?" 
 
 Clytie looked at her sister rather sadly, tears spring- 
 ing into her eyes. 
 
 " You have been very good to me since I have come 
 back, Gracie, and I have learned to love you more than 
 I did before — much more. But can't you understand, 
 dear, that if I am to go on loving you I must go 
 away ? " 
 
 " I can't see it at all," replied Mrs. Blather. " If we 
 have got on so nicely together these last few months, 
 why can't we continue ? Janet and I are willing to give 
 you all in our power to make you happy." 
 
 " Ah ! but don't you see that what I want is out of 
 your power to give?" said Clytie. *' Don't think I am 
 wicked and ungrateful. If a man wants five pounds, he 
 is grateful to anyone who gives him one ; but that does 
 not lessen his need of the other four. Now the other
 
 22 AT THE GATE OF SAMARTA. 
 
 four pounds are not to be got in Durdleham, Gracie, and 
 I must have them." 
 
 " You should learn content, Clytie," said her sister. 
 " We have all to put up with our lot in life." 
 
 Clytie checked an impulse of impatience at the plati- 
 tude, and answered with great gentleness of voice and 
 manner : 
 
 " This is not my lot in life, dear. It is quite different. 
 You and Janet can bear it, because your natures crave 
 this tranquillity. Mine craves movement, excitement, 
 strange faces. Oh, Gracie, it is no use talking — I must 
 go away, or I shall begin to hate Durdleham as I used 
 to do. There is nothing for me to do here. I am too 
 bad for it, perhaps. I don't know. I can't explain it to 
 you ; you have never felt it." 
 
 " My dear Clytie, that is all nonsense," said Mrs. 
 Blather, who prided herself, above all things, on being a 
 woman of common sense. " As a matter of fact, you 
 can't go to London, because you would have no one to 
 live with, and you would only have your hundred a year 
 to support you, as papa has lost a great deal of money 
 lately and can hardly afford to give you an allowance. 
 When your aunt was alive it was a different thing. The 
 whole idea of going to live alone in London is silly. 
 So there's an end of it." 
 
 Mrs. Blather went on with her sewing, with mingled 
 feelings of content at having done her duty and disap- 
 pointment in the failure of promise of reform in Clytie. 
 She would have judged her sister mercifully had she 
 been able. She was naturally a gentle woman, full of 
 kindness. But her canons of duty would not allow her 
 to encourage or condone wilfulness, caprice, and a tend- 
 ency to wrong-doing. She earnestly believed it was for 
 Clytie's good to stay in Durdleham. The girl's wider 
 needs she could not understand. 
 
 Clytie turned from the hearthrug, where she had been 
 standing, to the drawing-room window, and looked out 
 blankly at the rain. Her young face was set rather 
 hard ; her lips quivered a little ; her heart beat quicker 
 than usual. A struggle was taking place within her — 
 the struggle between the girl and the woman. She felt 
 that the great moment of her life had come. She must
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 23 
 
 choose. Which should it be : the dazzling light with its 
 weird shadows of things unseen, or the gray, easeful 
 glimmer in which the familiar realities cast no shadow ? 
 Which should it be : daughterly duty and maidenly 
 retirement, or the sundering of home ties forever and 
 going out, one woman, to battle with the world ? 
 
 She turned away from the window at last and called 
 to her sister. The latter looked up and was filled with 
 foreboding as she saw the girl's pale face, 
 
 " Yes. What is the matter, Clytie ? " 
 
 "I have made up my mind, Gracie," she said a little 
 huskily. " I am going to London to live by myself, 1 
 can share lodgings with one of the girls I know at the 
 Slade School, There will be no difficulty. I can earn 
 money ; I have already earned a little. As for mamma's 
 money, I am of age now, and it is my own to do what I 
 like with it — as you and Janet do. Let this be an end 
 of the discussion, Gracie, I am going."
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Few people, in an outburst of enthusiasm, would 
 select the King's Road, Chelsea, as an ideal locality to 
 reside in. It is an important thoroughfare, no doubt, 
 but it lacks nobility and distinction. There are isolated, 
 quiet spots in it, with houses lying back from the road ; 
 and from the upper windows of favoured residences one 
 can obtain a view over Veitch's or Bull's extensive hot- 
 houses, and catch dim shadows of great tropical palms and 
 a mellowed dash of brilliant red and yellow. There are 
 others which look over Portman Square or St. Luke's 
 Churchyard. But on the other hand, there are long 
 stretches of dreary shops and factories, grit and general 
 uncomeliness. Without being squalid, it has a careworn, 
 untidy appearance, as if it was far too much harassed 
 with the petty worries and strain of workaday life to 
 think of cheerful adornment. Few people, except 
 errand boys whose sense either of aesthetics or duty is 
 usually undeveloped, saunter casually along the King's 
 Road. A stranger tries to get out of it as fast as he 
 can ; a frequenter has his business to attend to. Fashion 
 does not pass along it, except on tearing drags bound 
 for Hurlingham. It is essentially a small bourgeois part 
 of London, with all the small bourgeois unpretence and 
 honest, if somewhat dismal, solidity. 
 
 It was in the middle of such a dreary stretch of the 
 road, some half mile west of Sloane Square, that Clytie 
 found a lodging. The fact that a green-grocer's shop, 
 owned by the landlord of the house, occupied the ground 
 floor was compensated, in a measure, by the existence of 
 a small studio at the back, on the first floor, originally 
 constructed by a struggling photographer, who had since 
 worked his way upwards into a more fashionably perfumed 
 atmosphere. One of Clytie's favourite fellow-students, 
 Winifred Marchpane, who lived in Lower Sloane Street, 
 
 24
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 25 
 
 and whose family obtained their potatoes and salads 
 from Mr. Gurkins, had recommended the establishment, 
 and offered to share with her the expenses of the studio. 
 The cheapness of the rooms suited Clytie's modest purse, 
 and the prospect of pleasant companionship in the studio 
 was an additional attraction. It is true that the acrid 
 smell of the potatoes, when the side door from the shop 
 on to the private entrance lobby was left open, ascended 
 the stairs, together with a vague odour of cooking, bear- 
 ing upwards, as it were, on savoury breath the disputes of 
 Mrs. Gurkins with the shopboy and the cries of her appar- 
 ently ever-youthful progeny. The incessant rumble, too, 
 of omnibuses, drays, and furniture vans, and the peculiarly 
 aggressive rattle of tradesmen's carts, shook the floor 
 and the windows and shivered the lustres of the chan- 
 delier. There were many drawbacks to elegant life, but 
 Clytie, borrowing some philosophy from a talk with Mrs. 
 Farquharson, proceeded to disregard those she could 
 not eliminate. The sitting-room, when the door was 
 shut and the curtains drawn of an evening, was cosy 
 enough. The pictures, nicknacks, hangings, and other 
 minor accessories of furnished apartments Clytie had 
 returned to Mrs. Gurkins' keeping, on the plea that she 
 scarcely had room for her own — which was true ; and, 
 by some miraculous art of persuasion, she had induced 
 Mr. Gurkins to remove the nerve-shattering chandelier, 
 on the ground that she could not work by gaslight — 
 which was not true. She hung thick curtains over the 
 door to keep out noise and odour, broke up the rigidity 
 of the furniture by screens, small tables, and plants, and 
 painted a long panel for the old cottage piano that made 
 it look fresh and companionable. When all the arrange- 
 ments were completed the room appeared dainty and 
 homelike, bearing, however, here and there, in bold notes 
 of colour, folds of drapery, and odd bits of semi-impres- 
 sionist painting, a peculiar impress of its tenant's per- 
 sonality. 
 
 She was living at last the life she had so passionately 
 longed for. There was not a human being to control 
 her actions, not a conventionality to check the utterance 
 of her thoughts. During her early days here she almost 
 felt tempted to hang up her latchkey over the mantel-
 
 26 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 piece as a glorious symbol of liberty. It seemed not 
 only to serve to give her entrance to her own modest 
 home, but to be the power that would unlock the heart 
 of the great London that lay before her. 
 
 From the first she had little difficulty in finding work. 
 Dealers bought small pictures and gave her orders. 
 She also pleased a firm of publishers to whom she had 
 gone with letters of introduction and specimens of her 
 draughtsmanship, and obtained work in the way of book 
 and magazine illustrating. Her earnings were not large, 
 but there was the promise of success to come. At the 
 end of two years her income was large enough to have 
 enabled her to move from the King's Road into a more 
 refined locality ; but she had grown accustomed to its 
 noise and rattle, and to the hurried, joyless stream of life 
 that flowed along it day by day. And Mrs. Gurkins 
 understood her tastes and habits, a quality in a landlady 
 appreciated by women as well as men. So she stayed on. 
 
 She read widely during these years, learned much. 
 Between the ages of twenty-two and twenty-four a woman 
 is capable of vast assimilation of ideas. They can flow 
 into the freshly opened, unpolluted channels of her being, 
 as yet unclogged by the refuse of sorrows and weari- 
 nesses. Her rejection of the old formulas, and the 
 paramount necessity of gaining knowledge wherewith to 
 provide herself substitutes, checked in her any impulse 
 towards moral or artistic idealism. She read deeply, 
 instinctively seeking after the roots of life, the elemental 
 passions that shake our nature, be its superstructure 
 never so delicately complex. The dawning knowledge 
 half frightened, half attracted her. The barbaric 
 feminine in her struggled to escape into solitude. With 
 fluttering eyelids downcast it recoiled from the idea 
 of passion as yet unawakened responsively within her. 
 But the higher needs of modernity constrained her to a 
 just, resolute system of inquiry. She learned that there 
 are deeper laws regulating our being than those which 
 could be enunciated at Durdleham tea-tables, where the 
 ingrained habit of non-recognition of them restricted 
 life within narrowest limits, and put, as it were, a prohibi- 
 tion tax upon exoteric sympathy. 
 
 At four-and-twenty Clytie was a woman — emotional,
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 27 
 
 impulsive, eager to taste of any new experience. The 
 old rebellious habit of mind had developed into a frank 
 independence. Her step was elastic, her bearing confi- 
 dent. Her life was full and happy. 
 
 " I am glad I am a woman now," she said to Mrs. 
 Farquharson. " I seem to have all the advantages of 
 both sexes." 
 
 *• Wait till you're married, my dear," replied her friend. 
 
 Mrs. Farquharson was fond of the use of affectionate 
 irritants. They are often valuable preservatives of 
 friendship. 
 
 Clytie laughed. 
 
 " I suppose I shall marry some day, I don't want to 
 end up by leading half a life ; but I want to have two or 
 three years more of this. I must play at being a man 
 a little longer." 
 
 " A pretty sort of man ! " said Mrs, Farquharson, 
 resting her chin on her hand and looking at Clytie with 
 amused eyes. " You are the most deliciously feminine 
 young woman I know. Look at your frock and your 
 hair." 
 
 Judging by outward appearances Mrs. Farquharson's 
 criticism was correct. Clytie had the artistic sense in 
 dress. It was like most of her other artistic impulses, 
 with the personal note dominant — soft textures, falling 
 easily into folds, quiet in tone, dark grays, subdued half 
 shades of yellows, suddenly brightened by a small, daring 
 flash of colour at throat or bosom. Lace, with its creamy, 
 clinging softness delighted her, and she wore it defi- 
 antly, with a certain sense of triumph that she was per- 
 haps the only girl in England who could wear it with 
 faultless taste. 
 
 She was of medium height, but her slender, fully 
 formed figure and its erect carriage gave her an air of 
 tallness. Her head set well on her shoulders, and a 
 habit of holding it back, with the chin pointing upwards, 
 free of the throat, added to the impression of young, 
 fearless womanhood. Her eyes were dark blue, wide 
 apart, yet sunk in finely moulded orbits. A light of 
 humour playing in their depths, together with a soft 
 modelling of the nose contours beneath them, atoned 
 for an impression of hardness and sensuousness that
 
 28 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA, 
 
 would have been given by the ripe, full lips with their 
 little curl of disdain. Her face was rounded delicately 
 — that much she inherited from the Davenants — but 
 a faint flush of colour showed the buoyant young blood 
 within, just as her deep red hair, with a thousand lights 
 dancing in it, attested the rich, vigorous strain that had 
 asserted itself in her. She was proud, womanlike, of 
 this hair, and had a way of dressing it in bewildering 
 confusion. 
 
 Her Slade School friend, Winifred Marchpane, con- 
 tinued to share the studio with her. At first she had 
 been a little afraid of Clytie, whose bold judgments and 
 fearless expression of opinion were not qualified always 
 to attract a timorous, shrinking nature. But gradually 
 the stronger personality had overpowered the weaker 
 and bound it to itself by unbreakable bonds. A great 
 friendship had thus arisen between the girls, based on 
 Winifred's side on enthusiastic admiration, almost wor- 
 ship, and on Clytie's on a tender feeling of love and pro- 
 tection. 
 
 Winifred was one of a large family, her father, a 
 retired offlcer in the army with limited income. Two 
 of her sisters were governesses, earning their liveli- 
 hood miles away from home. Another one took charge 
 of the smaller members of the household. Winifred, 
 who had a dainty talent for the painting of still life, 
 supported herself, living at home and paying her share 
 of the household expenses. She was a little, gentle 
 creature, with dark hair, and with a rich colour showing 
 beneath a brown cheek. Her deep brown eyes had a 
 doglike trustfulness in them, and a steadfastness withal 
 such as makes the heroine. A girl of few moods, few 
 caprices. Her work was always beautifully, conscien- 
 tiously finished. She always loved it, always found in 
 it the same quiet charm. There was no element of 
 passion in it to set jarring the strings of futile endeavour. 
 A fine sense of colour and gradation and subtle curve, 
 a supreme delicacy of touch — that was her sole artistic 
 stock in trade, and she never sought to stray beyond the 
 limits imposed. She had had a little picture accepted at 
 the Academy, hung in a far, far corner — a bunch of 
 Marechal Niel roses, full-blown, in a Venetian glass vase
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 29 
 
 of exquisitely veined transparencies — a perfect little pic- 
 ture, sweet and pure, like herself. 
 
 It was a cold March day. The sun shone cheer- 
 fully through the drawn white blinds of the studio sky- 
 light, but an east wind blowing outside came in through 
 the cracks and defied the blaze of the fire in the stove. 
 
 *' You are quite blue with cold," said Winifred, laying 
 down mahl-stick and palette. " Here, put on this wrap. 
 Why don't you take more care of yourself ?" 
 
 " I never thought of it," said Clytie, shivering a little 
 and accepting contentedly the wrap and a caress. " I 
 was sketching out quite a history of that boy who has 
 just left." 
 
 Winifred drew a stool to Clytie's chair near the fire and 
 took up her position upon it — a favourite one with her, 
 as she could have both the moral solace of sitting at 
 Clytie's feet, and the physical comfort of resting her 
 head in Clytie's lap. 
 
 " I hope he won't bring all kinds of horrible people 
 into the house — burglars, you know, like Oliver Twist," 
 she added vaguely. 
 
 " I suppose it is rather rash picking up a model out of 
 the streets. But he is just the boy I wanted to give 
 character to the group. I was going to paint in one out 
 of my own head." 
 
 " I don't know how you get all those street types out 
 of your head, Clytie. I wish I could do it." 
 
 " I would like to see you try, you silly child," said 
 Clytie, laughing. " Your street arabs would look like 
 stray Cupids hastily huddled up in old clothes by a 
 shocked and modest policeman ! " 
 
 " I did not mean that ; you know I didn't. What I 
 meant was — I wish I could paint without models. I 
 don't think I could paint a common flat leaf without 
 having it before me. As for painting that " — and she 
 pointed to a basket standing by her easel, overflowing 
 with anemones, snowdrops, and violets obtained that 
 morning by Mr. Gurkins from Covent Garden — " with- 
 out a copy, I might just as soon think of flying." 
 
 " You are an artist, Winnie, and love your art for its 
 own sake. I am not quite so sure that I do, now. To
 
 3° AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 have to finish all the thousand little convolutions of those 
 bells would drive me raving mad. I should like to have 
 a ghost as sculptors do, only mine would do the finish- 
 ing and put in all the nuisance of detail. That's why I 
 can get on without models. It saves time. I can bring 
 home a face with me from the streets, and I can paint it 
 in rapidly, and then I am done. I suppose I oughtn't tq 
 be, but Burrowes seems satisfied. He says he has got 
 quite a ' line ' in my pictures — the correct ones — and is 
 thinking of raising the price. I am sure that man has 
 been a linen-draper." 
 
 " If you could remember the boy's face why do you 
 bring him here ? " asked Winifred. " I only want to 
 know why you want him so particularly, dear," she 
 added, raising her chin and looking upwards at Clytie. 
 
 The boy had been ragged and uncared-for, not exactly 
 a street urchin, but on a vague borderland of respect- 
 ability, between the newspaper arab and the errand boy. 
 — a hybrid with the vices of many strains. 
 
 "Do you really want to know, Winnie?" said Clytie. 
 •' Perhaps you'll be shocked. However, you'll have to 
 know sooner or later : I am going to make a picture of 
 him on my own account, just a little bit more fantastic 
 than he is, and call him a — an — oh, dear I what shall I 
 call him?" 
 
 "Anelf ?" 
 
 " Good gracious, no. What have I to do with elves 
 and fairies and that sort of thing ? He is the son of 
 Cophetua — supposing the king had not married the 
 beggar maid." 
 
 " Then why not the son of any other king ? " 
 
 " Why not, indeed ?" said Clytie drily. "Or of any 
 other beggar maid ? " 
 
 " Oh ! " said Winifred, looking into the fire. 
 
 And then after a pause : 
 
 " What makes you think that ?" 
 
 " Did you see his mother ? I did. Such a stupid- 
 looking, red-faced woman. I think she said she was a 
 charwoman by profession. There are generations of 
 drudgery in her face, whereas in Jack's there is vigour 
 and intelligence — something so different ; he must have 
 some better strain of blood in him than she and a has-
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 31 
 
 band of her class can have given him. Don't you think 
 so, clear ? " 
 
 "He's a very pretty boy," replied Winifred, "but, oh, 
 he is so dirty and " — with a shudder — "so animal." 
 
 " Well, he fascinates me," said Clytie meditatively. 
 " I am going to paint one of my wildest pictures — all 
 for my own self — and a bit for you if you like, Winnie." 
 
 Winnie accepted this tribute of affection with a little 
 flush of pleasure, although Clytie's " own " pictures 
 seldom gave her unqualified aesthetic delight, and 
 turned her face towards Clytie, who laughed in her 
 frank way. 
 
 " Don't look at me with those great eyes of yours, 
 child ! You make me angry for you. They are just the 
 sort of eyes that make women miserable. You must not 
 trust in people like that, believe me." 
 
 " I trust them when they are good like you, dear." 
 
 " Oh, but you mustn't. Don't you know I am the 
 wickedest girl going — always thinking of the most 
 dreadful things ? Look at the wall. How can you love 
 anybody that can do these silly things ?" 
 
 She pointed to a series of grotesque charcoal carica- 
 tures on the studio wall. She had been dissatisfied a 
 day or two back with a picture she had been engaged 
 on for a month, and in a fit of wilfulness had daubed it 
 out and then proceeded to make a cruel, fantastic travesty 
 of it on the wall, 
 
 " You wanted your tea, dear, just as you do now," 
 replied Winifred. 
 
 This tea hour was Winifred's great delight. At home, 
 on account of the children, they had to sit round the 
 dining table and butter their own thick slices of bread 
 and drink out of substantial breakfast cups. In the 
 studio the girls had provided a dainty little afternoon tea 
 equipage, and Mrs. Gurkins always cut thin bread and 
 butter from a fancy loaf. Generally it was Winifred 
 who poured out the tea, but to-day Clytie busied herself 
 with the cups, thus making some slight amends, perhaps, 
 for having shocked Winifred. Women are full of these 
 odd feminine impulses, and other women understand 
 them. Men don't. 
 
 They sat talking, as they usually did, over their tea.
 
 32 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 and long afterwards, until it was time for Winifred to go 
 home. As they were taking leave of each other on the 
 landing a man sprang up the stairs, checked himself, and 
 raised a slouch hat as he passed them and vanished up 
 the next flight. He was a fresh-faced man, with a brown 
 and tawny beard ; tawny ends, too, to his moustaches ; 
 bright gray eyes flashing humourously as he passed the 
 girls. His dress was careless, loose and unfashionable, 
 yet it was marked with a certain individuality. 
 
 " Who is that ? " Winifred whispered when the last 
 foot of the ascending figure had disappeared. 
 
 " That's another protest," said Clytie — "a better one. 
 He has the courage of his convictions." 
 
 " What do you mean, Clytie ? " 
 
 *' Well, can't you recognise a protest when you see 
 one?" 
 
 " Oh, Clytie, don't tease and puzzle me," cried Wini- 
 fred, giving her friend's arm a little shake. " Do you 
 know him ? " 
 
 ♦* Of course not. How should I ? But Mrs. Gurkins 
 was telling me about him only this morning. His name 
 is Kent. He seems to frighten the life out of her, and 
 therefore I say he is a protest. Now you know, so run 
 away home." 
 
 When Winifred had reached the street door Clytie 
 leaned over the banisters and called after her. 
 
 "Winnie! I must have been in a sweet temper this 
 afternoon." 
 
 " Of course, dear. Why do you say so ? " 
 
 " Because you have left your basket of anemones for 
 me to take care of ! "
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 When Winifred liad gone Clytie took an omnibus to 
 Cheyne Walk, wiiere some friends of hers lived, and 
 atter her visit returned to her solitary dinner. It argued 
 some strength of mind in Clytie that she did not give 
 way, as many lonely women do, to a distaste for ordi- 
 nary food, and a corresponding craving for the miscel- 
 laneous and not over wholesome meal denominated 
 high tea. She had not reached the stage of feminine de- 
 pression and sense of helplessness when inchoate banquet- 
 ing on bread and butter and penny buns seems to bring 
 cheerless solace. Her temperament seemed almost virile 
 in its vigour, and although she had her sex's antipathy 
 to gastronomy, she nevertheless found it reasonable that 
 she should be provided with a decently served dinner. 
 Besides, Mrs. Gurkins, who was professionally interested 
 in food stuffs, held solid views on the subject. She 
 herself had a good appetite, and her little girl children 
 ate everything they could lay their little white teeth to ; 
 she did not believe in not being hungry. It was one 
 of her grievances that her other lodger, Mr. Kent up- 
 stairs, cooked his own victuals scramblingly, and would 
 not allow her to see that his wants were duly satisfied. 
 Accordingly she bestowed extra care upon Clytie. 
 
 After the cloth v/as removed Clytie continued the 
 book she had been reading during the meal, and at last 
 flung it aside. She rose and walked about the room, 
 somewhat restless. She felt lonely — vaguely desirous of 
 action, and yet idle. Was it a dumb premonition of 
 fate, this restlessness ? At any rate it led her to per- 
 form a trivial action which set in motion the currents of 
 her future life. 
 
 She sat down at her writing table that stood in the 
 recess between the fireplace and the light-curtained 
 window and lit a couple of candles, whose pretty red 
 
 33 3
 
 34 AT THE GATE OF SAMAEIA. 
 
 paper shades threw a rosy glow around the corner of the 
 room. It was only a simple note that she scribbled, 
 hastily, boldly, as was her wont. Then she left the 
 candles burning, and returned to her armchair by the 
 fire and gave herself up to meditation. 
 
 The boy model she had engaged that morning inter- 
 ested' her powerfully. She shrank from an insistence 
 upon the solution of the little problem she had offered 
 to Winifred during the afternoon, hovering over and 
 away from it. Her sense of type and personality was 
 too acute not to be profoundly struck by the difference 
 between his mother and himself. On the one hand was 
 dulness, commonness, a coarse-fibred nature responsive to 
 the stirrings of neither hope nor despair, a dull, uncom- 
 plaining drudge ; on the other hand a quick, fiery tempera- 
 ment, showing itself in flashing black eyes, delicate nos- 
 trils, wiry, curly brown hair — all made picturesque by 
 unqualified dirt. And yet, despite this refinement of 
 feature, there was cruelty, brutality even, written on the 
 childish face. That might be the fault of his upbringing, 
 thought Clytie. But his beauty — where did it come from ? 
 She smiled as she thought of King Cophetua. It was 
 the beggar maiden's grace that had won the king's heart, 
 and grace was a quality that Jack's mother most dis- 
 tinctly lacked. Clytie felt dimly conscious of being on 
 the verge of an appalling discovery. Her reading had 
 been catholic enough, and her independent acquaintance 
 with life sufficiently broad, to render the fact familiar to 
 her that kings and beggar maidens if they fall in love 
 with each other usually dispense with the ceremony of 
 marriage. But then love pardons all — a formula in 
 Clytie's new theory of social statics, perhaps wisely not 
 accepted in Durdleham — and all the sorrow in lawless- 
 ness that had come within Clytie's small experience had 
 been in her eyes sanctified by love. Yet who could have 
 loved this woman ? She was not more than three-and- 
 thirty now — young enough to show that she had never 
 possessed the mere attraction of comeliness. The boy 
 remained, however, a living proof. 
 
 She thought of Winifred, and sighed a little. Why 
 should she be forever craving after this strange hidden 
 knowledge, after the taste of things bitter, when there
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 35 
 
 was SO much sweetness in life? The thought of Wini- 
 fred's pure, gentle touch in flowers and delicate bloom of 
 fruit and calm, transparent glass came over her like a 
 rebuke. And then she smiled again, remembering how 
 Winifred had coaxed her once to try and paint a bunch 
 of roses, and how dismayed she had been at the egregious 
 failure. No ; the cobbler must not go beyond his last. 
 
 " I don't suppose I am very wicked after all," she said 
 to herself. 
 
 She rested her chin upon her hand and let her thoughts 
 wander idly, building up a romance for Jack. He was a 
 foundling, of noble parents, and Mrs. Burmester was only 
 his foster mother. Then she roused herself with a little 
 exclamation of disgust : 
 
 "What a perfectly Durdleham solution !" 
 
 The next moment, with an instinct common to folks 
 whether at Durdleham or London, she sprang from her 
 chair and cried : 
 
 " There's something burning ! " 
 
 The room in fact was full of thin smoke, and, as Clytie 
 rose, a snake of red flame ran up the curtains by the 
 writing-desk. She rushed to them, but as soon as she 
 had touched them, the folds being shaken out, the whole 
 burst into a blaze. She fled to the door about to scream 
 " Fire ! " at the top of her voice. 
 
 What happened next neither she nor John Kent could 
 afterwards exactly explain. He was on his way down- 
 stairs when the door was suddenly thrown open and a 
 stream of light burst on to the gloomy landing. Clytie 
 ran almost into his arms crying, " My room is on fire ! " 
 and then he was tearing down blazing, fiery curtains, 
 smothering them with rugs, and stamping out glowing 
 masses of drapery amid much smoke and confusion. It 
 did not take very long to extinguish the flames, but the 
 struggle while it lasted was fierce and exciting. Clytie 
 stood by watching him, her hand at her throat. It was 
 a new sensation to her to have a man acting for her in 
 an emergency. She had failed. She saw by the man's 
 energy, his fearless dealing with the blazing mass, his 
 strength, his violence, that she never could have suc- 
 ceeded. She admired him, was angry at it ; felt herself 
 a helpless woman, was angry at that too ; wished that
 
 $6 AT THE GATE OF SAMAHTA. 
 
 the danger had been a little greater, at which she was 
 more angry than ever. 
 
 However, when the last traces of the fire were extin- 
 guished, and the man stood before her, somewhat out of 
 breath, wiping his forehead, this little train of emotions 
 came to an end. She gazed piteously at her curtainless 
 windows and scorched wainscoting. He turned and 
 opened the window, whence the damp, gusty wind 
 whirled the smoke in billowing drifts about the room. 
 
 " There ! " he said, with a breath of relief. 
 
 " Oh, how can I thank you ?" said Clytie. 
 
 " Don't," he replied with cheerful laconism. " I am 
 glad I was handy — for your sake as well as my own. 
 I live upstairs." 
 
 " I know ; I have seen you come in and out. In 
 fact, you passed us to-day. But still you have saved 
 the whole house, and I thank you very, very much ! " 
 
 " How did it all happen ?" he asked, removing for the 
 first time his white slouch hat and disclosing a shock of 
 brown curly hair. 
 
 " The candle-shade on the desk ; do you see ? It 
 must have caught fire and toppled over on to the cur- 
 tains. I was sitting here and forgot I had left the 
 candles alight ; and then I smelled something burning 
 and saw the curtains in a blaze. Then I ran out to call 
 somebody." 
 
 " That was very stupid," said Kent, pushing back the 
 desk from the middle of the room, where he had wheeled 
 it; "by opening the door you made the things burn 
 quicker. All you had to do was to drag down the cur- 
 tains and cover them with the hearthrug. And then it 
 is very silly to use paper candle-shades. They are no 
 good, and they are always causing accidents. I hope 
 you are not going to get any more." 
 
 The assured paternal air with which Kent delivered 
 himself of this little speech did away with its apparent 
 rudeness. Clytie, who at first looked rather resentfully 
 at her rebuker, laughed. 
 
 They bent down together to restore order among the 
 singed rugs. Beneath them was Kent's waterproof, on 
 to which he had thrown the blazing curtains. It was 
 very badly burned and of course rendered useless.
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 37 
 
 " It is Utterly ruined ! " exclaimed Clytie, examining 
 the holes with a helpless expression of regret on her 
 face. 
 
 And then her eyes suddenly fell upon a great ugly 
 red splash upon his hand. He withdrew it hastily, but 
 she caught the sleeve of his coat. The stuff came away 
 between her fingers. 
 
 " You have burned yourself horribly. Oh, what can 
 I do ? " 
 
 " It's nothing," said Kent. " It doesn't hurt. I'll go 
 and put something on it. Please don't trouble. Good- 
 night." 
 
 He moved towards the door, with his hat and burned 
 waterproof in his hand. But Clytie could not let him 
 leave in this way. The woman in her was moved. 
 
 *' Oh, please don't go until I have seen what harm you 
 have got. I should feel so unhappy about it. I may be 
 able to dress it for you — until you can see a doctor." 
 
 She spoke so sincerely, so frankly, and looked at him 
 with such genuine concern, that he surrendered with a 
 good grace. He came forward to the table where the 
 big lamp was burning and put out his arm for her in- 
 spection. It was really injured, and was beginning to be 
 exceedingly painful. 
 
 *' What can I do for it ? " she asked rather helplessly, 
 
 " Oh, some olive oil and a bit of rag will be the best." 
 
 Clytie produced some cotton wool and some oil from 
 a cruet in the sideboard and then sought after some 
 linen to bandage with. Kent noticed that she did not 
 ask him for his handkerchief, nor did she use her own, 
 but went rather impulsively to a workbasket and tore off 
 a strip of soft material that was lying on the top. It was 
 very expensive stuff, and the whole piece of work of 
 which it was to form a part was spoiled. It was charac- 
 teristic of her. Another woman would have remembered 
 where she had stored some odds and ends of old linen. 
 
 Kent watched her curiously as she was bending over 
 his hand. He had often seen her before, but his life 
 went on so far outside the sphere of women that he had 
 scarcely given her a thought as he had passed her by. 
 He had never even inquired her name. From the mere 
 fact of her renting the studio it had come involuntarily
 
 38 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 to his knowledge that she followed pursuits more or less 
 artistic ; but his curiosity had never been aroused. Now 
 that he had been suddenly thrown into close contact with 
 her he was interested. He smiled at himself for the 
 unwonted pleasure he found in watching the lights danc- 
 ing through her hair, the brows contracted ever so little 
 in the absorption of her occupation, the long nervous 
 fingers, set on the broad palm, deftly arranging the cot- 
 ton wool, the scrap of old lace at her throat and wrists. 
 She was pretty, striking, to look upon, but he had not 
 formed a very high impression of her otherwise. It was 
 just the sort of thing a woman would do, to run out of 
 the room when it was on fire, to give up thinking for her- 
 self in any emergency and trust blindly in Providence — 
 or a man. It is a strange thing that those men who see 
 least of women know most concerning them. 
 
 As she raised her head after pinning the bandage she 
 caught the expression of amusement on his face. He 
 was quick to note the little shadow of resentment that 
 passed over hers. 
 
 " I was thinking what a mess I should have m^de 
 of it by myself," he said with a tact that surprised him. 
 " Thank you very much." 
 
 " It was the least I could do," replied Clytie. " I feel 
 so guilty about it all — and your poor waterproof too." 
 
 " It's a very old one," he replied good-humouredly, 
 holding the garment out for inspection. " My friends 
 will be delighted. They have threatened to cut me in 
 the streets if they saw me in it again. So you see you 
 have secured my friendship for me. And I shall get on 
 much better with an umbrella to-night." 
 
 " But you're surely not going out to-night ! " cried 
 Clytic, moving to the window and shutting it, as if he 
 were intending to escape through it. "It is pouring 
 wet, and you would catch cold in 5^our hand — it 
 would get inflamed, or something dreadful. It is stupid 
 of people not to take care of themselves. It's hurting 
 fearfully, isn't it ? Tell me." 
 
 She looked at him so frankly, her head thrown back a 
 little, and spoke with such a faint touch of imperiousness 
 in her voice, that Kent checked his impulse of retreat. 
 
 " Of course it hurts. But 1 don't mind. If one
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 39 
 
 minded all the little pains of this life, one would have no 
 time for anything else. Besides, I am used to rough it a 
 bit. It is my own choice, more or less, and I like it." 
 
 Clytie remembered the strange stories Mrs. Gurkins 
 had told her about Kent's way of life. She had listened 
 to them with idle interest, never imagining that Kent and 
 herself would ever become acquainted. Now that he 
 alluded to his habits she felt bound to confess her share 
 in the gossip, which she did somewhat rebelliously, check- 
 ing certain more timorous promptings of silence. 
 
 " So you see I know all about you," she said in con- 
 clusion. '' When people are eccentric they become, as it 
 were, public characters. Now if you were to talk to 
 Mrs. Gurkins " 
 
 " Heavens forbid ! " cried Kent with much warmth. 
 " I was fleeing from her this afternoon when I nearly 
 knocked you down." 
 
 " Why ? " asked Clytie, laughing. 
 
 " I don't know — instinct, I suppose. Perhaps I have 
 been wrong. Otherwise I might have known something 
 more of you. It's a bad compliment, I am aware, but I 
 have been here a whole year and I have never seen or 
 heard your name. Might I know whom I have had the 
 pleasure of assisting ? I did not in the least care before, 
 but now it is different." 
 
 There was an honesty and directness in his voice that 
 pleased Clytie. She felt glad he had asked her. There 
 is a touch of susceptible vanity even in the most emanci- 
 pated of women. 
 
 " My name is Davenant, and I am by way of being an 
 artist — that is to say, I gain my living by it." 
 
 Her eyes wandered unconsciously round the room 
 hung with many of her half-finished sketches. Kent 
 followed her glance, and then crossed to the wall and 
 examined one or two of the pictures. 
 
 "Are these yours?" he asked, turning round quickly. 
 
 They were charcoal sketches of street scenes, direct 
 and daring. Kent received Clytie's nod of assent, and 
 glanced at the pictures and then at her again, as if trying 
 to reconcile the two. 
 
 " Is all your work of this kind ? " 
 
 "Mostly. Sometimes I draw it milder," she added.
 
 40 AT THE GATE OF SA3fARIA. 
 
 with a smile, " when definite orders come in ; but I feel 
 more at home with this sort of thing." 
 
 Kent returned to the centre of the room, where he had 
 been standing before. 
 
 " I am not an artist myself," he said, " but I have been 
 brought up in an atmosphere of art and I love it. My 
 father was Rupert Kent, painter-etcher ; he did that 
 little thing over your mantelpiece." 
 
 "Isn't it a perfect little piece of work?" said Clytie, 
 looking round at it. " I am very fond of it." 
 
 " So was my father. Well, you see, I am not a 
 Philistine in art matters, and when I say your work 
 interests me I mean it. I should like to look at some 
 more of it. Where is it to be found ? " 
 
 "You can come anytime to my studio if you like. 
 It is my place of business, you know, and perhaps you 
 may get me some orders. Art is terribly mercenary in 
 these days." 
 
 "I want to see the things you do for yourself," said 
 Kent bluntly, ignoring the little hedge wherewith she 
 had fenced her invitation. " It will be very kind of you 
 to let me come." 
 
 Clytie held out her hand to him as he bade her good- 
 night and thanked him for his help. 
 
 " And now that we know each other," she said, " I 
 hope — I hope you won't cut me on the stairs." 
 
 When he had gone Clytie looked ruefully at the 
 damage that had been done. Her pretty inside curtains 
 were destroyed ; the heavy outer ones burned into great 
 charred holes. The carpet and hearthrug were badly 
 scorched, and the side of her writing-table warped and 
 blistered. As she gazed at the wreck she went over the 
 little scene in her mind. AVhy had she stood still, leav- 
 ing the whole of the work to Kent .'' AVhat must he have 
 thought of her ? 
 
 If he had been any ordinary man of her acquaintance 
 she would have been still angry with herself for her 
 helplessness, and her anger would have reflected itself 
 on him. But now she put the question to herself more 
 through curiosity than irritation. There was a sim- 
 plicity about the man that attracted her. His words had 
 been blunt, almost rude sometimes, but his voice had
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 41 
 
 been kind, his manner protective, straightforward. She 
 had signally marked her approbation for him by asking 
 him to visit her studio, a privilege she only accorded to 
 a few tried and very sympathetic men friends. Kent 
 interested her, and yet she had not the slightest desire 
 to transfer her impression of him to canvas. 
 
 The next morning she gave Winifred an account of 
 the last evening's incidents, confessing her own impres- 
 sions in her wilful, half-cynical way. Her friend listened 
 meekly, wondering at her earnestness. The curtains 
 had caught fire, a gentleman had come opportunely to 
 her aid, had burned his hand, which she had tended in 
 common courtesy. It was all so very natural. As for 
 feeling humiliated at being helped by a man, what are 
 women put in the world for except to yield and give way 
 before men ? 
 
 But Winifred did not say this to Clytie.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 John Kent, antiquarian, scientist, Bohemian, and 
 assistant curator in the British INIuseum, dwelt in the 
 attics, far above the limit of the stair carpet. By the 
 time you had reached them you had lost all sound of the 
 thoroughfare below, and even when you looked out of 
 the windows all sense of locality was lost. Nothing 
 could be seen but roofs and chimney-pots, except on 
 very clear days, when, through an accidental vista of 
 streets, the tops of the trees in Chelsea Hospital were 
 dimly visible. But in Kent's rooms no one cared to look 
 out of window. In the first place, it was difficult of 
 access, and in the second, the extraordinary appearance 
 of the apartment riveted one's attention entirely to 
 things within. 
 
 On the floor was neither carpet nor rug. The 
 place of a fender was supplied by three large iron tri- 
 pods, waifs from some dismantled chemical laboratory, 
 which, when they were not otherwise engaged as foot- 
 stools, served to support a kettle, a saucepan, and a 
 glue-pot. All around the walls, with just one space for 
 the door, ran a broad deal dresser that did duty for 
 several tables, and below it, here and there, were cun- 
 ningly contrived cupboards. Above, every inch of wall 
 was covered : one side completely with books, the others 
 with pictures, mostly old engravings, little masters such 
 as Cranach and Behm, a frame of perfect little Aldegrav- 
 ers,a Prince Rupert mezzo, two Woolmers with their exqui- 
 site wavy lines, I3ewicks, and a magnificent modern Jacque- 
 mart etching of a Sevres vase. The intermediate spaces 
 were filled up with a heterogeneous assortment of curios. 
 The dresser-table was likewise laden with books, 
 coin cases, scientific specimens, strange weapons, old 
 axe-heads, Japanese sword hilts cunningly carved, news- 
 papers, journals, pamphlets, and papers innumerable. 
 There were only two fairly clear spaces around the whole 
 
 42
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 43 
 
 extent : one where Kent worked, and another where he 
 took such meals as he had in his lodgings. Save for one 
 solitary leather writing-chair, the centre of the large 
 room was absolutely empty ; but in a corner, on the 
 floor, were piled up a set of canvas deck-chairs which 
 Kent brought out and opened whenever he had visitors. 
 
 All the fixtures in the room he had made with his own 
 hands. Manual labour was a delight to him. He also 
 cooked his own food and cleaned out the room. The 
 latter operation consisted in raking out the ashes from 
 his grate and laying the fire afresh. No peace-destroy- 
 ing woman disturbed the precincts with broom and duster. 
 When the dust grew so thick that it interfered with his 
 breathing and clouded the lens of his microscope he 
 went round with an old towel flicking and flapping with 
 great energy, and then he watered the floor out of an 
 old bronchitis-kettle. 
 
 Kent was a happy man. He had convictions, enthu- 
 siasms ; manifold interests in life for his lighter moments, 
 one great absorbing work for his serious hours. His 
 slender income sufficed amply for all his wants, and there 
 was always a margin over for the purchase of an occasional 
 rare edition or print or curio. Whenever his salary was 
 increased that margin was greater. His mode of life 
 never changed, for the simple reason that he considered 
 it to be the most delightful one possible. Purple, fine 
 linen, and sumptuous fare had no charms for him. It 
 was always with much groaning of spirit that he put on 
 dress clothes when he went out into the world. He 
 cared not for the high places in the synagogues. Pro- 
 vided he had not to wait outside the doors, the pit of a 
 theatre was a place as desirable as the stalls. 
 
 In his friends too he was happy — a few men different 
 from himself and from each other — and to these he clung 
 loyally. But the conditions of his life removed him 
 from feminine influences. Beyond those girls in his 
 immediate family circle, whom he called by their Chris- 
 tian names and treated with an old-fashioned, brotherly 
 protection, scolding them v/hen they did foolish things, 
 such as wearing light shoes in wet weather, performing 
 little services for them when they behaved themselves 
 nicely, he never troubled his head about womankind.
 
 44 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 On the night when Clytie's curtains caught fire he 
 had been on his way to visit a coterie of three bachelor 
 friends who shared a house in South Kensington. They 
 were accustomed to his nocturnal appearances, and the 
 worse the night and the later it grew the more likely 
 was Kent to present himself at the sitting-room door, a 
 dripping, ruddy apparition, his cheeks and beard glisten- 
 ing with raindrops. And then he would throw off his 
 mackintosh, call for slippers, and join the circle round the 
 fire. The thoughts of the dreary tramp home between 
 two and three never seemed to dismay him. Cheerless- 
 ness of environment in no way affected his happiness. 
 
 They formed the chief part of his social life, these 
 three friends, tried by the changes in fibre, tastes, 
 affinities, that over half a score of years effect. There 
 was Fairfax, the doctor, ruddy, full-blooded, magnetic 
 with health and vitality, whose brass plate shone huge 
 on the front door, inviting confidence ; Greene, the 
 solicitor, shrewd, hard-headed, a speaker of few words ; 
 and Wither, the civil servant, the little gnomelike man, 
 full of strange sayings, whimsical, non-moral, a man of 
 boyish, elfin beauty, trusted by men, petted by women. 
 Of the three Kent loved Wither best. Wither saw 
 deeper into the world's mysteries than he, but his own 
 sturdy honest sense had kept the other from many an 
 abyss. 
 
 After bidding Clytie good-night, Kent stood irresolute 
 on the landing. Should he wrap the remains of his 
 waterproof around him, and still go whither his truest 
 happiness liad hitherto always led him ? Considerations 
 of the chill, sleeting night and the throbbing pain in his 
 hand went for nothing in his decision. The girl who 
 had tended the burn had almost besought him not to go 
 out. To disregard her would be an act of discourtesy. 
 Thus thought honest Kent as he turned on his heel and 
 slowly mounted the stair. But his evening had been 
 spoiled, he told his briarwood pipe, with a consoling 
 sense of martyrdom, and the cause thereof was 
 feminine. 
 
 " It is just the silly sort of thing that Agatha would 
 do," he said to himself. 
 
 Agatha was his sister, whom he pitied intensely for
 
 Al- THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 45 
 
 being a woman. He thought of Clytie's pictures, the 
 signs of virility in them, and he began to pity Clytie too. 
 Yet there was a difference of Icind in his sentiments. 
 He pitied his sister for being constrained to ambitionless- 
 ness and futility ; he was sorry for the handicap of sex 
 to Clytie's ambitions. 
 
 In some such attitude of mind towards her he knocked 
 at the studio door the following afternoon. It is true 
 that a warning throb of the bourgeois in him, that still 
 sometimes mutely guided the Bohemian along certain 
 tracks, had made him consider for a vague moment the 
 correctness of calling so immediately upon Clytie ; but 
 the directness and simplicity of his nature disregarded 
 it. It was only natural that Clytie should like to know 
 how his burned hand was faring. 
 
 He found the girls busily painting, Winifred at the 
 side, with her basket of flowers near her, Clytie stand- 
 ing at her easel, in the middle of the room, her back to 
 the door, her face turned half round to see who would 
 enter in response to her call. 
 
 On the floor by the fireside sprawled Jack, the model, 
 eating an orange. His face was still dirty, his curly 
 hair matted. Winifred had pathetically besought Clytie 
 to have him washed. Why should his poor little face be 
 all over dirt ? 
 
 " Because it could not exist without it," Clytie had 
 answered. " It was so before he was born." 
 
 Winifred had given her one of her appealing looks 
 from swimming brown eyes, and Clytie, remorseful, 
 had run impulsively up and caressed and kissed her. 
 But she had not washed Jack's face. He scrambled to 
 his feet and looked defiantly, like a young animal, at 
 Kent when he entered. 
 
 The ground-glass roof, the white walls scored over 
 with Clytie's fantasies, and the bright red curtain at the 
 back behind the stove gave a singular setting to the 
 picture. 
 
 Clytie's eyes brightened. She threw a cloth over the 
 picture she was engaged on. 
 
 " How good of you to come — and the hand ? " 
 
 " A trifle. It will be quite well in a few days ; I 
 thought you would not mind my coming to tell you how
 
 46 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 your doctoring had succeeded. I am keeping it in a 
 sling — so ; otherwise I should be always trying to use 
 it. You are none the worse, Miss Davenant ? " 
 
 "I? Why should I?" 
 
 " Oh, nerves, shock, headache — and all that. My 
 mother, I know, would have been upset for a week." 
 
 Clytie laughed ; a gay little laugh. She pierced 
 through the words to the simplicity that lay behind 
 them. 
 
 " I have never cultivated nerves, Mr. Kent. They 
 sadly interfere with practical life. How do you think 
 Miss Marchpane and I would get on with this sort of 
 thing " — and she nodded towards Jack — " if we had 
 nerves ? Winifred, this is Mr. Kent, who put out my 
 fire last night. Miss Marchpane and I share the studio 
 together, you know." 
 
 " You work on very different lines," said Kent after 
 a while, leaning back in his chair so as to catch a glimpse 
 of Winifred's tiny canvas. " What a strange thing 
 temperament is ! I suppose neither of you does land- 
 scape." 
 
 *' Oh, yes, Winifred. Dainty little bits of meadow 
 and stream. I can't; I always want to put legs and arms 
 to my trees, and make the branches twist and writhe 
 about, like Gustave Dore in the ' Wandering Jew.' " 
 
 " You scarcely look like a painter of the weird," said 
 Kent. 
 
 " You think I have not enough strength of imagina- 
 tion?" 
 
 " You have too much strength of mind," returned 
 Kent judiciously. " You hanker too much after the real. 
 I can only judge," he hastily added by way of explana- 
 tion, " by what I can see of your work around me." 
 
 " You will get into difficulties," said Clytie, laughing. 
 " One moment you accuse me of nerves, and the next of 
 strong-mindedness. Which is right, Winnie ? " 
 
 " I should be telling too much or too little if I were 
 to say," replied Winifred. " Mr. Kent will have to judge 
 for himself. We had better show him something to 
 go by." 
 
 They turned to an exhibition of Clytie's paintings ; 
 small stacks of canvases were ranged on the floor, along
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 47 
 
 the walls ; here and there one hanging or standing on a 
 table or on an easel. Clytie stood by in her nonchalant, 
 professional way, giving a word or two of necessary ex- 
 planation as Winifred placed them one by one upon an 
 easel for Kent's inspection. Painters, sculptors, musi- 
 cians and actors have a moral advantage over poets and 
 novelists, in that they are not ashamed of their work. 
 An artist shows you his picture frankly and hopes you 
 will like it ; if a poet reads you a sonnet, he has an all- 
 devouring dread lest you may deem him a prig. And 
 the strange part of it is that you do ; whereas you think 
 the painter rather a good fellow. A little problem in 
 sociological aesthetics. 
 
 As Kent looked at the pictures he lost his sense of 
 Clytie's Agatha-like behaviour of the previous evening. 
 He forgot even to pity her. He expressed genuine 
 admiration for her work, interspersing his remarks with 
 outspoken criticism which Clytie recognised as deeper 
 than that of the mere virtuoso. It was qualified, too, by 
 the supreme attribute of simple common sense. He 
 judged the pictures on their merits ; he judged Clytie 
 as a woman of genius, strong mind, out of the ordinary 
 run of women. The inner promptings and cravings 
 that had thus found artistic expression it was beyond 
 his philosophy to suspect. Nor did Clytie think of en- 
 lightening him, 
 
 " I like your realism," he said. ** It is straightfor- 
 ward. There's always a great danger of this sort of 
 thing degenerating into morbidness. But if you can 
 keep it true, it's healthy ; it means sober, honest work, 
 and not an intermittent fever. I see you work off your 
 superfluous energy on the walls." 
 
 *' Oh, I forgot them," cried Clytie somewhat shame- 
 facedly. " You must not look at them, please. They 
 are not part of the show. Miss Marchpane gets tired of 
 flowers and peach-bloom, and sometimes " 
 
 *' Clytie ! " cried Winifred reproachfully. 
 
 Clytie laughed ; and Kent with her. The light jest 
 brought them nearer together. 
 
 " No ; I do that when I feel wicked," said Clytie, 
 " I paint a nice, correct little picture for the nice, 
 correct people who are going to buy it, and then I
 
 43 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 grow angry with them and feel I should like to shock 
 them, take the stiffening out of them, reduce them 
 to elemental bits of humanity. Look at this group 
 of street urchins. I am doing that on order for my 
 dealer. Here is Jack— look at him now staring into 
 the stove with the unreasoning content of_ a young dog. 
 Doesn't he seem nice and conventional in the picture ? 
 You can hear the young lady of the house saying to the 
 curate, ' Aren't these little street children too delight- 
 ful ? ' Now if they were shown the real Jack, it would 
 give them to think, as the French say — and they hate 
 doing that. This is juy idea of the real Jack." 
 
 She whisked the cloth off the easel and showed Kent 
 the charcoal Gauche of her own particular study of the 
 urchin. 
 
 She had worked rapidly that day, with the feverishness 
 that Kent deprecated. Whether she would convert the 
 sketch into a finished picture she did not know. She 
 had desired to fix the haunting impression of Jack's 
 possible history. 
 
 Kent was somewhat startled by the suddenness of the 
 presentation. There was the boy, refined, delicate in 
 feature, great-eyed, curly-haired, but repulsive with 
 cruelty and animalism ; in a degraded attitude, head 
 bent forward, knees bent, lips parted in a sneer. 
 
 " He does not look like that now," said Kent, com- 
 paring the original with the copy. 
 
 " Wait," said Clytie. Then imperiously to the urchin : 
 
 " Jack, what are you thinking of ? " 
 
 He turned, looked up at her shiftingly. 
 
 « Dunno." 
 
 " Weren't you thinking of the nice little story of the 
 cat you told me this morning?" 
 
 No answer. 
 
 " It's about a stray cat that came into his mother's 
 house half dead, you know, and this boy was so kind to 
 it — like a dear little girl " 
 
 " Yer lie ! " cried the boy, starting to his feet. " Oi 
 told yer Oi killed 'er. I lammed her bloomin' 'ed open 
 with a chopper. I 'ates cats ! " 
 
 " Voild, ! " said Clytie. " That's the real Jack. That's 
 the Jack I'd like to startle Peckham Rye with."
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 49 
 
 And then turning to the boy : 
 
 *' That will do for to-day, Jack, Here's your shilling ; 
 give it to your mother." 
 
 " Shan't," said Jack. 
 
 " Oh, but you must," said Winifred ; " look how hard 
 your poor mother has to work to keep you, Jack." 
 
 " She's bloomin' well got ter," said Jack. " I aint 
 going to give 'er no money. She never gives me none." 
 
 " But your mother will beat you," said Clytie. 
 
 "Wot do I care?" 
 
 "And your father, you sweet boy ? " asked Kent. 
 
 "Aint got none." 
 
 "Never had one?" continued Kent. 
 
 "No ; mother aint that sort. Blamed glad." 
 
 " Here, you'd better run away," said Clytie hurriedly. 
 "Keep your shilling and make yourself as ill as you like 
 with it. Come the day after to-morrow — Friday. Can 
 you remember ? It's unnecessary to request you not to 
 wash between then and now. Go on. Good-bye. Out 
 you get." 
 
 The boy took up the remains of his cap and went, 
 with an air of relief, out of the room. 
 
 " What a little brute ! " said Kent. "Why don't you 
 try to reform him — make him human ? " 
 
 " He is human," cried Clytie with some warmth. 
 " That's why I cultivate him. Delightfully human ! 
 Refreshing ! As for reforming him " — with a shrug of 
 her shoulders — "I am not a Sunday-school teacher. I 
 have nothing to do with the submerged tenth ; let the 
 good respectable folks who have submerged them raise 
 them with their polite and respectable hands. I am an 
 artist — a student of life — what you will. Each one to 
 his trade. Perhaps when I have got what I want out of 
 Jack it may amuse me to show him the desirability of 
 not ' lamming cats' bloomin' 'eds open with a chopper.' 
 I don't know — I'm not altogether devoid of moral sense. 
 Winifred's tender heart may be touched, and between 
 the two of us we may turn him out a mild-eyed journey- 
 man carpenter, a member of the Y. M. C. A., a model 
 of all the virtues. But I very much doubt it. He has 
 vice in his blood. But perhaps I am wounding some of 
 your susceptibilities, Mr. Kent ? You may be a social 
 
 4
 
 so AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 reformer, and keener than I on these matters. If so, 
 pardon me. We artists are privileged, you know, to 
 view life from our own standpoint." 
 
 Kent threw up his hand and dropped it — a little ges- 
 ture of deprecation. He, too, had large views on 
 humanity and its needs. He was even then sacrificing 
 comfort, fame, ease, such as other men understand 
 them, so as to serve it. But it was according to his own 
 capabilities. It was a darling scientific work, that on 
 the most modest computation would take him twenty 
 years to complete — an unthankful task ; his name to be 
 remembered with reverential gratitude by some half 
 dozen workers, to perish unheard of by the remaining 
 millions of mankind. But these half dozen would use 
 the result of his life's energies to the advancement of 
 human prosperity, and that thought glowed within 
 Kent's heart. Still a man has not time for all things. 
 He honestly disclaimed pretensions to being a social 
 reformer. He was also artistically sympathetic enough 
 to appreciate Clytie's attitude as regards Jack. He was 
 nearer to her in spirit than Winifred, who was pained at 
 Clytie's speech. She would have cried out with the 
 sharpness of the pain had it not been for Kent's pres- 
 ence. And she would have been revolted at the cynical 
 callousness had it not been for the blind adoration with 
 which she bowed before Clytie. Whatever Clytie did 
 was right, she told herself, and she was a poor little 
 body who could not understand these things. But her 
 heart bled for Jack, and she wondered why Clytie's did 
 not bleed also. 
 
 " I spoke idly," said Kent. " I am sorry. If all 
 artists set about reforming their models, their hands 
 would be too full for art. But he is a little brute all 
 the same, and, as you say, Peckham Rye would be 
 startled by him. But why do you want to shock 
 Philistia?" 
 
 " Would jw/ like to live in it, be of it, and worship at 
 comfortably timed intervals in its correctly appointed 
 temple of Dagon ?" 
 
 " No," laughed Kent. " They wouldn't have me in it. 
 I think they could stand less of me than I of them. 
 They are God's creatures after all, you know. If you
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 5 1 
 
 prick them, they bleed — and so forth. If they admire 
 your little pictures, which I too admire vastly, there must 
 be some saving grace in the Philistines." 
 
 Clytie shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 " But why should I be obliged to paint in their way, 
 and not in my way ? That is what irritates me." 
 
 " Have you tried them with j'our way, as you call it ? " 
 
 Even Winifred could scarcely forbear flashing at Clytie 
 a little smile of tender malice. 
 
 " God bless my soul ! " she whispered softly, and the 
 two broke into unconstrained laughter. 
 
 "Winifred is quoting, Mr. Kent. It was an elderly 
 gentleman, stout, florid, lots of watch-chain— one of my 
 patrons. He had bought one of my pictures at the deal- 
 er's, and came for another. Burrowes showed him one 
 of my own own things. Winifred and I happened to be 
 at the back of the shop at the time. The old gentleman 
 put on his spectacles, looked at the picture, gave such a 
 jump, held it in the light, and then gasped out : 'God 
 bless my soul, Burrowes, has the young woman taken to 
 drink ? ' " 
 
 " What did you do ? " 
 
 "I don't know what I should have done if Winnie 
 had not held me back. As it was, Burrowes whispered to 
 him that the artist was overhearing the conversation. 
 * Well, it will do her good,' says the old gentleman, 
 and he went out storming. Then Burrowes came to me 
 and complained that I had lost him a customer. He 
 has the soul of a pork-butcher, that man ! " 
 
 Then turning to Kent, her cheeks still flushed with 
 anecdotal animation: 
 
 " That's how it is, you see ! " 
 
 " Well," said Kent, " perhaps you have reason to owe 
 Philistia a grudge. I haven't. If it shuts its respect- 
 able doors on me, I shrug my shoulders and set up my 
 wigwam outside, where 1 can smoke my pipe in peace. 
 It is better not to care for the world — or anything, for 
 that matter, if one has work to do. One's keenness on 
 life ought to leave one no time for hating one's fellow- 
 creatures." 
 
 Winifred looked at Clytie, expecting to see her resent 
 the implied rebuke. But Clytie only laughed softly to
 
 52 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 herself, leaning back in her chair, looking at her finger 
 tips. 
 
 " You are by way of being a tonic, Mr. Kent," she 
 said, without looking at him. 
 
 Kent was disconcerted, could not find a reply. He 
 stroked his tawny beard and moustache with his free 
 hand, and looked at her somewhat puzzled. He had 
 uttered his own robust faith, and she had seized a 
 personal reference with which she appeared not dis- 
 pleased. 
 
 At last he said : 
 
 " I don't mean to imply that you are cynical, Miss 
 Davenant. But you are a little vindictive. I, too, often 
 think of that passage in ' Sartor Resartus ' where 
 Carlyle strips the clothes off the courtiers at St, James's 
 and leaves them bare, with their bowings and scrapings 
 — do you remember? Well, it would be a very good 
 thing for them. You would come down to pure 
 humanity and find it really a very lovable, great-hearted 
 thing after all." 
 
 " Then, for goodness' sake, let us begin to strip the 
 clothes off them at once ! " cried Clytie, changing her atti- 
 tude, with her usual suddenness. " That's what I want 
 to do. I want real men, real women ; that's why I take 
 human nature in the rough " — making a comprehensive 
 sweep with her hand round the studio.. " The clothes 
 these things wear don't matter ; you can see the passions 
 working through the rents and tears." 
 
 " Umph ! " said Kent. " You may see something that 
 will frighten you one of these days. There's plenty of 
 good in humanity, but there's plenty of bad. You had 
 better get hold of what is good first. It will give you 
 a foundation." 
 
 Shortly afterwards Kent took his leave. He had paid 
 a longer visit than he had anticipated. He found him- 
 self pitying Clytie again upon new, less definable 
 grounds. He was much struck by her work, her frank- 
 ness, her independence. She was a novelty to him, 
 different from the few other women he knew. She 
 seemed to have everytliing calculated to make a woman 
 happy and her life full, and yet he was sorry for her. 
 Why, he could not tell.
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 53 
 
 He went up to his attics, and prepared to spend his 
 usual working evening. Afterwards, towards half-past 
 eleven, he might walk across to South Kensington. He 
 took from one of the cupboards beneath the dresser- 
 table plates, knife and fork, a half-finished tin of sar- 
 dines, bread and butter. This, together with a bottle 
 of beer, formed his frugal evening meal. His midday 
 dinner he took at an Italian restaurant near the Museum. 
 He ate standing, walking about his room between the 
 mouthfuls, selecting the books he would require for his 
 work, and pausing now and then over an idly opened 
 volume. His meal finished, he collected the soiled 
 utensils and stacked them on the landing outside his 
 door for Mrs. Gurkins to remove, wash, and return to 
 the same place in the morning. Then he lit his pipe, 
 and settled down to his long evening's work. 
 
 Thoughts of burned hand, new-found friends, occu- 
 pied him not. The crisp whisk of the leaves of his ref- 
 erence-books, the rapid whirr of his quill pen, the occa- 
 sional bubble of his green-shaded reading-lamp, were 
 the only signs of external life of which he was conscious. 
 The rest of the bare-floored room, with its oddly covered 
 walls, was deep in shadow. But the light shone in a circle 
 upon the pile of books and papers on which he was 
 engaged, and lit up strongly his honest, resolute face, with 
 its intent gray eyes and its kindly mouth half hidden in 
 the moustache and beard. Kent was happy. The darling 
 work, that served him as mistress, religion, ambition — 
 over which he had never known a heartache — held him 
 in its enchantment. And the wet slips grew in number 
 around him.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 " You are going to spend a dismal evening, my dear," 
 said Mrs. Farquharson, with a sigh. 
 
 They were sitting on either side of the drawing-room 
 fire, awaiting dinner guests. 
 
 " Why ? " asked Clytie. 
 
 " Oh, the crowd that's coming — fossilised London, 
 with figures like amphoras and faces like old coins. It's 
 the principle of assimilation, I suppose. And they'll 
 talk as if there were nothing new under the sun." 
 
 " There isn't much." 
 
 " Isn't there? Wait till you have lived a little longer. 
 At any rate there are murders and divorces and new 
 pictures and the latter end of the nineteenth century. 
 Wliy people choose to live a couple of thousand years 
 before their time I can't make out. You'll see. They'll 
 all look as if they had been excavated — except George, 
 and he looks as if they had never taken the trouble to 
 bury him. Thank goodness, they have all got weak 
 digestions and don't dine out much, or else we should 
 have them here every week." 
 
 " But the wives are coming too," said Clytie by way 
 of consolation. 
 
 "Poor things ! They all look weary with many proof- 
 sheets crammed with circumflexes over impossible let- 
 ters, and wrong-headed pictures of birds and beasts. 
 All archaeologists are not like George, you know." 
 
 "But then no one is like George." 
 
 " That's a mercy," said Mrs. Farquharson settling her- 
 self with much comfort among the cushions of her chair. 
 " Don't you get married, my dear ; stay independent. 
 Do you know, one of the beings is going to read a paper. 
 Pity me." 
 
 " It seems as if I am to be pitied too," remarked 
 Clytie. 
 
 54
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 5$ 
 
 " Ah ! but you are young and can make fun out of 
 them. I can't." 
 
 The occasion was a meeting of Mr. Farquharson's 
 archseological set. The inner circle dined at each other's 
 houses in turn once a month, and the outer circle came in 
 later, for the " conversazione, "as Mrs. Farquharson called 
 it, with a little shudder. A paper was usually read, fol- 
 lowed by a discussion, from which the more flippant 
 seceded and gossipped casually in odd corners. Clytie 
 had never been to one of these strangely homogeneous 
 reunions. The people she generally met at her friends' 
 house were miscellaneous, and the talk danced about 
 upon all subjects under heaven, wreathed in blue curls 
 of cigarette smoke. Mrs. Farquharson had begged her 
 to come and support her — " to strike a note of colour 
 among the gray ruins." Clytie looked forward to the 
 incongruous formalism of the evening with an anticipa- 
 tion of amusement. 
 
 She hinted as much to Mr. Farquharson when he 
 came into the drawing-room. He laughed, bowed his 
 long, ungainly figure, hoped that Miss Davenant had 
 come to be instructed. Professor Petherick was to read 
 a paper on an aureus of Geta of the type Cohen No. 1 1, — 
 Clytie and her hostess communed with each other 
 dumbly, — and many rare coins were to be exhibited. He 
 trusted that Miss Davenant would be appreciative and 
 on her best behaviour. Numismatics was not a subject 
 that lent itself to flippancy. 
 
 " My wife can turn the house into a bear-garden every 
 Sunday evening, more shame to her, though she does 
 sit and smile in her superior way. But twice a year I 
 assert my individuality and this house becomes sober 
 and respectable. So no cigarettes to-night, Miss Daven- 
 ant. When I put on these dress-clothes I am rigid." 
 
 " You look very nice," said Clytie. 
 
 He looked down at himself complacently, accepting 
 the flattery ; such is man. He always insisted upon 
 wearing very square-toed kid boots, a high buttoned 
 waistcoat with a chain made of old coins banded across 
 it, a deep velvet collar to his dress-coat, and a shirt- 
 collar, with two long ends that served as a tie, beneath 
 his beard.
 
 5 6 AT THE GATE OF SAMAHIA. 
 
 n 
 
 I like him better in his velvet jacket," said Mrs. 
 Farquharson. " Go and put it on, George." 
 
 But George shook his head sadly. He must be properly 
 attired to discuss an aureus of Geta. 
 
 The guests arrived, seven in number, and they went 
 down to the dining-room. Clytie sat between Professor 
 Petherick, a little rosy man with a bald head and gas- 
 tronomic appreciation, and a young clergyman who had 
 taken her in to dinner. She had been for so long a time 
 outside Church influences that a strange little Durdle- 
 ham qualm come over her. He looked stern, over- 
 worked, dreadfully in earnest, she thought, not likely to 
 sympathise with the Thelemite joyousness of life of the 
 house whose motto was, ^^ Fays ce que vouldras." He 
 was the only bachelor among the guests. The six others, 
 including the professor, consisted of three married couples, 
 middle-aged, respectable. Mr. Vansittart was a great 
 Egyptologist. It was of his wife, a faded, weary-looking 
 woman, that Mrs. Farquharson had so pathetically spoken 
 with reference to the correction of proof-sheets. Mrs. 
 Petherick was literary, fond of lions. Her talk was a 
 catalogue raisonn^ ol her menagerie. Mr. Farquharson 
 listened politely and went on with his dinner. The 
 remaining couple were the Chowders, retired Anglo- 
 Indians, who found only late in life an opportunity of 
 gratifying their ruling passions — on her part an undis- 
 turbed warm bath of domesticity ; on his, archaeological 
 dilettanteism. She was florid and buxom ; he bronzed 
 and shrivelled. Both talked on their pet subjects. The 
 Rev. Victor Treherne was a keen numismatist. *'A 
 recognised authority," Farquharson had whispered to 
 Clytie. " Will give Petherick beans if he goes wrong." 
 
 Clytie knew nothing of numismatics. She did not 
 know the difference between a moidur and a bezant, nor 
 did she seek enlightenment from her neighbour. She 
 questioned him as to his environment — North London, a 
 large parish, chiefly poor. The conversation languished, 
 then it brightened up through common effort. Each 
 had a King Charles the First's head to keep in the back- 
 ground, feeling it to be distasteful to the other. Tre- 
 herne had left his parish behind, and had brought no 
 other interests with him save those circling round the
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 57 
 
 famous aureus, a matter of supreme indifference to 
 Clytie, who, for her part, had been cautioned to act as 
 the superior Ki-Pi-Yu, friend of Confucius, did on cer- 
 tain occasions — roll her principles up and keep them in 
 her breast. Each, too, divined dimly the other's per- 
 sonality, and they talked eagerly, seeking to like and 
 interest one another through a current of mutual 
 antipathy. 
 
 The professor and Mrs. Farquharson were talking less 
 unreservedly on the question of female disabilities. He 
 had theories on the sacredness of woman's mission. 
 Mrs. Farquharson's views were more materialistic. Her 
 early training had disabused her of the oak and ivy illu- 
 sion, which the professor still entertained. 
 
 '• No, it's no use, professor," she said. "A man has 
 got to go his way and a woman hers. If their ways lie 
 together, so much the better — they can help each other ; 
 if they lie apart, so much the worse. Besides, I cannot 
 conceive anything more irritating to a man than to be 
 followed all about by his wife — like a dog. No wonder 
 some men beat their wives." 
 
 Treherne had caught the speech. He turned to Clytie. 
 
 " Do you believe that ? " 
 
 " Of course. Mrs. Farquharson and I are sworn 
 sisters. We hold advanced views concerning ourselves. 
 I hope you don't think we have a mission ! Have you 
 ever thought how distressing it is to try to live up to 
 a false ideal, and somebody else's into the bargain ? " 
 
 " We all have to live up to an ideal. This one may be 
 false ; I don't know. At any rate it is a high one, and 
 worth aiming at." 
 
 "That is Jesuitical. What is to become of a woman's 
 self-respect when she knows all the time she is a hum- 
 bug, although a sublime one ? " 
 
 " By seeking to inspire others with faith in her she 
 will at length acquire faith in herself." 
 
 " Don't you think that's rather vicious ? " 
 
 *'I don't know. The same principle obtains in my 
 own calling. Many a man enters the Church who is not 
 really fit for it. But the professional effort he has to 
 make to raise others in most cases raises himself." 
 
 " That may be quite true," said Clytie, " but it does
 
 58 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 not prove the principle to be right. Besides, the cases 
 are different. You undertake, when you enter the 
 Church, to do certain things. Now when a woman 
 enters the world she does not undertake to do anything, 
 any more than a man does. They both clamour to 
 assert themselves as human beings. They may go about 
 it in different ways, — it is merely the difference of sex, — 
 but their ultimate end is the same." 
 
 " And what is this ? " 
 
 " To get as much out of life as possible." 
 
 " That's scarcely orthodox," 
 
 The accompanying smile was a touch of the curb on 
 Clytie. She paused. There was an interval of dining. 
 Then she turned to reply to a remark of the professor. 
 Mrs. Farquharson, who hitherto had steered skilfully 
 through the shoals of antiquity, was run aground by 
 Colonel Chowder. Clytie was astonished to hear her 
 friend talking learnedly of coins and Latin inscriptions. 
 She ran discursively over the points of George's collec- 
 tion, toning her speech with a light counterpoint of 
 mockery, so that its echo should reach Clytie's ears. 
 Mrs. Chowder bubbled domesticity over the Egyptolo- 
 gist ; spoke of her sons, the difficulty of army examina- 
 tions. She was bent upon their getting into the service, 
 also upon their marrying young. The reconciliation of 
 these incongruities was the problem offered for Mr. 
 Vansittart's solution. 
 
 Clytie again turned to Mr. Treherne. 
 
 " Do you often come here ? I am almost of the house 
 and I have never met you." 
 
 " Once before, on a similar occasion — almost the same 
 circle. A common hobby brings the most divergent 
 people together." 
 
 " It is a pity you and I have not got one," said Clytie, 
 flashing a malicious glance at him. 
 
 " Perhaps we have. What do you mostly do ? " 
 
 " Paint — for my living." 
 
 " An artist ! What is your line ? " 
 
 " Anything human — they call it genre — street life — 
 the very poor." 
 
 " The poor ? Then we have a common hobby after 
 all!"
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 59 
 
 " Perhaps," replied Clytie. " But I am afraid we ride 
 it in opposite directions." 
 
 " Do you know much of their lives — go among 
 them ? " 
 
 " Not much ; I see them only externally, from an 
 artist's point of view. I should like to see deeper." 
 
 A light burned for a moment in the young clergyman's 
 gray eyes. 
 
 " Would you care for work among them ? " 
 
 ** As a student, perhaps ; as a reformer, no ! " 
 
 " One generally leads to the other." 
 
 " In that case I'll not run the risk," she replied 
 laughing. 
 
 An hour later the drawing-room was filled with the 
 evening guests, mostly men. Women archaeologists are 
 scarce. The sentiment with which they inwrap relics 
 of the past harms the pure scientific spirit of inquiry. 
 Thus Mr. Farquharson to Clytie, briefly explanative. 
 She laughed, reminded him how lately in a sentimental 
 mood he had accused women of lack of imagination ; 
 she reproached him for inconsistency. 
 
 " Inconsistency is a principle of the art of living," he 
 replied epigrammatically, moving away. 
 
 The men stood in groups about the room chatting on 
 personalities,examining the display of coin-cases arranged 
 here and there upon the tables, each under the soothing 
 light of a shaded lamp. The professor stood by himself 
 on the hearthrug, hemming irritably, anxious to read his 
 paper. The talk was subdued, attitudes formal, a con- 
 trast to the ordinary easy abandonment of that drawing- 
 room. The men were of a different type, mostly elderly, 
 sedate. Mrs. Farquharson rested for a moment from 
 her exertions as hostess by Clytie's side. 
 
 " Now for a minute's peace. I wish the men would 
 smoke, they all look so woebegone ; but George says 
 they mustn't. Now, then, my dear, I haven't seen you 
 for ages, except for those five minutes before dinner ; 
 what have you been doing lately ?" 
 
 " Nothing much — working. Oh ! yes, I have, though. 
 I have found a new chum." 
 
 " What is she like ? " 
 
 " It isn't a she, it's a he."
 
 6o AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 " Where does he come from ? " asked Mrs. Farquhar- 
 son, arching her eyebrows, 
 
 " From the skies, apparently : in the first case to put 
 out a fire in my room — he lives over me in the attics " 
 
 "Clytie ! You must be careful. Who is he ? What's 
 his name ? " 
 
 " Caroline," said her husband's deep voice behind her 
 chair, " I don't think you know Mr. Kent." 
 
 Clytie started round violently at the shock of the 
 coincidence. Kent was standing by her side, looking 
 odd, changed, a bit Philistine in his evening dress. He 
 wore a glove over his burned hand. 
 
 They talked, explained their meeting. He had had a 
 numismatic acquaintance with Mr. Farquharson for a 
 long time past. Had received his invitation at the 
 Museum, his private address not being known to his host. 
 Clytie described her own privileged position in the house- 
 hold, speaking frankly, vivaciously. She felt a little 
 thrill of pleasure at seeing him there. He seemed, more 
 than the other guests, in harmony with the traditions of 
 the house. They had not time for much conversation, 
 social exigencies separating them. Besides, a general 
 buzz and a subsiding into chairs or restful attitudes 
 sounded the warning that Professor Petherick was about 
 to read his paper. 
 
 He described the coin that had come into his posses- 
 sion, — previously it had been passed round for the 
 inspection of the guests, — claiming it to be a finer speci- 
 men than the one in the Caylus collection. The figure 
 of Castor beside his horse, without the pileus, on the 
 reverse, he argued was a portrait of the unfortunate 
 young co-emperor. The legend on the obverse pro- 
 claimed that it was a coin of Geta. He took this as the 
 text for a learned disquisition upon the aureus, tracing 
 its origin, the variations in its weight, to the time of 
 Justinian, who fixed it as a limit stake for a throw of the 
 dice. He quoted Pitiscus, Eckhel, many learned author- 
 ities. He read in a bland, easy tone, confident of his 
 facts and his deductions. 
 
 Clytie felt relieved when he had finished. Across the 
 room she had now and then cauglit Kent's eye, which 
 had a humourous twinkle in it. She, who an hour before
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 6 1 
 
 had been scoffing at the dry-as-dust nature of numis- 
 matics as a pursuit, now felt a consciousness of inferior- 
 ity, of being relegated to the tribe feminine, who are not 
 expected to care for intellectual matters. She nourished 
 a seed of resentment against Kent and all archaeologists. 
 But when the usual discussion on the paper began she 
 set an example of interest in it to Mr. Vansittart, who 
 had come over and sat down by her side. Really, she 
 was curious to see what part Kent would take in the 
 discussion. He seemed to find many acquaintances in 
 the room, and an appreciative welcome from each. She 
 experienced a strange sense of satisfaction at the dis- 
 pelling of an unformulated apprehension lest he might be 
 unknown, insignificant. She had seen him several times 
 since his visit to the studio ; once they had met at Sloane 
 Square station and had walked home together. The 
 acquaintance was ripening into friendliness. Now she 
 was interested at seeing him in a new environment. Our 
 conception of people changes very much according to 
 the conditions with which we associate them. But Kent 
 in the drawing-room, despite his unfamiliar attire, seemed 
 much the same as Kent in the studio, his manner towards 
 the men she saw him talking with much the same as his 
 manner towards her. Presently he rose, broke into the 
 discussion. The principal participators listened with 
 apparent respect to his remarks, few in number, but apt. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Kent is an authority," said the professor, 
 surrendering a particular point with a certain grace. 
 
 The little tribute fell gratefully on Clytie's ears. Sud- 
 denly she became conscious that her pleasure was greater 
 than the occasion warranted. She turned round quickly 
 to Mr. Vansittart, who was taking but mild interest in 
 the affair, and somewhat abruptly opened a conversation. 
 The Rev. Mr. Treherne joined them soon afterwards, 
 asking permission to introduce a friend. Thus it came 
 about that Clytie had a small group around her, and her 
 interest in Kent's proceedings was checked for a time. 
 
 Meanwhile Mrs. Farquharson had threaded her way 
 through the crowd of black coats, and taken Kent off 
 with her to an undisturbed corner. She was curious to 
 examine Clytie's new " chum." 
 
 " So you live in the same house as Clytie Davenant.
 
 62 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 You rescued her from the flames, didn't you > She^told 
 me something about it. What happened, exactly ? " 
 
 Kent sketched briefly the little scene with the blazing 
 curtains, and mentioned his visit next day and his 
 subsequent meetings with Clytie. He politely expressed 
 his agreeable surprise at meeting her to-night. 
 
 " And what do you think of her ? " asked Mrs. 
 Farquharson confidentially. " I dare say it's an odd 
 question, but if you will come and see us again, you will 
 find we are given to saying odd things." 
 " Like Miss Davenant?" 
 
 *' You have found that out already ? Well, come, 
 what do you think of her ? " 
 
 " Honestly, or conventionally ? " 
 " If I meant conventionally, I should not ask you the 
 question." 
 
 Kent waited for a moment, stroking his beard. He 
 was scarcely prepared with an answer even to satisfy 
 himself. 
 
 " I don't know. She is a bit too complicated to be 
 defined in a phrase like a term in Euclid. She is nearer 
 to a man than any woman I know." 
 
 Mrs. Farquharson smiled inwardly, noting the phrase, 
 yet liking him for it. It was so deliciously wrong, so 
 absurdly off the track. She contemplated him from the 
 empyrean of feminine wisdom, and from that moment 
 took him under her protection. To blunder honestly in 
 things feminine is one of the ways to a woman's pity, 
 thence often to her heart. She encouraged him, how- 
 ever, instead of correcting him. 
 " Why do you say that ? " 
 
 " For one reason, because I can talk to her as I would 
 to a man. She has ideas and is not afraid of expressing 
 them. In fact, she is different from the ordinary women 
 one meets." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! she is that," Mrs. Farquharson granted. 
 " She is all for le nouvcau jeu. Wlien I want to tease 
 her I tell her she will find it le vieiix jeu all the time, but 
 she won't believe it." Then suddenly, " Don't you think 
 she is very pretty ? " 
 
 " Pretty ? " echoed Kent in some confusion. ** Really, 
 yes, I suppose she is. I hardly thought about it," and
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 63 
 
 leaning his body aside, so as to catch a distant glimpse 
 of Clytie between the forms of the little circle of men 
 round her, he added, "she is very pretty." 
 
 And truly it was a fair picture that his eye fell upon. 
 She was wearing a simple dress of ivory-coloured silk, 
 falling in soft, straight folds to her feet. Her low-cut 
 bodice was relieved only by a ruffle of old lace along the 
 top, and the sole ornament she wore, a necklet of antique 
 silver, brought out the delicate modelling of her shapely 
 neck, as she sat talking animatedly, her chin pointing 
 upwards. Her rich, vivid colouring compensated for any 
 lack of relief in her costume. The intense blue of her 
 eyes, the many glints in her auburn hair, twisted in a 
 careless knot at the back of her small, shapely head, and 
 kept in place by a broad silver arrow, would of them- 
 selves have supplied the place of any ornament. 
 
 "She is very pretty indeed — striking!" repeated 
 Kent. 
 
 Mrs. Farquharson looked at him amusedly. 
 
 " You must be an original, Mr. Kent. Fancy knowing 
 Clytie Davenant without thinking of her looks ! " 
 
 " I am a great bear," replied Kent. " My sister says 
 so, and brothers and sisters generally speak the truth to 
 each other. Of course I have thought of Miss Daven- 
 ant's looks, in a way — admired her artistically ; but I 
 have never realised in her society that I have been 
 talking to a pretty girl — one consciously so. She does 
 not seem to expect you to be impressed with her looks. 
 That's one thing that I like about her," 
 
 Mrs. Farquharson carried on the conversation a little 
 further and then directed it into other channels. She 
 was pleased with Kent, and made a mental note to see 
 more of him. A man who could like Clytie and yet not 
 reflect upon her personal attractiveness was, as she had 
 said, an oddity, and Mrs. Farquharson made oddities 
 rather a speciality. 
 
 It was growing late and there was a perceptible thin- 
 ning in the numbers of the guests. A few enthusiasts 
 lingered fondly over the showcases, comparing their 
 contents with specimens in their own or other collections. 
 Among these was Treherne, by himself, deeply cogita- 
 tive. He arrested Kent, who was passing by to speak
 
 64 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 to Clytie, whom he had scarcely seen during the 
 evening, as he had felt bound to take an honest and 
 practical interest in the proceedings. The question that 
 Treherne desired Kent's help in solving was a knotty 
 one, and the two men bent over the table absorbed in 
 deciphering an obliterated obverse. When the matter 
 was settled Kent looked around for Clytie, but she had 
 already disappeared. There was nothing left for him to 
 do but to take his leave. 
 
 " If you care for a Bohemian Sunday evening scram- 
 ble, when everyone talks inconsequent nonsense — quite 
 a different thing from to-night," said Mrs. Farquharson, 
 shaking hands — "we shall be very glad to see you." 
 
 In the hail he was pleased to see Clytie, fur cloaked, 
 waiting for a cab. She gave him a frank smile of recog- 
 nition. With his white slouch hat and waterproof — a 
 new one — his figure seemed to her very familiar. He 
 talked to her for a moment or two, until the cab was 
 announced. 
 
 " How are you going home ? " she said when they were 
 on the pavement. 
 
 " Walk," he replied briefly. 
 
 " But it's raining hard — would you accept a lift?" 
 
 He opened the swing doors for her, shielding her dress 
 from the muddy wheels as she entered, and then hesi- 
 tated a moment. He had in fact been intending to pay 
 one of his midnight visits to his South Kensington 
 friends, but Clytie thought his hesitation was due to 
 considerations of propriety. She laughed with a little 
 thrill of defiance as she settled herself comfortably in a 
 corner. The touch of rebelliousness let loose an un- 
 wonted shaft of coquetry. 
 
 " Of course if you think it would do you more good to 
 walk in the rain than drive dry with me " 
 
 The interval between her two remarks had been very 
 short, taken up entirely with the process of Clytie's seating 
 herself in the cab, but still Kent felt he had been some- 
 what unchivalrous. 
 
 " If you really don't mind, I shall be very grateful," he 
 said by way of making amends as he took iiis seat by her 
 side. 
 
 After all, driving with Clytie was not unpleasant,
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 65 
 
 he reflected, and he could see Wither and Fairfax any 
 day. That Clytie should have made her offer did not 
 seem unnatural. He frankly informed her of the cause 
 of his hesitation. 
 
 " I paid you the compliment of being mistaken," said 
 Clytie, 
 
 " What do you mean ? " he asked, catching a glimpse of 
 her face in the swift gleam of a gas-lamp. She was smil- 
 ing, in good humour. 
 
 " Oh ! if you are mystified, so much the better," she 
 exclaimed, "It will be my little revenge." 
 
 And that was all the explanation she vouchsafed him. 
 
 However, that drive spun a thread of intimacy be- 
 tween them. There are few conditions of companion- 
 ship so favourable as those in a hansom cab. The driver 
 is practically non-existent ; the three sides and roof of 
 the vehicle form a temporary home, a chez soi. The out- 
 side world lies in front of one, very near, and yet one is 
 out of it. Even the desolate squares, with their occa- 
 sional lamps blinking through the mist, and their wet, 
 sooty trees rustling reluctantly as the wind passes 
 through them, and their gaunt houses, each grimly and 
 jealously guarding its household, giving the sense of the 
 awful isolation of souls, fail to depress as they invariably 
 depress the sensitive pedestrian. There is again the 
 cheerful rattle which precludes sustained conversation, 
 but encourages disjointed, intimate talk. The rush of the 
 air, the whirling past of figures and objects, is exhilarating 
 even in the vilest of weather and in the dreariest of 
 neighbourhoods. The rapid night glimpses, too, of coffee- 
 stalls, their lamps glaring upon the surrounding idlers; 
 public houses, with the sudden babel of voices issuing 
 from an opened door ; walkers of the pavement forlornly 
 standing with white, indistinguishable faces, 'buses 
 steaming and labouring with their somnolent fares ; 
 every 'bus-load the counterpart of the last ; swifter still, 
 the glimpses of the occupants of other cabs that pass, 
 stimulating the imagination ; a phantasmagoria of life, 
 almost unreal, yet bringing into play some of the lighter 
 elemental forces of nature. 
 
 Clytie was almost sorry when the cab stopped at the 
 familiar side-door next to the shop where the legend of 
 
 5
 
 66 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 " Gurkins, green-grocer," was dimly visible through the 
 gloom. Much of the mere woman in her had risen to 
 the surface, obscuring the artist, the hater of formulas, 
 the restless seeker after the mysteries of life. She had 
 felt childish, frivolous, thus appearing in a new light to 
 Kent, not without a certain charm, although he wondered 
 to himself whether she, after all, was not like the rest of 
 womankind — " fundamentally silly." This was a famous 
 dictum of his. 
 
 But when the door closed behind them, and the 
 narrow, ill-lighted, close-smelling passage leading to the 
 gloomy staircase struck upon her senses, the realities of 
 life came sharply before her, and her usual independence 
 of thought and action reasserted itself. Otherwise, 
 when she had said good-night to Kent on the landing 
 and had found her room in darkness, she would not have 
 called him back to light her lamp for her, and, that done, 
 have asked him to remain for a short chat. He was 
 struck by the change to her usual frank tones, and seek- 
 ing half unconsciously for a reason, attributed his late 
 impression to an illusion on his part caused by the dark- 
 ness and dispelled by the light, by which he could see 
 her face. 
 
 " You smoke, I know," she said, throwing her wraps 
 on to the sofa. " You must be dying for some tobacco. 
 What do you smoke ? " 
 
 " Oh ! a pipe," he replied with much fervour, instantly 
 seeking for it in his pocket. 
 
 Clytie turned to poke the fire. It was black and sulky, 
 and her efforts were of not much avail. 
 
 " Let me try," said Kent, bending down with her on 
 the hearthrug ; "this is a thing not generally known." 
 
 He threw a lighted match on to the fire, the escaping 
 gases burst into flame, and cheerfulness was established 
 in the grate. 
 
 A trivial incident, but it was recognised by them both 
 in after years as having served to cement their comrade- 
 ship.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The friendship between them ripened imperceptibly. 
 Each day brought its tiny thread Hnking them together, 
 so gradually, so subtly, that it was not until long after- 
 wards that they realised the immense strength of the 
 bond. At first it was mere honest liking on both sides, 
 a pleasant consciousness of discovery, an ordinary attrac- 
 tion between two natures, distinct, yet more or less 
 complementary. Clytie found it written in her Book of 
 New J'ormulas that the loyal friendship between a man 
 and a woman was a strengthening element of existence. 
 In her fierce pride and young vigour she would not 
 allow that each supplied what the other lacked, according 
 to the popular theory — the man strength, the woman 
 grace — but asserted strenuously the truth that each could 
 lend the other elements of strength the same in degree, 
 but different in kind, owing to the difference of sex. If 
 it had been suggested to her that her weaker woman's 
 nature instinctivel)^ in spite of perfect emancipation and 
 proud independence, sought the man's protecting fibre, 
 the whole amazon within her would have been up in 
 arms. She found in Kent a man whom she could meet 
 upon a ground of perfect equality — perfectly even, 
 neither blocked by prejudices and social barriers nor 
 haunted by sexual spectres. She was woman enough, 
 however, to perceive intuitively certain shynesses in Kent, 
 resulting from a half knowledge of her, that would have 
 kept him aloof in spite of a very sensible attraction 
 towards her ; and in showing him, therefore, that this 
 attraction was mutual she felt no compunction, — rather 
 pride, on the contrary, in reaching a superior plane in 
 which conduct was measured by superior standards. 
 
 And thus it came about that the eternal feminine once 
 more deceived itself, mistaking nature for what it called 
 the Fine Art of Life. 
 
 67
 
 68 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 Kent, for his part, did not attempt to realise the charm 
 that made his fingers close daily on the handle of the 
 studio door. He accepted the offered friendship, and 
 returned it as frankly as it was given. It became as 
 natural to stop at the studio, before mounting to his 
 attics on his return home from the Museum, as to burst 
 into the South Kensington " monastery " for a midnight 
 rubber. Variety, fresh interests, were brought into his 
 life, vivid as it was with darling hopes and full working 
 energies. It was refreshing to come once again into the 
 sphere, familiar and dear to him during his father's life- 
 time, of practical art. It was something for him to look 
 forward to, during his tramp home — the stage nearer 
 completeness effected during a day's work in an artistic 
 creation. Gradually, in his blunt, paternal way, he con- 
 stituted himself the censor of Clytie's work, criticising 
 irregularities, suggesting treatment. There grew within 
 him, too, a brotherly kindness towards Winifred, who 
 looked forward also to his afternoon visit, when she 
 would shyly uncover the small canvas and receive with 
 a gratified flush his meed of appreciation. 
 
 He arrived after the tea-things had been cleared 
 away, when the day's work was over, in the twilight hour, 
 outstaying Winifred a short while, whose evening family 
 meal was half an hour before Clytie's dinner. It was in 
 these short periods of companionship, when they were 
 alone together, that, unconsciously to themselves, the 
 finer touches were added to the broader intimacy that 
 the previous half hour had brought one step further in 
 development. Piece by piece, by means of a reference 
 here, a petulant outburst there, he grew familiar with the 
 ambitions and struggles of her past life. He was quick 
 to catch a certain note of disappointment. She had not 
 yet become a great artist, was defiantly certain that she 
 could never be one. 
 
 " Of course you won't if you use your art as a stepping- 
 stone to life," he said one day. 
 
 She marked the saying, resolving, however, half 
 rebelliously to make him belie his words in the days 
 to come. She, too, gathered from him the nature of his 
 hope and aspirations, wondered at the cheerful selfless- 
 ness with which he contemplated the work that would
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 69 
 
 bring him neither name nor fame, nor the things that 
 many men desire. 
 
 One day he took Clytie and Winifred up to his attic 
 museum, pleased as a boy to show them his treasures. 
 Winifred praised the bright neatness of his arrange- 
 ments. He confessed guiltily that he had been "tidying 
 up" — a process that had cost him the whole of the pre- 
 vious Sunday. Many of his pictures had been left him 
 by his father, particularly his collection of Aldegravers, 
 over which he fondly lingered, lamenting that the old 
 days of pure design were over, and railing at the mer- 
 cenary spirit of modern art. He counselled Clytie to 
 study the little masters for her book illustrating. She 
 would learn restraint, abstraction. 
 
 " But it's no good preaching Durer and Behm in these 
 days," he added pathetically, with the resignation of the 
 collector who does not expect his hobby to be under- 
 stood. 
 
 Clytie laughed softly, sympathetic with his enthusiasms. 
 No real artist can help loving the little masters. But 
 Clytie's artistic impulses warred with each other, v/ith 
 circumstance, and with herself. So she refused to sit, 
 for practical purposes, at the foot of Aldegraver. She 
 ran over the titles of books, borrowed a couple, which he 
 recommended, from the general literature section, stood in 
 some dismay before the scientific specialist's library, and 
 asked to see what was visible of the great work. He 
 gave her some bundles of manuscript, which she turned 
 over helplessly and handed back without a word. They 
 were evidences of a world of infinite toil and devotion not 
 yet intelligible to her. She gazed around the picturesque 
 walls of the room that contrasted strangely with the 
 carpetless floor and the fenderless grate. The absence 
 of the minor softnesses of material life struck her vividly. 
 There were evidences of a high love for art, but art in a 
 too rarefied atmosphere for her nature. She would have 
 liked to curtain the windows, — they were even destitute 
 of blinds, — to put rugs about the floor, to soften the 
 room with drapery, plants, flowers ; even an armchair 
 beside the fire would have been aesthetically as well as 
 physically reposeful. Winifred's simpler feminine im- 
 pulses struck the true chord.
 
 70 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 "Why doesn't your sister make you some pretty things 
 for your room ? " 
 
 " She does — heaps of things." 
 
 " Where are they, then ? " 
 
 Kent looked at her with humorous shamefacedness. 
 
 "I am afraid I have a drawer full of them somewhere," 
 he replied. 
 
 " Well, your room is very much like yourself," she 
 said in a low voice, and hesitating a little. " You both 
 lack the same thing." 
 
 And blundering John Kent misread the oracle, accept- 
 ing it as a reproach for brotherly unkindness. 
 
 Meanwhile Clytie's " own " picture of the model Jack 
 was developing into a more finished and more ambitious 
 work than she had originally intended. On Kent's sug- 
 gestion she had toned down some of its brutality with- 
 out rendering less vivid the presentation of the problem. 
 She thought of trying to exhibit the picture when it was 
 completed ; Jack therefore continued to appear in the 
 studio at irregular intervals. Winifred encouraged him 
 now, trying to humanise him with picture-books, stories, 
 and simple talk, but Clytie shook her head at her gentle 
 friend's efforts, conceiving them, with her fuller and more 
 materialistic knowledge, to be entirely futile. Still 
 Winifred obtained from him more details of what Clytie 
 called his private life than she herself could do. With 
 both of them he was fierce and sullen, but with Wini- 
 fred he was more cynically expansive. These details 
 only supplemented the data afforded by his own person- 
 ality. Sometimes he went to the board school, where he 
 was in the third standard ; oftener he stayed away. He 
 slept in his mother's room, ate his desultory food there 
 with the fierceness of a young wolf; but his real home 
 was in the street. Once he had been given a situation 
 as satellite to a thriving costermonger, but the restraints 
 of regular employment had chafed him into resignation 
 of his post. Besides, his employer had thrashed him 
 unmercifully. As for his parentage, he was entirely 
 ignorant ; he did not care. To his mind it was a 
 merciful dispensation of Providence that he only had 
 one parent to irritate and annoy him. He liked to come
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 7 1 
 
 to the studio because it was warm and comfortable, 
 besides which he obtained a shilHng at the end of the 
 day to be expended on inferior tobacco when together 
 with his playmates. 
 
 One morning, earlier than usual, he slouched up the 
 stairs and, contrary to custom, found the studio door open 
 and the apartment empty. He entered, swinging the 
 door with him, which, being caught by the draught from 
 an open skylight, slammed with sudden violence. If he 
 had heard the quick rattle of a falling door-knob, his 
 subsequent conduct would doubtless have been modified. 
 He was alone in the studio ; he waited idly, lying in front 
 of the stove ; but as no one came, he began to feel rest- 
 less. He rose to his feet, wandered about, shut the sky- 
 light, examined the contents of the studio. He found 
 a packet of cigarettes lying about, which he pocketed ; 
 an investigation of the cupboard in the wall rewarded 
 him with some lumps of sugar and some sweet biscuits. 
 Still no one came, which was not extraordinary, as his 
 employer had not yet thought of breakfasting. No fur- 
 ther resources being offered to his predatory instincts, 
 he proceeded to look at the pictures, with which he had 
 already a contemptuous familiarity. The only one for 
 which he had a genuine admiration, or rather the bar- 
 barian's feeling of awe at any counterfeit presentment 
 of himself, was his own portrait. At this he seldom 
 tired of looking. 
 
 He took down from the wall a little painted mirror, 
 and, sitting on the stool in front of the picture, pro- 
 ceeded to compare the original and the portrait. He 
 saw that the resemblance was not quite perfect, and like 
 a monkey he grimaced into the looking-glass until he 
 had reproduced the expression that Clytie had fixed 
 upon the canvas. Then he laughed in great glee, 
 scratched his black curly head, and went in quest of 
 further occupation. He crossed over to Winifred's easel 
 and took off the cloth. He had no great idea of " the 
 other one's " picture. It did not interest him. But, 
 unfortunately, in his simian mood, an idea shot through 
 his mind. Why should he not try to paint too ? 
 
 He mounted upon Winifred's seat, took her palette in 
 his hand as he had seen her hold it, with his small, dirty
 
 72 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 thumb through the hole in the white porcelain, gathered 
 the little sheaf of brushes, arranged the mahl-stick irai- 
 tatively, and, dipping a brush into the remains of some 
 Chinese white, tried to fill in some anemones. They 
 were only splotches of white paint, but the occupation 
 absorbed him. In a very few moments the whole can- 
 vas was starred with Jack's white dabs. Then, growing 
 tired of the monotony of white, — the colours on the 
 palette did not attract him, — he fetched Clytie's, which 
 was more richly prepared, and painted in strokes of 
 crimson and yellow. The delight of colour fascinated 
 him. He obliterated all the white, daubed the canvas 
 over and over with heavy streaks, laughing aloud with 
 the spirit of diabolical mischief. Then, with a fox 
 terrier's or a monkey's instinct of destruction, he took 
 up the palette-knife and stabbed holes through the 
 canvas. 
 
 He contemplated his work for a moment, and then, 
 the very human anticipation of consequences occurring 
 to his mind, he bethought himself of flight. But, to his 
 dismay, he found the door-handle had fallen off when 
 the door had slammed, and that he was a prisoner until 
 someone should open it from outside. He paused for 
 a moment in the middle of the room, reflecting. Then 
 he covered up his handiwork carefully with a cloth, 
 scrupulously replaced the palettes and brushes, and 
 curled himself up in his usual doglike attitude by the 
 stove, there to await events. 
 
 After a time there came a rattle of the knob-screw 
 being fitted into the vacant hole in the lock, which made 
 his heart beat, and Clytie entered the room humming a 
 song. She was surprised to find him there, and elicited 
 a monosyllabic explanation of his presence. She was in 
 a good humour and talked lightly to him as she moved 
 about the studio, changing the water of some flowers. 
 The errand-boy from the shop below came up with Win- 
 nie's anemones that had been put in a cool place over 
 night to keep them fresh one day longer. Clytie set 
 them on the stand beside Winifred's easel. Jack watched 
 her, looked at the door, measuring the distance. 
 
 "Where are you going ? " Clytie asked sharply as she 
 turned round and caught him stealing across the room.
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 73 
 
 He was terribly afraid of her. Those great dark blue 
 eyes seemed to command him. He never could meet 
 them with his own. He relapsed doggedly into his 
 position by the stove. Clytie touched the anemones 
 daintily, picking some faded leaves, still humming her 
 song. In lightness of heart she took off the cloth to 
 look at Winnie's work, and then fell back with a cry of 
 horror and anger. A swift glance at Jack brought" her 
 knowledge, 
 
 " You little fiend ! " she cried with eyes aflame, and 
 catching the cowering, sullen urchin by the collar of shirt 
 and jacket, she dragged him out of the studio, on to the 
 landing. 
 
 Kent happened to have just gone down the stairs on 
 his way out. The noise of the scuffle reached him in the 
 entrance passage and brought him up to the studio door. 
 
 " What is the matter .? " he asked, taking the boy from 
 Clytie's grasp into his own. 
 
 " The matter } Go inside. I must call Winnie. 
 Winnie ! " 
 
 She opened the sitting-room door. Winifred ran out, 
 holding her gloves, which she had just taken off, in her 
 hand. 
 
 •* That boy — that little devil ! " cried Clytie, and they 
 both ran into the studio. 
 
 Kent had just entered, and was standing before the 
 mutilated picture holding the boy, who in Kent's hands 
 was struggling violently. Winifred looked at it for a 
 moment blankly, scarcely understanding. Then the sick- 
 ening truth rose to her brain, and she leaned, very white, 
 against the wall, looking at the others. 
 
 " For God's sake take the little brute out and kill him, 
 Mr. Kent ! " Clytie broke out fiercely. " Murder him ! 
 break every bone in his body ! To have done such a 
 thing as that ! It is not human." 
 
 " I'll give him a thundering hiding," said Kent wrath- 
 full}', dragging him towards the door. 
 
 But Winifred rose quickly, moved her neck, cleared 
 her throat, and laid her hand on Kent's arm. 
 
 "Don't beat him— I couldn't bear it." 
 
 " Nonsense, Winnie ! sit down," cried Clytie. "Take 
 him away,Mr.Kent, or I'll do him some mischief myself ! "
 
 74 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 Kent shook the urchin till his teeth chattered and his 
 evil little face grew red. Winifred still clung to his 
 arm, 
 
 " Don't ! you shan't do it ! He is no better than an 
 animal ! He did not know what he was doing. Nothing 
 you could do to him would give me back my picture. It 
 would be simple vengeance. Oh, send him away ! 
 Send him away ! " and turning from Kent, she burst 
 into tears and clung to Clytie, sobbing. 
 
 " Miss Marchpane is right," said Kent slowly and 
 looking at Clytie, " Let the little brute go. Here, you, 
 go ! If ever I see you near the place, I will give you to 
 a policeman !" 
 
 Visions of the lowering blue storm-cloud, ever seeming 
 to the children of the streets ready to burst upon their 
 heads, loomed before the little outcast's imagination. 
 He shivered, shrunk away from Kent's relaxed grasp, 
 darted a keen, swift look of malignity at Clytie, and dis- 
 appeared like a flash through the open door. 
 
 Clytie held Winifred protectingly with one arm, sooth- 
 ing her, mingling words of comfort with outbursts of 
 self-reproach and unrighteous indignation. As Jack 
 slipped away she made an impulsive movement forward, 
 but Winifred restrained her, 
 
 "How dare you let him go ?" she exclaimed, turning 
 her anger upon Kent, " If it had not been for you I 
 would have given him a lesson he'd have remem- 
 bered all his life. To do a work of devilry like that 
 and not be punished ! I'll set the police upon him ! " 
 
 " No, no ! " murmured Winifred. 
 
 " I will. What are reformatories for ? Go and call 
 a policeman, Mr. Kent, It is the least you can do ! " 
 
 " I shall leave him alone," replied Kent, " It would 
 not do him any good and it would not do Miss March- 
 pane any good. He'll never come here again, and I 
 should advise you not to introduce any more of his 
 sort into your studio. When a child of the flesh and 
 the devil gets hold of a thing of the spirit, the spirit- 
 ual suffers." 
 
 " I do not wish to be lectured," said Clytie stonily, 
 
 " I am sorry if I have offended you. Miss Davenant," 
 replied Kent, " I have the sincerest sympathy with
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 75 
 
 Miss Marchpane for her loss, and I would do anything 
 in the world to help her or you ; and so — good- 
 morning." 
 
 Kent worked hard that day at the Museum, He was 
 troubled over the morning's occurrence. He was 
 conscious that he had acted rightly in acquiescing in 
 Winifred's counsel of mercy, but he had a vague, inarticu- 
 late regret that he had not pleased Clytie. He resolutely 
 set hniiself to forget everything in his work and finished 
 earlier than usual. On his way out he met his friend 
 Wither in the great hall. 
 
 " I have come to carry you off to the club to dine and 
 there to reason with you," said the small, gnomelike 
 man. " They are spring-cleaning at home and the place 
 reeks of freshness and innocence. Greene and Fairfax 
 like it ; they say it's healthy. I prefer the accumulated 
 and mellowed deposit of winter. It's as bad as washing 
 a meerschaum. Anyhow, it's got to get coloured a bit, 
 and until it does I clear out and you are coming to clear 
 with me." 
 
 " Very well," replied Kent ; " I will waste part of an 
 evening upon you — to prevent you wasting it yourself 
 more sinfully. You were lucky to catch me ; I was just 
 going." 
 
 The policeman at the door saluted Kent as he passed 
 out. 
 
 "' That ought to have been for me," said Wither. " I 
 am far the more reputable-looking of the two." 
 
 Kent laughed good-humouredly and grasped his ash 
 stick sturdily in his gloveless hands. The contrast 
 between the dandified elegance of Wither's dress and his 
 own careless, loose attire appealed to his sense of the 
 humorous. 
 
 " I'll walk a few yards behind you if you like," he said, 
 repeating a familiar and time-honoured jest between them. 
 
 They walked down the great flight of steps and across 
 the courtyard, where the pigeons were fluttering joyfully 
 in the afternoon sunshine. When they had arrived at 
 the railings, whose gilt spear-points caught the sun, 
 Wither turned and looked for a moment at the frowning 
 mass of the edifice.
 
 76 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 ** This always suggests the brain of London, immeasur- 
 able in this ugly poll of a Bloomsbury, with its watery 
 eyes and dejected face, that seems to be perpetually 
 meditating on death and influenza. I am going to work 
 up the idea one of these days and turn it into copy." 
 
 "It certainly does not look promising in the crude 
 state," observed Kent by way of encouragement. 
 
 They walked along Oxford Street and down Shaftes- 
 bury Avenue. Here, while passing in front of a photog- 
 rapher's window, their eyes were caught by a group of 
 complacent people of both sexes — " with superior smiles 
 and inferior clothes," as Wither said — described by a 
 legend printed on the mount as the "Parnassus House 
 Mutual Improvement Society." Wither entered the 
 shop and purchased a copy, as a "monument of the 
 stupendous fatuity of man." In the comfortable smok- 
 >ing-room of the Junior Cosmopolitan, St. James's Square, 
 Wither held the photograph out on his knees before him 
 and discoursed upon it. 
 
 " Look at them," he said, half hidden in the great 
 armchair. " Dear old Philistia ! When is the Almighty 
 going to redeem his promise and triumph over it ? 
 Mutual improvement ! — on the principle of Mark Twain's 
 islanders, who eked out a precarious livelihood by taking 
 in each other's washing ! This pathetic kind of person 
 belongs to home reading societies. Do you know 
 what they are ? I was staying with the Brownes last 
 summer ; asked the youngest to come and play tennis. 
 She replied with awful solemnity that she was going to 
 read her ' half hour.' I was impressed ; good girl, I said, 
 and pictured her to myself conducting her devotional 
 exercises over St. Thomas a Kempis or St. Augustine's 
 ' Confessions ' in the sanctity of her maiden chamber. 
 Next day I found her reading the report of an agricul- 
 tural commission for the year 183 1. Asked her what 
 the deuce she was reading that for. She replied she was 
 reading her 'half hour'; it was the only ' solid ' book 
 she could find downstairs ! Novels and poetry and 
 magazines were tabooed. I asked her whether she 
 thought George Meredith or Dante flippant. She could 
 not exactly say — but they were not solid. God help 
 us ! "
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 77 
 
 " You are as bad as my friend Miss Davenant," said 
 Kent, laughing. " Slie is always railing at Philistia. 
 You might lend me the photograph to show her ; it 
 would amuse her — perhaps it might teach her some- 
 thing." 
 
 Wither gave him the photograph, but after a short 
 pause Kent returned it. 
 
 " I'll take it some other time. I don't quite know at 
 present how we are going to stand to one another ; we 
 had a bit of a scene this morning." 
 
 Wither raised his eyebrows and turned his head lazily, 
 looking at Kent, 
 
 "You interest me, friend John. Is Saul also among 
 the prophets ? Expound.'' 
 
 Kent roughly sketched the morning's episode in the 
 studio. 
 
 " So, you see, there's something in the nature of a 
 split," he added. 
 
 " She will come round all right," said Wither, "if she 
 cares about you. If she doesn't, she is not worth caring 
 about. Never you mind. There is nothing does women 
 so much good as a little wholesome neglect. Crcde ex- 
 perto. As for the matter in question, of course you were 
 wrong. You should have thrashed the little devil's life 
 out. But with a woman, having right or wrong on her 
 side has nothing to do with it." 
 
 " That may be true in the case of the woman you 
 like to philander with, Teddy, but Clytie Davenant's 
 different." 
 
 " Bah, my dear old boy, they are all the same, every 
 one of them." 
 
 "You have never met one of them whom you could 
 treat in the ordinary straightforward way — make a friend 
 of as if she were a man," 
 
 " No, old chap, nor do I want to. If you've got to 
 treat a woman as if she were a man, what the devil's the 
 good of her being a woman ?" 
 
 " You are talking for the sake of talking, Teddy," 
 said Kent with some earnestness. " You know it's all non- 
 sense. Women generally are foolish enough, God know.s, 
 but the sole end of their being is not to be fooled about 
 with in flirtations and love-makings and such sickening
 
 78 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 nonsense. And when one does come across a girl with 
 an intelligence above the ordinary and instincts above 
 bazaars and the river, one likes her and is exceedingly 
 sorry to have any row with her." 
 
 " Ah me ! " murmured the little man, examining his 
 trim finger nails with intent brow, " whether we cultivate 
 the 'languor and lilies of virtue,' or the 'roses and rap- 
 tures of vice,' it doesn't matter — the trail of the petti- 
 coat's over us all. Come and have a 'hundred up' 
 before dinner." 
 
 Kent did not carry home the ridiculous portrait, and 
 Wither, to avoid the trouble of taking with him the 
 awkwardly sized parcel that would not fit into his pocket, 
 very characteristically posted it to himself. As Kent 
 passed Clytie's door he noticed that it was ajar and that 
 the room was dark. Evidently she had gone out. If 
 she had retired early to bed, she would have shut the 
 door, as her bedroom opened into the sitting-room. 
 He felt a certain sense of loss, he did not know why, for 
 even if the little streak of light beneath the door had 
 announced her presence within, he certainly would not 
 have sought admittance. He went upstairs more slowly 
 than usual, thinking of her and of the morning's scene. 
 By the dim gas on his landing he perceived an unframed 
 picture leaning, face-hidden, against his door, and on 
 the ground a letter. This was addressed to him in the 
 bold, rounded handwriting which he recognised as 
 Clytie's. He opened it and read : 
 
 You were right. I am sorry. Keep the picture as a token. 
 
 C. D. 
 
 Kent turned the canvas round. It was the exhibition 
 picture of Jack. 
 
 He took it in with him, and placed it on his dresser- 
 table. It formed a strange contrast to the calm-faced 
 Woolmer cavalier that was hanging above ; a strange 
 contrast, too, with its colour, its modernity, its realism, 
 to the cold classicism of the pale, pure relics of the past 
 that lined the walls. Troubled by the discord, he turned 
 its face to the wall, but immediately, ashamed of the 
 impulse and calling himself a fool, he turned it again. 
 Then, after lighting his reading-lamp and turning out
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 79 
 
 the gas, he sat down at the writing space on his dresser- 
 table. 
 
 The room door was open. The house was perfectly 
 still, save for the occasional creak of the stairs and 
 banisters near the attics. From the street outside, far 
 beneath, came the faint, ghostlike rumble of passing 
 vehicles. Kent had never realised what absolute silence 
 reigned at night in that quiet household. A cuckoo- 
 clock in the bedroom below struck with a suddenness 
 and clearness that startled him. It was only twelve 
 o'clock. Clytie would be back soon if she had gone 
 out to spend the evening with friends or at a theatre. 
 He proceeded with some mechanical work, docketing 
 papers, his ear expectant of the sudden drag of a hansom 
 at the street door. Several times he was deceived and 
 went out on the landing to listen for the sounds announc- 
 ing Clytie's arrival. Then he resumed his occupation. 
 Perhaps she was indoors and asleep all the time, he 
 thought ; but the open door surely betokened her 
 absence. He persuaded himself into this belief, desiring 
 intensely to see her. The immediate fulfilment of 
 Wither's prognostications troubled him. Had it not 
 been for his friend's bantering remarks he would have 
 judged Clytie's frank confession by the touchstone of his 
 own simplicity, and found it natural, prompted by no 
 other motives than kindliness and common sense. But 
 what if it proceeded from the " fundamental silliness" 
 of woman, that he himself pitied and Wither professed to 
 hold in contempt ? 
 
 At last an unmistakable pause in the dimly heard 
 rattle of a hansom made him rise again and go on to the 
 landing. Someone entered the house. He heard the 
 far distant creak of the stairs and the vague rustle of 
 skirts. It was Clytie. In the deathlike stillness of the 
 house he heard the sharp striking of a match. He 
 waited for a moment or two and then went down. 
 
 Clytie, in her hat and cloak, was reading, by the light 
 of her bedroom candle, a letter that had arrived by the 
 last post. 
 
 " May I come in for one minute ?" 
 
 " Of course — for two if you like. Do you know, I had 
 an idle fancy that I should see you when I got home ? "
 
 8o AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 " Did you ? I am very glad ; it assures me that you 
 don't think me — what shall I say ? — presumptuous in 
 waiting for you to come in and then intruding." 
 
 " Did you listen for me ? You are good. I am 
 scarcely worth it." 
 
 " I felt I must thank you for your little note — and the 
 picture." 
 
 " Well ? And are we going to make friends again, 
 Mr. Kent?" 
 
 She looked him in the face proudly, yet laughingly, 
 and held out her ungloved hand. 
 
 " There ! " she added. " I behaved very badly to you 
 this morning, and you must thank Winifred for bringing 
 me to a sense of decency ; but really when I saw the 
 dear child's work done to death by my own fault I was 
 not mistress of myself. I suppose it is best when one is 
 in the wrong to own it — to one's friends." 
 
 " It is sensible," said Kent, " and I am very proud of 
 your reckoning me among your friends." 
 
 She looked at him, a strange little smile playing 
 round the corner of her lips as she put up both hands to 
 withdraw her hat-pin — a graceful attitude, instinct with 
 femininity. The look and the attitude disconcerted 
 Kent for a moment. However, her next words reassured 
 him. 
 
 " I judged you by myself, you know, I had found 
 our friendship a pleasant thing, and felt that you did so, 
 too, and I was sorry lest anything should break it ; other- 
 wise I should not have taken the trouble to ' climb 
 down,' as they say." 
 
 " Let us say no more about it," replied Kent mag- 
 nanimously. " If we pride ourselves on being superior 
 to certain conventionalities of habit, we ought to extend 
 our conventionalities of sentiment. I have been very 
 troubled all day, Miss Davenant, I must confess, and I 
 can't tell you how touched I was by your message. It's 
 not every woman by a long way that would have sent it." 
 
 " And I would not have written it to every man," re- 
 turned Clytie ; " of that you may be quite certain." 
 
 And so they parted for the night. 
 
 Thus the breach between them was quite covered over
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 8l 
 
 and their relations strengthened by a newer impression of 
 mutual dependence, a more active sense of comrade- 
 ship. They laughed frankly at the Great Convention- 
 alities, and went about together to theatres, concerts, 
 picture-shows. Kent accompanied her to Mrs. Farquhar- 
 son's Sunday evenings, where he found a ready welcome 
 from the artistic and literary circle, to whom his father had 
 been well known. Mrs, Farquharson called them " Ores- 
 tia and Pylades," by this time recognising their compan- 
 ionship as a social fact. They always went back together, 
 generally for a great part of the way on foot when the 
 weather grew warm and the nights were dry and clear. 
 On the weekday evenings, when Clytie wasat home, Kent 
 would bring down his work and his reference-books to 
 Clytie's room, and write there, while she drew or read or 
 busied herself with odds and ends of needlework. It 
 had all the outward seeming of friendship — nothing 
 more. For hours they would sit together without ex- 
 changing a word — a real test. But Clytie grew interested 
 in the progress of Kent's work, gradually obtained a 
 clear idea of its scope and proportion, and could speak 
 intimately to him concerning it, although its matter was 
 as incomprehensible to her as to any other non-specialist. 
 It gave the girl, too, a sense of rest and strength to see 
 him sitting there, patiently, serenely working. She be- 
 gan to have doubts as to the completeness of her own 
 scheme of life, its worthiness, satisfaction. Hitherto the 
 sense of independence, freedom, accumulating know- 
 ledge of that whose foreshadowings had filled her girl- 
 ish heart with unrest, had almost satisfied her. Now 
 she began to look beyond. With her young being as 
 yet untouched by passion, she did not realise the fulness 
 that love must bring into life. She vaguely speculated 
 upon it, faint, elusive gleams of perception passing 
 rapidly through her into the darkness, but that was all. 
 The secret of life, she thought, could only be wrested 
 from the tangle of the labyrinth by single-minded en- 
 deavour, sacrifice, devotion. Was not Kent right when 
 he accused her of making her art a stepping-stone in- 
 stead of an end ? 
 
 Kent, manlike, and honester, too, than most men, was 
 unconscious of this self-abasement. Since the day of 
 
 6
 
 82 AT THE GATE OF S.IMARFA. 
 
 that fierce struggle with herself which had resulted in 
 her sendins: him the missive of submission he had 
 vaguely felt that she was dependent on him for many 
 things ; but he had helped her in his frank, unquestion- 
 ing way, feeling pleased, warmed by the flame of a 
 newly kindled spark of vanity. He preached to her his 
 simple doctrine. 
 
 " Work while work pleases you. Love it for its own 
 sake. Set a great end before you ; but the attaining it 
 is the delight, not the ultimate attainment. If you think 
 of nothing but the end, the reaching it is all feverish 
 unrest and toil." 
 
 She listened, rebelled, submitted, without loss of her 
 proud fearlessness. Yes ; it was common sense, she 
 agreed. No one can be humiliated by giving in to com- 
 mon sense and acting in accordance with it. Kent per- 
 suaded her to finish the picture of Jack. 
 
 " It is the best thing you have done. There is more 
 work in it — real work. It will not take long to finish. 
 Then send it for exhibition." 
 
 He appealed to Winifred, who added her soft note of 
 encouragement. The picture was painted. Kent stonily 
 refused to keep it as his possession. There was a heated 
 argument. He valued her gift and her friendship ; he 
 valued her fame and life-interest more. He would not 
 refuse a replica. In the end she acquiesced. The 
 picture was accepted by the hanging committee of the 
 exhibition, made a stir, was sold for jQi2o. Clytie was 
 launched.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The summer came. Clytie went abroad with the 
 Farquharsons, through the old towns of Normandy and 
 Brittany. Kent joined them at St. Malo, and spent his 
 month's hoHday with them. This was such a departure 
 from his usual habit of sohtary pedestrian travel in the 
 rough wilds of Norway, whither he went every year, with 
 little else than a stick and a knapsack, that Wither had 
 been quite alarmed. 
 
 "You'll be taking a holiday with me next," he had 
 said. 
 
 But knowing the terms of intimacy between his friend 
 and Clytie, and knowing Clytie herself, — he had accom- 
 panied Kent to the studio, at first out of curiosity to see 
 what kind of " being feminine " Kent had made a friend 
 of, and afterwards because he liked to go there, — what- 
 ever sceptical imaginings might have exercised him, he 
 forbore to give them expression. He had only looked 
 at Kent, on saying good-bye, in his odd, half-mocking 
 way, and had chuckled noiselessly to himself when the 
 door had closed upon Kent's broad shoulders. 
 
 Kent did not regret Norway. A charm, unknown to 
 him before, filled all the days. The Farquharsons were 
 perfect travelling companions : Caroline bright, satirical, 
 helpful, learned in the ways of men ; George easy-going, 
 happy either to lounge in the sun with a pipe and bandy 
 chaff with his wife, whilst Kent and Clytie went their 
 own ways, or to spend an antiquarian afternoon with 
 Kent in some old Keltic village. Clytie seemed also to 
 him to expand under the sunny cheerful influences, to 
 grow more feminine, without falling in his estimation. 
 No ; he did not regret Norway. He half formulated an 
 intention of abandoning it permanently and substituting 
 Brittany as his habitual tramping-ground. From the 
 first morning, when his boat steamed slowly through the 
 
 83
 
 84 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 narrow St. Malo docks, and he saw Clytie waiting there 
 to meet him, he felt friendly towards it. The high 
 ramparted wall, with just the top-story row of green 
 shutters and roofs peeping above it, and beyond them 
 the spire of the cathedral ; the glimpse through the 
 sentry-guarded gate up the narrow cobble-paved street, 
 gaudy with blue blouses, red handkerchiefs, and yellow 
 oilskins exposed all along at shop doors ; on the quay 
 itself the stalls of the hucksters under the lee of the wall, 
 and the busy crowd of swarthy Breton sailors, porters, 
 and green uniformed douaniers ; and Clytie standing, 
 fresh in her pure colouring heightened by the light 
 summer dress, in the midst of this mellow setting — all 
 the picture fixed itself as a whole indelibly upon his 
 mind, and caused a strange little thrill of pleasure to run 
 through him. 
 
 They sat on the sands— the finest in the world, perhaps, 
 when the tide is low— that run in a broad, golden sweep 
 from crag-bastioned, grim old St. Malo to the white 
 houses of Parame, amid the babel of bathers and 
 visitors, watching the types Parisian and English, Kent 
 smoking contentedly, while Clytie filled her sketch-book 
 with oddities of personality and costume. Three days 
 slipped away there very pleasantly. 
 
 in spite of its banality as a pleasure resort there is a 
 grim charm about St. Malo that is never quite forgotten 
 by those who have once known it. It has an air of 
 stability, of defiance. It is out of the reach of the 
 improver, extender, and suburb-maker. Its great walls 
 guard it as jealously on three sides as the sea does on 
 the other. Almost alone of populous cities, it can 
 never grow. As he left with the party to continue the 
 tour Kent felt this charm, although his associations with 
 the city had been of the lighter kind. They idled 
 through the old towns : Dol, with its dark granite cathe- 
 dral, looking rather hewn out of the rock than built ; 
 Dinan on its granite steep above the Ranee, where 
 the heart of du Guesclin is enshrined ; Brieux, Paimpol, 
 over which Pierre Loti has thrown the glamour of his 
 sentiment ; Morlaix, and so to Brest, with its great harbour 
 and strong sea breeze from the Atlantic. For Kent this 
 journey was an uninterrupted pleasure. No country is
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 85 
 
 richer in things old, worn by weather and time, than 
 Brittany : here an old chapel built of rough unhewn 
 granite ; here a shapeless wayside cross erected by some 
 pious crusader on the ragged hill slope, railed round to 
 prevent the encroachments of the broom and heather ; 
 here a Druidic mass of boulders ; in the cottages curious 
 smoke-dried strips of old Breton work, ancestral oak 
 carvings, rude brass repousee platters — a thousand anti- 
 quarian interests in this gray land. But it is a bright 
 one withal. The fields of yellow colza stretch over the 
 landscape in broad patches of glory ; the red-cheeked 
 cider apples glow in the orchards. The chestnut-trees 
 in the grounds of the old feudal chateau, its fleched 
 gables dimly visible, hang gratefully over the high 
 bounding wall, above the roadway. The peasants still 
 wear the picturesque Breton dress, tasselled hats, 
 embroidered short jackets, and knee-breeches for the 
 men, great white caps and elaborate kirtles for the 
 women. Along the coast the surf beats in a line of 
 angry light upon the rocks, and shows white, in the 
 midst of the blue, around the islets out at sea. And 
 the old fishing villages look as if they were but 
 flotsam and jetsam cast up by Providence around the 
 gray, weather-worn church that has taken them to its 
 bosom. 
 
 For a few days after they left Dinan Kent noticed a 
 change in Clytie. She was reserved, thoughtful. It 
 was not until she appeared to have thrown off the weight 
 of an obsessing idea that she grew buoyant and frank 
 again. An incident unknown to him had occurred at 
 Dinan, shaking the girl's heart to its depths. 
 
 Her bedroom in the hotel opened, like the others on 
 the same floor, on to a small balcony, the spaces in front 
 of each room being separated by a light iron bar. She 
 was dressing one morning when her attention was 
 aroused by voices in the next room, near the balcony. 
 Her own French window was open. The air was sunny 
 and still, and the voices struck clear. 
 
 " And that is your last word ?" asked a woman's voice 
 in French. She used the familiar ton. Her accents 
 were tearful and pleading. 
 
 " Yes," replied a man's voice brutally. " There, there !
 
 86 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 Do not make any scenes. I go because it is my good 
 pleasure. What have you to say against it ? " 
 
 " But I love you, I love you, Armand ! " 
 
 "Bah!" laughed the man, " they say that always. 
 Here are the thousand francs." 
 
 Clytie, who had involuntarily overheard this scrap of 
 the conversation, hastened to shut the window. The 
 sounds died away into murmurs dimly perceptible through 
 the partition wall. Then she heard the room door slam 
 violently and a heavy step tramp down the passage. 
 
 Some two hours later she was sitting in the salon of 
 the hotel, reading the papers and looking idly out upon 
 the market-booths in the little place. Kent and Far- 
 quharson had gone out together to devote a scientific 
 forenoon to the monuments of the town, and Caroline 
 was writing letters in her own room. Clytie was alone. 
 Suddenly the door opened and a woman, scarcely more 
 than a girl, appeared on the threshold. She made a step 
 forward, but perceiving Clytie by the window, she 
 hesitated, irresolute whether to advance or retire. Clytie 
 looked up quickly, caught a glance which she inter- 
 preted as one of appeal. 
 
 " Oh, enter, mademoiselle," she said, with a smile. 
 
 The newcomer murmured a "J/^/r/," entered, closed 
 the door, and sitting down on the faded sofa by the wall, 
 commenced turning over the pages of an old illus- 
 trated paper. Clytie went on with her Figaro. Pres- 
 ently her ear caught a little snifding sob. She turned 
 round. Her companion was squeezing a wet rag of a 
 handkerchief in her hand, her head turned away towards 
 the paper ; she was crying. Clytie rose, moved softly 
 across the room. But as she was going through the 
 doorway she saw the girl, abandoning herself to her 
 misery, bury her face upon the sofa cushion. Clytie 
 was touched. She went back to the girl, laid her hand 
 softly on her shoulder. 
 
 " Mademoiselle ! " 
 
 The girl started, raised a pretty, tear-stained face, 
 looked at Clytie wistfully out of her light blue eyes, her 
 lips quivering. 
 
 *' You are in trouble," said Clytie. 
 
 " Oh, mademoiselle, you are very good," cried the
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 87 
 
 Other — '■'' Old ; je suis Men malheureuse. But you must 
 leave me. You are a young girl well brought up, whilst 
 I Merci, mademoiselle ; you can do nothing." 
 
 The voice struck a chord of association. Where had 
 she heard it recently ? Quickly it flashed upon her, the 
 scrap of dialogue she had overheard that morning. The 
 girl again hid her face. The low-cut dress, beloved by 
 Frenchwomen, disclosed a shapely neck, on which 
 clustered coquettishly a few tiny madcap curls below 
 the smooth, upbrushed, fair hair. Her figure was young 
 and graceful, relaxed now in the attitude of abandonment. 
 
 Clytie looked down upon her wonderingly, her heart 
 beating. Her maidenhood urged her to fly ; a higher 
 sense of life bade her stay a moment by the sobbing 
 figure. She had never, to her knowledge, been near to 
 one of the great unclassed — still less spoken. She 
 remembered the few cynical words of the man ; they 
 seemed to give her a pain at the heart akin to nausea. 
 She remembered the pleading tones : Je faime^je faime 
 Men .'" and her pity went forth upon the woman. 
 
 " I don't ask you to tell me," she said very gently. 
 " But we may talk a little, mayn't we ? Perhaps it may 
 ease you — a woman — the same age," — Clytie stumbled in 
 the foreign language, — " and perhaps not so well brought 
 up — after all, a woman." 
 
 " Oh, mademoiselle, you do not understand. This 
 life ! " her shoulders shivered expressively. " After all, 
 it is bearable ; but when, with all that, one loves — ah ! " 
 
 '* He is not worth it," cried Clytie. '* He is a scoun- 
 drel — I know what he is ! " 
 
 The girl raised her face quickly. 
 
 " You know him ? You know Armand ? Ah, no ; 
 you spoke at random. Yes, he is base, cruel, but that 
 does not prevent it. Mademoiselle, you are good, you 
 are sweet. It is not many who would have spoken. 
 You will let me sit here near you for a little ? Ah, 
 inon Dieu" she went on rapidly, " you cannot imagine 
 what it is — never, never to talk to a woman whom one 
 can respect, and who may not betray you ; and then the 
 only persons one can respect are the men, who despise 
 one. And even they — one can love them, but they are 
 cowardly, hard, selfish ! "
 
 88 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 " There are some good men," observed Cl3^tie. 
 
 " That may be," returned the other, finally drying her 
 eyes, and putting up her hand to her hair in tidying 
 touches — " that may be, but we don't often see them. 
 Oh, mademoiselle, I know well that I should be ashamed 
 of showing you what I am, but when you touched my 
 shoulder it was like a good sister of the convent," — 
 Clytie smiled in spite of herself at the comparison, — 
 " and it touched my heart." 
 
 " And I too have a confession to make," said Clytie, 
 gently interrupting. " This morning — I overheard — my 
 room is next to yours " 
 
 " Ah, it was you who shut the window ? " 
 
 " Yes. So I know, mademoiselle — at least I can judge. 
 And are you quite alone now ? " 
 
 The girl shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "What would you have? He has gone, and I must 
 go too. One does not amuse oneself here alone." 
 
 " And where are you going ? " 
 
 " To Paris. In the middle of summer. It is not gay. 
 Everyone will know qiiil vi'a plantce la. But one must 
 live. Ah ! you are happy, you other honest women ! " 
 
 She talked on, in half-cynical, half-artless confidence, 
 as is the way of her race, forgetting in her need of 
 expansion that her hearer was the English girl well 
 brought up. She dilated on her present trouble, her 
 life in Paris, her creditors, the spitefulness of women, 
 the brutality of men. Clytie listened with mingled feel- 
 ings of horror and pity. She was so young, this girl, 
 so fresh for all the soil of Paris, and yet taking, from use, 
 the whole horror of her life as a matter of course, realis- 
 ing it only in rare emotional moments. Here was a 
 rejecter of formulas, of a race that has thrown off con- 
 vention ever since Rahab harboured the spies ! Too 
 fragile, delicate she looked for this social warfare. 
 Whither was she tending? Clytie had a supreme, lurid 
 moment of introspection. Only two or three such come 
 in a lifetime. 
 
 At last the girl rose from the sofa in the quick French 
 way. 
 
 " Forgive me, mademoiselle, for talking like this. I 
 had forgotten. You see well that you could not have
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 89 
 
 helped me otherwise than you have done by sitting 
 by my side. I must not encroach upon your time. 
 Adieu, mademoiselle, and thank you ; oh, a thousand 
 times, thanks. I shall not forget you." 
 
 She was going. Clytie rose and went towards her, 
 her face a little flushed, but kindness in her eyes. 
 
 "You will shake hands, a fAnglaise? " she said. 
 
 The girl looked her quickly in the face, and then im- 
 pulsively seized the proffered hand in both hers and 
 kissed it twice rapidly. Then she ran from the room. 
 
 Clytie went back to her seat by the window and looked 
 out upon the market-sellers. But she did not see much, 
 as tears stood in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. 
 
 She did not tell Mrs. Farquharson of this incident, but 
 kept it in her heart as a secret and strange revelation 
 of life — something precious, mysterious, awful. During 
 her drive with the others in the afternoon she was 
 strangely silent. Kent rallied her on her depression in 
 his bluff, kind-hearted manner. She smiled absently, 
 complained of a headache, then shivered with a wave of 
 recollection. For days the spectre haunted her, some- 
 times looking at her through the light blue eyes of the 
 girl, and sometimes taking a dual form, in which the 
 coarse drudge features of the mother of Jack, the model, 
 were dimly visible. And a question hummed in her ears : 
 "Was this the aspect of life that men kept so jealously 
 hidden from women ? " 
 
 But Clytie was young and vigorous, with fresh bright 
 blood leaping in her veins. The thrill of the salt breeze 
 and the whole-hearted laughter of her friends soon pre- 
 vented these imaginings from becoming morbid, and 
 gradually the first sharp impression dulled more or less 
 down to the level of her other experiences of things. 
 She gave herself up again to the freedom and gaiety of 
 the trip, to the unfeigned delight of Kent, who had been 
 beginning to wonder whether, for unknown reasons, 
 some coolness had arisen between them. 
 
 He forbore to allude to the subject until the night 
 when they were all returning together from St. Malo to 
 Southampton. He had found her a sheltered corner of 
 the upper deck, rigged up a screen of rugs, comfortably
 
 90 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 established her in a canvas chair with many wraps. 
 Most of the passengers had gone below. They were 
 almost alone. The voices of two men in an opposite 
 corner came vaguely out of the darkness. All was still 
 save for the continuous rattle and wash, which at sea 
 forms a strange kind of silence in itself. 
 
 " Aren't you sorry it is over ? " asked Clytie from the 
 dimness of her wraps. " We did nothing very wonder- 
 ful, but it has been very pleasant — a thing to look back 
 upon." 
 
 " ' A garnered joy for after-time.' " 
 
 " You are waxing poetical." 
 
 "Oh, that's Wither. He was poetical in his youth. 
 You would hardly think it of him. I have always 
 thought that line rather pretty. Anyhow, it is true in 
 the present case." 
 
 " And we haven't quarrelled," said Clytie, " in spite 
 of the maxim, ' If you v/ant to lose a friend, travel with 
 him.' But I don't think I could quarrel with you. 
 You wrap yourself round with such imperturbable 
 superiority. 
 
 " The metaphor is mixed, but proceed," interrupted 
 Kent. 
 
 " Well, it's not worth while playing to such a bad 
 house." 
 
 " I don't see what we should have to quarrel about," 
 returned Kent, laughing. " We each give the other 
 credit for independent opinions ; and as for action, if 
 you wanted to go to the right and 1 to the left, I sup- 
 pose I should give in and let you have your way — if it 
 were not contrary to common sense." 
 
 " And if it were ? If it were simply idiotic ? " 
 
 " Perhaps I should go with you then, to keep you out 
 of harm's way." 
 
 " Thank you," murmured Clytie rather touched, look- 
 ing up restfully at the stars. 
 
 There was a little silence. Kent puffed at his pipe. 
 The glow attracted George Farquharson, who had just 
 come up on the deck and was groping about for them in 
 the darkness. 
 
 " Going to stay here all night ? " he asked. 
 
 " Most of it," replied Clytie.
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 91 
 
 ** Kent making you comfortable ? " 
 
 Clytie murmured an easeful afifiirmative, and Far- 
 quharson, nodding a good-night, disappeared into the 
 darkness. 
 
 ** Apropos of quarrelling," said Kent after a while. 
 *' Do you know, I thought once, for a few days, you 
 were vexed with me for something — after we left Dinan. 
 Were you ?" 
 
 Clytie felt the words like a touch of ice. "Why had 
 Kent blundered so tactlessly ? 
 
 " Oh, why do you mention that ? " she cried. " The 
 only painful thing in all the trip. Something that I saw 
 at Dinan — I was put out. Was I very disagreeable ? It 
 did not refer to you in any way, dear friend." 
 
 " Pardon me if I have touched on a sore place," 
 replied Kent. " I find I have a good deal to learn in 
 these matters. Will you make a compact with me to tell 
 me if ever I offend you ? Your friendship has grown so 
 valuable and dear a thing to me that the idea of running 
 the risk of losing it makes me — what shall I say ? Well, 
 I couldn't bear it. I don't often talk like this, — senti- 
 ment comes out of me very awkwardly, — but when I do 
 say anything of the sort I mean it. Believe me." 
 
 Clytie put out her gloved hand and touched him 
 lightly on the arm. She, too, felt that she had certain 
 need of him. A little thrill of tenderness passed through 
 her as she turned her head towards him to reply. 
 
 "Didn't I call you 'dear friend' just now? And I 
 meant it, too. You are too honest, too single-hearted, 
 ever to offend me, as you say. If I am ever rebellious 
 with you it will be my own fault, and I shall know it. 
 And as I really have got some common sense, I shall be 
 sorry for it. But you won't expect me to tell you so 
 every time, will you ? You will have to take it for 
 granted." 
 
 "You always make yourself out worse than you are," 
 replied Kent. " Very few people know you. The Far- 
 quharsons, myself, Winifred, do. I should like to go 
 with you wherever you go, and tell folks not to believe 
 you, to prove to them what a " 
 
 "Oh, stop ! stop ! " cried Clytie, with a little laugh. 
 " This sojourn in the land of compliments has infected
 
 92 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 you. Oh, no ; I am ordinary ; not bad, not good. 
 You see, if I had had anybody to care for specially, and 
 who cared for me, I might have shown up differently. I 
 have hardly had a chance of seeming otherwise than 
 selfish. Opportunity makes the saint as much as it 
 makes the thief." 
 
 Kent meditated, framing a reply. The right words 
 would not come until it seemed that too long an interval 
 had elapsed. There was another silence — one of those 
 pleasant ones between friends when they feel in sym- 
 pathy. Clytie at last broke it. 
 
 " Would you have had such a conversation as this 
 with a man friend?" 
 
 «' No— at least— well, no. Why ? " 
 
 " Oh, nothing. The idea occurred to me," replied 
 Clytie.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The long autumn months rolled on, bringing little 
 new to Clytie or to Kent. Clytie continued to paint her 
 small genre pictures, but with a more certain touch, a 
 restraint which a deeper insight into life compelled. 
 They did not satisfy her now, however, as they used to. 
 She had more articulate longings after an art which 
 should be higher, more comprehensive, more responsive 
 to certain subtler and at the same time more stirring 
 impulses within her. 
 
 " I want to paint something that may live," she said 
 to Kent, " something I can throw my whole soul into, 
 something I can look at when it is finished and say : 
 ' There, that is final ; that expresses consummately every- 
 thing I have ever felt and dreamed.' " 
 
 " If you can ever say that, you will cease to be an 
 artist," he replied in his matter-of-fact way. 
 
 " Perhaps so. But I must try. And the subject, the 
 subject ? " 
 
 " Wait," said Kent. " If it ever comes, it will do so 
 of itself." 
 
 Clytie waited, but the subject did not come. Mean- 
 while she had her hands full with orders, both for 
 pictures and for magazine illustrations. Her life was 
 full, as far as work could make it. Winifred came 
 regularly to the studio, as usual, cheering her with sweet 
 companionship. She had spent her summer holiday at 
 the seaside, treating out of her own purse her two little 
 brothers to a holiday. She came back with glowing 
 reminiscences of her adventures, the humorous naughti- 
 nesses of the children, the odds and ends of character 
 she had met with. Her only regret was that her dear 
 Clytie had not been there too. 
 
 " I should have thrown those horrid children, Reggie 
 and Arthur, into the sea ! " exclaimed Clytie. 
 
 93
 
 94 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 " Oh, no, you wouldn't. They simply adore you. 
 They are nice children, aren't they, now ?" 
 
 " You little goose ! " cried Clytie, kissing the warm 
 brown cheek. " They are like you, the sweetest little 
 children in the world. When are they coming to tea ? " 
 
 These teas in the studio were red-letter days for 
 Winifred's brothers and sisters. They worshipped Clytie, 
 who had keen sympathy with the unconventionalities 
 of childhood. She made grotesque caricatures of them, 
 at which they screamed with laughter, or sat on the 
 hearthrug with them and talked the nonsense that bright 
 children love. Their joy was complete if Kent came in. 
 They called him " Kent," took complete possession of 
 him, presented him to Clytie as a pet trifle they carried 
 about with them. He, too, was fond of these debauches, 
 and seldom missed attending them if he could leave the 
 Museum in time. He loved to see Clytie take her part 
 in them. She seemed to him even more sweet and 
 womanly than Winifred when she had a child on her lap, 
 and her dark red hair was touching the black ruffled 
 curls. He told her so one day, and the colour came into 
 her cheeks as she laughed. 
 
 Another occasional visitor in the studio was Treherne, 
 the young clergyman whom Clytie had met at the Far- 
 quharson's numismatic dinner-party. Kent and herself 
 had run across him at a Bond Street gallery where some 
 paintings by the impressionists Degas and Monet were 
 on view. He was looking ill and overworked. He 
 replied to their inquiries that he had been forced to give 
 up his North London parish and take lighter duties near 
 Victoria. As he lived in her neighbourhood, he hoped 
 that Clytie would allow him to call one day and see her 
 pictures ; " Jack " at the exhibition had aroused his 
 admiration. Clytie readily gave him her "day," when 
 Miss Marchpane and herself were at home to their friends, 
 and hoped he would come. He called, found a certain 
 charm in the bright talk of the studio, exhilarating after 
 the dull rounds among his parishioners, and soon be- 
 came a constant visitor. Perhaps the charm of a pair of 
 soft brown eyes attracted him more than he thought of con- 
 fessing. Towards the end of the year, however, he bought, 
 through a dealer, two of Winifred's dainty pictures.
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 95 
 
 The days shortened, the painting light grew less and 
 less, and the time came for Clytie to pay her Christmas 
 visit to Durdleham. She had not been there for a year, 
 and her heart longed at times for the familiar faces and 
 the voices of her own kith and kin. She thought that, 
 perhaps, now she had grown older, her father and sisters 
 would think her mode of life less unnatural, less likely to 
 result in moral shipwreck. The letters, too, she had 
 been receiving from them lately were kinder, more 
 affectionate in tone. Mrs. Blather longed to have her 
 dear Clytie back amongst them once more, and Janet 
 wrote touchingly of the vacant chair at the dinner table. 
 Clytie anticipated much quiet pleasure from her visit. 
 The need of an attitude of rebellion was past, and she 
 could throw herself lovingly, with no fear of compromis- 
 ing her independence, into all the mild interests of the 
 household. There were times when a tenderer, softer 
 chord vibrated in her heart, suggesting sadly the sweet- 
 ness of home and loved family ties. She was human, 
 with the foolish human craving for things that are not. 
 She could not abandon her free artistic life ; but if she 
 could fill it with gentler, softer graces ! In these moods 
 she clung to Winifred, loving her for this element of 
 sweet womanliness she brought into the rooms in the 
 King's Road that were her home. It was with this range 
 of feelings uppermost in her heart that she went to 
 Durdleham. 
 
 For the first few days after Clytie's departure Kent 
 laboured honestly and doggedly in his old way. But 
 gradually he began to feel a lack of interest in his pur- 
 suits, to be vaguely conscious that the conditions of 
 things were upset, and then he wished that Clytie had 
 not gone. 
 
 One evening he was sitting in his room with a litter of 
 proof-sheets lying idly before him. He felt depressed. 
 It was a new sensation. It puzzled him, annoyed him, 
 made him angry with himself, like a man's first unsus- 
 pected attack of the gout. He rose and walked about. 
 His fire had nearly gone out, his lamp had been flaring 
 and the room was filled with its acrid smoke. He could 
 not open the window, for the sleet and rain were beating 
 against the panes. He stopped for a moment watching
 
 96 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 the water dribble outside down the glass. Then he 
 turned away impatiently, seeking solace from his book- 
 backs and pictures. But they seemed to look back 
 upon him unsympathetically, as if reproaching him for 
 the bare floor, the untidy dresser, and the cheerless 
 hearth. He rekindled his fire, filled a pipe, and sat 
 down to think. 
 
 Kent was not given to introspection. His external 
 interests in life were too engrossing for him to think 
 deeply or continuously about himself. Such a habit of 
 mind he used vehemently to deprecate as morbid, ego- 
 tistical. But now this strange depression, this vague 
 sense of loss, compelled him to account for it to his 
 reason. He began in a sober, materialistic way to 
 review his general health (there are philosophers amongst 
 us who refer all moods to the liver, not looking upon it, 
 however, like the ancients, as the seat of the affections !), 
 to question some little disappointments he had had with 
 regard to his great work, and to dwell upon the futility 
 of existence — the suggestion of which he should have 
 been logical enough to see was the result and not the 
 cause of his state of mind. But he was not logical. 
 Few men are when the great facts of inner life are in 
 question ; for in the course of logic " none of us would 
 see salvation," as far as this world's happiness is con- 
 cerned. Gradually a truth dawned upon him. He 
 missed the ever-ready companionship he had enjoyed 
 for nearly a year. He missed Clytie. He found that 
 for the first time in his life since he was a baby he had 
 been depending for something on a woman. He had 
 never realised until then the strength of that unknown 
 subtle influence, the withdrawal of which left him so weak, 
 so unable to put forth all his powers. At first he thought 
 that it was merely the abrupt interruption of pleasant 
 habits, the sudden jerk out of a well-oiled groove. 
 Telling himself he was satisfied with this solution, he 
 resolutely went back to his writing and began to correct 
 his proof-sheets. But gradually his attention wandered 
 again. These sudden impulses to work against the grain 
 soon spend themselves out and produce greater lassitude 
 than before. 
 
 He tossed down his pencil in disgust and swung round
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 97 
 
 towards the fire. It was Clytie herself, then, that he 
 missed. He missed her in spite of her being a woman, 
 he told himself. And yet the picture rose before his 
 mind of Clytie's dainty room and Clytie sitting there 
 opposite to him, her hand, with falling lace at wrist, 
 pressed into the softness of her hair. Why had she not 
 written a line to him ? 
 
 Yes, he missed her. But why should that make his 
 work distasteful ? He was puzzled. One thing alone was 
 clear, his loneliness was growing intolerable. He threw 
 on his waterproof, and, leaving his work, trudged through 
 the rain to the " monastery," at South Kensington. 
 
 Wither was alone. Fairfax and Greene were dining 
 out. The little man had been too lazy and sybaritic to 
 face the cold and wet outside. He had clad himself in 
 pyjamas and dressing-gown, and was reading a French 
 novel on the couch drawn up in front of the fire. His 
 diminutive figure looked absurdly small and wizened in 
 his loose wrap. He nodded affectionately at Kent, ex- 
 plained briefly the fact of his being alone, and, while 
 Kent was hunting in a familiar corner for the pair of 
 slippers always there in readiness for his use, went on 
 with his reading. 
 
 " Get me some whiskey, old chap," he said without 
 looking up. " I have been dying for some this last hour 
 and I have been too lazy to stir off the sofa." 
 
 Kent, as usual, supplied Wither's wants and poured 
 out a glass for himself. 
 
 " Lazy little beggar," he said kindly as he sat down 
 in the great saddle-bag chair. " How do you manage 
 to get through your work ? " 
 
 Wither laughed. 
 
 " I thought you knew better than to ask me that." 
 
 It was a tradition in the " monastery " that Wither 
 never did any work. They paid him at his office for 
 lending it a gentlemanly tone. As a matter of fact, like 
 most clever, lazy men, he generally did an ordinary 
 man's day's work in a few hours. 
 
 He stretched himself out luxuriously and lit a 
 cigarette. 
 
 " Have you ever read this ? " he asked, holding up his 
 novel. It was Bourget's " Cruelle Enigme." 
 
 7
 
 98 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 Kent nodded. 
 
 "■ I skimmed it through here one night while waiting 
 for you. I have no patience with that sort of thing." 
 
 " Possibly not," remarked Wither, " but that's a fact 
 about yourself, and not about the book." 
 
 " I don't believe it is human life," replied Kent. 
 " People can't make animal passion the keynote of their 
 lives nowadays." 
 
 " Why not nowadays ? " 
 
 " The conditions of life prevent it. The savage has 
 furious brute instincts, which he gratifies occasionally, 
 when his mind is not taken up with fighting and hunt- 
 ing for his food. It may be the guiding principle in a 
 splendid barbarism like some Eastern courts, where 
 men have little else to think of. But in our modern 
 civilisation there are other interests too absorbing. The 
 hurry of life is too great." 
 
 " What about the empty-minded women you are 
 always railing at ? " 
 
 " They are all absorbed in their futilities — at least 
 most of them," he added, correcting himself ; " but even 
 when idle they are not beasts. Now this woman you 
 are reading about is a beast." 
 
 Wither eyed him curiously. 
 
 " You are talking nonsense, old chap. If she had 
 been simply that, she would not have been a problem to 
 the psychologist. The enigma was the sudden burst into 
 animalism in the midst of a love that was almost idyllic." 
 
 " Bosh ! " said Kent. " It was the same old hideous 
 adultery." 
 
 " Oh, well ! if you go on those lines, I am done," 
 replied Wither, shrugging his shoulders. " I thought 
 we were a little more advanced in our ideas in this 
 establishment." 
 
 "You know I don't mean that," said Kent, puffing 
 violently at his pipe. " The legality of the connection 
 has nothing to do with it. It is the eternal coupling of 
 the male and the female that revolts me. Pah ! They 
 might as well write a novel on the loves of the pastures." 
 
 " If I could write French, I should like to try it," said 
 Wither. " It would be interesting." 
 
 " There is too much of that sort of thing written and
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 99 
 
 talked about," said Kent. " It's sickening. It's degra- 
 dation of liumanity." 
 
 " Well, it's not uncommon," said Wither, with a 
 sphinxlike smile playing round the corners of his 
 mouth as he gazed upwards at the cigarette smoke. 
 
 "Look here, Wither," said Kent; "I have a higher 
 faith in humanity. You profess to be a cynic, a man of 
 the world, and you delight in calling yourself non- 
 moral. That's all foolishness, I know. You are the 
 kindest hearted little chap in the world. But can you, 
 as a man of intellectual tastes, sympathise with all 
 this animalism ? " 
 
 Wither threw away his cigarette, and bending forward 
 laid his hand on Kent's knee. 
 
 " My dear old boy," he said, with more earnestness 
 than he generally displayed, "I do call myself a man of 
 the world, for I'm in it and I love it, and I have a very 
 decent bowing acquaintance as well with its pals, the 
 Flesh and the Devil. I know something of men, and as 
 for women, it has been my lot to have been petted by a 
 good few — my size lends itself to that sort of thing. In 
 fact, Gulliver with the Brobdingnag maids of honour is 
 not in it with me. I know all about 'em ; and I tell you, 
 old chap, that the Beast, sometimes with a big B and 
 sometimes in diamond type, lies in the nature of us all. 
 There is not a living being with pure blood in his or her 
 veins who is not overmastered at times by the principle 
 of sex. You scoff at Bourget as a writer of morbid 
 and impossible fiction. Look at your daily papers. 
 Don't you see parsons of hitherto blameless lives 
 running off with their cooks, virtuous women ruining 
 their lives and their husbands' for the sake of some 
 Hercules of a scoundrel — just as the patrician ladies in 
 Rome went mad over the charioteers in the circus ! 
 Man alive ! it is the Beast, the Beast that may slumber 
 in an old maid's bosom until she is sixty and then drive 
 her into the arms of her footman. How otherwise have 
 you accounted for these things ?" 
 
 " I have not tried," replied Kent simply. " They 
 have not interested me. They are diseases of the brain, 
 for the physiologist to study, like suicide and murder. 
 I don't believe in them in normal everyday life."
 
 lOO AT THE GATE OF SAMAKTA. 
 
 There was a long pause, broken only by Wither's 
 request that Kent should put some coals on the fire, and 
 the rattling of the operation. Wither resumed his read- 
 ing and Kent pulled at his pipe in silence. At last the 
 former looked up and said suddenly : 
 
 " Why do you think people marry ? " 
 
 " That's funny," replied Kent, with a slight start. " I 
 was just wondering myself. I don't know : money, com- 
 panionship, family, idiocy — God knows what." 
 
 «' It has always struck me that you would be the first 
 of us to go," said the other in pure, idle maliciousness. 
 
 " I ? " cried Kent, with a gesture of disgust. " I marry ! 
 give up my work, procreate children I couldn't support ! 
 Have to kiss and pet and fondle a woman " 
 
 " Well, you need not do that unless you like," replied 
 Wither, laughing in his gnomelike way. " She might 
 expect it, but she would be soon consoled by the 
 blessedness of pure spirituality." 
 
 Kent's reply was interrupted by the return of the 
 absentees, Fairfax, the doctor, and Greene. 
 
 " I am so glad you fellows have come back," said 
 Kent ; " Wither has been drivelling on his favourite topic 
 until I was begining to loathe him." 
 
 " He's an immoral little wretch," said the doctor, 
 throwing his greatcoat on Wither's curled-up body — " a 
 pocket Mephistopheles. We keep him here as a kind of 
 Familiar. Oh, what rot dining out is ! " he added, with a 
 yawn and a stretch as he seated his burly form on the foot 
 of the couch. " I wish I had stayed at home." 
 
 " I wish you had," said Kent. " Let us have just one 
 rubber before I go. There is time." 
 
 But Kent walked home that night with a new trouble 
 at his heart that kept him awake a great part of the 
 night. 
 
 Meanwhile Clytie was not enjoying herself at Durdle- 
 ham. At first there were eager embraces, trifling tender- 
 nesses and solicitudes. The dear prodigal had returned, 
 but the fatted calf was killed discreetly, lest it should 
 convey a husk-flavoured reproach. Grace and Janet 
 bubbled over with light Durdleham gossip, seeking to 
 interest, and Clytie earnestly and sympathetically sought
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. lOI 
 
 to be in touch with her surroundings. It was a real heart- 
 felt effort on both sides towards harmony. But it soon 
 became patent that these efforts were unavailing. Clytie 
 saw the old prejudices barring her at every turn. She 
 recognised with the bitterness of disillusionment that she 
 was the bit of grit in the family machinery, stopping the 
 smoothness of its working. As long as she identified 
 herself with Durdleham interests things went well ; but 
 as soon as she, in her turn, ventured to sketch the bright 
 incidents in her town life she felt a check in the current 
 of mutual sympathy. If she was reserved, her sisters 
 complained. They ought to know something of her 
 friends, her occupations. When she was expansive they 
 shrank cold and crablike into their mail of prejudice. 
 
 Her intimacy with a strange Bohemian man was a 
 thorn in the side of the family. Mr. Davenant con- 
 sidered it extremely injudicious, and Mrs. Blather 
 whispered to him that she scarcely thought it moral. 
 Janet was too horrified to allude directly to the circum- 
 stance. But, in her neat, prim bedchamber, she prayed 
 to the Almighty to lead her erring sister out of the paths 
 of temptation. She duly informed Clytie of this act of 
 piety, and when Clytie burst into laughter that was 
 nearer to tears than to merriment, left the room in virtu- 
 ous indignation. 
 
 Clytie could not help confessing to herself that she 
 longed for Kent's companionship, with its broader sym- 
 pathies and inspiring influences, but the view the house- 
 hold took of it pained her with a sense of aching discom- 
 fort, and made her feel a strange diffidence in writing to 
 him as she had promised. She at last addressed him a 
 short little note, stiff and constrained, which reached him 
 the morning after his conversation with AVither and did 
 not help to cheer him. Too proud to wait for an oppor- 
 tunity of posting this letter herself, she placed it on the 
 hall slab together with the rest of the outgoing corre- 
 spondence of the family. Although a hundred letters 
 might have lain there for post without any one of them 
 attracting Mrs. Blather's attention, — she was too pure- 
 minded a gentlewoman for idle curiosity to be one of her 
 failings, — it was too good an opportunity for the imps 
 .who seem sometimes to regulate human affairs to let
 
 I02 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 slip, and as a matter of course Mrs. Blather's eye fell 
 upon the address. 
 
 " So you are keeping up a violent correspondence 
 with that man," she remarked acidly to Clytie. It is the 
 way of some women to exaggerate. 
 
 Clytie bit her lip, checking an impulsive answer. 
 What was the use of a retort ? 
 
 Women of broad, liberal education, with interests 
 beyond the nursery, still-room, and the afternoon-tea 
 table, are known to live together, like men, in compara- 
 tive harmony. They have learned the lesson the higher, 
 broader life teaches of rising or declining instinctively to 
 another being's plane of thought or feeling. It is hardly 
 a fault of sex that women are petty, spiteful, and intoler- 
 ant. When the conditions of life are narrow and illiberal 
 any human being, man or woman, runs the risk of being 
 shaped by them. And that is why Mrs. Blather and 
 Janet, good, upright women according to their lights, 
 subordinated their affection to their principles, and 
 stood away shocked from their sister. Their traditional 
 ideals of femininity had been sinned against. The 
 crime was all but unpardonable. It was always present 
 with them, always assuming fresh, distorted shapes. 
 They were on a different plane from Clytie, and viewed all 
 her actions in a false perspective. 
 
 Clytie was hurt, wounded in her womanly pride. She 
 knew that there was much clay in her composition, and 
 often felt with chastening self-abasement how much 
 nearer the angels Winifred was than herself. Yet she 
 was accustomed to live in an atmosphere free from 
 reproach. Winifred, Kent, the Farquharsons, and others 
 of her friends might touch with light, tender finger on 
 here and there an imperfection in her character or con- 
 duct ; for this she was grateful, knowing the deeper feel- 
 ings of esteem and respect that prompted. But to move 
 in a circle where she was looked upon as a black sheep, 
 as a girl on the path to unutterable abysses, galled 
 her to the quick, sent the hot blood mounting in stinging 
 waves to her cheek, leaving the heart cold. Yet she had 
 learned not to blame her sisters over much. She had 
 lost her militant scorn of Jacob. Kent had taught her 
 that although Esau might possess the higher birthright
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 103 
 
 which no bartering of pottage could alienate, there was 
 still saving grace in the stolen birthright which Jacob 
 guarded so jealously. But this knowledge did not make 
 her heart less sore. 
 
 The happiest time in this Christmas visit was when 
 she could get away into the old lumber-attic in which 
 she had dreamed so many girlish dreams. It had long 
 been dismantled of the Liberty curtains, Persian rugs, 
 and cheap Japaneseries that had lent it the suggestion 
 of artistic atmosphere the girl of eighteen had craved. 
 It was bare now, except for a table and chair and a few 
 odds and ends of artist's materials, but a fire could be 
 laid in the grate to make things look cheery, and there 
 was still the deeply recessed attic-window where she 
 could stand and look out over the same drear landscape. 
 It was only the ordinary midland succession of fields, 
 now black with winter, and pastures through which the 
 river ran, its course only indicated by the fringing line 
 of pollards and willows. Away on the slope to the 
 west rose a clump of trees from which peeped a few 
 houses and a church spire, the little village of Wexwith. 
 In the foreground ran the highroad skirted with new 
 red-brick cottages, a touch of sordidness added by man 
 to the ungenerous dreariness of nature. Once this had 
 affected Clytie with a sense of the unutterable melan- 
 choly of things. The young are prone to be so affected. 
 They are rather proud when they realise it ; it is a kind 
 of youthful vanity. But Clytie, like the wiser among us, 
 sought brightness as she grew older, and although she 
 could not consider the landscape cheerful, looked at it 
 only through the memories of five years. Every spot had 
 associations for her. There was the cottage where she 
 had seen the little bully strike his playmate, the original 
 conception of the picture that had helped to cause her 
 welcome banishment from home. Next to it used to live 
 the old beldame who threw out of doors the custards 
 and jellies that Janet with angelic perseverance used to 
 take her. What cruel mockery she used to make of Janet 
 in those days ! Now she submissively helped to carry the 
 custards. Behind the swelling uplands over the village 
 the sun set, a red ball in the wintry sky. For how many 
 wild fantastic daubs had not that formed a background !
 
 104 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 It was during these reveries that the picture subject 
 she craved commenced to haunt her as it gradually 
 shaped itself into definiteness. Since her singular inter- 
 view with the French girl at Dinan a lurid gleam 
 streamed from the gates ajar of mysteries that had baffled 
 her. She had read widely and deeply ; but books are 
 only the gloss of life, they are not the text. Its secrets 
 must be read in the living world, with much pain and 
 sleeplessness and wearied eyes. The throbbing page 
 had been presented to Clytie for one sharp moment, 
 blazing, the while, in letters of flame. Such knowledge 
 changes lingering girlhood into womanhood without the 
 aid of passion. It changes sex-pride into sex-sorrow 
 — in higher natures, be it understood. And this sex-sor- 
 row runs in channels hollowed out by ever-varying cir- 
 cumstance and temperament. It flows in the patient, 
 all-enduring devotion of the sister labouring among out- 
 casts, in the militant enthusiasm of the social reformer. 
 It quivers in the hearts of teachers like George Eliot 
 and Elizabeth Barrett Browning. It lives in the souls 
 of some mothers who tremulously watch the shaping of 
 their daughter's destiny. With Clytie it ran confluent 
 with her artistic impulses. It had influenced them 
 vaguely, dimly, hauntingly for months, but now, at last, 
 stirringly, proclaiming itself, insistently demanding 
 expression. 
 
 The subject was found : Faustina in her innocent 
 maidenhood. The problem : how to manifest the fore- 
 shadovvings of passion on the young, clear face ? 
 
 Clytie spent hours in her attic trying to fix the summer 
 lightnings of features that flashed elusively before her 
 mind. She wished she were in London, to go abroad in 
 the highways seeking after a face. It seemed to her 
 that in the great city she would find the one she wanted, 
 in the park, at the theatre, perhaps among the subdued 
 black rows of women — lines of suppressed volcanic 
 workings — in some great shop. lUit in Durdleham volca- 
 noes were extinct or regulated by formula to erupt 
 with mild propriety. She began to feel the frenzied 
 weariness of helplessness. If only she could talk to 
 someone — to Kent. 
 
 One day Mrs. Blather came into the attic. Clytie
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 105 
 
 was dreaming before incoherent charcoal streaks. The 
 fire had burned low and the draught of the opening door 
 made her shiver. 
 
 "Why, Clytie, child, you are blue with cold," said her 
 sister, wrapping her gray woollen shawl more tightly round 
 her thin shoulders. "Why do you mope up here? " 
 
 " I am not moping, Gracie," replied Clytie ; " I am only 
 working — conceiving a picture, that's all." 
 
 " Oh, but you oughtn't to do any work. Have you 
 not come down for a holiday ? What's the good of burn- 
 ing the candle at both ends ? Come down to the draw- 
 ing-room and talk to the Howatsons ; they are inquiring 
 after you." 
 
 " But I am in such a mess ! " laughed Clytie, showing 
 her blackened finger tips. 
 
 *' Well, come down and tidy yourself in my room ; there 
 is a fire, and you can warm yourself for a few minutes." 
 
 Clytie followed her sister down the stairs to the latter's 
 bedroom, where a cheerful fire warmed the cold clean 
 chintz of the hangings. Mrs. Blather sat down by the 
 hearth, while Clytie washed her hands and touched her 
 hair. 
 
 "Why don't you tell us more of your work, Clytie?" 
 she said propitiatingly. " Here you are being criticised 
 in the newspapers, quite like a famous person, and we at 
 home know nothing of it." 
 
 "Why, Gracie, I thought it did not interest you much." 
 
 "We would take an interest if you would only let us." 
 
 " But, you see, I paint such queer pictures. I don't 
 think they are your style. And then pictures are not 
 portable like books. If I wrote poetry, you could be 
 deluged with presentation copies ; but even we ourselves 
 lose all the result of our work when the picture is sold." 
 
 "Of course, but you might write and talk more. And 
 ^ith regard to the 'queer' pictures, don't you think, if 
 you made us your confidantes, the pictures might be a 
 little less — ' queer ' ? You see, Clytie, you are young, and 
 it is your nature to run into extremes. If you were just 
 a little bit restrained by older folks, would you not get 
 what you are so fond of talking about — ' truth ' — in your 
 work ? " 
 
 Clytie was somewhat puzzled at Mrs. Blather's concili-
 
 lo6 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 atory tone. Was this an effort towards a better under- 
 standing, or was it a disguised lecture ? Slie finished her 
 hasty toilet and went and stood by the fire near her 
 sister, her foot on the fender. 
 
 " Thank you very much, Gracie," she said, "but would 
 you always understand ? Perhaps," she added, smiling, 
 after a pause, "you would want to restrain too much — 
 and where would the picture be ?" 
 
 " Well, why not try ? What is the picture to be about 
 that you are working at now ? " 
 
 The blood rushed to Clytie's cheeks, which, bent down, 
 caught the added glow of the fire — a contrast, with her 
 rich colour, to the clear, waxen, negative face of her 
 sister. She broke suddenly into a nervous laugh. 
 
 " There ! Even from the beginning I couldn't discuss 
 it with you, Gracie. It is only a girl's face — I can't tell 
 you anything more about it." 
 
 " Well, that's what I complain of," said Mrs. Blather 
 with growing acidity. " You keep your own sisters in 
 ignorance of your life, and confide everything to this 
 Mr. Kent, who is nothing to you." 
 
 " How do you know I have told Mr. Kent about this 
 picture ? " 
 
 " I was not referring to this one, though by your 
 manner I see you have." 
 
 "AVell,yes, I have," said Clytie, " because — because — 
 he has the artistic temperament — and he can seize an 
 idea — in fact — why are you saying this to me, Gracie ? " 
 
 " Because you are not going the right way, Clytie ; 
 and it is my duty as your elder sister, who has looked 
 after you since you were so high, to make a last effort 
 to bring you within some restraining influences. We 
 don't like your intimacy with ]\Ir. Kent. It is not what 
 we have been taught to think right. I know you look 
 down upon us as narrow-minded at Durdleham. I think 
 it is better for us. We are shut in, perhaps, between high 
 walls, but the high walls keep us safe." 
 
 They were silent for a few moments, then Clytie said : 
 
 " Gracie, don't you think this subject has been enough 
 discussed ? It is wasting words and spoiling good inten- 
 tions. Suppose we go down to the Howatsons."
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 One day, about this time, Kent was walking home 
 from the Museum. His spirits had by no means hghtened 
 since his conversation with Wither, and he strode along 
 moodily, trying to fix his attention on the arrangement 
 of that evening's portion of the great work. He had 
 gone back to it resolutely and doggedly, and was con- 
 scious that it was progressing not badly, but at the same 
 time he had a troubling sense that he was treating it less 
 as an aim than as a cure for existence. Fairfax, the 
 doctor, told him he was overdoing himself, that the strain 
 of double work was telling, advised total idleness, and if 
 possible a change of air. Kent gave the prescription a 
 trial, and went down to the Isle of Wight for a week-end, 
 where he tramped himself utterly tired during the day 
 and bored himself exquisitely during the evening. Then 
 he came back rather worse than when he went. No ; he 
 was suffering from change, and not from the want of it. 
 
 London was in a pitiable condition. It had snowed, 
 then thawed into slush, and now a hard black frost had 
 set in, rendering the roadways like glass. Already dur- 
 ing his walk home Kent had seen four horses down. On 
 the first two occasions he had lent a helping hand. 
 After that it began to grow monotonous, and he hurried 
 past the accidents, anxious to get home out of the sullen 
 iron-bound streets. At the corner of Sloane Square and 
 the King's Road he saw a familiar girlish figure coming 
 towards him. It was Winifred, her dark cheeks glowing 
 with the exercise of walking ; but he noticed a look of 
 trouble in her eyes. 
 
 " I am so glad to have met you, Mr. Kent," she said; 
 " I want to speak to you. Can you walk a little way 
 with me ? " 
 
 " Of course, as long as you like. What is the matter ? 
 You are not yourself." 
 
 107
 
 lo8 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 " No. I have been upset, so upset ; you would hardly 
 think it. Come and I will tell you." 
 
 They crossed the road and went on down Lower 
 Sloane Street. 
 
 " It's about Jack — Jack, the model, you remember. 
 He has been run over ! Oh, it's horrible ! " 
 
 " And you are going to him ? " asked Kent, noticing 
 for the first time a little basket hanging over her arm. 
 " Give me that," he added, taking the basket, which she 
 out of habit surrendered to him. " And these are jellies 
 and what not for him ? " 
 
 " Yes. Will you come with me and see him, see what 
 can be done for him, rather? His mother is so harsh, so 
 stupid." 
 
 " How did you come to hear of the accident ? " 
 
 Winifred's cheek paled a little and she turned her 
 head from him. 
 
 " I saw it myself. Oh, I shall never, never forget it ! 
 just outside Sloane Square station ; I was coming 
 home, yesterday. The ground was just as slippery as it 
 is now. Oh, how can I tell you ! It makes me shudder 
 to think of it ! " 
 
 " Take your time," said Kent good-naturedly. 
 
 She was silent for a few steps. Then, nerving herself, 
 she went on with more coherence. 
 
 " He was just in front of me when I came out, and as 
 he saw me he ran away, frightened — like a little scared 
 animal ; you know his ways. And crossing the road, 
 not looking where he was going, he turned his head 
 round as if to see I was not following him, and then he 
 slipped — oh-h ! under the hoofs of a horse — in a 
 hansom. And the driver tried to pull up sharp, and the 
 horse came down too — on top of Jack ! " 
 
 " Good God ! " said Kent. 
 
 " A crowd at once collected. I rushed through — I 
 must have screamed a little and cried that I knew him, 
 for the people made way for me. It all seemed like a 
 horrid dream. I can't tell what happened, except that I 
 found myself kneeling on the ground with the poor little 
 mite's head on my lap. Then someone was talking to 
 me, who said he was a doctor, and began to examine the 
 boy's injuries."
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMAJilA. X09 
 
 " Is he badly hurt ? " 
 
 " The doctor does not know yet. No bones are 
 broken — the injuries are internal." 
 
 " Is he at the hospital ? " 
 
 " No. At his own home. I gave them the address, 
 and told them his mother would care for him — why, I 
 don't know. And then they got a stretcher from the 
 police-station and carried him home, and I went with 
 them and broke it to his mother. But, oh ! Mr. Kent, 
 almost the most awful part of it is that it seems as if I 
 was the cause of it." 
 
 " Nonsense, my dear child," said Kent in rough 
 earnestness. 
 
 " Oh, yes, it is. If it hadn't been for me he would 
 not have run across the road in a fright. Oh ! I can 
 see it now — the horse plunging, his hoofs over the child 
 — and then the collapse, and the child hidden under the 
 horse ! " 
 
 They turned down a side street and then another, 
 sinking into the squalour that still remains in that vague 
 river district between Pimlico Pier and Milbank. 
 
 " Poor little chap ! Punishment has come at last," 
 said Kent. "It has a kind of way of doing so. What 
 does Clytie think of it ? Have you told her ? " 
 
 " I only wrote to her yesterday. This morning I got 
 a telegram. I think I have it with me. It is Clytie all 
 over ! " 
 
 She opened the purse she was carrying inside her 
 muff and drew from it a crumpled telegram. It ran : 
 
 Dreadfully distressed. Get the best of everything, nurse, 
 doctor. Find money to go on with in drawer at once. I must feel 
 that I am doing something. Will write. 
 
 "Yes, it is like her," said Kent, with a smile, as he 
 handed it back to her. 
 
 " I wonder whether you would mind doing something 
 for me, Mr. Kent ? " said Winnie after a pause. " Get 
 the money out of Clytie's drawer for me. I have been 
 so busy all day. Reggie is in bed with a bad cold and 
 the house is upside down — and of course I have to come 
 here. You see, I must use the money, or else Clytie would 
 be hurt ; it seems to me to be a matter of conscience."
 
 no AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 " Or a matter of Clytie's telling you ? " said Kent, 
 
 " Well, perhaps it's that. One always does what 
 Clytie says. So do you, Mr. Kent. Anyhow, I should 
 like to have the money for the sake of obeying her 
 wishes. Could you get it for me ? " 
 
 "Of course, if you will tell me how." 
 
 " Oh, that's easy. I have the key of her secretaire in 
 my purse. She keeps her cash-box there. You can let 
 me have it as it is. Will you ? " 
 
 " Of course. I will bring it round to-night." 
 
 The early winter twilight had fallen and scared shiver- 
 ing indoors the brood of unwashed children that possess 
 these gray, sordid streets. Here and there women stood 
 at the doors, their hands folded in their aprons, with 
 little ones clinging to their skirts, chaffering with a 
 costermonger, or exchanging shrill confidences with a 
 neighbour. Most of the front parlours on the ground 
 floor were lightless, with drawn blinds. Here and there 
 a public-house beer-can gleamed white upon the railing 
 spikes. Workmen lurched heavily along, now and then 
 followed by shawled, bare-armed wives, vituperative. 
 For it was Saturday afternoon, when the businesslike 
 wife looks after her husband. Here and there from a 
 suddenly opened doorway came the smell of many 
 weeks' cooking. The poorer classes despise fresh air 
 in their rooms — perhaps because they get it for 
 nothing. 
 
 Winifred stopped with Kent at a dark-fronted, dingy 
 house, the facsimile of the forty other houses in the 
 dingy row and of the forty opposite across the narrow 
 roadway. A little girl answered her knock. 
 
 "Mrs. Burmester in, my dear? Come, Mr. Kent, if 
 you don't mind. I know the way." 
 
 Kent followed her up two flights of stairs, and into 
 Mrs. Burmester's room. It was less squalid than he 
 had imagined. A fire was burning in the grate, with 
 a saucepan simmering. There were fairly substantial 
 chairs, a table, and the ragged remains of a carpet. On 
 a big bed by the side of the wall, not uncomfortable- 
 looking nor unclean, lay Jack, tossing his wild elf head 
 in delirium. By the side of the bed sat a nurse, whom 
 the doctor had sent. Mrs. Burmester was spreading
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. Ill 
 
 out the tea-things on the table. Her red, heavy face 
 brightened momentarily when Winnie entered. 
 
 " How is he now ? " 
 
 " Oh, mortal bad, miss. He hasn't had his senses all 
 day." 
 
 "And the doctor — does he say anything ? " 
 
 " He said he would like a consultation," replied the 
 nurse, " but he did not know exactly whom to refer to." 
 
 " Why, to me, of course ! " replied Winnie. " He 
 knows my name and address. If you see him before I do, 
 say I authorise him to do anything he thinks right. We 
 are willing to — that is, he need not be hindered by 
 questions of expense." 
 
 Winnie turned to Mrs. Burmester with the basket, 
 which she had taken from Kent's hand. The mother 
 thanked her, almost monosyllabically. She was too dull 
 for emotions of any kind. Kent watched her with 
 interest, for Clytie had often spoken of her, hinting 
 at her own puzzle. 
 
 There was a lull in Jack's ravings as Winifred and 
 Kent stood over the bed looking at him. The expres- 
 sion of sullen ferocity had gone from his face, which now 
 seemed refined and gentle. He smiled at Winifred, not 
 recognising her, murmured something incoherent about 
 arithmetic. His mind had wandered back to his earlier 
 school-days. He had been fond of a teacher there, his 
 mother explained. Her name was Miss Jones. She 
 wished he was fond of anybody now. He was a sore 
 trial to her. The floodgates of dull speech were opened 
 and a slow stream of joyless anecdote poured forth — 
 a jeremiad of Jack's iniquities. Winnie stopped her 
 gently. 
 
 " We must not think of that now, Mrs. Burmester," she 
 said. " We have to get him round again ; and then we 
 will see whether we can't make a good boy of him for 
 you." 
 
 "Ah ! You won't do that. He is too much like his 
 father." 
 
 They stayed a little longer, talking. Then they went, 
 as Winifred had to be back among her own family 
 responsibilities, 
 
 " By the way," said Kent as they were walking home-
 
 112 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 wards, " this must be Treherne's parish — in fact, I am 
 sure of it. Has it not struck you ?" 
 
 " No, it never occurred to me." 
 
 " Well, he ought to know. I'll send him a line. He 
 knows all about this sort of thing." 
 
 He walked with her as far as the door of her own 
 house. There she gave him the key of Clytie's secre- 
 taire. Mrs. Gurkins kept the room key. He left her 
 and turned homewards, striding along rather fast, eager 
 to execute Clytie's commission. He was filled with a 
 foolish pleasure at her impulsive telegram ; touched also 
 at Winifred's implicit obedience and confidence. 
 
 " She's a queen among women ! " 
 
 The silly phrase passed through his mind and he 
 caught himself repeating it with his lips, half aloud. 
 
 " Bosh ! " he added with some impatience. And he 
 stopped to look in at a shop-window to divert his mind. 
 It was a boot-shop. He ran his eye mechanically over 
 the rows of commonplace, cheap boots, and then it fell 
 upon a little pair of tan shoes, with broad silk laces. 
 Before he realised how his mind was working, a picture 
 rose before him of Clytie wearing a similar pair during 
 the summer trip abroad. He remembered bending 
 down one day when a knot had slipped and retying it 
 for her. 
 
 " I am becoming a positive ass ! " he said to himself, 
 with an angry jerk away from the window. Then he 
 redoubled his pace, as if in defiance, but the silly phrase 
 rang in his ears : 
 
 " She's a queen among women ! " 
 
 He obtained the key from Mrs. Gurkins, and entered 
 the tenantless room. The blinds were down, the curtains 
 undrawn. It was just dark. He lit the piano candles 
 and looked about him. How dreary the room seemed ! 
 The fireless grate, the coverless table (the cloth had 
 been thriftily put away by Mrs. Gurkins), the absence 
 of the feminine litter with which Clytie was wont to 
 strew the room — all made his heart sink for a moment 
 beneath the weight of a great longing. He remembered, 
 too, the room by that dim light — on the evening of 
 Clytie's submission. He saw her again lift her arms to 
 unpin her hat from behind, the proud young figure stand-
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 113 
 
 ing out free as she looked at him half playfully, half 
 seriously, her ripe, full lips parted in a smile. His 
 breath came quickly as a flood of self-knowledge swept 
 over him. He had felt puzzled then — at vague inarticu- 
 late desires. Now they were gathering a terribly real, 
 objective shape. He grew dizzy, hot and cold, half 
 terrified at himself. 
 
 With shaking fingers he fitted the key in the lock of 
 the secretaire. In the drawer was a heterogeneous col- 
 lection of odds and ends — letters, keys, ball-programmes, 
 receipted bills — which he had to thrust aside so as to 
 withdraw the little japanned cash-box. As he lifted it 
 out a handkerchief came with it, caught by its lace edge, 
 and after dangling a little fell at his feet. He picked it 
 up, kept it in his hand, soothed at the softness. A faint 
 odour of perfume rose from it, subtle and delicate — the 
 well-known perfume that Clytie always used. It was 
 like an emanation from herself. It grew over his highly 
 strung senses like a breath of her own personality, sweet, 
 intoxicating, overpowering. His brain swam. With a 
 kind of groan he staggered to the sofa, threw himself 
 upon it, burying his face in the little handkerchief, kissing 
 it madly. 
 
 Now all was clear, waves of lightning flashing the 
 truth through him. He loved her, passionately, desired 
 her with a passion all the fiercer for its long restraint. 
 Yet he could not think coherently. One thought, one 
 utter realisation, overpowered all others. At last this 
 great surging sex-tumult was sweeping through his 
 veins. 
 
 " Oh, my God, I love her ! Oh, my God, I love her ! " 
 That was all that he could groan out as he lay upon 
 the sofa. 
 
 The creak of the door made him start up. On the 
 threshold stood one of Mrs. Gurkins's curly-headed 
 little children. She looked for a moment, rather fright- 
 ened, at his haggard face, and then ran away. Thus 
 aroused to a sense of external things, he locked up the 
 secretaire and went out, taking the cash-box and hand- 
 kerchief with him. 
 
 On the slab outside his rooms he found a letter in 
 Clytie's familiar handwriting. He went into his room; 
 
 8
 
 114 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 and sitting down before his writing space, spread the 
 letter out before him. It ran as follows : 
 
 My Dear Friend Kent : 
 
 If you ask me why I have not written to you for such a long time, I 
 must shrink within my shell of femininity and refuse to give you 
 reasons. For I have them, and they are compounded from a recipe 
 handed down from Mother Eve. Well, I write to you now because 
 I must. That reason I make you a present of. 
 
 I want to be in town again, in the King's Road, and to see you by 
 the fireside, ready to be asked questions and to answer them, and to 
 comfort your erratic friend Clytie with your kindliness and wisdom. 
 She is looked upon as a bad girl here, and pines for someone who 
 thinks her human, and who also thinks her art human, and can help 
 her in it. 
 
 Listen, now ; I have got the subject at last ; it is eating my heart 
 out almost, I have to keep it hidden so to myself. I must tell you — 
 for the sake's sake. " Faustina as a young, innocent girl, with the 
 foreshadowings of passion on her face." There! Now you know. 
 What do you think of it ? 
 
 Do you remember my depression at Dinan? Well, I think it was 
 there I got the conception. I can't tell you more. But it is haunt- 
 ing me. I feel what I want to do, but I can't get a face. What 
 •shall I do ? Tell me. You know, dear Kent, in our talks, we have 
 often disregarded principles that move the world pretty potently. 
 But as an artist I am bound to recognise the part that passion plays 
 in the tragedy of things. 
 
 " These things are life : 
 And life, some think, is worthy of the Muse," 
 
 as Meredith says in " Modern Love." (Do you remember our read- 
 ing it together ?) 
 
 I can't write properly about it. I long for a talk with you. I shall 
 break away soon and come for it. So be prepared with all your 
 symimthy. 
 
 Do you miss me just a little bit ? I often fancy my perverseness 
 must give a little wholesome irritation to your life, and you are very 
 good not to mind it. I always seem to be coming to you for hel]) and 
 sympathy. When can I ever do anything for you ? You must tell 
 me, dear friend, when the time comes. 
 
 I should like to tell you to give Winnie a kiss for me, but that 
 is idiotic, isn't it ? Yet you know what I mean. See that the dear 
 child is not wearing herself out. There ! I am asking you to do 
 something else for me. Do write a long letter, full of yourself, with 
 just a paragraph about the needs, artistic and otherwise, of 
 
 Your friend, 
 
 C. D. 
 
 Kent took some time to read this. The letters swam 
 a little before his eyes. Then he laid his head upon 
 his arms and thought, in dumb agony. Ciytie's letter,
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 115 
 
 sisterly and trustful, soothed and goaded him at once. 
 " The part that passion plays in the tragedy of things ! " 
 God ! Had a fleeting thought never struck her what a 
 part it might play in their lives' tragedy ? How could he 
 answer that letter, addressed to a friend, received by a 
 lover in the hot flush of newly awakened realisation ? 
 How could he meet her bright, frank look with this 
 burning demon within him ? It was base, horrible. His 
 mind wandered to a German print he had seen some- 
 where, a goat-footed satyr kneeling and leering at 
 Psyche. He shuddered. 
 
 It is given but to few men to know this terror of love : 
 only to those who, like Kent, have hitherto expended vast 
 animal and moral energies in non-sexual enthusiasms, 
 and have rebelled with almost passionate repulsion 
 against the assertion of the sexual principle. To some 
 men love dawns like a sweet, fair star — the storm comes 
 later on. To such as Kent it comes in terrific forked 
 lightnings and crash of thunder, overwhelming the soul 
 with terror. To Kent's excited fancy it seemed that the 
 Beast, such as Wither had spoken of, had entered into 
 him. He had betrayed the compact of friendship, her 
 sisterly trust in him. Fool that he had been ! Why 
 had he not recognised it before? Now all was over 
 between them. The future seemed nothing but black, 
 rolling darkness. 
 
 _ The solitary gas-jet that he had lit on entering flared 
 high and strident over the mantelpiece above the black- 
 ening fire, and Kent lay with his hands on his arms, 
 his morbid brain at death-grapple with love, he himself 
 heedful of nothing external — not even of a gay whistle 
 and a quick, springing tread on the uncarpeted stairs. 
 The door burst suddenly open. 
 
 " Come out, you fusty old hermit " 
 
 Then Wither stopped. Kent raised a drawn, rather 
 ghastly face and stared at him stupidly. 
 
 " My dear old chap, in the name of Heaven, what's 
 the matter ? " cried Wither, putting down his hat and 
 stick and coming towards him. 
 
 " Oh, nothing ! " said Kent, who pulled himself to- 
 gether with an effort, rose, and broke into a forced 
 laugh.
 
 Il6 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 Wither looked at him steadily while he slowly drew off 
 his gloves. 
 
 " That's nonsense ! " he said quietly. 
 
 Then his sharp glance fell on the little crumpled hand- 
 kerchief that lay beside the open letter on the table. 
 His quick sense, aided by certain opinions he had formed 
 long since, grasped the main feature of the situation. 
 
 He went over to where Kent was standing by the fire- 
 place, and laid his hand on his shoulder. 
 
 •' Never mind, dear old man, it will all come right." 
 
 " It will never come right," groaned Kent absently. 
 
 " It must. She must care for you in time." 
 
 " How do you know what I am thinking of ? " Kent 
 burst out rather fiercely. 
 
 " I guessed. Besides — the handkerchief. It is not 
 your own. Yours are a little more businesslike." 
 
 " Oh, well ! " said Kent a little huskily, and throwing 
 his head back with a gesture of impatience, " I can't 
 hide it. What would be the good ? I have found out 
 that she is a friend no longer, that what you were say- 
 ing the other night is true — and I feel a brute ! My 
 God, what a brute I feel ! " 
 
 Wither's mental balance was for a moment upset. 
 He righted it after a moment with considerations of his 
 friend's character. In many fragile, nervous bodies 
 there is a delicacy of perception which often remains all 
 the keener when protected by a shell of cynicism. 
 
 "You want to be reasoned with gently, friend John," 
 he said. " You must not feel a brute when you love a 
 woman as a man like you can love. It's the best and 
 holiest thing on God's earth, believe me." 
 
 " But, Teddy, she is so frank, so trustful, so proud of 
 our friendship — it can never be the same again — if I 
 should tell her, she would hate me " 
 
 " You can bet your life she wouldn't ! " murmured 
 Wither. 
 
 " She would go out of my life in indignation, and she 
 would be right," Kent went on. " She would scorn me 
 for the feelings that I know now I have had all along for 
 'her. No ; it is all over, all over. I can't meet her 
 again. I think I shall go mad ! I shall throw up every- 
 thing and go away."
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 117 
 
 "You dear, foolish old chap," said Wither, "can't you 
 see that very little would make her in love with you, if 
 she is not so already ? AVhy should you two not get 
 married ? " 
 
 " I marry ! " gasped Kent, as if struck by a new 
 idea. " I ask Clytie Davenant, with her beauty and 
 intellect and genius, to come and share — this ! Clytie 
 Davenant marry me ! Why, the idea is ludicrous — 
 preposterous ! " 
 
 " If I were she, I should not think so," said Wither 
 affectionately. 
 
 Kent shook his head gloomily, and kicked the smoul- 
 dering coal into a fitful blaze. 
 
 " No. Until she shows me unmistakably — which can 
 be never — that she cares for me in that way, I would 
 sooner bite my tongue out than tell her." 
 
 " Until she asks you to marry her, in fact ! John Kent, 
 you are two years older than I am, and three times as 
 big. But verily you are a little child ! And if you 
 weren't," he added impulsively, with a soft glitter in his 
 elfin eyes, " you would not be the lovable old chap that 
 you are ! Good-bye ! " 
 
 " Oh, stay a little, Teddy ! " cried Kent. " I'm not 
 much company, but I " 
 
 " Come round with me and have some dinner, then," 
 interrupted Wither. " It will occupy your body — if not 
 your mind. And it will be better for you than the 
 bottled beer and sardines which you usually feast upon. 
 I shall be quite alone and you can do some work for 
 me." 
 
 " All right ! " replied Kent dejectedly. "It does not 
 matter what I do." 
 
 Wither turned his face to the fire, while Kent prepared 
 to go out. When he turned round Kent was holding 
 the cash-box in his hand. The handkerchief and letter 
 were gone from the table, and Wither smiled inwardly. 
 He had himself disposed of many such trifles in a similar 
 way. Men are very much alike in several matters.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 The atmosphere of Durdleham was uninspiring. 
 Clytie could make no progress with her picture, and at 
 last she hiid it aside in despair. She had set her heart 
 upon painting it, and the thoughts of it worried her, 
 prevented her from sleeping. Not only would it give 
 her fame, satisfy her ambition, stimulated by the success 
 of " Jack," but it would satisfy certain cravings of her 
 soul. And yet she was conscious that only when these 
 cravings found articulate utterance could the haunting 
 shadows be fixed. The lack, therefore, seemed to lie in 
 herself : whether in her spiritual nature or in her material 
 experience of the world she could not tell ; perhaps it 
 was a subtle combination of the two. She could not 
 bring her lens of introspection to a focus. What she 
 saw through it was blurred and inchoate. 
 
 She had looked forward to Kent's reply to her letter. 
 His sympathetic common sense might help her. When 
 his answer did come, after some days' interval, it was 
 strangely cold and dispiriting, just two sides of note- 
 paper barely filled with sententious enigma. 
 
 " If the painting of it will bring you joy, paint. If 
 not, you are grasping at shadows." 
 
 That was the gist of it. What did it mean ? Clytie 
 was inclined to be indignant. Her own letter had been 
 written out of the friendliness and needs of her heart, and 
 the reply seemed almost like a rebuff. She did not know 
 that the writing of it had caused Kent two hours' perplexed 
 wretchedness. Even the finest feminine perception 
 cannot pierce through a millstone. The little feeling 
 of resentment towards Kent took the keenness of edge 
 from her anticipated pleasure of seeing him again ; at 
 least so she told herself when she packed her boxes at 
 the end of her visit to Durdleham. But as the train 
 brought her nearer to London her spirits rose. She was 
 free once more to live her own life, without fear of com- 
 
 ii8
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMAA'/A. 119 
 
 ment or criticism. It was simple, laborious, and innocent 
 enough, and she desired little more at present ; but there 
 was the exhilarating sense of freedom, of perfect liberty 
 to be outrageous, reckless, if such was her good pleasure, 
 wherein lies much of the sweetness of independence. 
 
 She found her sitting-room tidied, neatly arranged, 
 looking as nearly as possible as if it had never been 
 vacated, and Winifred, a transforming fairy in the midst 
 of it, eagerly awaiting her. Clytie sighed a little as she 
 listened to Winnie's gossip. The latter looked at her 
 with reproachful inquiry. 
 
 " I was only thinking, dear, that this is more my home 
 than the house at Durdleham, and you are dearer to me 
 than anyone there." 
 
 Winifred stroked her friend's hand in girlish fashion 
 and turned away her head. She knew Clytie too well 
 to make any reply. Then she spoke of Jack, who was 
 in a fair way towards recovery. She had been very glad 
 of Clytie's money, she confessed, with a deep blush, 
 because things at home — well, Clytie knew. And Mr. 
 Treherne, with whom Kent had communicated, had been 
 very kind and helpful. He went round to Mrs. Bur- 
 inester's every afternoon to cheer up the invalid. 
 
 "And I suppose you go round pretty often ?" said 
 Clytie. 
 
 "Of course — every afternoon," replied Winifred 
 simply. 
 
 And Clytie, as she smoothed the shapely head lying 
 in her lap, smiled to herself a little mysterious smile. 
 
 Mr. Kent, too, Winifred continued, had been invalu- 
 able to her. He had brought the boy picture-books, 
 toys — had sat up with him one night whilst the nurse 
 rested, the mother being quite helpless, and sleeping in 
 an adjoining room which they had rented for the time 
 between them. Never had street arab been so petted, 
 so preciously guarded. He was growing quite human 
 under the treatment. Kent and Treherne had managed 
 to get him a nomination to a decent school-home, which 
 would assure him an honest career in after life. Wini- 
 fred was enthusiastic. She had never known before 
 what a good, beautiful world it was, how filled with good 
 and beautiful people !
 
 I20 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 In reply to a question of Clytie's she said that she had 
 seen little of Kent lately ; that he looked overworked, 
 worried, on the rare occasions when she had exchanged 
 a few words with him. 
 
 " He is doing too much. I must speak to him about 
 it this evening," said Clytie, 
 
 She took it for granted that he would come, if not at 
 the present hour, while they were sitting over the tea- 
 cups, at any rate after dinner, to discuss in cheery, 
 familiar fashion the events of the past month. But the 
 moments slipped by and his footstep was not heard on 
 the stairs. 
 
 " Are you sure that he knew I was coming back 
 to-day?" asked Clytie. 
 
 " Of course. He inquired twice of me," replied 
 Winifred. 
 
 Winnie went away, and Clytie dined, took up a book, 
 and waited. But Kent did not come. Clytie felt hurt. 
 If he had been engaged, he might at least have left her 
 a word of welcome. It was unfriendly, unlike him. 
 Surely she could not have offended him in any way. 
 She grew interested in her book, sat up till a late hour 
 finishing it. As she neared the end she heard the 
 well-known footstep coming up the stairs. She laid her 
 book down, expecting to see the door open, but though 
 she thought she detected a faint pause outside on the 
 landing, the sound of the tread did not cease, but con- 
 tinned up the next flight until it was lost. Then she 
 went to bed, somewhat angry. 
 
 She was in her studio betimes in the morning setting 
 things straight. Orders had come in for a couple of 
 small street-urchin pictures. She had to make arrange- 
 ments for setting to work upon them at once. Her 
 mind was intent upon the matter when she heard Kent 
 pass down the stairs on his way to the Museum. Ordi- 
 narily he was accustomed, if he was not pressed for 
 time, to thrust his head in at the studio door as he 
 passed, nod good-morning, and perhaps receive some 
 small commission to execute at the colour man's in 
 Oxford Street. 
 
 " Perhaps he has grown tired of our intimacy," thought 
 Clytie, "and is taking this opportunity of breaking it
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 121 
 
 off." The thought was a whip to her pride. It sent 
 the blood rushing in fierce waves to her cheeks. She 
 was alone, an angry woman, not fit company for herself. 
 She felt humiliated, insulted, and encouraged herself in 
 the feeling, baring her shoulders to the lash. It scarcely 
 occurred to her then to inquire into the justice of the 
 suggestion — the mere fact of the suggestion presenting 
 itself was sufficient to make her burn with indignation. 
 After lunch she took a cab and drove to Piccadilly to 
 look at the shops and the people. Town was filling 
 again, the afternoon sun shone brightly. Clytie's spirits 
 rose. She went with light, defiant tread down the 
 Burlington Arcade, flashing a contemptuous glance 
 upon admiring loungers, bought herself gloves and odds 
 and ends of millinery, crossed over to Bond Street, 
 looked in at Dowdeswell's to see a picture on view in 
 the gallery, and then, after an interview with Burrowes, 
 the dealer, in Oxford Street, she turned into Regent 
 Street, prepared to enjoy the contemplation of the mis- 
 cellaneous crowd forever moving up and down its 
 broad pavement. Perhaps the wished-for face would 
 meet her there, she thought, smiling to herself ; in 
 which case she determined that she would stop, pass it 
 and repass it, fixing its features in her memory. She 
 amused herself thus for some time, scanning the faces 
 of the passers-by, inventing rapid histories to account, 
 here for the after-light of laughter in a young girl's eyes, 
 and there for the lines of pain round the corners of an 
 older woman's lips. She paused before a shop-window 
 to observe a ragged little arab who was flattening a 
 nose, already much snubbed by previous applications, 
 against the glass. To gratify a whimsical artistic fancy 
 she entered the shop on a trivial pretext so as to 
 obtain from the other side of the pane the aspect of the 
 urchin's face. Then, after making a mental note of it 
 for future use, she went on her way. It was exhilarat- 
 ing, this bright London, with its manifold variegation, 
 after the dull uniformity of Durdleham. This perpetual 
 stimulus was necessary to her art, which drooped help- 
 less in the quiet country town. And with the thrill_ of 
 artistic quickening came the buoyant, vigorous pulsation 
 of youth. Her tread was elastic, her cheeks and eyes
 
 122 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 animated. She had forgotten her irritation of the morn- 
 ing in the sense of vitality and enjoyment. It was a 
 good thing to be young, with a purpose in Hfe and the 
 freedom and strength to carry it out. Clytie tasted a 
 rare happiness that afternoon, one of which the high 
 gods are very sparing. 
 
 Suddenly she felt a touch on her arm, and a voice 
 exclaimed : 
 
 " My dear Clytie ! What are you wandering about 
 here for ? " 
 
 She turned round. The speaker was Mrs. Farquhar- 
 son, merry and smiling. They shook hands and walked 
 leisurely down the street together. 
 
 " When did you get away from that dreadful place, 
 and why haven't you been to see us ? " 
 
 " This is my first day of freedom," replied Clytie, 
 " and I was just thinking of coming round to Harley 
 Street." 
 
 "That's right! You will come round with me when 
 I have finished my shopping. I was wishing for you. 
 I have a little — no, a big treat for you." 
 
 " Is it nice to eat ? I looked in longingly at Charbon- 
 nel's as I passed down Bond Street, and I am hungry." 
 
 " It's Thornton — at last," said Mrs. Farquharson with 
 a little air of triumph. 
 
 Clytie was interested, and forgot Charbonnel's. 
 
 "When did he come ? " 
 
 " He has been in England some weeks, but only a few 
 days in London. Do you know, he is going to settle 
 down. Won't that be delightful ? I do hope you will 
 like him." 
 
 "And he is going to give up fighting and exploring 
 and all that?" asked Clytie. 
 
 " So he says. But I don't believe it. He will get 
 seized with the fever after a time and then off he will go 
 again. That has always been his way. But at any rate 
 we will have him with us for a season." 
 
 " Is he staying with you ? " 
 
 " Oh, dear, no ! We wanted him to, but he is too 
 wild a creature. Besides, he knows the half of Lon- 
 don, and is in demand everywhere. He is qujte a 
 personage."
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 123 
 
 " Then where does the treat come in ? " asked Clytie, 
 laughing. 
 
 " Why, he comes to Harley Street this afternoon for 
 tea, you obtuse girl," cried Mrs. Farquharson. " And 
 that is why we had better make haste to get back, as it 
 is growing late." 
 
 Clytie had often heard Mrs. Farquharson speak of this 
 cousin, Thornton Hammerdyke, and was half doubtful 
 whether to allow herself to be infected with her enthu- 
 siasm or to prepare herself to find him commonplace, as 
 one generally does find the particular heroes of our 
 intimate friends. Caroline was never tired of talking of 
 him. He was a hero, a latter-day berserker. She was 
 proud of him, treasured up paragraphs in the newspapers 
 in which his name was mentioned, wove a woman's web 
 of romance around his brilliant exploits. She had often 
 waxed eloquent over his fame, his personal charm, his 
 physical strength and beauty. 
 
 " But all this can't be contained in one poor mortal," 
 Clytie would say sometimes, teasingly. 
 
 And Mrs. Farquharson would reply, without any of the 
 banter that generally characterised her personal gossip : 
 
 " Wait until you have seen him, my dear." 
 
 To the imaginative there was much that was heroic 
 and romantic in the record of the active life of Thornton 
 Hammerdyke. He had entered the army shortly after 
 leaving school, but, wearying after a couple of years of 
 the dulness of a garrison life, had resigned his commis- 
 sion. An exploring party to Thibet was afoot. He 
 joined it, quickly became its leading spirit, and when 
 the chief of the expedition was incapacitated through 
 illness he undertook the command. This brought him 
 into public notice. When the Soudan War broke out he 
 joined Lord Wolseley as a volunteer, and made himself 
 conspicuous by his daring and his marvellous feats of 
 bodily strength. His name was known all through the 
 army. He courted danger, especially where it took the 
 form of hand to hand fighting. An eye-witness of the 
 scene had told Caroline how once, when attacked by 
 three gigantic Soudanese, he had shorn one clean through 
 the body, lost his sword, leaped from his horse, wrenched 
 the spear from one of the others with a force that made
 
 124 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 the man's arm snap like a twig, turn on the other — while 
 the broken-armed savage leaped upon his back and tried 
 to throttle him — and how before there was time to follow 
 his movements both were lying dead at his feet. He 
 had fought side by side with Burnaby in the rash con- 
 flict when the author of the " Ride to Khiva " fell pierced 
 with Soudanese spears. He had been in evidence in 
 every skirmish. When the war was over he remained in 
 Africa, on the Soudan frontier, in command of some 
 Egyptian cavalry, maintaining a guerrilla warfare until 
 the troops were recalled. And then he plunged into the 
 interior, exploring on his own account, with a nominal 
 authority from the Belgian government. And it was on 
 this part of his career that his reputation chiefly rested. 
 Certainly ugly stories against him of undue harshness, 
 even ferocity, were afloat at one time. But he laughed 
 at these rumours on his return to England, and sarcas- 
 tically observed in a letter to the Times that, given a 
 community consisting of a judge, a prisoner, and a 
 hundred howling, savage maniacs, it was a matter of 
 some difficulty to form an impartial jury. 
 
 When Mrs. Farquharson and Clytie arrived at Harley 
 Street the short January day had nearly drawn to a 
 close. In the drawing-room the gas had not been 
 lighted, and by the dull glow of the fire objects were 
 only dimly visible. Two men rose from either side of the 
 hearth as the ladies entered. The long ungainly figure 
 Clytie recognised as Mr. Farquharson, the other as 
 Thornton Hammerdyke, from Caroline's description of 
 his great powerful frame. His face she could not 
 distinguish ; only a large, finely shaped head, and white 
 teeth gleaming under a heavy moustache as he exchanged 
 laughing greetings with his cousin. 
 
 Mrs. Farquharson performed the little ceremony of 
 introduction. Then tea was brought in. 
 
 " You will excuse this outer darkness, Clytie," said 
 Caroline. " George thinks it soothing. You know his 
 ways. You see what a poor woman has to put up 
 with ! " 
 
 "I agree with him," said Clytie. "It is cosy, and it 
 seems to sanction foolish gossip." 
 
 " Did you ever hear me gossip ? " asked Mr. Far-
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 125 
 
 quharson severely. " I like it, Miss Davenant, because 
 it induces a meditative frame of mind." 
 
 " And slumber," murmured his wife as she dispensed 
 the tea. 
 
 The talk continued light and easy, on the topics of 
 the day, the studios, Thornton's plans for the enjoyment 
 of civilised life. He spoke brightly, in a deep, resonant 
 voice, that of a man assured of himself and of the 
 mterest afforded to others by reference to his own 
 doings. Although the subject was trivial, the others 
 listened amusedly, carried away by the influence of a 
 strong personality. Clytie glanced at him from time to 
 time, trying to measure him, to sum him up in the 
 instinctive feminine way. But he was sitting far back 
 from the fire, in the gloom, and she could only gather a 
 general impression of physical size and vitality. She 
 was conscious too, that, as she was sitting with her face 
 in the direct glow, she was visible to him, and that he 
 was looking at her quietly as he smoked his cigarette 
 and talked. She picked up a newspaper from a little 
 table by her side, and held it before her face as a screen. 
 His glance, which she felt rather than met, embarrassed 
 her, she scarcely knew why. Gradually the talk drifted 
 into a slight discussion between the two men. Mrs. 
 Farquharson took advantage of it to draw her chair near 
 to Clytie. 
 
 " And all this time I have scarcely asked you a ques- 
 tion about yourself. Come, account to me for the six 
 weeks you have been away." 
 
 Clytie dutifully went over the main incidents of her 
 stay in Durdleham, making light, in her pleasure at be- 
 ing in London again, of the little wearinesses and de- 
 pressions of the past. A faint cloud came over her 
 gaiety when Mrs. Farquharson asked her suddenly : 
 
 " And Kent ? What has become of him ? " 
 
 " He is still alive," said Clytie. 
 
 " Do you know, he has not been near us all the time you 
 have been away. He has treated us very badly. You 
 must scold him for me. What has he to say for himself ? " 
 
 " I don't know ; I haven't seen him yet, and I have 
 scarcely heard from him. I shall have to scold him on 
 my own account," she added, brightening".
 
 126 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 "That's odd of him," said Caroline. "You are such 
 inseparables that I thought he would have been waiting 
 for you with a bouquet in each hand when you entered 
 the house." 
 
 Clytie laughed at the idea of Kent waiting for her 
 with Covent Garden tributes. 
 
 " I would just as soon think of him reading me a 
 sonnet. But I did expect him to come down to tell 
 me I had been wasting my time, and to draw out a 
 scheme for the better occupation of it." 
 
 " Take care that he has not gone and fallen in love 
 with somebody whilst he has been left to his own devices," 
 said Caroline teasingly. 
 
 " Oh, how can you say such wicked things ? " cried 
 Clytie. "Of course he hasn't ! " 
 
 " One never knows, my dear. Men are the most un- 
 reasonable beings in the world. With a woman, now, if 
 you know just the least little bit about her, — it isn't 
 everybody, of course, that does, — you can always tell 
 what she is likely to do. But with a man — never. Do 
 you think I know whether that husband of mine is going 
 to be pleased with his dinner to-night ? No, not one 
 scrap. And Kent's a man — just like the rest of them." 
 
 " Are you talking about Kent ? " interposed Mr. 
 Farquharson. " I saw him the other night at the meet- 
 ing of the Numismatic Society." 
 
 " There, now ! How like a man ! And you knew I 
 wanted to know what had become of him. What had 
 he to say for himself?" 
 
 " That most of the rude coins marked with the name 
 of Alfred were in reality imitations made by the vikings 
 during their periodical visits to this country. His re- 
 marks were very interesting, my dear." 
 
 " Thornton," said Mrs. Farquharson in her blandest 
 tones, " would you be so very kind as to light the gas ? " 
 
 Her husband chuckled to himself, and Hammerdyke 
 rose to comply with her request. During the operation 
 all the three mechanically watched his movements. 
 
 "There!" he said, turning to face them, "I think 
 that is better ; we shall be able to see one another." 
 
 As the full blaze fell upon him Clytie could not 
 repress a little feminine thrill of surprise. Seen in the
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAATARIA. 127 
 
 vague darkness she had imagined him quite different. 
 He seemed to spring out of it a perfect type of physical 
 manhood. He bore with him an atmosphere of splen- 
 did animalism. The artist in Clytie, trained to detect 
 beauties of limb and set and fall of muscle, scanned him 
 for a second with involuntary admiration. Although 
 he was dressed with a fashionable tailor's perfection of 
 fit, which generally gives suave uniformity to strong and 
 puny, his clothes could not conceal the evidences of a 
 magnificent strength — deep chest, arms that seemed to 
 fit tightly the coat-sleeves, broad, massive shoulders, 
 thick, powerful neck. He held his head high, com- 
 mandingly, which gave him the appearance of tallness, 
 although he was not much above medium height. Short- 
 cut brown hair, clinging close to his head in crisp waves, 
 a broad forehead with two thick vertical veins, added to 
 this impression of strength. In spite of his thirty-four 
 years the blood showed beneath his bronzed skin, on 
 which there were few lines. His features, although on 
 a large scale, were saved from coarseness by regularity. 
 His under jaw was slightly heavy, but in keeping with 
 the massiveness of his limbs. His eyes were dark and 
 lustrous, with a light burning in their depths ; his teeth 
 white and even. 
 
 "When Hammerdyke is fighting he is all eyes and 
 teeth," was a saying that had come to Mrs. Farquhar- 
 son's ears ; she had repeated it long since to Clytie, who 
 remembered it now as she beheld this hero of Caroline's 
 for the first time. He was not fighting now, but laugh- 
 ing, talking with a certain daring charm of manner, 
 almost boyish sometimes. The time passed quickly. 
 When the little clock in the corner struck six Clytie 
 rose in some confusion. She had promised to spend 
 the evening with Winifred and the children. She took 
 her leave hurriedly. 
 
 A little later she was sitting in the Marchpanes' draw- 
 ing-room, with the children clinging around her, a block 
 of paper and a pencil, as usual, in her hand. And led 
 away by a sudden fancy she drew pictures for them of 
 the wild deeds that she had heard tell of Thornton 
 Hammerdyke. This was quite a novelty to the children, 
 who were accustomed to street arabs and grotesque
 
 128 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 caricatures. They were delighted, hung on her lap, 
 demanded more pictures of soldiers and camels and 
 a great man in a helmet killing savages. To satisfy 
 them she had to draw extensively upon her imagination, 
 sometimes upon theirs. Winifred's suggestions were 
 scouted as being too mild. The final picture was a great 
 triumph. It represented the same man in the helmet 
 dancing upon a struggling heap of savages, transfixing 
 one with a spear held in his left hand, whilst with 
 a sword in his right he clove another in twain. Noth- 
 ing is so fascinating to children as the grotesquely 
 horrible ; Clytie herself was carried away by their 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 Meanwhile the subject of this picture history had 
 remained at Harley Street for a short time after Clytie's 
 departure. 
 
 " So that is the Clytie you used to write to me about 
 in Africa ? " he said. " No wonder you like having such 
 a splendid thing about the place, as a kind of inter- 
 mittent fixture." 
 
 " I am so glad you like her," said Caroline. 
 
 " I didn't say I liked her. I don't give myself away 
 so soon as that. But, by Jove ! I liked looking at her. 
 Where is she generally to be found ?" 
 
 " Either here or, if you make yourself very civil to her, 
 she may let you go round to her studio — on her day, you 
 know." 
 
 " Oh, she runs a day, does she ? These young women 
 are getting very emancipated." 
 
 " They are," said George Farquharson, lighting his 
 pipe. " So much the better." 
 
 " I don't know so much about that," replied Hammer- 
 dyke. " If they are too emancipated, they get an idea 
 that their own way is everything in the world, and grow 
 devilish hard in the mouth when the time comes for 
 them to be pulled up." 
 
 " What a contradictory creature I " cried Caroline. 
 " Only yesterday you were railing at the well brought up 
 drawing-room young ladies you were having to take in 
 to dinner." 
 
 "I should think so : the things that draw, recite, and 
 play the fiddle, and rush about to lectures. I am getting
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 129 
 
 a bit too old for that kind of young animal. I'd sooner 
 spend a week with the wife of a camel driver than with 
 any one of them. She would be just as intelligent, some- 
 what funnier, and the advantage would be that you could 
 lick her into shape without alarming absurd prejudices. 
 No ; the drawing-room young lady is distinctly ' off,' 
 just as much as the over-emancipated." 
 
 " Well, what kind of a young woman are you looking 
 out for ? " 
 
 " I never look out for anything, my dear Caroline. I 
 take what comes — if it pleases me." 
 
 " Then I hope Clytie will please you, Thornton. She 
 is quite different from any other girl I know. And it's 
 just her little airs of emancipation that give her charm. 
 I wish there were more like her." 
 
 " So do I, by Jove ! There would be some pleasure 
 in looking around a theatre or a ball-room." 
 
 " Yet I should think that was rather a relief after 
 Central Africa." 
 
 Thornton broke into a gay laugh. 
 
 " Unsophisticated woman has her good points, you 
 know ! " 
 
 " Um ! " said Farquharson, pulling at his pipe. 
 
 They chatted for a little while longer. Then Ham- 
 merdyke pulled out his watch. 
 
 " I must go and dress for dinner." 
 
 "Oh, by the way, Thornton," said Caroline, "did you 
 not tell me you had an appointment at six ? I hope we 
 haven't kept you from it." 
 
 " Oh, yes," he replied cheerfully as he gathered up 
 his hat and stick. " It's only Field. I dare say he's 
 waiting for me now. I shan't turn up at the club, though. 
 He can rip. When he is tired of kicking his heels and 
 drinking small whiskeys he can curse the waiter and 
 go. I must be off now. Let me know when Clytie is 
 on view again and I'll throw over anybody." 
 
 Mrs. Farquharson smiled indulgently. In her eyes 
 there was no one like Thornton. 
 
 " Thornton is a bit of an egotist," said George mildly 
 to his wife, later in the evening, when they were alone 
 together. He was not addicted to the hyperbolic, like 
 Caroline. 
 
 9
 
 13° AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 " Oh, but, George, he is such a dear good fellow — and 
 such a splendid man ! " 
 
 "'Quem sese ore ferens ! quam forti pectore et 
 armis ! ' " murmured her husband. 
 
 Now George Farquharson knew that if there was one 
 thing his wife disliked it was that he should quote Latin 
 at her. It generally occasioned a distraction. If it 
 failed, he translated. The effects of that were certain. 
 This time Mrs. Farquharson was content to allow his 
 remark to remain *' veiled in the obscurity of a learned 
 language."
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 (( 
 
 I DO wish you would cheer up, old chap," said 
 Wither sympathetically. " You are getting uncomfort- 
 able — like Mr. Mantalini's body, in the midst of our 
 joyousness." 
 
 He was lying curled up, a susual, on the sofa, smok- 
 ing a cigarette. Kent was brooding over the fire. Fair- 
 fax had been rallying him from a doctor's point of view, 
 and he had answered vaguely, striving not to let his 
 friend's rough kindness jar too unbearably. He felt 
 relieved when the doctor was called out to see a patient, 
 and Wither and himself were left alone together. 
 
 " I suppose I am making an ass of myself. I have 
 never felt miserable before in all my life, and it must be 
 that I am unused to it " 
 
 " It gets in your way like a man's court-sword on the 
 first time of wearing," said Wither. 
 
 "Somewhat," replied Kent, with a short laugh. He 
 did not mind Wither's jesting. It came spontaneously 
 from the small, bright-eyed man — was in fact his natural 
 language. " Perhaps it does. I'll get over it some day." 
 
 " It will be all right when she comes back." 
 
 " She has come back." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 " Nearly a week ago." 
 
 " And how are matters going between you ? " 
 
 " I haven't seen her yet," said Kent moodily, staring 
 into the fire, " That is to say, I have seen her. I have 
 lain in wait for her, so as to catch a glimpse of her as 
 she passed by. But I have not met her." 
 
 " And when do you propose going to see her ? " 
 
 " God knows ! I don't." 
 
 "I don't know whether this h Jin de sihle or whether 
 it belongs to the glacial epoch," said Wither, drawing 
 a breath of bewilderment. " At any rate, has it never
 
 132 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 Struck you, friend John, that being in love with a woman 
 is no reason why you should be rude to her?" 
 
 " I have scarcely thought of that." 
 
 " Then, by Jove, the sooner you can get it into your 
 muddled head, the better. What have you been doing 
 with yourself these evenings?" 
 
 *' Anything to keep away. A meeting of the Geologi- 
 cal, another of the Numismatic — a theatre, where there 
 was just such another ass as myself. I couldn't stand 
 it, so I went out and turned into the Empire and tried 
 to find comfort in performing dogs. I have also dined 
 out." 
 
 " You must have been a cheerful lot. What did you 
 say to your partner ? " 
 
 " Nothing. She wanted to babble on, and I let her 
 babble. Curse the whole thing ! " he cried, smiting 
 a block of coal with the poker, so hard that the chips 
 flew over the hearthrug ; " To think that it should be 
 my fate to meet the only woman in the whole world who 
 doesn't babble ! " 
 
 " I should consider it in the light of a privilege," said 
 Wither. 
 
 The next morning, after a night's agony of indecision, 
 he plucked up courage and tapped at the studio door. 
 He entered. Clytie was alone, busily preparing her 
 palette. She paused with the half-squeezed tube in her 
 hand, and looked up at him without rising, her brows 
 slightly knitted. He remained motionless, too, on the 
 threshold, after mechanically shutting the door behind 
 him. He tried to utter the little address of lame excuses 
 which he had framed, but the words stuck, somehow, in 
 his throat. He was only conscious that she was there, 
 in the same room with him again, looking bewilderingly 
 fresh and beautiful in her dark dress, with its dainty 
 painting-apron, too simple almost for the rich colour of 
 her eyes and hair and the stately bend of her neck. 
 Yet even then he noticed she was a trifle paler than 
 usual. 
 
 " I meant to have come to see you before," he 
 stammered. 
 
 " Why didn't you ? I rather expected you," she re- 
 plied calmly.
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 133 
 
 She finished sqeezing her tube, and taking up her 
 palette-knife, went on with her occupation, Kent, in- 
 stinctively conscious that it is a disadvantage to stand, 
 when morally wrong, before a sitting person who is in 
 the right, drew Winifred's painting-stool away from the 
 easel and sat down. 
 
 "You might have come in, if only for five minutes," 
 said Clytie, as he made no reply. The hand holding the 
 palette-knife trembled a little. 
 
 " I wanted to," replied Kent, finding words with diffi- 
 culty. " But I couldn't. I am very, very sorry if I have 
 been rude. I am always doing things of this sort. " 
 
 " It is not very pleasant for your friends; and I sup- 
 pose we have been friends." 
 
 " Yes, we have been friends," he replied, "and I hope 
 we shall continue so — if you will forgive me." 
 
 His voice sounded strange in his own ears. In 
 Clytie's it sounded cold and formal. She was puzzled. 
 
 "Oh, of course I forgive you! You have made your 
 apology." 
 
 " Believe me — things have happened. I could not 
 come before, indeed I could not." 
 
 " I never doubted your word, Kent," said Clytie, with 
 a touch of her old soft manner towards him. " Only it 
 seemed strange not to see you. One gets into a certain 
 groove, and a change from it jars. You see how easy it 
 is to become a Philistine. You are much more a child 
 of the light than I am, in that you have got out of the 
 groove quite easily." 
 
 " You have no right to say that," said Kent, rising. 
 
 " Well, perhaps I have not," said Clytie, bending in- 
 tently over her palette. " Anyhow, the fact remains that 
 we parted friends before Christmas, and now that I have 
 come back you are changed. I am very sorry — sorrier 
 than I can say. I have valued your friendshij) and the 
 help it has given me — I am unchanged, I think so — and, 
 to be franker than my sex generally is, I may say, I am 
 hurt." 
 
 Kent misunderstood. He could not help it. He 
 thought she was grieved at his friendship having changed 
 to love, which the tone in her voice told him could not 
 be returned. All had happened just as he had antici-
 
 134 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 pated. She spoke more in sorrow than in anger ; that 
 
 was the only difference. 
 
 " If you would prefer that I did not see you again — 
 or so often," he said, twisting the brim of his hat. 
 
 The words estranged them still further. They were 
 pathetic in their ludicrous inappositeness. 
 
 "That you must please yourself about," replied Clytie, 
 with a quick flush. " 1 have said all that my pride will 
 let me say in the matter. If you prefer to break off our 
 intercourse, well — so be it ! " 
 
 " You know that I don't wish to do that," he said in a 
 low voice, *' Let me see you sometimes. Could I see 
 you this evening, for instance ? " 
 
 " No ; I am sorry, I am going — I am dining out. Some 
 other time. You know my hours." 
 
 He stepped forward and shook hands with her to say 
 good-bye, thus breaking through an established custom 
 between them of non-handshaking. He reflected on 
 this a moment afterward. It seemed an omen of the 
 dissolution of their friendship. 
 
 When he had gone Clytie felt as if she would like to 
 cry? What did it all mean? Why did Kent wish to 
 break with her ? She put down her palette and sat in 
 her chair near the stove. She felt unhappy, lonely. 
 She was in that strange state of uncertainty about the 
 present, which often takes the form, with women espe- 
 cially in certain moods, of a presentiment of future trouble. 
 " I wish Winnie would come," she half repeated to her- 
 self. But almost on top of the thought entered one of 
 Mrs. Gurkins's curly-haired children bringing her a note. 
 It was from Winifred, who was suddenly called out of 
 town on business and could not come on that day to the 
 studio. Clytie mechanically tore up the note and scat- 
 tered the pieces over the coals. She was not subject to 
 fits of personal depression — independent entirely of the 
 artistic side of her life. But the air seemed charged 
 with disturbing, conflicting elements. 
 
 Soon she roused herself and went over to her easel, 
 where for some time she worked steadily. A lay-figure 
 clad in a child's ragged frock stood near by and she 
 painted in the lights of the skirt, with mechanical pre- 
 cision of touch. But her thoughts were far away. Then
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 135 
 
 the face that she had painted attracted her attention. It 
 was that of a child — merry and smiling — but with the 
 little London street girl's precocious wisdom. It was 
 cleverly executed. Clytie had seized the suggestion of 
 the everlasting feminine in the face, accentuating it ever 
 so little. It seemed to laugh mockingly at her, out of 
 the canvas, as who should say — '' Look at me. Child 
 as I am, I am as old as the world, and I can tell you 
 secrets that you know not of." 
 
 " You wise little witch," said Clytie, after a while, 
 standing back, with head inclined in critical surveyal of 
 her work. " I wish you could tell me what is the matter 
 with Kent." 
 
 And then for the first time Mrs. Farquharson's idle, 
 jesting words came into her mind : 
 
 ** Take care that he has not gone and fallen in love 
 with somebody ! " 
 
 And the child's old face seemed to add a mocking 
 confirmation. 
 
 This would explain all : his sudden change, the stiff- 
 ness of his letter ; his shrinking from seeing her ; the 
 awkwardness of his apology ; the vague phrase, " things 
 have happened," which had puzzled her. The more 
 she thought of it the more probable did this solution 
 seem. It caused her a little heaviness of heart. Certain 
 strange imaginings had come to her, too, this week. She 
 needed the strength of Kent's friendship. 
 
 There are no persons harder to read and easier to 
 misunderstand than those of whom we are fondest. 
 There are two common causes of mutual miscompre- 
 hension. First we take it too much for granted that 
 we can read the heart of another human being; and 
 secondly, we are too apt to conclude that affinities 
 sharpen perception to such an extent that the unexpressed 
 becomes luminously expressive. This is a curious fact, 
 too little recognised in our minor problems in social 
 statics. Clytie had fallen into the one error, Kent into 
 the other. 
 
 For the first time in her life Clytie felt afraid. The 
 sense of what was missing in her life dawned, half 
 shadowy, before her. She was different from other girls 
 of her age, more advanced, as the phrase goes. For
 
 136 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 the majority of women come in ignorance to emotion ; 
 they feel, before they realise that they are learning. 
 But Clytie in her eager search after the roots of existence 
 had learned much, with feelings as yet untried. In this 
 knowledge, if as yet there was no sorrow, there was fear. 
 If Kent had come to her at this moment with a passionate 
 avowal of his love, she would have yielded to him. Her 
 fear would have melted away into joyousness, the rich 
 springs of her nature would have been opened, and her 
 destiny would have been accomplished. But neither of 
 them knew this. He was engaged in the humorous task 
 of trying to kill love, and she was half consciously tend- 
 ing along a path strangely diverging from his. 
 
 She dined that evening at the Farquharsons'. Ham- 
 merdyke was the only other guest. It was a bright, 
 cosy meal, and Clytie soon forgot her depression of the 
 morning. Caroline was at her merriest, proud of her 
 three companions — of each in an especial manner. 
 George was mildly satirical, as usual. He wore his 
 velvet jacket, in which he found more happiness than 
 in his ceremonial dress-coat. His dry touch of humour 
 was pleasantly antagonistic to Hammerdyke's stronger 
 personality and downright views of life. The latter 
 laughed heartily, almost boyishly at his rebuker, like 
 one who is accustomed to indulgence on the part of 
 others for caprices of action and language. These, 
 coming from a lesser man, might have been repugnant 
 to the sensitive ; but from him they seemed to bear a 
 physical justification. 
 
 As he sat opposite her, talking in off-hand, picturesque 
 fashion of incidents in his adventurous life, Clytie could 
 not help looking with a feeling somewhat akin to awe at 
 the man who had gone through such things and could 
 speak of them so lightly. She listened, interposed a 
 question here and there, wondered what it would feel 
 like to treat those memories in so familiar a fashion. A 
 new page of life seemed to lie open before her, quiver- 
 ing with sensations beyond her ken. 
 
 " Didn't you ever feel horribly afraid ? " asked Caro- 
 line, while he was sketching some of his more recent 
 exploring experiences. 
 
 "I did so," he confessed frankly, "but I had my
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 137 
 
 devils well under control. I had the power to string a 
 mutineer up on the nearest tree or to pot him with my 
 revolver, and somehow they rather funked me. If it had 
 entered their woolly heads to go for me all together they 
 would have made short work of me — but no one liked 
 to take the initiative." 
 
 " Did you ever try kindness, on these expeditions — 
 by way of experiment ? " asked Farquharson. 
 
 " Not much. You can't afford to fool away your life 
 for the sake of an experiment. Oh, no ! my dear sir, the 
 noble savage does not swarm much round about the 
 slave tracks in Central Africa. The Zulus may be 
 different. I don't know — I've never seen much of 
 them — but Fuzzywuz and his neighbours can only under- 
 stand brute force." 
 
 " I don't quite see, now, how you got all that power," 
 said Farquharson. "Did you establish yourself as a 
 little king — or what ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! " returned Hammerdyke, laughing. " When 
 I had finished with the Soudan I wanted to while away 
 a few months in the interior, and as the Belgians wanted 
 a road made through the forest I offered to see things 
 were done straight for them. As for the authority — 
 judicial and that sort of thing — one takes that as a mat- 
 ter of course. The niggers don't know anything about 
 it, except that there is a white man bossing them. They 
 think it's all right, so what does it matter ?" 
 
 "Then you hire a set of woolly-headed navvies, and 
 if they lapse from your standard of virtue, you shoot 
 them — is that the idea ? " 
 
 " Somewhat. In mere slips one employs the argume?i- 
 turn adbacciilinum. It isn't pleasant, but it's the only way." 
 
 " You are not going back again, are you, Thornton ? " 
 Caroline asked, wishing to turn the conversation. She 
 believed in Thornton, in his power by divine right to 
 blow all the tribes of Central Africa from the cannon's 
 mouth if it so pleased him, but she saw that George was 
 not sympathetic. It was a sore little point with her that 
 her husband did not share all her enthusiasm for Thorn- 
 ton. "You are going to settle down now, really ?" she 
 added. 
 
 " Who knows ? " he replied. " AM things become
 
 13^ AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 monotonous after a time — even playing potentate. That's 
 why I am here — with the intention of giving civilisation a 
 chance. Some fine morning I may wake up and think 
 that it would be nice to have a little excitement, and 
 then I may pack up my things and start for No Man's 
 Land again." 
 
 " It must be a stirring life," said Clytie half aloud, 
 with a quick glance at Hammerdyke. 
 
 " It is the best life. Action, excitement, keen enjoy- 
 ment of everything ! You should take a turn at it, 
 George." 
 
 But George shook his head. 
 
 " I have a wife dependent upon me. Otherwise you 
 may be sure I would leave this effete and effeminate 
 civilisation and start to-morrow." 
 
 " I don't think you would do much good out there," 
 said Mrs. Farquharson candidly. 
 
 They finished dinner early and went up to the draw- 
 ing-room, which not long afterwards was filled with the 
 heterogeneous crowd that the Farquharsons loved to 
 gather round them. This reception was instead of the 
 ordinary Sunday one, and was in Thornton's honour, 
 although it was not unusual for Caroline thus to change 
 her evening, scattering warning post-cards the day be- 
 fore. Kent, being on the list, had received one that 
 morning, and before he saw Clytie had been half wonder- 
 ing whether he should go to Harley Street. So he had 
 put his question as to Clytie's evening engagement tenta- 
 tively. Her somewhat evasive reply had decided him. 
 He would not inflict his society upon her. As Clytie's 
 eye wandered over the familiar figures in the drawing- 
 room, she involuntarily sought for Kent's. It seemed 
 strange that he should not be there, for during the 
 autumn he had scarcely missed a Sunday. One or two 
 friends came up and asked after him. On the occasion 
 of one inquiry, Mrs. Farquharson and Thornton were 
 standing by her. 
 
 "Who is Kent that everybody is talking about — if I 
 may ask ? " said Hammerdyke. 
 
 " Kent ? " interposed Caroline. " Oh if you know 
 Clytie, you must know Kent. They are a kind of Mentor 
 and Egeria combination."
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 139 
 
 "That's lucid," said Hammerdyke, laughing. "I 
 hope you will present me to him one of these days, Miss 
 Davenant." Clytie replied with a commonplace, smiling 
 absently. She was sad at heart about Kent. 
 
 Soon Redgrave, the R. A. who had given Clytie her 
 first encouragement in her art, came up to talk with her. 
 He had been following her career with some interest. 
 Since the exhibition of " Jack " he had not seen her, 
 and he took the opportunity of offering his congratula- 
 tions, criticising the picture favourably. Then he in- 
 quired after its successor. 
 
 " But I don't think you will ever become a great 
 artist, if you keep to that semi-impressionist style." 
 
 Being a portrait-painter of exquisite finish, Redgrave 
 was prejudiced against the school of Degas. He men- 
 tioned his name with some acerbity. 
 
 *' Talking treason again, Redgrave ? " asked a thin, 
 wiry man in gold spectacles, who had overheard. 
 " Don't listen to him, Miss Davenant. He is archaic and 
 eating his soul out with jealousy. There's no one in 
 England who can touch you in your particular line. 
 You stick to it ! " 
 
 "You are quoting the rubbish you wrote in your 
 paper, French," said Redgrave, laughing. " Now, 
 whom are you going to believe, this newspaper man 
 or me ? " 
 
 *' Whoever will help me best to sell my pictures," 
 laughed Clytie. 
 
 " Then leave your future with me," said Mr. French, 
 rubbing his hands as he moved away. 
 
 " You didn't mean that ?" asked Redgrave. 
 
 " A little. One must live. Higher art, to use the 
 cant phrase, would satisfy one's soul's needs better — but 
 it would not those of the body." 
 
 Redgrave looked at her for a moment, as if meditating 
 over her rich colouring and fine vitality. A body such 
 as hers had its needs. He smiled a little sadly and 
 shook his head. 
 
 " You would not sacrifice your life for your art ? " 
 
 *' No," replied Clytie, with quick frankness, " I wouldn't. 
 The fuller one's life, the fuller one's art. The one is a 
 refiection of the other. At least it is so with me."
 
 14° AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 " I'll paint your portrait one of these days for nothing," 
 said Redgrave somewhat irrelevantly. 
 
 Clytie flushed a little at the compliment. 
 
 " What are you going to put into me ? " 
 
 "The question whether even the most emancipated of 
 young women ever has art in her soul," said Redgrave, 
 with a quiet smile. 
 
 " I am going to paint a picture some day that will 
 astonish you," replied Clytie, with a laugh. 
 
 " Ah ! So is everyone. When will that some day be ? 
 I hardly know a painter or a writer or a musician that 
 has not something he is going to do some day — a three- 
 act drama all ready, bar transcription on paper — a 
 masterpiece all complete, bar the mechanical transference 
 to canvas." 
 
 " Oh, Mr, Redgrave, if you are going to moralise 
 like that, I'll report you to Mr. Farquharson. You 
 had much better sit down and take me round the 
 studios." 
 
 But Redgrave was carried off before he had time to 
 begin, and Clytie joined a large group standing and sit- 
 ting round the fire. They were the younger, less 
 responsible members of the company, and were talking 
 nonsense. Singleton, a clean-shaven, red-faced man 
 and a minor poet, was explaining what he called the 
 Physical Basis of Life. Professor Huxley, by the 
 way, has treated the subject differently. 
 
 " The man who cannot dine," Mr. Singleton was say- 
 ing, " cannot feel. He has not his proper equipment of 
 senses. He is an imperfection, a waster." 
 
 " That does not apply to women, I hope," said Mrs. 
 Tredegar, a languid, well-preserved woman, who was sus- 
 pected of hankerings after a long defunct eestheticism. 
 " I have been feeling all my life — and I can't remember 
 to have ever dined." 
 
 " I did once — at the Cafe Anglais. By Jove, it was 
 good ! " interpolated a fair-haired youth, who leaped 
 eagerly at objectivities in the conversation. 
 
 "Your enthusiasm does you credit ! " said Singleton. 
 "You'll die yet, of a hopeless passion." 
 
 Then, turning to Mrs. Tredegar : 
 
 "Of course it applies to women. La femme qui dine^
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 141 
 
 aime. Put it into French, and you see the force of it at 
 once." 
 
 " Ah, but if you put it the other way about. Lafemme 
 
 qui aime It is horrible ; it takes all the romance 
 
 away," said Mrs. Tredegar. 
 
 " Oh, dear ! " sighed Mr. Singleton, clasping his little 
 plump hands resignedly. " Are we still to adore the 
 well-conducted person who goes on cutting bread and 
 butter ? Oh, believe me, Edwin Smith and Angelina 
 Brown can't love, any more than they can appreciate 
 Chateau-Mouton. They possess for each other a faint 
 current of sexual attraction, which produces between them 
 a mild excess of amiability. A lot of vanity comes in, as 
 they like to parade the possession of each other before 
 the envious. They call themselves lovers, and follow 
 the traditions they have been taught in the novels they 
 have misunderstood and the hints they have received 
 from observance of their friends. The furthest they 
 can go is to clasp hands limply under a sofa-cushion, 
 when they think no one is looking." 
 
 " That's humbug," said the youth. " I have been in 
 love myself." 
 
 " Precisely," said Mr. Singleton, "and you know noth- 
 ing at all about it. Cultivate all your senses first, my 
 young friend, and then you may fit yourself for falling 
 in love." 
 
 " And how is one to begin?" asked Mrs. Tredegar. 
 
 " Well, first cultivate a choice taste in food, wine, and 
 cigarettes. Then disabuse yourself of the idea that the 
 angelic, either in man or woman, is in any way desirable ; 
 purge yourself of that clog to all true appreciation of 
 sensation — that interfering bugbear which still survives 
 with an effete superstition — known as a conscience ; 
 get into an Hellenic state of mind by joyous percep- 
 tion of the beautiful, and realise that the supreme culti- 
 vation of the ego is the ultima ratio of existence." 
 
 " But then we should only love ourselves," observed 
 a dissentient. 
 
 " As self-knowledge is the beginning of all wisdom, so 
 is self-love the beginning of all passion," returned Mr. 
 Singleton oracularly. 
 
 During the frivolous chorus that followed this remark,
 
 142 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 Hammerdyke crossed the room and sat down by Clytie's 
 side. 
 
 " You seem to be very merry over here. What is it 
 all about ? " he asked. 
 
 " It's only Mr. Singleton trying to play with para- 
 doxes," Clytie replied, laughing. " He is a chartered 
 libertine, and nobody minds him." 
 
 " That always strikes me as so odd when I get back 
 to civilised life — the tremendous amount of talking one 
 has to get through — and no one seems to get any 
 further with it. Everybody seems bound to provide 
 himself with a theory of life, as they call it — either sin- 
 cere or paradoxical. Why do they do it ? " 
 
 He had pulled his chair a little aside, so that, when 
 Clytie turned round, they were cut off from the main 
 group close by. She replied laughingly to his question, 
 and the conversation took a light, personal turn. 
 
 " I seem to have known you so long," he said after a 
 while, " and yet this is the first time I have been able 
 to say a word to you by yourself. I used to hear of 
 you, you know, in Africa, when Caroline sent me a 
 budget of news. I used quite to wonder what you 
 were like." 
 
 *' Caroline and I are great friends," she replied. 
 " She has been very, very kind to me." 
 
 " Yes — a good sort, isn't she ? She used to keep me 
 posted up in all kinds of things, as I say — you amongst 
 them. At last I built up a little romance about you !" 
 
 " What a crash it must have come down with ! " 
 
 " I am not so sure of that. Time will show. It was 
 just after one of her letters that I read the story of 
 * Marjorie Daw,' which some good people sent me down 
 with a package of books from Cairo. Do you know it? " 
 
 " I have read it, but forgotten it," replied Clytie. 
 
 Now, she remembered it very well. The words had 
 come almost involuntarily. She was a little angry with 
 herself. But it was pleasant to lean back in the arm- 
 chair, amidst the babel of voices and heavy cloud of 
 cigarette smoke, and be talked to thus pleasantly. 
 
 " It's a pretty little tale," said Thornton. " A man 
 writes letters to amuse a sick friend — broken leg, I 
 think — and describes an imaginary young lady living
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 143 
 
 opposite him. And the broken-legged man falls violentlj'' 
 in love with this Marjorie Daw and starts off to see her 
 as soon as he is well — and is moved to much wrath when 
 he finds out the truth. Well, I am afraid I must confess 
 that I made a kind of Marjorie Daw out of you— although 
 I haven't exactly come over in search of you. So you 
 see that we are old acquaintances — on one side, at least." 
 
 " Caroline must have been saying very foolish things 
 about me," said Clytie. " I remember Marjorie Daw 
 now. I am not the least bit like her." 
 
 " I never said you were," he returned, looking at her 
 boldly, a smile playing about the corners of his mouth. 
 " I did not think so then, either. And since I am in 
 for a kind of confession, I may as well say it did not 
 occur to me that I should ever meet you. Now that we 
 have met — under my cousin's wing, so to speak — I hope 
 we shall make friends." 
 
 " You speak as if we had quarrelled," said Clytie. 
 
 " Well, I thought perhaps you might have been a little 
 vexed at my confession. Are you ? " 
 
 ** No," said Clytie, looking at him in her quick, frank 
 way. " Why should I ? " 
 
 Hammerdyke did not reply, but smiled and shrugged 
 his shoulders a little. 
 
 " Well, since you are so particular as to the wording, 
 let us be friends. For Caroline's sake," he added after 
 a short pause. 
 
 " Very well, for Caroline's sake," repeated Clytie. 
 " Only, you know I am a very humble person." 
 
 " Oh, no ! I know too much about you. You are by 
 way of becoming a great artist — and it would be a privi- 
 lege for an uncultivated barbarian like me. Tell me, 
 how could we begin being friends ? " 
 
 " Well, suppose j'ou tell me some of the wonders you 
 have seen." 
 
 " 'Anthropophagi, or men whose heads do grow be- 
 neath their shoulders ' ? Very well — and you shall show 
 me your pictures. Will you let me come and see them 
 sometime or the other ? Do! " 
 
 He spoke low, with a touch of softness in his voice. 
 Clytie felt flattered, touched. It was a little tribute to 
 her womanhood to be pleaded with, especially by a man
 
 144 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 who, in the eyes of the world, was a recognised heroic 
 figure. There was a latent light, too, in the depths of 
 his dark eyes, a sign of reserved power and strange, un- 
 known forces, that pleased her strangely. All the day 
 she had felt sore, ill at ease, with a little aching, 
 chafing sense of loss. The time had seemed woefully 
 out of joint, and the setting of it right again utterly 
 beyond her powers. But now the world's equilibrium 
 seemed more stable. 
 
 " I am not sure whether you would care for my pic- 
 tures," she said. 
 
 " Oh, I have seen those that Caroline has," he replied. 
 "I made her show them to me. I don't know what your 
 art word is — but they seem to me to have a grip upon 
 life that I like." 
 
 He could not have chosen words more flattering to 
 Clytie. They summed up bluntly the whole of her 
 ambitions. 
 
 " You see, I like real things," he went on. "Some- 
 thing I can catch hold of. All this talk of Art with a 
 capital A, and metaphysical preciousness, is so much 
 froth — at any rate to me. But perhaps you put a capital 
 to it?" 
 
 " I do, sometimes." 
 
 "Well, then, you will teach me what it means. Will 
 you ? It will be a way of teaching me something about 
 yourself." 
 
 " Oh, I am not worth your learning," replied Clytie, 
 with a laugh. " But you can come and see my pictures, 
 if you like." 
 
 " Thank you," said Hammerdyke, as he rose in 
 obedience to a beckoning glance from Mr. Farquharson, 
 who was sitting on the other side of the room. " I v/ill 
 come as soon as you will let me. To-morrow, can I ? " 
 
 He looked at her pleadingly, admiringly. Clytie was 
 suddenly brought in contact with a new force, against 
 which she felt powerless. 
 
 " Yes, you can come to-morrow," she said
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 It was an evening in mid-February that Clytie went 
 to a dance given by the Redgraves in their large house 
 in St. John's Wood. Redgrave met her almost as soon 
 as she arrived in the dancing-room. 
 
 " So you have come at last — we had almost despaired 
 of seeing you. I think there are a good many men you 
 know — all dying to dance with you." 
 
 " Oh, give me a little breathing time," laughed Clytie. 
 "You have had time to fix on your cap and bells, let 
 me adjust mine." 
 
 " Don't touch yourself or you would spoil the effect," 
 said Redgrave, mixing the metaphor for the sake of an 
 opportunity of expressing his admiration of her beauty. 
 *' I wish I could paint that portrait of you now : * Clytie, 
 woman and artist.' There is one advantage about that 
 combination — it assures perfect taste in dress." 
 
 He looked her up and down critically, stroking his 
 long gray beard. 
 
 " I am glad you like me," said Clytie. " It cost me 
 sleepless nights, I assure you. Didn't you know it was 
 my serious occupation in life.'' " 
 
 " Well, my dear, I hope you will have your reward," 
 replied Redgrave, laughing — " only you won't find any- 
 body who admires you and your genius half as heartily 
 as I do." 
 
 He nodded, smiled, and left her as one or two men 
 came up to her, programme in hand. She gave them 
 the dances they requested, and took a seat near the 
 door by the side of some ladies of her acquaintance, 
 watching animatedly the waltz that was in progress. 
 
 "Good-evening, Miss Davenant," said a voice, deep 
 and resonant, that made her start and the colour mount 
 into her cheeks. 
 
 It was Thornton Hammerdyke. 
 
 14s 
 
 10
 
 146 AT THE GATE OF SAMABTA. 
 
 " You see I procured the invitation, and here I am. 
 Where is your programme ? " 
 
 He took her card attached with its bit of silk to her 
 fan, and scribbled recklessly. 
 
 "You have nearly filled it all up ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 " Naturally," he replied. " Let us dance out the fag- 
 end of this." 
 
 She took his arm gaily, and with him entered the whirl 
 of dancers. 
 
 " You are looking dazzling to-night," he said. " What 
 witchery have you to make your eyes so blue and your 
 hair so glorious ?" 
 
 She shook her head and smiled half inwardly, thinking 
 of Redgrave's late compliment and differentiating it from 
 this. Each man was honest, in his own way. 
 
 " I put myself down for all those dances," he went on, 
 " because there is not a woman in the room fit to look 
 at after you. I couldn't dance with them, and I should 
 have been bored and irritated with standing and watch- 
 ing you dancing with other people. Then we can get 
 away and sit by ourselves." 
 
 " But what are all the men to do, to whom I have to 
 be polite?" 
 
 " They must give way to the man to whom you are 
 always fascinating. I scarcely saw you at all yesterday. 
 Now is my chance, and I am going to make the most of 
 it." 
 
 "Yes, but there are the sacred conventionalities." 
 
 "I thought you went in for being superior to them." 
 
 "So I am in a general way ; I attach no intrinsic value 
 to them — but they are useful as counters in one's deal- 
 ings." 
 
 He laughed ; pressed the fingers that he held in his 
 left hand. 
 
 " To-night no checks are taken I It must be all solid 
 gold — the true, real Clytie. As for people talking, you 
 are glorious enough in your beauty to defy them. What 
 can you and I care for idle gossip ?" 
 
 The words thrilled through her. Womanlike she had 
 humbled herself before his greatness. To be raised 
 thus by him to his empyrean, whence they could look 
 down upon the rest of earth-bound mortality, in com-
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. I47 
 
 mon grandeur, made her heart swell with a not ignoble 
 pride. 
 
 " We shall do whatever you like," she whispered. 
 
 To this pitch of intimacy had the past three weeks 
 brought them — a long enough period for an infinite 
 number of things to happen — none the less real for 
 being subjective. Nothing had changed in their exter- 
 nal lives, Hammerdyke went into society, read a paper 
 here and there on his travels, digested many bad dinners 
 and worse flattery, played cards, smoked, and drank 
 with his fellows. Clytie painted assiduously, read, 
 exchanged visits with her friends. Kent was missing 
 from her life. She saw him rarely, at odd moments, 
 when they talked commonplaces and avoided by tacit 
 consent the subject of their disunion. They were 
 " league-sundered by the silent gulf between." He told 
 her that he was thinking of accepting an offer privately 
 made to him by one of the heads of his department, of 
 leave of absence for three months for the purpose of 
 studying the numismatic collections of certain foreign 
 capitals. The prospect was enticing, as he could thus 
 have the run of the continental libraries, whereby his own 
 great work could be considerably advanced. 
 
 Clytie listened kindly, wished him good luck. He 
 went from her sad at heart, and she was angry with her- 
 self and humiliated at feeling somewhat relieved at the 
 idea of his absence. It was not that she regretted the 
 old life less. Its memories were still precious. But 
 Kent's departure would clear the way to a better under- 
 standing of herself. 
 
 Much had happened during the past three weeks — the 
 discovery of a new world for Clytie in which all was 
 strange, beset with vague dangers, vibrating with a 
 tremulous joy akin to terror. She had been lifted off 
 her feet, hurried against her will into a whirl of new 
 sensations. At first she resisted with fierce virgin 
 pride ; then gradually she began to close her eyes for 
 a short sweet spell and allow herself to be drifted by the 
 current ; finally she gave up struggling. The history 
 of most women at their first contact with passion. 
 
 The story of this period is very simple. In its first
 
 I4J5 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 developments love is usually not ultra complex. Given 
 a man and a woman and conditions for meeting freely 
 alone ; further, a sudden overmastering passion on the 
 part of the man, a half known, unfulfilled need in the 
 woman ; given these premises, and a child can deduce 
 the result. It is the fundamental law of sex. Only 
 when the sentimentalities and more delicate affinities 
 come into play, when the needs of the finer animal man 
 begin to cry after their satisfying, does love leave its 
 simple phase and gird itself with its infinite many- 
 coloured web of complexities. At first the mind may 
 see the web glimmering in a far-away twilight — but heeds 
 it not as long as the sense is held captive. 
 
 Two remarkable personalities had met, Thornton 
 Hammerdyke and Clytie. With the intensity of a strong 
 animal nature he had fallen in love with her, with her 
 beauty, charm, and directness. Her magnificent vitality 
 drew him, compelled him. He shut his eyes to every 
 other interest. The sense that he wanted her was suffi- 
 cient justification for setting all else aside. He never 
 even thought of marriage in the first flush of his passion. 
 But that was the result of habit. Passion is a very dif- 
 ferent thing from tlie serene considerations that, accord- 
 ing to the Book of Common Prayer, induce people to 
 enter into the holy state of matrimony — and Thornton 
 was quite free from any considerations of the kind. So 
 that when marriage dawned upon his mind as a neces- 
 sary condition, he accepted it, as a reckless sacrifice, as a 
 means to an end, not as an end in itself. He was a man 
 whose life had been passed in hot, headstrong action. 
 Desire imperiously compelled immediate gratification. 
 Since loving Clytie entailed marriage, he resolved to 
 marry her forthwith. 
 
 He informed Mrs. Farquharson of the fact, in his 
 masterful manner. 
 
 " I am going to marry Clytie — so get yourself a wed- 
 ding garment." Mrs. Farquharson jumped up, clapped 
 her hands. She would not have been a woman had the 
 possibilities of this match not occurred to her seduc- 
 tively. The announcement, however, anticipated her 
 hopes. 
 
 " Oh, Thornton," she cried, " I am so glad ! I have
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 149 
 
 been longing for it. You two are made for each other. 
 I must go down and see Clytie this afternoon ! " 
 
 " Better not," said Thornton. "I'm going. Besides, 
 I don't think Clytie knows it yet." 
 
 Caroline's face fell a little. " Oh ! I thought you 
 meant you were engaged, and that sort of thing." 
 
 " That's a detail — it doesn't matter. She's going 
 to marry me, and you'll come and dance at the 
 wedding." 
 
 Caroline kept her counsel, but she worked steadily in 
 Thornton's cause, sang his praises to Clytie, invented 
 many occasions for bringing them together. She believed 
 with all the fervent loyalty of her nature that this mar- 
 riage was an ideal one for her cousin and her friend, 
 and had at heart equally the interests of each. 
 
 Thornton very quickly constituted himself a factor in 
 Clytie's life. She saw him almost every day in Harley 
 Street, at home, or at the houses of common acquaintances. 
 His influence grew strong upon her. Glimpses of the 
 physical joy of life flashed before her like revelations. 
 For the first time she doubted the possibilities of the 
 artistic life. They seemed shadowy, unsatisfying. 
 
 From Thornton seemed to come realisation that some- 
 thing stronger, more real, positive lay beyond them — 
 the delight of living in pulse and nerve and bodily fibre. 
 Yet, unlike a man, a woman cannot live by sense alone. 
 Sentiment invariably plays its part. This in Clytie's case 
 was fed by the glamour of Thornton's heroic history, so 
 different from that of ordinary men, whose lives, com- 
 pared with his, seemed tame and colourless. The glow 
 of his personality bathed magically all his actions, all his 
 words. In his superb manhood he stood before her eyes 
 as the incarnation of physical force, the victorious pro- 
 test against the shams of art, culture, and other pale 
 shades of our morbid civilisation. When she was lifted 
 high with him in this triumph, sense and sentiment were 
 fused together and she was wholly at his mercy. Thorn- 
 ton had come into her life at the most delicately critical 
 moment of a woman's career, when the current of her 
 nature, checked at the turning-point between friendship 
 and love, struggles tumultuously for some other channel 
 into which to empty itself.
 
 150 A'l' T/fE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 " We shall do whatever you like," she said to Thorn- 
 ton, during their waltz. It was the first definite sur- 
 render she had made to him. She was surprised that it 
 cost her so little, seemed so sweet and natural. 
 
 " Then you and I will defy the world ! " he replied. 
 
 They paused to rest for a moment, leaning against the 
 wall. An elderly man came up, shook hands with her, 
 and opened a desultory conversation with Thornton. 
 Clytie looked amusedly at the animated scene, tabulat- 
 ing mentally, by force of habit, the types that passed 
 and repassed before her. Seldom had it struck her 
 before so forcibly how few of her fellow-creatures pos- 
 sessed the secret of the joy of life. How many of 
 the couples circling round, backing, glissading in that 
 dizzying mass of motion were really gladdened by what 
 they were doing ? Stout men puffed around with a 
 serious air of responsibility. Tall men, with drooping 
 moustaches, paced languidly in time, scarcely heeding 
 their partners, who expressionlessly suffered themselves 
 to be guided hither and thither through the throng. The 
 robust youth of either sex seemed to look upon dancing 
 as an athletic exercise, and waltzed with the intent fer- 
 vour of tennis players on their mettle before a big gal- 
 lery. Only here and there did a girl, safe in the arms 
 of a good dancer, half close her eyes and surrender her- 
 self to the sensuous charm of motion in perfect time with 
 the throbs of music. Mankind is astonishingly ignorant 
 of the essential qualities of many of its habitual pleas- 
 ures. So thought Clytie, in the thrill of her new know- 
 ledge. The orchestra began the opening bars of the 
 coda. Thornton turned away from the elderly gentle- 
 man, and putting his arm round Clytie's waist led her 
 away, without a word, to finish the waltz. 
 
 " How delightful it is to dance with someone who is 
 not bored by it ! " she said, when the music stopped and 
 they were pushing their way through the crowd towards 
 the door. 
 
 He laughed in his boyish way, throwing back his head, 
 
 " I had better not answer that remark," he replied. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 She looked askance at him as she asked, just as any 
 little peasant girl would have done. Certain conditions
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 15 1 
 
 bring all humanity to one level. He pressed the hand 
 that was on his arm lightly against his side. 
 
 " Let us get away by ourselves, and I will tell you," 
 he said. 
 
 But this opportunity did not occur. Thornton was 
 captured by his hostess for introducing purposes, Clytie 
 waylaid by brother artists for dances. When Thornton 
 and herself were able to find seats the music struck up 
 the prelude of the next waltz, and Clytie was discovered 
 and led off by her partner. Only three men, exclusive 
 of Thornton, had been fortunate enough to find places 
 on her programme. 
 
 The hours passed away swiftly. She forgot her life, 
 her responsibilities, her needs. During the three dances 
 with the fortunate — which were early in the evening — 
 she flashed with wit and merriment, her partners thinking 
 with masculine self-esteem that they were the fine steel 
 that had caused these scintillations. But more than one 
 woman there that night observed how Clytie's eyes 
 ever and anon caught those of Thornton, who was 
 standing by the doorway. When the two danced 
 together, men watched them curiously. 
 
 " If the principle of natural selection could always be 
 carried out like that ! " said French, the journalist, to 
 Redgrave. 
 
 " Physically, yes ; but " 
 
 "But what? If the human race sprang exclusively 
 from such parents, what a glorious race it would be ! " 
 
 " It might be a very good thing for the race," replied 
 Redgrave drily ; " but I was thinking of the parents — 
 at least of one of them." 
 
 "Nonsense! a marriage like that would be ideal," 
 said French. 
 
 Redgrave shook his head. 
 
 "I doubt it," he said, with some earnestness. "I 
 know a little of Clytie Davenant. I may claim to 
 have discovered her. She has the blood of life in her, 
 it is true — but she has the finer artistic temperament as 
 well. Mark my words, French ; if she marries that man 
 she will lose her art clean — clean ; and not another 
 * Jack * will she ever be able to paint. Many of us men 
 artists are ruined by marriage. A woman artist, to
 
 152 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 whom it means fifty times more, runs fifty times more 
 risk." 
 
 " Well, perhaps we are a bit previous," said French 
 laughing, and turned the conversation. 
 
 Later in the evening Thornton and Clytie came out of 
 the dancing-room. She was flushed, dazed with the 
 music, the noise, the electric light and the heavy scent 
 of cut flowers ; confused, too, by Thornton's presence, 
 by the after-pressure of his arm around her waist, over- 
 wrought a little by his personal magnetism. 
 
 They threaded their way through the crowd that lined 
 the passage and the stairs, went through the brilliantly 
 lit studio with its polished oak floor and wealth of hang- 
 ings and costly decoration, into the models' dressing-room 
 beyond, that had been turned into a small boudoir for 
 the occasion. Many couples were wandering about the 
 studio, examining the pictures and the china, but the 
 dressing-room had escaped notice. 
 
 " This is soothing after the glare," said Clytie, sitting 
 down restfully on a divan. 
 
 Great palms screened the door, the room was hung 
 with dark, heavy drapery, and between them shaded 
 electric lamps shed a subdued light. Thornton sat 
 down by her side. After a while the steps and talking 
 in the adjacent studio ceased, and there rose from below 
 the faint strains of the music and the dull rhythmic thud 
 of the dancers. 
 
 " What were we talking about ? I forget," said 
 Clytie, after a short silence, and then, meeting his eyes 
 fixed upon her, she turned away her head : 
 
 " Don't ! I can't bear it," she murmured involuntarily. 
 
 Then he caught her hand : "Clytie, you are adorable, 
 glorious, bewitching ! " he cried, and kissed her quickly, 
 twice, on the corner of her lips. She snatched her hand 
 away and started to her feet, pale and trembling, her 
 eyes blazing. 
 
 "Why did you do that? You have no right to do 
 that ! " 
 
 He rose, went to her, caught her wrists again — but 
 this time she was powerless to withdraw them, and he 
 spoke in a quick, deep voice : 
 
 " I have the right to kiss you — to kiss you and kiss
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. I53 
 
 you till the world's end — for I love you — and I would 
 sacrifice all I have got — my life itself, for one kiss from 
 you — I loved you, wanted you, from the first time I saw 
 you — when the suddenly lit light revealed your beauty 
 to me, and you sprang glorious, bewildering out of the 
 darkness." 
 
 " Let me go, let me go ! " she murmured, faintly strug- 
 gling. 
 
 " Not until you tell me that I have the right to kiss 
 you — I know you will give it, you must! Clytie, I am 
 stronger than most men, and my love is stronger than 
 most men's and will not be denied — I will make you, 
 force you to love me as passionately as I love you. 
 Look at me. Speak ! say just a word ! " 
 
 She flashed a swift, sidelong glance at him, and met 
 his eyes with the light burning in their dark depths. 
 His passion intoxicated her. 
 
 " You know," she murmured. The words came 
 almost without volition. 
 
 He released her hands. She remained standing for 
 a moment, motionless with downcast eyes. Then she 
 lifted them once more shyly, met his, and uttered a short 
 gasping cry as he caught her in his arms and kissed her 
 passionately. 
 
 " You will be my wife, and let our whole lives be one 
 long kiss ? " 
 
 " Yes," she said, below her breath. 
 
 A little later Thornton put her into a cab, and she 
 drove home. The cold night air invigorated her relaxed 
 body, but seemed to benumb her mind. She could not 
 think — only feel Thornton's kisses upon her. The rest 
 of the subjective and objective universe was a blank. 
 Only when the cab stopped and the driver asked the 
 number of her house through the trap-door in the roof, 
 was she conscious of external things. Then she found 
 that he had driven a long way past the familiar door. 
 As he turned round grumblingly, she was aware of being 
 chilled through from her drive across London, and longed 
 to get indoors. 
 
 It was not until she told Winifred the next morning 
 that she realised the great change that had come over 
 her life.
 
 154 AT THE GATE OF SAiMARIA. 
 
 " I am going to marry Mr. Hammerdyke." 
 
 The commonplace statement, thus uttered for the first 
 time, seemed Hke a cold decree of fate, inevitable, irre- 
 sistible. Winifred cried a little at the thought of losing 
 her. 
 
 " But you will be happy, my darling," she said, smil- 
 ing through her tears. " He is so brave and strong and 
 handsome, and he must love you better than his life." 
 
 " Yes, dear," said Clytie, gently stroking her friend's 
 brown hair (Winifred was sitting at her feet) and look- 
 ing tenderly at her pure, upturned face. But her own, 
 bent down, was aflame with reminiscence. 
 
 " When is it to be ? Not for a long, long time, I hope," 
 said Winifred. 
 
 " Almost immediately — he wants it — there is no par- 
 ticular reason for waiting." 
 
 "I felt it was coming some day," said Winifred ; "but 
 I did not expect it so soon." 
 
 " It is best," said Clytie — "best that it should beat 
 once ; the interval between the old life and the new 
 would be too trying if it were drawn out." 
 
 " You always do what is best, dear," whispered Wini- 
 fred in her trustful way. " Oh ! you must be happy, 
 very, very happy, Clytie dear." 
 
 Clytie leaned back in her chair, caressing her friend's 
 cheek with the back of her hand, and looked around the 
 studio. It came almost as a shock to her to realise that 
 in a short, short time she would have to bid farewell to 
 all that had grown up around her artistic life. The 
 grotesque caricatures on the walls stared at her like mean- 
 ingless shadows. Her palette, brushes, and parapher- 
 nalia of rags and turpentine bottles lay strewn about like 
 the properties of a forgotten comedy. The unfinished 
 pictures on easels and stands lost their fascination. 
 Only Winifred's little study on the other side of the studio 
 seemed unchanged — retaining its virginal freshness and 
 purity. But the sound of a step on the landing outside, 
 buoyant, elastic, dispelled all wistful regrets. She sprang 
 to her feet as Winifred rose, and listened, transformed 
 into a radiant woman, with quivering depths in her dark 
 blue eyes, her red lips parted in a half smile, her chin 
 raised showing the full neck.
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 155 
 
 A moment or two afterwards Mrs. Gurkins appeared 
 at the studio door. 
 
 " Mr. Hammerdyke, miss. I have shown him into the 
 sitting-room," she said, and then retired. 
 
 " I knew it was he," said Clytie. 
 
 " Go, dear," said Winifred, putting her arm round 
 Clytie's waist and moving with her across the studio to 
 the door. 
 
 Clytie kissed her laughingly and disappeared. But 
 two tears rolled down Winifred's cheek as she went back 
 to the chair by the stove ; and then she flung herself 
 down where she had been sitting, and burying her face 
 in her arm, began to cry bitterly. 
 
 "I don't like him, I don't like him ; he will spoil my 
 darling," she moaned. 
 
 Sometimes knowledge is given to those who seek after 
 it least.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 The unexpected always happens, often inopportunely. 
 Winifred had risen from the ground by the stove and 
 was standing miserably before her easel when a knock 
 was heard at the studio door. She cried, " Come in ! " 
 and Kent entered. He was looking rather pale and 
 worn out, his beard sinking ever so little into his cheeks ; 
 his eyes were tired. On seeing him Winifred could 
 not restrain a start of surprise. 
 
 " Why, Mr. Kent ! you here at this hour of the day ! " 
 
 "Yes; I have just comeback from the Museum. I 
 went up to tell them I wasn't coming, as they say in 
 Ireland. The fact is I am feeling lazy and want a few 
 days' slackness." 
 
 " You have been overworking yourself, that's what 
 you have been doing," said Winifred with kind severity, 
 "Come and sit down by the stove and rest yourself. 
 You want someone to look after you." 
 
 She pulled the chair that Clytie had been occupying a 
 little forward, by way of invitation. 
 
 "What a good little creature you are, Winifred," he 
 said as he sat down. "You always think of other 
 people. Men don't seem able to do it ; they are too 
 much wrapped up in themselves. How are you all — 
 you and the children ? You must make them invite me 
 to tea soon. I have not seen them for ages." 
 
 " Oh, they are quite well again," replied Winifred, 
 brightening, " and they have been clamouring for Kent, 
 as they call you. I'll tell them to send you an ' At Home ' 
 card. And it must be soon, for you are going abroad. 
 When do you think of starting? " 
 
 Kent sighed and looked into the fire. 
 
 " I don't quite know yet ; I wanted to see Clytie first. 
 Where is she?" 
 
 " She has a visitor — in her sitting-room," replied 
 Winifred somewhat shortly. 
 
 156
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 157 
 
 But Kent v/as too absorbed in his own affairs to notice 
 the change of tone. 
 
 " Will she be engaged long ? " 
 
 " Probably." 
 
 "I wanted so much to see her," 
 
 Winifred looked at him for a moment and then came 
 and put her hand lightly on his shoulder. 
 
 "You seem so unhappy. Is it about Clytie? You 
 and she have quarrelled or had some difference, — she 
 has not told me what it is, — and I have been so grieved. 
 If I knew, perhaps I might bring things straight." 
 
 "Would you, Winifred ?" said Kent eagerly. 
 
 " Of course. Don't I love Clytie better than anybody 
 else — and haven't you been a good kind friend to me ? 
 I haven't asked her — nor you — why you have stopped 
 being friends, because one shrinks from asking such 
 questions, but I have seen it, and I have been so, so 
 sorry." 
 
 The gentle sympathy touched him. The realisation 
 of the feminine had come to him of late powerfully 
 enough to have overset his old one-sided theories. He 
 knew the value now of a tender word from a woman, 
 and his nature hungered for it. 
 
 "Winifred," he said, half turning in the chair and 
 looking up at her in his honest way, " do you think 
 Clytie could ever care for me — not as a friend — as some- 
 thing nearer ? " 
 
 Winifred fell back, looked at him aghast, unable to 
 speak, as the light dawned upon her. He mistook her 
 movement, rose, and began to speak hurriedly, pacing 
 the room. 
 
 " I couldn't help it — how could I help it ? I have 
 struggled against it with all my might. I know I am a 
 fool to think that she can love me, and you are surprised 
 and dismayed, as she was when she saw that I loved 
 her. I would have bit my tongue out then rather than tell 
 her, but I saw she guessed — and that is why our friendship 
 has been broken. I have kept away from her to spare 
 her the pain of it. But it has nearly driven me mad. I 
 can't go abroad with the weight of it upon me. I must 
 see her and let her know everything. Tell me, Winifred, 
 you who are so fine and delicate, I did not wrong her
 
 15S AT THE GATE OF SAMAKIA. 
 
 and our friendship by growing to love her better than 
 anything life has. She won't think me unworthy of the 
 trust she gave me, and despise me ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, no, no ! " said Winifred half chokingly, 
 " Your love would honour any girl. Oh, why did you 
 not tell her and plead with her before ? " 
 
 " Then do you think, Winifred " began Kent with 
 
 a sudden joy in his eyes. 
 
 "Oh, don't!" cried the girl, interrupting him; "I 
 can't bear it. It is too late ! I hate to stab you like 
 this, but you must know it. Clytie is engaged to be 
 married." 
 
 There was a long silence, during which neither looked 
 at the other. Kent was stunned, dazed. He had come 
 prepared for a refusal, but not for such an absolute 
 shattering of all his hopes. He grew very white and 
 stood with his hand on the back of a chair, as if steady- 
 ing himself. 
 
 " How long has she " he said, at length, huskily. 
 
 "Only last night. She told me of it this morning." 
 
 " And the man ? " 
 
 " Mr. Hammerdyke — Mrs. Farquharson's cousin." 
 
 She went up to him, took his hand, and turned her 
 pure face up to his, the tears standing in her eyes. 
 
 " I won't say you will find someone more worthy of 
 you, because you couldn't." 
 
 "I am not fit to tie her shoe-strings. I knov/ that 
 very well," said poor Kent. 
 
 " Oh, that is foolish," she said, with a wan smile, " But 
 there isn't another girl like Clytie in the world ; and 
 you will always think kindly of her, and help her if she 
 wants help, won't you ? You won't turn from her and 
 hate her, as I have heard men often do — for I don't 
 think you are like such men." 
 
 " I would give up everything I had in life to save her 
 one hour's pain," said Kent. " I have been a fool, — I 
 see it now, — oh ! not in having loved her — not that. It 
 is a blessed privilege — I can't explain, for you would 
 not understand. I shall always love her, Winifred ; no 
 other woman can be to me what Clytie has been — and 
 might have been. I shall leave by the early boat to- 
 morrow morning, so you will not see me for three or
 
 A 7' THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 159 
 
 four months. When I return — perhaps you'll let me 
 come and talk to you a little sometimes." 
 
 " Oh, it will comfort me," said Winifred, " for am I 
 not losing her too ? " 
 
 He bade her good-bye, exacting before he left a 
 promise that she would not let Clytie know of what had 
 passed between them. 
 
 He went downstairs, anxious to escape from the 
 house, to get into the open air. In the entrance passage 
 the side door leading into the shop was open and Mrs. 
 Gurkins was standing by the threshold. Kent stopped 
 for a moment to acquaint her with the fact of his sudden 
 departure next day. He would keep on the rooms, 
 which must be scrupulously locked up during his 
 absence. Since his first intimacy with Clytie he had im- 
 perceptibly grown more amenable to feminine interfer- 
 ence in his domestic arrangements, and Mrs. Gurkins no 
 longer had her former terror of invading his domain. 
 But she was still in enough awe of him to promise faith- 
 fully to execute his desires. To talk on these trivial 
 matters was a relief from the terrible strain of the last 
 few moments, although he wondered a little how he 
 could lend them coherent attention. He was listening 
 with waning interest to some final irrelevancies on the 
 part of his landlady when a man ran down the stairs and 
 strode quickly past him in the passage. A glance was 
 sufficient to tell Kent who Clytie's visitor was — it had 
 not occurred to him before to conjecture. His heart 
 sank as he realised the splendid physique and proud, 
 masterful bearing of his rival. Ordinarily the least ob- 
 servant of men in such matters, Kent noted the careless 
 ease with which he wore his faultless attire. The patent- 
 leather boots, the new silk hat, the well-cut frock-coat 
 with an orchid in the buttonhole, the new gray Suede 
 gloves grasped along with a gold-mounted malacca — all 
 seemed to belong to the man naturally, to be the world's 
 fit adjuncts to the gifts of nature. Smiling to himself 
 and humming a song, he seemed the personification of 
 the joy and strength, the success and luxury of life. 
 
 "lam not that man's match," thought Kent bitterly, 
 thus falling, as all men must do at times, a little below 
 himself.
 
 l6o AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 The front door slammed behind Hammerdyke. Kent 
 waited for a moment, gave a few vague general direc- 
 tions, and then went out into the street. He felt stronger 
 now that he had to struggle against real and tangible 
 trouble instead of the intangible doubts and fears that 
 had set him off his balance. The single-hearted loyalty 
 of his nature, that had caused him to regard his love for 
 Clytie as treason against her unsuspecting friendship, 
 and had thus placed him in the weakness of a false posi- 
 tion, now gave him strength to face fearlessly life and its 
 responsibilities. But time alone could assuage the pain 
 and bitterness of it all. He strung himself together and 
 walked briskly through the bright, frosty air towards the 
 home of his mother and sister in Notting Hill. There 
 was sincere affection between mother and son, sister and 
 brother ; but neither of the quiet, contented women knew 
 much of his life or sympathised with his ambitions. Mrs. 
 Kent's hopeless wish was that he would marry some good, 
 sensible girl who would keep his house tidy, provide him 
 with decent meals, and bring bright children's faces 
 around his knee. This conception bounded her horizon 
 of a man's happiness ; as she knew that her son vyould 
 never appear within it, she regarded him with wistful, 
 unhelpful affection. Agatha, with the younger genera- 
 tion's superior grasp of things, looked upon him as a 
 soft-hearted eccentric who deserved to be humoured. 
 For many years, therefore, Kent had ceased to share with 
 them any of his inner life, not because he loved them 
 less than during his boyhood, but because their mental 
 attitudes precluded confidence. They were women, they 
 could not understand. When he entered the house he 
 left his own interests outside and plunged, in his rough, 
 hearty way, into theirs. He gave his whole attention to 
 accounts of Cousin Henrietta's baby, Uncle William's 
 gout, the leakages of the cistern, and the turpitudes of 
 the cook. In matters such as the cistern he gave practi- 
 cal help ; in others, such as the baby, he overflowed with 
 sympathetic though alarming suggestions. His own life 
 was seldom touched upon. With finer natures— Clytie, 
 Winifred, Wither — that divined the strong purpose un- 
 derlying his eccentricities, and met him halfway with 
 their sympathy, he was generous in his confidence ; but
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. l6l 
 
 to Others, proud, shy, and reserved. So Mrs. Kent and 
 Agatha knew nothing of Clytie, little of his scientific 
 work, and only vaguely of his duties at the Museum. 
 
 He walked up Sloane Street and through the park, 
 thinking of his great loss, trying to scheme out his 
 future, in which Clytie would only be a memory. When 
 he arrived at his mother's house he paused for a moment, 
 as if literally to unstrap the burden of care from his 
 shoulders and leave it outside the front door. Then he 
 entered and greeted his mother and sister in his bluff, 
 cheery way. He remained with them a couple of hours, 
 during which he performed a few odd jobs about the 
 house which he had promised to attend to, and then 
 took his leave. Mrs. Kent was solicitous as to his health, 
 besought him not to work too hard nor to come back 
 with a German wife. She could not quite see the reason 
 of his sudden departure. Why the country should 
 waste its money in sending him abroad to study old 
 coins she, in her placid utilitarianism, could not imagine. 
 However, she bade him a motherly farewell, hoped from 
 her heart that he would have a pleasant holiday, although 
 she could not refrain from expressing a regret that he 
 would not return in time to superintend the spring, 
 cleaning. 
 
 When the door closed behind him he picked up his 
 burden and walked doggedly away with it, mechanically, 
 not heeding his direction. He suddenly found that he 
 had come, contrary to his intention, diagonally across the 
 park to Hyde Park Corner. It was past five o'clock. 
 Wither would be in his club. He would go and say 
 good-bye, for Wither was very dear to him. 
 
 The little man was giving some directions to the hall 
 porter when Kent appeared. 
 
 " My dear, good creature ! " he cried, *' what have you 
 been doing to yourself ? You are as white as a ghost. 
 You want some whiskey or brandy, probably both. Come 
 down to the smoking-room and have some." 
 
 " I am a bit overdone," replied Kent, " and perhaps I 
 have been walking too much to-day. But I don't want 
 any brandy." 
 
 " Oh, but you've got to," said Wither, and entering the 
 smoking-room, he gave the order to a waiter. 
 
 ij
 
 l62 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 *' I have come to say good-bye, Teddy," said Kent as 
 soon as they were seated in a quiet corner. " I am off 
 to-morrow morning." 
 
 " The deuce you are ! Well, so much the better. A 
 sound friend abroad is more comfortable for all parties 
 than a sick friend at home. Have they given you your 
 three months ? " 
 
 " Yes — on full pay." 
 
 " Lucky dog. And while you are flirting around the 
 capitals of Europe we poor devils will have to be slaving 
 away in this grimy and sooty metropolis. In the good 
 fortune of one's friends there is always something 
 devilishly obnoxious. Why is the eternal order of things 
 so mismanaged that you should have a good time and I 
 not ? Here is your brandy. Drink it and look more 
 human." 
 
 Kent did as he was bidden. The stimulant, which he 
 needed, revived him. Wither guessed that something 
 untoward had occurred. He had a woman's intuition, 
 this bright-eyed, cynical little being, and he rattled on 
 in his light way to save Kent the strain of making 
 conversation. 
 
 " Have a cigarette ? " he asked, taking out his case. 
 " No ? Well, smoke your pipe. I can't understand how 
 anyone but a horny-palated son of toil can smoke a 
 pipe. By the way, what do you think a girl sent me by 
 way of a present this morning ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Kent. " A hymn book ? " 
 
 " No ; a cigarette holder — mouthpiece, you know. I 
 wrote and told her it was very pretty and I would keep 
 it in memory of her to my dying day ; but as for using 
 it, I should just as soon think of kissing her through a 
 respirator." 
 
 " That was unkind," said Kent, laughing in spite of 
 himself, tickled at the idea. 
 
 " Lord bless you, no," replied Wither oracularly from 
 the depths of his armchair. " It is wholesome to check 
 this frenzy of profusion now and then. When a woman 
 once begins to give she never knows where to stop. 
 When she has exhausted her imagination she gives away 
 herself. It's embarrassing sometimes, for one can't put 
 half a dozen women away in a drawer with the rest of
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 163 
 
 the odds and ends. Oh, no ; a little fatherly repression 
 does a world of good to the ingenuous and enthusiastic. 
 I don't pretend to be moral, but I am not without kindly 
 instincts." 
 
 He chuckled sardonically and began to turn over the 
 pages of Punch. Kent smoked on in silence, cheered a 
 little by the familiar chatter. 
 
 " Teddy," he said at last, "you seem to hear all the 
 gossip about town ; do you know anything about a man 
 called Hammerdyke ? " 
 
 " Thornton Hammerdyke — man from Africa — 
 explorer ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Yes, rather. One of the greatest devils unhung," 
 replied Wither cheerfully. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " cried Kent in an agitated 
 voice, starting forward and gripping the arms of his 
 chair. " Take care what you are saying. It is a matter 
 of life and death to — to somebody. What do you know 
 about him ? Tell me." 
 
 Wither arched his eyebrows in surprise, and became 
 serious. Then his quick intuition supplied him with the 
 reason for Kent's agitation. 
 
 " I only spoke idle gossip," he said, " and I have the 
 misfortune to be hyperbolical at times. The man has 
 had some dealings with cur office and that is how I 
 come to know anything about him. Don't you remem- 
 ber he got into a row for wholesale slaughter of niggers 
 on one of his expeditions ? He cleared himself all right, 
 of course, by proving mutiny, self-defence, and that sort 
 of thing." 
 
 " I remember the incident now," said Kent. " It was 
 in the papers." 
 
 "Well, his public character is cleared," said Wither, 
 " and he is a good deal of a lion these days ; but fellows 
 who have served with him take the niggers' side of the 
 question, and wonder how he remained a day among 
 them without being torn to pieces. That's all I know 
 about him, which you see is not much. My dear old 
 boy," he continued earnestly as Kent sat silent, staring 
 in front of him, " is that the reason why you are start- 
 ing so suddenly ? Is it all fixed up ? No chance ? "
 
 1 64 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 Kent nodded moodily. 
 
 " I suppose not, I was going to ask her this morning 
 when I learned she had engaged herself — only last night 
 — to this man. And I have seen him. Devil or not, he 
 is a man." 
 
 Wither bit his lip. For the moment he was at a loss 
 for an expression of sympathy, somewhat uneasyas to 
 the line he should adopt. What was the use of making 
 Kent more miserable by telling him other ugly stories 
 he had heard concerning Hammerdyke if either were 
 powerless to prevent the marriage from taking place ? 
 Besides, it was only idle gossip after all, and in the 
 serious affairs of life Wither was honourable and con- 
 scientious. 
 
 Suddenly Kent broke out : 
 
 " Oh, my God, Teddy, I don't care a little damn about 
 myself, — I can worry along, as I did before — better, for 
 it is something to have loved her, — if only she is happy. 
 But if this man is not fit for her, if this horrible gossip 
 of yours is true, she will be entering into a life of misery, 
 — I know her, — and I shall feel as if I had not put out 
 my hand to stop her." 
 
 " Everyone must dree his own weird, my dear old 
 boy," said Wither. " And while he's doing it neither you 
 nor anyone else can interfere with much profit. Make 
 your mind easy about yourself and your responsibilities. 
 You could not go to her and say, ' I hear the man you 
 are going to marry is a blackguard ; have me instead.' 
 In the first place, your pride would not allow you, and 
 in the second, if she cared about him, she wouldn't 
 believe you, but would marry him all the sooner to 
 prove her faith in him. It is the way of women when 
 they are worth anything." 
 
 "Yes; Clytie would do just that," said Kent. "I 
 think even a man would, if he loved a woman." 
 
 " Well," said Wither, " it is no use making yourself 
 miserable about it. The wise man guards against 
 indulgence in things that upset his moral as well as his 
 physical digestion. But wisdom was never much your 
 forte, friend John." 
 
 Kent stayed and dined with Wither and then returned 
 alone to the King's Road. He had already made cer-
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 165 
 
 tain preparations for travel ; the few final arrangements 
 did not take long. As he passed by Clytie's sitting- 
 room door he noticed that it was ajar, a sign that she 
 was out. In the old days, — less than two months ago, 
 but far away for all that, — he had been accustomed to 
 run down on such occasions, at about half-past ten or 
 eleven, and stir up the fire. Since her return from 
 Durdleham this little token of intimacy had gone with the 
 rest. But on this evening the desire came over him to 
 perform this service for her once more, for the last 
 time. He crept down the stairs on lip-toe, in case she 
 should have come in without his knowledge. But the 
 door was still ajar, the room was vacant. The fire had 
 burned down very low, only a few glowing coals at the 
 bottom of the grate. He returned to his own rooms and 
 fetched some wood and paper, and kneeling down, built 
 up a satisfactory fire. At first, however, the wood would 
 not burn ; it had to be dried by repeated conflagrations 
 of paper, and the blaze had to be induced by much cun- 
 ning coaxing. It was just beginning to flare merrily up 
 the chimney when the sudden slam of the street door 
 below aroused him to a sense of his position. He left 
 the room and fled quickly up the stairs. Outside his 
 door he listened. It was Clytie, arriving home some- 
 what early. He was disappointed, a little humiliated. 
 The freshness had gone from his sad little pleasure, for 
 he had not wished her to guess that he had been down. 
 Now the act seemed clumsy, in bad taste, as if he had 
 been forcing his attentions on her. He went into his 
 sitting-room with a heart heavier than before, and con- 
 tinued his preparations for departure. He had packed 
 up his portmanteau and was now stowing away his 
 papers and valuable odds and ends that he wished to 
 remain under lock and key during his absence. 
 
 Suddenly a step was heard on the stair that made his 
 heart stand still, and Clytie appeared at the door. 
 
 " Can I come in ? " 
 
 He could scarcely find words to greet her. Now that 
 their good comradeship was at an end, above all, now 
 that she was lifted beyond his sphere, she held a different 
 position in his eyes. She looked beautiful, queenly. 
 Her rich hair and colouring, the pale blue of her dress,
 
 1 66 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 Struck a note of exquisite brightness in the gloomy, half- 
 dismantled room. He removed some books from his 
 writing-chair and pulled it towards her. 
 
 " How good of you to come ! " was all he could say. 
 
 " How good of you to look after my fire ! " said 
 Clytie. 
 
 " I did not want you to know " 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Oh, a sentiment," he replied, " We are governed a 
 great deal by such things." 
 
 " It touched me so," said Clytie. " I could not help 
 coming up to thank you, as you are going away early in 
 the morning." 
 
 " Ah ! Winifred told you ? " 
 
 " Yes ; she said you had come to bid good-bye." 
 
 Kent felt bound to fall in with Winifred's friendly 
 fable, although his honesty shrank a little from accept- 
 ing what was not its due. 
 
 "There is always something sad in leave-taking," said 
 Clytie. 
 
 The remark was trite and commonplace ; but so is a 
 kiss or a grasp of the hand or the words " Good-bye, 
 dear," themselves. The original generally brings more 
 titillation than comfort. 
 
 " This leave-taking is sadder than most — to me," said 
 Kent. 
 
 " And to me too," said Clytie. " It marks the end of 
 the old life — a very pleasant one. Kent," she went on 
 after a short reflective pause, " I want to tell you some- 
 thing : I reproached you a little in my heart — last month. 
 I don't now. I haven't the right. Winifred said she 
 had let you know of my engagement. If our parting 
 had not come from you, it would have come now from 
 me." 
 
 " I see now ; it was bound to come sooner or later," 
 replied Kent, much moved. " Oh, my God ! what pup- 
 pets we are. But I wish you happiness, from my heart, 
 in your new life. You will always be to me the one 
 woman whom" — he was going to add, " I could love," 
 but he checked himself and quickly substituted, " who 
 has taught me what there is in women." 
 
 " Ah, my dear Kent," returned Clytie with a touch of
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 167 
 
 her brightness and charm, " there will be someone 
 nicer than I who will teach you better. You, too, must 
 have happiness, you know. You will marry soon " 
 
 " I marry ! " cried Kent, wheeling round to face her. 
 " How can you say that ! " 
 
 They looked at one another, each misunderstanding. 
 He was wounded at her treating his love as a thing of 
 no account. She was puzzled at his implied contradic- 
 tion of her theory. 
 
 *' I thought I had discovered the reason for your wish- 
 ing to break off our intimacy — but I find I was wrong." 
 
 " I don't understand," said Kent, agitated. " I acted 
 foolishly, very foolishly and rudely. Yet I only did it to 
 save you pain. To break with you cost me the dearest 
 thing I had in the world. Surely you must be aware of 
 that." 
 
 "You did not break it because you suddenly — during 
 my absence — wished to form other ties ? " 
 
 A light broke upon Kent, like a flash of lightning 
 over a desolate wilderness. All of this heart-burning, 
 then, was for nothing. She had never suspected that he 
 loved her, A sense of the futility of things crushed him 
 for a moment. 
 
 "I am not a man to fall in love readily," he replied in 
 a low voice. 
 
 " Then," said Clytie earnestly, " I am at fault. Why 
 did you not answer my letter ? Why did you shun me ? 
 Why were you so constrained when we met ? Why did 
 you tear yourself out of my daily life ? " 
 
 Kent turned away his face, so that she should not see 
 him as he fought out within himself a great battle. Had 
 these words only been spoken a day or two ago he 
 would have poured out his love to her in all its honesty 
 and strength. But now she was bound to another 
 irrevocably — now indeed it would give her pain to hear 
 what he foolishly thought would have given her pain to 
 hear before. Then he was restrained by misinterpreta- 
 tion of the meaning of the passion that had come surg- 
 ing into his blood. Now he was held back by finer 
 feelings, ignorant perhaps, quixotic, but such as work in 
 man to the shaping of his nobleness. 
 
 " It was something I would rather not speak of," he
 
 1 68 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 said at last — " something in my own life. I might have 
 told you then ; I was wrong not to ; I did it for the 
 best. I can't now. This seems like a cheap way of 
 making mysteries, — perhaps it is one, not very big, — but 
 it is better that it should be one to you. It was no fault 
 of mine, believe me. You do believe me, Clytie, when I 
 say that it was bitter for me to give up your friendship, 
 don't you?" 
 
 "Yes, Kent," exclaimed Clytie, " I do believe that you 
 are everything that is true and tender and loyal. You 
 don't know what strength and comfort your sympathy 
 and your brave, frank way of looking at things have been 
 to me. I have wronged you — forgive me." 
 
 She rose, held out her hand to him. He took it and 
 raised it to his lips very gently. Her eyes grew a little 
 moist, 
 
 " You are treating me like a foolish woman, and not 
 en ion camarade," she said in a low voice. 
 
 "You are no longer my bon camarade," he replied. 
 ** You are my very dear lady, whom I will serve till the 
 hour of my death." 
 
 A moment or two afterwards she was gone. The next 
 morning Kent left England.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A GREAT writer has remarked, that between the acting 
 of a dreadful thing and the first motion, all the interim 
 is like a phantasma or a hideous dream, and that the 
 state of man under those circumstances, like to a 
 little kingdom, suffers the nature of an insurrection. 
 Although the step that Clytie was about to take was not 
 of the character that Brutus contemplated, it was suffi- 
 ciently serious for the interval between her engagement 
 and her marriage to be a time of great mental and moral 
 upheaval. Her "genius and mortal instruments" had 
 periods of fierce council, in which the latter always 
 obtained turbulent victory. Dreading these inner con- 
 flicts, she shrank from introspection. When doubts 
 began to creep over her she shook them off, and sat 
 down and wrote letters to Thornton which she burned 
 an hour or two afterwards. But it was only when she 
 was alone in the studio hastily finishing the orders she 
 had in hand, or during the few lonely evenings that she 
 passed in her sitting-room, that these torturing mis- 
 givings arose. When Thornton was near she forgot 
 that any had ever come to her. He overpowered her 
 will and her senses, dominated her with a caressing 
 word, a touch of the hand, a glance from the depths of 
 his dark eyes. In the lucid intervals between these 
 periods of dizzying surrender she did not recognise her- 
 self. It was almost as if some Morgan le Fay had cast 
 around her a spell of woven paces, and changed her into 
 she knew not what, while she saw the old Clytie fading 
 like a dream-shape away. To women of finer tempera- 
 ment marriage looms shadowy, formless, a great 
 enchanter that will change all things, deliver into their 
 keeping the secrets of pain and delight. But to Clytie 
 it was something less and something more. Its 
 material responsibilities were less of a mystery to her 
 
 169
 
 I70 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 than to most girls of her age, owing to the peculiarities 
 of her self-training ; but its spiritual and moral results 
 were hidden from her in a cloud, denser, more lurid, 
 more extensive. She loved Hammerdyke, not indeed as 
 she would have loved Kent had he made one little effort 
 to turn the wavering friendship into love — for then 
 passion would have been finely tempered with tender- 
 ness, trust, and generous sympathy ; but still certain 
 chords of her nature vibrated fully in response to the 
 touch of the man she was about to marry. The one 
 might have, as it were, awakened the full organ, but 
 the single diapason that was pulled rang out none the 
 less true. 
 
 During the short period of their engagement Hammer- 
 dyke was unceasing in tokens of his love. It was the 
 nature of the man to throw his whole being into the 
 delight or danger of the moment. Many a woman who 
 cares lukewarmly, perhaps reluctantly, is fired with a 
 gratitude akin to love by unending, passionate devotion. 
 All the more responsive is the woman of full blood and 
 emotional temperament who already cares greatly. 
 Thornton gave Clytie no reason to doubt his affection ; 
 if anything, he frightened her by its excess. She yielded 
 to him in all things, sometimes half dreamily, indiffer- 
 ently, without regret and without sweetness ; sometimes 
 the surrender was infinite joy. 
 
 In one matter, however, she was called upon to exer- 
 cise her will : Thornton did not care how or where the 
 marriage was performed. A man loathes weddings, 
 particularly his own. It is only the barbarian that 
 lingers, as people say, in the heart of woman that de- 
 mands ceremonies and pomps and vanities ; a man, finer 
 in some things, strangely enough, sees a certain indelicacy 
 in the brazen publicity of the wedding rites. True, this 
 view never presented itself to Thornton, who merely 
 wanted to call Clytie his own and looked upon the for- 
 mality of the marriage bond as a necessary nuisance, but 
 it came vividly to Clytie, and caused her, as she was 
 called upon to decide in the matter, to choose as quiet a 
 wedding as possible. She shrank with repugnance from 
 the meaningless ordeal of bridesmaids, favours, and a 
 wedding-breakfast. It was only in deference to Durdle-
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 171 
 
 ham susceptibilities that she did not entertain the idea 
 of a civil marriage before a registrar. 
 
 The announcement of her engagement caused aflutter 
 of excitement in the family. Mrs. Blather and Janet 
 could not understand a girl's art life, but they could 
 understand a wedding. They settled it between them- 
 selves that Clytie and her fiance should come down to 
 Durdleham to be there married in the orthodox fashion. 
 They had already drawn up a list of guests and a scheme 
 of wedding arrangements when a letter arrived from 
 Clytie saying that she was to be married almost immedi- 
 ately, and that on no account could the ceremony take 
 place at Durdleham. The sisters were disappointed. 
 Mrs. Blather remonstrated, adding arguments and en- 
 treaties that brought tears of desperation to Clytie's 
 eyes. She hated the thought of willingly giving pain to 
 her father and sisters, but a family ceremony was more 
 than she could bear. By trying to explain the inexpli- 
 cable she made matters worse. If Mrs. Blather and 
 Janet had failed to understand her simple needs of a free, 
 untrammelled girlish life, how could they unravel the 
 tangled complexities involving her repugnance to their 
 proposals ? At last she wrote that the day was definitely 
 fixed, and that if her sisters would not come to town, no 
 one but her friends the Farquharsons and Winifred 
 would be present at the ceremony. To journey up to 
 London for the purpose of standing in a bleak, empty 
 church on a dismal March morning just to see Clytie 
 married in a travelling dress was a prospect not pleasing 
 enough to be entertained. The sisters resigned them- 
 selves with a sigh to circumstances and to a catalogue 
 of Clytie's eccentricities from her earliest years. Mrs. 
 Blather sent Clytie a pair of silver candlesticks, Janet 
 sent her a tea-service, and old Mr. Davenant, who had 
 been courteously addressed by Hammerdyke on the 
 subject of the marriage, sent her a check for one hundred 
 pounds. And that ended the matter. 
 
 Winifred spent the night before the marriage with 
 Clytie. 
 
 " Do come, Winnie dear," the latter had said. " I 
 shall be so lonely and miserable." 
 
 So Winnie came like a spirit of peace, and the two girls
 
 172 AT THE GATE OF SAM ART A. 
 
 cried a little in each other's arms, and it was the weaker 
 who comforted the stronger. 
 
 " I shall keep on the studio," said Winifred, — "I am 
 getting quite rich, you know, — and then you can come 
 sometimes and take off your things and make believe to 
 be back again. And I shall come and see you in your 
 big house — if you will tell your big husband not to frighten 
 me away." 
 
 " You will always be my own sweet Winnie," said 
 Clytie tenderly, " and you will always get the very best 
 out of me even if I change utterly to everybody else." 
 
 " But how can you change, dear? " asked Winifred in 
 her simple faith. For she had lost her first instinctive 
 distrust of Hammerdyke in the glamour of Clytie's love 
 for him. ** How can you ever be different from what 
 you are and what you have always been ?" 
 
 " Oh, I may grow very, very wicked and selfish one of 
 these days, and not care for simple things any longer ; 
 and then you might be hurt, and you would know how 
 unworthy I was that you should care for me, and you 
 would shrink from me." 
 
 " Oh, Clytie, darling! " cried Winifred, throwing her 
 arms about her neck, " how can you say such things ? " 
 
 " It is silly, I know," said Clytie ; " but I sometimes 
 feel that I might do something very wicked without 
 much compunction before I die." 
 
 " But you are going to lead a splendid, beautiful life ! " 
 said Winnie. " You will live in a great house, and have 
 at your command the most brilliant society in London, 
 all the clever, artistic people — just what you like. And 
 you won't have to paint for orders, so you need never 
 have to cramp your genius, dear. Oh, Clytie, you will 
 simply be overflowing with happiness all your life long." 
 
 Clytie sighed. The independence of her half- 
 Bohemian life was very dear to her. This was the last 
 night on which, if it so pleased her, she could go forth 
 into the streets, uncontrolled, whitlier she would. Hence- 
 forward her actions would have to be referred to an 
 authority. To-morrow she would even change her name ; 
 be transformed from the Clytie Davenant whom she 
 knew into Mrs. Hammerdyke, a vague, mysterious entity, 
 with whose nature she was unfamihar. No matter how
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 173 
 
 glorious the future, there is always some regret in leaving 
 forever a past phase of life : 
 
 At leaving even the most unpleasant people 
 And places, one keeps looking at the steeple. 
 
 But this was a pleasant place Clytie was about to quit, 
 and she looked back upon its associations with a sigh. 
 
 In the morning a commissionnaire sent by Thornton 
 came and fetched away her trunks, for the newly mar- 
 ried pair were to start for the Continent immediately 
 after the ceremony. When these were despatched 
 Clytie stood for a moment before her glass, adjusted the 
 clasp of her cape and the set of her broad gray beaver 
 hat, and turning to Winifred, said quietly : " Let us go, 
 dear." 
 
 They drove together in a hansom to St. Luke's Church, 
 close by, where Thornton and the Farquharsons were 
 waiting for them, in the porch. It was a bright morn- 
 ing, warm for the time of year, and the sparrows and a 
 stray thrush plucked up heart of grace and twittered 
 cheerily from the trees in the churchyard. Two 
 little street children, with arms about each other's 
 necks, stood by a near gravestone and looked at the 
 little group with somewhat disappointed eyes. They 
 had expected a bride in a long white veil and orange- 
 blossoms, a costume always mysteriously fascinating to 
 the unsophisticated. Perhaps it was only a christening 
 after all, one remarked to the other. But where was the 
 baby ? The interior of the empty church was more 
 cheerful than empty Protestant churches are wont to be. 
 The slanting sunlight streamed many-coloured through 
 the stained windows across the nave, and a broad shaft 
 poured in from the open south door upon the vacant 
 pews in the aisle. From outside came faintly the hum 
 and rattle of the King's Road. The influences were 
 peaceful, encouraging, and Clytie, sensitive to impres- 
 sions, felt grateful. The two little children, with their 
 eyes on the verger, peeped in through the door and 
 satisfied themselves that it was a wedding after all. 
 
 They whispered together with many smiles and nods, 
 guessing at the dramatis personce. Clytie noticed them, 
 smiled back and nodded. It was as if a bit of her past
 
 174 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 life had come to bid her be of good cheer. The party 
 stood for a while in the body of the church, talking gaily 
 in low tones. Mrs. Farquharson was radiant at the 
 prospective accomplishment of a dear wish. 
 
 "You must be proud of your bride," she said to 
 Thornton. "Is she not looking beautiful?" 
 
 And she whispered to Clytie : 
 
 "You must be proud of your husband. Have you 
 ever seen a man to compare with him ? " 
 
 Thornton held his head erect as he gave Clytie his 
 arm and walked up to the communion rail. He was 
 proud of her. The quiet gray of her broad hat and her 
 cloak threw into relief the rich colouring of her hair and 
 eyes and lips. The past two years had completed her 
 womanly beauty. Irregularities of contour below the 
 eyes had been toned down, the delicacy of modelling 
 of her face had been accentuated, and the new emotions 
 of the past three weeks had filled her great dark blue eyes 
 with a new, mysterious light. Thornton pressed her 
 hand against his side, and whispered, " My darling," so 
 close to her that she felt his breath warm upon her ear. 
 She looked at him for a moment, her full lips quivering 
 ever so slightly. 
 
 " I should like to kiss you," he whispered again. 
 " You are so beautiful." 
 
 In a few moments it was over. The words compro- 
 mising a lifetime had been said. The wedding ring 
 gleamed upon her finger. As she passed with the others 
 into the vestry she looked down at it in a daze. There 
 it was and there it must remain till death parted them, 
 a token of submission and obedience. In the vestry 
 there were embraces, congratulations. Thornton kissed 
 her after the gallant fashion of a man who can afford to 
 wait for a warmer caress. Winifred threw her arms 
 round her neck, weeping. Mrs. Farquharson kissed her 
 in her affectionate, motherly way. George kissed her 
 gravely on the forehead and dipped the pen in the ink 
 for her to sign " Clytie Davenant " for the last time. 
 Then they found themselves in the porch again, saying 
 farewell. Caroline laughingly called her " Mrs. Ham- 
 merdyke " as they finally parted. And then the little
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 1 75 
 
 knot of three waved their handkerchiefs as the cab 
 drove off that took her husband and herself towards 
 Victoria. 
 
 " You are mine now, my darling," he said, taking her 
 hand. " All that is most mine." 
 
 " I am glad," she murmured, returning his pressure. 
 " Yours for always." 
 
 The commissionnaire met them at the station. He had 
 taken their tickets, settled their luggage, engaged a car- 
 riage. A bouquet of violets lay upon the seat. Clytie 
 flashed a quick glance at her husband. 
 
 " Thank you for thinking. I love them so much." 
 
 He arranged her hot-water can and her rugs and sat 
 down by her side, thrusting up the dividing arms impa- 
 tiently. As soon as the train had moved out of the station 
 he put his arms around her and kissed her, and spoke to 
 her in tender, passionate words. The stop at Croydon 
 broke the continuity of this first wedded embrace. On 
 the platform outside the carriage window a loud alterca- 
 tion was in progress between the ticket-collector and a 
 young couple who objected to pay for the ticket of a 
 tiny terrier the woman was carrying. They were of the 
 lower middle class, both in their Sunday clothes. She 
 was a fair, delicate woman of some refinement ; but the 
 husband was coarse, vulgar, with the stamp of sensuality 
 on his sharp, somewhat handsome face. Moreover, he 
 was slightly intoxicated, and used a foul expression to 
 qualify the collector after the official had departed. A 
 flush rose to the young woman's forehead. 
 
 " Don't, John," she pleaded. " He's in his rights." 
 
 But the cad consigned his rights to perdition, and 
 moved off vulgarly proclaiming his own. 
 
 Clytie had heard this small scene in a life's drama and 
 she vividly constructed the miserable tragedy. When 
 the train moved on again she shivered, with a nameless, 
 indefinable sense of fear. Three months ago she would 
 have noted the scene for vigorous transference to canvas. 
 Now the woman more than the artist was stirred. 
 
 " Please don't talk — just for a little, Thornton," she 
 said as he began to speak. 
 
 He looked at her somewhat reproachfully. She drew 
 off her glove and put her hand into his.
 
 176 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 " You can't understand — it all seems so strange. Let 
 me gather myself together for a moment — darling." 
 
 She trembled on the last word. It was the first time 
 she had used it to him. 
 
 He pressed her hand and leaned back on the cushions. 
 Clytie looked out of the window at the telegraph poles 
 and trees and broad fields swaying past. Whither was 
 this tearing train carrying her ? Out of her life into a 
 new, strange world whose habits and customs and laws 
 and speech were all foreign to her ? She was married. 
 She no longer belonged to herself. Her independence 
 was gone. She had promised to love, honour, and obey 
 this man by her side until death should part them. 
 That would be a long time— many, many years. The 
 thought frightened her. Until then she had scarce 
 realised what married life meant, in this respect. Why 
 had she married this man ? As this question passed 
 through her mind her husband raised the hand he held 
 to his lips. The blood rushed hot to her cheeks, she 
 did not finish the mental question, but turning quickly, 
 looked at him for a moment, and falling under the spell 
 of his eyes, yielded to his arm, forgetting all things. 
 He had the power of drowning in a more lurid blaze 
 those glimmerings of self-revelation. She whispered so 
 to him laughingly, and he accepted it as a man generally 
 does accept such things — not seeing that it was of 
 deeper significance than a woman's ordinary tribute of 
 tenderness. 
 
 "You are my beautiful Clytie," he said, kissing 
 her, and for a season she was content with the 
 response. 
 
 There was a lover's silence between them, which she 
 broke at length by saying : 
 
 " Don't you think it would have been much nicer if 
 we could have had one another on trial — say for six 
 months ? " 
 
 " So that you could all the time be thinking whether 
 you should repent of your bargain ? Oh, dear, no ! " 
 
 " Ah ! you say that ; but would it not have been 
 better, if we grew to hate each other, to be able to 
 shake hands and say good-bye ? For we may quarrel 
 dreadfully, you know."
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 177 
 
 He answered her with tender assurances, laughed at 
 her fears. 
 
 " We shall never quarrel if you are a good little girl 
 and do as you are told," he said. 
 
 Clytie laughed, seeing only jesting in the remark. 
 
 " And we shall never quarrel if you let me go where I 
 like and do what I like and say what I like." 
 
 " But you will always want to go and do and say as I 
 like, darling," said Thornton, "So we shall never 
 quarrel." 
 
 " Then you will never want me to be severely respect- 
 able ?" asked Clytie, with a touch of insistence, 
 
 " I shan't allow you to flirt with any and everybody, if 
 you mean that," he replied, showing his white teeth as he 
 smiled. 
 
 " I didn't mean that — for the simple reason that I 
 have a certain amount of brains." 
 
 " There have been many coquettes with magnificent 
 intellects." 
 
 She made no reply. Then, seeing that he had ruffled 
 her, he adroitly turned their talk into less dangerous 
 channels. 
 
 They stayed in Paris a couple of days and then con- 
 tinued their journey to the Riviera. It was Clytie's own 
 desire. In the first flush of his passion all places were 
 alike to Thornton, provided she were with him. But 
 she longed to get away from England, to cut herself 
 adrift for a while from all old associations, to surround 
 herself with new conditions, so that nothing should dis- 
 turb the wonder of this new love. And when, with a 
 lover's hyperbole, he had bidden her choose any spot on 
 the whole terrestrial globe for the passing of their honey- 
 moon, she had selected the Mediterranean. 
 
 They went to the little Italian town of Bordighera, 
 hidden away at the foot of the mountains amidst its 
 palms and olive trees. Besides being one of the most 
 beautiful spots on that beautiful coast, it has the charm 
 of quiet. There is no casino at Bordighera, no public 
 garden, no municipal band. It holds out to visitors no 
 attractions but its own loveliness — hence the absence of 
 the banal, the rococo. A few villas are dotted round it, 
 away from the sea. One long, straggling street of shops.
 
 178 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 narrowing gradually, leads up to the old, picturesque, evil- 
 smelling town on the hill. And this with its narrow sun- 
 less streets flanked by high, dingy, gray houses, between 
 which the sky above seems a narrow strip of Prussian 
 blue ribbon, its crooked byways and basement loggie of 
 cool malodour, its cobble pavements on which great 
 entrance gateways gape like dark, noisome caverns, offers 
 few attractions other than those of quaintness and curi- 
 osity to any but its own inhabitants. It is a quiet place, 
 devoid of the cosmopolitan tohubohu of Mentone or 
 Cannes. An index of this is the fact that, save the com- 
 moner qualities of the Italian regie, cigarettes are not to 
 be bought for love or money in Bordighera, and these 
 in the greasiest ramshackle shop imaginable. If you 
 want civilised shops you must go to San Remo. 
 
 Thornton and Clytie spent the earlier portion of their 
 honeymoon here in unbroken happiness. Beyond casual 
 gossip with their table d'hote neighbours they held inter- 
 course with no one. All fears, doubts, flutterings of 
 regret, vanished from Clytie's heart, together with all 
 sense of subjective life. She was tasting the physical joy 
 of existence as it came to her in the passion, sunlight, 
 colour, warmth, and scents of the south. She had chosen 
 with unconscious wisdom. The intensity of the beauty 
 of the Mediterranean, its positivism, its splendid denial 
 of the melancholic and mysterious, held her being in 
 tone with the love with which Thornton had inspired her. 
 It intoxicated her with a complementary passion. 
 
 They drove one day from Bordighera through Venti- 
 miglia to Mentone. Halfway they stopped at a way- 
 side inn, and breakfasted under a trellis of grape-vine. 
 On the one side was the dazzling white road, flanked by 
 the terraced hill of olive-trees, the white underparts of 
 their leaves flashing like silver ; on the other, below, the 
 gold sand and the purple sea. And the sun streamed 
 through the vine, checkering the table and their hands 
 and faces. The fare was poor and the Asti none of the 
 best, but the wine sparkled and bubbled in the thick 
 tumbler they used in common, and brought a keener 
 sparkle into Clytie's eyes, and a more joyous abandon- 
 ment into her laugh. When they had resumed their 
 drive, and a turn of the road brought them into sight of
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. IT 9 
 
 Mentone, her heart leaped at the suddenness with 
 which the blaze of colour was revealed. Below, over a 
 declining foreground of olive and orange gardens, lay the 
 white town in a setting of bright green foliage, stretching 
 from horn to horn of the bay. Behind the eastern horn 
 projected dark and bold the promontory of Monaco with 
 the flashing white of its castle. Behind the town rose 
 the two bare peaks of the Berceau standing out in deep 
 blue-gray against the intense violet sky. Before it 
 swept the broad belt of yellow sand, on which lapped, in 
 little idle waves whose ebb left a delicate fringe of white, 
 a still, unbroken sea of lapis lazuli, melting through 
 infinite gradations of blue streaked with arbitrary pur- 
 ples into the deep ultramarine that met the paler sky far 
 away on the horizon. The burst of intense colour of 
 sky and sea and land, glowing as far as the eye could 
 sweep, drowned Clytie's being in a sensuous flood. It 
 was, as it were, the projection of physical passion into 
 something visible, thus baring to the eyes its wonderful 
 beauty. She uttered a little inarticulate gasp, a catching 
 of the breath. They were quite alone, the coachman 
 half asleep in the sun on his box. Thornton put his arm 
 round her and drew her to him. She turned, closed her 
 eyes. All creation, from the world of wonder before her 
 to the tiniest quivering fibre within her, vibrated with an 
 intoxicating thrill of delight. She caught his hand, drew 
 his arm tighter, and lifted her lips to his in a long, long 
 kiss. 
 
 Thenceforward her stay on the Riviera was one unin- 
 terrupted delight. It was a dream in which the mind 
 lay subject to the sense. She was in a blue mist, which 
 hid impenetrably past and future, and informed the 
 visible area about her feet with unutterable sweetness. 
 " Don't expect me to write letters," she said in a hastily 
 scribbled note to Caroline. " This is a land in which 
 words have no part. You might as well expect me to 
 talk the ' Moonlight Sonata' to you." And Caroline, 
 being a wise woman, smiled. Yet, after all, her wisdom 
 had nothing to do with it — for anything feminine would 
 have divined. The days flew on wings of fire. She 
 never read, never worked ; her sketch-book remained 
 empty. Often they sat at their sitting-room window.
 
 l8o AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 looking out on to the Strada Romana, hand in hand, 
 without speaking, save for a murmured caress, for an 
 hour together. Or they walked up between the olives, 
 past the famous high wall with its gorgeous coat of 
 mesembryanthemum, through the narrow, crooked town, 
 down the rugged descent to the surf-beaten shore, where 
 the great white solitary casa stands, and there sat down 
 in the shade of the big rocks and watched the glowing 
 " countless laughter " of the sea. Often they rambled 
 through the cool, sunless olive gardens, rising terrace 
 after terrace apparently into the deep violet sky. The 
 scent of the rosemary and wild thyme beneath their 
 feet rose penetrating and filled the blood, and Thornton 
 would pick a handful, and laughingly hold it between 
 them above their lips as he kissed her. And when they 
 reached the top of the hill they sat under a tree, and 
 Clytie rested her head on his shoulder, and let her eye 
 wander over the low-lying ridges of the Maritime Alps 
 rising in endless soft-rounded undulations, like the 
 many-breasted mother of men, in each bosom nestling a 
 compact white townlet gathered around the slated cupola 
 of its church; and the soft sunlight layover all, trans- 
 fused through the blue atmosphere. Then she would 
 say : " Don't let us talk, Thornton "; but there was a 
 different meaning to the words from that which they had 
 when she uttered them in the train as it left Croydon. 
 
 Sometimes they went away from Bordighera for two 
 or three days ; visited Nice, Cannes, Monte Carlo. At 
 Monte Carlo Clytie won three or four hundred francs at 
 the roulette tables. Gambling had never come before 
 within her experience of things. She plunged into it 
 with childish recklessness, looking round with glowing 
 face and laughter in her eyes at her husband when she 
 won, and drawing a short little breath of dismay when 
 the croupier raked in her stake. The game, the inten- 
 sity of the strange faces, seen nowhere else, — faces 
 which bore the stamp of combinations of the seven deadly 
 sins taken from two to half a dozen together, — the subtle 
 working in that great, glittering room of all the passions 
 under heaven, attracted her, fascinated her. The artistic 
 temperament caught the impressions, instinctively, un- 
 consciously registered them, thus widening and deepen-
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. l8i 
 
 ing her conception of life. It was a luxury of sense to 
 leave the babel passion of the Casino and to walk arm 
 in arm on the terrace or in the grounds. There the 
 music came faintly and mingled with the far-off splash 
 of the sea away below them and the rustle of the palms 
 and drachinas. On the right stretched out Monaco, 
 clustering like a group of fireflies below the white 
 bastioned castle. Behind them rose the black mass of 
 the Maritime Alps with the Mont Agel towering dis- 
 tinct above. The air was soft and warm, recovering 
 from the sudden shock of sundown. What they said to 
 one another matters little. He saw that she was beauti- 
 tiful and filled with the sense of his love, and he was 
 happy. To Clytie life meant unutterable things. 
 
 On the third morning of their stay at IMonte Carlo 
 Thornton returned from a short stroll and came into 
 their room. 
 
 " A man I know has just come by the train and I fled 
 from him," he said ; " let us go somewhere else." 
 
 Clytie was pleased. 
 
 " I am glad you still want us to be quite, quite alone," 
 she replied. *' But you are sure you are not a little bit 
 weary of me ? " 
 
 He answered as many millions of men more or less 
 sincere have answered. And Clytie thought neither of 
 believing nor of disbelieving him, as many millions of 
 women have done. The subjective is apt to crop up 
 afterwards and it generally causes trouble. But in the 
 passion of a kiss woman, being, like man, of flesh and 
 blood, and not an abstraction, does not calculate remote 
 psychological contingencies ; if she does, the kissing is 
 all a mistake. Once, towards the end of their honey- 
 moon, Clytie did touch upon the subjective. They were 
 sitting by the ruined tower on the hill above the Strada 
 Romana. Clytie was heated and had taken off her hat, 
 and the breeze ruffled her hair as she leaned against the 
 trunk of a tree. Thornton sprawled by her side, resting 
 his chin on his hand and looking at her. 
 
 " I always grudge your wearing a hat," he said. 
 " Your beautiful hair ought not to be hidden. You 
 look much lovelier now that it is free for the wind to 
 kiss."
 
 1 82 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 She laughed a contented little laugh, throwing her 
 chin up, according to her way. 
 
 "Do you know, Thornton," she said with a little 
 hesitation, in which there was much charm, " being 
 called beautiful every day is one of the great novelties 
 of the situation. I always knew I was good to look 
 upon, and sometimes I really was very pleased to behold 
 myself. But before I knew you, dear, it never made 
 anything of a factor in my daily life. And now I almost 
 begin to think it's the only quality I have." 
 
 " Given that, you can let all the others go " He 
 
 waved his hand vaguely, consigning them to the Ewigkeii. 
 
 " But that's not all that you love me for, is it, dear ? " 
 
 An idle question, with an unsuspected fear lurking in 
 its heart. 
 
 " I don't know why I love you. It has never occurred 
 to me to investigate the matter." 
 
 " Well, try. It will be like playing the game, ' I love 
 my love with an A ' ! " 
 
 Thornton shook his head boyishly, and laughed. 
 
 " It would spoil it all ! " he said — "to go worrying 
 about what lies under that sweet face of yours. Can't 
 you understand, darling ? What do your qualities matter 
 to me ? Provided I can take you in my arms and kiss 
 you as much as I like, what concern is it of mine whether 
 you are acquainted with the cookery book or spell art 
 with a capital A ? Don't you think it's more satisfac- 
 tory to lie here and look into your great blue eyes, and 
 your hair with the sun and wind playing hide and seek 
 in it, and your bosom rising and falling, than to specu- 
 late whether you are even-tempered or vindictive or 
 ambitious or fond of Adelaide Proctor's poetry?" 
 
 " What a boy you are ! " she cried light-heartedly, 
 stretching out her hand so as to run her fingers over his 
 crisp brown hair. " So my face has been my fortune ! " 
 
 "And your figure," he remarked critically. "The 
 whole of you ! " 
 
 " Tell me," she continued, " what would you have 
 done if I hadn't married you?" 
 
 He started up to a sitting posture, and his eyes flashed. 
 
 " I should have gone straight back to Africa and 
 played the very devil there ! But you were bound to
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMAEIA. 183 
 
 marry me, you know ; and if you had been already a 
 married woman, I should have got to you somehow. I 
 have been hit before in my time, over and over, but 
 never till I met you did I think a woman worth the mar- 
 riage service. But you're a witch, Clytie," he added, 
 resuming his former attitude, " the Belle Dame sans 
 Merci." 
 
 " Poor fellow," said Clytie, " poor knight-at-arms ! 
 And you do look ' so haggard and so woe-begone,' don't 
 you?" 
 
 She laughed as she looked at his great frame lying at 
 her feet, and his strong, handsome dark face, with its 
 health and masterfulness. Then she continued in the 
 lightness of her heart : 
 
 " But seriously, now, Thornton, very seriously. You 
 do want me to be a little help to you in your life — in 
 other ways — don't you ? In your ambitions, your work 
 in the world generally. We must begin to talk about 
 such things soon, you know." 
 
 Thornton laughed lazily as he lit a cigarette. 
 
 *' My work in the world is to love you, my dear, and 
 I'll promise to let you help me in that as much as you 
 like." 
 
 But Clytie insisted. Sometimes the subjective gets 
 too much for a woman. 
 
 " Ah, Thornton dear," she said. " I want to feel that 
 we are much more than lovers. That will wear off after 
 a time. Oh, yes ! don't tell me it won't ; a woman learns 
 things all with a rush, you see. And I want to feel that 
 we are one in everything, in all our sympathies and 
 views of life, our ambitions, in all the high and great 
 things that lie before you. I want to be in touch with 
 everything you do and think — to be a real helpmeet for 
 you." 
 
 He took her hand and kissed it, laughing. 
 
 " I have got a lot to learn in the way of connubial 
 responsibilities," he said. " You'll have to train me, my 
 dear. But allow me to remark that the sun is just going 
 to dip over there by the Nervia, and if we want to get in 
 by sunset we shall have to run like the deuce ! " 
 
 As this was a serious matter, — on the Riviera it is one 
 of the grave responsibilities of life, — Clytie let herself be
 
 1 84 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 lifted to her feet, put on her hat quickly, and holding 
 her husband's hand, ran merrily with him down the hill. 
 The exercise and the laughter drove things subjective 
 out of her head for a season. But in the after-time the 
 ghost of this little conversation came and sat at the head 
 of her bed, making mock at a few others who sat on the 
 foot-rail. A thing does not require to be as objective as 
 a murdered monk to have a little ghost all to itself.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Perhaps if they had remained in Bordighera the 
 intoxication would have lasted longer. But as our lives 
 are hemmed in by infinite possibilities, to each of which 
 is strung its infinite ramification of consequences, it is 
 somewhat rash to predicate ex hypothesi. At any rate so 
 long as they were at Bordighera there seemed to be no 
 reason that the continuity of the charm should be broken ; 
 whereas it did suffer a change during the railway jour- 
 ney from Bordighera to Paris. And this railway journey 
 was a kind of neutral ground in their married life, 
 separating the dream from the reality. On entering the 
 train they were lovers. On leaving it they were a 
 married couple. Wherein lies som.ewhat of a difference. 
 They were not conscious of the change. Realisation of 
 this mysterious operation is fortunately denied to human 
 beings, seeing that they turn their eyes inwards rather too 
 much as it is already. Nor do they recognise what has 
 happened until some tim.e afterwards, as the old influ- 
 ences still remain lingeringly ; but then they can gener- 
 ally look back to the point of transition, and set it up as 
 a forlorn landmark in their lives. 
 
 Why they did not remain longer in the south they 
 themselves could scarcely explain. They had arranged 
 to spend a month there, and then to proceed to Paris to 
 wait indefinitely until their new house in the Cromwell 
 Road should be ready to receive them. There is 
 nothing so irrefragable as an arbitrary programme. 
 Even the most emancipated enslave themselves to it 
 sometimes, as in the present case did Thornton and 
 Clytie They possibly lost a good deal, — the flowers of 
 life seldom grow along the beaten track, — but they never 
 thought of attributing it to the fixity of their programme. 
 They were in Paris, then, living under totally fresh con- 
 ditions. Thornton found there a succession of friends 
 
 185
 
 1 86 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 and acquaintances, and was pleased rather than other- 
 wise to meet them. At Monte Carlo he fled from 
 Carteret of the Hussars ; on the Boulevard des Capucines 
 he greeted him heartily and carried him off into the 
 American Bar. Besides discovering acquaintances daily 
 in the hotel list, Thornton was not unknown in general 
 Parisian society. His name could procure him admis- 
 sion into most circles that he cared to enter. He was 
 put up at a couple of clubs and received invitation 
 cards by the dozen. 
 
 To please him Clytie went with him a little into 
 society. He was proud of his beautiful wife, loved to 
 watch the effect produced as she entered a drawing- 
 room upon his arm, and the eager admiration on the 
 faces of the men who crowded round her chair. In fact, 
 Clytie had a small social success — and a paragraph in 
 the Figaro. It was a new sensation for her ; but in 
 these early days of her married life she would have pre- 
 ferred a quieter, less conspicuous existence. But Thorn- 
 ton, just as he had sought in the south to keep her and 
 her beauty to himself, now seemed to wish to exhibit it 
 abroad. 
 
 "I seem to wear you like a decoration, darling," he 
 said once. 
 
 At first Clytie flushed with pleasure at the little 
 flattery. Then she thought over it for a bit, and it did 
 not please her so much. But she did not confide this 
 to her husband. She had already begun to discover that 
 for the safekeeping of many little matters her own heart 
 was the best place. 
 
 They had a set of rooms in a hotel in the Champs 
 Elysees with a balcony overlooking the Grande Avenue. 
 Clytie loved to sit there with Thornton in the quiet half 
 hour before dinner watching the stream of vehicles, fine 
 and vague far away by the Arc de Triomphe, then grad- 
 ually broadening, till fashionable Paris returning from 
 the Bois blazed beneath her in its movement and gaiety. 
 They seemed to her so alone up there, above the whirl 
 and the glitter and falseness. It was a return of the 
 hours of the month in the south, and happiness fluttered 
 tremulously around her — like a butterfly, ever so elusively. 
 When she leaned over the balcony by his side many
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 187 
 
 people looked up admiringly at them. When she saw 
 one woman twitch the arm of her companion in a victoria, 
 and both shoot swift feminine glances up at the balconj% 
 she could not help feeling a little thrill of pride in her 
 husband. And then she would remember the morning's 
 solitary ramble among the sculpture of the Louvre 
 (Thornton and herself were less dependent upon each 
 other now for entertainment), and reflect, with a sense of 
 pleasure, that she had seen no antique ideal that could 
 compare with him in splendid manhood. He, too, had 
 done heroic deeds, she would think, and she would move 
 nearer to his side and be glad that he was there. Yet 
 the butterfly happiness was just beyond her grasp. 
 
 Some such thoughts were passing through her mind 
 one afternoon as they stood together on the balcony. 
 He broke a short silence by saying : 
 
 ** We are getting quite an old married couple, 
 Clytie ! " 
 
 " What made you say that ? " she asked, smiling. 
 
 " Oh ! I hardly know. I have got so used to having 
 you by me. It seems as if I had been married ever since 
 I was born." 
 
 "It does seem a long, long time ago that we first 
 passed through Paris. But I can't say I am quite used 
 to matrimony yet. Do you know, I have sometimes 
 hoped that I never should be." 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " Can't you guess ? At present, dear, it is all glamour 
 and mystery, and when you get too familiar with the 
 glamour it turns into the commonplace. That's why I 
 am just a little bit sorry we left Bordighera." 
 
 "It was certainly very jolly," he assented reflectively. 
 " But we are having as good a time here, aren't we ?" 
 
 " Well, I like these little half hours best," said Clytie, 
 *' when we are alone together. When we are parted it 
 seems as if I am suddenly called upon to live as an 
 individual and do not quite know how to begin. You 
 see, when I am alone with you I know how to behave as 
 Clytie Hammerdyke, but not yet when I am by myself 
 or with other people." 
 
 Thornton laughed, as a man in love laughs when he 
 thinks he is replying to an idle, pretty remark.
 
 1 88 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 " You have always Clytie Davenant to fall back upon," 
 he said. 
 
 " Have I ? That's just the question I have been put- 
 ting to myself. But I can't explain it to you. I don't 
 think you would understand." 
 
 " Of course I understand ! " he cried quickly, " You 
 have to mix with people as a married woman, and you 
 are a bit shy at first. But you'll pull through all right, 
 dear. Why, as it is, you are superb." 
 
 " Oh, come," she said, laughing. " I can talk to people 
 without blushing and morally biting the corner of my 
 apron. I meant something a little more subtle than that. 
 You see, after all, you don't understand. I can never, 
 never be Clytie Davenant again. She was buried for 
 good and all at Bordighera." 
 
 " And my sweet phoenix has arisen out of her ashes," 
 said Thornton. 
 
 " If you like — and the phoenix hasn't quite got the 
 sense of her environment yet." 
 
 "All this is very pretty, my dear," said Thornton, with 
 a laugh. " But I can't quite see what we are driving 
 at." 
 
 *' Have I been talking such great nonsense, then ? 
 Perhaps it all tended to express the fact that when I am 
 with you I don't think of myself ; when we are apart 
 I am confronted with myself, and feel embarrassed. 
 You see, Thornton dear," she went on, " I have lived a 
 queer kind of life, full of such different hopes and 
 dreams. I scarcely thought about marriage in those 
 days. I knew that love would come to me some time or 
 the other, but then it seemed as if it would all be mixed 
 
 up with my art, whereas now Oh, you can't see 
 
 how different it is ! " 
 
 There was no tone of sadness or regret in her voice as 
 she said this, but a touch of tenderness, a tribute, as it 
 were, to his influence. 
 
 " But there's nothing to hinder you from amusing 
 yourself with painting pictures, is there ? " asked her 
 husband lightly. "You have no call now to earn a 
 livelihood, but you can paint all day if you like, my 
 dear." 
 
 " Of course I shall paint — I could not live without it —
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 189 
 
 except perhaps such a month as last. But, don't you see, 
 my art was once the guiding principle of my life. Now 
 I have my art and my love, and they seem to have 
 nothing to do with each other. They are on different 
 planes, so to speak. It is all that that makes me feel I 
 don't quite realise myself yet when I have to leave the 
 love plane for a little." 
 
 "Don't leave it," said Thornton. 
 
 " Ah ! we have done that by going away from 
 Bordighera, and leading this dissipated life here," she 
 replied, laughing. " But we can get on and off when- 
 ever we like, you know. That is one comfort." 
 
 " Well," said Thornton, lighting a cigarette, and speak- 
 ing between the first few whiffs, " marriage must make 
 some difference. You have lived a free and easy, eman- 
 cipated life among artistic people, and now you belong 
 to somebody else — a wild barbarian, who could no more 
 tell you how to paint a picture than how to cut out a 
 dress. Of course it makes a difference in your way of 
 viewing things. It has made a difference in mine too, 
 by Jove ! When a yearning for Africa comes over me I 
 have to say : No ; I have a wife, with her arms, — the 
 roundest in the world, my dear, — about my neck. And 
 so I have got to settle down to politics and domesticity 
 in the Cromwell Road." 
 
 ** But you don't regret it, do you, Thornton ? " she 
 asked, womanlike. 
 
 " Look at me and see if I do," he said. 
 
 Clytie obeyed him, half shyly, feeling, as she always 
 did since her return to Paris, the fascination, half pleas- 
 ant, half painful, of his eyes. He loved her. "There 
 was no doubt of that. Yet the nature of his love some- 
 times frightened her a little if she strayed for a moment 
 off the " love plane." Her own responsiveness she never 
 questioned, preferring to shut her eyes and let the current 
 of his love carry her whither it would. But at times 
 now, during her solitary walks through the Louvre, the 
 thought obtruded. What would the new life be like ? 
 Not these early days, which were holidays from the 
 seriousnesses of existence, but the life in the years that 
 lay before her, of whose responsibilities she had as yet 
 but vague premonitions. How would her art be affected ?
 
 igo AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 Would it lose or gain in that breadth and insight that it 
 needed ? Would she continue to reckon herself an artist 
 at all, or would she only degenerate into the amateur — 
 painting little meaningless pictures for amusement ? 
 And at the end of a year would she not stand face to 
 face with a new Clytie, paler, more shadowy, and there- 
 fore less insistently demanding self-expression ? Even 
 these few weeks had changed her : what would she be 
 at the end of one year, two years, twenty years ? Hap- 
 pier, with all her old cravings satisfied, with her indi- 
 viduality worked out to its fullest, with the riddle of life 
 
 joyously solved ? Or else She scarcely dared think 
 
 of it. She looked at what had been written in her Book 
 of New Formulas, and found that the marriage service 
 had been omitted. It merely said that marriage was 
 unformularisable, an easy way of curving a contumelious 
 lip at the old formulas which she had rebelled against, 
 but scarcely satisfactory in her present position. Now, 
 in the Old Formulas, marriage was minutely, scrupulously 
 regulated by the most definite of rules. Although they 
 broke up the poem of life into a disjointed copy-book, or 
 at best into a collection of elegant extracts, still they 
 presented a homogeneous scheme. Should she at last 
 have to accept this, confess to Mrs. Blather smiling com- 
 placently that the Durdleham philosophy was the only 
 one ? But then she would look at her husband and take 
 a measure of comfort. Such a man could not come out 
 of Durdleham. 
 
 That was her consolation in the perplexities that the 
 problem of her married life caused her. She took 
 refuge from herself, her thoughts, her forebodings, in his 
 grand strength and personal magnetism. It was inter- 
 mittent intoxication, this long Paris after-honeymoon, 
 rather than continuous charm, and the intervals of sober- 
 ness had their wearinesses. She had thrown her cap 
 over the windmills. Sometimes she regretted it. 
 
 On the evening after the above conversation they 
 went to the opera, where they had taken a box with the 
 Claverings, army people with whom Thornton had been 
 intimate in Cairo. Clytie had met them only for a 
 moment the day before, and had not been favourably 
 impressed. However, they were Thornton's friends, and
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 191 
 
 it behoved her to appreciate them. Mrs. Clavering 
 passed for being a clever woman by virtue of a plain 
 face and a vivacious manner ; also because she ruled her 
 husband and had a cultivated taste in sherry. 
 
 Thornton had admired her some years before. 
 Mammas with marriageable daughters put it in that 
 way ; those who could afford to be independent put it in 
 another. Whichever way they put it in no wise affected 
 the parties concerned. Mrs. Clavering was too superior 
 a woman to allow idle gossip to influence her or her 
 husband. Now she was eight-and-thirty, she had seen 
 the world and had preserved few illusions, least of all 
 any respecting Thornton Hammerdyke. She met him 
 with a cynical encouragement, which to some men is 
 flattering. 
 
 Clytie was quick to notice her manner towards Thorn- 
 ton, and resented it. There was a touch of banal 
 familiarity, too, in his talk with Mrs. Clavering that 
 jarred upon her. The tone was undignified, suggestive 
 of the falser strata of regimental society, in which frank- 
 ness stands for scarcely veiled mutual contempt. 
 
 He was sitting behind Mrs. Clavering, who smiled in a 
 superior, half-patronising way at his remarks. Clytie 
 listened to the music absently, wished they had come 
 alone. The house was crowded, and the air was stifling. 
 She found the opera, " La Juive," uninteresting. 
 
 " I am going to carry off your husband to the terrace, 
 Mrs. Hammerdyke," said Mrs. Clavering at the end of 
 the second act, " and I leave you mine in pledge. I hope 
 he will take good care of you." 
 
 He was a heavy but honest Briton, who idolised his 
 wife, his dinner, and the British Constitution. As neither 
 the opera nor Clytie came within this area of adoration, 
 he treated them with a polite though somewhat embar- 
 rassed indifference. Still he acquitted himself of his 
 charge satisfactorily and entertained Clytie during the 
 entr'acte. After a tour round the house he found a 
 seat for her in the Salle des Pas Perdus and talked with 
 solemn fitfulness. Then it occurred to him that it was 
 oppressive indoors and he took her out upon the terrace. 
 Clytie did not wish to stay there long — only for a 
 moment to get a breath of fresh air. She remained for
 
 192 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 a little leaning on the broad balustrade and looking at 
 the scene in front of her — the hvodid place below with the 
 continuous passing to and fro of vehicles crossing each 
 other in all directions, the Cafe de la Paix on the right 
 with its crowded tables far out on the pavement and tray- 
 laden waiters hurrying between them, the glittering 
 vista of lights in the Avenue de I'Opera, the duller line 
 of lamps in the Rue de la Paix with the Vendome column 
 towering high in the dim moonlight. It was so instinct 
 with gaiety and movement and the brightness of life that 
 a little thrill of its gladness passed through her, ending 
 in a strange kind of sob that filled her throat. She took 
 her companion's arm, and went across through the 
 stream of loungers back into the heavy air of the Salle 
 des Pas Perdus. 
 
 Meanwhile Thornton and Mrs. Clavering had estab- 
 lished themselves in a corner at the end of the terrace. 
 
 "It seems like old times — on the veranda — at a 
 regimental dance," she said. '* At least that is what you 
 were going to say, I suppose. I never yet met an old 
 admirer but what he made some remark of the kind. 
 So I have saved you from the commonplace." 
 
 " I was meditating some politeness of the sort," replied 
 Thornton carelessly. " I thought you would expect it." 
 
 " I hope you will always have the same delicate con- 
 sideration for others, Mr. Hammerdyke. How long are 
 you going to be good and domestic ? " 
 
 " Always, I suppose. I am going to run politics and 
 that sort of show." 
 
 Mrs. Clavering laughed lightly. 
 
 " Ha ! When I see you at it I'll believe it — unless 
 you have changed extraordinarily since I last knew you. 
 And you don't look much changed. Perhaps matrimony 
 will work the miracle. Ha ! ha ! Pardon my laugh- 
 ing, but it seems so ridiculous to see you, of all people, 
 married." 
 
 " I suppose I have human attributes somewhere about 
 me," he said. 
 
 " Too vastly human, my poor friend ; that is where the 
 danger lies. To err is human, you know. I hope 
 your wife will do the divine part of the business, as 
 women generally do, and forgive. By the way, I have
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 193 
 
 not made you my compliment, as they say in this country, 
 I think your wife simply perfect." 
 
 " We agree there for once," replied Thornton drily. 
 
 "Tell me all about it. Can't you see I am dying to 
 know ? That is why I brought you out here. Who is 
 she ? Where did you meet her ? Were you long 
 engaged ? And I know you too are dying to talk to 
 someone about her. You may as well gratify the crav- 
 ing while you still have it." 
 
 " I believe you are madly jealous, Clara. Pardon my 
 frankness. But you and I always went in for being 
 frank with one another." 
 
 "Call it amiable brutality — it would be better." 
 
 " As you like. I never went in for splitting hairs. I 
 suppose it's brutal to say you are jealous." 
 
 " It is simply idiotic. Therefore I bear you no ill 
 will for your saying so. I honestly admire your wife, 
 and think you have got very much more than you 
 deserve, and I am femininely curious. Now perhaps 
 you will tell me." 
 
 " Well, I met her at a cousin's house. She is, or rather 
 was, an artist." 
 
 " I appreciate the distinction. Proceed." 
 
 Thornton threw himself back with a great laugh 
 against the balustrade, his elbows resting upon it, his 
 hands in his pockets, 
 
 " I think you are just a little bit jealous," he said. 
 " Well — to finish my story. She is of an old Bucking- 
 hamshire family, and we were engaged about a month. 
 And then we were married. But tell me, by way of 
 changing the conversation " 
 
 "Which may be painful." 
 
 " Precisely. How long are you going to stay in 
 Paris ? " 
 
 " I don't know. As long as Paris pleases me. Am I 
 going to see you any more, or are you too much en- 
 grossed ? I don't want to take you away from your 
 duties." 
 
 "I don't think you are likely to, Clara." 
 
 " Possibly not. Your wife will keep a tight rein upon 
 you. She looks that sort. But I don't know why we 
 should be talking in this strain the first time we have 
 
 13
 
 194 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 had a word together for — how many years ? Four ? 
 Five ? We have quickly dropped into old ways. But 
 then you were a fire-eater, a chartered libertine, inde- 
 pendent, a bird of freedom. Whereas now — my poor 
 friend ! " 
 
 " By George ! " cried Thornton, starting forward, with 
 some excitement in his eyes that glowed in the dimness, 
 *' don't fall into any delusion. If you think I am going 
 the way of another poor friend of ours who can't call 
 his soul his own, you are devilishly mistaken. I married 
 because it happened to strike me that I wanted to do so. 
 But I run the concern, and my wife's a sensible woman 
 and recognises the fact. And whatever I want to do I 
 am going to do. I have generally done it, and don't see 
 why I should break through my habit now." 
 
 " And your wife ?" 
 
 *' How — my wife ? '' 
 
 " Is she going to enjoy a beautiful independence like- 
 wise ?" 
 
 '* No. It isn't good for women." 
 
 ** Thank you. You always were a delicate judge in 
 things feminine. Did you ever read ' As You Like It ' ? 
 ' Lock the door on your wife's wit and it will out at the 
 casement.' Have a care, my friend. I am about the 
 only woman you have tried to make a fool of and haven't 
 succeeded, and so you perhaps have a kind of respect 
 for my intelligence, and I give you warning." 
 
 " I burned some of your letters the other day," said 
 Thornton cynically. 
 
 " That was wise. Suppose we go in. The act must 
 be about commencing." 
 
 The curtain was already up. Major Clavering was 
 scanning the house drearily through a pair of opera 
 glasses. Clytie was looking at the stage and thinking 
 of her husband, wishing he would come in. When the 
 door behind opened she turned round, and with an eye 
 trained to catch fleeting expression, noticed a look upon 
 Thornton's face, — the after-light, as it were, of a sneer, 
 before the features had time to reset, — that she had 
 never observed there before. The change from this to 
 his usual gay smile was so rapid that she thought she 
 had been mistaken, and attributed it to an illusion pro-
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 195 
 
 duced by the shadow at the back of the box. But the 
 impression of it remained and it was unpleasant. 
 
 During the next entracte the men went out, leaving 
 Clytie and Mrs. Clavering alone together. Either 
 through the mere social desire to please or through a 
 feeling of compassion proceeding from conscious 
 superiority, the elder woman sought to make an agree- 
 able impression upon the young wife. But Clytie had 
 wrapped herself up in a strange veil of reserve and her 
 attitude was unpropitiatory. Mrs. Clavering's falsetto 
 voice struck upon her nerves, the confident air of 
 patronage irritated her. She longed to be away from 
 the heavy, acrid atmosphere, the artificiality of the opera, 
 the society of Mrs. Clavering. She felt self-conscious, 
 was angry with herself. She had the keen feminine 
 sense of a false position and longed for extrication. 
 She was glad when her husband and Major Clavering 
 returned. 
 
 " I have been telling Mrs. Hammerdyke about old 
 times in Cairo, and singing your praises," said Mrs. 
 Clavering. " Are you not grateful to me ? " 
 
 " I am flattered," said Thornton somewhat ironically. 
 
 " That is always the way to make a man grateful." 
 
 " It is the same with us. I don't suppose there is 
 much difference in that respect between men and 
 women," said Clytie, for the sake of saying something, 
 
 " I am not so sure of that," replied Mrs. Clavering ; 
 "women can generally sift the grain from the chaff — 
 only, poor things, they too often take the chaff by prefer- 
 ence." 
 
 " I hope you are not alluding to me, my dear," said 
 the major, who was given to saying stupid things by 
 way of showing that he followed the thread of his wife's 
 conversation. 
 
 Thornton chimed in with his deep laugh. 
 
 " That is one for you, Clavering. Perhaps one for me 
 too. Anyhow, the curtain is going up and that saves us. 
 Make room for me by you, Clytie, and tell me about 
 what's going on." 
 
 He edged in his chair between Clytie and Mrs. Claver- 
 ing. The major lounged behind, with his hands in his 
 pockets, very much bored. He was hoping to escape soon.
 
 196 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 " Are you enjoying it ? " whispered Thornton to 
 Clytie. 
 
 " Moderately. It is a dull opera. And it is so 
 unbearably hot." 
 
 " It is not entrancingly interesting. Would you like to 
 clear out after this act? I should." 
 
 " And the Claverings ? " 
 
 "They are a bit tired of it. Shall we all go back 
 together to the hotel and have supper? " 
 
 " I'd sooner we were alone together, Thornton dear — 
 this evening." 
 
 He made a little gesture of impatience. 
 
 " Of course we won't ask them if you don't want to. 
 But then we must stay this thing out." 
 
 He leaned back in his chair and looked at the mass of 
 heads in the opposite tiers, vague in the dimness, and 
 drummed with his fingers on the rails of his chair. 
 
 " Sh ! " said Mrs. Clavering. " That's one of your 
 old tricks. You never seem to think that people have 
 nerves." 
 
 Clytie caught the words, although they were whispered. 
 She turned her head round quickly and stared at the 
 stage for the rest of the act. 
 
 When it was over Mrs. Clavering solved the question 
 of departure. 
 
 *' I think we all want to go," she said, rising. " My 
 husband is suffering acutely, and yours I know is not 
 very musical. When shall we see you again, Mrs. Ham- 
 merdyke ? Will you come and dine with us some even- 
 ing, quietly — when we can talk better ? I'll let you know 
 what evenings we are free. Will that do ? That is your 
 wife's cloak, not mine, Mr. Hammerdyke." 
 
 A few minutes later Thornton and Clytie were driving 
 back to their hotel in the pleasant Paris victoria. It 
 seemed a superb night. A slight breeze had risen, and 
 the leaves in the Champs Elysees rustled pleasantly. 
 Clytie leaned back with a sense of relief, physical and 
 moral. They had both been rather silent since they left 
 the opera house. 
 
 " Don't let us go in," said Clytie suddenly. " Let us 
 drive about a little, along the quays — anywhere." 
 
 " i was just going to suggest it," said Thornton.
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 197 
 
 He gave the order to the coachman, who turned back 
 through the Place de la Concorde and took them past 
 the Tuileries and the great mass of the Louvre and 
 along the quays in the direction of Auteuil. 
 
 " What do you think of the Clavering woman? " asked 
 Thornton. " Not much, eh ? " 
 
 *' I can't say that I like her. Perhaps I oughtn't to 
 say it, as she is a friend of yours, but — she doesn't 
 please me." 
 
 " Well, I can't say that she does me now. She never 
 was a beauty, but she has sadly fallen off the last few 
 years. She thinks herself so deuced superior. And she 
 isn't, by Jove ! Still she is amusing, you know, and 
 that is a quality that covers a multitude of sins. But 
 other women can't understand her. She was loathed 
 by them all in Cairo, so you are not alone in your 
 antipathy." 
 
 There was a long silence. Thornton drew her closer 
 to his side and took her hand in his. Clytie felt some- 
 what hurt. It was not flattering to be grouped with the 
 other women in Cairo, however estimable they may have 
 been in their non-appreciation of Mrs. Clavering. They 
 drove on, and began to talk of different subjects, dis- 
 connectedly, without much interest. Finally Thornton 
 came back to the Claverings. 
 
 *' By the way, I suppose you'll dine with them, as they 
 were civil enough to ask us." 
 
 " Certainly, if you wish it and it gives you any 
 pleasure. Perhaps I may like her better when I know 
 more of her." 
 
 " You see, you can't drop people because you don't 
 happen to take a violent fancy to them," he said rather 
 lamely. And then he added : 
 
 " I wish you had let me ask them to supper," 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " It would have livened us up a little." 
 
 " Perhaps it would," answered Clytie almost wearily. 
 "I half wish you had." 
 
 The evanescent charm had gone from the drive. The 
 weather, too, had changed. Clouds, that had impercep- 
 tibly gathered, covered the moon. The quay looked 
 desolate, the water black and lifeless, on the other side
 
 198 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 the great buildings loomed forbidding in the darkness. 
 An air of disenchantment was over all things. 
 
 " Will monsieur turn back ? It is going to rain," said 
 the cabman, lounging sideways and looking down at 
 them. 
 
 They turned off through the narrow streets, on the 
 nearest way back to the hotel. The cab horse was tired 
 and jogged on painfully, indifferent to the loud-cracking 
 whip and the ^^ hue's" addressed to him in the driver's 
 raucous voice. Clytie shivered a little at the sudden 
 fall in the temperature. She was chilled too — ever so 
 little — at her heart. She drew away slightly from her 
 husband, who held her hand mechanically. When she 
 withdrew it he did not seem to notice. He had dis- 
 covered that he was annoyed about the supper. 
 
 Suddenly the horse, overdriven, stumbled, tried to 
 recover himself, and then crashed down helpless, snapping 
 the shaft. The victoria lurched violently on the side 
 where Clytie was sitting. To save herself she jumped 
 out quickly, but her foot slipped on the kerb and she 
 nearly fell. Thornton sprang out and raised her, and then 
 turned to the coachman in a sudden frenzy of passion. 
 He stood there moving his arms about and cursed him 
 in English. Clytie was shocked to the heart. She was 
 thankful that she could see his face but dimly in the bad 
 gaslight. The cabman shrugged his shoulders as he 
 bent down to loosen the traces. Some people came up, 
 chiefly from a small brasserie whose few tables were just 
 visible some yards further along the street. Another 
 cab arrived and paused, interested and expectant, watch- 
 ing the scene : the little group round the fallen horse ; 
 the stately figure of the girl in white dress and rich opera- 
 cloak standing by the upset cab ; the great figure of the 
 man, stamping with rage, pouring forth a torrent of 
 oaths. It all happened very quickly. 
 
 Clytie touched her husband's arm quietly. 
 
 " Stop, Thornton," she said. " He does not even 
 understand you." 
 
 Thornton looked at her for a moment, then at the 
 group. Then he burst into a loud laugh, pulled a ten- 
 franc piece from his pocket and threw it to the cabman, 
 who picked it up with an ironical, ^' Merci, bourgeois."
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 199 
 
 They entered the other cab and drove quickly home- 
 wards. Thornton seemed to have forgotten his rage, 
 for he laughed in high spirits over the incident. He 
 apologised gaily for his loss of temper and language. 
 He was still infected with his years of savagery, he 
 pleaded. He had been so accustomed to rule men by 
 terror that he forgot himself sometimes. Often he had 
 been the only white man among hundreds of fierce, law- 
 less savages, over whom he had despotic authority of life 
 and death. If they had not feared his rage and violence, 
 his life would not have been worth a moment's purchase. 
 
 He had regained his old manner, the daring personal 
 charm that had swept her along in spite of herself into 
 marrying him. The glamour of his fame, his power, his 
 heroism came over her and hid the sordid scenes of the 
 evening. When they reached the hotel they were lovers 
 once more. 
 
 As Clytie alighted from the cab her foot gave way 
 beneath her. It had been hurting her since her slip on 
 the kerb, but she had scarcely noticed the pain. Now 
 she found that she could not walk. She had sprained 
 her ankle. She limped into the hotel with Thornton's 
 aid. Then she stood at the foot of the stairs and looked 
 at them helplessly. It was an old-fashioned hotel, with- 
 out a lift, and their rooms were on the third story. 
 
 *' I'll carry you up," said Thornton. 
 
 He took her up in his arms, and mounted the stairs 
 with a step as light and springy as if he had no burden 
 to carry. Until then Clytie had not realised his marvel- 
 lous strength. 
 
 " I feel like the fairy princess being carried off by the 
 giant," she whispered.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Clytie was confined several days to her room through 
 her sprained ankle. It was not an unqualified affliction, 
 as it solved the question of her dining with the Claver- 
 ings. Thornton went alone, carrying with him his wife's 
 excuses and regrets, and returned to her in high spirits. 
 When she was able to get about again the Claverings 
 had left Paris for Homburg, where they were going to 
 stay for a few weeks. " And when they return to Lon- 
 don we can see just as much or as little of them as we 
 like," said Thornton. 
 
 The forced confinement also brought Clytie a little 
 more solitude than usual. Thornton found a race 
 meeting or two to go to, and a nominally bachelor 
 supper party, and he laughed, in his gay manner, at this 
 resumption of bachelor habits. Clytie was rather glad, 
 on the whole, to be left to her own society for a little. 
 She was gradually awakening from the dream, realising 
 herself. Very often in the ordinary, sober moments of life 
 Thornton jarred upon her. His absence often was a 
 relief. She hated herself when this unwelcome and 
 unbidden thought came into her mind ; but it came for all 
 her hating. The sprained ankle marked definitely the 
 end of this second or false honeymoon in Paris, whose 
 glamour was the lingering twilight glow of the real one in 
 Bordighera. It was then that Clytie first thought of the 
 railway journey as a landmark. After her recovery 
 Thornton continued his bachelor habits as a matter 
 of course, and as a matter of course discontinued 
 his playful apologies. Still he took Clytie whitherso- 
 ever she expressed a desire to go, and gladly, proud 
 of having his beautiful wife by his side. Only, if she 
 elected to remain at home, he went out equally cheer- 
 fully by himself. 
 
 Occasionally they drove in the Bois in a neat phaeton
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 20I 
 
 and pair which he hired for her from a livery-stable, 
 and he would point out to her the celebrities whom 
 they passed by. Some of these she had herself met 
 or seen at the various social functions to which they 
 had received invitations. They themselves, too, had 
 become known and were pointed out with some curi- 
 osity, — le beau couple, as the phrase went, — even by 
 those who were unacquainted with their name or 
 position. Thornton was always in his gayest humour 
 on these occasions as he sat by his wife's side and 
 guided his pair through the crush of magnificent equi- 
 pages ; and she felt glad too and elated, pleased by the 
 vivid flashes of colouring in dresses and parasols, and the 
 vague perfumes that filled the air, and the half-caught 
 scraps of conversation and laughter. Her girlish delight 
 at the gladness of life came back to her fresh and 
 untainted. She indulged her old habit of speculation 
 on the life that lay beneath individual faces, which she 
 stored up in her memory for rapid sketching when at 
 leisure, and she would draw Thornton into her vein, and 
 then there were arguments without end. These were 
 some of her happiest moments in Paris, when she 
 recovered her old self, bright, satirical, paradoxical, and 
 felt no cold hand on her heart. 
 
 One day, towards the end of their stay in Paris, they 
 had drawn up in the block of carriages by the side of the 
 promenade. The sun was powerful, and the glaring 
 colours in the carriages contrasted with the cool tones of 
 white and gray in the deep shade under the chestnut- 
 trees. Clytie was animatedly observing the bright scene 
 when her eyes met those of a woman, quietly though 
 expensively dressed, seated in an open carriage quite 
 close by. For a moment they looked at one another in 
 silent inquiry, and then came a flash of mutual recogni- 
 tion. It was the girl whom Clytie had met the summer 
 before in the hotel at Dinan. The scene, with its mingled 
 associations of wonder and pity, came back to her, and 
 moved by a strong impulse she smiled and moved her 
 head slightly. A look of eager wonderment came over 
 the other's face as she returned Clytie's greeting. And 
 then she turned quickly away to talk to a man who had 
 just come up to the side of the carriage.
 
 202 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 " Confound it, Clytie ! " cried Thornton, setting the 
 horses in motion, " you must really make sure who 
 people are before you bow to them. Do you know who 
 that woman is ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Clytie, " that is to say, I know what she 
 is. I don't know her name." 
 
 " She is one of the most notorious women in Paris, 
 Loulou Mendes. You mustn't go playing the fool like 
 this ! What did you bow to her for ? " 
 
 " Because I know her — a little." 
 
 " You — know — her ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, Thornton dear ; it is somewhat of a story. 
 I met her accidentally last year in Dinan. She was in 
 trouble, and I took a fancy for her, and seeing her 
 suddenly here, I showed her that I recognised her." 
 
 " I sincerely hope you won't do such a thing again," 
 he said shortly, giving a vicious cut to the horses that 
 sent them spinning down the alle'e. " And please to 
 remember that you are not an amateur Bohemian any 
 longer, but my wife." 
 
 "Oh, Thornton, you mustn't say things like that ! " said 
 Clytie, with a queer little catch at her throat. " They 
 hurt me ! " 
 
 " Well, you mustn't deserve them," replied Thornton. 
 And then, mollifying at the sight of her distress : " You 
 don't understand these things, little wife." 
 
 " Well, never mind, dear," said Clytie. " Perhaps it 
 was foolish of me. I ought to have considered you ; I 
 didn't think of it. She kissed my hand the last time I 
 saw her, and it would have seemed base and hypocritical 
 to have cut her dead to-day. It seemed such a little 
 matter. Why hurt the girl's feelings ? That's why I 
 did it." 
 
 " Feelings ? " echoed Thornton, with a laugh. " Bah! 
 my good child, you are talking nonsense. She put her 
 feelings up the spout years ago to get herself champagne 
 and diamonds and the rest of it. With her soul sold to 
 the devil and her body to men, what the deuce is she 
 going to do with feelings ? " 
 
 " What I saw of her was very human, Thornton. And 
 if such women are brutes, it is men who make them so. 
 If men were only kinder and tenderer "
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 203 
 
 " Like the sentimental idiot in * Jenny.' That's a poem 
 about it, you know." 
 
 " Yes — Rossetti ; I am very fond of it," she replied, 
 with a half smile, wondering somewhat at his expla- 
 nation. Then she added : " But surely there's humanity 
 in every human being," 
 
 " That's a very sweet, innocent belief, and you had 
 better keep to it, my dear." 
 
 " Oh, Thornton, I'm not an ignorant little schoolgirl," 
 she said, with hurt vanity. " I have learned something of 
 the world. Perhaps I have been too eager to acquaint 
 myself with things." 
 
 " Anyhow, you can't know much about them," he re- 
 plied shortly. " Leave such things alone. They don't 
 concern you, so what's the good of prying into them ? " 
 
 " They have concerned me," she insisted. " Believe 
 me, Thornton, it was something deeper than ordinary 
 morbid curiosity that led me to them," 
 
 " But I can't see what the deuce the Social Question 
 has to do with girls," he said. " That is what licks me. 
 What the dickens has it got to do with your life ? " 
 
 "But you mistake, Thornton," she replied eagerly, 
 with a return of her old earnestness. " It is not the 
 Social Question. Indeed not. I never have any call to 
 look at things in that aspect. I am neither a sociologist 
 nor a reformer. I am an artist. I have to express certain 
 truths about human beings, — the little talent I have lies 
 entirely that way, — and in order to express the truths I 
 had to set to work to learn them. How all this corrup- 
 tion affects society, how it is to be done away with and 
 so on, does not come within my province. But to get to 
 the hearts and inner feelings of individuals, to see how 
 society affects them, what justification they have in their 
 struggle with it, how they contemplate life, what ele- 
 ments of emotion, or passion, or weariness, or what not 
 form essential parts of their beings that do not form 
 essential parts of mine — to try to do that, Thornton, has 
 been my business, and, till I knew you, was the dearest 
 motive of my life. Don't you see ? " 
 
 " And when you have done it what good will it do to 
 yourself or anybody else ? " 
 
 ** To answer you I should have to appear conceited.
 
 204 AT THE GATE OF SAMABIA. 
 
 It would be answering the question, What is the good of 
 art at all?" 
 
 *' Well, all said and done, what is the good of it ? To 
 make pretty and amusing things to look at. All the rest 
 is cant and humbug — including your desire to scrape 
 acquaintance with loose women for artistic purposes. 
 Look here, little wife" — and he turned round, with a sharp 
 smile that showed his white teeth more than usual — " I 
 didn't fall in love with you because you were an artist 
 and held highfalutin' theories about artistic ideals and so 
 forth, but because you were the woman whose loveliness 
 appealed tome and always fascinated me. And now you 
 are my wife you have other things to think about." 
 
 " I know that, Thornton," she replied, staring a little 
 wistfully in front of her. " Tell me. What is our new 
 life going to be like ? You speak so little of it that I 
 scarcely know." 
 
 " Oh ! what's the good of worrying yourself about it 
 yet? I'll tell you when the time comes. You'll have 
 our position in society to look after, keep things going 
 straight for me in quarters where a woman can wheedle 
 out more in an hour than a man in a twelvemonth. I 
 have definitely taken up politics, you know. Things 
 were settled this morning." 
 
 "Oh, why didn't you tell me before?" she cried 
 involuntarily. 
 
 " I never thought of it, my dear. Well, Hernshawe 
 has asked me whether I would care to be his private 
 secretary. His present man is in the Civil Service 
 and is resigning owing to some office promotion, so when 
 the House meets after the Whitsuntide recess Hernshawe 
 will be free to take me." 
 
 " I don't quite understand," said Clytie, to whom 
 these details were all new. She was vaguely aware that 
 Thornton had intentions of aiming at a parliamentary 
 career, but as he had volunteered no confidences, she 
 had shrunk from soliciting them. 
 
 " I don't understand," she repeated, " why you should 
 take a private-secretaryship. You want to enter Parlia- 
 ment." 
 
 " Of course. But I am so out of things that I want 
 to get into training, so to speak. I shall be this session,
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 205 
 
 perhaps next, with Hernshawe and learn all the ropes, 
 and then he will run me for a suitable vacancy. It is as 
 simple as good-morning, as they say in this country. I 
 must do something, and politics seem about the only 
 mildly exciting thing to go in for in this severely flat and 
 respectable continent. But beyond looking after the 
 society side of the matter, I don't see why you need 
 worry your pretty head about it." 
 
 " Then don't you want me to become a bit of a poli- 
 tician, so as to help you, and understand you in your 
 career ? " 
 
 "Oh, of course, to a certain extent," he replied with 
 cheerful offhandedness. " But for God's sake, my dear 
 child, don't become a political woman. If there's one 
 kind of a woman I bar more than another, its the female 
 politician. Of course you'll have to go round canvass- 
 ing for votes at the election, and to humbug people in 
 society, but all that is rather sport than otherwise? Never 
 mind, little wife ; you'll have a ripping good time in 
 London when the show begins." 
 
 He laughed, in gay good humour again. Clytie echoed 
 with a faint smile. 
 
 " Thornton," she said after a short pause, " I don't 
 want to bother you about politics if you don't like it " — 
 she felt now a strange hesitation in speaking to him — 
 " but you know you'll have to convert me, dear. It has 
 been on my mind for some time. You are a Tory, you 
 know, and I have been a Radical hitherto in feelings 
 and sympathies." 
 
 He burst out laughing at her little air of seriousness. 
 Perhaps if he had known how he hurt her, he would 
 not have treated the matter so cavalierly. This differ- 
 ence in political views had been a question of some con- 
 cern to Clytie, who was aware of old-fashioned Tory 
 prejudices. And Thornton took her Radicalism as a 
 jest, attributing no importance to the difference of 
 opinion. 
 
 " You'll change when we get back and become a 
 shining light in the Primrose League." 
 
 She was too depressed by the whole of the forego- 
 ing conversation to pursue the subject any further. 
 Thornton started the lighter topic of personal criticism
 
 2o6 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 of their new acquaintances in Paris, and rattled on in 
 great spirits. He had forgotten entirely the argu- 
 ment that Clytie's somewhat unconventional action had 
 occasioned, and was as boyishly gay as ever. But men 
 forget things much more easily than women, especially 
 when they have no object in remembering, nor any remi- 
 niscent twinge of susceptibility. 
 
 That evening Clytie spent alone. Thornton was din- 
 ing at the Cafe des Ambassadeurs with some men from 
 the Embassy. He had kissed her before he started, 
 called himself a selfish brute for condemning her to a 
 dull evening, and went away humming a cafe-concert 
 air. She did not mind his leaving her, took it now as a 
 matter of course that each should be to a certain extent 
 independent of the other; for the glamour of the south 
 had departed, and the practicalities of life had begun to 
 assert themselves. But it was the first wretched even- 
 ing of her married life. She would have liked to cry, 
 but as she was not of those who cry easily, she sat with 
 eyes all the more painful for being strained and tearless. 
 She had received a great shock. Ever since she had 
 rebelled against the Durdleham formula that men were 
 to descend from their intellectual sublimity when they 
 spoke to women, lest like Semele the latter should be con- 
 sumed in the Jovian blaze, she had been accustomed to 
 meet men freely on an intellectual level. To find her- 
 self in a society where this particular formula was un- 
 known had been one of the earliest joys of her emanci- 
 pated life. She had very little vanity in the matter of 
 her own attainments, but she took it for granted that her 
 associates should recognise in her a woman of ordinary 
 culture, capable of forming rational opinions. Her 
 intelligence was keen, her judgment fine. She had read, 
 thought, observed. Her art was to a certain extent a 
 matter of intellect as well as of instinctive feeling, and in 
 this respect had been stimulated by her intercourse with 
 Kent. In the glow of her young, ardent nature she had 
 committed many extravagances, but they all had borne 
 the indubitable stamp of a mind strenuous in its 
 endeavours. None but fools had ever thought of con- 
 descending to Clytie because she was a woman. 
 
 And now for the first time she was coolly shown that
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 207 
 
 she was a woman, that her opinions were not worth seri- 
 ous consideration, that she must not trouble her pretty 
 head about things that were too deep for her. And by 
 the man, above all, whose life she shared. They were 
 hours of dull, dazed humiliation that she spent alone 
 that evening ; hours that were not lost even in the pain 
 of her after life. Over the absence of sympathy with her 
 own pursuits she was only a little regretful. It would 
 have been nicer if Thornton had been able to take a 
 pleasure in her art. But she was too large-natured not 
 to be able to bridge over this small gap between them. 
 She was ready to sacrifice her art entirely to her love, 
 was eager to throw herself into his interests and ambi- 
 tions. But she demanded a full, vigorous share. To 
 live an empty life was with her an impossibility. And 
 to this life Thornton, in his good-natured contempt for 
 her powers, was condemning her. She was puzzled, 
 humiliated, frightened. 
 
 There is a vague mystery of woe in the dawn of a 
 dreary day. 
 
 Meanwhile Thornton was enjoying himself amazingly. 
 The dinner was one which, as Heine says, " ought to be 
 partaken of kneeling," and the wine was excellent ; the 
 party well chosen, the talk essentially, broadly mascu- 
 line. There is a certain type of man whose conversa- 
 tion is wholly made up of sport in its various aspects, 
 women, shop, and crude personal gossip — a type which 
 numbers its tens of thousands in English society. It can 
 be met with, to utter weariness of the soul, in any 
 heterogeneous gathering of upper- and middle-class 
 Britons. They are God's creatures, it is true ; many of 
 them are possessed of estimable qualities, some of them 
 have performed deeds of heroism. But as a type they 
 are a glaring satire upon the vaunted culture and refine- 
 ment of our civilisation. And it is a remarkable thing 
 how little their power and influence are recognised by 
 writers in their analysis of the spirit of this dying nine- 
 teenth century. This vast overwhelming type does not 
 read, does not think, does not care for art or music, has 
 no power of penetration to the heart of delicate things. 
 It is dull, brawny, selfish, and a pillar of the Church and 
 State. Its main subjective characteristic is the brutality
 
 2o8 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 of its views concerning women — varying from the kindly 
 disdain of its liigiiest members to the degraded brutality 
 of its lowest. 
 
 Of this type, with all his physical charm, his brilliant 
 personality and splendid capacities for action, was 
 Thornton Hammerdyke. The man whose magnetism 
 had drawn Clytie irresistibly, headlong into his arms 
 was only, after all, a representative of this ignoble, 
 commonplace order of men. The love that had flooded 
 Clytie's being with wild surging tumult was only, after 
 all, the commonplace, ignoble passion of his type. 
 There are some things so elementary that analysis 
 quickly comes to an end. Put in a strip of litmus paper 
 and it is done. 
 
 He was honestly glad to be free of Clytie. With un- 
 conscious cynicism he never sought to disguise it from 
 himself. With Carteret of the Hussars and Swithin and 
 Holyoake of the Embassy he was in his proper sphere. 
 They were of the type. He had interests in common 
 with them. The fact that he was a man of high dis- 
 tinction was neither here nor there. Over the fish and 
 entries they talked of racing and shooting ; over the 
 game they wandered along the upper galleries of the 
 Cloaca Maxima of Paris ; over the peaches and Chateau- 
 Mouton they told foul stories. An ignoble, commonplace 
 dinner party. 
 
 And Clytie was alone in her room at the hotel staring 
 at an unknown future.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 The last three days of their stay in Paris were marked 
 by a return on the part of Thornton to his old devotion. 
 He declined invitations ruthlessly, spent almost the 
 whole of his time with his wife. In all outward and 
 visible signs they were lovers again, but the inward and 
 spiritual grace was a bit vapoury. They went on excur- 
 sions together, to Fontainebleau, Melun, Passy. One 
 day they wandered about the forest of Vincennes and 
 he kissed her beneath the trees as he used to do at 
 Bordighera. They had gay, laughing meals together at 
 little riverside restaurants. He was passionate in his 
 expressions of endearment and in his delight at her 
 beauty. With the negative tact of passion, he avoided 
 all subjects that could jar upon her. For three days he 
 was the Thornton of their honeymoon. 
 
 Clytie at first could not understand this sudden 
 change. She asked him the reason tremulously. 
 
 " Can't you see, you silly girl," he replied with master- 
 ful frankness, " that I love you and we have only three 
 more days' idleness ? " 
 
 And then she let the spell come over her again and 
 surrendered herself to his mood. But now, instead of 
 entering with spontaneous joy a world of laughter whose 
 magic gates lay open before her, she crossed the thres- 
 hold with deliberate step. She had to choose whether 
 to laugh or cry. She was young, she wanted to love her 
 husband ; so she chose to laugh. It was an act of 
 reason. But woe to love when reason has to find its 
 argument ! 
 
 By Whitsuntide they were in London, installed in 
 their house in the Cromwell Road. The three days' 
 passion had cooled down, and the atmosphere was colder 
 than before. But Clytie for several weeks was so busy 
 that she had not time for much consideration of trou- 
 
 809 '4
 
 2IO AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 bling questions. First, the house required her attention. 
 There was much supplementary furniture to be chosen, 
 many minor schemes of decoration to be carried out in 
 accordance with her own artistic tastes. 
 
 Thornton gave her a free hand in these matters, and, 
 beyond taking it for granted that the house should be 
 fitly arranged, never troubled himself about details. 
 He attended two or three picture sales with Clytie, 
 where he bought a few pictures on her recommen- 
 dation, ordered some great leather armchairs for his 
 smoking-room, and then transferred his attention to 
 concerns of more serious interest. So Clytie, left un- 
 hampered, succeeded in arranging the house to her own 
 satisfaction. This occupied a great portion of her time ; 
 the rest was almost entirely devoted to her social duties. 
 
 She found herself in some small position in society, as 
 the artistic wife of a distinguished soldier of fortune 
 with a considerable income, and it was Thornton's special 
 ambition for the time being that this position should be 
 maintained and secured, in furtherance of his own per- 
 sonal projects. Whilst contemplating marriage, or rather 
 after he had, in his fierce impetuous way, decided upon 
 it, he had sought around after some practical interest in 
 his new life. He had forsworn Africa, with a virtuous 
 sense of self-sacrifice. What remained worthy of a man's 
 serious attention ? He did not consult Clytie. It 
 scarcely occurred to him that the subject concerned her. 
 Of the few careers that presented themselves he selected 
 two, the turf and politics, and wavered for some time in 
 his choice. At last he tossed up for it, as he had often 
 done at the fork of two paths in the forest. The coin 
 came down with the Queen's head uppermost — and that 
 meant politics. He was a Tory of the fiercer school. 
 Even if family and professional tradition had not influ- 
 enced him, a lengthy course of despotic authority enforced 
 by the halter and the butt end of a musket is not favour- 
 able to the cultivation of Liberal suavities and amen- 
 ities. And again, the "type" is almost always Tory. He 
 was even out of touch with the broader Conservativism 
 of our day, between which and modern Liberalism he 
 failed to appreciate the distinction. In fact his political 
 ideals, such as they were, belonged to the beginning
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 21 1 
 
 instead of the end of the century, but he expressed them 
 with a fervour that left no doubt as to their genuineness. 
 
 He had no difficulty in setting at work the machinery 
 of social influence, and the result was the offer of a pri- 
 vate-secretaryship on the part of an under-secretary 
 of state. He accepted it. It would not only afford him 
 an insight into the practical working of politics, but 
 would give him an opportunity of making himself known 
 to the chiefs of the Conservative party and securing their 
 influence when he should seek to enter Parliament. 
 When everything was settled he informed Clytie casually 
 in Paris of his new ambitions. She, too, had wondered 
 what outlet this man of restless action would find for his 
 energies, and, shrinking from inquiry, had been filled 
 with vague uneasiness. Now she felt that he had made 
 a worthy choice and in spite of dubious encouragement 
 strove to identify herself with his interests. True, she 
 contemplated with a little dismay the abandonment of 
 her own pet social theories, which tended towards an 
 advanced and somewhat inchoate Radicalism, and the 
 espousal of a cause forming part of a scheme of life 
 against which she had so passionately rebelled. But she 
 wilfully, almost desperately, shut her eyes against all 
 this. She would give her heart and soul to Thornton's 
 glory, and the sacrifice of principle on her part would 
 only accentuate the triumph. But this sacrifice Thorn- 
 ton did not concern himself to realise. Very few men 
 ever do. As we have seen, he laughed at it. 
 
 He entered upon his political duties as soon as they 
 returned to London, led a busy life of work and pleasure, 
 throwing into both the energy of his strong vitality. He 
 was not a man to wait. Social position, power, must be 
 wrested from the world by force of arms. The sooner 
 the struggle began and the fiercer it was fought the sooner 
 would come success. It behoved Clytie, therefore, to 
 enter upon it with him at once. Before she could real- 
 ise herself as mistress of a large house, as cut off from 
 the old habits that had invested London with earnest 
 charm, as sundered from Kent and Winifred, as deprived 
 of her art and her dreams and ambition, she found her- 
 self caught up in the whirl of London society, bidden to 
 cultivate its conventions, flatter its weaknesses, intrigue,
 
 212 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 gossip, dance, drive, rush, without a moment's pause to 
 think. 
 
 And thus began her new life. It was not the one she 
 had dreamed of. In fact she hardly recognised herself 
 in her deliberate subordination to a nature dominating 
 hers. She let herself drift, abandoning herself to the 
 current, clutching hold of her love towards her husband 
 as the only plank saving her from destruction. 
 
 Winifred she saw occasionally. She had no time for 
 anything beyond a half hour's gossip, and then she 
 forgot her own hopes and fears in the happiness of her 
 friend, who had just become engaged to Treherne. She 
 saw nothing of Kent. A feeling she could not analyse 
 restrained her from writing to him, ever so formally. It 
 was analogous to the whimsical shrinking from sketching 
 his portrait when she had first met him. She heard of 
 him, however, through Winifred. He came down to the 
 studio still occasionally, and chatted over the teacups — 
 " chiefly about you, dear," said Winifred, " and the old 
 days and your present life." 
 
 "And is he changed at all?" asked Clytie. "It 
 seems centuries since those same old days. I feel almost 
 like asking whether he has a gray head and carries his 
 years well ! " 
 
 " It does seem a long time," said Winifred reflectively. 
 " But it really isn't, you know, and Kent is just the same 
 as ever. His trip abroad has done him so much good. 
 Do you know, dear, except Victor — and Mr. Hammer- 
 dyke, of course — I think he is the best man in all the 
 world." 
 
 Her brown cheeks flushed as she spoke, and Clytie 
 bent down and kissed them. 
 
 " Oh, Winnie darling, I wish everybody were as true 
 and loyal as you," she said. 
 
 A great sob was in her heart, and she would have given 
 much to have buried her face in Winnie's lap and let the 
 tears come how they would. But she mastered herself, 
 and before the other had time to hear the echo of the 
 chord that was struck she went on : 
 
 " Tell me, Winnie, how is his great work getting on ? " 
 
 " Rapidly, I believe," answered Winifred. " He 
 seems to have nothing else to live for now. I think he
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 213 
 
 misses you, dear, and plunges into it as a kind of conso- 
 lation. He has had a great compliment paid him — have 
 
 you heard ? He met a great Austrian scientist, Herr 
 
 I can't remember his name — it doesn't matter. Any- 
 how, he showed this professor his work, and talked to 
 him about the difficulties of publishing, expense, and all 
 that, and a few days ago he received an offer from the 
 University of Vienna to translate what was already done 
 into German and publish it there. He says it is a most 
 distinguished honour." 
 
 "I am so glad, dear," said Clytie. " I feel proud of 
 him, and I wish I could see him — to give him my con- 
 gratulations. You will tell him that I asked after him, 
 won't you, Winnie?" 
 
 " Why, of course ! " said Winifred. " Don't we al- 
 ways talk of you ? " 
 
 Mrs. Blather was anxious that Clytie and her husband 
 should come to Durdleham to stay there after the season 
 in town was over. But Clytie replied evasively to the 
 affectionate invitation. She shrank from Durdleham 
 even more than from herself. Mrs. Blather, now that 
 the soreness as regards the wedding had worn off, was 
 delighted at the brilliant match — just the very marriage 
 one could have wished for Clytie, as she remarked over 
 the Durdleham tea tables. Besides, it was definite set- 
 tling down for Clytie, saving tliem from that shadow of 
 scanda,l that had always seemed liable to be cast over 
 them through her unprincipled behaviour. There were 
 no longer any fears. And Mrs. Blather had her own little 
 triumph in another way. She remembered now she had 
 prophesied years ago that Clytie's desire to live her art 
 life in London was a craze that would not last long — like 
 Janet's transient enthusiasm for cookery classes. Both 
 Janet and herself took it for granted that Clytie viewed 
 her past errors with the same indulgent retrospective 
 smile, and wrote her complacent letters based on this 
 assumption. And Clytie found it harder than ever to 
 write to them naturally, to answer these letters in the 
 same tone. If her sisters had failed to understand her 
 when to her her young, earnest self was brightly intelli- 
 gible, how could they do it now when she saw herself
 
 214 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 vaguely, dimly, wrapped in impenetrable vapours ? A 
 visit to Durdleham, under the circumstances, seemed 
 almost an ordeal. Yet Thornton's presence there might 
 make some difference. 
 
 She spoke to him very little on the subject. He 
 broached it himself one day at breakfast, almost the only 
 time now, except late at night, that she saw him alone. 
 It was nearing the end of July and the session of Parlia- 
 ment was on the eve of closing. 
 
 " When are you going to see your people, Clytie ? " he 
 asked, looking over his paper. 
 
 " I thought I had told you. They want us to come 
 for a week as soon as we can leave town," 
 
 "Us?" 
 
 " Yes ; won't you come ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, thanks. It would not suit me at all. You 
 go and make an excuse for me." 
 
 " Things are not gay there, I know," said Clytie, " but 
 I should like you to come with me." 
 
 " It can't be done, my dear," replied Thornton. *' You 
 had better have a quiet time there by yourself, while I 
 go up to Scotland " 
 
 " I thought you would have liked me to go to Scot- 
 land with you — we have seen so little of each other 
 lately. You don't want to stay up there all the autumn 
 without me ?" she added half pathetically. 
 
 " Why, my dear Clytie, you can come if you like," said 
 her husband, drawing back his chair from the table. 
 "Only you won't find much fun in a little shooting-box 
 in the middle of a glen in the Highlands. Look: you go 
 and see your people for a month, and then, if you like, 
 you can come and join me there — that is to say, if Car- 
 teret has any of his women folks staying in the house, 
 which does not seem to be quite settled yet. If he 
 hasn't, naturally you can't come." 
 
 " In that case I shall not go to Durdleham — I couldn't. 
 You would not understand why. I shall stay in London, 
 and mind the house." 
 
 " I should not like you to do that," said Thornton. 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " Because I had rather you did not," he repeated, with 
 a gathering frown.
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 215 
 
 " How long do you contemplate being away ?" asked 
 Clytie quietly. 
 
 "August and September, perhaps — I can't quite tell 
 
 yet." 
 
 " Do you propose, then, that I should go and stay in 
 Durdleham for two months with my people ?" 
 
 He had not contemplated it, but he was irritated at 
 her show of opposition. He lost his temper and said 
 sharply : 
 
 "Yes. Or with any other friends you like. I am 
 not going to have you remain here all by yourself." 
 
 " Will you tell me your reasons, Thornton ? " asked 
 Clyde. 
 
 He crumpled up his paper angrily and thumped it on 
 the table. The veins in his forehead stood out. His 
 face grew ugly. 
 
 " When I say a thing is to be done I mean it," he 
 cried, " and I am not accustomed to be asked for my 
 reasons ! " 
 
 " I shall leave you until you have recovered yourself," 
 said Clytie with dignity, and she left the room. 
 
 This was the first real quarrel between them. The 
 blood had often rushed hot through Clytie's veins and 
 set her pulses tingling, but hitherto she had restrained 
 herself, feeling that the first revolt would mark the be- 
 ginning of the end. 
 
 She passed a miserable day. When Thornton came 
 home in the afternoon to dress for dinner he was in one 
 of his light-hearted moods. He had backed an outsider 
 some weeks back at very long odds. The race had been 
 run that day and the outsider had won, bringing him a 
 couple of thousand pounds — a windfall that relieved 
 him of certain temporary embarrassments. Hence his 
 buoyancy that afternoon. He had apparently forgotten 
 the morning's difference, and called Clytie "little wife " 
 again, and promised her a victoria to supplement the 
 modest brougham with which they had begun. He put 
 his arm round her and kissed her, praised her beautiful 
 hair, the roundness of her arms, her dress. He told 
 her the gossip of the day in his bright off-hartd manner, 
 made her laugh in spite of her weariness. But when he 
 kissed her she shrank a little. In the elation of his
 
 2l6 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 victory he did not notice her lack of responsiveness ; 
 besides, he was not over-sensitive at any time. When 
 they returned home at night from the dinner-party to 
 which they had gone together, Tliornton was still in 
 pleasant mood. Nothing more was said respecting the 
 plans for August and September. 
 
 The reconciliation did not last long. Clytie strove 
 with an earnestness that was torture to keep the peace 
 between them, but sometimes her nature clamoured 
 within her and broke out in self-assertion. Only four 
 months married, and already the breach between them 
 was perceptible, slowly widening. And it was Clytie 
 that drifted away from her husband. If she had been a 
 lesser nature, she might have retained the love on both 
 sides. A woman of a lower type would have been able 
 to flatter, soothe, cajole, yield, and thus have kept Thorn- 
 ton at her feet. The patronising contempt for her own 
 needs, which lashed Clytie to the soul, she would have 
 treated lightly, as the natural and foolish vanity of the 
 superior being ; and she would have found in a sud- 
 den demonstration of passion full compensation for pre- 
 vious indifference. But Clytie was not only unversed 
 herself in the arts of seduction, but despised them 
 fiercely in other women. And she began also to 
 dread Thornton's fits of affection as much as his fits 
 of anger. 
 
 He left her one morning quivering with mortification 
 and suppressed bitterness. He himself was not con- 
 scious of the slight he had inflicted, and he went away 
 in gay spirits. Their talk had turned upon a Cabinet 
 Minister named Godderich, whose influence Thornton 
 was anxious to acquire. Now it had so happened that 
 this same Godderich had succeeded in making himself 
 vastly obnoxious to Clytie. She told her husband this, 
 giving him the reasons. 
 
 " I have not been accustomed to that kind of admira- 
 tion," she said, " and 1 don't like it." 
 
 But Thornton laughed his great laugh, called her "his 
 unconventional prude," and went on to show her what an 
 invaluable ally Godderich was. 
 
 " You must swallow your dislike, Clytie," he said. 
 " Why, God bless my soul, if ninety-nine women out of a
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 217 
 
 hundred had that chance, they would get the eyes out of 
 his head." 
 
 " Would you so much desire me to be like ninety-nine 
 women out of a hundred, then, Thornton ? " 
 
 " Oh, nonsense, Clytie ; you know what I mean. 
 Come ! Don't you see that here's a way of pushing 
 things on a bit ? What does it matter if the ass is atten- 
 tive ? You can laugh at him. But keep him in hand a 
 bit until we want to let him loose. Do you see ? Of 
 course I trust you, and all that sort of thing." 
 
 " I thank you for your confidence," she replied. " But 
 I don't think you will need to exercise it much." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " Oh, never mind. Do you really want me, Thornton, 
 to encourage this man to make love to me, so as to get 
 a hold on him for other purposes ? " 
 
 " I never saw anyone like you for the dotting of i's," 
 said Thornton, amused. " But that's about the size of 
 it. Don't you see what an infernal ass we can make of 
 him ? Well, think it over, little wife. Good-bye." 
 
 He opened the front door, — this little conversation 
 had taken place in the hall, — and ran down the steps 
 very well pleased with himself. 
 
 But Clytie's heart turned from him and she passed a 
 wretched day — all the more trying as she felt in honour 
 bound to sing antistrophe of praise of Thornton to the 
 strophe of Mrs. Farquharson, with whom she was lunch- 
 ing. 
 
 In the evening they were going out together. He 
 came home late from Westminster, dressed hurriedly, 
 and went down to the drawing-room, where Clytie was 
 waiting. She was wearing a low-cut dress. Her arms 
 were bare. A tiny diamond clasp to a thin gold chain 
 flashed on her bosom. 
 
 " By Jove ! You're looking lovelier than ever ! " he 
 cried. '• Come, let me kiss you." 
 
 He drew her to him, kissed the upper part of her arm, 
 and then her lips. But she made no response. She 
 shrank, and this time he noted it. His arm still round 
 her waist, he held back his head and looked at her. 
 
 " Clytie ! " 
 
 He spoke with loverlike reproach, and kissed her
 
 2l8 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 again, and again she shrank. And then he cast her 
 aside roughly, and stamped his foot. 
 
 " Damn it ! Clytie," he exclaimed, showing his 
 teeth, " you are a perfect icicle ! " 
 
 Clytie made no reply, but turned to the window and 
 buttoned her glove. Thornton rang the bell violently, 
 and when the footman appeared asked him why the 
 devil the carriage had not come round. Then he flung 
 himself into a chair and turned over a book. And thus 
 they remained without speaking until the brougham 
 was announced. On their way to their dinner-party 
 they did not speak. He was in a fit of furious sulks, 
 and Clytie's heart was too heavy. Afterwards he went 
 off to his club and she drove home by herself. 
 
 And this at the end of only four months' wedded life. 
 What would it be at the end of four years, fourteen ? 
 Clytie strove for a little to blame herself for supersensi- 
 tiveness, egotism, coldness. But her self rose in arms 
 against this charge. For, like the unfolding of a horrible 
 story, the nature of Thornton's love for her, the nature 
 of the place she really occupied in his estimation, gradu- 
 ally broke upon her. The meaning of light remarks, 
 trivial jests, careless actions ; the meaning of caresses 
 now half contemptuous, now passionate — all came to her 
 in full light, in all their crudity, out of the gray dark- 
 ness in which she had instinctively kept it hidden from 
 herself. She stared at it — not in ignorant surmise as 
 she had done in Paris, but with a ghastly sickening of 
 soul. 
 
 Oh, the degradation of it ! What was she to her hus- 
 band but a possession, a toy, a woman, to suffer his 
 caresses when it so pleased him to bestow them, a mis- 
 tress whom he had taken it into his head to bind legally 
 to himself, so that she might serve certain purposes of 
 his in society ? What little better was she to him than 
 the women whom men buy, — Loulou Mendes, for in- 
 stance, — save that he reckoned, — he had told her so, — on 
 her fidelity to him ? Things she had tried to ascribe to 
 the careless familiarity of love blazed insultingly before 
 her, scorching her, making her writhe in her abasement. 
 
 Naturally satiety had come to him. He was indif- 
 ferent whether he saw her or not for a season. Only in
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 219 
 
 his absence she was to obey blindly his caprices. If 
 only she was his wife, she thought bitterly, in the hum- 
 drum Durdleham way, where at least she would have 
 had the conventional position in their conjugal relations ! 
 Either that or the wild independence of a Loulou Mendes, 
 carrying her will in her hand, free to choose her own 
 way among the groves of the satyrs. For even there 
 the free path smells sweeter than the one of servitude. 
 
 Just before the session ended Clytie came to a definite 
 understanding with her husband. It is surprising what 
 pain can underlie this mutual adjustment of two intel- 
 ligences. 
 
 The scene was again the breakfast-room. Each was 
 reading the morning's correspondence. Thornton 
 tossed a letter across the table. 
 
 " Carteret's women folk can't come," he said. " Devil- 
 ish sensible women — they don't see the fun of it. So it's 
 settled, I go up as soon as this wretched grind is over." 
 
 "Very well," said Clytie calmly. "I hope you will 
 have a good time." 
 
 "Thanks," he replied in his careless way. "It will be 
 like old times again. And you will put in a good, quiet 
 couple of months with your people." 
 
 Clytie bit her lip. Her heart beat a little faster. She 
 was going to set herself in opposition to him. She 
 glanced at him before she spoke ; he hardly seemed to 
 expect an answer, but continued reading another letter. 
 He looked kind and frank, she thought, a husband for 
 any woman to be proud of. In his morning freshness, 
 clean-shaven, groomed, trimmed, he seemed handsomer 
 than ever. His close brown hair had not a touch of 
 gray ; scarcely a line showed on his forehead or beneath 
 his eyes; and the dark rich colour was visible beneath the 
 bronze on his cheek. He broke into a laugh, buoyant 
 and careless, over his letter, and looked up at Clytie. 
 Then, his glance meeting hers, his face grew more 
 serious. 
 
 " What are you gazing at me for with those great blue 
 eyes of yours, Clytie ? " 
 
 She bent forward, rested her cheek on her hand. 
 
 " In regard to what you have just said — my going to
 
 2 20 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 Durdleham — I am not going for many reasons. I told 
 you so, Thornton, the other day." 
 
 " I am quite aware of it," said Thornton. " But you 
 are going." 
 
 He looked her full in the face, and she returned his 
 gaze calmly and unflinchingly, 
 
 " Don't let us quarrel, Thornton," she said. " It is so 
 sordid and petty. Let us try quietly to understand one 
 another." 
 
 His glance fell first, and he threw himself back in his 
 chair with a laugh and unfolded his paper. 
 
 " All right — we'll bar scenes. Only don't say anything 
 too severe or you'll spoil my breakfast." 
 
 " Thornton," she said, not changing her attitude, " I 
 think I know what my duty is towards you, and I try to 
 perform it. Has it ever struck you that you may have 
 some duties towards me ? " 
 
 " I can't say it has," he replied, 
 
 "■ I don't think you understand me, Thornton. I will 
 try to make it clearer to you. As far as you will let me 
 take an interest in your life, I do so, I am more than 
 willing to make any sacrifices— to give up everything for 
 you. But when you do not want me, as this autumn, I 
 surely may remember that I have a life of my own to 
 lead." 
 
 " And suppose that life does not suit me?" 
 
 " That is the point, Thornton. If you wished me, out 
 of love for you, to do anything, I would do it. But this 
 is a matter in which love has no place. Provided I am 
 scrupulous in all my duties towards you, I have a right 
 to my own life, to my own antipathies, to my own favour- 
 ite pursuits — in fact to myself as an individual, and it 
 is your duty towards me to recognise it." 
 
 *' I don't quite see what you are driving at," said 
 Thornton. " You can dislike sweet champagne and paint 
 pictures and read Schopenhauer if you like. Who is 
 preventing you ? But in certain matters, as you are my 
 wife, you have got to do what I tell you." 
 
 ** To take an extreme case, by way of argument : Sup- 
 pose the fancy seized you to order me to remain in my 
 bedroom all day — you would expect me to obey you ? " 
 
 " By God ! I should think I would ! " cried Thornton,
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 221 
 
 Starting to his feet, with blazing eyes and the veins 
 standing out on his forehead. 
 
 " It seems, Thornton," she said very quietly, " you 
 have married the wrong woman." 
 
 Then she rose, too, from the table, moved towards him, 
 and laid her hand on his arm. He shook it off with an 
 impatient oath, and turned away, fuming, to stare out of 
 the window. She was too well accustomed to his fits of 
 passion to resent the indignity. She mechanically picked 
 off some withering leaves from some flowers on the 
 mantelpiece, and waited for him to speak. At last he 
 turned round again, and asked her sullenly : 
 
 " Have you any other pretty remarks to make ? " 
 
 " If you will listen to them quietly." 
 
 " Well, what do you want ? I grant I was a fool to 
 marry you. Let me hear the consequences of my 
 folly." 
 
 His face was set in a sneer, an ugly expression. She 
 had seen it several times since that evening at the opera 
 in Paris. The tears sprang into her eyes as she glanced 
 at him. 
 
 *' Oh, don't speak and look like that ! " she cried. " I 
 cannot bear it. I did not intend to say anything hard 
 just now. I only meant that you had mistaken me, 
 and my needs, and my nature. I have tried to look upon 
 marriage from your point of view for four months, and 
 I can't do it any longer. You say I must obey you 
 blindly in everything, even your arbitrary fancies, sub- 
 ordinate myself absolutely to you. Thornton, believe me, 
 where your interests or love are concerned I will do it ; 
 but where they are not I can't, and it will be happier for 
 both of us that I should tell you so frankly. If you go 
 your way alone, I must go mine." 
 
 " That means you set yourself in defiance to my 
 wishes?" 
 
 Clytie checked an impulse of impatience. 
 
 " If you won't understand me, and insist on putting it 
 that way — yes." 
 
 They looked at each other for some time. And then 
 Thornton ground his teeth and glared at her. 
 
 " You can go your own way if you like, but I warn you 
 one of these days there will be the devil to pay ! "
 
 2 22 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 And he strode out of the room, cursing, and slammed 
 the door behind him, 
 
 Clytie sat down by the window. The tears would 
 come in spite of her pride. She had gained the victory. 
 But there are some victories that have all the aching 
 sense of defeat.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 On the day after this conversation Clytie was surprised 
 by an announcement from Durdleham that Mrs. Blather 
 and Janet were suddenly coming to town and would 
 avail themselves of her often repeated invitation to pay 
 her a visit in her new home. Janet had been ailing for 
 some time past. The over-refined Davenant blood had 
 never been vivifying at any time, and now, as there were 
 sudden dangers of a grave kind, their Durdleham doc- 
 tor had advised her consulting a London specialist. 
 They hurried to catch the great man before he left for 
 his summer holidays. That was their apology to Clytie 
 for the shortness of their notice. Ordinarily on their 
 rare visits to town they put up at Durfey's Hotel in 
 Albany Street. Their father and grandfather had put 
 up there from time immemorial, and they spoke of Dur- 
 fey's with solemn familiarity, as if it were the one hotel 
 of London. On this occasion, however, they came and 
 stayed with Clytie. 
 
 Their presence in the house was a relief to her, even 
 though it was by way of counter-irritation. Thornton 
 showed himself in the light of a charming host and 
 delighted his sisters-in-law. They could not find enough 
 felicitations to bestow upon Clytie. They forgot the old 
 misunderstandings, took it for granted that Clytie had 
 finally settled, was happy, without any ulterior desires. 
 They went round the house, Mrs. Blather manifesting 
 mild enthusiasm over the more solid arrangements in 
 the way of furniture and domestic appurtenances, Janet 
 going into little ecstasies over the decorations. 
 
 " I never thought you had such a talent for house 
 management," said Mrs. Blather after an inspection of 
 the linen-cupboards and china-closets. 
 
 " I hardly think it requires absolute genius," replied 
 Clytie, " to see that sheets are folded up properly and 
 that plates are not put away dirty." 
 
 333
 
 2 24 AT THE GATE OF SAMAHIA. 
 
 " Ah ! " said her sister, with a philosophic sigh. " So 
 many young wives are so inexperienced." 
 
 It was a delight to Mrs. Blather to see Clytie in this 
 aspect. She could talk to her now on common ground ; 
 Clytie had become an ordinary sensible woman, who 
 could discuss the things that fill the ordinary sensible 
 woman's life : housemaids, fancywork, and the price of 
 fish. Mrs. Blather knew that Hammerdyke was fairly 
 well off, but she thought it her duty to give Clytie many 
 valuable hints as to household expenditure, to which 
 Clytie listened with suave distraction. She also gave 
 her recipes for cooking, and the washing of lace, and 
 infallible methods for removing wine stains from table- 
 cloths ; also neat little formulas for the management of 
 a husband. 
 
 " But yours is simply perfect," she added, with refer- 
 ence to this last. " Oh, Clytie, you are a lucky girl ! " 
 
 To Clytie there was something pathetically humorous 
 in the aspect she presented to her sisters ; in finding her- 
 self, for the first time in her life, perfect in their eyes ; 
 in their changed relations. It was amusing to be the 
 lady of the house, and to make plans for Gracie and 
 Janet's entertainment. She brightened under the sense 
 of it, and though many a misconception on their part 
 caused her a sharp twinge of pain, she allowed them to 
 purr on contentedly, taking a small measure of enjoy- 
 ment from the comfort thereof. Besides, she felt that it 
 would not last long. Their stay was limited to three 
 days. A week of it would have been intolerable. For 
 this reason she declined to accompany them back to 
 Durdleham. At first Mrs. Blather was rather hurt at her 
 refusal ; but Clytie gently smoothed over the matter, 
 tactfully avoiding to give specific reasons. 
 
 Although Thornton was amenity itself in his inter- 
 course with Clytie when they met in her sisters' pres- 
 ence, in their private relations he showed a certain sore- 
 ness — the result of the process of understanding. She 
 tried to heal this, to win back from him, if not love, at 
 least gentleness and courtesy. 
 
 " I must thank you, Thornton, for being so nice to my 
 sisters," she said once, 
 
 " I suppose I know how to behave myself in my own
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 225 
 
 house," he replied coldly, and Clytie retired, and lis- 
 tened, with an ache in her heart, to Mrs. Blather's 
 epithalamion. 
 
 Still it comforted her to see Thornton his old bright 
 self again, as she had known him before her marriage, 
 even though she knew his brow would darken on the 
 departure of her guests. It gladdened her to hear him 
 talk animatedly to Janet of the wonders of the forest and 
 the romance of war. The hall, the staircase, and the walls 
 of his smoking room were lined with curiosities of 
 travel : spears and skin-covered shields, swords, wooden 
 maces — a whole armoury of savage weapons. There were 
 feathered headdresses, great rings roughly wrought of 
 virgin gold, strange garments, some stained with blood. 
 On the landing above the hall stairs hung an evil wooden 
 yoke with pendent chains which he had lifted from the 
 necks of two dead slaves, left by the caravan to die and 
 rot by the way ; and, flanking it, two great lions' heads 
 glared defiantly. To each relic a history was attached, 
 now commonplace, now ghastly. Clytie knew them all, 
 but she accompanied her sisters as Thornton took them 
 round, a perfect cicerone, and she was pleased to see his 
 face light up and his eyes glow with the reminiscence of 
 dangers and brave deeds. It brought her a glad memory 
 of the past and a little hope for the future. She was 
 grateful, too, to Thornton for thus effectually hiding from 
 her sisters any signs of their recent differences and diver- 
 gencies. She could receive their congratulations with a 
 sense of grim humour. Anything approaching pity, with 
 whatever delicate sympathy it might be conveyed, would 
 have made her wince with pain. Even Mrs. Farquharson, 
 who had sharp eyes and many kindly affinities with her, 
 shared Mrs. Blather's unquestioning belief in the happi- 
 ness of her lot. Before others Thornton was still the 
 gallant lover and courteous husband, and Clytie was not 
 unthankful. When questioned as to Thornton's plans 
 for the autumn she answered vaguely. The session had 
 worn him out. He was going up to Scotland for the 
 grouse shooting. She herself was going to take care of 
 the house until his return. She preferred staying in 
 London in August to going anywhere without him. And 
 Mrs. Blather, quite satisfied, paid her a little compliment 
 
 15
 
 226 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 on her wifeliness, and suggested various household 
 improvements to occupy her time during her grass- 
 widowhood. 
 
 So Mrs. Blather and Janet went back to Durdleham, to 
 raise a flutter of excitement at the Durdleham tea tables 
 over their accounts of Clytie's moral and material pros- 
 perity and her husband's manifold perfections. But the 
 old man, Mr. Davenant, shook his head and sighed. 
 Slow to receive fresh impressions, he could not conceive 
 Clytie other than wilful and paradoxical. And he was 
 suspicious of the brilliant soldier of fortune. He would 
 much have preferred his daughter to have married a 
 steady-going country gentleman or professional man. 
 Still no fault could be found with Hammerdyke, who had 
 treated him with every courtesy. 
 
 Before Thornton's departure for Scotland a kind of 
 reconciliation was patched up between them. The first 
 overtures had come from Clytie. After all, he was her 
 husband. They were bound together, for better or worse, 
 till death parted them. It was only common sense to 
 struggle that it should be for better. She humbled her- 
 self, then, a little, confessed that she had been unreason- 
 able in some things. He happened to be in a softer 
 mood, and encouraged her to tell him she was sorry if 
 she had been cold and seifish. Unconsciously she made 
 him feel quite magnanimous. He kissed her gaily, bade 
 her think no more about it, and even condescended to 
 say with regard to the main point at issue : 
 
 " Well, perhaps you are about right in not caring to 
 go to Durdleham. Your sisters are not rapid." 
 
 A remark which, although it jarred somewhat on 
 Clytie's strung nerves, she nevertheless accepted as a 
 token of peace. 
 
 This was the second time in her life that she had de- 
 liberately humbled herself before a man. She thought 
 of it with a queer little pang. When she had put down 
 her young pride so as to retain Kent's friendship and 
 esteem, on the day that Jack had destroyed Winifred's 
 picture, it had been all gladness and triumph. She 
 remembered how happily she had gone to sleep that 
 night, in pleasant subconsciousness of certain feminine 
 workings. It had been a joy to surrender then. But
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 227 
 
 now ? She shrugged her shoulders, tried to dismiss it 
 from h€r mind. 
 
 In the middle of August she found herself alone in the 
 great house, enjoying the leisure and solitude, the inde- 
 pendence, the freedom from friction. She devoted most 
 of her time to her painting, which had been sadly neg- 
 lected since her marriage. Her studio was a pleasant 
 room, with a good light. It had not the severe, business- 
 like air of the one in the King's Road ; it was warmer, 
 heavier with velvet hangings, richer in quaint furniture. 
 Instead of the whitewashed walls scrawled over with 
 grotesque caricatures, it had a delicately toned Morris 
 paper. The floor was polished, strewn with thick rugs ; 
 a great white bearskin lay before the hearth. The piles 
 of canvases stretched upon rough wooden backs that 
 used to lie stacked up in odd corners Thornton had 
 had framed for her, as a surprise to greet her on her 
 home-coming, and now the best of them were hung 
 round the room. Some of her cherished possessions 
 found a place — the etching by Rupert Kent, two or three 
 of Winifred's delicate studies, and an exquisite Jacque- 
 mart that Kent had given her long ago. But otherwise 
 all was new, luxurious, separating her from the old 
 associations of her art life. 
 
 Whilst searching for a subject she took out her studies 
 for the Faustina picture. But she put them aside with 
 a shudder. She was painting merely for amusement, to 
 gratify the artistic impulse that urged her to create. 
 But the hope, by which she had been gradually rising 
 towards the goal of her ambition, the hope of fame and 
 full accomplishment, was gone, apparently beyond recall ; 
 and she mused upon it sadly. This sense of finality is 
 characteristic of youth — its one governing pessimism. 
 Yet she was cheerful enough, glad to feel the brush be- 
 tween her fingers again, and to smell the familiar odour of 
 turpentine, and to see her fancies take visible form under 
 her touch. The artist within her asserted itself, though 
 vaguely, as from some depth where it lay buried. It 
 was undergoing a subtle change, and its weak, inchoate 
 manifestations were those of a period of transition. 
 But Clytie knew it not.
 
 228 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 The Farquharsons returned to town towards the end 
 of the month, and Winifred also, after her annual sea- 
 side holiday with the children. And many of Clytie's 
 other friends remained in London, and welcomed her 
 back among them. It was like a return to her old life. 
 Only Kent was absent from her circle. She missed 
 him, sighing a little for the impossible. 
 
 Thornton wrote from Scotland with affectionate 
 brevity. He did not know that he could have missed 
 her so much. He had bagged so many brace that 
 morning. He longed to see her. He thought he might 
 as well stay on with Carteret so long as there was any 
 sport forward. His letters, dashed off with a broad 
 quill pen in a great, bold hand, covered four sides of 
 notepaper, and came once a week. Clytie had no reason 
 to complain of lack of attention on the part of her hus- 
 band. Consequently she looked forward to less troubled 
 days when they should lead their common life together 
 again. 
 
 An occasional visitor that she had during these weeks 
 was the boy Jack. He had been for a term at the in- 
 dustrial school to which Treherne and Kent had pro- 
 cured him admittance, and now passed as a reformed 
 character amongst his enthusiasts. The teachers at the 
 school, with vivid memories of stormy scenes, might have 
 demurred at this opinion ; but they were miles away 
 holiday-making, and for the time blissfully oblivious 
 of Jack. Four months over a spelling-book and a 
 carpenter's bench, even though the latter may be situ- 
 ated amid pleasant fields, are not long enough to purify 
 the blood from the wildness of London streets ; and a 
 lifetime so spent cannot wash out hereditary taint ; but 
 they can teach the use of soap and water and a suitable 
 adjustment of garments. And Jack was clean, and his 
 wild elf locks were cropped into compulsory smugness, 
 and his clothes conformed to a strictly conventional 
 order. This external revolution was so startling that an 
 accompanying moral reform seemed unquestionable. 
 Even his mother's dull pessimism was affected by it, 
 AVhen she returned from her work she bribed him with 
 bread and treacle to sit in a chair where she could ad- 
 mire him, instead of sending him out of her way into the
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 229 
 
 Streets as she had been wont to do. But Jack ate the 
 bread and treacle and then sauntered into the street of 
 his own accord. He did not admire his mother, and 
 only heeded her blandishments when they assumed an 
 objective form. He admired one person, and that was 
 Winifred. With her the young animal was tame, almost 
 docile. It was merely owing to lack of special instinct 
 that he did not lick her hand. He was often in the 
 studio, where he had been constituted general factotum 
 during his holidays. He swept the floor, cleaned the 
 windows, set the brushes and paints in order before 
 Winifred arrived, ran messages for her, and whenever 
 she permitted would sprawl on the ground by her side, 
 following her movements with his great brown eyes. To 
 prevent him from wasting his time and energies in this 
 passive adoration, Winifred often invented commissions 
 for him which he executed with proud despatch, disre- 
 garding all allurements to eat the lotus of the gutter and 
 holding his person sacred as Winifred's messenger. It 
 was in consequence of this that he found his way to 
 Clytie's house, acting as postman for his patroness. At 
 first he was shy. He had not lost the feeling of awe 
 with which Clytie inspired him, nor had he forgotten the 
 dread picture of her anger on that day when she had 
 summarily dismissed him from her service. It was only 
 his devotion to Winifred that had induced him to put, 
 as it seemed to him, his head in the lion's mouth. But 
 when he found that the lion was kind and roared as 
 gently as his own dove, and further, gave him various 
 unimaginable dainties to eat and odd shillings to spend 
 in surreptitious tobacco, the house in the Cromwell Road 
 became invested with pleasant associations. 
 
 It was after Clytie had had two or three visits from 
 him that the idea occurred to her to paint the portrait of 
 the reformed Jack. The sittings continued long after 
 the necessity for them had ceased. Jack came of his 
 own accord. At last one day he astonished her by 
 refusing the shilling that she held out to him. 
 
 " I didn't come for that," he said bluntly. " I come to 
 see you." 
 
 Clytie and the urchin in industrial school corduroys 
 looked steadily for some seconds at one another, and
 
 230 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 both in their respective ways were conscious of having 
 added to their sum of knowledge. Then they became 
 real friends. Clytie looked upon him with a new interest, 
 taking herself severely to task for having summed 
 him up in the past with such scornful superficiality. 
 She atoned for it now by seeking to interest herself in 
 his life, to give herself a little place in it, whereby it 
 should receive some individual colour. This was all the 
 easier now, as Winifred had smoothed down many of 
 Jack's social asperities. Albeit not refined of speech, 
 he no longer used profane language in the studio, nor 
 did he entertain her with sanguinary details of cat 
 murder. When the time came for him to return to 
 school Clytie felt quite sorry.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Thornton returned in due time. The autumn ses- 
 sion began. Tlie weeks and months passed. Their re- 
 lations remained the same as when they had parted in 
 the summer. Towards Clytie he manifested a kindly in- 
 difference, so long as she obeyed his wishes. When she 
 went counter to them he flared up, showed his teeth, and 
 swore ; on which occasions Clytie would draw herself up, 
 and, with her chin in the air, leave the room and retire 
 into her studio. Then, after two or three days of evil 
 sullenness, the fancy would take him to kiss her, and 
 lightly swear that she was the loveliest woman in the 
 world. But Clytie had lost all responsive feeling. She 
 met him not wholly unaffectionately, but calmly, pre- 
 senting an obedient, passionless cheek. Thereupon he 
 would either storm again or laugh, reminding her of a 
 time when her lips sought his, asking her why she 
 had frozen, where was the Clytie of their bridal month. 
 And if he pleaded gently, womanlike, she would relent a 
 little, yield to him, striving to blot out the objects that 
 met her sight as she looked back towards the past. Then 
 there would recur the season of indifference, which 
 Clytie had grown to welcome. 
 
 The daily life went on, she scarce knew how. Visit- 
 ing, entertaining, painting, filled her days. And she 
 dreamed wistful little dreams. 
 
 And then there came to Clytie a great calm, a new, 
 strange happiness, in the midst of the life she had thought 
 to be broken. She would sit by herself and think, with 
 a smile playing round the corners of her lips, and a light 
 in her eyes. Again the order of things seemed changed. 
 Again a newer life, with newer hopes and responsibilities, 
 lay before her. For the time her art, her needs, were 
 forgotten. Trifling, dainty occupations absorbed her as 
 she sat in the solitude of the studio on the chilly autumn
 
 232 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 days, her feet luxuriously buried in the bearskin before 
 tlie great fire. Sometimes Mrs. Farquharson would 
 come and help her, with a yearning hunger in her eyes 
 that Clytie knew the meaning of ; for Caroline was a 
 childless woman. And then Clytie would kiss her 
 silently and Caroline would shake her head and laugh, 
 and talk in her bright way of the wonder that would be. 
 
 Only at times did a wave of bitterness pass over her. 
 If all that had happened in her married life since the 
 train had carried her out of Bordighera station had been 
 different ! If only she could see her husband as she 
 saw him that day, by the ruined tower, when she passed 
 her hand over his hair and thought him all that could 
 suffice a woman's needs ! Sometimes she looked at him 
 now, furtively, when his face was in repose. He seemed 
 the same, handsome, brave, ideally perfect in manhood. 
 Why had not the glamour lasted ? Why should the 
 " dream be better than the drink " ? And then she 
 would turn away and the thought would rise : 
 
 " Why did I not continue blind? Would to God this 
 knowledge of him had never come ! " 
 
 He grew a little kinder to her, however. It was a 
 rough, patronising tenderness, it is true, but yet Clytie 
 felt grateful, A little act of forethought and considera- 
 tion softened her towards him much more than it war- 
 ranted. Perhaps in spite of all he might have won her 
 to him again, and brought her lips to his in a kiss of rare 
 meaning — for at certain times there are wondrous ten- 
 dernesses and wondrous powers of forgiveness in woman. 
 But Thornton lost the golden chance, being busy with 
 his muck-rake. 
 
 He came home one afternoon, in an evil humour. 
 Clytie, prepared to welcome him, looked up kindly from 
 her lounge-chair as he came into the studio, but as she 
 saw the blackness of his face, her heart sank. A foot- 
 stool came in his way, and he sent it, with a kick, sliding 
 along the polished floor. 
 
 " Why do you litter up the place with these infernal 
 traps, Clytie?" he asked crossly as he came up to the 
 fire to warm his hands, 
 
 Clytie, like a wise woman, held her peace. Silence 
 is a very good friend sometimes. But as he remained
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 233 
 
 there moodily, without saying a word, and the silence was 
 growing uncomfortable, she asked him what was amiss. 
 
 "Everything's amiss!" he replied roughly — "all 
 through your silly folly. Read that ! " 
 
 He drew a letter from his pocket book and threw it 
 into her lap. It ran : 
 
 Dear Hernshawe : 
 
 As I think Simmons would be a more satisfactory man for Bur- 
 chester than Hammerdyke, I have suggested the former to the local 
 Conservative association. As they seem rather at a loss for a suitable 
 candidate, I think they will accept my nominee. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 E. GODDERICH. 
 
 "I am sorry, Thornton," said Clytie, laying the letter 
 down on the afternoon tea table by her side, " But you 
 hardly expected to have a chance so soon." 
 
 " Do you suppose I am going to slave away at this 
 hack's work for two or three years ? " 
 
 " No ; but this is only the second or third vacancy 
 that has occurred." 
 
 " What does that matter ? Godderich promised 
 to run me as soon as he saw an opening. Hernshawe 
 was amazed at this letter this morning. Don't 
 talk of what you know nothing about. It's simply 
 infernal spite on Godderich's part ! Who is Simmons ? 
 A damned cheesemonger with a jubilee knighthood, and 
 as much brains as a double Glo'ster ! Godderich has 
 the reputation for this sort of thing. That was why 
 I wanted to keep in with him. If you had taken a 
 ha'porth of interest in the matter, it would not have 
 happened. You have treated the man in your con- 
 founded icy don't-address-me-or-I'll-petrify-you kind of 
 way, and you have put his back up against us ! " 
 
 " I always treated him courteously," said Clytie. 
 
 " Yes, by Jove, I know what that means ! " sneered 
 Thornton. " And now you can have the satisfaction of 
 seeing how your courtesy has played the fool with my 
 plans." 
 
 " I can't understand you, Thornton," she replied 
 wearily. "I should have thought you of all people 
 would have preferred to win your own battles." 
 
 " So I shall in future. I shall take jolly good care not 
 
 \
 
 234 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 to ask you to help me any more ! After all your fine 
 professions of identifying yourself with my life and that 
 sort of rot I really thought you would be willing to 
 help me — in about the only way a woman can." 
 
 " By a silly, ignoble flirtation ? Would you really hope 
 to win success by your wife's dishonour ? " 
 
 *' Oh, rot ! " cried Thornton savagely. " Who the devil 
 talked about dishonour ? " 
 
 "■ Well, then, we don't see things in the same light," 
 said Clytie quietly. " And I am very glad you have lost 
 Godderich's influence, if that is what it depended upon." 
 
 He turned and faced her, in one of his blind rages. 
 
 " Why don't you say at once you don't care a little 
 damn about me? It would be nearer the truth. What 
 the deuce did I marry you for, when there are thousands 
 of better women in the world who are to be had for the 
 asking ? About the only thing I have ever asked you to 
 do for me was to employ a little womanly tact, and then 
 you get up on the high horse, damme ! and talk about 
 dishonour ! One would have thought you had been bred 
 in a nunnery instead of the disreputable gutter in the 
 King's Road I found you in ! " 
 
 " Oh, stop ! " said Clytie, rising. " If I were well, per- 
 haps 1 might be angry and amuse you with a row. But 
 I am not equal to it at present, believe me. I'll see you 
 at dinner." 
 
 She walked towards the door, but Thornton intercepted 
 her with three or four quick strides. 
 
 " I'm hanged if 5'ou do ! " he said. " I have too much 
 respect for my digestion, I'm not going to stay in the 
 house with you ! " 
 
 And he strode out of the studio, slamming the door. 
 
 "Thank God ! " said Clytie to herself. 
 
 And so the film of reconciliation that new circi... - 
 stances had begun to spread was rudely torn asunder, 
 and the breach beween them grew greater than before. 
 For several days Clytie suffered. Then she resigned 
 herself to the inevitable, and in her thoughts drifted 
 away from her husband. For they were sweet thoughts, 
 full of unspeakable consolation. And the weeks wore 
 on, and the evenings grew shorter and shorter, and the
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 235 
 
 little pile of dainty needlework grew higher in the press. 
 Thornton rarely disturbed her ; the time that he could 
 spare from his official duties he passed as a man about 
 town idles the hours away. A man with the least do- 
 mestic tastes in the world, he found no especial pleasures 
 in his house. His wife did not amuse him ; the cooking 
 at his club was more to his taste than that which 
 awaited him at home. There was no earthly reason why 
 he should use the house for any other purpose than 
 sleeping, breakfasting, and the occasional entertainment, 
 which was now discontinued for a season. He Uved his 
 own life, more or less satisfactory to himself, and left 
 Clytie to her own devices. Wherefore she not unfre- 
 quently thanked the Almighty. She lived practically 
 alone. Winifred came to see her from time to time. 
 Mrs. Farquharson was often with her. The shrewd eyes 
 of Caroline saw that there was something wrong in the 
 marriage of which she had augured such fair fruits. 
 But as Clytie proudly kept all her troubles to herself, 
 Caroline could do no more than surround Clytie with 
 her mute sympathy. This gradual discovery was a 
 shock to her faith in human nature. One of the two had 
 failed ; which one was it ? Her instinct told her that it 
 was not Clytie ; her husband unequivocally affirmed that 
 it was Hammerdyke. When her instinct and her hus- 
 band differed she sometimes trusted to one and some- 
 times to the other, by way of giving a certain variety to 
 life. When they coincided she had no option but to be- 
 lieve. So, although giving up her hero cost her a great 
 pang, her heart went out more than ever to her friend. 
 
 It was a period of strange new happiness for Clytie. 
 It showed itself outwardly in her art. No one but herself 
 has ever seen the pictures that she painted during this 
 time — not even Caroline. They were all unfinished, 
 sketched in the hurried, semi-impressionist manner with 
 which from her early girlhood she had been wont to give 
 objectivity to her cravings and imaginings ; but they were 
 dainty, laughing, tender things, a world of waxen touches 
 and sweet hopes. It would be hard to say how many small 
 panels she covered with the promises of this new life. 
 Sometimes, when she was quite alone, she would lock the 
 door and take them out and arrange them along the wall
 
 236 AT THE GATE OF SAMARTA. 
 
 on the ledge above the dado, and gladden her heart with 
 them. After which she would collect them hastily and 
 lock them up, with a smile at her own foolishness. She 
 meditated now and then, before the fire, with closed eyes, 
 turning over the leaves of her Book of New Formulas, 
 which had grown somewhat tear-stained and dusty ; but 
 she found in it nothing relating to present things, and 
 she laughed quietly at the omission, resolving to rectify 
 it by and by. It was strange that she had not included 
 this in her scheme of life. And yet, after all, was it so 
 strange ? She could not quite decide. But the future 
 she never questioned. The evolution of her own indi- 
 viduality seemed in no wise to concern her. She had 
 projected herself into another life. And she looked at 
 the world, and again she saw it fair ; and peace rested 
 on her eyelids as she slept. And the weeks went on. 
 
 One evening in the middle of December Thornton and 
 herself were alone together. They had finished dinner 
 and he was smoking a cigar with his coffee in the dining- 
 room. Relations between them were beginning to grow 
 kindlier again. That is to say, he curbed his temper, 
 inquired after her health, and occasionally spent an even- 
 ing at home. They had not spoken much during the 
 meal. Now that they had so few interests in common, 
 their conversation was generally desultory. The one 
 great and precious bond that was to be between them 
 was rarely mentioned. It was too deeply rooted in the 
 holiest place of Clytie's soul for her to discuss it in the 
 commonplace interviews she had with her husband, and 
 his interest in the matter did not go much beyond a 
 rather irritating sense of responsibility. Some feeling 
 of the sort prompted him on this evening to allude to 
 the subject. 
 
 " I heard from the Claverings this morning," he said, 
 knocking off his cigar ash into the fender. " They want 
 us to go and spend Christmas with them in their new 
 place in Hampshire." 
 
 "Oh?" said Clytie politely. 
 
 She had seen Mrs. Clavering several times during the 
 summer in town, and futher acquaintance had only 
 increased the antipathy she had conceived in Paris. 
 Thornton, however, had been pretty intimate with them
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 237 
 
 during the latter part of the season, and he had met 
 Major Clavering again in Scotland. Hence the invi- 
 tation. 
 
 "Well," asked Thornton, "what shall I do ? Of 
 course your going is out of the question." 
 
 " Naturally," replied Clytie, glad that that point was 
 settled without any discussion, " Why do you ask 
 me?" 
 
 " To know what your wishes are as regards myself. 
 Clavering has got some good shooting, I believe, and his 
 wife always keeps a decent house. I don't see what 
 good I should be here ; but still, if you would like me to 
 stay on and see you through, I don't mind a bit." 
 
 He meant to be magnanimous. Perhaps he expected 
 his wife to be duly grateful ; as it was she only replied 
 somewhat wearily : 
 
 " You must do whatever you think best, Thornton. I 
 should not like to keep you here on my account, while 
 you might be having a good time with your friends." 
 
 " Oh ! it's all the same to me," he said. " It's just as 
 you like." 
 
 Clytie shook her head despondently. If there could 
 have been any pleasure to either of them in his staying, 
 these questions would have been impossible. It was love 
 and not politeness that should have kept him by her 
 side. 
 
 " You are very kind to think of it, Thornton," she 
 said, " and I thank you for asking me ; but you couldn't 
 do much if you stayed, you know." 
 
 " I think I should be somewhat in the way," he said 
 good-temperedly. *' That sort of thing is not much in 
 my line. However, I did not like to accept without ask- 
 ing you. Are you sure you don't mind ? " 
 
 "Oh, quite sure ! " said Clytie suavely. 
 
 So the point was amicably settled, and Thornton went 
 down to Hampshire to shoot Clavering's pheasants and 
 to be led cynically captive by Clavering's wife. To 
 avoid giving the latter a gratuitous loophole for sarcas- 
 tic attack, he forbore to hint at the cause that prevented 
 Clytie from accompanying him. He said vaguely that she 
 was with her people. Mrs. Clavering did not press the 
 point in any way, as she reciprocated Clytie's dislike, and
 
 238 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 was perfectly indifferent as to what became of her. In 
 fact she was greatly relieved when Thornton announced 
 that he was coming alone. Him she could manage as 
 she liked — or thought she could, which comes to the 
 same thing. 
 
 The house which the Claverings had taken for the 
 winter was one that appealed to the quieter tastes of a 
 man like Thornton. There was good hunting in the 
 neighbourhood, and the stables were well filled with hunt- 
 ers, some of which Major Claveringhad hired for the sea- 
 son. Over the estate attached to the house was excel- 
 lent partridge shooting, and the covers were stocked with 
 pheasants. The house itself was straggling — as a coun- 
 try house should be — roomy, and capable of accommodat- 
 ing comfortably the large party that was assembled for 
 Christmas. It contained two billiard tables, a concert 
 room staged for private theatricals, and a magnificent 
 club-furnished smoking-room with a specially made bac- 
 carat table. Among the party the masculine element 
 greatly preponderated, but the few women who were 
 there had been carefully selected by the hostess to main- 
 tain a nice equilibrium. The major invited the men, and 
 his wife, running over the list, had settled upon the 
 women. She was doubly grateful that Clytie had 
 thought fit to decline. 
 
 On the evening of his arrival Thornton came down 
 early after dressing and found Mrs. Clavering alone in 
 the drawing-room, reclining luxuriously before the blaze 
 under the great marble chimney-piece. 
 
 " Clavering must have come into a pot of money in 
 order to run this," he said, parting his coat tails. " I 
 have just been round the place. I had no idea it was 
 such an extensive development." 
 
 "Yes. It's better than soldiering. Tom's looking 
 out for a place of his own something after the style 
 of this. The Dynevors wanted to go to Australia, and 
 so they have let it to us cheap." 
 
 He nodded, not very interested, and twirled his mous- 
 tache in silence. 
 
 " You are not making a very good start by way of 
 being amusing," said Mrs. Clavering. ** How is your 
 wife>"
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 239 
 
 " Oh, very well. But I don't see how that topic could 
 amuse you. Matrimony isn't very funny." 
 
 " Glad to get out of the toils, I suppose." 
 
 "Passably. It leaves me free in the society of the 
 only woman I have reasonably cared for," he said, with- 
 out changing his attitude. 
 
 "Have you come down to play at that sort of thing 
 again ? " she asked, arching her eyebrows, with a little 
 supercilious curl on her thin lips. 
 
 " That's what you wanted me here for, I suppose." 
 
 " You came to shoot little birds on the invitation of my 
 adoring husband." 
 
 " Perhaps the motives were mixed. You wouldn't 
 believe me if I told you I had come to see you. That 
 was my main inducement. I suppose I ought to have 
 begun better and told you of my longing and despair. 
 Let me make my declaration now, Clara." 
 
 " Bah ! my friend. What is the meaning of all this ? " 
 she said cynically. " You don't care a straw for me — 
 you told me yourself I had gone off lamentably. And I 
 don't rate you a halfpenny above your worth. You are 
 a fine-looking man with impulses and animal passions 
 instead of brains and heart ; and if you were to die 
 to-morrow, my delicate appreciation of my dinner would 
 not be impaired. So why in the name of common sense 
 have we revived this miserable farce ? " 
 
 " It's a kind of absinthe. We like it." 
 
 " If I could pump up any enthusiasm about you," she 
 went on, not heeding his epigram, " I could understand it. 
 But you are bad all through. You would not even be 
 moderately faithful to me — as you are not to your 
 wife." 
 
 " What the devil do you mean ? " asked Thornton 
 quickly, showing his teeth. But Mrs. Clavering laughed. 
 
 " Do you take me for a fool, or a woman of the world, 
 my friend ? I have eyes and I have ears. I'll go into 
 particulars if you like." 
 
 " That would scarcely be interesting," he said. 
 
 He looked at her for some moments dnd then burst out 
 into his resonant laugh, expecting boyish indulgence for 
 his peccadilloes. His whole-hearted animal laughter was 
 irresistible. The woman joined in.
 
 240 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 •' I don't know which is the worse of us two," she said. 
 " Perhaps I. I forgive you." 
 
 The piquant cynicism of this revived liaison attracted 
 Thornton, was an enjoyable complement to the essentially 
 masculine side of that country-house life. He was a 
 keen, brilliant sportsman, a famous shot, a perfect 
 though reckless rider, standing out in all physical 
 qualities far above the other men of his type who 
 were his fellow-guests. By them he was flattered, 
 in an honest British way, his acts were applauded, and 
 his opinions received with respect. In the slaying of 
 creatures, brute or human, he was an indubitable author- 
 ity. And although he was accustomed to a certain shade 
 of deference from his associates, it never failed to gratify 
 his somewhat barbarous nature. Much of him had 
 remained undeveloped. Small things pleased and capti- 
 vated him. To be the central figure in this tiny world 
 of sport was unalloyed pleasure to the man of fierce 
 passions and heroic courage. And the bitter philander- 
 ing in his relations with Mrs. Clavering amused, stimu- 
 lated, irritated, and fascinated him. In his own way, 
 therefore, he was enjoying himself exceedingly. Beyond 
 writing Clytie a hurried note on the second day after his 
 arrival, he scarcely recalled to himself her existence. 
 When he did it was with petulant annoyance. He 
 wished to God he had not been such a fool as to marry. 
 And now what the deuce was the point of having chil- 
 dren ? But that was his wife's concern after all, for 
 which he cordially thanked the wise contriver of the 
 human mechanism. 
 
 Christmas came, was celebrated with much festivity. 
 On Boxing Day there was a big partridge drive over a 
 distant corner of the estate. It had been carefully saved 
 for this one day's sport and the birds were accordingly 
 plentiful. The best portion of it — a field sloping from a 
 ridge and skirting a pine wood and then merging into 
 a wide gorse-covered pasture tract — was reserved till after 
 lunch. Butthesport wasgood in the outlying approaches 
 to this, and it was not without some irritation that Thorn- 
 ton tore open a telegram which a breathless messenger 
 brought up. It announced the birth of a son. Thorn- 
 ton went on with the line across the wet, ploughed fields,
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 241 
 
 but until they halted for lunch luck did not come his 
 way. 
 
 Mrs. Clavering and the other ladies had walked over 
 with the luncheon-baskets. The day was warm and 
 relaxing. They lingered over the meal longer than they 
 had intended. When a keeper came up and suggested 
 that if they wanted to shoot the slope before dusk they 
 had better be starting, the men sprang up in a hurry 
 and betook themselves thither. Thornton was the 
 extreme man, on the right, near the pine wood, which 
 was being beaten. His ill-success in the morning had 
 piqued his vanity. He was not accustomed to be second 
 or third in matters of prowess. After he had brought 
 down his first brace his whole frame was kindled with 
 the desire to slay. Even partridges he could not kill 
 calmly. Covey after covey was driven out of the wood, 
 and as he had the first chance, his bag increased speedily. 
 They had thus proceeded halfway down the long, strag- 
 gling slope. The keeper by Thornton's side had just 
 handed him his gun, and was watching the wood with 
 intent, outstretched hand. A covey was being driven. 
 At that moment another messenger, a boy, ran down the 
 slope and put a telegram into Thornton's hand. With 
 an impatient oath he stuffed it into the pocket of his 
 shooting-coat, just in time to be able to fire his two 
 barrels into the whirring flight of birds. The next man 
 to him fired simultaneously. Two birds fell. The warm 
 dispute that arose caused Thornton to forget the exist- 
 ence of the telegram in his pocket. And the continuance 
 of the drive kept his mind entirely from it. 
 
 But when the party arrived home, and were standing 
 for a moment in the hall, Mrs. Clavering came up to 
 him and asked whether he had received his second tele- 
 gram safely. Then he remembered. He drew it out, 
 read it. 
 
 " Damn ! " he muttered under his breath, and crumpling 
 the flimsy sheet into a ball, threw it with a gesture of 
 impatience into the fireplace. Then he turned and 
 talked with Mrs. Clavering until he went upstairs to 
 change. 
 
 As chance willed, the crumpled telegram had not 
 fallen into the blazing wood fire, but had struck upon a 
 
 16
 
 242 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 log and dropped on its unkindled side. And chance 
 willed that Mrs. Clavering should have noticed this. 
 Women of her type are cynically unscrupulous. As soon 
 as the hall was clear of men she picked up the telegram 
 and read it. Her face, which when she was by herself 
 was somewhat faded, grew a little grayer. She put the 
 telegram in her pocket. 
 
 Chance willed also that Thornton and Mrs. Clavering 
 should find themselves alone for a long spell after 
 dinner in the little withdrawing-room, where smoking 
 was permitted. Most of the men were tired. One 
 or two of the women had gone up to their rooms. The 
 rest were playing billiards. Thornton was in gay spirits, 
 talking recklessly, giving her openings for sarcasms, and 
 then closing in upon her with a brutality. It was an 
 amusing game. 
 
 Suddenly she asked him irrelevantly : 
 
 " When are you going back to London ? " 
 
 " You're a wise woman," he replied, leaning back in 
 his chair. " But what do you mean ? " 
 
 " I asked you a question — a simple one. Are you 
 going to London to-morrow ? " 
 
 " No ; why should I ? — unless you are getting senti- 
 mental over me, and would prefer the illusion of my 
 absence to the disenchantment of my bodily presence. 
 If you mean it as a hint, of course I'll go," 
 
 " I do mean it as a hint," she said with a hard kind of 
 drawl. " I didn't know you were quite such an unrea- 
 soning brute. Hadn't it occurred to you that it was 
 only common decency to go off and help bury your new- 
 born child?" 
 
 She rose, and gathering up her skirts, left him before 
 he had time to recover.
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Thus it had happened with Clytie during Thornton's 
 absence. There came a morning at the end of the Old 
 Year when the snow and sleet dashing against the win- 
 dow could be dimly heard in the heavily curtained room, 
 and Clytie feebly whispered : " Give me the child." 
 Gently they told her that the life had merely fluttered 
 on the threshold and passed back into the silence whence 
 it came. And she sank back on her pillows, struck to 
 the heart with a dumb, hopeless heartsickness. 
 
 Recovery was slow. Clytie lay for many days quite 
 listless, the tears rolling down her cheeks, physical weak- 
 ness aiding to make her feel a great self-pity. The long 
 waiting, the fear, the pain, all had been counted as noth- 
 ing if at the close there could have lain in her arms a little 
 child — one whose touch would draw all pain from her 
 heart, make her forget every sorrow. And the passionate 
 child hunger, begotten of the pangs of maternity, woke 
 within her and cried for satisfaction. 
 
 The whole weight of the world's misery crushed down 
 upon her. She awoke to a gray world. Its glory had 
 departed. There was nothing left to live for, and a great 
 despair came over her. What was the use of dragging 
 out this broken, colourless existence until the time, — 
 hopelessly remote it seemed to her, now that the blood 
 ran again strongly through her veins, — should come for 
 her to die ? She passed through the phase common to all 
 strong natures in supreme moments of weariness, when 
 death seemed the only solution. One little draught out 
 of a phial, an agonised convulsion, perhaps, and then 
 eternal nothingness. She did not fear the annihilation 
 which her materialism had taught her was the end of 
 things. She had no eschatological sentimentality. But 
 the full-pulsed animal's instinctive clutching after life 
 held her back ; the fit passed off, and she decided to live 
 through another act of the dreary tragedy. 
 
 243
 
 244 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 All feelings of tenderness, trust, common confidence 
 in her husband, were swept away forever. The faintest 
 breath of the old attraction caused her to shiver with 
 repulsion. Henceforward they were mere acquaint- 
 ances, who subsisted from a common fund, lived under 
 the same roof, and performed certain conventional 
 actions in common, for the sake of their own relations 
 with a society that demands a certain outward show of 
 harmony between husband and wife. Thornton had 
 come to town from Hampshire in the vilest of tempers. 
 For a day or two he positively hated Clytie. Then the 
 seriousness of her illness had awakened in him a super- 
 ficial sympathy. But as soon as she was out of danger 
 he regarded her with cold dislike. She had abruptly 
 terminated his pleasant holiday. She had gravely 
 endangered his liaison with the only woman by whom 
 he had been otherwise than purely sensually attracted, 
 wherein lay an odd fascination, and in thus compelling 
 him to her side she had sharply reminded him that a 
 married man, if he wishes to keep in with the world, 
 must not parade himself too conspicuously as his own 
 master. And Thornton had his own reasons for not 
 wishing to openly outrage society. 
 
 As soon as she was able to travel Clytie went to 
 Durdleham, for the first time since her marriage. The 
 quiet, easy life soothed her for a while. She was in that 
 condition of hopelessness when inaction seems the highest 
 good. Mrs. Blather attributed her dejection to the 
 objective cause, and sympathised with her as one woman 
 can with another, and strove to cheer her ; but still she 
 privately thought this long brooding somewhat morbid. 
 Clytie always went to extremes. But although she 
 naturally was unconscious of the subtleties of dreariness 
 in the causation of her sister's state, she was none 
 the less helpful with her sympathy — and sympathy very 
 often is all the stronger from the narrowness of the 
 channel in which it flows. 
 
 February and March passed in the quiet, monotonous 
 Durdleham way. But as the spring grew into her blood 
 Clytie felt the tingling of life once again, and the period 
 of inactivity was over. She was not of the temperament 
 to sit long with folded hands and lament over the futility
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 245 
 
 of things. The old restlessness of her girlhood, though 
 strangely modified, again urged her towards a fuller, 
 more vivid existence. Again she looked out upon the 
 world and its mysteries with a knowledge begotten of 
 sorrow, and again vague longings took possession of 
 her. She faced the new condition of things bravely, re- 
 solved to struggle towards a newer, better content. If 
 the short dream had come true, she would have found 
 happiness in the guidance of another life ; but the high 
 gods had ordained otherwise. As before her marriage, 
 her only problem was the working out of her own indi- 
 viduality ; for henceforward Thornton would be her 
 husband only in name. In what direction should she 
 carry herself so as to prevent the fulfilling of her needs 
 from developing into ignoble egoism ? As a girl she 
 had studied life eagerly, had painted from artistic im- 
 pulses, from desire for fame, and from material necessity. 
 Her enthusiasms, the intimacy of her odd social life with 
 Kent and Winifred, had kept her pure and fresh. Now 
 all was changed. She was alone. She had learned 
 many things : the touch of the fire of passion, the taste of 
 the waters of bitterness. Definite enthusiasms seemed 
 to be wanting ; only the artistic impulse urging crea- 
 tion remained to her — together with mechanical skill. 
 How was she to occupy her life to a fair and noble pur- 
 pose ? She tried to solve the problem calmly, was wise 
 enough to smile when she discovered that she failed. 
 One cannot range a row of potential enthusiasms in 
 front of one, like oranges, and select in cold blood. So 
 Clytie determined to have faith 
 
 "... large in time, 
 And that which shapes it to some end." 
 
 As soon as she had arrived at this decision she threw 
 off her moodiness and became bright again, to the great 
 joy of Mrs. Blather, who was sighing for her to join in 
 such Easter dissipations as Durdleham society offered. 
 In obedience to her sister, therefore, Clytie burst upon 
 Durdleham like a revelation. During her girlhood 
 Durdleham had regarded her as odd, refused to accept 
 her as conducive to social amenities. Now it worshipped
 
 246 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 her with dazzled eyes — the whirligig of time thus bringing 
 in its revenges. The irony of the position amused her, 
 but at the same time it brought out in her much that 
 was good and whole-hearted. She saw, perhaps for the 
 first time, that much of the decorous dulness that had 
 once chafed her to frenzy proceeded from an almost 
 childlike ignorance of the possibilities of enjoyment. 
 For a wild moment the idea entered her head to convert 
 Durdleham to epicureanism, Janet, to whom she con- 
 fided this visionary scheme, stared at her open-mouthed, 
 and Clytie burst out into genuine mirth. Durdleham 
 was willing to be amused, eager to be brightened by a 
 brilliant woman ; but it would not be convinced. It 
 held by its principles, would not yield an iota in a single 
 formula. Still it could be brought to treat a paradox as 
 a joke instead of brooding over it with the stolidity of a 
 hen sitting on a china nest-egg. And that much Clytie did 
 accomplish during the short season of her social triumph. 
 
 In the middle of April she was requested by Thornton 
 to return to London. He had thrown up the private- 
 secretaryship, as his purpose in accepting it had been 
 already served. By dint of self-assertion he had identi- 
 fied himself with the non-parliamentary chiefs of the 
 Tory party, and during the early spring had rendered 
 efficient electioneering services. His chance of a candi- 
 dature was therefore only a question of time. But as 
 he wished to neglect no means of keeping himself in 
 evidence, he still felt bound to call upon his wife to aid 
 him socially — that is to say, to preside at his table and 
 receive his guests. This Clytie was not disinclined to 
 do, especially as his summons was couched in pleasant 
 and courteous terms. So she bade farewell to Durdleham 
 and returned to London. 
 
 When her train arrived at Euston she was surprised at 
 seeing Thornton on the platform. He wore a gray frock- 
 coat with a dark rose in the buttonhole, and lavender 
 kid gloves. He came forward and greeted her, raising 
 his hat before he shook hands. 
 
 "Have you had a tiring journey? You are looking 
 very well. As I was paying a call near Primrose Hill, — 
 ghastly place to live in, isn't it ? — I thought I might as 
 well pick you up here with the brougham."
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 247 
 
 " That was very kind of you, Thornton," she said. 
 
 They talked of indifferent subjects during the long 
 drive to South Kensington : the theatres, odds and ends 
 of gossip. When they got home he accompanied her into 
 the drawing-room and drank a cup of tea. 
 
 " You're a deuced lovely woman, you know, Clytie," 
 he said, his great bulk sprawling over a small drawing- 
 room chair, his hands in his pockets. " I have half a 
 mind to fall in love with you again. If you had not 
 turned into absolute ice, perhaps I should. You've got 
 that same devilish witchery in your skin that made me go 
 wild over you a year ago." 
 
 " Oh, please don't talk of that, Thornton. It is the 
 past," she said, with a tremor. 
 
 " Well, upon my soul ! " he said, gathering himself 
 together. " I don't see why it might not be the present. 
 I was going to unfold to you a little scheme by which we 
 might live politely together, but, by Jove ! now I look 
 at you and reflect that you are my wife after all — you're 
 so gloriously beautiful, Clytie ! " 
 
 He rose, but she was on her feet before him, having 
 sprung up with a beating heart. She looked at him 
 with a fearful surmise in her glance, and as he made a 
 stride towards her she recoiled in a terror she had not 
 known before. 
 
 " Oh, no, no, no ! For God's sake ! " she cried, catch- 
 ing at her breath, instinctively putting out her hands to 
 keep him off. " That is all over. We loved one another 
 once. A horrible mockery of it is more than I can 
 bear." 
 
 '* Confound it, Clytie ! " he exclaimed, clenching his 
 hands and showing his teeth, " you're my wife, and, by the 
 Lord ! I'll kiss you if I choose ! " 
 
 The flash of his brown eyes that had once overpowered 
 her will now made her shudder. She stiffened into a 
 woman of iron, with bloodless cheeks. Standing up 
 perfectly rigid, she closed her eyes, and hung her hands 
 against her sides. 
 
 " Kiss me, then, since you claim the right," she said in 
 a choked voice. 
 
 For a moment or two he stood looking at her. Then 
 with a loud laugh he flung himself back in his chair.
 
 248 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 Clytie with shame and horror in her heart rushed from 
 the room. 
 
 It was not an encouraging home-coming. The inci- 
 dent, though not repeated, upset many of her plans for 
 the reconstitution of her existence. It added a new 
 dread. For she had counted upon the continuance of 
 the entire indifference with which Thornton had grown 
 to regard her. A sudden outburst like this had not 
 occurred for many months. What guarantee had she that 
 this was not the beginning of a series of spasmodic 
 rekindlings of a fire she had thought dead ? For some 
 days anxiety lay heavy on her mind. But human nature 
 is very elastic ; if it were not so, God help us all ! After 
 a while she recovered and was able to talk calmly to 
 Thornton, who began by treating her with an ironical 
 politeness, and then relapsed into his usual cheerful 
 indifference. Once while discussing their mutual rela- 
 tions she broached the subject of separation, 
 
 " I won't consent," he replied. " As we can't be lovers, 
 we may as well be friends. You would gain very little 
 by it. Besides, people would talk, and for me that is an 
 important consideration." 
 
 " It hardly concerns me," she said, with a touch of 
 cynicism that was new to her. '* Still, if you wish it very 
 much, I will remain." 
 
 " I do wish it, Clytie," he said in a softened voice. 
 " You can go your way, I will go mine. But we must 
 live together as far as the world sees us." 
 
 Clytie yielded with some misgivings, and set herself to 
 work to discover interests in life. 
 
 The society life of London, in which she was free to 
 play an important part, did not satisfy her. She saw too 
 deep below the surface of things to be guilty of the silly 
 cynicism that finds society hollow, its aims futile, and its 
 morals corrupt. There is earnestness even among culti- 
 vated men and women. But society is formal, conven- 
 tional, and in the external rules of life differs only in 
 degree from Durdleham. True, it has a far wider 
 intellectual scope. Contrary to Durdleham, it permits 
 the possession of ideas, but it is just as punctilious as to 
 their correct expression. The elaborate ceremonial of 
 society weighed upon Clytie. She preferred a simpler,
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 249 
 
 directer life. There were so many wrappings of conven- 
 tion to be pierced through before she could get to the 
 heart of a thing or a person, and they wearied, irritated 
 her. And now, as Thornton seemed to care very little 
 whether she placed herself in evidence or not, beyond 
 playing the part of hostess in his house, she consulted 
 merely her own desires in her acceptance of invitations. 
 But as the circle from which these mainly proceeded 
 was that into which her husband's reputation, tastes, and 
 political aspirations had led her, she did not find in it 
 the interests which particularly affected her. It was 
 beyond her power either to feel or to simulate an interest 
 in Thornton's ambitions. Nor did she feel called upon 
 now to profess the tenets of Thornton's political creed. 
 She was a solitary, unconventional Radical in the midst of 
 the most uncompromising Torydom, which is an unen- 
 viable position even for the least rabid politician. The 
 political section, therefore, of her .social circle she studi- 
 ously avoided. The purely fashionable, frivolous element, 
 that goes to Hurlingham and Ascot, and makes itself 
 merry over material things, had attracted her the pre- 
 vious year with its graceful epicureanism. She had still 
 been proud of her husband and his boyish zest in amuse- 
 ment, and she had caught from him the spirit of laugh- 
 ing Babylon. But now it was pain to be with him when 
 he chatted and jested with pretty girls and idle young 
 men. His light-hearted gaiety jarred upon her. She 
 saw that men and women were affected by his charm, 
 and she had half longings to tell them it was a lie. So 
 she withdrew herself from their midst as much as pos- 
 sible. By this process of elimination Clytie's circle 
 became conveniently limited. She was sick at heart, and 
 she turned more and more to the friends of her girlhood. 
 Mrs. Farquharson's Sunday evenings became pleasant 
 spots in her barren week. She went there alone, as in 
 the old days. Nothing was changed there : the same 
 faces, the same bright, eager talk, the same welcome. 
 Clytie became her old self, was astonished to find how 
 many enthusiasms she still retained. She almost forgot 
 that she was married, and had said farewell to theories 
 of life and such like vanities. Only at times, when her 
 own art came within the range of a friendly arrow, did
 
 250 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 she wince and remember with a pang that Clytie Davenant 
 was dead. Redgrave, whom she occasionally met, for- 
 bore, with a portrait painter's intuitive delicacy, to ques- 
 tion her upon the progress of her art under its new condi- 
 tions. He divined that his prophecies had been correct, 
 and he was sad ; because he had had great hopes of 
 Clytie. In a tentative way he spoke of it to Mrs. 
 Farquharson, who confided to him her own surmises as to 
 the dubious success of the marriage. Then Redgrave 
 brightened, and declared that there was hope yet. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " cried Caroline with a touch 
 of indignation ; whereat Redgrave smiled in his serene 
 way. 
 
 "I mean that hitherto she has tried to look at life 
 through her art. Now she will be able to look at art 
 through her life." 
 
 " Then her art will be very feeble and miserable ! " 
 
 " Clytie's life has never been feeble and miserable," 
 he replied, " I feared it was going to be so — in a special 
 sense, you know ; I feared that she would be overpowered 
 by the physical element her husband would bring into 
 her atmosphere, and that she would develop into the 
 fashionable married woman, and thus, at the same time, 
 suffer in spirituality and lose her grip upon the subjects 
 that form her artistic range." 
 
 " I can't see how an unhappy married life can help 
 her," said Caroline. " If such a deterioration is possible, 
 it has taken place already." 
 
 *' Doubtless it has," Redgrave replied earnestly. " But 
 it is not final. If she lives within herself again, she will 
 recover spirituality and grip — both strengthened^ by 
 experience and suffering. That is the most precious 
 knowledge, Mrs. Farquharson, which we have bought 
 with sorrow." 
 
 " Then mine must be very worthless," cried Caroline. 
 " And I'm very glad of it. I would rather be ignorant 
 and happy than wise and sad. And I could wish the 
 same for poor Clytie. I can understand the good and 
 beautiful things of this world as well as most people, 
 but I don't believe in art to all that extent. I may be a 
 Philistine, — God forbid it, but perhaps I am, — and I like 
 to see people happy."
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 251 
 
 " That depends upon what you call happiness," said 
 Redgrave. 
 
 But Caroline was not to be led into an argument. 
 She had her views and expounded them, 
 
 *' I mean common, all-round human happiness," she 
 said, " that makes you laugh to yourself when there's no 
 particular reason for it. And I'd sooner Clytie have 
 that and never touch a brush than paint the most world- 
 convulsing pictures and be wretched." 
 
 " But if she painted world-convulsing pictures, as you 
 call them, she would be happy — much happier than under 
 the other conditions." 
 
 *' Oh, no, she wouldn't ! " she replied, with a conclusive 
 nod. " You are quite wrong, my dear good friend. It 
 is a secondary consideration to a woman whether she 
 convulses the world or not. It might amuse and gratify 
 her to do it en passant., but it is only en passant. Believe 
 me. I don't give my sex away as a general rule, but I 
 make you a present of that ! So if you're glad," she 
 added with triumphant feminine logic, " that Clytie has 
 made an unhappy marriage, I think it is simply detest- 
 able of you ! " 
 
 So Redgrave, routed, retired in confusion ; but he took 
 his own ideas with him. 
 
 One Sunday evening, early in July, Mrs. Farquharson 
 ran into the room where Clytie, just arrived, was taking 
 off her wraps. 
 
 " I have been waiting by the window ever so long, 
 watching for your carriage. You are quite late. I 
 wanted to see you before you came into the drawing- 
 room. Who do you think is here ? Guess ! " 
 
 Clytie saw at once by Caroline's face. A little thrill 
 of gladness sent the colour to her cheeks and caused her 
 eyes to sparkle as she paused with one glove half off 
 and looked quickly at her friend. 
 ■ "Kent?" 
 
 Caroline nodded, glad at seeing that Clytie was 
 pleased. 
 
 " I wanted to drop you a line, but how could I on 
 Sunday in this postless town ? George only condescended 
 to tell me last night that he was coming. If we had as
 
 252 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 little sense as men, I wonder how on earth we should 
 get on ! He met him out a week ago and persuaded 
 him." 
 
 " It will be quite like an old evening, dear," said 
 Clytie. " I shall be so glad to see him." 
 
 "It is strange you should not have met," said Caro- 
 line ; and then she added reflectively : " Well, perhaps 
 it isn't." 
 
 She had her own theories on the subject. And to say 
 a woman has her own theories is to say a good deal. 
 
 " But I don't see why he should have let us almost 
 lose sight of him," she continued. 
 
 " What reason does he give ? " 
 
 " Oh, the reason that makes one so helpless, you know. 
 A man you like comes to you and says : ' I have sinned 
 against you without any cause whatever. It was just 
 my own badness, and nothing else, and now I am humble 
 and repentant ' — and what are you to do but forgive 
 him ? He's very penitent now and vows amendment." 
 
 Clytie completed her little toilet arrangements and 
 went downstairs with Caroline. On their way Caroline 
 asked her where Thornton was. 
 
 "He's at Goodwood, staying with some people there. 
 He went down yesterday for the races." 
 
 " Wouldn't it have brightened you up to have gone 
 too ? " asked Caroline with deliberate tactlessness, 
 darting a quick feminine side glance. But Clytie broke 
 into a laugh. 
 
 " Oh ! good gracious, no I I didn't even know he was 
 going till yesterday, when Roberts asked me about 
 something he was to do during the master's absence. 
 We are quite old married people now, Caroline, and we 
 each go more or less our own way. It saves a lot of 
 trouble. You see, he knew I wouldn't care for Good- 
 wood and the set he's in with there — the Claverings and 
 such like." 
 
 " Yes, I think you are better off here," said Caroline. 
 
 " I know I am," replied Clytie, taking her arm. And 
 then they went into the drawing-room. 
 
 Clytie's first impulse on entering was to look round for 
 Kent. She met his eyes fixed upon her from the other 
 side of the rather crowded room, and she gave him a
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 253 
 
 little nod of greeting. He rose and joined the knot of 
 people who were surrounding her. Both were self- 
 conscious to the extent of knowing that, as they had 
 once been a familiar couple in that company, it would be 
 inexpedient to allow it to be noticed that their meeting 
 was an event to them. They shook hands, with a friendly 
 commonplace, and joined in the general conversation. 
 Redgrave, French, the journalist, Mr. Singleton, Mrs. 
 Tredegar, were there — most of the old faces, a few new 
 ones. To see Kent's among them was a joy to Clytie. 
 She had never understood why he had broken from her. 
 Now and then the true solution passed through her mind, 
 but she rejected it. It was incongruous with his action. 
 Love begets wants, and it is the nature of man to clamour 
 for them. This was her hasty conclusion. But she had 
 avoided thinking very deeply upon the subject, instinc- 
 tively deeming it wiser to refrain. 
 
 He had not changed, she thought ; and wondered 
 whether he would notice any change in her. She found 
 herself listening again to him as he talked, in his down- 
 right, earnest way, quickly noting familiar turns of 
 thought and expression, admiring the thoroughness of 
 his unconventional enthusiasm. The old contented 
 humility of spirit came back to her. How much more 
 real than hers was his life ! How much she had learned 
 and could learn from him ! And for a short, swift 
 moment the laughter and talk sounded dull in her ears, 
 and all the objects around, all the faces save one, melted 
 away into the blue cigarette smoke, and that one face 
 remained — sitting at a table opposite to her, the lamp 
 between them — and the brows were intent on the sheet 
 over which a quill pen was scratching assiduously ; and 
 the surroundings shaped themselves into her old rooms in 
 the King's Road. Then, just as swiftly as it had come, the 
 dream vanished, and Clytie sighed. The talk languished 
 a little. Kent looked somewhat wistfully at her. She 
 leaned forward and beckoned him with a smile and a 
 little upward movement of her chin. 
 
 " Come down and give me some supper," she said. 
 " I did not eat anything before coming out." 
 
 " That was foolish of you," he said involuntarily. 
 
 Then they both laughed.
 
 254 AT THE GATE OF SAMAJ?IA. 
 
 " You are just the same as ever," she said. And they 
 went downstairs. 
 
 It was a tradition in Harley Street that on Sunday 
 evenings a cold supper should be laid in the dining-room 
 from half-past eight onward, so that guests could go 
 down whenever it so pleased them. To break up the 
 continuity of the evening by a formal gathering around 
 a supper table was opposed to Caroline's notions. 
 Besides, irregularities in meals were one of the features 
 of the house. You need never be in time, and there was 
 always food when you wanted it. To the erratic and 
 unregulated visitor it was paradise. Caroline paid her 
 servants extra wages to insure satisfaction in this respect. 
 So Clytie's little manoeuvre was quite in accordance with 
 the recognised order of things. 
 
 They found the dining-room unoccupied. She sat 
 down near the end of the table, while Kent, a little way off, 
 gravely carved some chicken, which he brought to her 
 together with some salad and a jug of claret-cup. Then 
 he sat down by her, at the corner. 
 
 "But aren't you going to eat anything yourself?" 
 she asked, laughing. 
 
 " I am not hungry." 
 
 " Oh, that doesn't matter. Do go and get something, 
 to keep me in countenance. How can I eat when you 
 are sitting watching me like that, with your elbow on the 
 table ? " 
 
 " I have done it so often before. It seemed natural to 
 sit by you while you had your meal. I was forgetting. 
 You see my manners have not improved. However " 
 
 He rose for the purpose of helping himself to some 
 food, but Clytie stopped him, made him sit down 
 again. 
 
 "There! It was silly of me," she said, " I did not 
 think of it. Don't be any different from what you used 
 to be. Let us imagine that this evening is one of the 
 old Sunday evenings here. Ah ! If you only knew how 
 glad I am to see you. What an eternity it has been 
 since we met." 
 
 " Eighteen months," said Kent laconically. " The 
 longest eighteen months I have ever lived." 
 
 " Why ? "
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 255 
 
 " Don't you think I have missed you ? " 
 
 " So much as that?" 
 
 " Yes ; so much as that." 
 
 " My poor Kent ! " said Clytie, troubled, '* I wish I 
 could do something for you." 
 
 " Ah, es ist vorbei," he said, puckering his brows, as he 
 watched the rings he was making in the damask with an 
 inverted wineglass. Then his forehead suddenly cleared, 
 and he looked up with his frank laugh. 
 
 "You see I am just as much of a bear as ever. In- 
 stead of telling you what a delight it is to be with you 
 again, I come to you complaining, and I ought to have 
 every reason not to rail at fortune." 
 
 " You are doing great things, I hear," said Clytie. 
 " Tell me about them." 
 
 " Oh, they are neither great nor much worth telling. 
 The opiis is being translated into German, and part of 
 it will be soon published by the University of Vienna," 
 
 " That is a feather in your cap." 
 
 " A big one. I don't think I am given to running 
 after notoriety and that sort of thing, but it is gratifying 
 to be recognised a little. It encourages one." 
 
 " Ah, it does ! " said Clytie with more meaning than 
 she intended. 
 
 " So I have been working away at it harder than ever." 
 
 *' I wish I had your enthusiasm," she said. "And 
 your power of work. Do you remember your lectures ? " 
 
 They talked a little about the old days, half sadly, 
 half tenderly. Those memories were very pleasant. 
 Then they came back to the present. 
 
 " Winnie tells me you are a great man now at the 
 Museum. I am so glad." 
 
 Kent waved his hand deprecatingly and laughed. 
 
 " Winifred is quite an Iris," he replied. " For she 
 comes down to earth sometimes and tells me things 
 about you. Yes, I am quite a man of affluence these 
 days. I am the head of the department. I have got so 
 much money I don't know what to do with it." 
 
 " I hope you employ some of it in giving yourself 
 proper meals," said Clytie. " Or do you still have your 
 extraordinary suppers ? " 
 
 " Oh, I live just the same," said Kent, " If I began
 
 256 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 to be respectable in one thing, I should gradually 
 become so in all." 
 
 " And the rooms are just the same as ever ? " 
 
 " A few more pictures and odds and ends. And I have 
 got a carpet. That's Wither's doing. He came to see 
 me in the winter and caught a cold, due to the bare 
 boards, so he said. When he had recovered he made 
 me go and buy a thick Turkey square. After that I 
 had serious designs of forbidding him the rooms lest he 
 should turn them into a boudoir altogether." 
 
 They laughed over this idea. Clytie asked him 
 whether he still kept the tripods before the fireplace, and 
 whether the paraffin oil can in the corner harmonised 
 well with the carpet. It was like a breath of fresh air 
 to meet Kent again. 
 
 Suddenly he pointed to her plate. 
 
 " You are not eating anything." 
 
 " I am not hungry," said Clytie with some demure- 
 ness. 
 
 " But if you have not had your evening meal, you'll 
 get faint. What did you come down for, if you merely 
 wanted to pick at the wing of a chicken and to put 
 hardly any of it into your mouth ? " 
 
 Then Clytie burst out into merry laughter. He was 
 so downright and honest. Just the same as ever. 
 
 " Oh, you foolish Kent ! I should have thought 
 even you could have invented that." 
 
 " Did you really want to see me?" he asked, bright- 
 ening. 
 
 " Why, of course ! Do you suppose I am devoid of 
 human attributes ? " 
 
 This brought them nearer than they had been since 
 the time that Kent realised he loved her. To Kent this 
 meeting was enchantment. To see her sitting by him, 
 bright, laughing, her old self, was enough to make him 
 lose sense of the past eighteen months of hopeless long- 
 ing. He thought to himself that it was better she had 
 not learned, since her ignorance gave him this sweet 
 half hour. 
 
 " I suppose we must be going upstairs soon," she said, 
 with a little wistful wrinkling of her forehead, " When 
 shall I see you again ? "
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 257 
 
 Kent started at the question. It troubled him. He 
 did not know what answer to make. 
 
 "Within less than another year, I hope," he said, 
 
 " Oh, yes, Kent. We mustn't be strangers any more. 
 It's not good for us. Would you care about seeing me 
 very often ? " 
 
 " I am not coming to call upon you," he replied 
 bluntly. 
 
 The actual words were ungracious. But there was a 
 flash of eager longing in his eyes that lent the words a 
 subtle meaning. And Clytie rose from the table with a 
 little gasp of pain as the truth burst upon her. 
 
 " Oh, Kent, Kent ! " she cried, greatly moved. 
 
 Their eyes met, and this time there was no mistake. 
 He knew that she had guessed. But with a great effort 
 he evaded the appeal. 
 
 " No ; I can't come to your house to see you," he said 
 huskily. " There you are Mrs. Hammerdyke, and I 
 shouldn't know you. Your home is full of interests and 
 associations in which I could only be a stranger and an 
 intruder. To me you are Clytie, the Clytie whose daily 
 life I used to share — and only as Clytie can I bear to see 
 you." 
 
 " Would it help you to see me as Clytie ? " she asked. 
 
 " Yes, dearly," he said. 
 
 " Then you can always come in to the studio when I 
 am with Winifred, and I shall always be here on Sunday 
 evenings. Don't you think I want to see you too — as 
 Clytie ! " 
 
 " Thank you. Thank you," he said in a low voice, 
 taking her hand. " Now it is time for us to go upstairs." 
 
 ^7
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Each lay awake that night, thinking. To Clytie the 
 revelation of Kent's love was dazing. The sense of her 
 own dulness in never having pierced the heart of his 
 mystery was even more confounding. Why should she 
 have divined suddenly the meaning of the light in his 
 eyes, on this first meeting after their eighteen months of 
 separation, when she had been blind to it before ? She 
 only half guessed as yet why he had not told her, but 
 she saw that it must have arisen from a rare, strange 
 delicacy in his nature differentiating him from all other 
 men that she had known. Her heart went out in pity 
 for him. 
 
 " How he must have suffered ! " she repeated over and 
 over ta herself. And then scenes between them came 
 before her mind and became clear in the light of this 
 revelation : the strange suppressed interview after her 
 arrival from Durdleham ; the last evening he had spent 
 in London before going abroad, when he had lit her 
 fire, and she had gone up to bid him farewell. How had 
 her ears been so dull as not to detect the tremor in his 
 voice when, after kissing her hand, he had said : " You 
 are my very dear lady whom I will serve to the hour of 
 my death " ? 
 
 And then a little hissing snake of a thought formed 
 itself into a reply ; and she shrank up together with a 
 slight convulsive shiver as if something foul had touched 
 her. 
 
 After that she could not sleep. She got up, lit her 
 candle, and took a book at random from her shelves. It 
 was her well-worn, girlish Globe Shakespeare, one of the 
 books she had surreptitiously procured when the family 
 Bowdler was included in the category of formulas 
 against which she revolted. She took it back to bed with 
 her and commenced reading where it had chanced to 
 
 253
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 259 
 
 open. The first words that met her eye seemed like a 
 voice from the other world : 
 
 Such harmony is in immortal souls ; 
 But while this muddy vesture of decay 
 Doth grossly clothe it in, we cannot hear it. 
 
 They followed so closely on the track of her own 
 shuddering thought that she could read no more. She 
 blew out her candle, and remained awake, staring into 
 the darkness, until the gray dawn filtered through the 
 blinds, and she fell asleep. 
 
 Nor was Kent more restful. He had battled with his 
 love, and with a strong man's will had brought it under 
 subjection, making it minister to his happiness in spite 
 of torturing longings instead of allowing it to darken 
 his life. It had awakened him to a sense of a world of 
 beautiful things, given him a deeper understanding and 
 a wider sympathy than he had before. For him truly 
 might it be said that to love her was a liberal education. 
 It gave him the key to the knowledge and appreciation 
 of women, drew him from his seclusion into the general 
 society he had formerly avoided. A feminine conclusion 
 which he would once have pooh-poohed as weak and 
 illogical struck him now with its intuitive subtlety and 
 delicacy of point. He learned that what the essentially 
 feminine mind lacks in breadth it gains in fineness, and 
 he was amazed to discover what a sensitive touch upon 
 life is possessed by a cultivated woman. " And mingled 
 with this new charm was another of an esoteric kind. 
 No woman he met had all the fascinations of Clytie, but 
 every woman seemed to possess one of them. He confided 
 this once in a roundabout way to Wither, who laughed, and 
 told him he was growing too susceptible and would find 
 himself married one of these days. But Kent shook his 
 head. " I could only find a Clytie among them by mar- 
 rying the whole sex and making an extract of it," he 
 said with conviction. For not only did the higher quali- 
 ties of woman's nature manifest themselves to him, but 
 the minor graces of manner and appearance appealed to 
 that side of his aesthetic temperament that had hitherto 
 been under a cloud. It occurred to him then that he 
 had been living with half his faculties. Accordingly
 
 26o A 7' THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 he felt a peculiar satisfaction in his new powers of per- 
 ception. 
 
 It had cost him a pang to forego the pleasure of the 
 bright society that Mrs. Farquharson gathered round 
 her. At first he had given up going to Harley Street 
 through fear of meeting Clytie, for he shrank from meet- 
 ing her under the new conditions. Then as time passed 
 on, and he accustomed himself to the idea of Clytie as a 
 married woman of fashion, he wished to go, but shyness 
 held him back. It would look strange to resume visit- 
 ing suddenly after his apparent rudeness and neglect. 
 Probably the Farquharsons would never have seen him 
 again had not George met him at a learned society's 
 meeting, and given him a hearty and pressing invitation. 
 
 But there was a large though somewhat scattered 
 society in which, although the rarest of visitors, he had 
 always been welcome. And now he not only mixed 
 assiduously in this, thereby causing many laughing con- 
 jectures as to the reason of his social reformation, but he 
 volunteered occasionally to go out with Wither, whose 
 circle of acquaintance, like Sam Weller's knowledge of 
 London, was extensive and peculiar. A revolution was 
 thus effected in Kent's habits, and to a certain extent in 
 his mode of thought. A new zest was given to life in 
 this enlargement of his horizon. And all through his 
 love of Clytie. The awakening of the dormant sex 
 principle had strengthened his nature, extended his 
 humanity in depth and breadth. In spite of a hopeless, 
 passionate love Kent was still a happy man. 
 
 And now this spell of her influence was broken, or at 
 least modified. He had seen her, felt the softness of her 
 voice, the kindliness of her eyes. And he had unwit- 
 tingly betrayed his secret. She knew that he loved her. 
 She pitied him, promised that he should see her 
 frequently on the basis of the old friendship. It was 
 kind and generous, he thought, to step down from the 
 height of her wedded felicity to comfort him with her 
 friendship and sympathy. An unexpected happiness 
 was in store for him. Perhaps, after all, his loyalty and 
 devotion might be of some use to her. 
 
 But strong, loyal man as he was, this sudden meet- 
 ing troubled him. If only he had spoken at once,
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 261 
 
 before the other had come upon the scene, she might 
 have been won to love him. The old torturing regrets 
 came upon him, and he tossed sleeplessly on his bed. 
 The love which, through its very hopelessness, had all 
 these months given him peace and a measure of happi- 
 ness now burst forth again tumultuously. It became a 
 miserable farce to lie awake in the darkness. He rose, 
 went into his sitting-room and lit the gas. Then he sat 
 down at his writing space, and, burying his face in his 
 hands, remained for some time in great pain of thought. 
 M last his eye fell upon some notepaper lying invitingly 
 on his blotting-pad. An idea struck him. He would 
 write to her. He covered four sides with a passionate 
 outburst of his love, writing wildly, unthinkingly, as men 
 must write in moments of overpowering emotion. Then 
 he tore up the sheet and began afresh. The summer 
 morning light was streaming into the room through the 
 curtainless window, mingling oddly with the yellow gas, 
 when Kent enclosed and addressed the first letter to 
 Clytie in which he told her of his love. He got up, stiff 
 from his long sitting and somewhat exhausted, and going 
 to bed, slept the sleep of the just until it was his usual 
 hour for rising. 
 
 The next afternoon when Clytie returned from a drive 
 she found the letter awaiting her. She took it up to her 
 room, and there, sitting on the edge of the bed, read it 
 with conflicting feelings. It ran as follows : 
 
 My Dear Clytie : 
 
 You know my secret. I think so. I saw it in your face. But if I 
 was mistaken, let me tell it to you in so many words ; and as I bring to 
 you what is best and truest in me, it will neither dishonour me to tell 
 it nor you to hear it. And as you in your goodness offer me a resump- 
 tion of the old friendship, I must say it once and for all. I love you, 
 Clytie, with all the strength of a man who has allowed women to take 
 up very little part in his life. I loved you long before I knew it. 
 It grew up gradually during our intercourse, and only one day when you 
 were at Durdleham a little, little chance circumstance revealed to me 
 that you were not only the grand, sweet friend, but the woman that I 
 passionately loved. And I could not tell you for fear of paining you 
 and destroying our friendship — for what was I to love you ? And I 
 dreaded lest you should think me disloyal to the trust between us. 
 And at last I came, resolved to speak, and it was too late. Winifred 
 can tell you.
 
 262 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 From that time I have carried my love with me as the vivifying 
 principle of my life. I thought you would never know, but now I 
 have betrayed myself. 
 
 Will it not pain you too much in your present happiness to see me 
 under this new guise ? Ah, Clytie ! tell me frankly as you always used 
 to do. 
 
 I shall never, never willingly trouble the serenity of your life. I 
 love you too sincerely, too devotedly ; and my love makes me myself 
 too happy. If you will meet me now and again after this, freely, at 
 the houses of our common friends, you shall only see the old Kent 
 who now and then scolded you, sometimes helped you, and who always 
 held you dearer and higher and grander than all other women ; and 
 yet you must let yourself be loved — that I cannot help. It is fused 
 into my being, and it gives me happiness in my own way. I am an 
 oddity, you know, Clytie, as you yourself have called me, and oddities 
 have their little privileges, and if you know that it makes my happi- 
 ness, and does not grudge you yours, you will not find it hard to be 
 loved. 
 
 If you were a woman of ordinary conventional ideas, I could not 
 tell you this. You would misunderstand it. 
 
 There seems but little I could do for you — and I would do so much. 
 But life is full of strange chances, and perhaps my chance of serving 
 you may come, and would then I could die for you to save you an 
 hour's pain. 
 
 Yours in all devotion, 
 
 Kent. 
 
 Clytie read the letter over several times. At first the 
 tears came into her eyes and a lump rose in her throat. 
 This simple, unrequiring love soothed her and smote 
 her at once. The largeness and tenderness of the man's 
 nature came to her almost as a revelation. What was 
 there in her worthy of this sacrifice ? How could she 
 tell him, she thought in her broken pride, that she had 
 failed miserably, wretchedly, that she had forsaken the 
 higher for the lower, that this selfless love of his was as 
 far above the sudden intoxication that had degraded 
 her as the spirit is above the flesh ? She had thrown 
 away the best, like the shepherd in the German legend, 
 who, in the sensuous heart-leap at the sight of the glitter- 
 ing treasure, disregarded the voice, ** Forget not the best," 
 and dropped and trampled underfoot the little blue 
 flower that opened the enchanted hillside. How could 
 she tell him that ? 
 
 Then, too, the note of unconscious irony in his letter 
 jarred through her painfully. " Her present happi- 
 ness ! "
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARTA. 263 
 
 " Oh, my God ! " she cried at last. " If he only knew 
 how much need I have of happiness ! " 
 
 And then the strength that had kept the tears back 
 for all these latter months of weariness and disillusion 
 suddenly forsook her, and turning as she sat, she threw 
 herself on the bed in a great agony of sobbing. 
 
 A little later she wrote Kent the following reply : 
 
 My Dear Friend Kent : 
 
 I am not worthy of such devotion. I can only wonder at it and 
 accept it humbly and gratefully. Words like these of yours I never 
 could misunderstand, Kent. If it is a pleasure to you to see me, you 
 need not shun me any more. Clytie. 
 
 Kent went into the studio on Monday to tell Wini- 
 fred of the meeting ; on Tuesday, with a vague hope of 
 seeing Clytie ; on Wednesday, when AVinifred herself 
 expected her, but she did not come. On Thursday, how- 
 ever, he heard her voice from outside the studio door, 
 and his heart gave a great throb. He entered and found 
 himself once more in her presence. Neither spoke of 
 the letters that had passed between them, but the faintest 
 pressure of the hand and a glance from her eyes told 
 him that she understood. 
 
 After that they met frequently — on Sunday evenings 
 at the Farquharsons', during the week in the studio, 
 where for some months Clytie had taken to coming very 
 frequently for the comfort of seeing Winifred. Clytie 
 maintained her usual habits ; Kent, as far as was possi- 
 ble, resumed his old ones. Sometimes it was strangely 
 like the old days. With a little longing, perhaps, to add 
 to the illusion, and also to give herself some employment 
 while Winifred worked, Clytie began a picture, choosing 
 in a humorous tenderness to take Winnie as her model. 
 The picture never was completed, for Clytie had not the 
 temperament to do justice to the slender figure in its 
 quiet summer dress, and to the soft, dark face bent so 
 earnestly over the palette and sheaf of brushes. But 
 while the painting of it lasted it gave a comfortable air 
 of reality to the revival. It was new life to Kent to 
 come in on his return and once more receive Clytie's 
 friendly nod as she stood by the easel, a painting-apron 
 over her dainty dress, and her hands smudged with char-
 
 264 AT 7^ HE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 coal or daubs of paint. He did not think much of the 
 portrait, and he told her so with laughing frankness. 
 But he divined why she was doing it, and while criticis- 
 ing, encouraged her to proceed. His arrival, however, 
 as it always had been, was a signal for the cessation of 
 work. Then Winifred cleaned the brushes and put them 
 in the trays, and gathered up the tubes and rags which 
 Clytie, with less sense of tidiness, had strewed around her, 
 and Clytie drew out the basket-table and rang the bell 
 for Mrs. Gurkins to bring up the tea. Clytie had left 
 behind her all her small domestic articles for Winnie's 
 use in the studio. So there was the familiar tea-service, 
 the Crown-Derby cups and apostle spoons, — a piece of 
 wicked extravagance on Clytie's part in times gone by, — 
 the gray Japanese teapot whose wicker handle had still 
 to be delicately fingered, and the little glass sugar-bowl 
 that looked so plebeian beside the aristocratic porcelain. 
 Scarcely anything in the studio had been changed. The 
 charcoal caricatures on the walls were as sacred in Wini- 
 fred's eyes as if they had been frescoes by old Italian 
 masters, and she had issued strict injunctions to spring- 
 cleaners to leave them intact. Even Clytie's easel was 
 there now. Kent lived for these afternoons. 
 
 One day Kent was going to dine with Wither and 
 Fairfax. As his road to a certain point was the same as 
 Clytie's, they walked along together. This was almost 
 the first occasion on which they were quite alone to- 
 gether. He reminded her casually of the fact. 
 
 " Yes," she replied. " And I have been wanting to 
 see you by yourself, I have not thanked you for your 
 letter. But you do see that I appreciate it, don't 
 you?" 
 
 " There is nothing to thank me for, since I pleased 
 myself in writing it. The thanks are from me to you for 
 treating it as you have done." 
 
 "Oh, no," said Clytie, shaking her head and looking 
 before her. " You can't understand, — and perhaps it is 
 better you shouldn't, — what a letter like that means to a 
 woman. Well, it meant a great deal to me. To tell you 
 so is the only return T can make you." 
 
 "Don't let us talk of it," .said Kent. "T could not 
 bear to have you as a friend under false pretences."
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 265 
 
 After they had walked a few steps in silence she con- 
 tinued the subject. 
 
 " Don't you think it would be better for you to forget 
 all about me, and look around for someone who can 
 make you happy — really happy ? " 
 
 " I'd have to live till the day of judgment to find her," 
 said Kent bluntly. 
 
 " That's ridiculous, Kent. But can't you feel that it 
 sometimes pains me to see you sacrificing your life for 
 me?" 
 
 " I am not sacrificing my life," he answered cheerfully. 
 " Besides, I don't quite see what it has got to do with 
 you — in one sense. I love you, and I couldn't love any- 
 body else for all the joys in creation. Thank Ciod, you 
 are broad-minded enough to let me tell you this without 
 any chance of misconstruction." 
 
 "Ah ! That's all very well," she said, with a little 
 sigh. " If I were a saint, I might placidly accept it as my 
 due. Being only a woman, and that none of the best, it 
 seems such a waste of good love, Kent, and love is a rare, 
 rare thing in the world." 
 
 " But it would go a-begging if you did not have it," 
 he replied, laughing. " Come, don't let us say anything 
 more about it. You are happy with your own home 
 and interests, and I am happy in seeing you and having 
 your friendship. Of course I have suffered a bit, but 
 it's all over now." 
 
 "Ah!" she said. "Life seems to be made up of 
 that." 
 
 "Of what?" 
 
 " Suffering." 
 
 He waved an energetic protest with his ash stick. 
 
 " Since when have you grown a pessimist ? 1 don't 
 believe in it. Life is made up of responsibilities and 
 interests. There's suffering in it of course ; but there 
 are alleviations. It's like cold and frost. If you stood 
 up without a rag on in the snow you'd think the world 
 was made of nothing else but frost. But you put on warm 
 clothing and defy it." 
 
 " But the poor, ill-clad, shivering wretches — what about 
 them?" 
 
 " I'm talking of people with average material wealth,"
 
 266 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 he replied. " That's just it. So can the people of ordi- 
 nary moral wealth clothe themselves against suffering. 
 I don't like the morbid view of things. It doesn't do 
 any good. Do you remember a passage in Longfellow's 
 ' Hyperion ' — a criticism of two German poets — * melan- 
 choly gentlemen to whom life was only a dismal swamp, 
 upon whose margin they walked with cambric handker- 
 chiefs in their hands, sobbing and sighing, and making 
 signals to Death to come and ferry them over the lake' ? 
 It's a bit fierce on your pessimists ; but it's a whole- 
 some little passage to remember." 
 
 A little while after this they parted. Kent walked on, 
 swinging his stick, convinced of Clytie's happiness, yet 
 wondering at her unusual note of pessimism, and Clytie 
 called a cab, as she was late, and drove home with a 
 world of strange and troubling thoughts.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 On the ist of August Clytie received a visit from the 
 boy Jack, who had just come to London for his summer 
 holiday. He had grown greatly during the past year, 
 had filled out. The taint of the street had gone from 
 him and he was becoming civilised. Clytie leaned back 
 in her chair and looked at him curiously as he sat, in all 
 the self-consciousness of a newly awakened sense of pro- 
 priety, upon the edge of his seat, twirling his glengarry 
 cap. As an artistic object he had deteriorated. The 
 motive of his worth in that respect had gone with the 
 picturesqueness of his old garments and dirt and wild 
 elf locks ; but he was handsome in spite of his cropped 
 brown hair and the severity of his attire. Indeed there 
 was something incongruous in the corduroy uniform and 
 the refinement of his face, with its bright dark eyes and 
 finely cut lips that disclosed a perfect row of white, even 
 teeth. And yet there was cruelty around the mouth, the 
 sublimated essence of the fierce savagery that Clytie had 
 impressed upon her famous picture. He had been trans- 
 formed from the animal into the human being, it is true ; 
 but that does not necessarily imply that the human 
 being does not retain many of the passions of the animal. 
 With the old Jack the untamable was degradingly con- 
 fused with lowness, but it shone out all the clearer now 
 by reason of the humanising of his face. Clytie noted 
 all this as they talked together. 
 
 " You are getting quite a man," she said. " When are 
 you leaving school ? " 
 
 " Mr. Kent says I'm to stay there another year," 
 replied Jack. " Then I'm to be 'prenticed." 
 
 " To a joiner ? " 
 
 " I suppose so," said Jack. And after he had scraped 
 a little with his toe on the ground he looked up and 
 added : " Do you think I needn't be a joiner if I didn't 
 want to ? " 
 
 267
 
 268 AT THE GATE OF SAMARTA. 
 
 n 
 
 I don't see why you shouldn't be what you like, 
 Jack." 
 
 "Really!" and his face brightened. "I have been 
 thinking I should like to be something else." 
 
 '« What is that ? " 
 
 " A carver and gilder," said Jack bashfully. 
 
 " Where do the especial charms of that trade come 
 in ?" asked Clytie, laughing. 
 
 "I dunno," said Jack ; "I only thought it." 
 
 There was a touch of pique in his voice. Clytie 
 noticed it, saw that she had wounded susceptibilities. 
 
 " Tell me. Jack, why you want to be a carver and 
 gilder." 
 
 " I could make all the picture-frames for you and 
 Miss Marchpane," he replied, 
 
 " Thank you, Jack," said Clytie, touched at the boyish 
 idea. " But perhaps we'll make you something better 
 than a carver or gilder. I don't know what you could 
 be. What could we make of you ? " 
 
 A vague idea of raising Jack above the artisan level 
 had occurred to her during her scrutiny of his face. He 
 was not an ordinary creature. That he should spend 
 his life in the dull, commonplace atmosphere of the 
 British workman seemed a waste of possibilities. There 
 are millions who possess just the qualifications for hew- 
 ers of wood and drawers of water. Why should a finer 
 organisation not be cultivated, trained, put into an 
 environment where there are conditions for free develop- 
 ment ? But whether the boy was a potential admiral, 
 Lord Chancellor, or novelist she could not determine. 
 That was why she asked the question, " What could we 
 make of you ? " somewhat pathetically. Jack shook his 
 head in reply. He had learned at school that life was a 
 serious thing terminating in apprenticeship. 
 
 "I've got to learn a trade," he replied after a little, 
 " and I'd sooner be a carver and gilder than anything 
 else." 
 
 " But suppose a good fairy were to come, Jack," per- 
 sisted Clytie, " and say that you were not to learn a 
 trade, or that, if you did begin, you would work your 
 way out of it, and become a great man, and do glorious 
 things in the world— sujiposc you were able to choose to
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 269 
 
 be anything you liked — what do you think you would 
 be ? Tell me — something great and bright and noble ! " 
 
 She had grown animated with her enthusiasm, and 
 leaned forward, with her chin raised and lips parted — 
 her attitude in moments of exaltation. The boy looked 
 at her for a few seconds, catching her spirit. Some- 
 thing was at work within him too, for his eyes glowed, 
 and his breath came quickly. 
 
 " There is something, Jack. Tell me what it is ! " 
 
 " I'd like to be a soldier like my father," he said in a 
 low voice, the extravagant, glowing fancies that had 
 haunted him for six months thus finding half-choked 
 expression. 
 
 " Your father ? " asked Clytie, taken aback, and 
 diverging into the side track of her astonishment. " I 
 never knew you had — I mean, I thought you did not 
 know anything at all about him. You used not to tell 
 me the truth, then, Jack." 
 
 " Oh ! but I did not know then ! " he cried eagerly. 
 " It was only when I come here at Christmas, and you 
 was ill, so I couldn't tell you. He was a soldier, my 
 father, an orficer. And I would like to be an orficer 
 too." 
 
 " Really, Jack, this is very interesting," said Clytie. 
 " Aren't you pleased to have a father you can be proud 
 of ? Was he a very brave man ? " 
 
 " He had a sword," said Jack proudl)^ as if that was 
 proof positive of valour. 
 
 " Come and sit down in your old place on the hearth- 
 rug and tell me all about him." 
 
 The boy did as he was bidden, sinking somewhat 
 shyly at first on to the great bearskin at Clytie's feet. 
 But after a while he huddled himself up in his old 
 posture. 
 
 '' Mother didn't tell me much," he said in answer to a 
 question of Clytie's. " I was looking in a chest of 
 drawers of mother's, and I see a photograph — an orficer — 
 all over strings and buttons and a sword and great big 
 moustaches. And I come to mother and says : * Who's 
 this?' and she says: 'That's your father.' And then 
 she snatched it out of my hand and hit me a clout on 
 the head for going to her drawer. She wouldn't tell
 
 270 A 7^ THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 me no mere ; but I know he was an orficer because he's 
 got a star on his collar. I think I knows orficers when I 
 sees them," he added, with the ci-devant street urchin's 
 knowledge of life. " And I go and look at him now 
 when mother isn't by." 
 
 "But you shouldn't go to your mother's private 
 drawers," said Clytie by way of moral precept. 
 
 " I've got as much right to look at my father as she 
 has," replied Jack in an injured tone, whereat Clytie 
 laughed a little. 
 
 " You are an odd youth. I wish I could make you an 
 officer right away. But I am afraid I can't." 
 
 " I believe you could, ' said Jack. 
 
 There was a world of childish faith in the remark and 
 the manner in which it was delivered. Clytie was both 
 touched and saddened. She regretted that she had 
 raised hopes in the boy that from the nature of things 
 were doomed to disappointment. The overpowering 
 difficulties in the way of her sudden visionary aspirations 
 for Jack's future ranged themselves before her mind. 
 So it was with a sigh she answered his outburst of faith. 
 
 " I am afraid I can't, Jack," she repeated. " But you 
 yourself can do a great deal If you like, one of these 
 days when you are much older, you can enlist in the 
 army, and then throw your soul into your duties, and 
 keep before you at every minute of the day the words, 
 " I am going to be an officer," and if you do this in- 
 tensely, and never lose sight of it, you will succeed. 
 That's the only way. They call it getting a commission 
 through the ranks. But between now and then there 
 are a great many years, and I'll do all I can for you, 
 Jack. Yet, perhaps, after all, you'd be a happier and 
 more useful man as a carver and gilder. Who knows ! " 
 
 Jack did not heed the pessimism of the peroration. 
 His mind was aflame with the possibilities of becoming 
 an officer and he took his leave in high spirits. 
 
 Clytie sat for a little musing over the solution of the 
 problem that had troubled her in the first days of her 
 acquaintance with Jack. She was gratified at her intui- 
 tions having proved correct. But there was still much 
 that was dark to her. The physiological side of the 
 question, however, was shadowed at present by more
 
 AT THE GATE OE SAMARIA. 271 
 
 practical considerations. Why could she not find a 
 means of giving Jack a chance in life? She looked 
 ahead at the years to come, as she often had done since 
 that dark December morning, and a pain came at her 
 heart as she beheld their blankness. And now fate had 
 thrown across her path this drifting spar of humanity. 
 Jack was hers if she chose to claim him. No one would 
 dispute with her the privilege. 
 
 After luncheon she walked to the King's Road and 
 sat with Winifred, in the hope that Kent would look in on 
 his way upstairs. She wanted to take counsel with him. 
 His sturdy common sense would help her. She did not 
 confide her vague scheme to Winifred, because Winifred 
 would have called her a darling, and put her arms round 
 her neck, and made her feel as if she were meditating 
 something peculiarly noble. So she waited for Kent's 
 sobering presence. 
 
 He came in at his customary hour, bearing a paper 
 bag of peaches which he had brought for Winifred. He 
 had carried them from some distance through the streets, 
 and there were little wet stains on the paper. But when 
 the fruit was put on a plate beside the bread and butter 
 on a flap of the wickerwork afternoon tea table it looked 
 fresh and inviting. This sudden return of their old 
 intimacy was delightful to all three of them, and they 
 chatted during tea as if nothing had happened to 
 break it. 
 
 Then Clytie propounded her case, and they formed 
 themselves into a committee to consider it. 
 
 " I don't like social experiments," said Kent. " It's 
 constituting one's self a Providence without Providence's 
 resources. If one bit of the machinery fails, the whole 
 thing is apt to go wrong." 
 
 " But I don't want to experiment ! " cried Clytie. " It's 
 quite wicked of you to say so." 
 
 "How can it be otherwise?" asked Kent. "You 
 want to put an industrial school boy of the most uncon- 
 ventional type and upbringing into the most caste-bound, 
 conventional profession under the sun. It's like putting 
 a bit of metallic sodium into water. A pretty experi- 
 ment, though rather common ; but the result is an 
 explosion."
 
 272 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 " But he must be trained and made a gentleman first," 
 cried Winifred, coming to Clytie's assistance. 
 
 " Of course," said Clytie. " Sliould he ever be able 
 to get into the army, he will be by that time quite a 
 different being to what he is now." 
 
 " Then you'll have to give him a rigid, conventional 
 training, and so spoil him," said Kent. 
 
 " It wouldn't spoil him to learn to speak the Queen's 
 English and the use of his knife and fork," said Clytie 
 a little defiantly. 
 
 " He'd have to learn more than that. Besides, how is 
 he to be taught ? " 
 
 "That's what I've come to you for advice about." 
 
 Kent mused for a moment and stroked his beard. 
 
 " Are you very much bent upon this ? " he asked. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Then I can only see one way." 
 
 '< Well— and that?" 
 
 " Adopt him," said Kent. " An industrial school boy 
 can be run by a committee — the experiment is not very 
 dangerous, but a conventional gentleman must have con- 
 ventional references." 
 
 His first words struck the chord she had shrunk from 
 striking herself. It was the formulated suggestion of a 
 vague desire. She was silent for a little. Then Winifred 
 in response to a business summons went out on to the 
 landing, and Kent and Clytie were left alone. 
 
 " 1 am afraid I have been too downright and have 
 hurt you," he said concernedly. 
 
 She shook her head and glanced at him smilingly. 
 
 " I came to you for common sense. You have given 
 it me. And your conclusion is one that I dared not come 
 to myself." 
 
 " That you should adopt him ? A reductio ad 
 absurdum! " 
 
 " Yes, I feel it. I am not my own mistress now. 
 There are difficulties. Oh, Kent, don't let me talk of 
 them ! You see, I came to you for help — to no one 
 else." 
 
 " I don't quite understand you, Clytie," said Kent, 
 anxious at her sudden agitation. 
 
 She recovered herself, womanlike, and forced a laugh.
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 273 
 
 " If I were a rich, lonely old woman, I might be able," 
 she said, "but, you see, I'm not. No, no, I can't adopt 
 Jack ; and we'll have to run him by a committee, what- 
 ever happens to him." 
 
 " Well, what have you decided ? " asked Winifred, 
 coming into the room. 
 
 " That it will be fairer to Jack to let him work out his 
 own salvation," said Kent. " Let him work his way 
 through the ranks. If there is anything in him it will 
 come out. You don't think me unkind, do you, Clytie ?" 
 
 Whereat Clytie laughed honestly and Kent received 
 much consolation. 
 
 They talked a little longer, on indifferent subjects, 
 and then at Winifred's hour of departure they all rose 
 together. Winifred went to the back of the studio and 
 put on her hat ; Clytie and Kent moved slowly in the 
 direction of the door. Kent sighed a little. 
 
 " I only seem to have seen you for five minutes," he 
 said, " and I have told you nothing, but given you com- 
 monplace advice." 
 
 "Had you so much to tell me?" she asked, smiling, 
 as his unformulated wish echoed within herself. " There 
 is no reason for us to go away because Winifred does. 
 Would you really like to stay a little and talk to me ? " 
 
 Before Kent spoke Clytie had not the faintest thought 
 of doing this. But in a flash came before her the long- 
 evening she was to spend in the great lonely house. 
 Thornton rarely came home for dinner. He even dressed 
 at his club. Often he slept there. On such occasions 
 the first notice Clytie received of his absence was from 
 the inscrutable butler, who would come into the studio 
 in the morning with : " The commissionnaire for master's 
 letters, ma'am." Occasionally three days passed without 
 their meeting. When they did pass an hour in each 
 other's company sometimes there was calm and some- 
 times storm. It depended upon his mood. As a 
 general rule he was polite, even bright and entertaining, 
 and life with him under these conditions was just bear- 
 able. But now the thought came with some bitterness : 
 What did it matter whether she was at home by seven or 
 eight — or twelve, for that matter ? Why should she not 
 have a cheery hour with Kent ? 
 
 18
 
 3 74 AT THE GATE OF SAMAlilA. 
 
 His face brightened as she made her smiling offer to 
 stay. 
 
 "It is too good of you. Of course I should like to 
 have a talk with you. But you— can you " 
 
 " Oh, yes," she interrupted lightly. " I am not due 
 home at any hour. I want to chat with you myself. 
 Winnie dear, we are going to remain a little. Give me 
 the key and I'll hand it to Mrs. Gurkins as I go down. 
 1 haven't asked you, but I suppose we can ? " 
 
 " Why, of course, darling," said Winnie, coming up and 
 giving her a farewell kiss. " I hate to think the studio 
 isn't yours." 
 
 So Winifred went away and they remained as in the 
 old days. The sudden association gave Clytie a pang. 
 A reaction from her enthusiasm about Jack to weariness 
 of spirit made her sink back listlessly in her chair. 
 
 "What is the matter?" asked Kent, filling his pipe. 
 " You are not looking yourself. It is this steaming 
 London. Why don't you go and get some country air ? " 
 
 " Oh, one place is just the same as another. It isn't 
 London and it isn't the weather. It is the world that is 
 out of joint, somehow. I am afraid I have been moping. 
 1 think I shall invest in a cat. Then I can pour out my 
 grievances to it. That's the best of a cat : it never 
 mopes. It goes on purring cheerfully so long as it's 
 warm and well fed, and when you feel parado.xical it 
 never worries you to explain yourself. Do you like cats? 
 I forget." 
 
 " What are you moping about ? " he asked between the 
 first few puffs of his kindling pipe. 
 
 " Oh, don't talk in that aggressively cheerful tone, 
 Kent. I have come on all over moods, and I want 
 comforting." 
 
 " You should work," replied Kent with some self- 
 restraint. " You have hardly touched a brush in earnest 
 this year. It is the claims of that part of your nature 
 that cry out if they are not satisfied. Why don't you 
 go on painting ? What has the fact of your not having 
 to make your living got to do with your art ? " 
 
 " I'A'crything, in a way," she murmured. 
 
 " 1 can't believe it," said Kent earnestly. " You are 
 not the woman to neglect your art out of pure idleness.
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAAfARIA. 275 
 
 Come, Clytie, rouse yourself and paint a great picture. 
 The ' Faustina ' — what has become of that ? " 
 
 "Oh, don't, don't! " she cried, putting her hands up 
 before her face. " I can't do that now — can't think of 
 it. Years hence, perhaps, when I am a middle-aged 
 woman, if I find it good enough to live till then, I may 
 try — but not now." 
 
 Kent laid down his pipe and drew his chair near to 
 her. He was pained and troubled. He saw that her 
 nerves were a little unstrung ; but the Clytie he knew 
 was the last woman in the world to give way to attacks 
 of this kind. And then a dreary conjecture dawned 
 upon him, and his heart sank. 
 
 " My poor Clytie ! " he said in his kind way. " You 
 seem unhappy. I wish I could do something to help you." 
 
 '* Ah ! it's too late now," she said impulsively, scarcely 
 heeding the purport of her words. " You might have 
 done it eighteen months ago — if you had not been 
 quixotic." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " he asked, more and more 
 troubled and at fault. " Eighteen months ago ? How 
 could I have helped you ? I loved you and hid it from 
 you. I could only have caused you pain. I love you 
 now. I don't hide it. Why should I ? I am ready to 
 help you if I can. I am stronger, wiser now than I was 
 then. How could I have helped you then ? " 
 
 The simplicity of his short, reiterative sentences and 
 the sincerity of his tone went to her heart, 
 
 "You could have helped me then by not hiding it." 
 
 " I don't understand," he said. " How could the 
 knowledge that I loved you have helped you, unless you 
 cared for me ?" 
 
 " Perhaps I might have cared for you," she said 
 wearily. 
 
 " Oh, God, Clytie ! don't say that. It is cruel ! " he 
 cried, starting to his feet in great agitation. " I know I 
 acted like a fool, but it was with true motives. Don't 
 twit me with them. It is more than I can bear." 
 
 Only then did Clytie clearly realise what she had been 
 saying. The fit of supreme dejection passed off as sud- 
 denly as it had come, and she felt keenly the justice of 
 his words.
 
 276 AT THE GATE OF SAMARTA. 
 
 "Oh, Kent, Kent, forgive me ! " she cried, with start- 
 ing tears. " I hardly knew what I was saying. You are 
 so noble and true-hearted that you must forgive me. 
 Sometimes when a woman is wretched she has not con- 
 trol over herself, and I am sometimes very, very wretched, 
 Kent. I was thinking of myself more than of you when 
 I said the thing that pained you. Tell me that you 
 forgive me." 
 
 The appeal was too human, too unreserved, to be re- 
 jected by Kent's tender nature. He sat down again 
 by her and took her hand and kissed it gently. 
 
 " I have never seen you like this before," he said, " 1 
 wish I could comfort you." 
 
 He knew that it was no passing irritation or weariness 
 that forced the confession from Cly tie's proud nature. 
 It was something deep and final — something impossible 
 in her married life. Her wretchedness made him forget 
 his own longing in the desire to be of use to her and 
 lighten her lot. He let go her hand, which she allowed 
 to lie on her lap as it fell, with the palms lightly upwards. 
 
 " I don't know why I have told you this to-day," she 
 said, not meeting his eyes. " I have never breathed it or 
 hinted it to a living being, and it came upon me un- 
 awares. Don't despise me, Kent." 
 
 " Clytie ! " 
 
 " Oh, yes. I know what any outsider would say. I 
 was posing as the femme inconiprise. I was casting 
 away my womanly pride. Of all persons in the world 
 you ought not to have been my confidant. Judged by 
 conventional canons I am to be despised, for what can 
 the world say of a woman who tells a man that still loves 
 her that she regrets she did not marry him ? Oh, don't 
 interrupt me. I may as well speak out my true self 
 once and for all to you. You yourself once remarked 
 that if we were superior to conventionalities of habit, we 
 ought to extend our unconventionalities to sentiment. 
 You are loyal and staunch. You can help me by 
 being my friend, for I have no one else to turn to. My 
 life is a dreary mistake. My art does not satisfy me, be- 
 cause I have no hopes. One must have enthusiasms to 
 be an artist, and all mine are dead. Now you know." 
 
 Tliere was a certain fierce pleasure in this self-abase-
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 277 
 
 ment. It was like the vengeance of her higher nature 
 upon her lower, the whip of scorn applied by the spirit 
 to the flesh. 
 
 He did not answer, but looked at her with inexpressi- 
 ble sadness in his eyes. She added a few more words. 
 
 " If you despise me for telling you, let me know at 
 once. It would be better." 
 
 " God forbid ! " he said in a low voice. " I shall never 
 apply to you the conventional canons of misjudgment. 
 I take what you have said to me as a sacred trust, and 
 thank you from my heart for thinking well enough of me 
 to give me your confidence. You must never a.sk me 
 such a question again, Clytie, for it would wound me." 
 
 " I believe you, Kent," she said, raising her eyes to his 
 in her frank manner. "And I was wrong to say you 
 ;;//!,'•/'/ have helped me, for you can now. And you 
 wi'll ? " 
 
 " With my last breath," said Kent simply. " It has 
 been the torturing regret of the last eighteen months 
 that, much as I wished, I could never do a hand's turn 
 for you." 
 
 " But what can I do for you in repayment, my poor 
 Kent ? " 
 
 " Be your own bright, eager self again. Throw your- 
 self into your painting, and the result I will take as my 
 reward. It will be my influence gleaming through your 
 genius, and it will be sweet to me. Oh, Clytie ! you are 
 wrong. A life is seldom so wrecked that it cannot be 
 reconstructed, for that implies the utter loss of faith. A 
 grain of faith in anything can move mountains ; if one 
 hasn't it, then it is time to put an end to life altogether, 
 it becomes one's duty not to live." 
 
 " I came within an ace of that at the beginning of 
 the year," said Clytie, with a sad retrospective smile. 
 " Some time I may tell you why. I thought of dying, but 
 then it seemed cowardly. Perhaps it was I had more 
 curiosity to go on seeing how the world went on than I 
 was aware of. And now, Kent, you have put things in a 
 new light before me, and how can I thank you for all 
 your goodness ? " 
 
 " I have told you," he replied, with a smile.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 The next morning, after writing her letters and attend- 
 ing to her household duties, Clytie went into her studio 
 with the praiseworthy intention of stimulating the artistic 
 impulse that had been flagging for so long. Kent was 
 right, she thought. Her life could be reconstructed. 
 She would begin her laborious art life again, resume it 
 seriously as a profession, put her pictures into the market 
 once more. Amid the many confusing thoughts and 
 emotions resulting from her conversation with Kent, one 
 idea had sprung in connection with Jack. .She could 
 not adopt the boy. That was a wild feminine craving, 
 somewhat selfish, springing out of a bitter hour when 
 fairer hopes were crushed. It cost her a sigh to 
 resign ; but she trusted to Kent's judgment, and her 
 mind was so far at rest. Yet if it could lie in her power 
 to help Jack materially in after years, when a little 
 capital would be worth all the world to him, she felt that 
 she would have wrought some good for one human 
 creature at^ least in her somewhat self-centred life. 
 And then Kent's advice as to her art mingled and com- 
 bined with these thoughts, and the outcome was the 
 sudden idea that the proceeds of the sale of her pictures 
 would, in course of time, form a very considerable funch 
 She clapped her hands with delight when this occurred 
 to her. A mountain of weariness seemed removed. In 
 the spontaneity of new workings she scribbled a hasty 
 Hue to Kent and had it posted with the address scarcely 
 dry. 
 
 " I am going to paint seriously, and sell my pictures, 
 and devote the proceeds to a fund for Jack. Shall I ?" 
 
 She was in bright spirits this morning, having dis- 
 covered an object in life. The future has generally 
 much more to do with our present moods than the past. 
 Yet, notwithstanding this broad truth, the immediate 
 
 278
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 279 
 
 past had a certain influence on Clytie's humour. Whilst 
 she was driving home the afternoon before, the gravity 
 of the fact of her confession to Kent had somewhat 
 weighed upon her. She had spent the lonely evening 
 grappling with a truth that had been taking half- 
 reluctant shape in her consciousness for the last two 
 months, and now rose clear and sharply defined. She 
 had even written to Kent the following portion of a 
 letter which she straightway tore up into the finest of 
 pieces. In fact her intention of sending it to him was 
 from the first of the very remotest. " My dear Kent," 
 ran this singularly feminine effusion. " My words 
 to-day were true. If you had told me you loved me 
 eighteen months ago, I should have realised myself and 
 what it was that I felt towards you. The knowledge of 
 her own heart does not come to a woman with the easy 
 grace that your sentimentalists make out. It is some- 
 what of a fierce process, Kent. There is no royal road 
 to it. Well, I know my own heart now, and I have 
 bought the knowledge with agonies of suffering. Oh, 
 Kent, my true, loyal Kent ! I am tired, tired of hiding 
 facts from myself, of acting in a wilful dream, in defiance 
 of the promptings of my reason. I am a woman, and I 
 ought not to confess things to myself, let alone to you. 
 So people say — and people are so wise, aren't they? I 
 love you, Kent. There, I write it down in black and 
 white. It looks odd, grotesque, horrible, and yet won- 
 derfully comforting. I love you, Kent. Why should I 
 deceive myself any longer ? God knows whether it is 
 for my happiness in the future or my misery ; but now 
 that the beauty of it is upon me it makes me wonder- 
 fully happy. Yes, wonderfully, wonderfully, wonder- 
 fully happy," 
 
 And then she threw down her pen and shredded the 
 paper with frenzied zeal. But her heart was lighter. 
 The world seemed a clearer, pleasanter place. Her 
 cheeks burned like fire at the thought of Kent ever 
 knowing of this feeling. She arranged in her mind the 
 tenderest and most elusive of relations between Kent 
 and herself. He, a declared lover, should give her all 
 the comfort and kind counsel of a friend ; she, his 
 declared friend, would find delicate, subtle ways of colour-
 
 28o AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 ingand softening his life with her love. A new paradise 
 of exquisite emotion opened its evanescent portals. For 
 the first time in her life came the romance of delicate 
 sentiment, tinged with an innocent pink like the buds in 
 spring. It is true these same buds, to continue the 
 analogy, burst into gorgeous, riotous bloom under the 
 summer sun ; but while the tenderer air of spring keeps 
 them closed they have a grace peculiarly their own. 
 
 Clytie moved about the studio singing, a sign with her 
 of great content. The window was open and the morn- 
 ing sun streamed in, filling the large and somewhat 
 heavily tapestried room with gay light. It glorified 
 Clytie as she passed across the patch of sunlight, falling 
 upon her hair in a thousand scintillations and revealing 
 the deep sea-blue of her eyes. She wore a soft cream 
 morning gown, a golden tasselled girdle round her waist, 
 an edging of old lace round the somewhat open neck. 
 The wide, drooping sleeves she had caught up a little for 
 convenience in working, and her arms were bare to the 
 elbow. The skirt clung around her as she walked 
 quickly about the room, with her old elastic tread, mak- 
 ing a soft frou-frou that pleased her, she did not know 
 why. She was happy again, filled with a double sense of 
 the meaning of life. At last she sat down before a small 
 easel, on which was put the board with its fair sheet of 
 Whatman paper ready for the first sketch. In her rapid, 
 eager way she commenced to indicate the motive of the 
 picture that had flashed like an inspiration upon her. In 
 the middle distance on the left a pair of lovers, the 
 woman looking with upturned face at the man, whose 
 arm was round her waist. In the foreground, peeping at 
 them from behind a clump of bushes, a girl of about 
 seventeen, with a letter in her hand. The contrast 
 between the two female faces was the motive — the fulfil- 
 ment of knowledge on the one, the dawning revelation 
 on the other. The title had come with the conception : 
 " Maiden and Woman." Clytie worked on steadily v/ith 
 her ^baicche, keen, sure of herself, tingling once again 
 with the excitement of inspiration. She knew she could 
 put that in their faces which would raise the picture 
 above the narrative prettiness of Sant and his school. 
 The accessories were to be severe to austerity. No
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 281 
 
 elaborate detail in tree painting, no subtle effects of light 
 and shade. The principle of abstraction to be as un- 
 compromisingly carried out as in one of Seymour Haden's 
 etchings. The whole artistic force of the picture was to 
 be concentrated in the awakened and awakening souls. 
 
 She was absorbed in her work when, after a tap at the 
 door. Jack came in. Clytie looked up with a smile. 
 
 " You here again, Jack ! That is good of you. Ikit 
 I can't say a word to you — positively. I am so busy. 
 Sit down somewhere until I have finished." 
 
 The boy, used to these fits of absorption in his two 
 artist patronesses, sat down for a little and let his eyes 
 wander round the studio, looking at the pictures and 
 nicknacks. Then he got up to make a closer exami- 
 nation of vases and photographs, and walked about on 
 tiptoe, trying to still the noise of his iron-shod boots 
 against the hard, polished floor. At last he discovered 
 on the bookshelves an illustrated History of England, 
 with which he retired to his favourite place on the 
 hearthrug. And so they remained for half an hour 
 without saying a word — Clytie bending over her study. 
 Jack curled up with his picture-book. It was quite still. 
 A stray bumble-bee looked in now and then at the win- 
 dow, buzzing querulously, as if he had lost his way in 
 London, and then darted off again. From the servants' 
 hall came the just perceptible voice of one of the maids 
 singing a hymn-tune, and from far, far away came the 
 tinkling treble of a piano-organ. And these few sounds, 
 so faint yet so clear, accentuated the summer stillness. 
 
 When Clytie had put the last few touches on the 
 portion of her work that demanded all her concentra- 
 tion, she gave a little sigh of relief. 
 
 " What do you think of that, Jack ? " she said, leaning 
 back with her head critically aslant. " Don't you think 
 that is going to make a famous picture? " 
 
 Jiick jumped up promptly, leaving his book open on 
 the hearthrug, and came up to her side. He was not 
 a connoisseur, in spite of his associations with art, so 
 he said nothing, but grinned appreciatively, rubbing 
 the calf of one leg with the instep of the other. 
 
 " Well," asked Clytie, " why don't you admire ? " 
 
 " You aint given them no faces," said Jack.
 
 282 A7' THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 " Ah ! This is to be one face," she said, pointing to a 
 kind of r^w^;-^//<? at the foot of the sheet. "Or some- 
 thing like it. Now just use your imagination, Jack. 
 This face is to go there — the woman whose whole nature 
 has been awakened, and is shining out of her eyes, and 
 quivering on her lips, and is vibrating all through her 
 frame — all of which is Greek and Chaldee to you, my 
 good Jack ; but I may as well explain. And now I have 
 got to fix a face for this one. What kind of face do you 
 think I am going to give her ? " 
 
 " I dunno," murmured Jack. And then after a slight 
 pause : " And what's the man going to be like ? " 
 
 "Ah ! " said Clytie. with a mock sigh. "What a little 
 Philistine you are I The man can be any kind of creature 
 on two legs. ^Vhat does it matter about the man ? He 
 is a nuisance. I have a good mind to make him awfully 
 ugly with a face like a rhinoceros. See, like this." 
 
 She made a few rapid strokes with her charcoal in the 
 oval left for the man's face, and the result was a pictur- 
 esque monster with a long nose, Mephistophelian eye- 
 brows, and a moustache curling up to his ears. Then 
 they both burst out laughing. 
 
 "Let me draw some funny men for you," she said in 
 the light-hearted buoyancy of her mood, " Run and get 
 me that sheet of paper over there." 
 
 She pinned the sheet that Jack brought her on to the 
 board and began to draw caricatures. 
 
 " You shall choose one for me to put in the picture, 
 Jack." 
 
 It was a long, long time since she had indulged this 
 freakish side of her genius. It ran riot now in grotesque 
 exuberance. Here a head with wide, leering mouth and 
 pointed ears, like the devil that looks over Lincoln ; 
 there a snouted monster with cat's whiskers, an eyeglass, 
 and a silk hat ; a lean, cadaverous, equine face with a 
 terrible squint ; a masher, indicated by three or four 
 little dots and lines. Jack looked on in rapture. She 
 had never drawn pictures for him before. He broke out 
 now and then into breathless exclamations. 
 
 " Lord, he's an ugly one ! Give him a long nose — 
 longer than that ; and, my eye ! that's a wart upon it. 
 One of the teachers at school has a wart on his nose.
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 28 
 
 o 
 
 That's just like him ! And where's this one's 'ed ? — he's 
 all body and legs ! " 
 
 And then he jumped and clapped his hands when the 
 head was seen to emerge from between the knees after 
 the fashion of the boneless wonders. 
 
 AVhen she had filled up the last space on the sheet 
 she tossed the charcoal into the tray, and rose from her 
 seat, 
 
 " There, Jack ! There's nothing like going absolutely 
 mad on occasions. Now if you'd like to keep these pic- 
 tures and show them to the boys at school, you can." 
 
 She rolled up the stiff piece of drawing paper, slipped 
 an elastic band round it in her hasty way, and gave 
 it to Jack, who could only look his delighted thanks. 
 
 " Now I must go and wash my hands and get decent 
 for lunch. Go downstairs and tell Mrs. Pawkins to give 
 you something to eat. Stay — you had better leave that 
 roll up here ; come in for it before you go." 
 
 She took it from him, and laid it on a little table near 
 the door. She did not desire that the inquisitive eyes in 
 the servants' hall should witness the mistress's frivolity. 
 Jack understood her more or less, but Mrs. Pawkins and 
 Mary and John would have questioned her sanity. 
 
 Jack lingered for a moment on the threshold, and then 
 drew shyly from his handkerchief pocket a dingy, whitey- 
 brown packet. 
 
 " I came to show you this," he said, putting it into her 
 hand. " I prigged it from mother's drawer this morning. 
 You'll give it me back, won't you ? " 
 
 " I have a good mind not to," said Clytie severely. "If 
 your mother knew, she would be very angry, and you 
 would catch it. Still, as you have been a good boy, I'll 
 look at it and give it you back. Run away, now." 
 
 Jack did as he was bid, and Clytie, after a few turns 
 about the room, putting things more or less straight, 
 unfolded the dirty wrapper of Jack's packet, with an 
 amused curiosity as to the features of Jack's father. 
 
 But in another second all her curiosity, amusement, 
 idle interest, were fied, and her whole emotive force con- 
 centrated into a short, irrepressible gasp of astonishment. 
 It was a photograph of Thornton, her husband. There 
 was no mistaking it. She had the fellow to it in her
 
 284 A 7' THE GATE OE SAMARIA. 
 
 album. One day long ago she had seen it among his 
 odds and ends, and had begged for it, loving it for all 
 that it was so many years old, taken when he was still in 
 the army. He looked so stalwart, soldierly, magnificent 
 in his uniform. It was perhaps the likeness of him that 
 she had cherished most — only too familiar. For a mo- 
 ment she could hardly understand — the shock was so 
 sudden and unexpected. Then with the quick reaction 
 she realised what it meant. Thornton was Jack's father, 
 Mrs. Burmester was his mother. With a shudder of dis- 
 gust she threw the photograph on the table. 
 
 The riddle of Jack's parentage was solved in a way 
 she had not looked for ; the mystery that had lain hidden 
 in strange, unknown depths of passion was now clear to her 
 in all its unlovely nakedness. Her soul sickened at the 
 truth. She had not come to her husband with the help- 
 less ignorance of a young girl. The knowledge of good 
 and evil, to employ the somewhat meaningless euphemism, 
 had come to her through her intelligence by means of 
 books, through her contact with real life. She had grasped 
 the fact of the existence of the Loulou Mendes type with 
 whom love is a trade. That a man should have had a 
 liaison with such a woman she could have understood. 
 In fact she never at any one moment had fancied that 
 Thornton had brought to her the pure ardour of a virgin 
 soul. To have been revolted at the discovery of a mere 
 antenuptial infidelity on the part of her husband would 
 have been to her impossible. It was not noble, it is 
 true ; but it was intelligible. There was certainly for a 
 lower nature a charm, witchery, fascination, in the fleshly 
 beauty of the courtesan. She had heard of many men 
 falling victims to it, and sinking very little into degrada- 
 tion. If Jack's mother had been such a woman, she 
 would have felt little more than the shock of coincidence, 
 a sense of strangeness in her relations with the boy. 
 But Jack's mother was not of this type. She never had 
 charm, witchery, or fascination. She had never even 
 [)assable good looks. A poor, stolid, dull, animal drudge. 
 
 The truth had come upon Clytie ; the truth that had 
 touched her now and then with its bat wings, making her 
 shiver ; the horrible, soul-nauseating truth of the eternal 
 beast in man. She knew Thornton now as he was, and
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 285 
 
 her indifference passed into loathing. In Thornton's 
 feelings what difference had there been between this 
 boy's mother and herself ? 
 
 She walked swiftly up and down the studio, with 
 clenched white hands, her shoulders rising now and then 
 in an involuntary heave of disgust. The glory had gone 
 out of the day. A foul shadow overspread it. 
 
 Suddenly Thornton himself appeared with eager face, 
 a telegram in his hand. He had just come in from rid- 
 ing in the Park, and according to the modern fashion 
 out of the season, was dressed in tweed suit and gaiters. 
 He carried a silver-headed riding whip jauntily under his 
 arm. He waved the telegram exultingly. 
 
 " They have asked me to put up for Witherby ! " he 
 said. " I'll have some lunch on the strength of it. I sup- 
 pose there's some going." 
 
 " I believe lunch is at the usual hour," said Clytie, not 
 looking at him. 
 
 He lingered a little, flicking his legs with his whip. 
 
 " You might as well congratulate me, if only for the 
 sake of politeness," he said in an injured tone. 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I congratulate you," she replied. 
 
 Her voice sounded strange in her own ears. She felt 
 an almost irresistible impulse to burst forth into a torrent 
 of speech, to say out finally all the bitterness and loath- 
 ing that were in her heart. She restrained herself, but 
 the effort gave a queer guttural resonance to her words. 
 She turned and looked out of the window. 
 
 " What the devil's the matter ? " he asked impatiently. 
 " I came in, 'pon my soul, thinking you'd be pleased. 
 It's a safe seat. I'm dead certain to knock the con- 
 founded Radical into a cocked hat. Just the moment 
 when I've got what I've been sweating for the last eigh- 
 teen months, confound it all, I did think you'd be civil 
 for once in a way. But it's just like you ; I might have 
 expected it. Well, perhaps it's the truth to say you don't 
 care a damn one way or the other." 
 
 He walked to and fro for a little, fuming. Then his 
 eyes falling on the photograph that lay on the table, he 
 picked it up, as an angry man will do, looked at it 
 absently for a moment, and pitched it sharply to the other 
 side of the room. Clytie, startled by the slight click of
 
 286 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 the cardboard striking against the wall, turned half 
 round and met his eyes fixed loweringly upon her. Each 
 held the other spellbound for a few seconds. Then the 
 door opened and Jack came into the studio, checking 
 his motion forward as he saw Thornton. 
 
 " What the deuce is this ? " cried the latter. 
 
 With a swift, instinctive glance Clytie compared the 
 two faces. They were astonishingly alike. The same 
 finely moulded features, dark lucent eyes, brown crisp 
 hair, white evenly set teeth ; the same lines of cruelty at 
 the corners of the lips. Strange that, much as she had 
 studied Jack's physiognomy, the likeness had never sug- 
 gested itself. At Thornton's petulant question the boy 
 looked at him half frightened, and then at Clytie, and 
 was about to shrink back. But she called him in. 
 
 " Don't go away without your drawing. Jack. This," 
 she said coldly to Thornton, " is 3. protege of mine. He 
 was once my model — for my picture ' Jack.' Here, Jack, 
 take your drawing. Run home. Thank you for coming 
 to see me." 
 
 " And — and the photograph. You said you'd give it 
 me back." 
 
 Clytie went to the table where she had thrown it. Not 
 seeing it, she remembered the sound that had startled 
 her, and turning round, perceived the photograph lying 
 face upwards on the floor. She gave a little start of 
 dismay. The situation threatened to become dramatic, 
 and she was unprepared. In her hurry to dismiss the 
 boy she had forgotten the photograph. Now he had 
 called attention to it, and she felt bound to restore it to 
 him to save the poor little urchin's honour and most 
 probably his back. And Thornton was leaning against 
 the mantelpiece, with his hands in his pockets, frown- 
 ingly surveying the scene. With outward calm, but with 
 a beating heart, she picked up the photograph, wrapped 
 it in the dirty covering, and put it into Jack's hand. 
 Thornton, who had watched her movements with gather- 
 ing surprise, strode forward with an oath. 
 
 " What the devil " 
 
 But Clytie quickly interposed herself between him and 
 the boy. 
 
 " Run away ! " she said in a hasty whisper, and Jack,
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 287 
 
 accustomed from his childhood to sudden dartings, dis- 
 appeared like a flash. Clytie put her back against the 
 door and looked at her husband with strange eyes. It 
 had been done with the speed of a conjuring trick. 
 
 " What on earth is the meaning of all this ? " asked 
 Thornton ; " and what are you giving away my photo- 
 graphs for ? Upon my soul, I think you are taking leave 
 of your senses. You'll have to drop this sort of thing. 
 I'm damned if I am going to have my photographs given 
 away to all the street urchins in IvOndon. Play the fool 
 yourself if you like, but I'll trouble you to keep me and 
 my things out of it. Have you been giving me away 
 any more ?" 
 
 " Oh, God ! Thornton, you have given yourself away ! " 
 she cried, echoing his slang phrase half unconsciously in 
 her bitterness. " I'll tell you, if you like. The photo- 
 graph belongs to the boy's mother. He is your child." 
 
 " What ! " cried Thornton in a voice of thunder, show- 
 ing his teeth savagely. 
 
 " Yes, your child," she went on, striving to be calm. 
 " His mother's name is Burmester. You gave her the pic- 
 ture yourself years ago. I had just made the discovery 
 when you came in. Ah — h! " she cried, putting her 
 hands suddenly before her face, " it is horrible, horrible!" 
 
 "Ha!" retorted Thornton fiercely. "You are in one 
 of your damned high-horse moods. Well, I did give one 
 of my father's kitchen-maids a photograph, and she did 
 have a child, and I paid her for her trouble, and, damme ! 
 what that's got to do with you now is more than I can 
 see. Besides, you never were such a fool as to imagine 
 you were marrying an infernal saint." 
 
 " Oh, stop ! stop ! " she cried. " Don't say anything 
 more. You will brutalise me as well as yourself. I 
 never thought you a saint — even when I cared for you. 
 I know what you are, and, oh, God ! this is the end of 
 it. If you had betrayed a sweet, innocent girl, you 
 would have been a villain, but not necessarily a brute — 
 someone charming, pretty, attractive — I could have un- 
 derstood it ; but a poor stupid drudge — a kitchen-maid — 
 little better than an animal " 
 
 Thornton rushed forward and caught her by her 
 shoulder.
 
 288 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 " By the Lord God ! if you don't hold your tongue, 
 I'll strike you ! " 
 
 She saw that she had aroused the devil in him. She 
 had meant to be calm, to tell him plainly the facts of the 
 case and to say that it would be better that they should 
 live apart. But an irrepressible shudder had come over 
 her, and then the brutal cynicism of his confession had 
 caused her the loss of her self-control. As she saw the 
 blazing eyes and white glittering teeth in front of her 
 and felt the grip on her shoulder, she regretted that she 
 had been, in a way, to blame ; but she was no coward, 
 and the threat awakened the fierce old Puritan courage in 
 her nature. She did not flinch, but looked him directly 
 in the face. 
 
 " Your striking me would only add to your other 
 brutalities." 
 
 "Damn you ! " he cried in blind fury; and swinging 
 her round, he struck her with the riding whip with all 
 his huge strength, cutting the back of the thin morning 
 gown, that flew open at the gap, showing her bare 
 shoulders. Then he hurled her from him and rushed 
 out of the room. 
 
 With an almost superhuman effort of will Clytie sprang 
 to her feet, stood for a moment dazed, stunned, on fire 
 with agony, then staggered forward and threw herself 
 upon the bearskin rug, with the illustrated History of 
 England, open as Jack had left it, beneath her face.
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Suddenly Clytie rose to her feet and left the studio. 
 As she moved a strange weight seemed to lie upon her 
 limbs. It was a physical effort to drag herself up the 
 stairs to her bedroom. Her heart seemed to be burned 
 through, a fiery sword to have been thrust through her 
 temples. It was the supreme moment of the horror and 
 abasement of her married life. One intense thought 
 possessed her ; to fly from the house, to escape from the 
 area of Thornton's influence, to bury herself somewhere 
 far away. Mechanically she changed her things, choos- 
 ing one of the simple morning dresses she had retained 
 since the days before her marriage, and bathed her 
 feverish face and hands. The cold water refreshed her, 
 restored adjustment to her quivering nerves, and she was 
 able to think, form a coherent plan. 
 
 She would go forthwith to her old rooms in the King's 
 Road, which she knew to be vacant. There she would 
 live again as Clytie Davenant, and shut out of her 
 memory the nightmare of the past months. The plan 
 conceived, she hurried to put it into execution. She 
 would have liked to open the street door there and then, 
 to cross its threshold for the last time. But the practi- 
 cal side of life asserts itself in the midst of the intensest 
 emotions. She would have to pack her boxes, select 
 what things she would take with her. The aid, too, of 
 the servants would be necessary. After a swift look at 
 the glass she composed her features, summoned her 
 maid, gave her orders in a calm, equable voice, as if she 
 were going on an ordinary visit in the country. 
 
 While the servants packed the articles she designated, 
 she went down to the studio in order to collect a few 
 of the portable objects that were dear to her : Rupert 
 Kent's etching, the Jacquemart that Kent had given her, 
 a book or two, a favourite box of oil-tubes- All the rest 
 
 ,89 ly
 
 290 AT THE GATE OF SAMAF/A. 
 
 she would leave behind, together with everything that 
 Thornton had ever given her. The maid, an excellently 
 trained servant, packed quickly, but to Clytie she seemed 
 unutterably slow. It was an effort of control to refrain 
 from urging the girl on, from snatching the articles from 
 her hands and stowing them away anyhow, haphazard. 
 Every moment that she lingered seemed an eternity of 
 degradation. In after days she wondered that she had 
 never reflected how far Thornton's possible presence in 
 the house might have affected the ease of her escape. 
 As it happened, he had flung out of doors as soon as he 
 had left her stricken upon the floor ; but she, in the 
 fixity of her idea, never concerned herself as to his 
 whereabouts. 
 
 At last, when the boxes were packed and locked, the 
 maid, dangling the keys in her hand, asked Clytie when 
 she should order the brougham. 
 
 " I shall go in a four-wheeled cab with the luggage," 
 said Clytie. " Go and order one round at once." 
 
 The maid retired wonderingly, and Clytie was left 
 alone. She put on her bonnet and sat down on the edge 
 of the bed to draw on her gloves. Then for the first 
 time her eye fell consciously upon her wedding-ring, and 
 thereupon came over her the sense of all that her pres- 
 ent action implied : the final renunciation of the marriage- 
 tie, the assertion of her own individuality, the beginning 
 of another life. And yet, in spite of her repudiation, the 
 tie remained, indissoluble except by death, and this little 
 circlet of gold was the symbol. With a twinge of pain 
 she wrenched it off, for it was tightly fitting, and went 
 and threw it in a jewel box containing the jewellery that 
 Thornton had given her. At any rate, she could spare 
 herself the hourly misery of this visible bond. It was a 
 poor kind of relief to leave it there with the other tokens 
 of her wifehood. 
 
 Then, as she waited, her crushed pride rose a few 
 degrees. Whatever subsequent steps Thornton might 
 take, her departure should at least not have the indignity 
 of flight. A scribbled line would save her self-respect. 
 When the servants came into the room to take down the 
 boxes to the cab she had written the note. 
 
 " I am leaving your house. I go back to my old
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 291 
 
 rooms in the King's Road, where I shall resume the life 
 I led before I knew you." 
 
 Then only did it occur to her to inquire of the foot- 
 man whether Mr. Hammerdyke was in. The man, who 
 was accustomed to the separation between the lives of 
 his master and mistress, replied, without manifesting any 
 surprise at the question, that Mr. Hammerdyke had gone 
 out just before lunch. 
 
 " Put this note in his room for him," said Clytie. '' I 
 shall be away some time." 
 
 In a few moments she had started. With a little con- 
 vulsive moan, wrung involuntarily from her lips by her 
 agony of body and soul, she leaned her head against the 
 rusty cushions of the ramshackle vehicle and closed her 
 eyes. The day was still glorious, London bathed in 
 sunlight, the streets filled with life and motion. For all 
 the world but her the promise of the morning was kept. 
 As the cab slackened its pace on crossing the Fulham 
 Road she opened her eyes for a moment, and looked 
 vacantly, as if in a dream, out of the window. Then 
 she relapsed into her darkness. 
 
 " And I was so happy this morning," she murmured 
 to herself. "I could have lived the better life — with 
 Kent's help ! " 
 
 Kent ! She started, as a wave of blood rushed 
 to her cheeks. She was going to Kent now, to live 
 under the same roof with him once more, to see him 
 daily, to take him more intimately than ever into her life. 
 Until now she had not realised this coherently. Vague 
 thoughts of him had passed through her mind, but she 
 had been too dazed, too sickened, too much possessed by 
 the overpowering longing for freedom, escape from the 
 house of bondage, to connect him definitely with her 
 immediate future. And in the unconscious sequence of 
 ideas a little self-reproach came into her mind, bringing 
 with it a sense of soothing. Why had she not thought 
 of Kent at first, of the true, loyal friend and lover, on 
 whom she could rely for strength and comfort ? How 
 could she have been so much wrapped up in herself and 
 her wrongs as never to have given him a place in her 
 plans ? And then the tide of feeling ebbed back again, 
 leaving her heart quite cold and .sad. How could she
 
 292 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 meet him ? How could she tell him ? The eternal 
 woman in her shrank from the confession. If he had 
 been to her but a friend, it had been easy. But she 
 loved him. Had not her heart sung within her that very 
 morning, only a few hours before, at the grace and ten- 
 derness of her at last awakened love ? And she fought, 
 womanlike, against she scarce knew what, striving to 
 disentwine herself like Laocoon from the coils that love 
 and circumstance had wound, in subtle intricacy of con- 
 volution, about her heart. But for all her shrinking she 
 longed for Kent. If only he could understand it all 
 without her telling ! If only he could come that evening 
 and sit by her side and hold her hand in strong, mute 
 sympathy ! Well, she would conquer her woman's diffi- 
 dence, and tell him bravely. She felt she owed him a 
 little reparation. The inherent delight in putting itself 
 in the wrong is perhaps one of the most elusive traits of 
 a woman's nature. 
 
 The cab stopped before the familiar side door. Mrs. 
 Gurkins, standing beneath the awning of the shop 
 between the stalls of cabbage and fruit, gave a gasp of 
 bewilderment as she saw Clytie alight from the luggage- 
 laden vehicle. She ran round through the connecting 
 passage and opened the front door. 
 
 " You are not coming to stay here, miss ? ' she asked. 
 
 It was only in moments of calm reflection that she 
 could bring herself to address Clytie more decorously 
 as " ma'am." 
 
 "Yes, I am," replied Clytie in her decisive way. 
 " Can I have my old rooms ? " 
 
 *' Of course, miss — but " 
 
 " Well, have my boxes taken up and get things straight 
 for me, Mrs. Gurkins. You know what an erratic crea- 
 ture I am, don't you ? I think I am going to stay a very 
 long time. I'll go and see Miss Marchpane while you 
 do all that is necessary. You'll forgive me for putting 
 you to all this trouble ? " 
 
 " La, miss — ma'am, I'm that glad to have you back ! 
 But Miss Marchpane left early to-day — about an hour 
 ago. You can go up to the sitting-room. I was clean- 
 ing it out only yesterday." 
 
 Clytie went upstairs to the familiar room, and took off
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 293 
 
 her bonnet and gloves. In a few moments the boxes 
 were brought up. When she had unpacked these and 
 arranged theh- contents, and eaten as much as she could 
 of the meal that Mrs. Gurkins prepared for her, the 
 glorious afternoon had melted into night. She sat by 
 the open window and looked out upon the hurrying 
 street below. It was a Saturday evening. The whole 
 population of the district was astir buying their Sunday 
 provisions or their Sunday headaches. Bands of the 
 youth of both sexes clattered noisily past, singing 
 hoarsely or darting from pavement to roadway in 
 loud, dissonant gaiety. Along the kerb stretched the 
 line of costers' barrows with flaming naphtha torches, 
 and the faces of the sellers and buyers stood out clear in 
 the glare. A babel of sounds arose : the confused 
 murmur of private conversations pitched in the dis- 
 cordant key of the unrefined, the raucous cries of the 
 costers offering their wares, the shrill " Buy ! buy ! " of 
 the butcher a few yards away and the rapid click of his 
 steel, the doleful nasal dirge of a tramp woman hold- 
 ing a vague bundle looking like a baby in her arms, 
 the continuous scraping of feet, the roar of the 'buses 
 and carts in the roadway. 
 
 Clytie had often before sat on Saturday evenings at 
 her window, lost in the wonder of speculation upon the 
 individualities of the units that composed this hurrying, 
 bawling, laughing, cursing crowd. And now she felt the 
 old fascination creep over her. The noise and movement 
 acted as a counter-stimulus to the fierce whirl of emo- 
 tions through which she had passed during the day. 
 She lost for the time the sense of loneliness, soul-sickness, 
 and bodily prostration in this external world of tumult. 
 \Vhat did it all mean, this hurry and strain ? Looked at 
 as a whole, it seemed to indicate that life was intense, 
 earnest, throbbing with infinite variety of passions, an 
 end in itself, to be carried on, because it was life, to all 
 eternity. It seemed real, practical, objective, obeying 
 inscrutable, immutable laws. The planets circle round 
 the sun ; our solar system circles round another focal 
 sphere. It is great, it is glorious, serving some great and 
 glorious end ; yet what that end is no man knoweth. 
 And so with the collective life that surged beneath
 
 294 AT THE GATE OF SAMAJi/A. 
 
 Clytie's window, yielding blindly to the unchanging laws 
 that direct the cosmos. If this movement was meaning- 
 less and vain, then did the stars wander futilely in their 
 courses. Sin and shame and misery, love and laughter 
 and happiness, what did they matter in the progress of 
 collective life? They are internal forces affecting its 
 resistless march as little as the incessant motion of men 
 affects the rotation of the earth. 
 
 But the individuals, when detached from the conglom- 
 erate mass of humanity — what was this life to them ? 
 How far was it a gracious thing to yonder bawling cheap- 
 jack, with his red, sodden face ? And the factory girl, 
 with her feathered hat and deep fringe overshadowing 
 pinched, soulless features, looking hungrily at his Brum- 
 magem wares ; the fat, unintelligent workman's wife gos- 
 siping loudly of sickness, death, and funerals ; the besotted 
 navvy stumbling along in the grip of a soberer friend- 
 how far were they intellectually, spiritually, cognisant of 
 life ? Again as of old these questions presented them- 
 selves to Clytie. During these latter months she had 
 been too closely confronted with the problems of her 
 own personality to interest herself in that of others. 
 But now a newly awakened self-knowledge had given 
 her a key to mysteries to the elucidation of which she 
 had once devoted all her artistic powers. She had 
 arrived at the truth of the relativity of individual life. 
 There was no such thing as absolute fulness of existence. 
 Everyone— coster, factory girl, statesman, poet— was striv- 
 ing, each in his way, after a completer life, but the ideal 
 of completeness was limited by each individual's capacity 
 for action, sensation, and thought. Hence yonder factory 
 girl's life might be relatively as full as her own, the 
 hunger for the unknown that would complete it as loudly 
 clamourous. Clytie was glad for the moment, almost 
 happy. New artistic stirrings seemed to be at work 
 within her soul. Heretofore she had sought a solution 
 for the problems of life through her art. Might not 
 this newer knowledge and more extensive sympathy 
 enable her to present finely perceived truths, thus mak- 
 ing her art less self-centred, more universal ? 
 
 This train of thought was working through her mind 
 as she sat by the window, resting her cheek on her arm.
 
 AT rilE GATE OF SAMARIA. 295 
 
 Gradually, however, the thoughts confused themselves 
 into a medley of dim associations, which in their turn 
 became lost in drowsiness. Worn out by the physical 
 strain of the day, she fell asleep in the midst of the 
 uproar that arose from the hurrying street. 
 
 Suddenly she became conscious of a presence beside 
 her in the room, and, starting up, beheld Kent looking 
 down upon her. 
 
 " You'll get cold or a stiff neck or something sleeping 
 by the open window like that," he said in his kindly way. 
 " And yet I did not like to wake you." 
 
 "1 do feel a little cramped," said Clytie, rising. " But 
 the night is hot. Bring another chair and sit down. 1 
 shall not go to sleep again." 
 
 Kent did as she bade him, and they sat on either side 
 of the window, Clytie with face half averted looking into 
 the street, Kent leaning forward, gazing at her with 
 troubled eyes. For some moments neither spoke. At 
 last Kent broke the silence. 
 
 " Clytie ! " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " Was I wrong to come in ? Do you want to be 
 alone? Tell me frankly and I will go." 
 
 " No ; stay," replied Clytie slowly, without turning 
 her head. " I wanted you to come. I don't know why. 
 How did you find out I was here ? " 
 
 "Mrs. Gurkins caught me in the passage. She said 
 you were staying some time. I knocked at your door, 
 but you did not answer, so I looked in, saw you asleep 
 there. I could not resist the temptation of coming 
 nearer so as to see your face. You look so done up, 
 you must go to bed early and have a good night's rest." 
 
 " Ah, Kent ! How like you ! " said Clytie, looking 
 quickly round at him. Womanlike, she was pleased 
 that he had not expressed wonderment at her presence 
 in the house, and beset her with abrupt questions, but 
 tried instead with delicate sympathy to put her at her 
 ease. 
 
 " Can you guess why I am here, Kent ? " she asked in 
 a low voice. 
 
 *' I dare not try," he replied. 
 
 " I have finally parted from my husband."
 
 296 A'J' THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 '* Good God ! Clytie, what do you mean ? " he cried^ 
 with a leap at his heart, followed by a feeling of great 
 pity for the woman he loved, an aching sense of the 
 irony of things. " It has been a misunderstanding. It 
 will all be cleared up in time," he continued unsteadily. 
 
 Clytie shook her head. 
 
 " No ; thank God, this is the end. See my hand : 
 that which was there I drew off to-day for the first time. 
 It shall never be there again." 
 
 " Clytie, my dear friend Clytie ! " said Kent, very much 
 moved. " What can I say to you ? My heart aches for 
 all that you must have suffered. You told me yesterday 
 your life was not what I thought it to be, for I fancied 
 you happy, with all around you to make the world bright 
 and glorious. I do not know what to think now. Is 
 there no hope for your happiness ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, Kent, not that way. Let me tell you at once 
 what I can. Don't judge me severely. I did what lay 
 in my nature to do. I bore things that nearly drove me 
 mad, although perhaps many other women would not 
 have looked on them as burdens. But my marriage was 
 a mistake — for both of us. And then — oh, how can I tell 
 you ? Something happened to-day, the climax, render- 
 ing further life there impossible. Oh, I can't speak or 
 even think of it ! " 
 
 Her voice ended in a moan and a shivering catch of 
 her breath, and she covered her face with her hands. 
 Kent leaped to his feet quivering with a sudden intui- 
 tion. 
 
 " Clytie, you have been wronged far more than by 
 mere misunderstanding. Did he dare " 
 
 <' Yes— yes. Don't think of it. It's all over." 
 
 " But 1 must think of it. It is like a red-hot iron in 
 my heart. I can't bear it. All last night I lay awake 
 thinking of your unhappiness, tortured by regrets, hating 
 the man who made your life a weariness to you. I 
 never thought of this. The coward ! The brute ! Oh, 
 my God ! " 
 
 And as he strode up and down the room, with set lips 
 and clenched hands, Clytie looked at him half-wonder- 
 ingly. She had never seen her calm, strong Kent so 
 moved by passion. She went up to him, with natural
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 297 
 
 impulse, and put lier hand on his shoulder and looked 
 into his face. 
 
 "You need never speak or think of this again, Kent. 
 It is all over, buried. For nearly a year we have lived 
 almost as separated as we shall do henceforward. 1 
 have come to be Clytie Davenant once again, to lead the 
 old life of work and happiness with you and Winifred. 
 I can blot out the past eighteen months like an evil 
 dream in which I have suffered much and learned 
 much. We can work together as we used to do, Kent, 
 and you will find me, I hope, a better, gentler woman, 
 dear. Now forget all about it, as I shall do. Remember 
 what you said yesterday — that no life was so wrecked 
 as to be incapable of reconstruction. You cannot tell 
 what comfort you gave me. And I cannot tell you what 
 happiness I passed through this morning — before — ah, 
 
 well Oh, Kent, my true, loyal Kent ! I am a very 
 
 weak woman, and I want your goodness and help and 
 tenderness. You can do nothing to help or avenge 
 what has passed. You can do all for me in the future 
 if you will." 
 
 " What 1 can do is small enough, God knows ! " replied 
 Kent. 
 
 " Do you know what you can do for me ? " 
 
 "Tell me." 
 
 " Let me forget myself and my selfish wants in try- 
 ing to bring some help and gladness into your life. I 
 wronged you deeply once — I wronged myself ; let me 
 make reparation." 
 
 Kent turned aside and passed his hand across his 
 forehead. 
 
 " You must not think of me," he said in a low voice. 
 "I am rough and strong, with no particular burdens to 
 bear. Some day or the other, when you are happy, I 
 will come to you with my little griefs for the sake of 
 having them charmed away by your sympathy ; but 
 until then let me think of you — help you if I can. If I 
 can't, Heaven knows it will not be for want of longing 
 to do so." 
 
 " Kent," said Clytie very softly, unconsciously moving 
 nearer to him, " I am happy now. Can't you see that I 
 am ? "
 
 298 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 Kent's heart beat like a sledge hammer ; a wave of 
 passionate love swept through his veins, thrilling him to 
 the finger tips. He was conscious that if he turned his 
 face the hair on her forehead would brush his cheek. 
 Never before had a woman spoken to him in that strange 
 tone. The world stood still for a moment. Then in a 
 blinding daze of light, in which all things in heaven and 
 earth were drowned, he turned, caught her to him, and 
 kissed her. 
 
 Slowly Clytie freed herself, held out a restraining 
 hand, and, with steps strangely faltering, moved across 
 the room to the couch, where she sat down and hid 
 her face in the cushions. Kent paused for a moment, 
 steadying his senses still reeling from the shock of the 
 first kiss of love he had ever given to woman. Then he 
 went and stood by her side. 
 
 " Forgive me, Clytie. It was base of me. But it was 
 something beyond my will that acted. You forget that 
 I love you. I have wronged you, my queen, my life ! 
 If you can ever trust me again, I will devote myself to 
 making you forget that I have dared to love you. I ask 
 your pardon, Clytie." 
 
 He stayed for a moment looking at her bowed figure. 
 Then, as she gave no sign that she was moved by his 
 appeal, he left her, and with a strange mingling of death 
 and gladness in his heart walked lingeringly to the 
 door„ But just as his hand was on the knob Clytie rose 
 impulsively from the couch, and with hair rufHed and her 
 cheeks glowing came up to him, and it was she who 
 opened the door. 
 
 " You are pardoned, dear, for I love you." 
 
 A moment later she was alone. And she resumed her 
 position by the open window, and looked out upon the 
 busy scene. But she heeded it not. Her sight was 
 directed to the mysteries of an invisible world.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 Clytie's last words rang in Kent's ears all night. 
 She loved him. She had surrendered herself to his kiss, 
 she had told him her heart in plain, unequivocal language. 
 In the first blaze of this happiness he did not perceive 
 the gloomy background of their love. All that he could 
 feel was that Clytie had left the life to which he had 
 been a stranger, that she had come back to live in his 
 daily company in the old helpful way, that, furthermore, 
 her simple friendship had changed into something un- 
 utterably sweeter. He looked into the future and found 
 it glowing with many rose tints of beauty. He saw 
 Clytie and himself carrying out to its fullest his brave 
 gospel of work — to its fullest because of their belief and 
 trust in one another. He saw Clytie painting noble 
 pictures, drawing strength and confidence from his sym- 
 pathy — himself stimulated to great achievement, the 
 prose of life transmuted into sonorous epic, lyrical glad- 
 ness, elegiac grace. The fever in his blood kept him 
 awake as image after image passed before his fancy. But 
 whether the vision was of Clytie walking by his side 
 through the gaslit streets, or of Clytie's glorious head 
 strained back to view the effect of brush strokes he had 
 suggested, or of Clytie sitting by the table as he worked, 
 the lamp between them, it ended always with the warm 
 touch of Clytie's lips beneath his, and the low, clear 
 voice, " I love you." 
 
 This exaltation is common to most men when a strong 
 love comes to them. But to Kent it was all the in- 
 tenser through the peculiarities of his nature. He had 
 lived without the sphere of women. The passionateness 
 of his temperament had thrown itself utterly into another 
 channel. His work had been his love, his wife, the 
 centre of all his energies, all his hopes. The craving 
 for the unknown complement of existence had found 
 satisfaction in the added line upon line, the growing 
 
 299
 
 300 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 bulk of manuscript, the builder's thrill when the creation 
 of his own brain is materialising itself course by course 
 into a majestic edifice. Besides, action, whether it was 
 spending hours in a musty library in the exciting search 
 after a reference, or tramping for miles in the keen 
 mountain air of Norway, always fascinated him and com- 
 pelled the entire energy of his being. He beheld the 
 earth after his wholesome fashion and saw that it was 
 good. To him life was complete. Things, therefore, not 
 contained within his sphere he looked upon as superflui- 
 ties. A¥oman was a superfluity ; the impulses of sex 
 repugnant. The very intensity of his nature made him 
 shrink all the more strenuously from the sexual principle 
 upon which love is built. When, however, love came to 
 him, in spite of himself, he was dazed with it, terrified. 
 On that January morning when he buried his face in the 
 faint perfume of Clytie's handkerchief he felt himself 
 overcome with a kind of horror. The fierce conscious- 
 ness that he would give his soul to hold her in his arms 
 and kiss her hair and eyes and lips was to him a torture 
 of debasement. This morbidness was due only to the 
 violence of the reaction. It lasted but a short while, and 
 toned down into a feeling of disloyalty to Clytie's friend- 
 ship in daring to love her. But time at last adjusted 
 his moral balance, when it was too late, and Clytie was 
 lost to him. And then his love was purified into a deep, 
 passionate devotion that was its own joy and recompense. 
 If circumstances had remained unchanged, Kent would 
 have carried this deeper than romantic love with him 
 to the grave. It had grown into his inmost heart, in- 
 forming that subconsciousness that makes a man's indi- 
 vidual life. Even during the last few months, when they 
 were meeting in frank, friendly fashion, his love had 
 altered very little in kind. He believed her to be a 
 happy wife, loving her husband, with whom in a 
 moment of bitterness he had once silently measured 
 himself. The precious boon of her friendship was re- 
 gained, nothing more, and it was given to him, under no 
 false pretences on his part, but all the more tenderly be- 
 cause she knew of his devotion. Secure in the impres- 
 sion of her happiness, he would never have wavered in 
 word or thought from his straightforward, simple loyalty,
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 301 
 
 and his days would have passed in quiet contentment, 
 saddened a little, perhaps, by regrets for what might 
 have been, but never tormented by longings for the im- 
 possible. 
 
 But conditions were no longer the same. Clytie had 
 renounced her married life. Except as a memory of 
 bitterness it had no place in her thoughts. Except by a 
 legal fiction she was her own mistress once more, free to 
 go and come, think and act. Even in name she would 
 be Clytie Davenant again, and she had spoken to him in 
 that strange tone he had never heard before, and had 
 come nearer to him as her touch lay upon his arm. The 
 whole pent up passion of Kent's life had gone forth into 
 that kiss. For Kent the world was changed, and the 
 night a dream of unutterable things. But by the morn- 
 ing it had brought counsel. This love, acknowledged 
 on both sides — whither would it tend ? A great problem. 
 So great a one, indeed, that Kent was tempted to shirk 
 grappling with it. Courage and a stout heart, he said 
 to himself, and all would be well. But one cannot rid 
 one's self in this easy way of responsibilities. If you 
 shake them from your shoulders, they shackle themselves 
 about your feet. Kent felt thus fettered as he lay awake. 
 Moreover, his early misgivings concerning Hammerdyke 
 came, like the curses in the proverb, home to roost. If 
 he had spoken to Clytie then, before her marriage, possi- 
 bly she might have been spared all this suffering. He 
 wished that he had obtained from Wither all the particu- 
 lars of the ugly rumours that had been afloat, investigated 
 them, confronted Clytie bravely with the truth, and so 
 saved her from wrecking her life. And yet he felt that 
 he could not have done so. Well, what was past was past. 
 The present and the future contained enough matter to 
 engage his attention. He lay for some time in bed try- 
 ing to solve these perplexities. At last, at half-past nine, 
 he rose, dressed, and went into his sitting-room to pre- 
 pare his breakfast. This was a simple process. On a 
 couple of gas-stoves, connected by india-rubber piping 
 with the two gas-jets in his room, he placed a kettle and 
 a saucepan, the latter containing eggs. Then he spread 
 a little cloth on a clear space of his dresser-table, and 
 brought out his crockery and other breakfast requisites
 
 302 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 from one of the under-cupboards. A ham somewhat 
 cut into, butter, and marmalade he procured from a safe 
 in a third little room on the landing which he used as a 
 combined larder and lumber-room. For years Kent had 
 enjoyed the simple Bohemianism of this Sunday morning 
 meal. He could linger over it easefully without the 
 weekday glance at his watch, when time was short. 
 There was the Sunday paper, a weekly review or two, 
 the long, undisturbed after-breakfast pipe. It was a time 
 when he could release himself with free conscience from 
 his busy life and enjoy his leisure. But this morning 
 the eggs seemed stale, the ham tasteless, the journals 
 dull, and he found himself looking at his watch. He 
 would go down and see Clytie at eleven, an hour which 
 he had himself arbitrarily fixed upon, and he was count- 
 ing the minutes. It is surprising how long minutes are 
 when you count sixty of them. 
 
 At last eleven o'clock came and Kent descended the 
 stairs. But Clytie was out. Mrs. Gurkins, who an- 
 swered his ring on Clytie's bell, informed him that 
 Miss Davenant would not be in for lunch. Perhaps she 
 would be back during the afternoon. So Kent went up- 
 stairs again, disappointed, and, after vainly trying to 
 occupy himself, seized his hat and went out for a long 
 tramp through Putney and Wimbledon. His heart was 
 full of strange emotions that beset him for many hours, 
 making them seem hopelessly long. Of the two Clytie 
 passed by far the happier day. 
 
 In the afternoon, on his return, he heard voices in 
 the studio. He knocked and entered. Clytie was there 
 with Winifred. 
 
 " Can I come in ? " 
 
 " Of course," said Clytie. " Why do you ask ? We 
 have been expecting you ever so long. In fact we have 
 kept tea waiting for you." 
 
 He put down his hat and stick, nodded as usual to 
 Winifred, and advanced, through force of later habit, 
 with outstretched hand, to Clytie. She laid her fingers 
 in his slowly, looked up at him from her chair by the 
 stove, and laughed. 
 
 " You forget I am no longer a visitor, Kent," she said 
 rcbukingly.
 
 AT THE G^TE OF SAMARIA. 303 
 
 " Only this once, then," he answered, " to welcome you 
 back among us." 
 
 " Where have you learned to make pretty speeches ? " 
 asked Clytie. 
 
 She was pleased with the words and gave his hand a 
 sudden pressure. 
 
 Kent brought a chair up to where Clytie and Winifred 
 were sitting, tried to talk lightly, and failed. A silence 
 came over the little party. Tea caused a distraction, 
 and they fell to discussing indifferent subjects, odds and 
 ends of gossip, but in a desultory fashion that each 
 found strange. At last Clytie rose, cut the Gordian knot 
 in her impulsive way. 
 
 " 1 am going to do one or two things in the sitting- 
 room," she said. " You two have a talk until I come 
 back." 
 
 Kent opened the door for her. On the threshold she 
 turned and whispered to him : " Talk to Winifred a little. 
 You will do each other good." 
 
 He closed the door after her and went back to 
 Winifred. 
 
 " So we have her with us again." 
 
 "Yes," she replied gently, "and I don't know whether 
 to feel sorry or glad." 
 
 " Did you know — had you any idea that she was un- 
 happy ? I never knew till yesterday — or the day before." 
 
 " I think I knew — before — perhaps because I am a 
 woman. It made my heart ache." 
 
 " But she is not unhappy now," said Kent. " There- 
 fore you ought to be glad." 
 
 Winifred glanced at him swiftly. In spite of the 
 brown softness of her eyes they were woman's eyes, 
 capable of quick, subtle perceptions. 
 
 "But will she be happy, Kent ?" she asked, bending 
 down over her needlework. As she had not been able 
 to paint, she had taken in hand, by way of feminine com- 
 fort, some sewing for Clytie. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " he asked, with a man's prefer- 
 ence to answer a concrete question rather than a deli- 
 cately hinted suggestion. 
 
 " Will not this tie that cannot be loosed hamper her 
 all through her life ?"
 
 304 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 " God knows ! " he said gloomily. And then, brighten- 
 ing, he added : " But we have her with us for always, 
 Winifred, and we who love her can try to make her 
 forget it." 
 
 "Ah, can we, my dear Kent?" she said, putting her 
 work and both hands in her lap and looking at him. 
 "You love her, but you can't love her as I do. Oh, no, 
 no," she added as he smiled and shook his head. " You 
 may think you do, but it is not possible. You have 
 found faults in Clytie and scolded her — oh, very kindly 
 and sympathetically, I know , but still in your eyes 
 Clytie can do wrong. In mine she can't — and there is 
 the difference. Clytie is not like other girls. She is 
 like no one in the world, Everything must give way to 
 her. If Clytie were to do something you would think 
 dreadful — commit a murder — I feel that she would be 
 justified in doing it, and I should love her all the more 
 tenderly and dearly." 
 
 " God bless your loving little heart ' " cried Kent. 
 " Love like yours could make the most miserable crea- 
 ture on earth happy." 
 
 " Ah, no, Kent. What could I do for her ? Listen : I 
 was a poor, friendless, ignorant, uninteresting little girl 
 when I first met Clytie. And she was kind to me. She 
 seemed so brave and strong and clever and beautiful, 
 I quite shrank from her. I felt so small and humble 
 beside her. And she singled me out from among all 
 the rest of the girls at the Slade School, and made 
 me her friend. I never could tell what she found 
 in me." 
 
 " She can tell, and I can, too," exclaimed Kent with 
 abrupt enthusiasm — " the purest, tenderest flower of a 
 soul that ever breathed ! " 
 
 "Oh, Kent ! " said Winifred as the colour rose to her 
 dark cheeks. " You must not say things like that. 
 Clytie has done everything for me, everything — 
 and I " 
 
 " You have helped Clytie as no one else could have 
 done," said Kent, " and you are doing it now." 
 
 "Am I?" 
 
 " Yes ; don't you see how bright and happy you have 
 made her? "
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 305 
 
 " She is brighter than I should have thought," said 
 Winifred musingly. "But will it last?" 
 
 "We must try to make it lasting, you and I," said 
 Kent softly. 
 
 He pondered for a moment over the love in each of 
 their hearts, the girl's and the man's. How exquisitely 
 pure and selfless hers seemed to be ! He could not 
 realise it in all its beauty, but his perceptions had been 
 refined enough for him to be profoundly touched. 
 
 " You have taught me something, Winifred," he said 
 after a pause, during which she had quietly resumed 
 her sewing. "I am happier than I have been all 
 day." 
 
 Clytie returned soon afterwards. She looked curiously 
 at the faces of her two friends, and then, divining, per- 
 haps, something of what had passed between them, went 
 up to Winifred and kissed her. After this they talked 
 more freely — of old habits, plans for the future. The 
 latter were vague, for Winifred's marriage with Treherne 
 was fixed for the early part of the next year, and the 
 studio without Winifred was unrealisable. Still the 
 plans were food for much intimate gossip, which some 
 may liken to the very salt of life. 
 
 When Winifred had gone, Kent went with Clytie into 
 the sitting-room, where, furnished with hammer and 
 nails, he hung the few pictures that Clytie had brought 
 with her, together with some that had been lying about 
 the studio. It was a delight to him to perform this 
 little service for her, and she too felt the woman's happi- 
 ness of being surrendered to a man's helpfulness. He 
 fetched from his own rooms a bookstand, which he 
 secured against the wall, a few curios, and an armful of 
 the dainty cushions, chair backs, and curtain sashes with 
 which his sister Agatha in misguided zeal had years ago 
 supplied his drawers and cupboards. 
 
 " They are not as artistic as your odds and ends, you 
 know," he said by way of apology. " But until you can 
 get some together they will be more cheerful to look at 
 than Mrs. Gurkins's efforts." 
 
 He had just completed his scheme of decoration when 
 Mrs. Gurkins came up to lay the cloth for Clytie's dinner. 
 Clytie detained him as he was about to go. 
 
 20
 
 3o6 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 " Won't you stay and dine with me ? " she said half 
 timidly. 
 
 She felt that she could not dismiss him. To do so 
 on conventional grounds would be the silliest prudery. 
 Besides, a sense of helplessness had come over her, and 
 she wanted him by her side, longed for him to think and 
 act for her. The touch of any incident bordering ever 
 so slightly on the dramatic would at that moment have 
 sufficed to free the spring of feminine reserve and loosen 
 passionate expression of her longing for his presence. 
 But the simple commonplace of the situation saved her. 
 Kent's eyes brightened at the invitation. 
 
 "And we can have a long evening afterwards?" he 
 asked half pleadingly. 
 
 " Of course, " said Clytie, with an inward smile. 
 
 On Monday morning Kent, as he was starting for the 
 Museum, put his head in at Clytie's sitting-room door. 
 She was at breakfast, having risen rather later than 
 usual. By her side was an open letter. As Kent 
 entered she pushed back her chair and looked up at 
 him, a gleam of gladness eclipsing in her eyes a late 
 expression of pain. Kent noticed the sudden change. 
 
 " You have been sad, Clytie," he said in his rough 
 tenderness. " That is not right. Did you not promise 
 me last evening that you would be happy, very 
 happy ? " 
 
 " So I shall be," she answered, taking his hand in hers 
 and turning away her head. " Only there are things 
 that cut one to the heart. You are a man ; you can't 
 understand a woman — no man can, no matter how he 
 loves her. Look, read that — the end of the sordid story 
 of my latter life. Oh, Kent, I am not worth your love ! 
 This thing has degraded me enough, and this last 
 
 insult Oh, read it and see. It would be better that 
 
 you should know of how little account I really am." 
 
 Kent took the letter which she thrust into his hand, 
 and, without having read it, tore it into tiny pieces which 
 he scattered through the open window to the four winds. 
 Then he came and put one arm around her. 
 
 " Because one man insults you, dear, it is all the more 
 reason that I should love and shield you. That part of
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 307 
 
 your life is dead now. You said yourself this letter was 
 the end. Let it be so, Clytie." 
 
 His delicacy and tenderness moved her very deeply. 
 Womanlike, she had wanted him to read the paper, and 
 yet loved him all the more for not having done so. The 
 letter was her own note to Thornton, which he had 
 returned with " You can go to the devil ! " scrawled 
 across it. The sheer brutality had made her lose, as it 
 were, her self-respect, had presented her to her own 
 eyes as a thing of naught, unworthy of the reverential 
 love that Kent brought her. How could she honestly be 
 to him the brightest and noblest of women with that 
 scrawled thing dragging her down ? Accordingly his 
 actions and words gladdened her. She looked up at 
 him, and he read as in some magical book the spell of 
 tenderness that swam in her eyes. Then he threw him- 
 self on his knees before her and buried his face in her 
 lap. 
 
 " Oh, my love, my love ! " 
 
 And, stirred to her depths with a passionate thrill that 
 was like a great pain, she threw her arms round his neck 
 and kissed him.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 Two years passed, outwardly uneventful, yet momen- 
 tous in the development of inner life. Her marriage 
 sometimes appeared to Clytie as a far-away episode, a 
 kind of dream state in which she had been invested with 
 a strange, unrealisable personality. Yet influences had 
 remained, impulses had been awakened, that could not 
 again lie dormant ; knowledge had come to her that 
 could not lapse into oblivion, leaving no trace behind. 
 In her daily intercourse with Kent her nature expanded. 
 It lost imperceptibly that vein of hardness which her 
 struggle for self-development had fostered, and the dis- 
 illusions and repugnances of her marriage had gradually 
 been strengthening. Except in a brief interval of 
 intoxication she had never known the woman's sweetness 
 of surrender. The great triumph of surrender had never 
 even then been hers. And this was gradually making 
 itself felt in her heart during the two years that passed 
 from the time of leaving her husband's roof. 
 
 They contained hours of sweet bitterness, it is true. 
 Although Thornton had gone out of her life like an evil 
 phantom, yet the legal tie between them remained 
 unbroken. Mrs. Farquharson, who seldom did things by 
 halves, after seeing her idol broken trampled it under- 
 foot into a thousand pieces, and vehemently tried to 
 persuade Clytie to seek after a divorce. She even 
 insisted upon her taking counsel's opinion on the matter. 
 But there was no definite evidence obtainable to support 
 an action at law, and Clytie, sick at heart, was glad to 
 dismiss the question from her mind forever. Yet in the 
 eyes of the world she was Hammerdyke's wife, and so 
 she would have to remain until death parted them. 
 Perhaps when enlightenment sheds a fuller ray upon 
 our civilisation we shall make radical changes in our 
 marriage laws, for they are based upon the sad old 
 
 308
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. Z^9 
 
 fallacy that human conduct and human emotion are 
 indifferently susceptible of regulation. As yet we can 
 universalise only on material things : security of prop- 
 erty, full stomachs, and warm backs for the poor. The 
 facts of broken lives and torn hearts we can recognise 
 only in particular instances, as they come within each 
 man's individual sphere. The universality of spiritual, 
 moral, and emotional suffering is as yet far from being 
 a national conception. When this is attained we may 
 hope for social conditions happier than those under 
 which we struggle at present. 
 
 Thornton had taken the most effectual steps to become 
 an undisturbing element in Clytie's life. The constitu- 
 ency for which he had intrigued and striven to be nomi- 
 nated did not return him at the bye-election, which took 
 place soon after Clytie's departure, but chose instead a 
 radical lawyer with an insignificant presence and a shaki- 
 ness as to aspirates. Thornton was disgusted and 
 humiliated at his defeat. Politics lost their charm. An 
 offer from the Belgian government to reform the adminis- 
 tration in a wide tract of country whose borders were in- 
 fested with Arabs came to him at this juncture, and 
 found him in a mood for acceptance. He bade Mrs. 
 Clavering a sardonic farewell and replunged into the 
 wilds out of English ken. 
 
 Winifred only remained in the King's Road for a few 
 months. Early in the new year she married Treherne, 
 and Clytie was left alone. The studio seemed very for- 
 lorn for some time afterwards, robbed, as it were, of an 
 inherent tender grace, a softening, refining influence that 
 had always been dear to Clytie, even in her days of 
 greatest wilfulness. Yet it gladdened her to know that 
 Winifred was happy — married to a man of fine fibre who 
 could value the exquisite gift that the high gods had 
 given him. 
 
 " You are a lucky girl, dear," she said to the young 
 bride one day when visiting her in her new home. 
 
 " Of course I am," replied Winifred enthusiastically. 
 " A man like Victor " 
 
 •' Oh, yes," replied Clytie drily. " I know. He is all 
 perfection. But the man doesn't live who is fit to black 
 your boots, my child. I did not mean that ; I meant that
 
 3IO AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 you were a lucky girl in having eluded your obvious 
 destiny." 
 
 Winifred looked at her open-eyed. 
 
 " I always used to think somewhat sadly about you," 
 Clytie went on. " I seemed to read in your face and 
 eyes that you would marry a man quite unworthy of you, 
 who would ill treat you, and that you would love him 
 more as he became worse, that your life would be a 
 dreadful, purposeless sacrifice. And now you .see how 
 you have escaped. Victor is just the husband I could 
 have picked out for you. So you are a lucky girl." 
 
 " I wish you were as happy as I am, darling," said 
 Winifred, looking at her somewhat wistfully through her 
 own gladness. 
 
 " Perhaps I am," replied Clytie, with a flush. " Who 
 knows ? Utter completion of existence is not possible 
 in this imperfect world of ours ; and if my life has its 
 gaps that ache a little, yet it has its fulness, believe me, 
 dear. I am happier now than I have ever been. After 
 all, the gaps matter very little." 
 
 " Now you are getting somewhat beyond me," said 
 Winifred. " I can't quite follow you." 
 
 " Ah, you needn't, Winnie dear," replied Clytie. 
 " Only go on loving and trusting me. Don't you see 
 that I am happy because I too have a good man's love ? " 
 
 " But if — if you had been — if things were different — 
 you might have married," said Winifred hesitatingly. 
 
 "That does not make the love less beautiful and life- 
 giving," replied Clytie. 
 
 This and other conversations of a like tenor succeeded 
 finally in allaying Winifred's doubts as to Clytie's happi- 
 ness. An uneasy burden was lifted off her mind, glad 
 as her heart was in the new joy of her marriage. Hence- 
 forth she was content to take Clytie's assurances, and to 
 trust in her own rooted idea that Clytie's deep, complex 
 nature was beyond the reach of her simple comprehen- 
 sion, and ungovernable by the canons that regulated 
 commoner clay. Strong in this faith, she triumphed in 
 the first little conflict of opinion that arose between her- 
 self and her husband. Fine and generous as his views 
 were, he had, nevertheless, a strict churchman's regard 
 for the proprieties of life. The recognised intimacy
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA 311 
 
 between Cl3'tie and Kent, harmless as it appeared before 
 Clytie's marriage, had begun to cause him certain uneasi- 
 ness. He was fond of them both, partly for their own 
 sakes, partly on account of his wife. An unkind thought 
 concerning them hurt his sensitive nature, and yet, as 
 time went on, such thoughts began painfully to formu- 
 late themselves in his mind. At last his conscience 
 forced him to broach the subject to Winifred. She lis- 
 tened with a little flush of spirit in her cheek, and then 
 broke into such a warm torrent of words that Treherne 
 was fairly amazed. He had never dreamed that his 
 gentle, brown-eyed wife could be capable of such pas- 
 sionateness. Her logic of devotion overmastered his 
 scruples, and he was almost converted to Winifred's 
 unswerving faith. At any rate, from that time forth he 
 was Clytie's firm friend and ally. 
 
 During these two years Clytie was in some need of 
 friends. The society in which she had moved during 
 her married life was a world unknown to her now. 
 Only the circle of her girlhood's acquaintances remained, 
 and of these some manifested disapprobation at the 
 mode of life she had adopted. Every staunch adherent 
 was therefore of inestimable value, and half uncon- 
 sciously she clung to every hand held out in friendship. 
 
 The resumption of her life with Kent had produced 
 also great tension in her relations with Durdleham. 
 Finally it snapped them entirely. 
 
 " I don't for a moment suppose," wrote Mrs. Blather in 
 the last letter that passed between them, " that every- 
 thing is not most innocent and honourable on both sides. 
 But your conduct is grossly imprudent and must inevita- 
 bly give rise to most painful scandal. It is your duty 
 both to the name you bear (painful though the associa- 
 tions connected with it may be) and to that which you 
 had from papa to put yourself beyond the reach of 
 calumny by living no longer beneath the same roof as 
 Mr. Kent. Until you do so papa and Janet and myself 
 will consider that any regard you may have had either 
 for ourselves personally or for our honour as a family 
 has entirely gone, and, I grieve to say it, our doors, 
 though not our hearts, will have to be closed against 
 you."
 
 312 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 Clytie read her condemnation very sadly. She could 
 not blame her sister. Mrs. Blather was acting conscien- 
 tiously, according to the faith and tradition she had 
 inherited from her Godfearing ancestors. Petty and 
 futile as many of the formulas were by which she had 
 been trained to regulate human conduct, yet there were 
 great ones which could not do otherwise than command 
 respect. " Thou shalt not sin," is a formula the obey- 
 ing or renouncing of which is often a secret for one or 
 two human hearts alone. Its corollary, '* Thou shalt not 
 appear to be sinning," is one which must be dealt with 
 openly, under the world's eye. Mrs. Blather's judgment 
 was based on this latter formula, her position unassailable. 
 She had no Winifred to shake with the eloquence of love 
 her faith in the formula's eternal verity. She was sup- 
 ported by the firm convictions of a lifetime, and by the 
 unhesitating assent of her father and sister. The letter 
 cut off all Clytie's hopes of ever being understood by 
 her family. She herself knew their inmost hearts, was 
 conversant with every principle by which they were 
 guided, and she could bear them no ill will. But to 
 them she knew she would be forever inscrutable, and she 
 accepted their judgments with sad resignation. 
 
 In point of common fact, she was called upon to make 
 the old, old choice that has been offered to woman in all 
 ages, between her family and the man she loved. With- 
 out a moment's hesitation she chose the man, and severed 
 herself finally from her kin. Kent had become the 
 object of her life. She had loved him — she knew that 
 now — before her marriage. She had wronged him, as it 
 seemed to her, by not having realised it, had received 
 notwithstanding a tender, absolute devotion whose brave 
 selflessness had been a revelation to her. No sacrifice 
 that she could make for his happiness was too great for 
 her. She loved him with the whole strength of her full 
 nature. If any sacrifices on her part were not made, it 
 was Kent that forbade them. The less he would accept 
 the more did she find in her heart to offer. That she 
 should remain in what they had begun to look upon as 
 their common home seemed to be a vital necessity to 
 his happiness. The mild, affectionate approval of Grace 
 and Janet could not compensate the great loss that each
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMAKIA. 3^3 
 
 would sustain in a rupture of their intercourse. Any 
 appeal to her sister she knew would be useless. She 
 was firm in the path in which she had elected to walk, 
 and Mrs. Blather's letter remained unanswered. 
 
 But Kent could not take this comprehensive view of 
 humanity. That Clytie should be cast off by her family 
 aroused his indignation. 
 
 " They never loved you," he said one day. " You 
 were always a thorn in their flesh, and now they have 
 seized an opportunity of plucking you out." 
 
 " You are wrong, dear," replied Clytie. " They loved 
 me in their unemotional fashion, and if I were to die 
 they would shed many tears and wear mourning for a 
 whole year. But don't you see that I am of Samaria ? 
 I cannot pray in the temple of Jerusalem, and the houses 
 of Israel are closed against me. It is of their religion 
 to do so. They believe that the ' bread of the Samaritan 
 is as the flesh of swine.' We cannot change their faith. 
 We can only seek in Samaria for freer conditions of 
 life, and the love of those who are Samaritans at 
 heart." 
 
 " If I loved you less, I might take up as lofty a posi- 
 tion as you," said Kent. " But I cannot bear that even 
 a Pharisee of the Pharisees should presume to judge 
 you." 
 
 " They have been judging me rightly or wrongly all 
 my life," said Clytie, with a smile. " It was my own 
 challenge ; I gave it vehemently and passionately as a 
 girl when life lay before me like a closed book which 
 they refused to open for me. Now that I have learned 
 some of its secrets I give the challenge with a calm 
 conviction that I am acting in accordance with laws 
 higher than theirs. So do not fret about me, dear." 
 And then she added in a low voice : 
 
 " You know I would give up all I could have in the 
 world for you, if you would accept it." 
 
 Then Kent put his arms around her and kissed her. 
 
 " I accept far too much in my selfishness," he said. 
 " My old lonely life was happy, but it could not be so 
 again. So in spite of all, Clytie, I say. Stay with me." 
 
 " I should stay whatever you said," returned Clytie. 
 " Don't fancy that all the giving is on my side."
 
 314 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 One sad event marked the mid-time in these two 
 years, robbing Clytie of an external interest that had 
 grown to be very dear to her. The boy Jack died. 
 
 The first meeting with him after the terrible scene in 
 her husband's house was in the studio, whither he had 
 betaken himself on one of his frequent visits to Winifred. 
 A sensation of pain caught at Clytie's heart as she 
 marked the lines of Thornton's features wrought in 
 miniature on the boy's face. It only lasted a few 
 moments, and then it melted away into a great pity. 
 Jack was Jack, were Thornton twenty times his father. 
 That he was so parented should make her pity for him 
 all the greater. She never felt more drawn towards the 
 boy than in that first interview. She told no one but 
 Kent of the secret of his parentage, not even Winifred, 
 to whom Jack, in spite of full intentions, never had an 
 opportunity of showing the photograph. For Mrs. Bur- 
 mester having discovered that Jack had temporarily 
 abstracted it, had cuffed him soundly and secreted the 
 coveted treasure in a secure hiding-place. 
 
 Whatever hopes Clytie might have entertained as to 
 Jack's future were cut short by the change in her cir- 
 cumstances. All she could do was to contribute towards 
 his training in the sphere in which the high gods, assisted 
 by Kent and Treherne had placed him. Besides, he had 
 manifested no particular intellectual bent. His gifts 
 were rather those of action ; books wearied him, except 
 such as dealt with wild exploit and adventure. And she 
 shrank now from the idea of his entering the army — a 
 feminine distaste, easily understandable. So she had 
 perforce to concur in the scheme whereby he should 
 remain another year at the school and then be appren- 
 ticed to a respectable trade. Kent comforted her with 
 his assurances. If the boy had the fire of success in him, 
 he would rise out of the common ranks. Life was all 
 before him with its endless fortuities. With devoted 
 friends watching and guiding him, it would be a poor 
 world if he did not arrive at ultimate good. And Clytie 
 in her turn comforted the boy, trying to soften and 
 mould his nature with her womanly influence. 
 
 ft was his last term at the school. He had won for 
 himself the golden opinions of the authorities. The
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 315 
 
 semi-animal little arab of four years ago had developed 
 into a bright, self-reliant lad of generous impulses, sub- 
 ject, it is true, to fits of ungovernable passion, but quick 
 to forgive, repent, and do penance. Suddenly Clytie 
 received a telegram that Jack was very ill. She left her 
 work and started immediately for the school. There 
 she found that diphtheria had broken out among the 
 boys, and Jack's was the most critical case. Day and 
 night she nursed him. But it was of no avail. The 
 boy died, and Clytie returned to London with a cheerless 
 sense of loss. Mrs. Burmester, who came to see her 
 after the funeral, whimpered a little, and hoped that 
 Clytie would recommend her to any of her friends who 
 happened to be in need of a charwoman. And then 
 Clytie looked at the mother, thought of the father. 
 After all, if the laws of heredity had anything to do with 
 the controlling of human destinies, were it not better for 
 Jack to be dead ? When the woman had gone she went 
 and stood before the replica of her famous picture 
 which she had painted for Kent, and shook her head 
 sadly. 
 
 " What I have painted there," she said to Kent, " the 
 cruelty and animalism that seemed to have gone out of 
 his face latterly, would always have remained. Human 
 nature is a palimpsest, dear. What is written is written 
 forever, though it seem obliterated, and may be called 
 up to the surface at any moment. I call Jack happy, 
 being dead." 
 
 With the exception of this episode the weeks and 
 months passed in peaceful uneventfulness. Clytie worked 
 assiduously at her art. At first the studio seemed lonely 
 and dispiriting without Winifred. But other influences 
 compensated her loss. As soon as it became known 
 that she had resumed her profession, orders came in 
 plentifully and kept her busy. And then perhaps Wini- 
 fred's absence brought her nearer to Kent. If she 
 worked hard all day and failed to reach her artistic ideal, 
 it was deep comfort to know that Kent's whole-hearted 
 encouragement would soon come and cheer her and 
 save her from depression. They had learned to depend 
 much upon each other in their work. In every mood 
 they were constant companions, never weary of each
 
 3i6 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA 
 
 Other. Instead of walking home from the Museum, as 
 he had done for years, Kent would hurry back by train 
 from Charing Cross to Sloane Square, so as to shorten 
 her loneliness by half an hour. A cup of tea, a talk 
 over the day's work, perhaps a stroll along the Embank- 
 ment, dinner, and then the long quiet evening as in 
 the old days — such was the ordinary routine. Certain 
 changes had naturally occurred in Kent's habits — changes 
 for his distinct good, as Clytie used to declare laughingly. 
 He rarely used the attic sitting-room. His scratch 
 Bohemian meals were things of the past. What law of 
 God or man forbade them to eat together? Clytie 
 asked once in the early days when they were talking of 
 household trifles. And then Kent bluntly insisted upon 
 an arrangement whereby they divided equally the rent 
 of the rooms they inhabited. It was not fair, he main- 
 tamed, that he should give her sitting-room all that wear 
 and tear without helping to pay for it. Clytie yielded, 
 not unpleasurably, seeing that he was bent upon it, but 
 she reserved the studio as her own especial sanctum. 
 
 The charm of the life grew daily upon Kent, with its 
 infinite grace of little things. He told her this often, 
 with awkward sincerity, as a man can only tell the woman 
 he loves deeply. And Clytie would laugh contentedly 
 and say : 
 
 " But you'll soon get tired of these organised meals 
 and long for your freedom again. Don't you ever crave 
 to be swallowing your coffee as you brush your hair in 
 the mornings ? And doesn't it chafe you all the after- 
 noon at the Museum to think that there is a regular 
 dinner awaiting you when you get back ? " 
 
 " No ; somehow I like it," he would reply, laughing. 
 "I believe I am developing into respectability." 
 
 Combining their resources they were able to entertain 
 in a modest way those of their friends who perfectly 
 understood their relations — the Farquharsons, the Tre- 
 hernes, Wither. On these occasions Mrs. Gurkins's hus- 
 band, a lean, self-effacive man, would wait at table in the 
 severest of black and lend immense dignity to the meal. 
 Wither was a constant visitor. The " monastery " was 
 broken up ; Fairfax had taken a practice in a large coun- 
 try town, Green had taken a wife. Wither complained
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 3^7 
 
 bitterly, railing at them both for their disgusting selfish- 
 ness. Clytie learned to love the bright-eyed, gnomelike 
 little being, his cynical, paradoxical talk, his large-hearted- 
 ness which he was ever anxious to conceal from the 
 world. Often when life seemed to weigh a little heavy, 
 the future to loom somewhat sad, and Kent and Clytie 
 had been sitting alone, a spell of wistful silence over 
 them. Wither would come in unexpectedly, and, with his 
 subtle feminine perception piercing to the heart of their 
 mood, would exert himself to extra brilliancy and dissi- 
 pate their cloud in laughter. A man by no means re- 
 quires delicate tact to win a woman's love, but no man 
 who displays it towards a woman can fail of winning a 
 little of the overflow of her heart. Clytie was grateful 
 to Wither. Once, when bidding him good-night, — Kent 
 had gone into the passage, — she added impulsively, " and 
 thank you." 
 
 He looked at her in his odd way, with a smile playing 
 around his lips. 
 
 " What for ? For being miserable and lonely and mak- 
 ing use of you to cure myself? " 
 
 But they understood one another, and he was touched 
 by Clytie's little tribute. And Clytie had spoken out of 
 her heart. 
 
 For, in spite of the helpfulness and comfort of their 
 life together, there were gaps in its plenitude which, as 
 she had said to Winifred, ached a little at times. Kent 
 was tenderness, manly sympathy itself : he would have 
 cut his tongue out rather than formulate a longing that 
 could not be satisfied. But moments came when the 
 irony of life seemed somewhat bitterly mocking, and 
 caused a veil of sadness to be drawn between them. 
 And like people who love deeply each was sensitive to 
 the variations in the other's mood. Then Clytie would 
 yearn for the impossible : to fix forever the light she 
 loved to see in his eyes, to cling to his arm and be 
 acknowledged his wife before all the world. Thus 
 through the midst of their happy, earnest life ran a vein 
 of sorrow. 
 
 But the years that had passed, with their manifold 
 emotions, experiences, and disillusions, with their awaken- 
 ings of passion, with their plentiful gift of tears, with
 
 3i8 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 their later gift of an almost holy communion of souls, 
 had completed the woman and the artist. One hunger 
 remained to her — one that had had no place in her 
 girlish cravings — a woman's hunger that is as a thing 
 sacred, and wondrously softens her nature. An infinite 
 compassion took within her the place of scorn. Her 
 eyes had learned the trick of tenderness which illumi- 
 nated her bright, fearless face. Her judgments became 
 less harsh, gained in breadth what they lost in brilliance. 
 She " saw life steadily and saw it whole." Many of its 
 mysteries had been revealed to her, and she had learned 
 the road to the heart of others. The great lesson that 
 Kent in the years before had suggested to her she 
 grasped in its entirety, and it revolutionised her artistic 
 career. No longer was her art a stepping-stone, a magic- 
 lantern sheet on which to project life in order to realise 
 its meaning. It was no longer the objective form of a 
 vague craving, but the idealised record of an experience. 
 When she painted the wistful, old-world look in a waif's 
 eyes it was no longer with the impatient, fretful hope 
 that its significance would be taught her from her own 
 canvas ; her awakened sight gazed with the sorrow of 
 knowledge into the young soul, and she used her art to 
 bear witness to the world of what was there. In a dim 
 way she was conscious of this change of attitude — seek- 
 ing within herself for the reason of the deeper, intenser, 
 calmer feeling with which she approached her work. 
 There came, too, a sense of responsibility, the necessity of 
 perfecting whatever she painted in its presentation of 
 truth. As her genius expanded the inner interpretation 
 of the formula, " Art for art's sake," dawned upon her in 
 the realisation of the '' sorrowful great gift " whereby 
 the artist has the privilege of piercing through the media 
 of sense and intellect and touching the naked soul of 
 man. 
 
 She went, as of old, into the streets for her models, 
 choosing the side of life least understanded of Philistia, 
 sublimating that which was spiritual, eternal in abject 
 and outcast, beggar and courtesan. Strange were the 
 walks of Kent and herself about the great city, by day 
 and by night, and strange the spars and fragments of 
 humanity they picked up in these rambles, who found
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 319 
 
 their way afterwards to Clytie's studio. They went 
 together to East End music halls, bank holiday gather- 
 ings, thieves* kitchens, night clubs in the West End, 
 where ladies are admitted free on a member's introduc- 
 tion, Kent paying his subscription almost at the door. 
 It was towards women that Clytie's sympathy flowed the 
 strongest. Her first contact with one of ces autres in 
 the hotel at Dinan had set a chord vibrating within her 
 that now rang out full and true. She could paint these 
 women, young, withered, children on the lurid threshold, 
 old women with charred and blackened past. It is the 
 moralist's part to condemn, evolve the moral ; the artist 
 on the higher plane disintegrates the spiritual from the 
 animal and presents it in the form of Truth. From the 
 comedy of misery, the tragedy of sex, the never ending 
 drama of vice and crime, the one draws groans, the 
 other tears. Each has his place in the cosmos. Thus 
 Clytie, artist and woman, walked through the abomina- 
 tion of desolation and opened the eyes of the world to 
 the glimmering spiritual rays that shot across it. 
 
 Once more she took out the studies she had made for 
 the *' Faustina " picture. This time she could look on 
 them without a shudder, only sadly. The picture would 
 never be painted. She was no longer in feverish, passion- 
 ate search after mysteries that had baffled her. The pic- 
 ture now had no artistic reason for existence. It would be 
 a cruel, despairing work, a tragedy of cynicism. Know- 
 ledge of the world had given her knowledge of self ; she 
 knew now how blent were the foreshadowings of passion 
 in her own soul with those that she had hungered to ex- 
 press on the young face of Faustina. In those days she 
 could have found a model in her own mirror, and then 
 the personal note dominating the picture would have 
 saved it from heartlessness. For the complete woman 
 to paint it would be the presentation of the damnation 
 of a young soul. But the contemplation of her earlier 
 work suggested vividly the converse of the subject — a 
 Faustina swept away by the whirl of passion with the 
 after-light of innocence in her soul's depths. The con- 
 ception grew within her, took form, awoke the full artist 
 in the ripe woman. With a throbbing sense of mastery, 
 a quivering thrill of inspiration, new to her as the first
 
 320 AT 2^HE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 love kiss on a young girl's lips, she betook herself to 
 her task. 
 
 It was the 5th of August, two years after Clytie had 
 resumed her artistic life with Kent. The afternoon was 
 hot and oppressive. Clytie was tired and lay back on 
 the couch by the window, for she had worked unceas- 
 ingly all through the summer and the strain was begin- 
 ning to tell on her. 
 
 They had just returned from the West End Gallery, 
 where Clytie's picture had been exhibited during the 
 season. This was the closing day, and they had gone 
 to see the picture for the last time. A wealthy Ameri- 
 can had purchased it for the art museum of his native 
 city, and to-morrow it would be packed up and sent 
 over seas. 
 
 " It's like parting forever from the child that is dearest 
 to you," she said with a little touch of melancholy. 
 " That is the worst of painting. A poet or a musician 
 — even an etcher can keep his work by him, but a 
 painter loses all. Doesn't it seem hard ? " 
 
 Kent acquiesced, comforted her, spoke with vague 
 cheeriness of the law of sacrifice which we must all obey. 
 On the other hand, she must think of all that the picture 
 had brought her, the public fame, the homage of those 
 whose opinion was dear to her. 
 
 " Yes ; in all that I have succeeded beyond my 
 wildest hopes," said Clytie. " But what is it? At the 
 Redgraves' the other afternoon crowds of people stared 
 at me, whispered each other requests to be introduced 
 to Clytie Davenant. The men praised all the wrong 
 points in my picture, and the women tried to get at the 
 way I did my hair. I know it's flattering to one's 
 vanity, dear, and I like it. I honestly like it. But it is a 
 superficial little gratification. Now it is all over I begin 
 to think of what that picture has cost, what has gone 
 to the making of it. Neither money nor fame can pay 
 me back." 
 
 " It has cost you hours of work in which you have 
 found happiness," said Kent. " You must not overlook 
 that." 
 
 " Oh, Kent ! " cried Clytie, not seeing for the moment 
 that he had deliberately avoided the deeper elements in
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 321 
 
 her thought. " Don't you know what I mean ? You 
 who have been just now preaching to me the law of 
 sacrifice ! Don't you know that to be the woman to 
 paint that picture there were sacrificed the traditions and 
 formulas of my home — there were sacrificed the first pure 
 flush of a girl's love, the illusions of a wife, the joy of 
 motherhood, the dignity of a proud woman ? " 
 
 She raised herself impulsively on her elbow and con- 
 tinued with flashing eyes : 
 
 '* Don't you see that ? And you of all men who have 
 shared with such bitterness in the sacrifice ! Yes, you, 
 my dearest, my best, my love ! Your life has been 
 sacrificed, your love, your devotion, your nobleness. 
 For once in the world the man has paid, and not the 
 woman. For two long years we have lived together, 
 eating at the same table, living a common life, which, had 
 one great fact been non-existent would have crowned 
 our days with happiness. I am of Samaria — I don't 
 care. I have offered to you to defy the world, to live 
 openly together, to bear your name. You have said 
 ' No,' for my sake sacrificing yourself. Can this life 
 last forever ? Have not the past two years been filled 
 with longings, restraints, bitternesses, regrets, all silently 
 working — you too loyal to utter them, I dreading lest 
 the utterance of them on my part should render you 
 unhappier ? " 
 
 " I have been happy," said Kent. " A thousandth 
 part of what you have given me would have made me 
 more than happy." 
 
 •' But your due is a thousand times more ! " cried Clytie. 
 " I have given you little enough, but I have drawn from 
 you the breath by which I live, the strength, the passion, 
 the will by which I have reached my poor success. It 
 can't be so any longer ; it would be unjust, cruel ! " 
 
 " Stop, my darling I " exclaimed Kent, greatly agitated. 
 " I am a man, and you are saying things a man cannot 
 bear from the woman he loves. Let us finish this before 
 it is too late, and I lose mastery over myself. I have 
 thought over it all — with the fiercest hunger in my heart — 
 even in moments of our love that have been worth a 
 century of misery. I have thought over it all ways. 
 What was impossible two years ago is impossible now.
 
 322 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. 
 
 I will not wreck your life by condemning you to scorn 
 and ostracism and the loss of all that the outside world 
 can give you." 
 
 Clytie did not reply, but turned her face towards the 
 open window, looking with knitted brow into the patch 
 of blue heaven that was just visible over the tops of the 
 opposite houses. A great, great longing possessed her, 
 an infinite tenderness towards the man who could speak 
 and act so selflessly. She longed to be able to say three 
 little words, summing up the yearning of her heart : " For 
 my sake." But they seemed unutterable at that hour. 
 Perhaps at another time, in a moment of less vehement 
 tone, when he was unawares, the words could be whis- 
 pered in his ear. She sank deep into the thought — 
 utter woman. 
 
 A long, long silence, which Kent, uncomprehensive, 
 like a man, did not dare to break. A thought had seized 
 him too, a troubling doubt. Would he always be as 
 strong ? 
 
 At last he drew mechanically out of his pocket an 
 evening paper that he had bought on the way home, 
 and as mechanically opened it and began to skim the 
 contents. 
 
 Suddenly he leaped to his feet with a loud cry : 
 
 " Clytie ! " 
 
 She sprang up, startled, and saw him standing with 
 white cheeks and shaking hand, holding out the paper. 
 
 " Read— he— he— read ! " 
 
 Clytie took the paper from him, and her eyes instinc- 
 tively fell upon the paragraph : 
 
 A telegram from Loango announces the death of Mr. Thornton 
 Hammerdyke, the well-known explorer, in a skirmish with some 
 Arab slave-traders. Later particulars will be given in our next 
 edition. 
 
 The newspaper fell from her hand, and they remained 
 for some moments facing each other, trembling. Then 
 she lowered her eyes and went to him humbly. 
 
 THK END. 
 
 Printol from American T'lales.
 
 UelcgrapDlc B^^re6s 
 
 ISiinloclcs, London, 
 
 21 Bedford street, w.c. 
 
 October rSg^, 
 
 A LIST OF 
 
 Mr. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S 
 
 Publications 
 
 AND 
 
 Forthcoming Works 
 
 The Books nteiitioned in this L ist can 
 le obtained to order by any Book- 
 setter if not in stock, or wilt be sent 
 by the Publisher post free on receipt 
 oj the published price
 
 5n&ej of Hutbors. 
 
 Alexander 
 Anstev 
 Arbuthnot 
 Atherton . 
 
 Baddeley . 
 Balestier . 
 Barrett 
 Battershall 
 Behrs 
 Bendall . 
 Bjornson . . 
 Bovven 
 Boyesen . 
 Briscoe 
 Brown 
 
 Brown and Gri 
 Bnclian.'n . 15 
 Burnand . 
 Butler 
 
 Caine(Hall; 8, i 
 
 Caine (R.). 
 
 Cambridge 
 
 Chester 
 
 Clarke 
 
 Coleridge . 
 
 Colinore . 
 
 Colonib 
 
 Compayre 
 
 Coppee 
 
 Couperus . 
 
 Cowen 
 
 Crackanthorpe 
 
 Davidson . 
 
 Dawson 
 
 De Goncourt 
 
 De Joinville 
 
 De Quincey 
 
 Dixon 
 
 Dowson 
 
 Eeden 
 Ellwanger . 
 Ely . 
 
 Farrar 
 
 Fitch 
 
 Forbes 
 
 Fothergill 
 
 Franzos 
 
 Frederic 
 
 Furtwangler 
 
 Garner 
 
 Garnett 
 
 Ganlot 
 
 Gilchrist . 
 
 Gontcharoff 
 
 Gore 
 
 Gosso . 7 
 
 Grand 
 
 ffiths 
 
 PAGE 
 
 . 20 
 
 • 14 
 
 • 15 
 
 21 
 
 J 5, 'jj 
 
 I- 27 
 
 13 
 
 9. 
 
 19 
 II 
 
 13 
 22 
 16 
 
 24 
 21, 22, 23 
 
 7 
 . II 
 
 ,17,20,21 
 22 
 
 20 
 
 14 
 
 18 
 
 5 
 
 21 
 15 
 
 15. 
 
 14, 
 
 II 
 22 
 
 5 
 
 5 
 
 13 
 
 17 
 
 17 
 
 6 
 14 
 
 15 
 
 15 
 II 
 
 15 
 20 
 
 19 
 o, 21 
 
 4 
 
 15 
 4 
 10 
 18 
 '9 
 24 
 18,23 
 
 • 17 
 
 Gray (Maxwell) 
 
 Griffiths . 
 
 Hall . 
 
 Hanus 
 
 Harland . 
 
 Harris 
 
 Hauptmann 
 
 Heine 
 
 Hcinemann 
 
 Henderson 
 
 Heussey . 
 
 Holdsworlh 
 
 Howard . 
 
 Hughes 
 
 Hun^erford 
 
 Hyne 
 
 Ibsen 
 
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 Jjeger 
 
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 Leland 
 
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 Lowry 
 
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 Mac nab . 
 
 Maeterlinck 
 
 Malut 
 
 RLasson 
 
 Maude 
 
 ^Lu1passant 
 
 Maurice . 
 
 Mcnini.in . 
 
 Michel 
 
 Mitford 
 
 Monk 
 
 Moon: 
 
 Murray 
 
 Nordau 
 N orris 
 
 7 
 13 
 
 7 
 22 
 
 13 
 
 9 
 6 
 
 i8 
 
 23 
 16 
 
 23 
 
 4 
 
 17 
 2 1 
 
 24 
 
 iS 
 
 14 
 
 19 
 
 7 
 
 21 
 4 
 15 
 18 
 10 
 6 
 19 
 
 15 
 21 
 20 
 
 21 
 17 
 23 
 
 S 
 
 5 
 15 
 19 
 15 
 M 
 
 3 
 20 
 
 9 
 '7 
 15 
 
 6 
 18 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Ogilvie 
 
 
 • 23 
 
 Oliphant . 
 
 
 • 14 
 
 Ouida 
 
 
 • 17 
 
 Palacio-VaU 
 
 Jes. 
 
 • 19 
 
 Pearce 
 
 
 . i3 
 
 Pendered . 
 
 
 8, 13 
 
 Pennell . 
 
 
 • 14 
 
 Phelps 
 
 
 . 21 
 
 Philips 
 
 
 . 22 
 
 Pinero 
 
 
 7> 23 
 
 Raimond . 
 
 
 9 
 
 Rawnsl'^y . 
 
 
 . 16 
 
 Kembran it 
 
 
 • 3 
 
 Re nan 
 
 
 • 15 
 
 Richter 
 
 
 • 15 
 
 Riddell . 
 
 
 . 21 
 
 Rives 
 
 
 . 21 
 
 Roberts (A- 
 
 von) 
 
 • I? 
 
 Roberts (C. 
 
 G.D.) 
 
 . i5 
 
 Robinson . 
 
 
 . 8 
 
 Saintsbury 
 
 
 . 6 
 
 Salanian Ij 
 
 S.)' 
 
 • 15 
 
 Salaman ^ .\ 
 
 . C.) 
 
 ■ 14 
 
 Sarcey 
 
 
 . 13 
 
 Scidmore . 
 
 
 . 16 
 
 Scudamorc 
 
 
 . 15 
 
 Scrao 
 
 
 • 19 
 
 Sergeant . 
 
 
 8, 20 
 
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 8,17 
 
 Stevenson . 
 
 
 . 8 
 
 Street 
 
 
 . 8 
 
 Tadema . 
 
 
 • 9 
 
 Tallentyre 
 
 
 • 14 
 
 Tasma 
 
 
 . 20 
 
 Terry 
 
 
 5 
 
 Thompson 
 
 
 . 16 
 
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 • 24 
 
 Tolstoy 
 
 13. '5. 
 
 19, 23 
 
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 • 23 
 
 Turgenev 
 
 
 • 9 
 
 Valera 
 
 
 • 19 
 
 Vazoff . 
 
 
 • >9 
 
 Wagner 
 
 
 . 6 
 
 Waliszcwsk 
 
 i 
 
 5. I'i 
 
 Ward 
 
 
 . 21 
 
 Warden 
 
 
 . 22 
 
 Waugh 
 
 
 . 6 
 
 Weltemeye 
 
 r 
 
 . 16 
 
 West 
 
 
 . II 
 
 Whistler . 
 
 
 ' 4, 14 
 
 White 
 
 
 21 
 
 Whitman . 
 
 
 . 16 
 
 Wdllam.^ . 
 
 
 • 15 
 
 Wood 
 
 
 14. i3 
 
 Zangwill . 
 
 
 . 18 
 
 Zola . 
 
 
 6,22 
 
 z. z. 
 
 
 . 8
 
 MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S LIST. 
 
 jfortbcomluG MorUa, 
 REMBRANDT: 
 
 SEVENTEEN OF HIS MASTERPIECES 
 
 FROM THE COLLECTION OF HIS PICTURES IN THE 
 
 CASSEL GALLERY. 
 Reproduced in Photogravure by the Berlin Photographic Company. 
 
 With an Essay 
 
 By FREDERICK WEDMORE 
 
 In large portfolio 2j^ inches x 20 inches. 
 
 T/te CoUec'ion of Revtbrandts in the Casscl Gallery enjoys the dtsiinction 
 of coiuistiyig of a group of unsny-passed masterpieces, and of the twenty-one 
 Pictures noiv in the Alziseum, seventeen have been selected fcr reproditction ; 
 these will be printed on the f nest /apanese paper. 
 
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 and of these only fourteen are for sale i}i England at the net price ^Twenty 
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 Twelve Guineas net, per set. 
 
 REMBRANDT: 
 
 HIS LIFE, HIS WORK, AND HIS TIME. 
 
 BY 
 
 EMILE MICHEL, 
 
 MEMBER or THE IXSTITUTE OF FRANCE. 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 
 FLORENCE SIMMONDS. 
 
 EDITED AND PREFACED BY 
 
 FREDERICK WEDMORE. 
 
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 net ; also of the Edition de Luxe (printed on Japanese vellum 
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 Merely to look through the reproductions in M. Michel's book is 
 enough to explain the passionate eagerness with which modern 
 collectors carry on their search after Rembrandt's drawings, and 
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 MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S LIST 
 
 .■ffortfiroming M^orU^— continued. 
 MASTERPIECES OF GREEK SCULPTURE. 
 
 By ADOLF FURTWANGLER. 
 Authorised Translation. Edited by E. Sellers. 
 
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 LIFE OF HEINRICH HEINE. 
 
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 MR. WILLIAM IIEINEMANN'S LIST. 5 
 
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 MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S LIST. 
 
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 MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S LIST. 
 
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 Also 
 
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 THE FIRST STEP. 
 A PLAY. By William Heinemann.
 
 8 MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S LIST. 
 
 jFortfjroming <l*L\ovli5— continued. 
 
 ^fiction, 
 
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 Edited by Edmund Gosse. 
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 THE FISHER MAIDEN. 
 
 THE BRIDAL MARCH. 
 MAGNHILD. 
 CAPTAIN MANSANA. 
 
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 Vol. I. RUDIN. 
 
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 To he followed by 
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 „ III. ON THE EVE. 
 „ IV. FATHERS AND CHILDREN. 
 „ V. SMOKE. 
 „ VI., VII. VIRGIN SOIL. (Two Volumes.) 
 
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 JOANNA TRAILL, SPINSTER. By Annie E. Hoi.ds- 
 
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 GEORGE MANDEVILLE'S HUSDAND. By C. E. 
 
 Kai.mu.nd. 
 
 THE WINGS OF ICARUS. By Laurence Alma 
 
 Tadema. 
 THE GREEN CARNATION. 
 
 AN ALTAR OF EARTH. By Thymol Monk. 
 
 Otlier I'ohimes to follow.
 
 lO MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S LIST. 
 
 IRcccnt lpul)lication0. 
 
 MY PARIS NOTE-BOOK. By the Author of " An Engli-h- 
 
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 MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN-S LIST. xi 
 
 Zbc Great Cbucator^, 
 
 A Series of Volumes by Eminent ]VrifefS,f>resenti>ts^ in their 
 entirety "^ Biographical History of Education.'^ 
 
 The Times.— " K Series of Monographs on ' The Great Educators ' should 
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 an appetite for instruction." 
 
 Each subject will form a complete volume, crown 8vo, sr. 
 
 Now 7eady. 
 ARISTOTLE, and the Ancient Educational Ideals. By 
 Thomas D.widsox, ^l.A., LL.D. 
 The Times. — "A very readable sketch of a very interesting subject." 
 
 LOYOLA, and the Educational System of the Jesuits. Ey 
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 In pre/^a7\itio:i. 
 
 ROUSSEAU ; and, Education according to Nature. By 
 
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 HORACE MANN, and Public Education in the United 
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 THOMAS and MATTHEW ARNOLD, and their In- 
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 Volumes on Herbart, and Modern German Education ; and Pestalozzi ; 
 or, th<j Friend and Student of Children, to fallow.
 
 12 MR. WILLIAM IIEINEM ANN'S LIST. 
 
 THE PROSE WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 HEINRICH HEINE. 
 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 
 CHARLES GODFREY LELAND, M.A., F.R.L.S. 
 
 (HANS BREITMANN). 
 
 In Eight VoliDues. 
 
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 subscribers for the Complete Work. 
 
 I. FLORENTINE NIGHTS, SCIINABELEWOrSKT, 
 THE RAin;! OF BACIIARACII, and SHAKE- 
 SPEARE'S MAIDENS AND WOMEN. 
 
 II., III. PICTURES OF TRAVEL. 1823-182S. In Two 
 
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 IV. THE SALON. Letters on Ait, Music, Popular Li'e, 
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 v., VI. GERMANY. In Two Volumes. 
 
 VIL, VIH. FRENCH AFFAIRS. Letters from Paris 1S32, 
 and Lutetia. In Two Vols, 
 
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 more striking, more entertaining, and more thought provoking than these now 
 placed before English readers." 
 
 Daily Telegraph. — "Mr. Leland has done his translation in able and scho- 
 larly fashion." 
 
 To l>e followed hy 
 
 THE POETIC WORKS OF HEINRICH HEINE.
 
 MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S LIST. 13 
 
 VILLIERS DE L'ISLE ADAM: His Life and Woiks- 
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 14 MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S LIST. 
 
 MR. PUNCH'S POCKET IBSEN. A Collection of some 
 
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 MR. WILLIAM IIEINEMANK'S LIST. 15 
 
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 THE PASSION PLAY AT OBERAMMERGAU, 1890. 
 
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 THE WORD OF THE LORD UPON THE WATERS. 
 
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 THE KINGDOM OF GOD IS W^ITHIN YOU. 
 
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 i6 MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S LIST. 
 
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 IMPERIAL GERMANY. A Critical Study of Fact and 
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 THE CANADIAN GUIDE-BOOK. Tart L Tlie Tourist's 
 
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 Part II. WESTERN CANADA. Including the Peninsula 
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 THE GUIDE-BOOK TO ALASKA AND THE NORTH= 
 
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 THE GENESIS OF THE UNITED STATES. A 
 
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 IN THE TRACK OF THE SUN. Readings from the Diary 
 of a Globe-Trotter. By Frei ekick Diodati Thompson. With many 
 Illustrations by Mr. Harrv Fenn and from Photographs. In one volume, 
 4to, 25^.
 
 MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S LIST. 17 
 
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 l8 MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S LIST. 
 
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 MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S LIST. 19 
 
 UDCinemann's international Xibraii\ 
 
 Edited by EDMUND GOSSE. 
 
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 IN GOD'S WAY. From the Norwegian of Bjornstjerne 
 
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 PIERRE AND JEAN. From the French of Guy de Mau- 
 passant. 
 
 THE CHIEF JUSTICE. From the German of Karl Emil 
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 WORK WHILE YE HAVE THE LIGHT. From the 
 
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 FROTH. From the Spanish of Don Armando Palacio 
 
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 FOOTSTEPS OF FATE, From the Dutch of Louis 
 
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 PEPITA JIMENEZ. Fiom the Spanish of Juan Valera. 
 
 THE COMMODORE'S DAUGHTERS. From the Nor- 
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 THE HERITAGE OF THE KURTS. Fiom the Norwegian 
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 A COMMON STORY. From the Russian of Gontciiaroff. 
 
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 NIOBE. From the Norwegian of Jonas Lie. , ,»
 
 20 MR WILLIAM IIEINEMANNS LIST. 
 
 Ipopular 35. C^. 1Mopcl5. 
 
 THE SCAPEGOAT. By Hall Caine, Author of "The 
 
 Bondman," &c. Nineteenth Thousand. 
 
 THE BONDMAN. A New Saga. By Hall Caine. 
 
 Twenty-fifth Thousand. 
 
 A MARKED MAN: Some Episodes in his Life. By Ada 
 Cambridge, Author of "A Little Minx," "The Three Miss Kings," 
 "Not All in Vain," &c. 
 
 THE THREE MISS KINGS. By Ada Cambridge. 
 
 A LITTLE MINX. By Ada Cambridge. 
 
 l^OT ALL IN VAIN. By Ada Cambridge. 
 
 A KNIGHT OF THE WHITE FEATHER. By Tasma, 
 
 Author of "The Penance of Portia James," "Uncle Piper of Piper's 
 Hill," &c. 
 
 ■UNCLE PIPER OF PIPER'S HILL. By Tasma. 
 THE PENANCE OF PORTIA JAMES. By Tasma. 
 THE RETURN OF THE O'MAHONY. By Harold 
 
 Fkederic, Author of " In the Valley," &c. With Illustrations. 
 
 IN THE VALLEY. By Harold Frederic, Author of 
 
 " The L.-i\vton Girl," "Seth's Brother's Wife," &c. With Illustrations. 
 
 THE STORY OF A PENITENT SOUL. Being the 
 
 Private Papers of Mr. Stephen Dart, late Minister at Lynnbridge, in the 
 County of Lincoln. By Aeeline Sergeant, Author of " No Saint," &c. 
 
 liOR WIFE, NOR MAID. By Mrs. Hungerford, Author 
 
 of "Molly Bawn," &c. 
 
 THE HOYDEN. By Mrs. Hungerford. 
 
 J/TAMMON. A Novel. By Mrs. Alexander, Author of "The 
 
 Wooing O't," &c. 
 
 DAUGHTERS OF MEN. By Hannah Lynch, Author of 
 
 " The Prince of the Glades," &c. 
 
 A ROMANCE OF THE CAPE FRONTIER. By Bertram 
 
 MiTFORD, Author of "Through the Zulu Country," &c. 
 
 -'TWEEN SNOW AND FIRE. A Tale of the Kafir War of 
 1877. By Bertram Mitford. 
 
 ORIOLE'S DAUGHTER. By Jessie Fotiiergill, Author 
 
 of " The First Violin," &c.
 
 MR. WILLIAM HEIN EM ANN'S LIST. 21 
 
 THE MASTER OF THE MAGICIANS. By Elizabeth 
 
 Stuart Phelps and Herbert D. Ward. 
 THE HEAD OF THE FIRM. By Mrs. Riddell, Author 
 
 of " George Geith," " Maxwell Drewett," &c. 
 
 A CONSPIRACY OF SILENCE. By G. Colmore, 
 
 Author of " A Daughter of Music," &c. 
 
 A DAUGHTER OF MUSIC. By G. Colmore, Author of 
 
 "A Conspiracy of Silence." 
 
 ACCORDING TO ST. JOHN. By Am£lie Rives, Author 
 
 of " The Quick or the Dead." 
 
 KITTY'S FATHER. By Frank Barrett, Author of 
 
 "The Admirable Lady Biddy Fane," &c. 
 
 MR. BAILEY-MARTIN. By Percy White. 
 
 A QUESTION OF TASTE. By Maarten Maartens, 
 
 Author of "An Old Maid's Love," &c. 
 
 COME LIVE WITH ME AND BE MY LOVE. By 
 
 Robert Buchanan, Author of "The Moment After," "The Coming 
 Terror," &c. 
 
 DONALD MARCY. By Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, 
 
 Author of "The Gates Ajar," &c. 
 
 IN THE DWELLINGS OF SILENCE. A Romance 
 of Russia. By Walker Kennedy. 
 
 LOS CERRITOS. A Romance of the Modern Time. By 
 Gertrude Franklin Atherton, Author of " Hermia Suydam," and 
 " What Dreams may Come." 
 
 A MODERN MARRIAGE. By the Marquise Clara Lanza. 
 
 Sbort Stories In ©ne Dolume. 
 
 Three Shillings and Sixpence each. 
 
 THE COPPERHEAD ; and other Stories of the North 
 during the American War. By Harold Frederic, Author of " The 
 Return of the O'Mahony," "In the Valley," &c. 
 
 CAPT'N DAVY'S HONEYMOON, The Blind Mother, 
 
 and The Last Confession. By Hall Caine, Author of " The Bondman," 
 "The Scapegoat," S:c. Sixth Thousand. 
 
 WRECKERS AND METHODISTS, Cornish Stories. By 
 H. D. LowRY.
 
 22 MR. WILLIAM HEINEM ANN'S LIST. 
 
 WRECKAGE, and other Stories. By Hubert Crackan- 
 
 THORF'E. Second Edition. 
 
 MADEMOISELLE MISS, and other Stories. By Henry 
 Harland, Author of " Mea Culpa," &c. 
 
 THE ATTACK ON THE MILL, and other Sketches 
 
 of War. By Emile Zola. With an Essay on the short stories of M. 
 Zola by Edmund Gosse. 
 
 THE AVERAGE WOMAN. By Wolcott Balestier. 
 
 With an Introduction by Henry James. 
 
 PERCHANCE TO DREAM, and other Stories. By Mar- 
 garet S. Briscoe. 
 
 BLESSED ARE THE POOR. By FRAN901S CoppfE. 
 With an Introduction by T. P. O'Connor. 
 
 (popular Sbillina JSool^s. 
 
 PRETTY MISS SMITH. By Florence Warden, Author 
 
 of "The House on the ^larsh," "A Witch of the Hills," &c. 
 
 MADAME VALERIE. By F. C. Philips, Author of "As 
 in a Looting-Glass," &;. 
 
 THE MOMENT AFTER: A Tale of the Unseen. By 
 Robert Buchanan. 
 
 CLUES ; or, Leaves from a Chief Constable's Note-Book. 
 
 By William Henderson, Chief Constable of Edinburgh. 
 
 lPOCtli\ 
 
 TENNYSON'S GRAVE. By St. Clair Baddeley. Svo, 
 
 paper, i^. 
 
 LOVE SONGS OF ENGLISH POETS, 1500-1800. 
 
 With Notes by Ralph H. Caine. Fcap. Svo, rough edges, 3J. 6ci. 
 *»* Large Paper Edition, li>niied to 100 Co/>ies, loi. 6d. fici. 
 
 IVY AND PASSION FLOWER : Poems. By Gerard 
 
 Bendall, Author of " Estelle," &c. &c. laino, cloth, 3J. 6J. 
 
 Scotsman. — " Will be read with pleasure." 
 
 I\h(sical World. — " The poems are delicate specimens of art, graceful and 
 polished." 
 
 VERSES. By Gertrude Hall. i2mo, cloth, 3^. bd. 
 
 Manchester Guardian.— " VviW be welcome to every lover of poetry who 
 takes it up " 
 
 IDYLLS OF WOMANHOOD. By C. Amy Dawson. 
 
 Fcap. Svo, gilt top, s^.
 
 MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S LIST. 23 
 
 IDrainatic Xitcrature. 
 
 THE MASTER BUILDER, A Play in Three Acts. By 
 Henrik Ibsen. Translated from tlie Norwegian by Edmund Gosse 
 and William Akcher. Small 410, with Portrait, 5s-. Popular Edition, 
 paper, \s. Also a Limited Large Paper Edition, 21^. net. 
 
 HEDDA GABLER : A Drama in Four Acts. By Henrik 
 Ibsen. Translated from the Norwegian by Edmi;nd Gosse. Small 410, 
 cloth, with Portrait, 5J. Vaudeville Edition, paper, is. Also a Limited 
 Large Paper Edition, 21J. net. 
 
 BRAND : A Dramatic Poem in Five Acts. By Henrik Ibsen. 
 
 Translated in the original metres, with an Introduction and Notes, by 
 C. H. Herford. Small 4to, cloth, 7^. td. 
 
 THE PRINCESSE MALEINE: A Drama in Five Acts 
 (Translated by Gerard Hatry), and THE INTRUDER: A Drama in 
 One Act. By Maurice Maeterlinck. With an Introduction by Hall 
 Caine, and a Portrait of the Author. Small 4to, cloth, 5^. 
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT: A Comedy in 
 Four Acts. By Count Lvof Tolstoy. Translated from the Russian by 
 E. J. Dillon. With Introduction by A. W. Pinero. Small 4to, with 
 Portrait, 5^. 
 
 KING ERIK. A Tragedy. By Edmund Gosse. A Re-issue, 
 with a Critical Introduction by Mr. Theodore Watts. Fcap. 8vo, 
 boards, 5^. net. 
 
 THE PIPER OF HAMELIN. A Fantastic Opera in Two 
 Acts. By RoriERT Buchanan. With Illustrations by Hugh Thomson. 
 4to, cloth, IS. 6d. net. 
 
 HYPATIA. A Play in Four Acts. Founded on Charles 
 
 Kingsi.ey's Novel. By G. Stljart Ogilvie. With Frontispiei;e by 
 J. D. Batten. Crown 8vo, cloth, printed in Red and Black, 2^. 6d. net. 
 
 THE DRAMA : ADDRESSES. By Henry Irving. With 
 
 Portrait by J. McN. Whistler. Second Edition. Fcap. 8vo, 3^. 6d. 
 
 SOME INTERESTING FALLACIES OF THE 
 
 Modern Stage. An Address delivered to the Playgoers' Club at St. 
 James's Hall, on Sunday, 6th December 1891. By Herbert Beerbohm 
 Tree. Crown 8vo, sewed, 6d. net. 
 
 THE PLAYS OF ARTHUR W. PINERO. With Intro- 
 
 ductory Notes by Malcolm C. Salaman. i6nio, paper covers, i.s. 6^/.; 
 or cloth, 2i. 6d. 
 
 I. THE TIMES. 
 II. THE PROFLIGATE. 
 
 III. THE CABINET 
 
 MINISTER. 
 
 IV. THE HOBBY HORSE. 
 V. LADY BOUNTIFUL. 
 
 VI. THE MAGISTRATE. 
 VII. DANDY DICK. 
 VIII. SWEET LAVENDER. 
 IX. THE SCHOOL- 
 MISTRESS. 
 
 To be followed by 
 The Weaker Sex, Lords and Commons, and The Squire.
 
 24 MR. WILLIAM IIEINEMANN'S LIST. 
 
 Ibeinemann's Scientific 1l3auM?ook5» 
 
 MANUAL OF BACTERIOLOGY. By A. B. Griffiths, 
 
 Ph.D., F.R.S. (Edin.), F.C.S. Crown 8vo, cloth, Illustrated, -js. 6d. 
 Pharmaceutical Io!iTnaL—"'Y:\v& subject is treated more thoroughly and 
 completely than in any similar work published in this country." 
 
 MANUAL OF ASSAYING GOLD, SILVER, COPPER, 
 
 and Lead Ores. By Walter Lee Brow.m, B.Sc Revised, Corrected, 
 and considerably Enlarged, with a chapter on the Assaying of Fuel, &c. 
 By A, B. Griffiths, Ph.D., F.R.S. (Edin.), F.C.S. Crown Svo, cloth. 
 Illustrated, 7^. 6a'. __ 
 
 Colliery Guardian.— " X delightful and fascinating book. 
 
 Financial IVorlJ.—" The most complete and practical^manual on everything 
 which concerns assaying of all which have come before us." 
 
 GEODESY. By J. Howard Gore. Crown Svo, cloth, Illus- 
 trated, ss. 
 
 Si. James's Gazette. — "The book may be safely recommended to those who 
 desire to acquire an accurate knowledge of Geodesy." 
 
 Science Gossif'. — " It is the best we could recommend to all geodetic students. 
 It is full and clear, thoroughly accurate, and up to date in all matters of earth- 
 measurements." 
 
 THE PHYSICAL PROPERTIES OF GASES. By 
 
 Arthur L. Kimuall, of the Johns Hopkins University. Crown Svo^ 
 cloth, Illustrated, 5J. , , , V- 
 
 Chemical Ne-MS.—" The man of culture who wishes for a general and accurate'^ 
 
 acquaintance with the physic.^l properties of gases, will find in Mr. Kimball's 
 
 work just what he requires." 
 
 HEAT AS A FORM OF ENERGY. By Professor R. H. 
 Thurston, of Cornell University. Crown Svo, cloth,Illustrated, 5i. 
 Manchester Examiner. — "Bears out the character of its predecessors for 
 
 careful and correct statement and deduction under the light of the most recent 
 
 discoveries." 
 
 THE NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW. 
 
 The London Office of this old-estabhshed Review has 
 been removed to 21 Bedford Street, where copies can 
 be obtained regularly on publication. Price 2s. 6d. 
 
 THE NEW REVIEW. 
 
 With January 1894 The Neiu Revieiv entered upon a New 
 Series, and, whilst continuing to devote its space to the 
 great problems of the day in a serious, competent, and 
 popular fashion, it will give monthly a short Story, arid 
 Illustrations will be added to one or more papers in 
 ■each issue. Price \s. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
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