y-r 
 
 -i. 
 
 /
 
 IN THE WILDERNESS
 
 "H 
 
 AD there ever before been a honeymoon 
 bounded by the precipices of the Acropolis?" 
 
 - [Page 21.]
 
 IN THE 
 WILDERNESS 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 BY 
 
 ROBERT HICHENS 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THB GARDEN OF ALLAH" 
 
 W/Tfl A FRONTISPIECE IN COLOR BY 
 GEORGE W. HOOD 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS
 
 Copyright, 1917, by 
 ROBERT HICHENS 
 
 All rights reserved
 
 CONTENTS 
 BOOK I 
 
 PAGE 
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 1 
 
 BOOK II 
 ECHO 99 
 
 BOOK III 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 237 
 
 BOOK IV 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 369 
 
 2229131
 
 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 BOOK I 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 AMEDEO DORINI, the hall porter of the Hotel Cavour 
 in Milan, stood on the pavement before the hotel one 
 autumn afternoon in the year 1894, waiting for the 
 omnibus, which had gone to the station, and which was now 
 due to return, bearing Amedeo hoped a load of generously 
 inclined travelers. During the years of his not unpleasant 
 servitude Amedeo had become a student of human nature. He 
 had learnt to judge shrewdly and soundly, to sum up quickly, 
 to deliver verdicts which were not unjust. And now, as he 
 saw the omnibus, with its two fat brown horses, coming slowly 
 along by the cab rank, and turning into the Piazza that is 
 presided over by Cavour's statue, he prepared almost mechan- 
 ically to measure and weigh evidence, to criticize and come to 
 a conclusion. 
 
 He glanced first at the roof of the omnibus to take stock 
 of the luggage pile there. There was plenty of it, and a good 
 deal of it was leather and reassuring. Amedeo had a horror 
 of tin trunks they usually gave such small tips. Having 
 examined the luggage he sent a searching glance to two rows 
 of heads which were visible inside the vehicle. The brawny 
 porters hurried out, the luggage chute was placed in position, 
 the omnibus door was opened, and the first traveler stepped 
 forth. 
 
 A German of the most economical type, large, red and wary, 
 with a mouth like a buttoned-up pocket, was followed by a 
 broad-waisted wife, with dragged hair and a looped-up gown.
 
 2 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 Amedeo's smile tightened. A Frenchman followed them, pale 
 and elaborate, a " one-nighter," as Amedeo instantly decided 
 in his mind. Such Frenchmen are seldom extravagant in 
 hotels. This gentleman would want a good room for a small 
 price, would be extremely critical about the cooking, and have 
 a wandering eye and a short memory for all servants in the 
 morning. 
 
 An elderly Englishwoman was the fourth personage to 
 appear. She was badly dressed in black, wore a tam-o'- 
 shanter with a huge black-headed pin thrust through it, clung 
 to a bag, smiled with amiable patronage as she emerged, and 
 at once, without reason, began to address Amedeo and the 
 porters in fluent, incorrect, and too carefully pronounced 
 Italian. Amedeo knew her the Tabby who haunts Swiss 
 and Italian hotels, the eternal Tabby drastically complete. 
 
 A gay Italian is gaiety in flight, a human lark with a song. 
 But a gloomy Italian is oppressive and almost terrible. De- 
 spite the training of years Amedeo's smile flickered and died 
 out. A ferocious expression surged up in his dark eyes as he 
 turned rather bruskly to scrutinize without hope the few 
 remaining clients. But suddenly his face cleared as he heard 
 a buoyant voice say in English: 
 
 " I'll get out first, Godfather, and give you a hand." 
 
 On the last word, a tall and lithe figure stepped swiftly, and 
 with a sort of athletic certainty, out of the omnibus, turned at 
 once towards it, and, with a movement eloquent of affection and 
 almost tender reverence, stretched forth an arm and open hand. 
 
 A spare man of middle height, elderly, with thick gray hair, 
 and a clean-shaven, much-lined face, wearing a large loose 
 overcoat and soft brown hat, took the hand as he emerged. 
 He did not need it; Amedeo realized that, realized also that 
 he was glad to take it, enjoyed receiving this kind and unneces- 
 sary help. 
 
 " And now for Beatrice ! " he said. 
 
 And he gave in his turn a hand to a girl who followed him. 
 
 There were still two people in the omnibus, the elderly man's 
 Italian valet and an Englishman. As the latter got out, and 
 stretched his limbs cramped with much sitting, he saw Amedeo, 
 with genuine smiles, escorting the two girls and the elderly man 
 towards the glass-roofed hall, on the left of which was the lift. 
 The figure of the girl who had stepped out first was about to 
 disappear. As the Englishman looked she vanished. But he 
 had time to realize that a gait, the carriage of a head and its
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 3 
 
 movement in turning, can produce on an observer a moral effect. 
 A joyous sanity came to him from this unknown girl and 
 made him feel joyously sane. It seemed to sweep over him, 
 like a cool and fresh breeze of the sea falling through pine 
 woods, to lift from him some of the dust of his journey. He 
 resolved to give the remainder of the dust to the public garden, 
 told his name, Dion Leith, to the manager, learnt that the room 
 he had ordered was ready for him, had his luggage sent up to 
 it, and then made his way to the trees on the far side of the 
 broad road which skirts the hotel. When he was among them 
 he took off his hat, kept it in his hand, and, so, strolled on 
 down the almost deserted paths. As he walked he tasted the 
 autumn, not with any sadness, but with an appreciation that 
 was almost voluptuous. He was at a time of life and ex- 
 perience when, if the body is healthy, the soul untroubled by 
 care, each season of the year holds its thrill for the strongly 
 beating heart, its tonic gift for the mind. Falling leaves were 
 handfuls of gold for this man. The faint chill in the air as 
 evening drew on turned his thoughts to the brightness and 
 warmth of English fires burning on the hearths of houses that 
 sheltered dear and protected lives. The far-off voices of call- 
 ing children, coming to him from hidden places among the 
 trees, did not make him pensive because of their contrast with 
 things that were dying. He hailed them as voices of the youth 
 which lasts in the world, though the world may seem to be old 
 to those who are old. 
 
 Dion Leith had a powerful grip on life and good things. 
 He was young, just twenty-six, strong and healthy, though 
 slim-built in body, alert and vigorous in mind, unperturbed 
 in soul, buoyant and warmly imaginative. Just at that mo- 
 ment the joy of life was almost at full flood in him, for he had 
 recently been reveling in a new and glorious experience, and 
 now carried it with him, a precious memory. 
 
 He had been traveling, and his wanderings had given him 
 glimpses of two worlds. In one of these worlds he had looked 
 into the depths, had felt as if he realized fully for the first 
 time the violence of the angry and ugly passions that deform 
 life; in the other he had scaled the heights, had tasted the still 
 purity, the freshness, the exquisite calm, which are also to be 
 found in life. 
 
 He had visited Constantinople and had sailed from it to 
 Greece. From Greece he had taken ship to Brindisi, and 
 was now on his way home to England.
 
 4 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 What he had thought at the time to be an ill chance had 
 sent him on his way alone. Guy Daventry, his great friend, 
 who was to go with him, had been seized by an illness. It 
 was too late then to find another man free. So, reluctantly, 
 and inclined to grumble a little at fate, Dion had set off in 
 solitude. 
 
 He knew now that his solitude had given him keen sensa- 
 tions, which he could scarcely have felt with the best of friends. 
 Never, in any company, had he been so repelled, enticed, dis- 
 gusted, deeply enchanted, as on these lonely wanderings which 
 were now a part of his life. 
 
 How he had hated Constantinople, and how he had loved 
 Greece! His expectation had been betrayed by the event. He 
 had not known himself when he left England, or the part of 
 himself which he had known had been the lesser part, and he 
 had taken it for the greater. For he had set out on his journey 
 with his hopes mainly fixed on Constantinople. Its road of 
 wildness and tumult, its barbaric glitter, its crude mixture of 
 races, even its passions and crimes a legend in history, a 
 solid fact of to-day had allured his mind. The art of 
 Greece had beckoned to him; its ancient shrines had had their 
 strong summons for his brain; but he had scarcely expected 
 to love the country. He had imagined it as certainly beautiful 
 but with an austere and desolate beauty that would be, per- 
 haps, almost repellent to his nature. He had conceived of it 
 as probably sad in its naked calm, a country weary with the 
 weight of a glorious past. 
 
 But he had been deceived, and he was glad of that. Because 
 he had been able to love Greece so much he felt a greater con- 
 fidence in himself. Without any ugly pride he said to himself: 
 " Perhaps my nature is a little bit better, a little bit purer than 
 I had supposed." 
 
 As the breeze in the public garden touched his bare head, 
 slightly lifting his thick dark hair, he remembered the winds 
 of Greece; he remembered his secret name for Greece, "the 
 land of the early morning." It was good to be able to delight 
 in the early morning pure, delicate, marvelously fresh. 
 
 He sat down on a bench under a chestnut tree. The chil- 
 dren's voices had died away. Silence seemed to be drawing 
 near to the garden. He saw a few moving figures in the 
 shadows, but at a distance, fading towards the city. 
 
 The line of the figure, the poise of the head of that girl with 
 whom he had driven from the station, came before Dion's eyes
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 5 
 
 in the twilight, evoked by the thought of Greece, the remem- 
 brance of morning hours beside the sea at Phaleron. There 
 was something in that girl, and not only in her appearance, the 
 long line of her untrammeled figure, the gallant way in which 
 she carried her head, but also in her voice and her movements, 
 that reminded Dion of Greece. 
 
 She would surely have hated Constantinople as he had 
 hated it. 
 
 Before he saw the coast-line of Greece, Dion had known 
 what the country would mean to him. A message had been 
 given to him far out at sea. He had traveled from the Golden 
 Horn to the Piraeus by a Roumanian boat on which were few 
 people. Towards evening he had found himself quite alone 
 on the vessel's upper deck, which was like an eyrie lifted high 
 above the calm water. He was leaning over the rail, sleepily, 
 almost anesthetized by the strong and balmy airs, staring at 
 the sparks of gold which every ripple held from the ship's 
 wake of foam to the horizon, when out of the soft red of the 
 west arose a mountain like a dream, tenderly classical in out- 
 line, calm, a point of rest for the eyes, the most delicate, pure 
 thing, Dion thought, that he had ever looked upon. It bloomed 
 in a robe of dusky purple against the sky, as a beautiful 
 thought blooms in a peaceful mind, with something of reserve, 
 but nothing of repellence. Its crest was lifted with confidence 
 towards the first star of the night, its base was lost in the em- 
 bracing seas. There was something in the shape of it that 
 made Dion think of incense and of prayer. 
 
 This was the first Isle of Greece that he had seen, and long 
 before it faded and was taken by the West he had understood 
 its message. Again and again during his stay in Greece he 
 had thought of that lovely isle as part of the soul of Greece 
 at Phaleron, on Cape Sunion, in the green wilds of Elis before 
 the Hermes of Praxiteles, under the orange-colored cliffs of 
 Delphi, by night before the Parthenon. He loved it as a man 
 loves a bearer of good tidings. He knew that he must always 
 connect it in his mind with the thought of happiness, of the 
 romance of happiness which belongs only to the few, which 
 has its secrets, its deep seclusion, its remoteness from the anger 
 and the dust of the world. Sometimes it seemed to Dion that 
 if he were to lose everything, to receive every possible blow, 
 to be plunged in all that was evil and hateful, to be over- 
 whelmed by the ugliness and the filth of life, yet the remem- 
 brance of that Greek Isle, blooming against the west in the
 
 6 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 evening hour, would keep the spark of hope forever alive in 
 his heart. It was a manifestation of untarnished beauty that 
 helped him to believe in God, and even in himself. 
 
 Surely that girl would have loved his island! 
 
 As the thought came into Dion's mind, he saw two women 
 approaching him, one taller than the other. They were walk- 
 ing more swiftly than Italian women often do, and, as they 
 drew near to him, sent clear voices before them. They came 
 up to Dion's bench and passed by, the girl of the omnibus and 
 her sister. (The two were obviously sisters.) The taller of 
 them was on the side of the path next to Dion. She no longer 
 wore a veil. Dion saw that she was wonderfully fair, with 
 pale yellow hair and a complexion that told of youth and 
 abounding health. As Dion glanced up at her, she looked 
 down at him for a moment She was talking energetically, 
 and he heard her say: 
 
 ". . . Those coral fishers who come there from Greece in 
 the spring." And he saw a pair of very characteristic eyes 
 looking by chance at his large, steady, courageous, yellow- 
 brown eyes that seemed full of kindness and cheerfulness. 
 
 When the two girls had vanished down the path into the 
 autumn twilight, Dion repeated to himself: 
 
 " '. . . Those coral fishers who come there from Greece in 
 the spring.' ' : And as the darkness drew nearer, and the 
 bright-colored leaves fell softly about him, his mind was filled 
 with visions, and they were the visions of youth. The pearly 
 wonder of morning was in them, the magical glimmer of 
 Southern seas taking the sun. Fire-browned, half-naked fish- 
 ermen greeted the light as if eager for the rapture of toil. And 
 by the sea there were women. 
 
 For a moment Dion closed his eyes. He wanted to summon 
 by an act of the will the sensations he had felt in Greece. 
 Man was made surely for a shining world, was created for 
 joy. The great Educator was joy. Greece had seemed to say 
 that to him. The steady, courageous eyes of that girl had 
 they not echoed it? Sorrow, like sin, was an ugly thing, a 
 thing not intended, that had forced its way into a scheme de- 
 vised without preparation for it, an intruder not to be suffered, 
 but to be driven out even with violence. 
 
 Violence in connexion with Greece! How men's thoughts 
 wander! Dion smiled at his own vagaries. He opened his 
 eyes. He was quite alone, and the garden was dark about 
 him.
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 ONE winter day in 1895 it was a Sunday when fog 
 lay thickly over London, Rosamund Everard sat 
 alone in a house in Great Cumberland Place, reading 
 Dante's " Paradise." Her sister, Beatrice, a pale, delicate and 
 sensitive shadow who adored her, and her guardian, Bruce 
 Evelin, a well-known Q.C. now retired from practice, had 
 gone into the country to visit some friends. Rosamund had 
 also been invited, and much wanted, for there was a party 
 in the house, and her gaiety, her beauty, and her fine singing 
 made her a desirable guest; but she had "got out of it." On 
 this particular Sunday she specially wished to be in London. 
 At a church not far from Great Cumberland Place St 
 Mary's, Welby Street a man was going to preach that eve- 
 ning whom she very much wanted to hear. Her guardian's 
 friend, Canon Wilton, had spoken to her about him, and had 
 said to her once, " I should particularly like you to hear him." 
 And somehow the simple words had impressed themselves upon 
 her. So, when she heard that Mr. Robertson was coming from 
 his church in Liverpool to preach at St. Mary's, she gave up 
 the country visit to hear him. 
 
 Beatrice and Bruce Evelin had no scruples in leaving her 
 alone for a couple of days. They knew that she, who had 
 such an exceptional faculty for getting on with all sorts and 
 conditions of men and women, and who always shed sunshine 
 around her, had within her a great love of, sometimes almost 
 a thirst for, solitude. 
 
 " I need to be alone now and then," they had heard her 
 say; " it's like drinking water to me." 
 
 Sitting quietly by the fire with her delightful edition of 
 Dante, her left hand under her head, her tall figure stretched 
 out in a low chair, Rosamund heard a bell ring below. It 
 called her from the " Paradiso." She sprang up, remembering 
 that she had given the butler no orders about not wishing to 
 be disturbed. At lunch-time the fog had been so dense that 
 she had not thought about possible visitors; she hurried to the 
 head of the staircase. 
 
 "Lurby! Lurby! I'm not at " 
 
 It was too late. The butler must have been in the halL 
 She heard the street door open and a man's voice murmuring 
 something. Then the door shut and she heard steps. She
 
 8 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 retreated into the drawing-room, pulling down her brows and 
 shaking her head. No more " Paradiso," and she loved it sol 
 A moment before she had been far away. 
 
 " Regnum coelorum violenza pate 
 
 da caldo amore a da viva speranza, 
 Che vince la divina volontate." 
 
 The book was lying open on the arm-chair in which she had 
 been sitting. She went to close it and put it on a table. For 
 an instant she looked down on the page, and immediately her 
 dream returned. Then Lurby's dry, soft voice said behind her: 
 
 " Mr. Leith, ma'am." 
 
 4 'Oh! " She turned, leaving the book. 
 
 Directly she looked at Dion Leith she knew why he had 
 come. 
 
 " I'm all alone," Rosamund said. " I stayed here, instead 
 of going to Sherrington with Beattie and my guardian, because 
 I wanted to hear a sermon this evening. Come and sit down 
 by the fire." 
 
 "What church are you going to? " 
 
 " St. Mary's, Welby Street." 
 
 "Shall I go with you?" 
 
 Rosamund had taken up the " Paradiso " and was shut- 
 ting it. 
 
 " I think I'll go alone," she said gently but quite firmly. 
 
 " What were you reading ? " 
 
 " Dante's ' Paradiso.' " 
 
 She put the book down on a table at her elbow. 
 
 *' I don't believe you meant me to be let in," he said bluntly. 
 
 " I didn't know it was you. How could I know? " 
 
 " And if you had known ? " 
 
 She hesitated. His brows contracted till he looked almost 
 fierce. 
 
 " I'm not sure. Honestly I'm not sure. I've been quite 
 alone since Friday, when they went. And I'd got it into my 
 head that I wasn't going to see any one till to-morrow, except, 
 of course, at church." 
 
 Dion felt chilled almost to the bone. 
 
 " I can't understand," he almost burst out, in an uncon- 
 trolled way that surprised himself. " Are you completely self- 
 sufficing then? But it isn't natural. Could you live alone? " 
 
 " I didn't say that."
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 9 
 
 She looked at him steadily and calmly, without a hint of 
 anger. 
 
 "But could you?" 
 
 " I don't know. Probably not. I've never tried." 
 
 " But you don't hate the idea ? " 
 
 His voice was almost violent. 
 
 "No; if if I were living in a certain way." 
 
 "What way?" 
 
 But she did not answer his question. 
 
 " I dare say I might dislike living alone. I've never done 
 such a thing, therefore I can't tell." 
 
 " You're an enigma," he exclaimed. " And you seem so - 
 so you have this extraordinary, this abnormal power of at- 
 tracting people to you. You are friends with everybody.'' 
 
 " Indeed I'm not." 
 
 " I mean you're so cordial, so friendly with everybody. 
 Don't you care for anybody? " 
 
 " I care very much for some people." 
 
 " And yet you could live alone ! Shut in here for days with 
 a book " at that moment he was positively jealous of old 
 Dante, gone to his rest five hundred and seventy-four years ago 
 " you're perfectly happy." 
 
 " The ' Paradise ' isn't an ordinary book," she said, very 
 gently, and looking at him with a kind, almost beaming ex- 
 pression in her yellow-brown eyes. 
 
 " I don't believe you ever read an ordinary book." 
 
 " I like to feed on fine things. I'm half afraid of the 
 second-rate." 
 
 " I love you for that. Oh, Rosamund, I love you for so 
 many things! " 
 
 He got up and stood by the fire, turning his back to her for 
 a moment. When he swung round his face was earnest but 
 he looked calmer. She saw that he was making a strong 
 effort to hold himself in, that he was reaching out after self- 
 control. 
 
 " I can't tell you all the things I love you for," he said, " but 
 your independence of spirit frightens me. From the very first, 
 from that evening when I saw you in the omnibus at the Milan 
 Station over a year ago, I felt your independence." 
 
 " Did I manifest it in the omnibus to poor Beattie and my 
 guardian ? " she asked, smiling, and in a lighter tone. 
 
 " I don't know," he said gravely. " But when I saw you 
 the same evening walking with your sister in the public garden
 
 10 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 I felt it more strongly. Even the way you held your head 
 and moved you reminded me of the maidens of the Porch 
 on the Acropolis. I connected you with Greece and all my 
 my dreams of Greece." 
 
 " Perhaps if you hadn't just come from Greece 
 
 " Wasn't it strange," he said, interrupting her but quite 
 unconscious that he did so, " that almost the first words I heard 
 you speak were about Greece? You were telling your sister 
 about the Greek divers who come to Portofino to find coral 
 under the sea. I was sitting alone in the garden, and you 
 passed and I heard just a few words. They made me think 
 of the first Greek Island I ever saw, rising out of the sunset 
 as I voyaged from Constantinople to the Piraeus. It was won- 
 derfully beautiful and wonderfully calm. It was like a herald 
 of all the beauty and purity I found in Greece. It was like 
 you." 
 
 " How you hated Constantinople! " she said. " I remember 
 you denouncing its noise and its dirt, and the mongrel horrors 
 of Pera, to my guardian in the hotel where we made friends. 
 And he put in a plea for Stamboul." 
 
 " Yes, I exaggerated. But Constantinople stood to me for 
 all the uproar of life, and Greece for the calm and beauty and 
 happiness, the great Sanity of the true happiness." 
 
 He looked at her with yearning in his dark eyes. 
 
 " For all I want in my own life," he added. 
 
 He paused; then an expression of strong, almost hard reso- 
 lution made his face look suddenly older. 
 
 " You told me at Burstal, on the Chilton Downs, after your 
 debut in ' Elijah,' that you would give me an answer soon. 
 I have waited a good while some weeks " 
 
 " Why did you ask me just that day, after ' Woe unto 
 them'?" 
 
 " I felt I must," he answered, but with a slight awkwardness, 
 as if he were evading something and felt half-guilty. " To-day 
 I decided I would ask you again, for the last time." 
 
 " You would never " 
 
 " No, never. If you say ' Wait, and come later on and ask 
 me,' I shall not come." 
 
 She got up restlessly. She was obviously moved. 
 
 " Dion, I can't tell you to-day." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " I don't know. I just feel I can't. It's no use." 
 
 " When did you mean to tell me? "
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 11 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " Did you mean ever to allude to the matter again, if I 
 hadn't?" 
 
 " Yes, I should have told you, because I knew you were 
 waiting. I I often I have thought that I shall never 
 marry any one." 
 
 She looked into the fire. Her face had become almost 
 mysterious. 
 
 " Some women don't need that," she murmured. 
 
 The fire played over her pale yellow hair. 
 
 " Abnormal women ! " he exclaimed violently. 
 
 She turned. 
 
 " Hush ! You don't know what you are saying. It isn't 
 abnormal to wish to dedicate " 
 
 She stopped. 
 
 "What?" he said. 
 
 " Don't let us talk of these things. But you must not judge 
 any woman without knowing what is in her heart. Even your 
 own mother, with whom you have lived alone ever since your 
 father's death do you know very much of her? We can't 
 always show ourselves plainly as we are. It may not be our 
 fault." 
 
 " You will marry. You must marry." 
 
 "Why must?" 
 
 He gazed at her. As she met his eyes she reddened slightly, 
 understanding his thought, that such a woman as she was 
 ought not to avoid the great vocation of woman. But there was 
 another vocation, and perhaps it was hers. She felt confused. 
 Two desires were struggling within her. It was as if her 
 nature contained two necessities which were wholly irreconcil- 
 able the one with the other. 
 
 " You can't tell me? " he said, at last 
 
 "Not now." 
 
 " Then I am going, and I shall never ask you again. But 
 I shall never be able to love any one but you." 
 
 He said nothing more, and went away without touching 
 her hand. 
 
 "Da caldo amore a da viva speranza, Che vince la divina 
 volontate." 
 
 Those words of Dante ran in Rosamund's head, and she 
 repeated them to herself after Dion had gone. 
 
 " La divina volontate! " She believed in it ; she said to her- 
 self that she trusted it absolutely. But how was she to know
 
 12 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 exactly what it was? And yet, could she escape from it even 
 if she wished to? Could she wander away into any path where 
 the Divine Will did not mean her to set foot? Predestination 
 free will. " If only I were not so ignorant," she thought. 
 
 Soon after six she went up to her bedroom to put on her 
 things for church. 
 
 Her bedroom was very simple, and showed plainly an in- 
 difference to luxury, a dislike of show and of ostentation in its 
 owner. The walls and ceiling were white. The bed, which 
 stood against the wall in one corner, was exceptionally loag. 
 This fact, perhaps, made it look exceptionally narrow. It was 
 quite plain, had a white wooden bedstead, and was covered 
 with a white bedspread of a very ordinary type. There was 
 one arm-chair in the room made of wickerwork with a rather 
 hard cushion on the seat, the sort of cushion that resolutely 
 refuses to " give " when one sits down on it. On the small 
 dressing-table there was no array of glittering silver bottles, 
 boxes and brushes. A straw flagon of eau-de-Cologne was 
 Rosamund's sole possession of perfume. She did not own a 
 box of powder or a puff. But it must be acknowledged that 
 she never looked " shiny." She had some ivory hair-brushes 
 given to her one Christmas by Bruce Evelin. Beside them was 
 placed a hideous receptacle for well, for anything pins, 
 perhaps, buttons, small tiresomenesses of that kind. It was 
 made of some glistening black material, and at its center there 
 bloomed a fearful red cabbage rose, a rose all vulgarity, osten- 
 tation and importance. This monstrosity had been given to 
 Rosamund as a thank-offering by a poor charwoman to whom 
 she had been kind. It had been in constant use now for over 
 three years. The charwoman knew this with grateful pride. 
 
 Upon the mantelpiece there were other gifts of a similar 
 kind: a photograph frame made of curly shells, a mug with 
 " A present from Greenwich " written across it in gold letters, 
 a flesh-colored glass vase with yellow trimmings, a china cow 
 with its vermilion ears cocked forward, lying down in a green 
 meadow which just held it, and a toy trombone with a cord 
 and tassels. There were also several photographs of poor 
 people in their Sunday clothes. On the walls hung a photo- 
 graph of Cardinal Newman, a good copy of a Luini Madonna, 
 two drawings of heads by Burne- Jones, a small painting 
 signed " G. F. Watts " of an old tree trunk around which 
 ivy was lovingly growing, and one or two prints. 
 
 The floor was polished and partially covered by three good-
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 13 
 
 sized mats. There was a writing-table on one side of the room 
 with an ebony-and-gold crucifix standing upon it. Opposite 
 to it, on the other side of the room near the fireplace, was a 
 bookcase. On the shelves were volumes of Shakespeare, Dante, 
 Emerson, Wordsworth, Browning, Christina Rossetti, New- 
 man's " Dream of Gerontius " and " Apologia," Thomas a 
 Kempis, several works on mystics and mysticism, a life of St. 
 Catherine of Genoa, another of St. Francis of Assisi, St. Ig- 
 natius Loyola's " Spiritual Exercises," Pascal's " Letters," etc., 
 etc. Over the windows hung gray-blue curtains. 
 
 Into this room Rosamund came that evening; she went to 
 a wardrobe and began to take down a long sealskin coat. Just 
 then her maid appeared an Italian girl whom she had taken 
 into her service in Milan when she had studied singing there. 
 
 " Shan't I come with you, Signorina ? " she asked, as she 
 took the jacket from her mistress and held it for Rosamund 
 to put on. 
 
 " No, thank you, Maria. I'm going to church, the Pro- 
 testant church." 
 
 " I could wait outside or come back to fetch you." 
 
 " It's not far. I shall be all right" 
 
 " But the fog is terrible. It's like a wall about the house." 
 
 "Is it as bad as that?" 
 
 She went to one of the windows, pulled aside the curtains, 
 lifted the blind and tried to look out. But she could not, for 
 the fog pressed against the window panes and hid the street 
 and the houses opposite. 
 
 " It is bad." 
 
 She dropped the blind, let the curtains fall into place and 
 turned round. 
 
 " But I'd rather go alone. I can't miss the way, and I'm not 
 a nervous person. You'd be far more frightened than I." 
 She smiled at the girl. 
 
 Apparently reassured, or perhaps merely glad that her un- 
 selfishness was not going to be tested, Maria accompanied her 
 mistress downstairs and let her out. It was Lurby's " evening 
 off," and for once he was not discreetly on hand. 
 
 Church bells were chiming faintly in this City of dreadful 
 night as Rosamund almost felt her way onward. She heard 
 them and thought they were sad, and their melancholy seemed 
 to be one with the melancholy of the atmosphere. Some one 
 passed by her. She just heard a muffled sound of steps, just 
 discerned a shadow that was all.
 
 14 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 To-morrow she must give an answer to Dion Leith. She 
 went on slowly in the fog, thinking, thinking. Two vertical 
 lines showed in her usually smooth forehead. 
 
 It was nearly half-past six when she turned into Welby 
 Street. The church was not a large one and there was no 
 parish attached to it. It was a proprietary chapel. The in- 
 come of the incumbent came from pew rents. His name was 
 Limer, and he was a first-rate preacher of the sensational type, 
 a pulpit dealer in " actualities." He was also an excellent 
 musician, and took great pains with his choir. In consequence 
 of these talents, and of his diligent application of them, St. 
 Mary's was generally full, and all its pews were let at a high 
 figure. To-night, however, because of the fog, Rosamund ex- 
 pected to find few people. 
 
 One bell was mournfully ringing as she drew near and 
 presently saw a faint gleaming of light through long narrow 
 windows of painted glass. "Ping, ping, ping!" It was a 
 thin little summons to prayer. She passed through a gateway 
 in some railings of wrought ironwork, crossed a slippery pave- 
 ment and entered the church. 
 
 It was already more than three parts full, and there was 
 a large proportion of men in the congregation. A smart- 
 looking young man, evidently a gentleman, who was standing 
 close to the door, nodded to Rosamund and whispered: 
 
 " I'll put you into Lady Millingham's seat. You'll find 
 Mrs. Chetwinde and Mr. Darlington there." 
 
 " Oh, I'd rather " began Rosamund. 
 
 But he had already begun to move up the aisle, and she 
 was obliged to follow him to a. pew close to the pulpit, in which 
 were seated a smartly dressed woman with a vague and yet 
 acute expression, pale eyes and a Burne- Jones throat; and a 
 thin, lanky and immensely tall man of uncertain age, with 
 pale brown, very straight hair, large white ears, thick ragged 
 eyebrows, a carefully disarranged beard and mustache, and 
 an irregular refined face decorated with a discreet but kind 
 expression. These were Mrs. Willie Chetwinde, who had a 
 wonderful house in Lowndes Square, and Mr. Esme Darling- 
 ton, bachelor, of St. James's Square, who was everybody's 
 friend including his own. 
 
 Rosamund just recognized them gravely; then she knelt 
 down and prayed earnestly, with her face hidden against her 
 muff. She still heard the little bell's insistent " Ping, ping, 
 ping ! " She pressed her shut eyes so hard against the muff
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 15 
 
 that rings of yellow light floated up in her darkness, forming, 
 retreating, melting away. 
 
 The bell ceased; the first notes of the organ sounded in a 
 voluntary by Mendelssohn, amiable and charming; the choir 
 filed in as Rosamund rose from her knees. In the procession 
 the two last figures were Mr. Limer and Mr. or, as he was 
 always called in Liverpool, Father Robertson. 
 
 Mr. Limer was a short, squat, clean-shaven but hairy dark 
 man, with coal-black hair sweeping round a big forehead, a 
 determined face and large, indignant brown eyes. The Liver- 
 pool clergyman was of middle height, very thin, with snow- 
 white hair, dark eyes and eyebrows, and a young almost boyish 
 face, with straight, small features, and a luminous, gentle and 
 yet intense look. He seemed almost to glow, quietly, definitely, 
 like a lamp set in a dark place, and one felt that his glow could 
 not easily be extinguished. He walked tranquilly by the side 
 of Mr. Limer, and looked absolutely unself-conscious, quietly 
 dignified and simple. 
 
 When he went into the pulpit the lights were lowered and 
 a pleasant twilight prevailed. But the preacher's face was 
 strongly illuminated. 
 
 Mr. Robertson preached on the sin of egoism, and took as 
 .the motto of his sermon the words " Ego dormio et cor meum 
 vigilat." His method of preaching was quiet, but intense; 
 again the glow of the lamp. Often there were passages which 
 suggested a meditation a soul communing with itself fear- 
 lessly, with an unyielding, but never violent, determination to 
 arrive at the truth. And Rosamund, listening, felt as if noth- 
 ing could keep this man with the snow-white hair and the young 
 face away from the truth. 
 
 He ranged over a wide field egoism being wide as the 
 world he exposed many of the larger evils brought about by 
 egoism, in connexion with the Arts, with politics, with charity, 
 with religious work in great cities, with missionary enterprises 
 abroad; he touched on some of the more subtle forms of ego- 
 ism, which may poison even the sources of love; and finally 
 he discussed the gains and the losses of egoism. " For," he 
 said, " let us be honest and acknowledge that we often gain, 
 in the worldly sense, by our sins, and sometimes lose by our 
 virtues." Power of a kind can be, and very often is, obtained 
 by egoists through their egoism. He discussed that power, 
 showed its value and the glory of it. Then he contrasted with 
 it the power which is only obtained by those who, completely
 
 16 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 unselfish, know not how to think of themselves. He en- 
 larged on this theme, on the Kingdom which can belong only 
 to those who are selfless. And then he drew to the end of his 
 sermon. 
 
 " One of the best means I know," he said, " for getting rid 
 of egoism is this: whenever you have to take some big decision 
 between two courses of action perhaps between two life- 
 courses ask yourself, ' Which can I share ? ' which of these 
 two paths is wide enough to admit of my treading it with a 
 companion, whose steps I can help, whose journey I can enliven, 
 whose weariness I can solace, and whose burden I can now and 
 then bear for a little while? And if only one of the paths is 
 wide enough, then choose that in preference to the other. I 
 believe profoundly in ' sharing terms.' ' : 
 
 He paused, gazing at the congregation with his soft and 
 luminous eyes. Then he added: 
 
 "Ego dormio et cor meum vigilat. When the insistent / 
 sleeps, only then perhaps can the heart be truly awake, be really 
 watchful. Then let us send the insistent I to sleep, and let us 
 keep it slumbering." 
 
 He half-smiled as he finished. There had been something 
 slightly whimsical about his final words, about his manner and 
 himself when he said them. 
 
 Silence and the fog, and Rosamund walking homewards with 
 her hands deep in her muff. All those bodies and minds and 
 souls which had been in the church had evaporated into the 
 night. Mrs. Chetwinde and Esme Darlington had wanted to 
 speak to Rosamund, but she had slipped out of the church 
 quickly. She did not wish to talk to any one. 
 
 " Ego dormio et cor meum vigilat." 
 
 What an odd little turn, or twist, the preacher had given to 
 the meaning of those words ! " Whenever you have to take 
 some big decision between two life courses, ask yourself, ' Which 
 can I share? ' and if you can only share one, choose that." 
 
 Very slowly Rosamund walked on, bending a little above the 
 big muff, like one pulled forward by a weight of heavy thoughts. 
 She turned a corner. Presently she turned another corner 
 and traversed a square, which could not be seen to be a square. 
 And then, quite suddenly, she realized that she had not been 
 thinking about her way home and that she was lost in the im- 
 penetrable fog. 
 
 She stood still and listened. She heard nothing. Traffic 
 seemed stopped in this region. On her left were three steps.
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 17 
 
 She went up them and was under the porch of a house. Light 
 shone dully from within, and by it she could just make out on 
 the door the number " 8." At least it seemed to her that prob- 
 ably it was an " 8." She hesitated, came down the steps, and 
 walked on. It was impossible to see the names of streets and 
 squares. But presently she would come across a policeman. 
 She went on and on, but no policeman bulked shadowy against 
 the background of night and of the fog which at last seemed 
 almost terrible to her. 
 
 Rosamund was not timid. She was constitutionally incapa- 
 ble of timidity. Nor was she actively alarmed in a strong 
 and definite way. But gradually there seemed to permeate her 
 a cold, almost numbing sensation of loneliness and of desola- 
 tion. For the first time in her life she felt not merely alone 
 but solitary, and not merely solitary but as if she were con- 
 demned to be so by some power that was hostile to her. 
 
 It was a hideous feeling. Something in the fog and in the 
 night made an assault upon her imagination. Abruptly she 
 was numbered among the derelict women whom nobody wants, 
 whom no man thinks of or wishes to be with, whom no child 
 calls mother. She felt physically and morally, " I am solitary," 
 and it was horrible to her. She saw herself old and alone, and 
 she shuddered. 
 
 How long she walked on she did not know, but when at last 
 she heard a step shuffling along somewhere in front of her, she 
 had almost she thought realized Eternity. 
 
 The step was not coming towards her but was going onwards 
 slowly before her. She hastened, and presently came up with 
 an old man, poorly dressed in a dreadful frock-coat and dis- 
 graceful trousers, wearing on his long gray locks a desperado 
 of a top hat, and carrying, in a bloated and almost purple hand, 
 a large empty jug. 
 
 " Please! " said Rosamund. 
 
 The old gentleman shuffled on. 
 
 " Could you tell me please can you tell me where we 
 are?" 
 
 She had grasped his left coat-sleeve. He turned and, bend- 
 ing, she peered into the face of a drunkard. 
 
 " Close to the ' Daniel Lambert,' " said an almost refined old 
 voice. 
 
 And a pair of pathetic gray eyes peered up at her above a 
 nose that was like a conflagration. 
 
 " Where's that? What is it? "
 
 i8 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Don't you know the ' Daniel Lambert '? " 
 
 The voice sounded very surprised and almost suspi- 
 cious. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " It's well known, very well known. I'm just popping round 
 there to get a little something eh! " 
 
 The voice died away. 
 
 " I want to find Great Cumberland Place." 
 
 " Well, you're pretty close to it. The ' Daniel Lambert's ' in 
 the Edgware Road." 
 
 " Could you find it ? Great Cumberland Place, I mean ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " I wish you would. I should be so grateful." 
 
 The gray eyes became more pathetic. 
 
 " Grateful to me would you, miss? I'll go with you and 
 very glad to do it." 
 
 The old gentleman took Rosamund home and talked to her 
 on the way. When they parted she asked for his name and ad- 
 dress. He hesitated for a moment and then gave it: "Mr. 
 Thrush, 2 Abingdon Buildings, John's Court, near Edgware 
 Road." 
 
 " Thank you. You've done me a good turn." 
 
 At this moment the front door was opened by the house- 
 maid. 
 
 " Oh miss ! " she said. 
 
 Her eyes left Rosamund and fastened themselves, like 
 weapons, on the old gentleman's nose. He lifted his desperado 
 of a hat and immediately turned away, trying to conceal his jug 
 under his left arm, but inadvertently letting it protrude. 
 
 " Good night, and thank you very much indeed! " Rosamund 
 called after him with warm cordiality. 
 
 " I'm glad you've got back, miss. We were in a way. It's 
 ever so late." 
 
 " I got lost in the fog. That dear old man rescued me." 
 
 " I'm very thankful, miss, I'm sure." 
 
 The girl seemed stiffened with astonishment. She shut the 
 street door automatically. 
 
 " He used to be a chemist once." 
 
 "Did he, miss?" 
 
 " Yes, quite a successful one too; just off Hanover Square, he 
 told me. He was going round to get something for his supper 
 when we met." 
 
 "Indeed, miss?"
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 19 
 
 Rosamund went upstairs. 
 
 " Yes, poor old man," she said, as she ascended. 
 
 Like most people in perfect health Rosamund slept well; 
 but that night she lay awake. She did not want to sleep. 
 She had something to decide, something of vital importance 
 to her. Two courses lay open to her. She might marry Dion 
 Leith, or she might resolve never to marry. Like most girls 
 she had had dreams, but unlike most girls, she had often dreamed 
 of a life in which men had no place. She had recently en- 
 tered upon the career of a public singer, not because she was 
 obliged to earn money but because she had a fine voice and a 
 strong temperament, and longed for self-expression. But she 
 had always believed that her public career would be a short 
 one. She loved fine music and enjoyed bringing its message 
 home to people, but she had little or no personal vanity, and the 
 life of a public performer entailed a great deal which she al- 
 ready found herself disliking. Recently, too, her successful ca- 
 reer had received a slight check. She had made her festival 
 debut at Burstal in " Elijah," and no engagements for oratorio 
 had followed upon it. Some day, while she was still young, she 
 meant to retire, and then 
 
 If she married Dion Leith she would have to give up an old 
 dream. On the other hand, if she married him, perhaps some 
 day she would be a mother. She felt certain she did not 
 know why that if she did not marry Dion Leith she would 
 never marry at all. 
 
 She thought, she prayed, she thought again. Sometimes in 
 the dark hours of that night the memory of her sensation of 
 loneliness in the fog returned to her. Sometimes Mr. Robert- 
 son's " Which can I share? " echoed within her, ifi the resonant 
 chamber of her soul. He had been very quiet, but he had made 
 an enormous impression upon her; he had made her hate egoism 
 much more than she had hated it hitherto. 
 
 Even into the innermost sanctuary of religion egoism can per- 
 haps find a way. The thought of that troubled Rosamund in 
 the dark. But when the hour of dawn drew near she fell asleep. 
 She had made up her mind, or, rather, it had surely been made 
 up for her. For a conviction had come upon her that for good 
 or for evil it was meant that her life should be linked with 
 Dion Leith's. He possessed something which she valued 
 highly, and which, she thought, was possessed by very few men. 
 He offered it to her. If she refused it, such an offering would 
 probably never be made to her again.
 
 20 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 To be a lonely woman; to be a subtle and profound egoist; to 
 be loved, cherished, worshiped; to be a mother. 
 
 Many lives of women seemed to float before her eyes. 
 
 Just before she lost consciousness it seemed to her, for a mo- 
 ment, that she was looking into the pathetic eyes of the old man 
 whom she had met in the fog. 
 
 " Poor old man! " she murmured. 
 
 She slept. 
 
 On the following morning she sent this note to Dion Leith: 
 
 " MY DEAR DION, I will marry you. 
 
 " ROSAMUND." 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 IN the following spring, Rosamund and Dion were mar- 
 ried, and Dion took Rosamund " to the land of the early 
 morning." 
 
 They arrived in Greece at the beginning of May, when the 
 rains were over and the heats of summer were at hand. The 
 bed of the Ilissus was empty. Dust lay white in the streets of 
 Athens and along the road to Phaleron and the sea. The low- 
 lying tracts of country were desert-dry, and about Athens the 
 world was arrayed in a garb of the East. Nevertheless there 
 was still a delicate freshness in the winds that blew to the lit- 
 tle city from the purple ^Egean or from the mountains of Ar- 
 golis; stirring the dust into spiral dances among the pale houses 
 upon which Lycabettos looks down; shaking the tiny leaves 
 of the tressy pepper trees near the Royal Palace; whispering 
 the antique secrets of the ages into the ears of the maidens who, 
 unwearied and happily submissive, bear up the Porch of the 
 Erechtheion; stealing across the vast spaces and between the 
 mighty columns of the Panthenon. The dawns and the twi- 
 lights had not lost the pure savor of their almost frail vitality. 
 The deepness of slumber still came with the nights. 
 
 Greece was, perhaps, at her loveliest. And Greece was al- 
 most deserted by travelers. They had come and gone with the 
 spring, leaving the land to its own, and to those two who had 
 come there to drink deep at the wells of happiness. And, a lit- 
 tle selfish as lovers are, Rosamund and Dion took everything 
 wonderful and beautiful as their possession.
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 21 
 
 The yellow-green pines near the convent of Daphni threw 
 patches of shade on the warm earth because they wanted to rest 
 there; the kingfisher rose in low and arrow-like flight from the 
 banks of Khephissus to make a sweet diversion for them; they 
 longed for brilliance, and the lagoons of Salamis were dyed 
 with a wonder of emerald ; they asked for twilight, and the deep 
 and deserted glades of Academe gave it them in full measure. 
 All these possessions, and many others, they enjoyed almost as 
 children enjoy a meadow full of flowers when they have climbed 
 over the gate that bars it from the high road. But the Acropolis 
 was the stronghold of their joy. Only when their feet pressed 
 its silvery grasses, and trod its warm marble pavements, did 
 they hold the world within their grasp. 
 
 For some days after their arrival in Greece they almost lived 
 among the ruins. The long-coated guardians smiled at them, 
 at first with a sort of faint amusement, at last with a friendly 
 pleasure. And they smiled at themselves. Each evening they 
 said, "To-morrow we will do this or that," and each morn- 
 ing they said nothing, just looked at each other after break- 
 fast, read in each other's eyes the repetition of desire, and set 
 out on the dear dusty road with which they were already so 
 familiar. 
 
 Had there ever before been a honeymoon bounded by the 
 precipices of the Acropolis? They sometimes discussed that 
 important question, and always decided against the imperti- 
 nent possibility. " What we are doing has never been done be- 
 fore." Dion went further than this, to " What I am feeling 
 has never been felt before." His youth asserted itself in silent, 
 determined statements which seemed to him to ring with authen- 
 tic truth. 
 
 It was a far cry from the downs of Chilton to the summit of 
 the Acropolis. Dion remembered the crowd assembled to hear 
 " Elijah "; he felt the ugly heat, the press of humanity. And 
 all that was but the prelude to this! Even the voice crying 
 " Woe unto them! " had been the prelude to the wonderful si- 
 lence of Greece. He felt marvelously changed. And Rosa- 
 mund often seemed to him changed, too, because she was his 
 own. That wonderful fact gave her new values, spread about 
 her new mysteries. And some of these mysteries Dion did 
 not attempt to fathom at first. Perhaps he felt that some si- 
 lences of love are like certain ceremony with a friend a mark 
 of the delicacy which is the sign-manual of the things that 
 endure. In the beginning of that honeymoon there was a beau-
 
 22 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 tiful restraint which was surely of good augury for the future. 
 Not all the doors were set violently open, not all the rooms were 
 ruthlessly visited. 
 
 Dion found that he was able to reverence the woman who 
 had given herself to him more after he had received the gift 
 than before. And this was very wonderful to him, was even, 
 somehow, perplexing. For Rosamund had the royal way of be- 
 stowing. She was capable of refusal, but not of half -meas- 
 ures or of niggardliness. There was something primitive in 
 her which spoke truth with a voice that was fearless; and yet 
 that very primitiveness seemed closely allied with her purity. 
 Dion only understood what that purity was when he was mar- 
 ried to her. It was like the radiant atmosphere of Greece to 
 him. Had not Greece led him to it, made him desire it with all 
 that was best in his nature? Now he had brought it to Greece. 
 Actually, day after day, he trod the Acropolis with Rosamund. 
 
 Greece had already, he believed, put out a hand and drawn 
 them more closely together. 
 
 " Love me, love the land I love." 
 
 Laughingly, yet half-anxiously too, Dion had said that to 
 Rosamund when they left Brindisi and set sail for Greece. 
 With her usual sincerity she had answered: 
 
 " I want to love it. Do you wish me to say more than that, 
 to make promises I may not be able to keep? " 
 
 " No," he had answered. " I only want truth from you." 
 And after a moment he had added, " I shall never want any- 
 thing from you but your truth." 
 
 She had looked at him rather strangely, like one moved by 
 conflicting feelings, and after a slight hesitation she had said: 
 
 " Dion, do you realize all the meaning in those words of 
 yours ? " 
 
 " Of course I do." 
 
 " Then if you really mean them you must be one of the most 
 daring of human beings. But I shall try a compromise with 
 you. I shall try to give you my best truth, never my worst. 
 You deserve that, I think. Indeed, I know you do." 
 
 And he had left it to her. Was he not wise to do that? Al- 
 ready he trusted her absolutely, as he had never thought to trust 
 any one. 
 
 " I could face any storm with you," he once said to Rosa- 
 mund. 
 
 Rosamund had wanted to love Greece, and from the first 
 moment of seeing the land she had loved it.
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 23 
 
 In the beginning of their stay she had scarcely been able to 
 believe that she was really in Athens. A great name had roused 
 in her imagination a conception of a great city. The soft fa- 
 miliarity, the almost rustic simplicity and intimacy, the abso- 
 lutely unpretentious brightness and homely cheerfulness of the 
 small capital of this unique land had surprised, had almost con- 
 fused her. 
 
 " Is this really Athens? " she had said, wondering, as they 
 had driven into what seemed a village set in bright bareness, 
 sparsely shaded here and there by small pepper-trees. 
 
 And the question had persisted in her mind, had almost trem- 
 bled upon her lips, for two or three days. But then had 
 come a mysterious change, brought about, perhaps, by affec- 
 tion. Quickly she had learnt to love Athens, and then she had 
 the feeling that if it had been in any way different from what 
 it was she could not have loved it. Its very smallness delighted 
 her, and she would not permit its faults to be mentioned in 
 her presence. Once, when Dion said that it was a great pity 
 the Athenians did not plant more trees, and a greater pity they 
 so often lopped off branches from the few trees they had, she 
 exclaimed : 
 
 " You mustn't run down my Athens. It likes to give itself 
 to the sun generously. It's grateful, as it well may be, for all 
 the sun has done for it. Look at the color of that marble." 
 
 And Dion looked at the honey color, and the wonderful red- 
 dish-gold, and, laughing, said: 
 
 " Athens is the one faultless city, and the dogs tell us so every 
 night and all night long." 
 
 " Dogs always bark when the moon is up," she answered, with 
 a semi-humorous gravity. 
 
 " As they bark in Athens? " he queried. 
 
 " Yes, of course." 
 
 " If I am ever criticized," he asked, " will you be my de- 
 fender? " 
 
 " I shan't hear you criticized." 
 
 " How do you know that? " 
 
 " I do know it," she said, looking at him with her honest 
 brown eyes; " nobody will criticize you when I am there." 
 
 He caught hold of her hand. 
 
 "And you? Don't you often criticize me silently? I'm sure 
 you do. Why did you marry me, Rosamund? " 
 
 They were sitting on the Acropolis when he put that ques- 
 tion. It was a shining day. The far-off seas gleamed. There
 
 24 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 was a golden pathway to ^Egina. The brilliant clearness, not 
 European but Eastern, did not make the great view spread out 
 beneath and around them hard. Greece lay wrapped in a mys- 
 tery of sunlight, different from, yet scarcely less magical than, 
 the mystery of shadows and the moon. Rosamund looked out 
 on the glory. She had taken off her hat, and given her yel- 
 low hair to the sunlight. Without any head-covering she al- 
 ways looked more beautiful, and, to Dion, more Greek than 
 when her hair was concealed. He saw in her then more clearly 
 than at other times the woman of all the ages rather than the 
 woman of an epoch subject to certain fashions. As he looked 
 at her now, resting on a block of warm marble above the preci- 
 pice which is dominated by the little temple of Athena Nike, he 
 wondered, with the concealed humility of the great lover, how 
 it was that she had ever chosen to give herself to him. He had 
 sworn to marry her. He had not been weak in his wooing, had 
 not been one of those men who will linger on indefinitely at a 
 woman's feet, ready to submit to unnumbered refusals. But 
 now there rose up in the depths of him the cry, " What am 
 I ? " and the answer, " Only a man like thousands of other men, 
 in no way remarkable, in no way more worthy than thousands of 
 others of the gift of a great happiness." 
 
 Rosamund turned from the shining view. There was in her 
 eyes an unusual vagueness. 
 
 "Why did you?" 
 
 " Why did I marry you, Dion? " 
 
 " Yes. When I found you with your ' Paradiso ' I don't 
 think you meant ever to marry me." 
 
 " I always liked you. But at first I didn't think of you in 
 that way." 
 
 " But you had known for ages before Burstal " 
 
 " Yes, of course. I knew the day I sang at Mr. Darlington's, 
 at that party he gave to introduce me as a singer. I knew first 
 from your mother. She told me." 
 
 "My mother?" 
 
 " By the look she gave me when you introduced me to her." 
 
 "Was it an How d'you mean?" 
 
 " I can scarcely explain. But it was a look that asked a 
 great many questions. And they wouldn't have been asked if 
 you hadn't cared for me, and if she hadn't known it." 
 
 " What did you think when you knew? " 
 
 " That it was kind of you to care for me." 
 
 "Kind?"
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 25 
 
 " Yes. I always feel that about people who like me very 
 much." 
 
 " And did you just go on thinking me kind until that day 
 at Burstal?" 
 
 " I suppose so. But I felt very much at home with you." 
 
 " I don't know whether that's a compliment to a man who's 
 still young, or not? " 
 
 " Nor do I. But that's just how it was." 
 
 He said nothing for a little while. When he spoke again it 
 was with some hesitation, and his manner was almost diffi- 
 dent. 
 
 " Rosamund, that day at Burstal, were you at all inclined to 
 accept me? " 
 
 " Yes; I think, perhaps, I was. Why? " 
 
 " Sometimes I have fancied there was a moment when " 
 
 He looked at her and then, for once, his eyes fell before hers 
 almost guiltily. They sat in silence for a moment. Behind 
 them, on a bench set in the shadow of a mighty wall, was a 
 guardian of the Acropolis, a thin brown man with very large 
 ears sticking out from his head. He had been dozing, but now 
 stirred, shuffled his feet, and suddenly cleared his throat Then 
 he sighed heavily. 
 
 " And if there was, why did you think it came, Dion? " said 
 Rosamund suddenly, with an almost startling swiftness of de- 
 cision. 
 
 Dion reddened. 
 
 " Why don't you like to tell me? " 
 
 " Oh, well things go through the mind without our wish- 
 ing them to. You must know that, Rosamund. They are often 
 like absurd little intruders. One kicks them out if one can." 
 
 " What kind of intruder did you kick out, or try to kick out, 
 at Burstal?" 
 
 She spoke half-laughingly, but half-challengingly. 
 
 He drew a little nearer to her. 
 
 " Sometimes I have fancied that perhaps, that day at Burstal, 
 you suddenly realized that love might be a more powerful up- 
 holder of life than ambition ever could be." 
 
 " Sometimes ? And you thought it first on the downs, or at 
 any rate after the concert? " 
 
 " I think I did." 
 
 " Do you realize," she said slowly, and as if with an effort, 
 " that you and I have never discussed my singing in ' Elijah ' ? " 
 
 " I know we never have."
 
 26 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Let us do it now," she continued, still seeming to make a 
 strong effort. 
 
 " But why should we? " 
 
 " I want to. Didn't I sing well ? " 
 
 " I thought you sang wonderfully well." 
 
 "Then what was it that went wrong? I've never under- 
 stood." 
 
 " Why should you think anything went wrong ? The crit- 
 ics said it was a remarkable performance. You made a great 
 effect." 
 
 " I believe I did. But I felt for the first time that day that 
 I was out of sympathy with my audience. And then " she 
 paused, but presently added with a certain dryness " I was 
 never offered any engagement to sing in oratorio after Burstal." 
 
 " I believe a good many people thought your talent would 
 show at its best in opera." 
 
 " I shall never go on the stage. The idea is hateful to me, 
 and always has been. Would you like me to sing on the 
 >tage?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Dion, why don't you tell me what happened that day at 
 Burstal?" 
 
 " I scarcely could." 
 
 " I wish you would try." 
 
 " Well I think it was a mistake for you to begin your pub- 
 lic career in oratorio by singing ' Woe unto them.' ' 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " It's an unsympathetic thing. It's a cruel sort of thing." 
 
 " Cruel? But it's one of the best-known things in oratorio." 
 
 " You made it quite new." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " It sounded fanatical when you sang it. I never heard it 
 sound like that before." 
 
 " Fanatical ? " she said, and her voice was rather cold. 
 
 " Rosamund," he said, quickly and anxiously, " you asked me 
 to tell you exactly what I meant, what I felt, that is " 
 
 " Yes, I know. Go on, Dion. Well ? It sounded fanat- 
 ical " 
 
 " To me. I'm only telling you my impression. When I've 
 heard ' Woe unto them ' before it has always sounded sad, 
 piteous if you like, a sort of wailing. When you sang it, some- 
 how it was like a curse, a tremendous summoning of ven- 
 geance."
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 27 
 
 " Why not ? Are not the words ' Destruction shall fall upon 
 them'?" 
 
 " I know. But you made it sound to me, I mean al- 
 most as if you were rejoicing personally at the thought of the 
 destruction, as if you were longing almost eagerly for it to over- 
 whelm the faithless." 
 
 " I see. That is what you meant by fanatical? " 
 
 " Yes, I suppose so." 
 
 After a long pause she said: 
 
 " Nobody has told me that till now." 
 
 " Perhaps others didn't feel it as I did." 
 
 " I don't know. What does one know about other people? 
 Not even my guardian said anything. I never could under- 
 stand " 
 
 She broke off, then continued steadily: 
 
 " So you think I repelled people that day? " 
 
 " It seems impossible that you " 
 
 But she interrupted him. 
 
 " No, Dion, it isn't at all impossible. I think if we are abso- 
 lutely sincere we repel people very often." 
 
 " But you are the most sincere person I have ever seen, and 
 you must know how beloved you are, how popular you are wher- 
 ever you go." 
 
 " When I'm being sincere with the part of me that's feeling 
 kind or affectionate. Let us go to the Parthenon." 
 
 She got up, opened her white sun-umbrella and turned round, 
 keeping her hat in her left hand. As she stood there in that 
 setting of marble, with the sun caught in her hair, and the 
 mighty view below and beyond her, she looked wonderfully 
 beautiful, Dion thought, but almost stern. He feared perhaps 
 he had hurt her. But was it his fault? She had told him to 
 speak. 
 
 Rosamund did not return to the subject of her debut at 
 Burstal, but in the late afternoon of that day she spoke of her 
 singing, and of the place it might have in their married life. 
 Dion believed she did this because of their conversation near the 
 Temple of Nike. 
 
 They had spent most of the day on the Acropolis. Both had 
 brought books: she, Mahaffy's " History of Greek Literature "; 
 he, a volume of poems written by a young diplomat who loved 
 Greece and knew her well. Neither of them had read many 
 pages, but as the strong radiance began to soften about them on 
 the height, and the breeze from the Saronic Gulf came to them
 
 28 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 with a more feathery warmth and freshness over the smiling 
 bareness of the Attic Plain, Dion, who had been half-dreamily 
 turning the leaves of his little book, said: 
 
 " Rosamund." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " Look at the sea and the mountains of Trigania, those far- 
 off mountains "- he pointed " and the outpost of Hydra." 
 
 She looked and said nothing. Then he read to her these 
 lines of the young diplomat-poet: 
 
 " A crescent sail upon the sea, 
 So cairn and fair and ripple free 
 You wonder storms can ever be ; 
 
 A shore with deep indented bays, 
 And o'er the gleaming water-ways 
 A glimpse of Islands in the haze; 
 
 A face bronzed dark to red and gold, 
 With mountain eyes that seem to hold 
 The freshness of the world of old; 
 
 A shepherd's crook, a coat of fleece, 
 A grazing flock; the sense of peace, 
 The long sweet silence, this is Greece ! " 
 
 Rosamund gazed before her at Greece in the evening light. 
 
 " ' The freshness of the world of old,' " she repeated, and 
 her voice had a thrill in it. " ' The sense of peace, the long 
 sweet silence, this is Greece.' If there was music with the 
 music of those words I should love to sing them." 
 
 " And how you could sing them. Like no other." 
 
 " At any rate my heart would be in them. ' The freshness 
 of the world of old the sense of peace, the long sweet si- 
 lence.' " 
 
 She was standing now near the edge of the sacred rock, look- 
 ing out over the tawny plain flanked by gray Hymettos, and 
 away to the sea. There were no voices rising from below. 
 There was no sound of traffic on the white road which wound 
 away down the slope to the hidden city. Her contralto voice 
 lingered on the words; her lips drew them out softly, lengthen- 
 ing the sounds they loved. 
 
 " Freshness, that which belonged to the early world, long 
 sweet silence, peace. Oh, Dion, if you knew how something in 
 me cares for freshness and for peace! "
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 29 
 
 Her glad energies were strangely stilled; yet there was a 
 kind of force in her stillness, the force that is in all deep truths 
 of whatever nature they may be. He felt that he was near to 
 perhaps the most essential part of her, to that which was per- 
 haps more truly her than even the radiant and buoyant human- 
 ity by means of which she drew people to her. 
 
 " Could you live always out of the world? " he asked her. 
 
 " But it wouldn't be out of the world." 
 
 "Away from people with me?" 
 
 "With you?" 
 
 She looked at him for a moment almost as if startled. Then 
 there came into her brown eyes a scrutiny that seemed half-in- 
 ward, as if it were partially applied to herself. 
 
 " It's difficult to be certain what one could do. I suppose 
 one has several sides." 
 
 " Ah ! And your singing side ? " 
 
 " I want to speak about that." 
 
 Her voice was suddenly more practical, and her whole look 
 and manner changed, losing in romance and strangeness, gain- 
 ing in directness and energy. 
 
 " We've never discussed it." 
 
 She sat down on a slab of rock at the edge of the precipice, 
 and went on: 
 
 " You don't mind your wife being a public singer, do you, 
 Dion?" 
 
 "Suppose I do?" 
 
 "Do you?" 
 
 " You're so energetic I doubt if you could be happy in idle- 
 ness." 
 
 " I couldn't in England." 
 
 "And in Greece? But we are only here for such a short 
 time." 
 
 He took her hand in his. 
 
 " Learning the lessons of happiness." 
 
 " Good lessons for us! " she said, smiling. 
 
 " The best there are. I believe in the education of joy. It 
 opens the heart, calls up all the generous things. But your 
 singing; can I bear your traveling about perpetually all over 
 England?" 
 
 " If I get engagements." 
 
 " You will. You had a good many for concerts last winter. 
 You've got several for June and July. You'll get many more. 
 But who's to go with you on your travels? "
 
 30 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Beattie, of course. Why do you look at me like that? " 
 
 " How do we know Beatrice won't marry? " 
 
 Rosamund looked grave. 
 
 " Why shouldn't she? " asked Dion. 
 
 " She jnay, of course." 
 
 " D'you think she'll remain your apanage now? " he asked, 
 with a hint of smiling sarcasm that could not hurt her. 
 
 " My apanage ? " 
 
 " Hasn't she been something like that? " 
 
 " Perhaps she has. But Beattie always sinks herself in 
 others. She wouldn't be happy if she didn't do that. Of 
 course, your friend Guy Daventry's in love with Beattie." 
 
 " Deeply." 
 
 " But I'm not at all sure that Beattie " 
 
 She paused abruptly. After a moment she continued: 
 
 " You asked me to-day why I married you. I didn't an- 
 swer you, and I'm not going to answer you now entirely. 
 But you're not like other men, most other men." 
 
 " In what way ? " 
 
 " A way that means very much to me," she answered, with 
 a delicious purity and directness. " Women feel such things 
 very soon when they know men. I could easily have never 
 married, but I could never, never have married a man who had 
 lived as I believe most men have lived." 
 
 " I think I always knew that from the first moment I saw 
 you." 
 
 " Did you ? I'm glad. I care tremendously for that in you, 
 Dion more than you will ever know." 
 
 " That's my great, too great reward," he said soberly, almost 
 with a touch of deep awe. Then, reddening and looking away, 
 he added, " You were the very first." 
 
 "Was I?" 
 
 " Yes, but but you mustn't think that it was religious feel- 
 ing, anything of that kind, which kept me back from from 
 certain things. It was more the desire to be strong, healthy, 
 to have the sane mind in the sane body, I think. I was mad 
 about athletics, all that sort of thing. Anyhow, you know now. 
 You were the first. You will be the only one in my life." 
 
 There was a long silence between them. Then Rosamund 
 said, with a change of manner to practical briskness: 
 
 " If Beattie ever should marry, I could take a maid about 
 with me." 
 
 " Yes. An hotel in Liverpool with a maid ! In Blackpool,
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 31 
 
 in Huddersfield, in Wolverhampton, in Glasgow, when there's 
 a heavy thaw on, with a maid! Oh, how delightful it will be! 
 Manchester on a wet day in early spring with a " 
 
 " Hush! " she put one hand on his lips gently, and looked at 
 him with a sort of smiling challenge in her eyes. " Do you 
 mean to forbid me? " 
 
 " I don't think I could ever forbid you to do anything." 
 
 " We shall see in England." 
 
 " But, Rosamund " there was no one in sight, and he 
 slipped one arm round her " if something came to fill your 
 life, both our lives, to the brim? " 
 
 " Ah, then," a very remote expression came into her eyes, 
 " then it would all be different." 
 
 "All?" 
 
 " Yes. Everything would be quite different then." 
 
 " Not our relation to each other? " 
 
 " Yes, even that. Perhaps that most of all." 
 
 "I I hardly like to hear you say that," he said, struggling 
 against a perhaps stupid, or even hateful, feeling of depression 
 mingled with something else. 
 
 " But wouldn't it? Think! " 
 
 " I don't want that to change. I should hate any change in 
 that." 
 
 " What we want, and what we hate, doesn't affect what has 
 to be. And I expect at the end we shall be thankful for that. 
 But, Dion, yes, if what you say, I could give it all up. Public 
 singing! What would it matter then? I'm a woman, not a 
 singer. But perhaps it will never come." 
 
 "Who knows?" he said. 
 
 And he sighed. 
 
 She turned towards him, leaned one hand on the stone and 
 looked at him almost anxiously. 
 
 " What is the matter, Dion? " 
 
 "Why? There is nothing the matter." 
 
 " Would you rather we never had that in our lives? " 
 
 "A child?" 
 
 " Yes, a child." 
 
 " I thought I longed for that," he answered. 
 
 " Do you mean that you have changed and don't long any 
 more? " 
 
 " I suppose it's like this. When a man's very happy, per- 
 fectly happy, he doesn't perhaps he can't want any change 
 to come. If you're perfectly happy instinctively you almost fear
 
 32 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 any change. Till to-day, till this very minute perhaps, I 
 thought I wanted to have a child some day. Perhaps I still 
 do really, or perhaps I shall. But you must forgive me, I 
 can't help it! this evening, sitting here, I don't want any- 
 thing to come between us. It seems to me that even a child of 
 ours would take some of you away from me. Don't you see 
 that? " 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " That's a man's feeling. I can't share it." 
 
 " But think all the attention you would have to give to a 
 child, all the thoughts you would fasten on it, all the anxieties 
 you'd have about it! " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " One only has a certain amount of time. You'd have to take 
 away a good deal, a great deal, of the time you can now give 
 to me. Oh, it sounds too beastly, I know! Perhaps I scarcely 
 mean it ! But surely you can see how a man who loves a woman 
 very much might, without being the least bit unnatural, think, 
 ' I'd like to keep every bit of her for myself. I'd like to have 
 her all to myself ! ' I dare say this feeling will pass. Remem- 
 ber, Rose, we're only just married, and we're in Greece, right 
 away from every one. Don't think me morbidly jealous, or a 
 beast. I'm not. I expect lots of men have felt as I do, per- 
 haps even till the first child came." 
 
 " Ah, then it would be all right," she said. " The natural 
 things, the things nature intends, are always all right." 
 
 " How blessedly sane and central you are! " 
 
 "If we had a child Dion, you must believe me! we 
 should be drawn ever so much nearer together by it. If we ever 
 do have one, we shall look back on this time you will and 
 think ' We were much farther apart then than we are now.' " 
 
 " I don't like to hear you say that," he said gravely, almost 
 with pain. 
 
 Could a woman like Rosamund be driven by an instinct 
 blindly? She was such a perfect type of womanhood. It 
 would be almost a tragedy if she such a woman died child- 
 less. Perhaps instinct had obscurely warned her of that, had 
 taught her where to look for a mate. He, Dion, had always 
 lived purely. That day she had acknowledged that she had 
 divined it. Was that, perhaps, her real, her instinctive reason 
 for marrying him? But a man wants to be married for one 
 thing only, because the woman longs for him. And Dion was 
 just an ordinary man with very strong feelings.
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 33 
 
 " Let's take one more stroll before we go down," he said. 
 
 " Yes, to the maidens," she answered. 
 
 Her voice sounded relieved. She pushed her arm gently 
 through his as they moved away, and he felt all his body thrill. 
 The mystery of love was almost painful to him at that moment. 
 He realized that a great love might grow to have an affinity with 
 a disease. " I must be careful. I must take great care with 
 this love of mine," he thought. 
 
 They went slowly over the slabs of marble and the gray rocks 
 and passed before the west front of the Parthenon. Dion felt 
 slight resistance in Rosamund's arm, and stopped. In the 
 changing light the marble was full of warm color, was in places 
 mysterious and translucent almost as amber. The immense 
 power, the gigantic calm of the temple, a sort of still breathing 
 of Eternity upon Time, confronted a glory which was begin- 
 ning to change in the face of its changelessness. Soon the seas 
 that held their dream under the precipices of Sunion, and along 
 the shores of ^Egina, where the tall shepherd boys in their 
 fleeces of white lead home the flocks in the twilight, would lose 
 the wonder of their shining, and the skies the rapture of their 
 diffused light. In the quietly austere Attic Plain, through the 
 whispering groves of Academe, and along the sacred way to 
 Eleusis, a very delicate vagueness was beginning to travel, like 
 a wanderer setting forth to greet the coming of the night. The 
 ranges of hills and mountains, Hymettos and Pentelicus, Parnes 
 stretching to the far distance, Mount Corydallus, the peak of 
 Salamis, the exquisitely long mountains of Trigania " the 
 greyhounds of their tribe," Rosamund loved to call them 
 were changing almost from moment to moment, becoming a 
 little softer, a little more tender, putting off their distinct hues 
 of the day for the colors of sleep and forgetting. But the great 
 Doric columns fronting them, the core of the heart of this 
 evening splendor, seemed not to defy, but to ignore, all the 
 processes of change. In its ruin the Parthenon seemed to say, 
 " I have not changed." And it was true. For the same soul 
 which had confronted Pericles confronted the two lovers who 
 now stood at the foot of the temple. 
 
 " I wonder how many thousands of people of all nations have 
 learnt the same lesson here," Rosamund said at last. 
 
 " The Doric lesson, you mean? " 
 
 " Yes, of strength, simplicity, endurance, calmness." 
 
 " And I wonder how many thousands have forgotten the les- 
 son."
 
 34 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Why do you say that, Dion? " 
 
 " I don't know. Great art is a moral teacher, I'm sure of 
 that. But men are very light-minded as a rule, I think. If 
 they lived before these columns they might learn a great deal, 
 they might even develop in a splendid direction, I believe. But 
 an hour, even a few hours, is that enough? Impressions fade 
 very quickly in most people." 
 
 " Not in you. You never forgot the Parthenon, and I shall 
 never forget it." 
 
 She stood for some minutes quite still gazing steadily up at 
 the temple, gaining it seemed to her her own stillness from 
 its tremendous immobility. 
 
 " The greatest strength is in silence," she thought. " The 
 greatest power is in motionlessness." 
 
 She thought of the raging of the great sea. But no! There 
 was more of the essence of strength, of the stern inwardness of 
 power, in that which confronted life and Time in absolute still- 
 ness: in a mountain, in this temple. And the temple spoke to 
 something far down within her; to something which desired 
 long silences and deep retirement, to something mystic which 
 was sometimes like a creeping hunger within her, and which 
 she did not understand. The temple was Pagan and she knew 
 that. But that in her to which it spoke was not Pagan. Be- 
 fore she left Athens she learnt to realize that the soul of man, 
 when it speaks through mighty and pure effort, of whatever 
 kind, always speaks to the same Listener, to but one, though 
 man may not know it. 
 
 " Doric! " she said at last. " I have always known that for 
 me that would be the greatest. The simplest thing is the most 
 sublime thing. That temple is like the Sermon on the Mount 
 to me. Didn't you bring me here because it meant so much to 
 you?" 
 
 " Not entirely. No, Rosamund, I think I brought you here 
 because I felt that you belonged here." 
 
 " This satisfies me." 
 
 She sighed deeply, still gazing at the temple. 
 
 " You aren't only in Greece, you are of Greece. Come to the 
 maidens." 
 
 As they went on slowly the acid voices of the little birds which 
 fly perpetually among the columns of the Parthenon followed 
 them, bidding them good night. 
 
 They descended over the uneven ground and came to the fa- 
 mous Porch of the Caryatides, jutting out from the little Ionic
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 35 
 
 temple which is the handmaid of the Parthenon. Not far from 
 the Porch, and immediately before it, was a wooden bench. Al- 
 ready Rosamund and Dion had spent many hours here, some- 
 times sitting on the bench, more often resting on the warm 
 ground in the sunshine, among the fragments of ruin and the 
 speary, silver-green grasses. Now Rosamund sat down and 
 Dion stood by her side. 
 
 " Rosamund, those maidens are my ideal of womanhood 
 shown in marble," he said. 
 
 " They are almost miraculously beautiful. And one scarcely 
 knows why. But I know that every time I see them the mys- 
 tery of their beauty seems more ineffable to me, and the mean- 
 ing of it seems more profound. How did men get so much 
 meaning into marble? " 
 
 " By caring so much for what is beautiful in womanhood, I 
 suppose." 
 
 He sat down close beside her. 
 
 " I sometimes wonder whether women have any idea what 
 some men, many men, I believe, seek in women." 
 
 "What do they seek?" 
 
 " What do those maidens that hold up the Porch suggest to 
 you?" 
 
 " All that's calm without a touch of coldness, and strong with- 
 out a touch of hardness, and noble without a touch of pride, and 
 obedient without a touch of servility." 
 
 " Brave sweetness, too, and protectiveness. They are won- 
 derful, and so are some women. When I saw you in the omni- 
 bus at Milan I thought of these maidens immediately." 
 
 "How strange! " 
 
 "Why strange?" 
 
 " Isn't it ? " she said, gazing at the six maidens in their flow- 
 ing draperies of marble, who, upon their uncovered heads, bore 
 tranquillity up the marble architrave. " How wonderfully sim- 
 ple and unpretending they are! " 
 
 "Are not you? " 
 
 " I don't know. I don't believe I think about it." 
 
 " I do. Rosamund, sometimes I feel that I am an unique 
 man just think of a fellow in a firm on the Stock Exchange 
 being unique! because I have had an ideal, and I have at- 
 tained to it. When I was here alone, I conceived for the first 
 time an ideal of woman. I said to myself, ' In the days of an- 
 cient Greece there must have been such women in the flesh as 
 these maidens in marble. If I could have lived and loved
 
 36 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 then! ' And I came away from Greece carrying a sort of ro- 
 mantic dream with me. And now I sit here with you; I can't 
 think why I, a quite ordinary man, should be picked out for 
 perfect happiness." 
 
 " Is it really perfect? " she asked, turning to him. 
 
 " I think so. In such a place with you! " 
 
 As the evening drew on, a little wind came and went over 
 the rocky height, but it had no breath of cold in it. Two Greek 
 soldiers passed by slowly behind them short young men with 
 skins almost as dark as the skins of Arabs of the South, black 
 eyes and faces full of active mentality. They were talking 
 eagerly, but stopped for a moment to look at the English, and 
 beyond them at the six maidens on their platform of marble. 
 Then they went on, talking again, but presently hesitated, came 
 back, and stood not far off, gazing at the Porch with a mixture 
 of reverence and quiet wistfulness. Dion drew Rosamund's at- 
 tention to them. 
 
 " They feel the beauty," he said. 
 
 "Yes. I like that." 
 
 She looked at the two young men with a smile. One of them 
 noticed it, and smiled back at her almost boyishly, and with a 
 sort of confidential simplicity. 
 
 The light began to fail. The six maidens were less clearly 
 seen, but the deep meaning of them did not lessen. In the gath- 
 ering darkness they and their sweet effort became more touching, 
 more lovable. Their persistence was exquisite now that they 
 confronted with serenity the night. 
 
 " They are beautiful by day, but at night they are adorable," 
 said Rosamund. 
 
 " Don't you know why I thought of them when I met you ? " 
 he whispered. 
 
 She got up slowly. The Greek soldiers moved, turned, and 
 went down the slope towards the Propylae. Their quick voices 
 were heard again. Then there was the sound of a bell. 
 
 " Time to go," said Rosamund. 
 
 As they followed the soldiers she again put her arm through 
 her young husband's. 
 
 " Dion," she said, " I think I'm a little afraid of your ideals. 
 I understand them. I have ideals too. But I think perhaps 
 mine are less in danger of ever being shattered than yours are." 
 
 " Why? But I know mine are not in danger." 
 
 " How can you say that? " 
 
 " It's no use trying to frighten me. But what about your
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 37 
 
 ideals? What is the nature of the difference between yours 
 and mine, which makes yours so much less vulnerable than 
 mine? " 
 
 But she only said : 
 
 " I don't believe I could explain it. But I feel it, and I 
 shall go on feeling it." 
 
 They went down the steep marble steps, gave the guardian 
 at the foot of them good night, and walked almost in silence to 
 Athens. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 AFTER that day Rosamund and Dion often talked of 
 the child who might eventually come into their lives to 
 change them. Rosamund indeed, now that such a pos- 
 sibility had been discussed between them, returned to it with 
 an eagerness which she did not seek to conceal. She was won- 
 derfully frank, and her frankness seemed to belong naturally 
 to her transparent purity, to be an essential part of it Dion's 
 momentary depression that evening on the Acropolis had evi- 
 dently stirred something in her which would not let her rest un- 
 til it had expressed itself. She had detected for the first time in 
 her husband a hint of something connected with his love for her 
 which seemed to her morbid. She could not forget it and she 
 was resolved to destroy it if possible. When they next stood 
 together on their beloved height she said to him: 
 
 " Dion, don't you hate anything morbid ? " 
 
 " Yes, loathe it ! " he answered, with hearty conviction. 
 " But surely you know that. Why d'you ask me such a thing ? 
 How dare you? " 
 
 And he turned to her his brown face, bright this morning with 
 good spirits, his dark eyes sparkling with hopefulness and 
 energy. 
 
 It was a pale morning, such as often comes to Athens even 
 at the edge of the summer. They were standing on the little 
 terrace near to the Acropolis Museum, looking down over the 
 city and to helmet-shaped Lycabettos. The wind, too fond of 
 the Attic Plain, was blowing, not wildly, but with sufficient 
 force to send the dust whirling in light clouds over the pale
 
 38 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 houses and the little Byzantine churches. Long and narrow 
 rivulets of dust marked the positions of the few roads which 
 stretched out along the plain. The darkness of the groves 
 which sheltered the course of the Kephisos contrasted strongly 
 with the flying pallors and seemed at enmity with them. The 
 sky was milky white and gray, broken up in places by clouds 
 of fantastic shapes, along the ruffled edges of which ran thin 
 gleams of sunshine like things half timorous and ashamed. 
 Upon the flat shores near Phaleron the purple seas broke in 
 spray, and the salty drops were caught up by the wind and 
 mingled with the hurrying grains of dust. It was not exactly 
 a sad day, but there was an uneasiness abroad. The delicate 
 calm of Greece was disturbed. Nevertheless Dion was feeling 
 gay and light-hearted, inclined to enjoy everything the world 
 about him offered to him. Even the restlessness beneath and 
 around them accorded with his springing spirits. The whirl- 
 ing spirals of dust suggested to him the gaiety of a dance. The 
 voice of the wind was a joyous music in his ears. 
 
 "How dare you?" he repeated with a happy pretense of 
 indignation. 
 
 " Because I think you were almost morbid yesterday." 
 
 "I? When?" 
 
 " When we spoke of the possibility of our some day having a 
 child." 
 
 " I had a moment of thinking that too," he agreed. " Yes, 
 Rose, the thought went through my mind that a great love, such 
 as mine for you, might become almost a disease if one didn't 
 watch it, hold it in." 
 
 "If it ever did become like that, do you know what would 
 happen ? " 
 
 "What, Rose?" 
 
 " Instead of rejoicing in it I should shrink from it." 
 
 " That's enough for me ! " 
 
 He spoke gaily, confidently. 
 
 " Besides, I don't really believe I'm a man to love like that. 
 I only imagined I might for a moment, perhaps because it was 
 twilight. Imaginings come with the twilight." 
 
 " I could never bear to think, if a child came, that you didn't 
 want it, that you wished it out of the way." 
 
 " I never should. But I expect lots of young married people 
 have queer thoughts and feelings which they keep entirely to 
 themselves I blurted mine out. You've got a dangerously 
 sincere husband, Rose. The whole matter lies in your own
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 39 
 
 hands. If we ever have a child, love it, but don't love it more 
 than me." 
 
 " I should love it so differently! How could maternal love 
 interfere with the love of woman for man? " 
 
 " No, I don't suppose it could." 
 
 "Of course it never could." 
 
 " Then that's settled. Where shall we go to get out of the 
 wind? It seems to be rising." 
 
 After searching for a place of shelter in vain they eventually 
 took refuge in the Parthenon, under the shadow of the great 
 western wall. Perhaps in consequence of the wind the Acrop- 
 olis was entirely deserted. Only the guardians were hidden 
 somewhere, behind columns, in the Porch of the Museum, under 
 the roof of their little dwelling at the foot of the marble stair- 
 case which leads up to the Propyla?. The huge wall of the 
 Parthenon kept off the wind from the sea, and as Rosamund 
 and Dion no longer saw the whirling dust clouds in the plain 
 they had, for the moment, almost an illusion of peace. They 
 sat down on the guardian's bench, just underneath some faint 
 fragments of paintings which dated from the time when the 
 temple was made use of as a church by Greek Christians; and 
 immediately Rosamund went on talking about the child. She 
 spoke very quietly and earnestly, with the greatest simplicity, 
 and by degrees Dion came to see her as a mother, to feel that 
 perhaps only as a mother could she fulfil herself. The whole 
 of her beauty would never be revealed unless she were seen 
 with a child of her own. Hitherto he had thought of her chiefly 
 in relation to himself, as the girl he longed to win, then as the 
 girl he most wonderfully had succeeded in winning. She put 
 herself before him now in a different light, and he saw in her 
 new and beautiful possibilities. While she was talking his 
 imagination began to play about the child, and presently he 
 realized that he was thinking of it as a boy. Then, in a mo- 
 ment, he realized that on the previous evening he had thought 
 of a male, not of a female child. With this in his mind he 
 said abruptly: 
 
 " What sort of a child do you wish to have, Rosamund ? " 
 
 "What sort?" she said, looking at him with surprise in 
 her brown eyes. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "What do you mean? A beautiful, strong, healthy child, 
 of course, the sort of child every married woman longs to have, 
 and imagines having till it comes."
 
 40 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 "Beautiful, strong, healthy!" he repeated, returning her 
 look. " Of course ir could only be that your child. But I 
 meant, do you want it to be a boy or a girl? " 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 She paused, and looked away from him and down at the 
 uncemented marble blocks which form the pavement of the 
 Parthenon. 
 
 " Well? " he said, as she kept silence. 
 
 " If it were to be a girl I should love it." 
 
 " You wish it to be a girl? " 
 
 " I didn't say that. The fact is, Dion " and now she 
 again looked at him, " I have always thought of our child as 
 a boy. That's why your question almost startled me. I have 
 never even once thought of having a girl. I don't know why." 
 
 " I think I do." 
 
 "Why then?" 
 
 " The thought was born of the desire. You wanted our 
 child to be a son and so you thought of it as a son." 
 
 " Perhaps that was it." 
 
 "Wasn't it?" 
 
 He spoke with a certain pressure. She remained silent for 
 a moment, and two little vertical lines appeared in her fore- 
 head. Then she said: 
 
 " Yes, I believe it was. And you? " 
 
 " I confess that when yesterday we spoke of a child I was 
 thinking all the time about a boy." 
 
 She gazed at him with something visionary in her eyes, which 
 made them look for a moment like the eyes of a woman whom 
 he had not seen till now. Then she said quietly: 
 
 " It v ; ll be a boy, I think. Indeed, if it weren't perhaps 
 absurd, I should say that I know it will be a boy." 
 
 He said nothing more just then, but at that moment he felt 
 as if he, too, knew, not merely hoped, or guessed, something 
 about their joint future, knew in the depths of him that a boy- 
 child would some day be sent to Rosamund and to him, to 
 influence and to change their lives. 
 
 The wind began to fail almost suddenly, the sky grew 
 brighter, a shaft of sun lay on the marble at their feet. 
 
 " It's going to be fine," Dion said. " Let's be active for 
 once. The wind has made me restless. Suppose we get a 
 couple of horses and ride out to the convent of Daphni! " 
 
 She got up at once. 
 
 " Yes. I've brought my habit, and haven't had it on once."
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 41 
 
 As they left the Great Temple she looked up at the mighty 
 columns and said: 
 
 " Doric! If we have a boy let us bring him up to be Doric." 
 " Yes, Rosamund," he said, quietly and strongly. " We 
 will." 
 
 Afterward he believed that it was then, and only then, that 
 he caught something of her deep longing to have a child. He 
 began to see how a man's child might influence him and affect 
 his life, might even send him upwards by innocently looking 
 up to him. It would be bad, very bad, to fail as a husband, 
 but, by Jove! it would be one of the great tragedies to fail as 
 a father. Mentally Dion measured the respective heights of 
 himself and a very small boy; saw the small boy's trusting eyes 
 looking, almost peering, up at him. Such eyes could change, 
 could become very attentive. " It wouldn't do to be adversely 
 criticized by your boy," he thought. And one day he said to 
 Rosamund, but in almost a casual way: 
 
 " If we ever do have a boy, Rose, and want him to be Doric, 
 we shall have to start in by being Doric ourselves, eh ? " 
 " Yes," she answered, " I've thought that, too." 
 " D'you think I could ever learn to be that? " 
 " I know you could. You are on the way already, I think. 
 I noticed in London that you were never influenced by all the 
 affectations and absurdities, or worse, that seem to have taken 
 hold of so many people lately." 
 
 " There has been a wave of something rather beastly passing 
 over London certainly. But I almost wonder you knew it." 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Can your eyes see anything that isn't good? " 
 " Yes. But I don't want ever to look long on what I hate." 
 " You aren't afraid you might cease from hating iti " 
 " Oh, no. But I believe in feeding always on wholesome 
 food." 
 
 " Modern London doesn't." 
 
 " I shall never be modern, I'm afraid," she said, half laugh- 
 ing, and with a soft touch of apparently genuine deprecation. 
 "Be eternal, that's better! " he almost whispered. "Listen 
 to that nightingale. It's singing a song of all the ages. You 
 have a message like that for me." 
 
 They had strolled out after dinner in the warm May night, 
 and had walked a little way up the steep flank of Lycabettos 
 till they reached a wooden bench near which were a few small 
 fir trees. Somewhere among these trees there was hidden a
 
 42 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 nightingale, which sang with intensity to Athens spread out 
 below, a small maze of mellow lights and of many not inhar- 
 monious voices. Even in the night, and at a distance, they 
 felt the smiling intimacy of the little city they loved. Its his- 
 tory was like a living thing dwelling among the shadows, 
 hallowed and hallowing, its treasures, like night flowers, 
 breathed out a mysterious message to them. They received it, 
 and felt that they understood it. Had the nightingale been 
 singing to any city its song must have seemed to them beautiful. 
 But it was singing to Athens, and that fact gave to its voice, 
 in their ears, a magical meaning. 
 
 They sat for a while in silence. Nobody passed on the 
 winding path. Their impulse to solitude was unshared by 
 the dwellers in Athens. Neither knew exactly what thoughts 
 were passing through the other's mind, what aspirations were 
 flaming up in the heart of the other. But they knew that they 
 were close bound in sympathy just then, voyaging towards a 
 common future. That future lay over the sea in gray England. 
 Their time in Greece was but an interlude. But in it they 
 were gathering up impressions, were laying in stores for their 
 journey. The nightingale's song was part of their provision. 
 It had to sing to just them for some hidden reason. And to 
 Dion it seemed that the nightingale knew the reason while they 
 did not, that it comprehended all the under things of love and 
 of sorrow of which they were ignorant. When he spoke again 
 he said : 
 
 " A bird's song always makes me feel very unlearned. Do 
 you know what I mean? " 
 
 " Yes. We've got to learn so much." 
 
 " Together." 
 
 "Yes partly." 
 
 " Partly? " he said quickly. 
 
 " I think there's a great deal that can only be learnt quite 
 alone." 
 
 Again, as sometimes before, Dion trod on the verges of 
 mystery, felt as if something in Rosamund eluded him, and 
 was chilled for a moment. 
 
 " I dare say you are right," he said. " But I believe I could 
 learn any lesson more easily with you to help me." 
 
 " No, I don't think so." 
 
 " Perhaps we shall know which is right, you or I, when 
 we've been much longer together," he said, with an effort to 
 speak lightly.
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 43 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Rosamund, sometimes you make me feel as if you thought 
 I didn't know you, I mean didn't know you thoroughly." 
 
 "Do I?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Again silence fell between them. As Dion listened once 
 more to the persistent nightingale he felt that there was pain 
 somewhere at the back of its ecstasy. He looked down at the 
 soft lights of little Athens, and suddenly knew that much sor- 
 row lay in the shadows of all the cities of the earth. There 
 was surely a great reserve in the girl who had given herself to 
 him. That was natural, perhaps. But to-night he felt that 
 she was aware of this reserve and was consciously guarding 
 it like a sacred thing. Presently they got up and went slowly 
 down the hill. 
 
 " Suppose you had never married," he said, as they drew near 
 to the city, "how would you have lived, do you think? " 
 
 " Perhaps for my singing, at first," she answered. 
 
 "And afterwards? " 
 
 "Afterwards? Very quietly, I think." 
 
 " You won't tell me." 
 
 " I don't know for certain, and what does it matter? I 
 have married. If I hadn't, perhaps I should have been very 
 selfish and thought myself very self-sacrificing." 
 
 " I wonder in what way selfish." 
 
 " There are so many ways. I heard a sermon once on a 
 foggy night in London." 
 
 " Ah that evening I called on you." 
 
 " I didn't say so. It made me understand egoism better 
 than I had understood it before. Perhaps it's the unpardon- 
 able sin." 
 
 " Then it could never be your sin." 
 
 "Hush!" 
 
 They no longer heard the nightingale. The voices and the 
 houses of Athens were about them. 
 
 As the days slipped by, Dion felt that Rosamund and he 
 grew closer together. He knew, though he could not perhaps 
 have said how, that he would be the only man in her intimate 
 life. Even if he died she would never -he felt sure of this 
 yield herself to another man. The tie between them was to 
 her a bond for eternity. Her body would never be given twice. 
 That he knew. But sometimes he asked himself whether her 
 whole soul would ever be given even once. The insatiable
 
 44 . IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 greed of a great and exclusive love was alive within him, need- 
 ing always something more than it had. At first, after their 
 marriage, he had not been aware of this greed, had not realized 
 that nothing great is content to remain just as it is at a given 
 moment. His love had to progress, and gradually, in Greece, 
 he became conscious of this fact. 
 
 His inner certainty, quite unshakable, that Rosamund would 
 never belong to another man in the physical sense made jealousy 
 of an ordinary kind impossible to him. The lowness, the 
 hideous vulgarity of the jealousy which tortures the writhing 
 flesh would never be his. Yet he wanted more than he had 
 sometimes, stretched out arms to something which did not 
 come to nestle against him. 
 
 There was a great independence in Rosamund, he thought, 
 which set her apart from other women. Not only could she 
 bear to be alone, she sometimes wished to be alone. Dion, 
 on the contrary, never wished to be away from her. It might 
 be necessary for him to leave her. He was not a young doting 
 fool who could not detach himself even for a moment from 
 his wife's apron strings. But he knew very well that at all 
 times he preferred to be with her, close to her, that he relished 
 everything more when he was in her company than when he 
 was alone. She added to his power of enjoyment, to his faculty 
 of appreciation, by being beside him. The Parthenon even 
 was made more sublime to him by her. That was a mystery. 
 And the mystery of her human power to increase penetrated 
 everywhere through their life in common, like a percolating 
 flood that could not be gainsaid. She manifested her influence 
 upon him subtly through the maidens of the Porch, through 
 the almost neat perfection of the Theseion, through the de- 
 tached grandeur of those columns in the waste place, that 
 golden and carved Olympieion which acts as an outpost to 
 Athens. It was as if she had the power to put something of 
 herself into everything that he cared for so that he might care 
 for it more, whether it were a golden sunset on the sea over 
 which they drifted in a sailing-boat off the coast of old 
 Phaleron, or a marble figure in a museum. She dwelt in the 
 stones of a ruined temple; she set her feet upon the dream of 
 the distant mountains; she was in the dawn, the twilight, and 
 in all the ways of the moon, because he loved her and found 
 her in all things when they were together. 
 
 He did not know whether she, in a similar mysterious way, 
 found him in all that she enjoyed. He did not ask her the
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 45 
 
 question. Perhaps, really, in that truth of apprehension which 
 lives very far down in a man, he had divined the answer, 
 although he told himself that he did not know. 
 
 He found always something new to enjoy and to worship 
 in Rosamund. 
 
 They had many tastes in common. At first, of deliberate 
 choice, they had bounded their honeymoon with the precipices 
 of the Acropolis, learning the Doric lesson on that height above 
 the world. Then one day they had made a great sacrifice 
 and gone to pass their hours in the pine woods of Kephissia. 
 They had returned to the Acropolis quite athirst. But by 
 degrees the instinct to wander a little farther afield took greater 
 hold upon them, their love of physical exercise asserted itself. 
 They began to take long rides on horseback, carrying food in 
 their saddle-bags. The gently wild charm of Greece laid its 
 spell upon them. They both loved Athens, but now they began 
 to love, too, escaping from Athens. 
 
 Directly they were out of the city they were in a freedom 
 that appealed to the gipsy in both. Dion's strong boyishness, 
 which had never yet been cast off, was met and countered by 
 the best of good fellowship in Rosamund. Though she could 
 be very serious, and even what he called " strange," she was 
 never depressed or sad. Her good spirits were unfailing and 
 infectious. She reveled in a " jaunt " or a " day out," and 
 her physical strength kept fatigue far from her. She could 
 ride for many hours without losing her freshness and zest. 
 Every little episode of the wayside interested and entertained 
 her. Everything comic made her laugh. She showed an ardor 
 almost like an intelligent child's in getting to understand all 
 she saw. Scenery, buildings, animal life, people, every offer- 
 ing of Greece was eagerly accepted, examined and discussed 
 by her. She was the perfect comrade for the wilds. Their 
 common joy in the wilds drew her and Dion more closely 
 together. Never before had Rosamund been quite away from 
 civilization, from the hitherto easily borne trammels of modern 
 complicated life. She " found herself " in the adventure. 
 The pure remoteness of Greece came to her like natal air. She 
 breathed it in with a sort of rapture. It was as Dion had said. 
 She was not merely in, she was of, Greece. 
 
 They rode one day to Eleusis; on another day to Tatoi, 
 buried in oak-woods on the slope of Parnes; on another through 
 noisy and mongrel Piraeus, and over undulating wrinkled 
 ground, burnt up by the sun and covered with low scrub and
 
 46 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 bushes of myrtle, to the shore of the gulf opposite to Salamis; 
 on yet another to Marathon, where they lunched on the famous 
 mound beneath which the bodies of Athenians who fell in the 
 battle were buried. They took no companion with them. Dion 
 carried a revolver in his hip pocket, but never had reason to 
 show or to use it. When they dismounted they tethered the 
 horses to a bush or tree, or sometimes hobbled their forelegs, 
 and turned them loose for a while. 
 
 Such days were pure joy to them both. In them they went 
 back to the early world. They did not make the hard and 
 self-conscious imaginative effort of the prig to hurl themselves 
 into an historic past. They just let tlu land and its memories 
 take them. As, sitting on the warm ground among the wild 
 myrtle bushes, they looked across the emerald green unruffled 
 waters to Salamis, that very long isle with its calm gray and 
 orange hills and its indented shores, perhaps for a moment 
 they talked of the Queen of Halicarnassus, and of the decep- 
 tion of Xerxes watching from his throne on Mount ^galeos. 
 But the waters were now so solitary, the peace about them was 
 so profound, that the memory of battles soon faded away in the 
 sunshine. Terror and death had been here once. A queen 
 had destroyed her own people in that jeweled sea, a king had 
 fled from those delicate mountains. But now sea and land 
 were for lovers. A fly with shining wings journeyed among 
 the leaves of the myrtles, a beetle crept over the hot sandy 
 ground leaving a minute pattern behind it; and Rosamund 
 and Dion forgot all about Artemisia, as they brooded, wide- 
 eyed, over the activities of the dwellers in the waste. At such 
 moments they realized the magic of life, as they had never 
 realized it in the turmoil of London. The insect with its wings 
 that caught the sun, the intent and preoccupied little traveler 
 whose course could be deflected by a twig, revealed the wonder 
 that is lost and forgotten in the crowded highways of men. 
 
 It was when they were at Marathon that Rosamund told 
 Dion she loved Greece partly because of its emptiness. The 
 country was not only rather bare of vegetation, despite its 
 groves of glorious old olives, its woods of oaks round Tatoi, its 
 delicious curly forests of yellow-green pines, which looked, 
 Rosamund declared, as if they had just had their dainty heads 
 perfectly dressed by an accomplished coiffeur, it was also almost 
 strangely bare of men. 
 
 " Where are the Greeks? " Rosamund had often asked during
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 47 
 
 their first few rides, as they cantered on and on, scarcely ever 
 meeting a human being. 
 
 " In the towns to be sure! " Dion had answered. 
 
 " And where are the towns? " 
 
 "Ah! That's more than I can tell you!" he had said, 
 laughing. 
 
 To one hitherto accustomed to England, the emptiness of 
 the country, even quite near to Athens, was at first surprising. 
 Soon it became enchanting. 
 
 " This is a country I can thoroughly trust," Rosamund de- 
 clared at Marathon. 
 
 Dion had just finished hobbling the two horses, and now 
 lifted himself up. His brown face was flushed from bending. 
 His thin riding-clothes were white with dust, which he beat 
 off with hands that looked almost as if they wore gloves, so 
 deeply were they dyed by the sun. As the cloud dispersed 
 he emerged carrying their lunch in a straw pannier. 
 
 "Why trust specially?" he said. "Ah," he threw him- 
 self down by her side with a sigh of happiness, " this is good! 
 The historic mound, and we think of it merely as a resting- 
 place, vandals that we are. But why trust ? " 
 
 " I mean that Greece never keeps any unpleasant surprises 
 up her sleeve, surprises such as other countries have of noisy, 
 intruding people. It's terrible how accustomed I'm getting 
 to having everything all to myself, and how I simply love it." 
 
 He began slowly unpacking the pannier, and laying its con- 
 tents out on the mound. 
 
 " You're a puzzle, Rosamund," he said. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " You have a greater faculty for making yourself delightful 
 to all sorts of people than I have found in any other person, 
 woman or man. And yet you are developing a perfect passion 
 for solitude." 
 
 " Do you want people here ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Then you agree with me." 
 
 " But you have an absolute lust for an empty world." 
 
 "Look!" 
 
 She stretched out her right arm she was leaning on the 
 other with her cheek in her hand and pointed to the crescent- 
 shaped plain which lay beyond them, bounded by a sea which 
 was a wonder of sparkling and intense blue, and guarded by a
 
 48 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 curving line of low hills. There were some clouds in the sky, 
 but the winds were at rest, and the clouds were just white 
 things dreaming. In the plain there were no trees. Here and 
 there some vague crops hinted at the languid labors of men. 
 No human beings were visible, but in the distance, not very 
 far from the sea edge, a few oxen were feeding. Their dark 
 slow-moving bodies intersected the blue. There were no ships 
 or boats upon the stretch of sea which Rosamund and Dion 
 gazed at. Behind them the bare hills showed no sign of life. 
 The solitude was profound but not startling. It seemed in 
 place, necessary and beautiful. In the emptiness there was 
 something touching, something reticently satisfying. It was a 
 land and seascape delicately purged. 
 
 " Greece and solitude," said Rosamund. " I shall always 
 connect them together. I shall always love each for the other's 
 sake." 
 
 In the silence which followed the words the far-off lowing 
 of oxen came to them over the flats. Rosamund shut her eyes, 
 Dion half shut his, and the empty world was a shining dream. 
 
 When they had lunched, Rosamund said: 
 
 " I'm going to climb up into that house. The owner will 
 never come, I'm sure." 
 
 Near them upon the mound was a dwelling of Arcady, in 
 which surely a shepherd sometimes lay and piped to the sun 
 and the sea god. It was lifted upon a tripod of poles, and 
 was deftly made of brushwood, with roof, floor and two walls 
 all complete. A ladder of wood, from which the bark had 
 been stripped, led up to it. 
 
 " You want to sleep? " Dion asked. 
 
 She looked at him. 
 
 " Perhaps." 
 
 He helped her up to her feet. Quickly she mounted the 
 ladder and stepped into the room. 
 
 " Good-by! " she said, looking down at him and smiling. 
 
 " Good-by! " he answered, looking up. 
 
 She made a pretense of shutting a door and withdrawing 
 into privacy. He lit his pipe, hesitated a moment, then went 
 to lie down under her room. Now he no longer saw her, but 
 he heard her movements overhead. The dry brushwood 
 crackled as she lay down, as she settled herself. She was lying 
 surely at full length. He guessed that she had stretched out 
 her arms and put her two hands under her head. She sighed.
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 49 
 
 Below he echoed her sigh with a long breath of contentment. 
 Then they both lay very still. 
 
 Marathon ! 
 
 He remembered his schoolbooks. He remembered begin- 
 ning Greek. He had never been very good at Greek. His 
 mother, if she had been a man and had gone to Oxford or Cam- 
 bridge, would have made a far better classic than he. She had 
 helped him sometimes during the holidays when he was quite 
 small. He remembered exactly how she had looked when he 
 had been conjugating TTOVW half-loving and half-satirical. 
 He had made a good many mistakes. He had said that e-arov 
 was the first aorist active, and his mother had remarked, " Xot 
 yet, dee-ar! " as if, perhaps, the verb were on the way towards 
 his conception of it out of sheer politeness. One never knew. 
 Later he had read Greek history with his mother, he had read 
 about the battle of Marathon. 
 
 " Marathon " it was written in his school history, " became 
 a magic word at Athens . . . the one hundred and ninety-two 
 Athenians who had perished in the battle were buried on the 
 field, and over their remains a tumulus or mound was erected, 
 which may still be seen about half a mile from the sea." As 
 a small boy he had read that with a certain inevitable detach- 
 ment. And now here he lay, a man, on that very tumulus, and 
 the brushwood creaked above his head with the movement of 
 the woman he loved. 
 
 How wonderful was the weaving of the Fates! 
 
 And if some day he should sit in the place of his mother, 
 and should hear a small boy, his small boy, conjugating Trav'w! 
 By Jove! He would have to rub up his classics! Not for ten 
 years old; he wasn't so bad as that; but for twenty, when the 
 small boy would be going up to Oxford, and would, perhaps, 
 be turning out alarmingly learned. 
 
 Rosamund the mother of a young man! 
 
 But Dion shied away from that. He could imagine her as 
 the mother of a child, beautiful mother of a child almost as 
 beautiful; but he could not conceive of her as the "mater" of 
 a person with a mustache. 
 
 Their youth, their youth must it go? 
 
 Again she moved slightly above him. The twigs crackled, 
 making an almost irritable music of dryness. Again the lowing 
 of cattle came over that old battlefield from the edge of the 
 sea. And just then, at that very moment, Dion knew that his
 
 50 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 great love could not stand still, that, like all great things, it 
 must progress. And the cry, that intense human cry, 
 ' " Whither? " echoed in the deep places of his soul. Whither 
 were he and his great love going? To what end were they 
 journeying? For a moment sadness invaded him, the sadness 
 of one who thinks and is very ignorant. Why cannot a man 
 think deeply without thinking of an end? " All things come 
 to an end! " That cruel saying went through his mind like 
 footsteps echoing on iron, and a sense of fear encompassed him. 
 There is something terrible in a great love, set in the little life 
 of a man like a vast light in a tiny attic. 
 
 Did Rosamund ever have such thoughts? Dion longed to 
 ask her. Was she sleeping perhaps now? She was lying very 
 still. If they ever had a child its coming would mark a great 
 step onwards along the road, the closing of a very beautiful 
 chapter in their book of life. It would be over, their loneliness 
 in love, man and woman in solitude. Even the sexual tie 
 would be changed. All the world would be changed. 
 
 He lay flat on the ground, stretched out, his elbows firmly 
 planted, his chin in his palms, his face set towards the plain 
 and the sea. 
 
 What he looked at seemed gently to chide him. There were 
 such a brightness and simplicity and such a delicious freedom 
 from all complication in this Grecian landscape edged by the 
 wide frankness of the sea that he felt reassured. Edging the 
 mound there were wild aloes and the wild oleander. A river 
 intersected the plain which in many places was tawny yellow. 
 Along the river bank grew tall reeds, sedges and rushes. Be- 
 yond the plain, and beyond the blue waters, rose the Island of 
 Euboea, and ranges of mountains, those mountains of Greece 
 which are so characteristic in their unpretentious bareness, 
 which neither overwhelm nor entice, but which are unfailingly 
 delicate, unfailingly beautiful, quietly, almost gently, noble. 
 In the distance, when he turned his head, Dion could see the 
 little Albanian village of Marathon, a huddle of tiny houses 
 far off under the hills. He looked at it for a moment, then 
 again looked out over the plain, rejoicing in its emptiness. 
 Along the sea edge the cattle were straying, but their movements 
 were almost imperceptible. Still they were living things and 
 drew Dion's eyes. The life in them sent out its message to 
 the life in him, and he earnestly watched them grazing. Their 
 vague and ruminating movements really emphasized the pro- 
 found peace which lay around Rosamund and him. To watch
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 51 
 
 them thus was a savoring of peace. For every contented ani- 
 mal is a bearer of peaceful tidings. In the Garden of Eden 
 with the Two there were happy animals. And Dion recalled 
 the great battle which had dyed red this serene wilderness, a 
 battle which was great because it had been greatly sung, lifted 
 up by the music of poets, set on high by the lips of orators. 
 He looked over the land and thought : " Here Miltiades won 
 the name which has resounded through history. To that shore, 
 where I see the cattle, the Persians were driven." And it 
 seemed to him that the battle of Marathon had been fought in 
 order that Rosamund and he, in the nineteenth century, might 
 be drawn to this place to meet the shining afternoon. Yes, it 
 was fought for that, and to make this place the more wonderful 
 for them. It was their Garden of Eden consecrated by History. 
 
 \Yhat a very small animal that was which had strayed away 
 from its kind over the tawny ground where surely there was 
 nothing to feed upon! The little dark body of it looked oddly 
 detached as it moved along. And now another animal was 
 following it quickly. The arrival of the second darkness, run- 
 ning, made Dion know that the first was human, the guardian 
 of the beasts, no doubt. 
 
 So Eden was invaded already! He smiled as he thought 
 of the serpent. The human being came on slowly, always 
 moving in the direction of the mound, and always accompanied 
 by its attendant animal a dog, of course. Soon Dion knew 
 that both were making for the mound. It occurred to him that 
 Rosamund was in the private room of him who was approach- 
 ing, was possibly sound asleep there. 
 
 " Rosamund ! " he almost whispered. 
 
 There was no answer. 
 
 "Rosamund! " he murmured, looking upward to his roof, 
 which was her floor. 
 
 " Hush ! " came down to him through the brushwood. " I'm 
 willing it to come to us." 
 
 "What the guardian of the cattle?" 
 
 " Guardian of the ! It's a child! " 
 
 " How do you know? " 
 
 " I do know. Now you're not to frighten it" 
 
 "Of course not!" 
 
 He lay very still, his chin in his palms, watching the on- 
 comers. How had she known? And then, seeing suddenly 
 through her eyes, he knew that of course it was a child, tha't it 
 could not be anything else. All its movements now proclaimed
 
 52 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 to him its childishness, and he watched it with a sort of fasci- 
 nation. 
 
 For he had never yet seen Rosamund with a child. That 
 would be for him a new experience with something, perhaps, 
 prophetic in it. 
 
 Child and animal approached steadily, keeping an un- 
 deviating course, and presently Dion saw a very small, but 
 sturdy, Greek boy of perhaps ten years old, wearing a collar- 
 less shirt, open at a deep brown throat, leggings of some thin 
 material, boots, and a funny little patched brown coat and 
 pointed hood made all in one, and hanging down with a fulness 
 almost of skirts about the small determined legs. The accom- 
 panying dog was a very sympathetic, blunt-nosed, round- 
 headed, curly-coated type, whose whiteness, which positively 
 invited the stroking hand, was broken by two great black 
 blotches set all askew on the back, and by a black patch which 
 ringed the left eye and completely smothered the cocked-up left 
 ear. The child carried a stick, which nearly reached to his 
 shoulder, and which ended in a long and narrow crook. The 
 happy dog, like its master, had no collar. 
 
 When these two reached the foot of the tumulus they stood 
 still and stared upwards. The dog uttered a short gruff bark, 
 looked at the boy, wagged a fat tail, barked again, abruptly 
 depressed the fore part of its body till its chin was against the 
 ground between its paws, then jumped into the air with a 
 sudden demeanor of ludicrously young, and rather uncouth, 
 waggishness, which made Dion laugh. 
 
 The small boy replied with a smile almost as sturdy as his 
 legs, which he now permitted to convey him with decisive 
 firmness through the wild aloes and oleanders to the summit 
 of the tumulus. He stood before Dion, holding his crooked 
 staff tightly in his right hand, but his large dark eyes were 
 directed upwards. Evidently his attention was not to be given 
 to Dion. His dog, on the contrary, after a stare and two 
 muffled attempts at a menacing bark, came to make friends with 
 Dion in a way devoid of all dignity, full of curves, wrigglings, 
 tail wr.ggings and grins which exposed rows of smiling teeth. 
 
 " Dion ! " came Rosamund's voice from above. 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " Do show him the way up. He wants to come up." 
 
 Dion got up, took the little Greek's hand firmly, led him 
 to the foot of the ladder, and pointed to Rosamund who leaned 
 from her brushwood chamber and held out inviting hands,
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 53 
 
 smiling, and looking at the child with shining eyes. He under- 
 stood that he was very much wanted, gravely placed his staff 
 on the ground, laid hold of the ladder, and slowly clambered 
 up, with the skirts of his coat sticking out behind him. His 
 tog set up a loud barking, scrambled at the ladder, and made 
 desperate efforts to follow him. 
 
 "Help him up, Dion! " came the commanding voice from 
 above. 
 
 Dion seized the curly coat of the dog picked up handfuls 
 of dog. There was a struggle. The dog made fierce motions 
 as if swimming, and whined in a thin and desperate soprano. 
 Its body heaved upwards, its forepaws clutched the edge of 
 the brushwood floor, and it arrived. 
 
 " Bravo! " cried Rosamund, as she proceeded to settle down 
 with her guests. " But why don't I know Greek? " 
 
 " It doesn't matter," Dion murmured, standing with his 
 hands on the ladder. " You know their language." 
 
 Rosamund was sitting now, half-curled up, with her back 
 against the brushwood wall. Her light sun-helmet lay on the 
 floor. In her ruffled hair were caught two or three thin brown 
 leaves, their brittle edges curled inwards. The little boy, 
 slightly smiling, yet essentially serious, as are children tested 
 by a great new experience, squatted close to her and facing her, 
 with one leg under him, the other leg stretched out confiden- 
 tially, as much as to say, "Here it is!" The dog lay close 
 by panting, smiling, showing as much tongue and teeth as was 
 caninely possible in the ardor of feeling tremendously uplifted, 
 important, one of the very few. 
 
 And Rosamund proceeded to entertain her guests. 
 
 What did she do? Sometimes, long afterwards in England, 
 Dion, recalling that day a very memorable day in his life 
 asked himself the question. And he could never remember 
 very much. But he knew that Rosamund showed him new 
 aspects of tenderness and fun. What do women Avho love and 
 understand little boys do to put them at their ease, to break 
 down their small shynesses? Rosamund did absurd things 
 with deep earnestness and complete concentration. She in- 
 vented games, played with twigs and straws which she drew 
 from the walls of her chamber. She changed the dog's ap- 
 pearance by rearrangements of his ears, to which he submitted 
 with a slobbering ecstasy, gazing at her with yellow eyes which 
 looked flattened in his head. Turned quite back, their pink 
 insides exposed to view, the ears changed him into a brand-new
 
 54 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 dog, at which his master stared with an amazement which soon 
 was merged in gratification. With a pocket-handkerchief she 
 performed marvels of impersonation which the boy watched with 
 an almost severe intentness, even putting out his tongue slowly, 
 and developing a slight squint, when the magician rose to 
 the top of her powers. She conjured with a silver coin, and of 
 course let the child play with her watch. She had realized at 
 a glance that those things which would be considered as baby 
 nonsense by an English boy of ten, to this small dweller on the 
 plain of Marathon were full of the magic of the unknown. 
 And at last: 
 
 " Throw me up an orange, Dion ! " she cried. " I know 
 there are two or three left in the pannier." 
 
 Dion bent down eagerly, rummaged and found an orange. 
 
 "Here!" he said. "Catch!" 
 
 He threw it up. She caught it with elaboration to astonish 
 the boy. 
 
 " What are you going to do? " asked Dion. 
 
 " Throw me up your pocket-knife and you'll see." 
 
 Again he threw and she caught, while the boy's mouth gaped. 
 
 " Now then ! " cried Rosamund. 
 
 She set to work, and almost directly had introduced her 
 astounded guest of the Greek kingdom to the famous " Cross- 
 ing the Channel " tragedy. 
 
 So great was the effect of this upon little Miltiades, so 
 they both always called the boy when talking of him in after 
 times, that he began to perspire, and drops of saliva fell 
 from the corners of his small and pouting mouth in imitation of 
 the dreadfully human orange by which he was confronted. 
 Thereupon Rosamund threw off all ceremony and frankly 
 played the mother. She drew the boy, smiling, sideways to her, 
 wiped his mouth with her handkerchief, gently blew his small 
 nose and gave him a warm kiss. 
 
 "There!" she said 
 
 And upon this the child made a remark. 
 
 Neither of them ever knew what it meant. It was long, 
 and sounded like an explanation. Having spoken, Miltiades 
 suddenly looked shy. He wriggled towards the top of the 
 ladder. Dion thought that Rosamund would try to stop him 
 from leaving her, but she did not. On the contrary, she drew 
 up her legs and made way for him, carefully. The child deftly 
 descended, picked up his staff and turned. The dog, barking 
 joyously, had leaped after him, and now gamboled around him.
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 55- 
 
 For a moment the child hesitated, and in that moment Dion 
 popped the remains of their lunch into his coat pockets; then 
 slowly he walked to the side of the tumulus by which he had 
 come up. There he stood for two or three minutes staring once 
 more up at Rosamund. She waved a friendly hand to him, 
 boyishly, Dion thought. He smiled cautiously, then confi- 
 dentially, suddenly turned and bolted down the slope uttering 
 little cries and so away once more to the far-off cattle on the 
 old battlefield, followed by his curly dog. 
 
 When Dion had watched him into the distance, beyond which 
 lay the shining glory of the sea, and looked up to Rosamund 
 again, she was pulling the little dry leaves from her undulat- 
 ing hair. 
 
 " I'm all brushwood," she said, " and I love it." 
 
 " So do I." 
 
 " I ought to have been born a shepherdess. Why do you 
 look at me like that? " 
 
 " Perhaps because I'm seeing a new girl who's got even more 
 woman in her than I knew till to-day." 
 
 " Most women are like that, Dion, when they get the 
 chance." 
 
 "To think you knew all those tricks and never told me! " 
 
 " Help me down." 
 
 He stretched out his arms to her. When she was on the 
 ground he still held her for a moment. 
 
 " You darling ! " he whispered. " Never shall I forget this 
 day at Marathon, the shining, the child, and you you! " 
 
 They did not talk much on the long ride homeward. The 
 heat was great, but they were not afraid of it, for the shining 
 fires of this land on the edge of the east cherished and did 
 not burn them. The white dust lay deep on the road, and 
 flew in light clouds from under the feet of their horses as they 
 rode slowly upwards, leaving the blue of their pastoral behind 
 them, and coming into the yellow of the pine woods. Later, 
 as they drew nearer to Athens, the ancient groves of the olives, 
 touched with a gentle solemnity, would give them greeting; the 
 fig trees and mulberry trees would be about them, and the long 
 vineyards watched over by the aristocratic cypress lifting its 
 dark spire to the sun. But now the kingdom of the pine trees 
 joyously held them. They were in the happy woods in which 
 even to breathe was sheer happiness. Now and then they 
 pulled up and looked back to the crescent-shaped plain which 
 held a child instead of armies. They traced the course of the
 
 56 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 river marked out by the reeds and sedges. They saw the tiny 
 dark specks, which were cattle grazing, with the wonder of 
 blue beyond them. In these moments, half-unconsciously, they 
 were telling memory to lay in its provision for the future. 
 Perhaps they would never come back; never again would Rosa- 
 mund rest in her brushwood chamber, never again would Dion 
 hear the dry music above him, and feel the growth of his love, 
 the urgency of its progress just as he had felt them that day. 
 They might be intensely happy, but exactly the same happiness 
 would probably not be theirs again through all the years that 
 were coming. The little boy and his dog had doubtless gone 
 out of their lives for ever. Their good-by to Marathon might 
 well be final. They looked back again and again, till the blue 
 of the sea was lost to them. Then they rode on, faster. The 
 horses knew they were going homeward, and showed a new 
 liveliness, sharing the friskiness of the little graceful trees about 
 them. Now and then the riders saw some dusty peasants 
 brown and sun-dried men wearing the fustanella, and shoes 
 with turned-up toes ornamented with big black tassels; women 
 with dingy handkerchiefs tied over their heads; children who 
 looked almost like spawn of the sun in their healthy, bright- 
 eyed brownness. And these people had cheerful faces. Their 
 rustic lot seemed enviable. Who would not shed his sorrows 
 under these pine trees, in this country where the solitudes 
 radiated happiness, and even bareness was like music? Here 
 was none of the heavy and exotic passion, none of the lustrous 
 and almost morbid romance of the true and distant East, 
 drowsy with voluptuous memories. That setting was not for 
 Rosamund. Here were a lightness, a purity and sweetness of 
 Arcadia, and people who looked both intelligent and simple. 
 
 At a turn of the road they met some Vlachs rascally 
 wanderers, lean as greyhounds, chicken-stealers and robbers in 
 the night, yet with a sort of consecration of careless cheerfulness 
 upon them. They called out. In their cries there was the 
 sound of a lively malice. Their brown feet stirred up the dust 
 and set it dancing in the sunshine, a symbol surely of their 
 wayward, unfettered spirits. A little way off, on a slope among 
 the trees, their dark tents could be partially seen. 
 
 " Lucky beggars ! " murmured Dion, as he threw them a 
 few small coins, while Rosamund smiled at them and waved 
 her hand in answer to their greetings. " I believe it's the ideal 
 Kfe to dwell in the tents." 
 
 " It seems so to-day."
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 57 
 
 " Won't it to-morrow ? Won't it when we are in London ? " 
 
 " Perhaps more than ever then." 
 
 Was she gently evading an answer? They had reached the 
 brow of the hill and put their horses to a canter. The white 
 dust settled over them. They were like millers on horseback 
 as they left the pine woods behind them. But the touch of the 
 dust was as the touch of nature upon their faces and hands. 
 They would not have been free of it as they rode towards Athens, 
 and came to the region of the vineyards, of the olive groves 
 and the cypresses. Now and then they passed ramshackle 
 cafes made of boards roughly nailed together anyhow, with a 
 straggle of vine sprawling over them, and the earth for a 
 flooring. Tables were set out before them, or in their shadows; 
 a few bottles were visible within; on benches or stools were 
 grouped Greeks, old and young, busily talking, no doubt about 
 politics. Carts occasionally passed by the riders, sending out 
 dust to mingle with theirs. Turkeys gobbled at them, dogs 
 barked in front of one-storied houses. They saw peasants sit- 
 ting sideways on pattering donkeys, and now and then a man 
 on horseback. By thin runlets of water were women, chatter- 
 ing as they washed the clothes of their households. Then 
 again, the horses came into the bright and solitary places where 
 the cheerful loneliness of Greece held sway. 
 
 And so, at last they cantered into the outskirts of Athens 
 when the evening was falling. Another day had slipped from 
 them. But both felt it was a day which they had known very 
 well, had realized with an unusual fulness. 
 
 " It's been a day of days! " Dion said that evening. 
 
 And Rosamund nodded assent. 
 
 A child had been in that day, and, with a child's irresistible 
 might, had altered everything for them. Now Dion knew how 
 Rosamund would be with a child of her own, and Rosamund 
 knew that Dion loved her more deeply because he had seen 
 her with a child. A little messenger had come to them over 
 the sun-dried plain of Marathon bearing a gift of knowledge. 
 
 The next day they spent quietly. In the morning they visited 
 the National Museum, and in the late afternoon they returned 
 to the Acropolis. 
 
 In the Museum Rosamund was fascinated by the tombs. 
 She, who always seemed so remote from sorrow, who, to Dion, 
 was the personification of vitality and joyousness, was deeply 
 moved by the record of death, by the wonderfully restrained, 
 and yet wonderfully frank, suggestion of the grief of those who,
 
 58 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 centuries ago, had mingled their dust with the dust of the rela- 
 tions, the lovers, the friends, whom they had mourned for. 
 
 " What a lesson this is for me! " she murmured at last, after 
 standing for a long while wrapped in silence and contemplation. 
 
 " Why for you, specially? " he asked. 
 
 She looked up at him. There were tears in her eyes. He 
 believed she was hesitating, undecided whether to let him into 
 a new chamber of her being, or whether to close a half-opened 
 door against him. 
 
 " It's very difficult to submit, I think, for some of us," she 
 answered, after a pause, slowly. " Those old Greeks must 
 have known how to do it." 
 
 " To submit to sorrow? " 
 
 " Yes, to a great sorrow. Such a thing is like an attack in 
 the dark. If I am attacked I want to strike back and hurt." 
 
 " But whom could you reasonably hurt on account of a death 
 that came in the course of nature? That's what you mean, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 After a slight hesitation she said: 
 
 " Do you mean that you don't think we can hurt God ? " 
 
 " I wonder," Dion answered. 
 
 " I don't. I know we can." 
 
 She looked again at the tomb before which they were stand- 
 ing. It showed a woman seated and stretching out her right 
 arm, which a woman friend was touching. In the background 
 were another, contemplative, woman and a man wearing a 
 chaplet of leaves, his hand lifted to his face. For epitaph 
 there was one word, " x<upe," cut in the marble. 
 
 " ' Xcupc ' means farewell, doesn't it?" asked Rosamund. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Perhaps you'll smile, but I think these tombs are the most 
 beautiful things I have seen in Greece. It's a miracle their 
 lack of violence. What a noble thing grief could be. That 
 little simple ' xcu/oe ' ! It's great to be able to give up the dear- 
 est thing with that one little word. But I couldn't I 
 couldn't." 
 
 " How do you know? " 
 
 " I know, because I didn't." 
 
 She said nothing more on the subject that morning, but when 
 they were on the Acropolis waiting, as so often before, for the 
 approach of the evening, she returned to it. Evidently it was 
 haunting her that day.
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 59 
 
 " I believe giving up nobly is a much finer thing than attain- 
 ing nobly," she said. " And yet attaining wins all the ap- 
 plause, and giving up, if it gets anything, only gets that ugly 
 tiling pity." 
 
 " But is pity an ugly thing ? " said Dion. 
 
 He had a little stone in his hand, and, as he spoke, he threw 
 it gently towards the precipice, taking care not to send it over 
 the edge. 
 
 " I think I would rather have anything on earth from people 
 than their pity." 
 
 " Suppose I were to pity you because I loved you? " 
 
 He picked up another stone and held it in his hand. 
 
 " I should hate it." 
 
 He had lifted his hand for the throw, but he kept hold of 
 the stone. 
 
 " \Yhat, pity that came straight out of love? " 
 
 " Any sort of pity." 
 
 " You must be very proud much prouder than I am then. 
 If I were unhappy I should wish to have pity from you." 
 
 " Perhaps you have never been really unhappy." 
 
 Dion laid the stone down. He thought hard for a moment. 
 
 " Without any hope at all of a change back to happiness 
 no, actually I never have." 
 
 " Ah, then you've never had to brace up and see if you could 
 find a strong voice to utter your ' x a '/ e ' " 
 
 She spoke with firmness, a firmness that rang like true metal 
 struck with a hammer and giving back sincerity. 
 
 " That sounds tremendously Doric," he said. 
 
 His lips were smiling, but there was an almost surprised 
 expression in his eyes. 
 
 " Dion, do you know you're intuitive to-day? " 
 
 "Ah, your training your training! " 
 
 " Didn't you say we should have to be Doric ourselves 
 if ?" 
 
 " Come, Rosamund, it's time for the Parthenon." 
 
 Once more they went over the uneven ground to stand before 
 its solemn splendor. 
 
 " Shall we have learnt before we go? " said Dion. 
 
 " It's strange, but I think the tombs teach me more. They're 
 more within my reach. This is so tremendous that it's remote. 
 Perhaps a man, or or a boy " 
 
 She looked at him. 
 
 "A boy?"
 
 6e IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 He drew her down. She clasped her hands, that looked to 
 him so capable and so pure, round her knees. 
 
 "A boy? Go on, Rose." 
 
 " He might learn his lesson here, with a man to help him. 
 The Parthenon's tremendously masculine. Perhaps women 
 have to learn from the gentleness of those dear tombs." 
 
 Never before had she seemed to him so soft, so utterly soft 
 ef nature. 
 
 " You've been thinking a great deal to-day of our boy, haven't 
 you? " he said. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Suppose we did have a boy and lost him ? " 
 
 "Lost him?" 
 
 Her voice sounded suddenly almost hostile. 
 
 " Such a thing has happened to parents. It might happen 
 to us." 
 
 " I don't believe it would happen to me," Rosamund said, 
 with a sort of curious, almost cold decision. 
 
 "But why not?" 
 
 " What made you think of such a thing ? " 
 
 " I don't know. Perhaps it was because of what you said 
 this morning about grief, and then about bracing up and finding 
 a firm voice to utter one's ' x a '/ e -' " 
 
 " You don't understand what a woman would feel who lost 
 her child." 
 
 " Are you sure that you do? " 
 
 " Partly. Quite enough to Don't let us speak about 
 
 it any more." 
 
 " No. There's nothing more futile than imagining horrors 
 that are never coming upon us." 
 
 " I never do it," she said, with resolute cheerfulness. " But 
 we shall very soon have to say one ' x a " l P e ^ ' 
 
 "To the Parthenon?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Say it to-night." 
 
 She turned round to face him, 
 
 "To-night? Why?" 
 
 " For a little while." 
 
 A sudden happy idea had come to him. A shadow had 
 fallen over her for a moment. He wanted to drive it away, to 
 set her again in the full sunshine for which she was born, and 
 in which, if he could have his will, she should always dwell.
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 61 
 
 " You wanted to take me away somewhere." 
 
 " Yes. You must see a little more of Greece before we go 
 home. Say your ' x a ~ L P^ Rosamund." 
 
 She did not know what was in his mind, but she obeyed him, 
 and, looking up at the great marble columns, glowing with 
 honey-color and gold in the afternoon light, she murmured: 
 
 On the following day they left Athens and set out on the 
 journey to Olympia. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 WHY are you bringing me to Olympia ? " 
 That question, unuttered by her lips, was often 
 in Rosamund's eyes as they drew near to the green 
 wilds of Elis. Of course they had always meant to visit Olym- 
 pia before they sailed away to England, but she knew very well 
 that Dion had some special purpose in his mind, and that it 
 was closely connected with his great love of her. She had 
 understood that on the Acropolis, and her " xalpt " had been 
 an act of submission to his will not wholly unselfish. Her 
 curiosity was awake. 
 
 What was the secret of Olympia? 
 
 They had gone by train to Patras, slept there, and thence 
 rode on horseback to Pyrgos through the vast vineyards of the 
 Peloponnesus vineyards that stretched down to the sea and 
 were dotted with sentinel cypresses. The heat was much 
 greater than it had been in Athens. Enormous aloes hedged 
 gardens from which came scents that seemed warm. The 
 sandy soil, turned up by the horses' feet, was hot to the touch. 
 The air quivered, and was shot with a music of insects faint 
 but pervasive. 
 
 Pyrgos was suffocating and noisy, but Rosamund was amused 
 by democracy at close quarters, showing its naked love of lib- 
 erty. Her strong humanity rose to the occasion, and she gave 
 herself with a smiling willingness to the streets, in which men, 
 women, children and animals, with lungs of leather, sent forth 
 their ultimate music. Nevertheless, she was glad when she 
 and Dion set out again, and followed the banks of the Alpheus,
 
 62 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 leaving the cries of the city behind them. It seemed to her 
 that they were traveling to some hidden treasure, secluded in 
 the folds of a green valley where the feet of men seldom, if ever, 
 came. Dion's eyes told her that they were drawing nearer 
 and nearer to the secret he knew of, and was going to reveal 
 to her. She often caught him looking at her with an almost 
 boyish expression of loving anticipation; and more than once 
 he laughed happily when he saw her question, but he would 
 not give her an answer. 
 
 Peasants worked in the vineyards, shoulder-high in the 
 plants, brown and sweating in the glare. Swarthy children, 
 with intelligent eyes, often with delicate noses, and those pouting 
 lips which are characteristic of many Greek statues, ran to 
 stare at them, and sometimes followed them a little way, but 
 without asking for alms. Then the solitudes took them, and 
 they wound on and on, with their guide as their only com- 
 panion. 
 
 He was a gentle, even languid-looking youth, called Nicholas 
 Agathoulos, who was a native of Patras, but who had lived 
 a good deal in Athens, who spoke a few words of English and 
 French, and who professed a deep passion for Lord Byron. 
 Nicholas rode on a mule, leading, or not leading as the case 
 might be for he was a charmingly careless person a second 
 mule on which was fastened Rosamund's and Dion's scanty 
 luggage. Rosamund, like a born vagabond, was content to 
 travel in this glorious climate with scarcely any impedimenta. 
 When Nicholas was looked at he smiled peacefully under his 
 quiet and unpretending black mustache. When he was not 
 looked at he seemed to sleep with open eyes. He never sang 
 or whistled, had no music at all in him; but he could quote 
 stanzas from " Don Juan " in Greek, and, when he did that, 
 he woke up, sparks of fire glowed in his eyes, and his employers 
 realized that he shared to the full the patriotism of his country- 
 men. 
 
 Did he know the secret of Olympia which Dion was conceal- 
 ing so carefully, and enjoying so much, as the little train of 
 pilgrims wound onwards among fruit trees and shrubs of arbu- 
 tus, penetrating farther and ever farther into a region sweet and 
 remote? Of course he must know it. 
 
 " I shall ask Nicholas," Rosamund said once to Dion, per- 
 versely. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " You know perfectly well what."
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 63 
 
 His face was a map of innocence as he touched his thin horse 
 with the whip and rode forward a little faster. 
 
 "What is there to see at Olympia, Nicholas?" she said, 
 speaking rather loudly in order that Dion might hear. 
 
 Nicholas woke up, and hastily, in a melodious voice, quoted 
 some scraps of guide-book. Rosamund did not find what she 
 wanted among them. She knew already about the ruins, about 
 the Nike of Paeonius and the Hermes of Praxiteles. So she 
 left the young Greek to his waking dream, and possessed her 
 soul in a patience that was not difficult. She liked to dwell 
 in anticipation. And she felt that any secret this land was 
 about to reveal to her would be, must be, beautiful. She trusted 
 Greece. 
 
 " We aren't far off now," said Dion presently, as they rode 
 up the valley a valley secluded from the world, pastoral and 
 remote, shaded by Judas trees. 
 
 " How peaceful and lovely it is." 
 
 " And full of the echoes of the Pagan feet which once trod 
 here." 
 
 " I don't hear them," said Rosamund, " and I am listen- 
 ing." 
 
 " Perhaps you could never hear Pagan echoes. And yet you 
 love Greece." 
 
 " Yes. But I have nothing Pagan in me. I know that." 
 
 " It doesn't matter," he said. " You are the ideal woman to 
 be in Greece with. If I don't come back to Greece with you, I 
 shall never come back." 
 
 They rode on. Her horse was following his along the wind- 
 ings of the river. Presently she said : 
 
 " Where are we going to sleep ? Surely there isn't a possible 
 inn in this remoteness ? or have they built one for the travelers 
 who come here in winter and spring? " 
 
 " Our inn will be a little above Olympia." 
 
 The green valley seemed closing about them, as if anxious to 
 take them to itself, to keep them in its closest intimacy, with a 
 gentle jealousy. Rosamund had a sensation, almost voluptu- 
 ous, of yielding to the pastoral greenness, to the warm stillness, 
 to the hush of the delicate wilds. 
 
 " Elis! Elis! " she whispered to herself. " I am riding up 
 into Elis, where once the processions passed to the games, where 
 Nero built himself a mansion. And there's a secret here for 
 me." 
 
 Then suddenly there came into her mind the words in the
 
 64 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Paradise " which she had been dreaming over in London on 
 the foggy day when Dion had asked her to marry him. 
 
 " Regnum coelorum violenza pate 
 
 da caldo amore a da viva speranza, 
 Che vince la divina volontate." 
 
 The Kingdom of Heaven suffereth violence from warm love 
 and living hope which conquereth the Divine will. 
 
 It was strange that the words should come to her just then. 
 She could not think why they came. But, repeating them to 
 herself, she felt how very far off she was from Paganism. Yet 
 she had within her warm love surely and living hope. Could 
 such things, as they were within her, ever do violence to the 
 Kingdom of Heaven? She looked between her horse's per- 
 petually moving ears at the hollow athletic back of her young 
 husband. If she had not married she would have given rein 
 to deep impulses within her which now would never be in- 
 dulged. They would not have led her to Greece. If she had 
 been governed by them she would never have been drawn on 
 by the secret of Olympia. How strange it was that, within 
 the compass of one human being, should be contained two 
 widely differing characters. Well, she had chosen, and hence- 
 forth she must live according to the choice she had made. But 
 how would she have been in the other life of which she had 
 dreamed so often, and so deeply, in her hours of solitude? She 
 would never know that. She had chosen the warm love and the 
 living hope, but the Kingdom of Heaven should never suffer vio- 
 lence from anything she had diosen. There are doubtless many 
 ways of consecrating a life, of rendering service. 
 
 They came into a scattered and dingy hamlet. Hills rose 
 about it, but the narrowing valley still wound on. 
 
 " We are close to the ruins," said Dion. 
 
 " Already! Where are we going to sleep? " 
 
 "Up there!" 
 
 He pointed to a steep hill that was set sheer above the val- 
 ley. 
 
 " Go on with the mules, Nicholas." 
 
 Nicholas rode on, smiling. 
 
 "What's that building on the hump? " 
 
 "The Museum." 
 
 " I wonder why they put the inn so far away." 
 
 " It isn't really very far, not many minutes from here. But 
 the way's pretty steep. Now then, Rosamund! "
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 65 
 
 They set their horses to the task. Nicholas and the mules 
 were out of sight. A bend of the little track had hidden them. 
 
 "Why, there's a village up here! " said Rosamund, as they 
 came to a small collection of houses with yards and rough gar- 
 dens and scattered outbuildings. 
 
 " Yes Drouva. Our inn is just beyond it, but quite sepa- 
 rated from it." 
 
 " I'm glad of that. They don't bother very much about 
 cleanliness here, I should think." 
 
 He was smiling at her now. His lips were twitching under 
 his mustache, and his eyes seemed trying not to tell something 
 to her. 
 
 " Surely the secret isn't up here? " 
 
 He shook his head, still smiling, almost laughing. 
 
 They were now beyond the village, and emerged on a plateau 
 of rough short grass which seemed to dominate the world. 
 
 " This is the top of the hill of Drouva," said Dion, with a 
 ring of joy, and almost of pride, in his voice. " And there's our 
 inn, the Inn of Drouva." 
 
 Rosamund pulled up her horse. She did not say a word. 
 She just looked, while her horse lowered his head and sniffed 
 the air in through his twitching nostrils. Then he sent forth a 
 quivering neigh, his welcome to the Inn of Drouva. The view 
 was immense, but Rosamund was not looking at it. A small 
 dark object not far off in the foreground of this great picture 
 held her eyes. For the moment she saw little or nothing else. 
 
 She saw a dark, peaked tent pitched in the middle of the 
 plateau. Smoke from a fire curled up behind it. Two or three 
 figures moved near it. Beyond, Nicholas was unloading the 
 mules. 
 
 She dropped the cord by which she had been guiding her 
 horse and slipped down to the ground. Her legs were rather 
 stiff from riding. She held on to the saddle for a moment. 
 
 " A camp? " she said at last. 
 
 Dion was beside her. 
 
 " An awfully rough one." 
 
 "How jolly!" 
 
 She said the words almost solemnly. 
 
 " Dion, you are a brick! " she added, after a pause. " I've 
 never stayed in camp before. A real brick! But you always 
 are." 
 
 " Aren't you coming into the camp? " 
 
 She put her hand on his arm and kept him back.
 
 66 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 "No wait! What did you mean by shaking your head 
 when I asked you if the secret was up here? " 
 
 " This isn't the real secret. It wasn't because of this that 
 I asked you suddenly on the Acropolis to say ' x aL P f ' to th e 
 Parthenon." 
 
 " There's another secret? " 
 
 " There's another reason, the real reason, why I hurried you 
 to Olympia. But I'm going to let you find it out for yourself. 
 I shan't tell you anything." 
 
 " But how shall I know when ? " 
 
 " You will know." 
 
 "To-day?" 
 
 " Don't you think we might stay on our hill-top till to-mor- 
 row? " 
 
 " Yes, all right. It's glorious here; I won't be impatient. 
 But how could you manage to get the tent here before we 
 came? " 
 
 " We've been two nights on the way, Patras and Pyrgos. 
 That gave plenty of time to the magician to work the spell. 
 Come along." 
 
 This time she did not hold him back. Her eagerness was 
 as great as his. Certainly it was a very ordinary camp, 
 scarcely, in fact, a camp at all. The tent was small and of 
 the roughest kind, but there were two neat little camp-beds 
 within it, with their toes planted on the short dry grass. In 
 the iron washhand stand were a shining white basin and a jug 
 filled with clear water. There was a cake of remarkable pink 
 soap with a strange and piercing scent; there was a "tooth 
 glass " ; there was a straw mat. 
 
 "What isn't there?" cried Rosamund, who was almost as 
 delighted as a child. 
 
 A grave and very handsome gentleman from Athens, Achilles 
 Stavros by name, received her congratulations with a classical 
 smile of satisfaction. 
 
 "He's even got a genuine Greek nose for the occasion!" 
 Rosamund said delightedly to Dion, when Achilles retired for 
 a moment to give some instructions about tea to the cook. 
 " Where did you find him? " 
 
 "That's my secret." 
 
 " I never realized how delicious a camp was before. My 
 wildest dreams are surpassed." 
 
 As they looked at the two small, hard chairs with straw 
 bottoms which were solemnly set out side by side facing the
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 67 
 
 view, and upon which Achilles expected them to sink voluptu- 
 ously for the ritual of tea, they broke into laughter at Rosa- 
 mund's exaggerated expressions of delight. But directly she 
 was able to stop laughing she affirmed with determination : 
 
 " I don't care what anybody says, or thinks; I repeat it " 
 she glanced from the straw mat to the cake of anemic pink 
 soap " my wildest dreams are surpassed. To think " she 
 spread out her hands " only to think of finding a tooth glass 
 here ! It's it's admirable ! " 
 
 She turned upon him an almost fanatical eye, daring con- 
 tradiction; and they both laughed again, long and loud like two 
 children who, suddenly aware of a keen physical pleasure, pro- 
 long it beyond all reasonable bounds. 
 
 " What are we going to have for tea? " she asked. 
 
 " Tea," Dion cried. 
 
 " You ridiculous creature ! " 
 
 From a short distance, Achilles gazed upon the merriment of 
 these newly-married English travelers. Nobody had told him 
 they were newly married; he just knew it, had known it at a 
 glance. As he watched, the laughter presently died away, and 
 he saw the two walk forward to the edge of the small plateau, 
 then stand still to gaze at the view. 
 
 The prospect from the hill of Drouva above Olympia is very 
 great, and all Rosamund's inclination to merriment died out of 
 her as she looked upon it. Even her joy in the camp was for- 
 gotten for a moment. 
 
 Upon their plateau, sole guests of the bareness, stood two 
 small olive trees, not distorted by winds. Rosamund leaned 
 against one of them as she gazed, put her arms round it with 
 a sort of affectionate carelessness that was half-protective, that 
 seemed to say, " You dear little tree ! How nice of you to be 
 here. But you almost want taking care of." Then the tree 
 was forgotten, and the Hellenic beauty reigned over her spirit, 
 as she gazed upon the immense pastoral bounded by moun- 
 tains and the sea; a green wilderness threaded by a serpentine 
 river of silver a far-flung river which lingered on its way, 
 journeying hither and thither, making great curves as if it loved 
 the wilderness and wished to know it well, to know all of it be- 
 fore being merged irrevocably with the sea. 
 
 " Those are the valleys of the Kladeos and the Alpheios." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And that far-off Isle is the Island of Zante." 
 
 " Of Zante," she repeated.
 
 68 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 After a long pause she said: 
 
 " You know those words somewhere in the Bible ' the wil- 
 derness and the solitary places ' ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I've always loved them, just those words. Even when I 
 was quite a child I liked to say them. And I remember once, 
 when I was staying at Sherrington, we drove over to Welsley 
 Cathedral. Canon Wilton took us into the stalls. It was a 
 week-day and there were very few people. The anthem was 
 Wesley's ' The Wilderness.' I had never heard it before, and 
 when I heard those words my words being sung, I had 
 such a queer thrill. I wanted to cry and I was startled. To 
 most people, I suppose, the word wilderness suggests something 
 dreary and parched, ugly desolation." 
 
 " Yes. The scapegoat was driven out into the wilderness." 
 
 " I think I'd rather take my sin into the wilderness than any 
 where else. Purification might be found there.'' 
 
 " Your sin! " he said. " As if " He was silent. 
 
 Zante seemed sleeping in the distance of the Ionian Sea, 
 far away as the dream from which one has waked, touched with 
 a dream's mystic remoteness. The great plain, stretching to 
 mountains and sea, vast and green and lonely but with the 
 loneliness that smiles, desiring nothing else seemed unin- 
 habited. Perhaps there were men in it, laboring among the 
 vineyards or toiling among the crops, women bending over the 
 earth by which they lived, or washing clothes on the banks of 
 the river. Rosamund did not look for them and did not see 
 them. In the green landscape, over which from a distance the 
 mountains kept their quiet and deeply reserved watch, she de- 
 tected no movement. Even the silver of the river seemed im- 
 mobile, as if its journey ings were now stilled by an afternoon 
 spell. 
 
 " It's as empty as the plain of Marathon, but how much 
 greater! " she said at last 
 
 " At Marathon there was the child." 
 
 " Yes, and here there's not even a child." 
 
 She sighed. 
 
 " I wonder what one would learn to be if one lived on the 
 hill of Drouva? " she said. 
 
 " It will be much more beautiful at sunset. We are look- 
 ing due west. Soon we shall have the moon rising behind us." 
 
 " What memories I shall carry away! " 
 
 " And I."
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 69 
 
 " You were here before alone? " 
 
 " Yes. I walked up from the village just before sunset after 
 a long day among the ruins. I I didn't know then of your 
 existence. That seems strange." 
 
 But she was gazing at the view, and now with an earnest- 
 ness in which there seemed to him to be a hint of effort, as if 
 she were, perhaps, urging imagination to take her away and to 
 make her one with that on which she looked. It struck him 
 just then that, since they had been married, she had changed a 
 good deal, or developed. A new dreaminess had been added 
 to her power and her buoyancy which, at times, made her very 
 different from the radiant girl he had won. 
 
 " The Island of Zante! " she said once more, with a last look 
 at the sea, as they turned away in answer to the grave summons 
 of Achilles. " Ah, what those miss who never travel ! " 
 
 " And yet I remember your saying once that you had very 
 little of the nomad in you, and even something about the cat's 
 instinct." 
 
 " Probably I meant the cat's instinct to say nasty things. 
 Every woman 
 
 " No, what you meant 
 
 He began actually to explain, but her "Puss, Puss, Puss! " 
 stopped him. Her dream was over, and her laugh rang out in- 
 fectiously as they returned to the tent. 
 
 The tea was fairly bad, but she defended its merits with 
 energy, and munched biscuits with an excellent appetite. 
 Afterwards she smoked a cigarette and Dion his pipe, sitting 
 on the ground and leaning against the tent wall. In vain 
 Achilles drew her attention to the chairs. Rosamund stretched 
 out her long limbs luxuriously and shook her head. 
 
 "I'm not a school-teacher, Achilles," she said. 
 
 And Dion had to explain what she meant perhaps only 
 perhaps, for he wasn't sure about it himself to that classical 
 personage. 
 
 " Those chairs fight against the whole thing," she said, when 
 Achilles was gone. 
 
 " I'll hide them," said Dion. 
 
 He was up in a moment, caught hold of the chairs, gripping 
 one in each hand, and marched off with them. When he came 
 back Rosamund was no longer sitting on the ground by the 
 tent wall. She had slipped away. He looked round. She 
 must have gone beyond the brow of the hill, for she was not on 
 the plateau. He hesitated, pulling hard at his pipe. He knew
 
 70 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 her curious independence, knew that sometimes she wanted to 
 be alone. No doubt she had gone to look at the great view 
 from some hidden place. Well, then, he ought not to try to 
 find her, he ought to respect her wish to be by herself. But 
 this evening it hurt him. As he stood there he felt wounded, 
 for he remembered telling her that the great view would be 
 much more beautiful at sunset when the moon would be rising 
 behind them. The implication of course had been, " Wait a 
 little and I'll show you." It was he who had chosen the place 
 for the camp, he who had prepared the surprise. Perhaps fool- 
 ishly, he had thought of the whole thing, even of the plain, the 
 river, the mountains, the sea and the Island of Zante, as a sort 
 of possession which he was going gloriously to share with her. 
 
 And now ! He felt deprived, almost wronged. The sky 
 
 was changing. He turned and looked to the east. Above 
 Olympia, in a clear and tremulous sky, a great silver moon was 
 rising. It was his hour, and she had hidden herself. 
 
 Again, at that moment, Dion felt almost afraid of his love. 
 
 His pipe had gone out. He took it from his lips, bent, and 
 knocked out the tobacco against the heel of his boot. He was 
 horribly disappointed, but he was not going to search for Rosa- 
 mund; nor was he ever going to let her know of his disappoint- 
 ment. Perhaps by concealing it he would kill it. He thrust 
 his pipe into his pocket, hesitated, then walked a little way 
 from the camp and sat down on the side of the hill. What rot 
 it was his always wanting to share everything now. Till he 
 met Rosamund he had always thought only women could never 
 be happy unless they shared their pleasures, and preferably 
 with a man. Love apparently could play the very devil, bridge 
 the gulf between sexes, make a man who was thoroughly mas- 
 culine in all his tastes and habits have " little feelings " which 
 belonged properly only to women. 
 
 Doric! Suddenly the word jumped up in his mind, and a 
 vision of the Parthenon columns rose before his imagination, 
 sternly glorious, almost with the strength of a menace. He 
 set his teeth together and cursed himself for a fool and a back j 
 slider. 
 
 Rosamund and he were to be Doric. Well, this evening he 
 didn't know exactly what he was, but he certainly was not 
 Doric. 
 
 Just then he heard the sound of a shot. He did not know 
 what direction it came from, but, fantastically enough, it seemed 
 to be a comment on his thought, a brusk, decisive exclama-
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 71 
 
 tion flung at him from out of the silent evening. " Sentimen- 
 talist! Take that, and get out of your mush of feeling! " As 
 he recognized it he now forced himself to that sticking-point 
 to be a mush, the shot's comment fell in, of course, with his 
 own view of the matter. 
 
 He sat still for a moment, thinking of the shot, and prob- 
 ably expecting it to be repeated. It was not repeated. A great 
 silence prevailed, the silence of the Hellenic wild held in the 
 hand of evening. And abruptly, perhaps from that large and 
 pervasive silence, Dion caught a coldness of fear. All his per- 
 ceptions rushed upon him, an acute crowd. He sprang up, put 
 his hand to his revolver. Rosamund out alone somewhere in 
 the loneliness of Greece evening a shot ! 
 
 He was over the brow of the hill towards the west in a mo- 
 ment. All respect for Rosamund's evening whim, all remem- 
 brance of his own proper pride, was gone from him. 
 
 " Rosamund! " he called; " Rosamund! " 
 
 " Here ! " replied her strong voice from somewhere a little 
 way below him. 
 
 And he saw her standing on the hillside and looking down- 
 wards. He thrust his revolver back into his pocket quickly. 
 Already his pride was pushing its head up again. He stood 
 still, looking down on her. 
 
 "It's all right, is it?" 
 
 This time she lifted her head and turned her face up to him. 
 
 "All right?" 
 
 " I heard a shot." 
 
 He saw laughter dawning in her face. 
 
 " You don't mean to say ? " 
 
 She laughed frankly. 
 
 " Come down here! " 
 
 He joined her. 
 
 "What was it?" 
 
 " Did you, or didn't you, think I'd been attacked by Greek 
 brigands ? " 
 
 " Of course not ! But I heard a shot, and it just struck 
 me " . 
 
 At that moment he was almost ashamed of loving her so 
 much. 
 
 " Well, there's the brigand, and I do believe he's going to 
 shoot again. The ruffian! Yes, he's taking aim! Oh, Dion, 
 seek cover." 
 
 Still laughing, she shrank against him. He put one arm
 
 72 
 
 round her shoulder bruskly, and his hand closed on her 
 tightly. A little way below them, relieved with a strange and 
 romantic distinctness against the evening light, in which now 
 there was a strong suggestion of gold, was a small figure, 
 straight, active a figure of the open air and the wide spaces 
 with a gun to its right shoulder. A shot rang out. 
 
 " He's got it," said Rosamund. 
 
 And there was a note of admiring praise in her voice. 
 
 " That child's a dead shot," she added. " It's quail he's 
 after, I believe. Look! He's picking it up." 
 
 The small black figure bent quickly down, after running for- 
 ward a little way. 
 
 " He retrieves as well as he shoots. Shall we go to him and 
 see whether it's quail? " 
 
 " Another child," said Dion. 
 
 He still had his arm round her shoulder. 
 
 " Why did you come here? " he asked. 
 
 " To look at the evening coming to me over the wilderness. 
 But he made me forget it for a moment." 
 
 Dion was staring at her now. 
 
 " I believe a child could make you forget anything," he said. 
 
 " Let's go to him." 
 
 The gold of the evening was strengthening and deepening. 
 The vast view, which was the background to the child's little 
 figure, was losing its robe of green and of blue, green of the 
 land, blue of the sea, was putting on velvety darkness and gold. 
 The serpentine river was a long band of gold flung out, as 
 if by a careless enchanter, towards the golden sea in which 
 Zante was dreaming. Remote and immense this land had 
 seemed in the full daytime, a tremendous pastoral deserted 
 by men, sufficient to itself and existing only for its own beauty. 
 Now it existed for a child. The human element had caused 
 nature, as it were, to recede, to take the second place. A child, 
 bending down to pick up a shot quail, then straightening up 
 victoriously, held the vast panorama in submission, as if he 
 had quietly given out the order, " Make me significant." And 
 Rosamund, who had stolen away to meet the evening, was now 
 only intent on knowing whether the shot bird was a quail or 
 not. 
 
 It was a quail, and a fat one. 
 
 When they came to the boy they found him a barefooted 
 urchin, with tattered coarse clothes and densely thick, uncov- 
 ered black hair growing down almost to his fiery young eyes,
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 73 
 
 which stared at them proudly. There was a wild look in those 
 eyes never to be found in the eyes of a dweller in cities, a wild 
 grace in his figure, and a complete self-possession in his whole 
 bearing. The quail just shot he had in his hand. Another 
 was stuffed into the large pocket of his jacket. He pulled it 
 out and showed it to them, reading at a glance the admiration 
 in Rosamund's eyes. Dion held out a hand to the boy's gun, 
 but at this his manner changed, he clutched it tightly, moved a 
 step or two back, and scowled. 
 
 " He's a regular young savage," said Dion. 
 
 " I like him as he is. Besides, why should he give his gun 
 to a stranger? He knows nothing about us." 
 
 " You're immense! " said Dion, laughing. 
 
 " Let's have the quail for our dinner." 
 
 " D'you expect him to give them to us without a stand-up 
 fight and probably bloodshed? For he's armed, unfortu- 
 nately! " 
 
 " Don't be ridiculous. Look here, Dion, you go off for a 
 minute, and leave him with me. I think you get on his nerves." 
 
 "Well, I'm !" 
 
 But he went. He left the two figures together, and pres- 
 ently saw them both from a distance against the vastness of 
 the gold. Bushes and shrubs, and two or three giant pine trees, 
 between the summit of Drouva and the plain, showed black, 
 and the figures of woman and child were almost ebon. Dion 
 watched them. He could not see any features. The two were 
 now like carved things which could move, and only by their 
 movements could they tell him anything. The gun over the 
 boy's shoulder was like a long finger pointing to the west where 
 a redness was creeping among the gold. The great moon 
 climbed above Drouva. Bluish-gray smoke came from the 
 camp-fire at a little distance. It ascended without wavering 
 straight up in the windless evening. Far down in the hidden 
 valley, behind Dion and below the small village, shadows were 
 stealing through quiet Elis, shadows were coming to shroud the 
 secret that was held in the shrine of Olympia. A slight sound 
 of bells stole up on the stillness from somewhere below, some- 
 where not far from those two ebon figures. And this sound, 
 suggestive of moving animals coming from pasture to protected 
 places for the night, put a heart in the breast of this pastoral. 
 Thin was the sound and delicate, fit music for Greece in the 
 fragile evening. As Dion listened to it, he looked at that black 
 finger below him pointing to the redness in the west. Then he
 
 74 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 remembered it was a gun, and, for an instant, looking at the red, 
 he thought of the color of fresh blood. 
 
 At this moment the tall figure, Rosamund, took hold of the 
 gun, and the two figures moved away slowly down the winding 
 track in the hill, and were hidden at a turning of the path. 
 
 Almost directly a third shot rang out. The young dweller 
 in the wilderness was allowing Rosamund to give a taste of her 
 skill with the gun. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 ROSAMUND came back to the camp that evening with 
 Dirmikis, so the boy of the wilderness was called, 
 and five quail, three of them to her gun. She was 
 radiant, and indeed had an air almost of triumph. Her eyes 
 were sparkling, her cheeks were glowing; she looked like a beau- 
 tiful schoolgirl as she walked in over the plateau with the sun- 
 set flushing scarlet behind her, and the big moon coming to 
 meet her. Dirmikis, at her side, carried the quail upside down 
 in his brown hands. Rosamund had the gun under her right 
 arm. 
 
 " It's a capital gun," she called out to Dion. " I got three. 
 Here, Dirmikis," she turned to the boy, " show them." 
 
 "Does he understand English?" 
 
 " No, but he understands me ! " she retorted with pride. 
 "Look there!" 
 
 Dirmikis held up the birds, smiling a savage smile. 
 
 " Aren't they fat? Feel them, Dion! The three fattest ones 
 fell to my gun, but don't tell him." 
 
 She sketched a delicious wink, looking about sixteen. 
 
 " I really have a good eye," she added, praising herself with 
 gusto. " It's no use being over-modest, is it? If one has a 
 gift, well, one just has it. Here, Dirmikis! " 
 
 She gave his gun carefully to the barefooted child. 
 
 " He's a little stunner, and so chivalrous. I never met a 
 boy I liked more. Do give him a nice present, Dion, and let 
 him feed in the camp if he likes." 
 
 " Well, what next? What am I to give him? " 
 
 " Nothing dressy. He isn't a manikin, he's a real Doric 
 boy."
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 75 
 
 She slapped Dirmikis on the back with a generous hand. He 
 smiled radiantly, this time without any savagery. 
 
 " The sort of boy who'll be of some use in the world." 
 
 " I'll give him a tip." 
 
 Rosamund seemed about to assent when an idea struck her, 
 as she afterwards said, " with the force of a bomb." 
 
 " I know what he'll like better than anything." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Your revolver, to be sure ! " 
 
 "My revolver to be suren't! " exclaimed Dion passionately, 
 inventing a negative. " I bought it at great cost to defend you 
 with, not for the endowment of a half -naked varmint from tha 
 wilderness under Drouva." 
 
 " Be careful, Dion; you're insulting a Doric boy! " 
 
 " Here I'll insult him with a ten-lepta piece." 
 
 " Don't be mean. Bribe him thoroughly if you're going to 
 bribe him. We go shooting together again to-morrow even- 
 ing." 
 
 "Do you indeed?" 
 
 " Yes, directly after tea. It's all arranged. Dirmikis sug- 
 gested it with the most charming chivalry, and I gave yes for 
 an answer. So we must keep on good terms with him at what- 
 ever cost." 
 
 She cocked up her chin and walked exultantly into the tent. 
 A minute afterwards there rang out to the evening a warm con- 
 tralto voice singing: 
 
 " Des anges, des anges, des anges, 
 
 Pour emporter dans 1' ether 
 Les petits enfants etranges 
 Qui ne veulent pas rester." 
 
 Dirmikis looked at the tent and then at Dion with an air 
 of profound astonishment. The quail dropped from his hands, 
 and he did not even snatch at them as he listened to the remark- 
 able sounds which, he could not doubt, flowed from his Ama- 
 zon. His brows came down over his fiery eyes, and he seemed 
 to stand at gaze like an animal, half-fascinated and half-sus- 
 picious. The voice died away and was followed by a sound of 
 pouring water. Then Dirmikis accepted two ten-lepta pieces 
 and picked up the quail. Dion introduced him to the cook, and 
 it was understood that he should be fed in the camp, and that 
 the quail should form part of the evening meal. 
 
 Very good they proved to be, cooked in leaves with the ad-
 
 76 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 dition of some fried slices of fat ham. Rosamund exulted again 
 as she ate them, recognizing the birds she had shot " by the 
 taste." 
 
 " This is one! Aren't mine different from Dirmikis's? " she 
 exclaimed. " So much more succulent! " 
 
 " Naturally, you great baby ! " 
 
 " Life is glorious! " she exclaimed resonantly. " To eat one's 
 own bag on the top of Drouva under the moon! Oh! " 
 
 She looked at the moon, then bent over her plate of metal- 
 ware which was set on the tiny folding-table. In her joy she 
 was exactly like a big child. 
 
 " I wonder how many I shall get to-morrow. I got my eye 
 in at the very start. Really, Dion, you know, I'm a gifted crea- 
 ture. It isn't every one " 
 
 And she ran on, laughing at herself, reveling in her whim- 
 sical pretense of conceit till dinner was over. 
 
 " Now a cigarette ! Never have I enjoyed any meal so much 
 as this! It's only out of doors that one gets hold of the real 
 joie de vivre." 
 
 " You're never without it, thank God," returned Dion, strik- 
 ing a match for her. 
 
 So still was the evening that the flame burned steadily even 
 upon that height facing immensities. Rosamund leaned to it 
 with the cigarette between her lips. Her face was browned by 
 the sun. She looked rather like a splendid blonde gipsy, with 
 loose yellow hair and the careless eyes of those who dwell under 
 smiling heavens. She sent out a puff of cigarette smoke, di- 
 recting it with ardor to the moon which now rode high above 
 them. 
 
 " I'd like to catch up nature in my arms to-night," she said. 
 " Come, Dion, let's go a little way." 
 
 She was up, and put her arm through his like a comrade. 
 He squeezed her arm against his side and, strolling there in the 
 night on the edge of the hill, she talked at first with almost tu- 
 multuous energy, with an energy as of an Amazon who cared for 
 the things of the soul as much as for the things of the body. 
 To-night her body and soul seemed on the same high level of 
 intensity. 
 
 At first she talked of the present, of their life in Greece and 
 of what it had meant to her, what it had done for her; and then, 
 always with her arm through Dion's, she began to talk of the 
 future. 
 
 " We've got to go away from all this, but let us cany it
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 77 
 
 with us; you know, as one can carry things that one has really 
 gathered up, really got hold of. It will mean a lot to us after- 
 wards in England, in our regular humdrum life. Not that life's 
 ever humdrum. We must take Drouva to England, and Mara- 
 thon, and the view from the Acropolis, and the columns of the 
 Parthenon above all those, and the tombs." 
 
 " But they're sad." 
 
 " We must take them. I'm quite sure the way to make life 
 splendid, noble, what it is meant to be to each of us, is to press 
 close against one's heart all that is sent to one, the sorrows as 
 well as the joys. Everything one tries to keep at arm's length 
 hurts one." 
 
 "Sins?" 
 
 " Sins, Dion? I said what is sent to us." 
 
 "Don't you think ?" 
 
 " Sins are never sent to us, we always have to go and fetch 
 them. It's like that poor old chemist going round the corner in 
 the fog with a jug for what is ruining his life." 
 
 " What poor old chemist? " he asked. 
 
 " A great friend of mine in London Mr. Thrush. You 
 shall know him some day. Oh but London! Now, Dion, 
 can we, you and I, live perpetually in London after all this ? " 
 
 " Well, dearest, I must stick close to business." 
 
 " I know that. And we've got the little house. But later 
 on?" 
 
 " And your singing, your traveling all over the place with a 
 maid!" 
 
 " I wonder if I shall. To-night I don't feel as if I shall." 
 
 She stood still abruptly, and was silent for a minute. 
 
 " Don't you think," she said, in a different and less exu* 
 berant voice, and with a changed and less physical manner 
 " don't you think sometimes, in exceptional hours, one can feel 
 what is to come, what is laid up for one? I do. This is an 
 exceptional hour. We are on the heights and it's very won- 
 derful. Well, perhaps to-night we can feel what is coming. 
 Let's try." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " Let's just be quiet, and give ourselves up to the hill of 
 Drouva, and Greece, and the night, and and what surrounds 
 and permeates us and all this." 
 
 With a big and noble gesture she indicated the sleeping world 
 far below them, breathless under the moon; the imperceptible 
 valleys merged in the great plain through which the river, sil-
 
 78 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 ver once more, moved unsleeping between its low-lying banks 
 to the sea ; the ranges of mountains which held themselves apart 
 in the night, a great company, reserved and almost austere, yet 
 trodden with confidence by the feet of those fairies who haunt 
 the ancient lands; the sea which drew down the moon as a lover 
 draws down his mistress; Zante riding the sea like a shadow in 
 harbor. 
 
 And they were silent. Dion had a sensation of consciously 
 giving himself, almost as a bather, to the sea. Did he feel what 
 was coming to him and to this girl at his side, who was part 
 of him, and yet who was alone, whose arm clasped his, yet 
 whose soul dwelt far off in its own remoteness? Would the 
 years draw them closer and closer together, knit them together, 
 through greater knowledge, through custom, through shared 
 joys and beliefs, through common beliefs, through children, 
 till they were as branches growing out of one stem firmly rooted ? 
 
 He gave himself and gave himself, or tried to give himself 
 in the silence. Yet he could not have said truly that any mys- 
 tical knowledge came to him. Only one thing he seemed 
 strangely to know, that they would never have children. The 
 sleeping world and the sea, and, as Rosamund had said, " what 
 surrounds and permeates us and all this " seemed to permit 
 him mysteriously to get at that one bit of foreknowledge. Some- 
 thing seemed to say to him, " You will be the father of one 
 child." And yet, when he came to think of it, he realized how 
 probable, how indeed almost certain it was that the silent voice 
 issued from within himself. Rosamund and he had talked 
 about a child, a boy, had begun almost to sketch out mental 
 plans for that boy's upbringing; they had never talked about 
 children. He believed that he had penetrated to the secret of 
 the voice. He said to himself, " All that sort of thing comes 
 out of one's self. It doesn't reach one from the outside." And 
 yet, when he looked out over the world, which seemed wrapped 
 in ethereal garments, garments woven by spirit on looms no hand 
 of woman or man might ever touch, he was vaguely conscious 
 that all within himself which was of any real value was there 
 too. Surely he did not possess. Rather was he possessed of. 
 
 He looked at Rosamund at last. 
 
 " Have you got anything? " 
 
 But she did not answer him. There was a great stillness in 
 her big eyes. All the vital exuberance of body and spirit 
 mingled together had vanished from her abruptly. Nothing of 
 the Amazon who had captured the heart of Dirmikis remained.
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 79 
 
 As Dion looked at her now, he simply could not see the beau- 
 tiful schoolgirl of sixteen, the blonde gipsy who had bent for- 
 ward, cigarette in mouth, to his match, who had leaned back 
 and blown rings to the moon above Drouva. Had she ever set 
 the butt of a gun against her shoulder? Something in this 
 woman's eyes made him suddenly feel as if he ought to leave her 
 alone. Yet her arm still lay on his, and she was his. 
 
 Against the silver of the moon the twisted trunks of the two 
 small olive trees showed black and significant. The red of the 
 dying camp-fire glowed not far from the tent. Dogs were 
 barking in the hamlet of Drouva. She neither saw details nor 
 heard ugly sounds in the night. He knew that. And the rest? 
 It seemed to him that something of her, the spirit of her, per- 
 haps, or some part of it with which his had never yet had any 
 close contact, was awake and at work in the night. But though 
 he held her arm in his she was a long way from him. And 
 there came to him this thought: 
 
 " I felt as if I ought to leave her alone. But she has left me 
 alone." 
 
 Almost mechanically, and slowly, he straightened his arm, 
 thus letting hers slip. She did not seem to notice his action. 
 She gazed out towards Zante over a world that now looked 
 very mystical. In the daylight it had been a green pastoral. 
 Now there was over it, and even surely in it, a dim whiteness, 
 a something pure and hushed, like the sound, remote and curi- 
 ously final, of a quiet sleeper. 
 
 That night, when they went to bed, Rosamund was full of 
 the delight of a new experience. She insisted that the flap of 
 the tent should not be kept shut down. She had never slept in 
 a tent before, and was resolved to look out and see the stars from 
 her pillow. 
 
 " And my olive tree," she added. 
 
 Obediently, as soon as she was in her camp-bed, Dion lifted 
 the flap. A candle was still burning, set on a chair between the 
 two beds. As the moonlight came in, Rosamund lifted herselt 
 on one arm, leaned over and blew it out. 
 
 " How horrible moonlight makes candlelight," she said. 
 
 Dion, in his pyjamas, was outside fastening back the flap, 
 his bare feet on the short dry grass. 
 
 " I can see the Pleiades! " she added earnestly. 
 
 "There! "said Dion. 
 
 He looked up at the sky. 
 
 " The Pleiades, the Great Bear, Mars."
 
 80 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Oh! " she drew in her breath. " A shooting star! " 
 
 She pressed her lips together and half-shut her eyes. By her 
 contracted forehead Dion saw that she was wishing almost 
 fiercely. He believed he read her wish. He had not seen the 
 traveling star, and did not try to wish with her, lest he should 
 cross the path of the Fates and throw his shadow on her desire. 
 
 He came softly into the tent which was full of the white- 
 ness of the moon. Sleeping thus with Rosamund in the bosom 
 of nature was very wonderful to him. It was like a sort of 
 re-marriage. The moon and the stars looking in made his rela- 
 tion to her quite new and more beautiful. 
 
 " I shall never forget Olympia," he whispered, leaning over 
 her. 
 
 He kissed her very gently, not with any passion. He had the 
 feeling that she would almost resent passion just then. 
 
 He got into his bed and lay with his arm crooked, his cheek 
 in his hand. Part of the Milky Way was visible to him, that 
 dust of little stars powdering the deep of the sky. If he, too, 
 should see a falling star to-night, dropping down towards the 
 hidden sea, vanishing below the line of the hill! Would he 
 echo her wish? 
 
 " Are you sleepy, Rosamund? " he asked presently. 
 
 " No. I don't want to sleep. It would make me miss all 
 the stars." 
 
 " And if you're tired to-morrow? " 
 
 " I shan't be. I shan't be tired while we are in camp. I 
 should like never to go to bed in a room again. I should like 
 always to dwell in the wilderness." 
 
 He longed for the addition of just two words. They did not 
 come. But of course they were to be understood. There is no 
 need to state things known. The fact that she had let him bring 
 her to the wilderness was enough. The last words he heard 
 Rosamund say that night were these, almost whispered slowly to 
 herself and to the stars: 
 
 " The wilderness and the solitary places." 
 
 Very early in the morning she awoke while Dion was sleep- 
 ing. She slipped softly out of the little camp-bed, wrapped a 
 cloak around her, and went out to gaze at the dawn. 
 
 When they sat at breakfast she said: 
 
 " And now are you going to tell me the secret? " 
 
 " No. I'm going to let you find it out for yourself." 
 
 "But if I can't?" 
 
 " You will."
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 81 
 
 They set off, about ten, down the hill on foot. The morning 
 was very still and already very hot. As they descended towards 
 the basin in which lies Olympia, heat ascended to meet them 
 and to give them a welcome a soft and almost enticing heat 
 like a breath from some green fastness where strange marvels 
 were secluded. 
 
 " Elis even smells remote," Rosamund said. 
 
 " Are you sorry to leave the hill-top ? " he asked. 
 
 " I was, but already I'm beginning to feel drawn on. There's 
 something here what is it? " 
 
 She looked at him. 
 
 " Something for you." 
 
 " Specially for me? " 
 
 " Specially for you." 
 
 " Hidden in the folds of the green. Where are we going 
 first?" 
 
 " To the ruins." 
 
 He was carrying their lunch in a straw pannier slung over 
 his shoulder. 
 
 " We'll lunch in the house of Nero, and rest there." 
 
 " That sounds rather dreadful, Dion." 
 
 " Wait till you see it." 
 
 " I can't imagine that monster in Elis." 
 
 " He was a very artistic monster, you remember." 
 
 " Like some of the decadents in London. Why is it that those 
 who hate moral beauty so often worship all the other beauties? " 
 
 " D'you think in their hearts they actually hate moral 
 beauty? " 
 
 " Well, despise it, laugh at it, try to tarnish it." 
 
 "Paganism! " 
 
 " Do I ever strike you as goody-goody ? " 
 
 " Good heavens, no! " 
 
 And they both laughed as they went down the narrow path 
 to the soft green valley that awaited them, hushed in the breath- 
 ^ess morning, withdrawn among the hills, holding its memories 
 of the athletic triumphs of past ages. Near the Museum they 
 stopped for a moment to look down on the valley. 
 
 " Is the Hermes in there? " Rosamund asked, glancing at the 
 closed and deserted building. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " What a strange and delicious home for him." 
 
 " You shall visit him presently. There are jackals in this 
 valley."
 
 82 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " I didn't hear any last night." 
 
 She looked again at the closed door of the Museum. 
 
 ' When do they open it? " 
 
 " Probably the guardian's in there. That's where he lives." 
 
 He pointed to a small dwelling close to the Museum. Just 
 then a tiny murmur of some far-away wind stirred the umbrella 
 pines which stood sentinel over the valley. 
 
 " Oh, Dion, what an exquisite sound ! " she said. 
 
 She held up one hand like a listening child. There was awe 
 in her eyes. 
 
 " This is a shrine," she said, when the murmur failed. 
 " Dion, I know you planned to go first to the ruins." 
 
 "Yes. They're just below us. Look by the river! " 
 
 " Let me see the Hermes first, just for a moment." 
 
 Their eyes met. He thought she was reading his mind, 
 though he tried to keep it closed against her just then. 
 
 " Why are you in such a hurry? " he asked. 
 
 " I feel I must see it," she answered, with a sort of sweet 
 obstinacy. 
 
 He hesitated. 
 
 " Well, then I'll see if I can find the guardian." 
 
 In a moment he came back with a smiling Greek who was 
 holding a key. As the man went to open the door, Dion said: 
 
 " Rose, will you follow my directions? " 
 
 "When?" 
 
 " Now, when you go into the Museum." 
 
 " But aren't you coming too? " 
 
 " Not now. I will when we've seen the ruins. When you 
 go into the Museum go straight through the vestibule where the 
 Roman Emperors are. Don't turn to the right. In front of 
 you you'll see a hall with a wooden roof and red walls. The 
 ' Victory ' is there. But don't stay there. Go into the small 
 room beyond, the last room, and you mustn't let the guardian go 
 with you." 
 
 From behind came the sound of the big door being opened. 
 
 " Then that is the secret, and I knew about it all the time! " 
 
 " Knew about it yes." 
 
 She looked down on the green cup surrounded by hills, with 
 its little river where now two half-naked men were dragging 
 with a hand-net for fish. Again the tiny breath from the far- 
 away wind stirred in the pine trees, evoking soft sounds of 
 Eternity. She turned away and went into the Museum. 
 
 Left alone, Dion lifted the lunch-pannier from his shoulder
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 83 
 
 and laid it down on the ground. Then he sat down under one 
 of the pine trees. A wild olive grew very near it. He thought 
 of the crown of wild olive which the victors received in days 
 when the valley resounded with voices and the trampling of 
 the feet of horses. He took off his hat and laid it beside him 
 on the ground by the lunch-pannier. One of the men in the 
 river cried out to his companion. Sheep-bells sounded softly 
 down the valley. Some peasants went by with a small train 
 of donkeys on a path which wound away at the foot of the hill 
 of Kronos. 
 
 Dion was being unselfish. In staying where he was, be- 
 yond the outer door of the house of the Hermes, he was taking 
 the first firm step on a path which might lead him on very 
 far. He had slept in the dawn when Rosamund slipped out of 
 the tent, but till the stars waned he had been awake, and in 
 the white light of the moon he had seen the beginning of the 
 path. Men were said to be selfish. People, especially women, 
 often talked as if selfishness were bred in the very fiber of men, 
 as if it were ineradicable, and must be accepted by women. 
 He meant to prove to one woman that even a man could be 
 unselfish, moved by something greater than himself. Up there 
 on Drouva he had definitely dedicated himself to Rosamund. 
 His acute pain when, coming back to the place where he had 
 left her by the tent before sunset, he had not found her, his 
 sense almost of a smoldering anger, had startled him. In the 
 night he had thought things over, and then he had come to the 
 beginning of the path. A really great love, if it is to be worthy 
 to carry the torch, must tread in the way of unselfishness. He 
 would conform to the needs, doubtless imperious, of Rosamund's 
 nature, even when they conflicted with his. 
 
 So now he sat outside under the pine tree, and she was within 
 alone. A first step was taken on the path. 
 
 Would she presently come through the hall of the Victory to 
 call him in? 
 
 He heard the guardian cough in the vestibule of the Empe- 
 rors ; the cough was that of a man securely alone with his bodily 
 manifestations. The train of peasants had vanished. Still the 
 sheep-bells sounded, but the chime seemed to come to him now 
 from a greater distance. 
 
 The morning was wearing on. When would she come back 
 to him from the secret of Olympia? 
 
 He heard again above his head the eternities whispering in 
 the pine branches. The calmness and heat of the valley min-
 
 84 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 gled together, and rose to him, and wanted to take him to 
 themselves. But he was detached from them, terribly detached 
 by his virtue his virtue, which involved him in a struggle, 
 pushed them off. 
 
 Surely an hour had passed, perhaps even more. He began 
 to tingle with impatience. The sound of the sheep-bells had 
 died away beyond the colonnade of the echoes. A living silence 
 was now about him. 
 
 At last he put on his hat and got up. The Hermes was prov- 
 ing his power too mercilessly, was stealing the hours like a thief 
 at work in the dark. The knowledge that Rosamund was his 
 own for life did not help Dion at all at this moment. He had 
 planned out this day as if they were never to have another. 
 Their time in Greece was nearly over, and they could not linger 
 for very long anywhere. Anyhow, just this day, once gone, 
 could never be recaptured. 
 
 He looked towards the doorway of the Museum, hesitating. 
 He was devoured by impatience. Nevertheless he did not wish 
 to step out of that path, the beginning of which he had seen in 
 the night. Determined not to seek Rosamund, yet driven by 
 restlessness, he did one of those meaningless things which, 
 bringing hurt to nature, are expected by man to bring him at 
 least a momentary solace. His eyes happened to rest on the 
 olive tree which stood not far from the Museum. One branch 
 of it was stretched out beyond the others. He walked up to the 
 tree, pulled at the branch, and finally snapped it off, stripped it 
 of its leaves and threw it on the ground. 
 
 As he finished this stupid and useless act, Rosamund came 
 out of the Museum, looking almost angry. 
 
 "Oh, Dion, was it you?" she asked. "What could make 
 you do such a thing ? " 
 
 " But what do you mean? " he asked. 
 
 She looked down at the massacred branch at his feet. 
 
 " A branch of wild olive! If you only knew how it hurt me." 
 
 " Oh that ! But how could you know ? " 
 
 She still looked at him with a sort of shining of anger in 
 her eyes. 
 
 " I saw from the room of the Hermes. The doorway of the 
 Museum is the frame for such a picture of Elis! It's almost, 
 in its way, as dream-like and lovely as the distant country one 
 sees through the temple door in Raphael's ' Marriage of the 
 Virgin ' in Milan. And hanging partly across it was that 
 branch of wild olive. I was looking at it and loving it in the
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 85 
 
 room of the Hermes when a man's arm, your arm, was thrust 
 into the picture, and the poor branch was torn away." 
 
 She had spoken quite excitedly, still evidently under the im- 
 pulse of something like anger. Now she suddenly pulled her- 
 self up with a little forced laugh. 
 
 " Of course you didn't know; you couldn't. I suppose I 
 was dreaming, and it it looked like a sort of murder. But 
 still I don't see why you should tear the branch off, and all the 
 leaves too." 
 
 " I'm sorry, I'm very sorry, Rosamund. It was idiotic. Of 
 course I hadn't an idea what you were doing, I mean, that 
 you were looking at it. One does senseless little things some- 
 times." 
 
 " It looked so angry." 
 
 "What did?" 
 
 " Your hand, your arm. You can have no idea how " 
 
 She broke off again. 
 
 " Let me come in with you. Let's go to the Hermes." 
 
 " Oh no, not now." 
 
 She spoke with almost brusk decision. 
 
 " Very well, then, I'll just pay the man something, and we'll 
 be off to the ruins." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Dion went to pay the guardian, whom he found standing up 
 among the Roman Emperors in a dignified and receptive atti- 
 tude. When he came back he picked up the lunch-basket, slung 
 it over his shoulder, and they walked down the small hill and 
 towards the ruins in silence. He felt involved in a tragedy, 
 pained and discomforted. Yet it was all rather absurd, too. 
 He did not know what to say, how to take it, and he looked 
 straight ahead, seeking instinctively for some diversion. When 
 they were on the river bank he found it in the fishermen who 
 were wading in the shallows with their nets. 
 
 " I wonder what they catch here," he said. " There's not 
 much water." 
 
 Rosamund took up the remark with her usual readiness and 
 sympathetic cordiality, and soon they were chattering again 
 much as usual. 
 
 The great heat of the hour after noontide found them lunch- 
 ing among the ruins of Nero's house. By this time the spell 
 of the place had fast hold of them both. Nature had long 
 since taken the ruins to her gentle breast; she took Rosamund 
 and Dion with them. In her green lap she sheltered them ; with
 
 86 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 her green hills and her groves of pine trees she wrapped them 
 round; with her tall grasses, her bushes, her wild flowers and 
 her leaves she caught at and caressed them. A jackal whined 
 in its lair near the huge limestone blocks of the temple of Zeus. 
 Green lizards basked on pavements which still showed the lit- 
 tle ruts constructed to save the feet of contending athletes from 
 slipping. All along the green valley the birds flew and sang; 
 blackberry bushes climbed over the broken walls of the man- 
 sion of Nero, and red and white daisies and silvery grasses grew 
 in every cranny where the kindly earth found a foothold. 
 
 " Look at those butterflies, Dion! " Rosamund said. 
 
 Two snow-white butterflies, wandering among the ruins, had 
 found their way to the house of Nero, and seemed inclined to 
 make it their home. Keeping close together, as if guided by 
 some sweet and whimsical purpose, they flew from stone to stone, 
 from daisy to daisy, often alighting, as if bent on a thorough 
 investigation of this ancient precinct, then fluttering forward 
 again, with quivering wings, not quite satisfied, in an airy 
 search for the thing or the place desired. Several times they 
 seemed about to abandon the ruins of Nero's house, but, though 
 they fluttered away, they always returned. And at last they 
 alighted side by side on a piece of uneven wall, and rested, as 
 if asleep in the sun, with folded wings. 
 
 " That's the finishing touch," said Rosamund. " White but- 
 terflies asleep in the house of Nero." 
 
 She looked round over the ruins, poetic and beautiful in their 
 prostration, as if they had fallen to kiss the vale which, in re- 
 turn, had folded them in an eternal embrace. 
 
 "Don't take me to Delphi this time, Dion; don't take me 
 anywhere else," she said. 
 
 " I was thinking only to-day that our time's very short now. 
 We lingered so long in Athens." 
 
 " We'll say our good-by to Greece from the Acropolis. 
 That's of course! The grandeur and wonder are there. But 
 the dream of Greece that's here. This is a shrine." 
 
 "For Pan?" 
 
 " Oh no, not for Pan, though I dare say he often comes 
 here." 
 
 From the Kronos Hill, covered with little pines, came the 
 mystical voice of the breeze, speaking to them in long and re- 
 mote murmurs. 
 
 " That's the most exquisite sound in the world," Rosamund 
 continued. " But it has nothing to do with Pan. You remem-
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 87 
 
 her that day we went into the Russian church in Athens, Dion? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " There was the same sort of sound in those Russian voices 
 when they were singing very softly. It could never come from 
 a Pagan world." 
 
 " You find belief behind it? " 
 
 "No knowledge." 
 
 He did not ask her to define exactly what she meant. It was 
 not an hour for definition, but for dreaming, and he was happy 
 again; the cloud of the morning had passed away; he had his 
 love with untroubled eyes among the ruins. Thinking of that, 
 realizing that with a sudden intensity, he took her warm hand 
 from the warm stone on which it was resting, and held it closely 
 in his. 
 
 " Oh, Rosamund, shall I ever have another hour as happy as 
 this? " he said. 
 
 A little way off, in that long meadow in the breast of v.-'iich 
 the Stadium lay hidden, the sheep-bells sounded almost pathet- 
 ically; a flock was there happily at pasture. 
 
 " It's as if all the green doors were closing upon us to keep 
 us in Elis forever, isn't it? " she said. " But " 
 
 She looked at him with a sort of smiling reproach: 
 
 " You wouldn't be allowed to stay." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " You committed a crime this morning. Nature's taken pos- 
 session of Olympia, and you struck at her." 
 
 " D'you know why I did that? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 But she did not again ask him why, and he never told her. 
 When the heat had lessened a little, they wandered once more 
 through that garden of ruins, where scarcely a column is stand- 
 ing, where convulsions of nature have helped the hands of man 
 to overthrow man's work, and where nature has healed every 
 wound, and made every scar tender and beautiful. And pres- 
 ently Rosamund said: 
 
 " I want to know exactly where the Hermes was found." 
 
 " Come, and I'll show you." 
 
 He led her on among the wild flowers and the grasses, till 
 they came to the clearly marked base of the Heraxm, the most 
 ancient known temple of Greece. Two of its columns were 
 standing, tremendously massive Doric columns of a warm 
 golden-brown color. 
 
 " The Hermes was found in this temple. It stood between
 
 88 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 two of the columns, but I believe it was lying down when it 
 was found." 
 
 " It's difficult to imagine him between such columns as these." 
 
 " Yet you love Doric." 
 
 " Yes, but I don't know " 
 
 She looked at the columns, even put her hands on them as 
 if trying to clasp them. 
 
 " It must have been right. The Greeks knew. Strength and 
 grace, power and delicacy, that's the bodily ideal. So the 
 Hermes stood actually here." 
 
 She looked all round, she listened to the distant sheep-bells, 
 she drew into her nostrils the green scents of the valley. 
 
 " And left his influence here for ever," she added. " His 
 quiet influence." 
 
 " Let me come to see him with you on the way home." 
 
 And this time she said, " Yes." 
 
 At a little after four they left the sweet valley, and, passing 
 over the river, ascended the hill to the Museum. The door was 
 open, and the guardian was sitting profoundly asleep in the 
 vestibule of the Emperors. 
 
 " You see, that's the picture-frame," Rosamund whispered, 
 when they were inside, pointing to the doorway. " The branch 
 came just there in my picture." 
 
 She had lifted her hand. He took her by the wrist and gently 
 pulled her hand down. 
 
 " You mustn't show me that." 
 
 " Don't let us wake him." 
 
 A fly buzzed outside on the sunny threshold of the door, mak- 
 ing a sleepy sound like the winding of a rustic horn in the 
 golden stillness, as they went forward on tiptoe between the dull 
 red walls of the hall of the Victory, and came into the room be- 
 yond, where the Hermes stood alone but for the little Dionysos 
 on his arm. 
 
 There a greater silence seemed to reign the silence of the 
 harmony which lies beyond music, as a blue background of the 
 atmosphere lies beyond the verges of the vastest stretch of land 
 that man's eyes have power to see; he sees the blue, but almost 
 as if with his soul, and in like manner hears the harmony. 
 Both Rosamund and Dion felt the difference in the silence di- 
 rectly they entered that sacred room. 
 
 There was no room beyond it. Not very large, it was lighted
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 89 
 
 by three windows set in a row under a handsome roof of wood. 
 The walls were dull red like the walls in the hall of the Victory. 
 On the mosaic pavement were placed two chairs. Rosamund 
 went straight up to one of them, and sat down in front of the 
 statue, which was raised on a high pedestal, and set facing the 
 right-hand wall of the chamber. Dion remained standing a 
 little way behind her. 
 
 He remembered quite well his first visit to Olympia, his first 
 sight of the Hermes. He had realized then very clearly the 
 tragedy of large Museums in which statues stand together in 
 throngs, enclosed within roaring cities. From its situation, hid- 
 den in the green breast of this valley in Elis, the Hermes seemed 
 to receive a sort of consecration, a blessing from its shrine; and 
 the valley received surely from the Hermes a gracious benedic- 
 tion, making it unlike any other valley, however beautiful, in 
 any land of the earth. Nowhere else could the Hermes have 
 been so serenely tender, so exquisitely benign in its contempla- 
 tion; and no other valley could have kept it safe with such 
 gentle watchfulness, such tranquilly unwearied patience. 
 Surely each loved the other, and so each gained something from 
 the other. 
 
 Through all the months since his visit, Dion had remem- 
 bered the unique quality of the peace of Olympia, like no other 
 peace, and the strange and exquisite hush which greeted the 
 pilgrim at the threshold of the chamber in which the Hermes 
 stood. He had remembered, but now he felt. Again the si- 
 lence seemed to come out of the marble to greet him, a remem- 
 bered pilgrim who had returned to his worship bringing another 
 pilgrim. He entered once more into the peace of the Hermes, 
 and now Rosamund shared that peace. As he looked at her for 
 a moment, he knew he had made a complete atonement; he had 
 sent the shadow away. 
 
 How could any shadow stand in the presence of the Hermes? 
 The divine calm within this chamber had a power which was 
 akin to the power of nature in the twilight of a windless even- 
 ing, or of a beautiful soul at ease in its own simplicity. It 
 purified. Dion could not imagine any man being able to look 
 at the Hermes and feel the attraction of sin. Rosamund was 
 right, he thought. Surely men have to go and fetch their sins. 
 Their goodness is given to them. The mother holds it, and is 
 aware of it, when her baby is put into her arms for the first 
 time.
 
 go IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 For a long while these two watched Hermes and the child 
 in the silence of Elis, bound together by an almost perfect 
 sympathy. And they understood as never before the beauty 
 of calm calm of the nerves, calm of the body, calm of the 
 mind, the heart and the soul; peace physical, intellectual and 
 moral. In looking at the Hermes they saw, or seemed to them- 
 selves to see, the goal, what struggling humanity is meant for 
 the perfect poise, all faculties under effortless control, and 
 so peace. 
 
 " We must be meant for that, we are meant for that," Dion 
 said to himself. " Shall we reach that goal, and take a child 
 with us?" 
 
 Then he looked down at Rosamund, saw her pale yellow 
 hair, the back of her neck, in which, somehow, purity was 
 manifested, and thought: 
 
 " I might perhaps get there through her, but only through 
 her." 
 
 She turned round, looked at him and smiled. 
 
 "Isn't he divine? And the child's attitude! " 
 
 Dion moved and sat down beside her. 
 
 " If this is Paganism," she continued, " it's the same thing 
 as Christianity. It's what God means. Men try to separate 
 things that are all one. I feel that when I look at Hermes. 
 Oh, how beautiful he is! And his beauty is as much moral 
 as physical. You know the Antinous mouth? " 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 " Look at his mouth. Could any one, comparing the two, 
 honestly say that purity doesn't shine like a light in darkness? 
 Aren't those lips stamped with the Divine seal ? " 
 
 " Yes, they are." 
 
 " Dion, I'm so thankful I have a husband who's kept the 
 power to see that even physical beauty must have moral beauty 
 behind it to be perfect. Many men can't see that, I think." 
 
 "Is it their fault?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 After another long silence she said: 
 
 " Spirit really is everything. Hermes tells me that almost 
 as plainly as the New Testament. Lots of people we know 
 in London would laugh at me for saying so, the people who 
 talk of ' being Greek ' and who never can be Greek. And he 
 stood between Doric columns. I'm trying to learn something 
 here." 
 
 " What? "
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 91 
 
 " How to bring him up if he ever comes." 
 Dion felt for her hand. 
 
 They stayed on for a week at Drouva. Each evening Rosa- 
 mund shot with the boy of the wilderness, and they ate any 
 birds that fell, at their evening meal. The nights were given 
 to the stars till sleep came. And all the days were dedicated 
 to Hermes, the child, and the sweet green valley which served 
 as a casket for the perfect jewel which the earth had given up 
 after centuries of possession. Since Rosamund had told the 
 dear secret of her heart, what she was trying to learn, Dion was 
 able to see her go in alone to the inner chamber without any 
 secret jealousy or any impatience. The given confidence had 
 done its blessed work swiftly and surely; the spring behind the 
 action, revealed so simply, was respected, was almost loved by 
 Dion. Often he sat among the ruins alone, smoking his pipe; 
 or he wandered away after the call of the sheep-bells, passing 
 between the ruined walls overgrown with brambles and grasses 
 and mosses, shaded here and there by a solitary tree, and under 
 the low arch of the Athletes' entrance into the great green space 
 where the contests had been held. Here he found the wearers 
 of music feeding peacefully, attended by a dreaming boy. 
 With the Two in the Garden of Eden there were happy ani- 
 mals. The sheep-bells ringing tranquilly in his ears made 
 Eden more real to him, and also more like something in one of 
 the happy dreams of a man. 
 
 A world that had risen to great heights of emotion in this 
 valley was dead, but that did not sadden him. He found it 
 impossible to be sad in Olympia, because his own life was so 
 happy. 
 
 A delicious egoism, the birthright of his youth, had him safe 
 in its grasp. But sometimes, when Rosamund was alone in the 
 room of the Hermes, learning her lesson, and he was among 
 the ruins, or walking above the buried Stadium where the flocks 
 were at pasture, he recalled the great contests of the Athletes 
 of ancient Greece; the foot-races which were the original com- 
 petitions at the games, the races in armor, the long jumps, the 
 wrestling matches, the discus and dart-throwing, the boxing 
 and the brutal pankration. And he remembered that at the 
 Olympic Games there were races for boys, for quite young boys. 
 A boy had won at Olympia who was only twelve years old. 
 When Dion recalled that fact one golden afternoon, it seemed 
 to him that perhaps his lesson was to be learnt among the
 
 92 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 feeding sheep in the valley, rather even than on the hill where 
 the Hermes dwelt. The father surely shapes one part of the 
 sacred clay of youth, while on the other part, with a greater 
 softness, a perhaps subtler care, the mother works. 
 
 He would try to make his boy sturdy and strong and 
 courageous, swift to the race of life; he would train his boy 
 to be a victor, to be a boy champion among other boys. Her 
 son must not fail to win the crown of wild olive. And when 
 
 he was a man ! But at that point in his dreams of the 
 
 future Dion always pulled up. He could not see Rosamund 
 as the mother of a man, could not see Rosamund old. She 
 would, of course, be beautiful in old age, with a perhaps more 
 spiritual beauty than she had even now. He shut his eyes, 
 tried to imagine her, to see her before him with snow-white 
 hair, a face perhaps etherealized by knowledge of life and 
 suffering; once he even called up the most perfect picture of 
 old age he knew of the portrait of Whistler's mother, calm, 
 dignified, gentle, at peace, with folded hands; but his efforts 
 were in vain; he simply could not see his Rosamund old. And 
 so, because of that, he could only see their child as a very 
 young boy, wearing a boy's crown of wild olive, such as had 
 once been won by the boy of twelve in the games at Olympia. 
 
 The last day of their visit to the green wilds and the hill- 
 tops dawned, still, cloudless and very hot. There was a light 
 haze over Zante, and the great plain held a look of sleep not 
 the sleep of night but of the siesta, when the dreams come out 
 of the sun, and descend through the deep-blue corridors to 
 visit those who are weary in the gold. Rosamund, bareheaded, 
 stood on the hill of Drouva and gazed towards the sea; her arm 
 was round her olive tree; she looked marvelously well, lithe 
 and strong, but her face was grave, held even a hint of sad- 
 ness. 
 
 " Our last day here! " she said to Dion. " One more night 
 with the stars, only one! Dion, when you brought me here, 
 you did a dangerous thing." 
 
 " Gave you opportunities for regret? D'you mean that? " 
 
 She nodded, still gazing towards Zante. 
 
 " Such opportunities! " 
 
 " It couldn't be helped. I had to bring you." 
 
 " Of course. I know. If you had let me leave Greece with- 
 out coming here, and I had ever come to understand what I 
 had missed, I don't believe I could have forgiven even you." 
 
 "' I always meant to bring you here."
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 93 
 
 " But you had a sudden impulse, didn't you? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Why exactly did it come ? " 
 
 He hesitated. Suddenly he felt reserved; but he broke 
 through his reserve and answered: 
 
 " I saw I had made you feel sad." 
 
 " Did you? Why was it? " 
 
 " Don't you remember? " 
 
 She was catching the dream of the plain, perhaps, for she 
 replied, with an almost preoccupied air: 
 
 " I don't think so." 
 
 " I wanted to make you happy again, very happy, to give 
 you a treat as quickly as possible. The idea of this " he 
 flung out a brown hand " came to me suddenly. That's how 
 it was. You you don't know how I wish to keep every 
 breath of sorrow out of your life." 
 
 " I know you do; I feel it. But you've put a sorrow in." 
 
 She spoke with a half-whimsical smile. 
 
 "Have I?" 
 
 " The sorrow of leaving all this, of leaving the Hermes. I 
 didn't know it was possible to grow to care for a lifeless thing 
 as I care for him. Sometimes I believe the marble has actually 
 retained something of the beautiful mind and soul of Praxiteles. 
 I know nothing of Praxiteles as a man. I mean as apart from 
 a sculptor. But he must have been full of almost divine 
 feelings and conceptions, or he could never have made my 
 Hermes. No man can make the divine without having divin- 
 ity in him. I've learnt more here in these few days than I 
 have learnt in all my years." 
 
 " From the statue of a Pagan. Isn't that strange ? " 
 
 " No, I don't think so. For I was able to see the Chris- 
 tianity in it. I know what Praxiteles was only able to feel 
 mysteriously. Sometimes in London I've heard people you 
 know the sort of people I mean regretting they didn't live 
 in the old Greek world." 
 
 " I've regretted that." 
 
 " Have you ? But not in their way. When I look at the 
 Hermes I feel very thankful I have lived since." 
 
 " Tell me just why." 
 
 " Because I live in a world which has received definitely 
 and finally the message the Hermes knew before it was sent 
 down." 
 
 She took away her arm from the olive tree and sighed.
 
 94 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Oh, Dion, I shall hate going away, leaving the tent and 
 Drouva and him. But I believe whenever I think of Olympia 
 I shall feel the peace that, thank God, doesn't pass all under- 
 standing." 
 
 They went down to the valley that day to pay their final 
 visit to the Hermes. Twilight had not yet come, but was not 
 very far off when, for the last time, they crossed the threshold 
 of his chamber. More silent than ever, more benignly silent, 
 did the hush about him seem to Dion; more profound were his 
 peace and serenity. He and the child had surely withdrawn 
 a little farther from all that was not intended, but that, for 
 some inscrutable reason, had come to be. His winged sandals 
 had carried him still farther away. As Dion looked at him he 
 seemed to be afar. 
 
 "Rosamund!" 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " This evening I have a feeling about the Hermes I've never 
 had before." 
 
 " What is it? " 
 
 " That he's taking the child away, quite away." 
 
 " But he's always been here, and not here. That's what I 
 love so much." 
 
 " I don't mean quite that. It's as if he were taking the 
 child farther and farther away, partly because of us." 
 
 " I don't like that. I don't feel that at all." 
 
 " We belong to this world, you see, and are subject to all 
 its conditions. We are in it and of it." 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " He belongs to such a different world." 
 
 " Yes, the released world, where no ugly passions can ever 
 get in." 
 
 " The way he looks at Dionysos tells one that. He hasn't 
 any fear for the boy's future when he grows up and comes to 
 know things. It just strikes me that no human being who 
 thinks could ever look at a human child like that. There would 
 always be the fear behind ' What is life going to do to the 
 child?'" 
 
 She looked at him, and her face was very grave. 
 
 " D'you think we should feel that? " 
 
 " Surely." 
 
 " Unless we got the serene courage of the Hermes." 
 
 " But he lived among gods, and we live among men." 
 
 " Not always."
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 95 
 
 " I don't understand." 
 
 " Perhaps some day you will," she answered. 
 
 Into her eyes there had come a strange look of withdrawal. 
 
 At that moment the atmosphere in the room of the Hermes 
 seemed to Dion more full of peace even than before, but the 
 peace was like something almost tangible. It troubled him 
 a little because he felt that the Hermes, the child and Rosa- 
 mund were of it, while he was not. They were surrounded 
 by the atmosphere necessary to them, and to which they were 
 mysteriously accustomed, while he was for the first time in 
 such an atmosphere. He felt separated from Rosamund by a 
 gulf, perhaps very narrow, but probably very deep. 
 
 Over Elis the twilight was falling, a green twilight sylvan 
 and very ethereal, tremulous in its delicate beauty. It stole 
 through the green doors, and down through the murmuring 
 pine trees; it crossed the shallow river, and made its way to 
 the garden of ruins where once the Hermes had stood between 
 Doric columns in the Heraeon. Through the colonnade of the 
 echoes it passed, and under the arch of the Athletes. Over the 
 crude and almost terrible strength of the ruins of the temple 
 of Zeus it let its green garments trail down, as it felt its way 
 softly but surely to the buried Stadium where once a boy of 
 twelve had won the crown of wild olive. The sheep-bells were 
 ringing softly; the flocks were going homeward from pasture. 
 They were making their way up the valley now at the base of 
 the Kronos Hill, and the chime of their little bells mingled 
 with the wide whispering of the eternities among the summits 
 of the pine trees. Music of earth mingled with the music 
 from a distance that knew what the twilight knew. 
 
 The tall oblong of the Museum doorway on the hill framed 
 a tiny picture of Elis, bathed in green and tremulous light; 
 a small section of a hillside, a fragment of empty, poetic coun- 
 try Pan's world rather hinted at than revealed a sugges- 
 tion of evening sky, remote, with infinity lost in its distance. 
 But there was no branch of wild olive flickering across the 
 picture. 
 
 Rosamund missed it as she looked from the room of the 
 Hermes out to the whispering evening and the quiet vale of 
 Olympia. But she did not say so to Dion. He thought of 
 it too, as he looked with her, and he tried to forget it. The 
 picture framed by the doorway strangely grew dimmer and 
 yet more full of greenish light; the country of Pan was fading 
 in light. Presently details were entirely lost. Only an oblong
 
 96 , IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 of green, now almost emerald, light showed from the chamber 
 of the Hermes. And in that chamber the two marble figures 
 were gradually fading; the athletic, yet miraculously graceful, 
 messenger of the gods with the winged sandals, the tiny child 
 clinging to his shoulder with one little arm stretched out in an 
 enchanting gesture of desire. Still the child nestled against 
 Hermes, and still Hermes contemplated the child, with a ce- 
 lestial benignity, a half-smiling calmness of other worlds than 
 this. 
 
 In the vestibule of the Emperors the guardian waited 
 patiently. He was not accustomed to visitors who lingered 
 on like these two English, when the light was failing, and 
 surely it must be difficult, if not impossible, to see the statues 
 properly. But Rosamund, with her usual lack of all effort, 
 had captivated him. He had grown accustomed to her visits; 
 he was even flattered by them. It pleased him subtly to have 
 in his care a treasure such as the Hermes, to see which beautiful 
 women, the Rosamunds of the world, traveled from far-off 
 countries. Rosamund's perpetual, and prolonged, visits had 
 made him feel more important than he had ever succeeded in 
 feeling before. Let the night come, she might stay on there, 
 if she chose. He took very little account of Dion. But Rosa- 
 mund was beginning to assume a certain vital importance in 
 his quiet life. 
 
 The green light faded into a very dim primrose; the music 
 of the sheep-bells drew near and died away among the small 
 houses of the hamlet at the foot of the hill of Drouva; Elis 
 withdrew itself into the obscurity that would last till the late 
 coming of the waning moon. Of Hermes and Dionysos now 
 only the attitudes could be seen faintly. But even they told 
 of a golden age, an age from which everything ugly, everything 
 violent, everything unseemly, everything insincere, everything 
 cruel was blotted out an age of serenity of body and soul, 
 the age of the long peace. 
 
 " He's gone," said Dion at last 
 
 Rosamund got up slowly. 
 
 " You think he's taken away the child because of us? " 
 
 There was an almost pathetic sound in her voice, but there 
 was a smile in it too. 
 
 " You remember my stupid remark? " 
 
 " Perhaps it wasn't stupid. I think those who dare to have 
 a child ought to keep very near to the world Hermes walks in.
 
 HERMES AND THE CHILD 97 
 
 They mayn't wear wings on their sandals, but the earth oughtn't 
 to hold their feet too fast. Hermes has taught me." 
 
 " No one could ever want to take a child away from you," 
 he answered. 
 
 In the vestibule of the Emperors they bade good-by to the 
 guardian of the Museum, and made him understand that on 
 the morrow they would be gone. 
 
 As he looked at Dion's gift he felt for a moment almost 
 depressed. He was accustomed to his constant visitor. Surely 
 he would miss her. She smiled on him with her warm and 
 very human cordiality for the last time, and went away, with 
 her companion, into the dimness towards the hill of Drouva. 
 Then the guardian pulled the great door. It closed with a 
 final sound. The key was turned. And Hermes was left un- 
 troubled in that world where wings grow out of the sandals.
 
 BOOK II 
 ECHO 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 ROBIN, whose other name was Gabriel, arrived at the 
 " little house," of which Rosamund had spoken to Dion 
 upon the hill of Drouva, early in the following year, 
 on the last night of February to be exact. For a long time 
 before his coming his future home had been subtly permeated 
 by an atmosphere of expectancy. 
 
 No. 5 Little Market Street was in Westminster, not far from 
 the river and the Houses of Parliament, yet in a street which 
 looked almost remote, and which was often very quiet although 
 close to great arteries of life. Dion sometimes thought it almost 
 too dusky a setting for his Rosamund, but it was she who 
 had chosen it, and they had both become quickly fond of it. 
 It was a house with white paneling, graceful ceilings and 
 carved fireplaces, and a shallow staircase of oak. There was 
 a tiny but welcoming hall, and the landing on the first floor 
 suggested potpourri, chintz-covered settees, and little curtains 
 of chintz moved by a country wind coming through open win- 
 dows. There were, in fact, chintz-covered settees, and there 
 was potpourri. Rosamund had taken care about that; she 
 had also taken care about many other little things which most 
 London housewives, perhaps, think unworthy of their atten- 
 tion. Every day, for instance, she burnt lavender about the 
 house, and watched the sweet smoke in tiny wreaths curling 
 up from the small shovel, as she gently moved it to and fro, 
 with a half smile of what she called " rustic satisfaction." 
 She laid lavender in the cupboards and in the chests of drawers, 
 and, when she bought flowers, chose by preference cottage gar- 
 den flowers, if she could get them, sweet williams, pansies, pinks, 
 wallflowers, white violets, stocks, Canterbury bells. Sometimes 
 she came home with wild flowers, and had once given a little 
 
 99
 
 ioo IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 dinner with foxgloves for a table decoration. An orchid, a 
 gardenia, even a hyacinth, was never to be seen in the little 
 house. Rosamund confessed that hyacinths had a lovely name, 
 and that they suggested spring, but she added that they smelt 
 as if they had always lived in hothouses, and were quite ready 
 to be friends with gardenias. 
 
 She opened her windows. In this she was almost too 
 rigorous for her maid-servants, who nevertheless adored her. 
 " Plenty of warmth but plenty of air," was her prescription 
 for a comfortable and healthy house, " and not too much or 
 too many of anything." Dust, of course, was not to be known 
 of in her dwelling, but " blacks " were accepted with a certain 
 resignation as a natural chastening and a message from Lon- 
 don. " They aren't our fault, Annie," she had been known 
 to observe to the housemaid. " And dust can't be anything 
 else, however you look at it, can it? " And Annie said, " Well, 
 no, ma'am! " and, when she came to think of it, felt she had 
 not been a liar in the moment of speaking. 
 
 Rosamund never " splashed," or tried to make a show in 
 her house, and she was very careful never to exceed their 
 sufficient, but not large, income; but the ordinary things, those 
 things which of necessity come into the scheme of everyday 
 life, were always of the very best when she provided them. 
 Dion declared, and really believed, perhaps with reason, that 
 no tea was so fragrant, no bread and butter so delicious, no 
 toast so crisp, as theirs; no other linen felt so cool and fresh 
 to the body as the linen on the beds of the little house; no 
 other silver glittered so brightly as the silver on their round 
 breakfast-table; no other little white window curtains in Lon- 
 don managed to look so perennially fresh, and almost blithe, 
 as the curtains which hung at their windows. Rosamund and 
 Annie might have conversations together on the subject of 
 " blacks," but Dion never saw any of these distressing visitants. 
 The mere thought of Rosamund would surely keep them at 
 a more than respectful distance. 
 
 She proved to be a mistress of detail, and a housekeeper 
 whose enthusiasm was matched by her competence. At first 
 Dion had been rather surprised when he followed from afar, 
 as is becoming in a man, this development. Before they settled 
 down in London he had seen in Rosamund the enthusiastic 
 artist, the joyous traveler, the good comrade, the gay sports- 
 woman touched with Amazonian glories; he had known in her 
 the deep lover of pure beauty; he had divined in her something
 
 ECHO 101 
 
 else, a little strange, a little remote, the girl to whom the 
 " Paradiso " was a door opening into dreamland, the girl who 
 escaped sometimes almost mysteriously into regions he knew 
 nothing of ; but he had not seen in her one capable of absolutely 
 reveling in the humdrum. Evidently, then, he had not grasped 
 the full meaning of a genuine joie de vivre. 
 
 To everything she did Rosamund brought zest. She kept 
 house as she sang " The heart ever faithful," holding nothing 
 back. Everything must be right if she could get it right; and 
 the husband got the benefit, incidentally. Now and then Dion 
 found himself mentally murmuring that word. A great love 
 will do such things unreasonably. For Rosamund's joie de 
 vivre, that gift of the gods, caused her to love and rejoice in a 
 thing for the thing's own sake, as it seemed, rather than for 
 the sake of some one, any one, who was eventually to gain by 
 the thing. Thus she cared for her little house with a sort of 
 joyous devotion and energy, but because it was " my little 
 house " and deserved every care she could give it. Rather as 
 she had spoken of the small olive tree on Drouva, of the Hermes 
 of Olympia, even of Athens, she spoke of it, with a sort of 
 protective affection, as if she thought of it as a living thing 
 confided to her keeping. She possessed a faculty not very 
 common in women, a delight in doing a thing for its own sake, 
 rather than for the sake of some human being perhaps a man. 
 If she boiled an egg she went to the kitchen and did this 
 sometimes she seemed personally interested in the egg, and 
 keenly anxious to do the best by it; the boiling must be a 
 pleasure to her, but also to the egg, and it must, if possible, be 
 supremely well done. As the cook once said, after a culinary 
 effort by Rosamund, " I never seen a lady care for cooking 
 and all such-like as she done. If she as much as plucked a 
 fowl, you'd swear she loved every feather of it. And as to 
 a roast, she couldn't hardly seem to set more store by it if 
 it was her own husband." 
 
 Such a spirit naturally made for comfort in a house, and 
 Dion had never before been so comfortable. Nevertheless 
 and he knew it with a keen savoring of appreciation there 
 was a Spartan touch to be felt in the little house. Comfort 
 walked hand in hand with Rosamund, but so did simplicity; 
 she was what the maids called " particular," but she was not 
 luxurious; she even disliked luxury, connecting it with super- 
 fluity, for which she had a feeling amounting almost to repul- 
 sion. " I detest the sensation of sinking down in things," was
 
 102 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 a favorite saying of hers; and the way she lived proved that 
 she spoke the sheer truth. 
 
 All through the house, and all through the way of life in 
 it, there prevailed a " note " of simplicity, even of plainness. 
 The odd thing, perhaps, was that it pleased almost every one 
 who visited the young couple. A certain well-known man, 
 noted as a Sybarite, clever, decadent and sought after, once 
 got into the house, he pretended by stealth, and spent half an 
 hour there in conversation with Rosamund. He came away 
 " acutely conscious of my profound vulgarity," as he explained 
 later to various friends. " Her house revealed to me the hideous 
 fact that all the best hou-es in London smack of cocotte-try; 
 the trail of cushions and liqueurs is over them all. Mrs. Leith's 
 house is a vestal, and its lamp is always trimmed." Daven- 
 try's comment on this was: "Trimmed yes, but trimmings 
 no!" 
 
 Even Esme Darlington highly approved of the " charming 
 sobriety of No. 5 Little Market Street," although he had had 
 no hand in its preparation, no voice in the deciding of its 
 colors, its ? tuffs, its rugs, or its stair-rods. He was even heard 
 to declare that " our dear Rosamund is almost the only woman 
 I know who has the precious instinct of reticence; an instinct 
 denied, by the way, even to that delightful and marvelous 
 creature Elizabeth Browning rcquiescat." 
 
 The "charming sobriety" was shown in various ways: in a 
 lack of those enormous cushions which most women either 
 love, or think necessary, in all sitting-rooms; in the comparative 
 smallness of such sofas as were to be seen; in the moderation 
 of depth in arm-chairs, and in the complete absence of foot- 
 stools. Then the binding of the many books, scattered about 
 here and there, and ranged on shelves, was " quiet "; there was 
 no scarlet and gold, or bright blue and gold; pictures were good 
 but few; not many rugs lay on the polished wooden floors, and 
 there was no litter of ornaments or bibelots on cabinets or 
 tables. A couple of small statuettes, copies of bronzes in the 
 Naples Museum, and some bits of blue-and-white china made 
 their pleasant effect the more easily because they had not to 
 fight against an army of rivals. There was some good early 
 English glass in the small dining-room, and a few fine 
 specimens of luster ware made a quiet show in Dion's little 
 den. Apart from the white curtains, and outer curtains of 
 heavier material, which hung at all the windows, there were no 
 " draperies." Overmantels, " cosy-corners," flung Indian
 
 ECHO 103 
 
 shawls, " pieces " snatched from bazaars, and " carelessly " 
 hung over pedestals and divans found no favor in Rosamund's 
 eyes. There was a good deal of homely chintz about which lit 
 up the rather old-fashioned rooms, and colors throughout the 
 house were rather soft than hard, were never emphatic or de- 
 signed to startle or impress. 
 
 Rosamund, indeed, was by far the most vivid thing in the 
 house, and some people not males said she had taken care 
 to supply for herself a background which would " throw her 
 up." These people, if they believed what they said, did not 
 know her. 
 
 She had on the first floor a little sitting-room all to herself; 
 in this were now to be found the books which had been in 
 her bedroom in Great Cumberland Place; the charwoman's 
 black tray with the cabbage rose, the mug from Greenwich, 
 the flesh-colored vase, the china cow, the toy trombone, and 
 other souvenirs of her girlhood to which Rosamund " held." 
 On the brass-railed shelf of the writing-table stood a fine 
 photogravure of the Hermes of Olympia with little Dionysos 
 on his arm. Very often, many times every day, Rosamund 
 looked up at Hermes and the Child from account books, letters 
 or notes, and then the green dream of Elis fell about her 
 softly again; and sometimes she gazed beyond the Hermes, but 
 instead of the wall of the chamber she saw, set in an oblong 
 frame, and bathed in green twilight, a bit of the world of Pan, 
 with a branch of wild olive flickering across the foreground; 
 or, now and then, she saw a falling star, dropping from its place 
 in the sky down towards a green wilderness, and carrying a 
 wish from her with it, a wish that was surely soon to be granted. 
 Her life in the little house had been a happy life hitherto, but 
 she looked again at the little Dionysos on the arm of Hermes, 
 nestling against his shoulder how much happier it was going 
 to be, how much happier! She was not surprised, for deep 
 in her heart she always expected happiness. 
 
 People had been delightful to her and to Dion. Indeed, 
 they had flocked to the small green door (the Elis door) of 
 5 Little Market Street in almost embarrassing numbers. That 
 was partly Mr. Darlington's fault. Naturally Rosamund's 
 and Bruce Evelin's friends came; and of course Dion's rela- 
 tions and friends came. That would really have been enough. 
 Rosamund enjoyed, but was not at all " mad about," society, 
 and had no wish to give up the greater part of her time to 
 paying calls. But Mr. Darlington could not forbear from kind
 
 104 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 efforts on behalf of his delightful young friends, that gifted 
 and beautiful creature Rosamund Leith, and her pleasant young 
 husband. He, who found time for everything, found time to 
 give more than one " little party, just a few friends, no more," 
 specially for them; and the end of it was that they found 
 themselves acquainted with almost too many interesting and 
 delightful people. 
 
 At first, too, Rosamund continued to sing at concerts, but 
 at the end of July, after their return from Greece, when the 
 London season closed, she gave up doing so for the time, and 
 accepted no engagements for the autumn. Esme Darlington 
 was rather distressed. He worked very hard in the arts him- 
 self, and, having " launched " Rosamund, he expected great 
 things of her, and wished her to go forward from success to 
 success. Besides " the money would surely come in very 
 handy " to two young people as yet only moderately well off. 
 He did not quite understand the situation. Of course he real- 
 ized that in time young married people might have home 
 interests, home claims upon them which might necessitate cer- 
 tain changes of procedure. The day might come he sin- 
 cerely hoped it would when a new glory, possibly even more 
 than one, would be added to the delightful Rosamund's crown; 
 but in the meanwhile surely the autumn concerts need not be 
 neglected. He had heard no hint as yet of any h'm, ha! 
 He stroked his carefully careless beard. But he had left town 
 in August with his curiosity unsatisfied, leaving Rosamund and 
 Dion behind him. They had had their holiday, and had 
 stayed steadily on in Little Market Street through the summer, 
 taking Saturday to Monday runs into the country; more than 
 once to the seacoast of Kent, where Bruce Evelin and Beatrice 
 were staying, and once to Worcestershire to Dion's mother, who 
 had taken a cottage there close to the borders of Warwickshire. 
 The autumn had brought people back to town, and it was in 
 the autumn that Rosamund withdrew from all contact with 
 the hurly-burly of London. She had no fears at all for her 
 body, none of those sick terrors which some women have as 
 their time draws near, no premonitions of disaster or presages 
 of death, but she desired to " get ready," and her way of getting 
 ready was to surround her life with a certain stillness, to build 
 about it white walls of peace. Often when Dion was away in 
 the City she went out alone and visited some church. Some- 
 times she spent an hour or two in Westminster Abbey; and on 
 many dark afternoons she made her way to St. Paul's Cathedral
 
 ECHO 105 
 
 where, sitting a long way from the choir, she listened to even- 
 song. The beautiful and tenderly cool singing of the distant 
 boys came to her like something she needed, something to 
 which her soul was delicately attuned. One afternoon they 
 and the men, who formed the deeply melodious background from 
 which their crystalline voices seemed to float forward and 
 upward, sang " The Wilderness " of Wesley. Rosamund list- 
 ened to it, thankful that she was alone, and remembering many 
 things, among them the green wilderness beneath the hill of 
 Drouva. 
 
 Very seldom she spoke to Dion about these excursions of 
 hers. There was something in her feeling for religion which 
 loved reserve rather than expression; she who was so forth- 
 coming in many moments of her life, who was genial and gay, 
 who enjoyed laughter and was always at home with humanity, 
 knew very well how to be silent. There was a saying she cared 
 for, " God speaks to man in the silence; " perhaps she felt 
 there was a suspicion of irreverence in talking to any one, even 
 to Dion, about her aspiration to God. If, on his return home, 
 he asked her how she had passed the day, she often said only, 
 " I've been very happy." Then he said to himself, " What 
 more can I want? I'm able to make her happy." 
 
 One windy evening in January, when an icy sleet was driving 
 over the town, as he came into the little hall, he found Rosa- 
 mund at the foot of the staircase, with a piece of mother's work 
 in her hand, about to go into the drawing-room which was on 
 the ground floor of the house. 
 
 " Rose," he said, looking down at the little white something 
 she was holding, " do you think we shall both feel ever so 
 much older in March? It will be in March, won't it? " 
 
 " I think so," she answered, with a sort of deeply tranquil 
 gravity. 
 
 " In March when we are parents? " 
 
 "Are you worrying about that?" she asked him, smiling 
 now, but with, in her voice, a hint of reproach. 
 
 "Worrying no. But do you?" 
 
 " Let us go into the drawing-room," she said. 
 
 When they were there she answered him: 
 
 " Absolutely different, but not necessarily older. Feeling 
 older must be very like feeling old, I think and I can't 
 imagine feeling old." 
 
 " Because probably you never will." 
 
 "Have you had tea, Dion? "
 
 106 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Yes, at the Greville. I promised I'd meet Guy there 
 to-day. He spoke about Beattie." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " Do you think Beattie would marry him if he asked her? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 She sat down in the firelight near the hearth, and bent a 
 little over her work on the tiny garment, which looked as if 
 it were intended for the use of a fairy. Dion looked at her 
 head with its pale hair. As he leaned forward he could see 
 all the top of her head. The firelight made some of her hair 
 look quite golden, gave a sort of soft sparkle to the curve of 
 it about her broad, pure forehead. 
 
 " Guy's getting desperate," he said. " But he's afraid to 
 put his fortune to the test. He thinks even uncertainty is 
 better than knowledge of the worst." 
 
 " Of one thing I'm certain, Dion. Beattie doesn't love Guy 
 Daventry." 
 
 " Oh well, then, it's all up." 
 
 Rosamund looked up from the little garment. 
 
 " I didn't say that." 
 
 " But if Beattie but Beattie's the soul of sincerity." 
 
 " Yes, I know; but I think she might consent to marry 
 Guy Daventry." 
 
 " But why? " 
 
 " I don't know exactly. She never told me. I just feel it." 
 
 " Oh, if you feel it, I'm sure it is so. But how awfully odd. 
 Isn't it?" 
 
 " Yes, it really is rather odd in Beattie. Do you want 
 Beattie to marry Guy Daventry? " 
 
 " Of course I do. Don't you? " 
 
 "Dear Beattie! I want her to be happy. But I think it's 
 very difficult, even when one knows some one very, very well, 
 to know just how she can get happiness, through just what." 
 
 " Rose, have I made you happy? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " As happy as you could be? " 
 
 " I think, perhaps, you will have soon." 
 
 " Oh, you mean ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 She went on stitching quietly. Her hands looked very con- 
 tented. Dion drew up a little nearer to the fire with a move- 
 ment that was rather brusk. It just struck him that his walk 
 home in the driving sleet had decidedly chilled his body.
 
 ECHO 107 
 
 " I believe I know what you mean about Beattie," he said, 
 after a pause, looking into the fire. " But do you think that 
 would be fair to Guy? " 
 
 " I'm not quite sure myself what I mean, honestly, Dion." 
 
 "Well, let's suppose it. If it were so, would it be fair? " 
 
 " I think Beattie's so really good that Mr. Daventry, as he 
 loves her, could scarcely be unhappy with her." 
 
 Dion thought for a moment, then he said: 
 
 " Perhaps with Guy it wouldn't be unfair, but, you know, 
 Rose, that sort of thing wouldn't do with some men. Some 
 men could never stand being married for anything but the one 
 great reason." 
 
 He did not explain what that reason was, and Rosamund 
 did not ask. There was a sort of wide and sweet tranquillity 
 about her that evening. Dion noticed that it seemed to increase 
 upon her, and about her, as the days passed by. She showed 
 no sign of nervousness, had evidently no dread at all of bodily 
 pain. Either she trusted in her splendid health, or she was 
 so wrapped up in the thought of the joy of being a mother that 
 the darkness to be passed through did not trouble her; or per- 
 haps he wondered about this she was all the time schooling 
 herself, looking up, in memory, to the columns of the 
 Parthenon. He was much more strung up, much more restless 
 and excitable than she was, but she did not seem to notice it. 
 Always singularly unconscious of herself, she seemed at this 
 period to be also unobservant of those about her. He felt that 
 she was being deliberately egoistic for a great reason, that she 
 was caring for herself, soul and body, with a sort of deep and 
 quiet intensity because of the child. 
 
 " She is right," he said to himself, and he strove in all ways 
 in his power to aid her beautiful selfishness; nevertheless some- 
 times he felt shut out; sometimes he felt as if already the 
 unseen was playing truant over the seen. He was conscious 
 of the child's presence in the little house through Rosamund's 
 way of being before he saw the child. He wondered what 
 other women were like in such periods, whether Rosamund was 
 instinctively conforming to an ancient tradition of her sex, 
 or whether she was, as usual, strongly individualistic. In 
 many ways she was surely not like other women, but perhaps 
 in these wholly natural crises every woman resembled all her 
 sisters who were traveling towards the same sacred condition. 
 He longed to satisfy himself whether this was so or not, and 
 one Saturday afternoon, when Rosamund was resting in her
 
 io8 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 little sitting-room with a book, and the Hermes watching over 
 her, he bicycled to Jenkins's gymnasium in the Harrow Road, 
 resolved to put in forty minutes' hard work, and then to visit 
 his mother. Mrs. Leith and Rosamund seemed to be excellent 
 friends, but Dion never discussed his wife with his mother. 
 There was no reason why he should do so. On this day, how- 
 ever, instinctively he turned to his mother; he thought that she 
 might help him towards a clearer knowledge of Rosamund. 
 
 Rosamund had long ago been formally made known to Bob 
 Jenkins, Jim's boxing " coach," who enthusiastically approved 
 of her, though he had never ventured to put his opinion quite 
 in that form to Dion. Even Jenkins, perhaps, had his subtle- 
 ties, those which a really good heart cannot rid itself of. 
 Rosamund, in return, had made Dion known to her extraor- 
 dinary friend, Mr. Thrush of Abingdon Buildings, John's 
 Court, near the Edgware Road, the old gentleman who went 
 to fetch his sin every evening, and, it is to be feared, at various 
 other times also, in a jug from the " Daniel Lambert." Dion 
 had often laughed over Rosamund's " cult " for Mr. Thrush, 
 which he scarcely pretended to understand, but Rosamund re- 
 joiced in Dion's cult for the stalwart Jenkins. 
 
 " I like that" man," she said. " Perhaps some day " 
 
 She stopped there, but her face was eloquent. 
 
 In his peculiar way Jenkins was undoubtedly Doric, and 
 therefore deserving of Rosamund's respect. Of Mr. Thrush 
 so much could hardly be said with truth. In him there were 
 to be found neither the stern majesty and strength of the Doric, 
 nor the lightness and grace of the Ionic. As an art product 
 he stood alone, always wearing the top hat, a figure Degas 
 might have immortalized but had unfortunately never seen. 
 Dion knew that Mr. Thrush had once rescued Rosamund in a 
 fog and had convoyed her home, and he put the rest of the 
 Thrush matter down to Rosamund's genial kindness towards 
 downtrodden and unfortunate people. He loved her for it, 
 but could not help being amused by it. 
 
 When Dion arrived at the gymnasium, Jenkins was giving 
 a lesson to a small boy of perhaps twelve years old, whose 
 mother was looking eagerly on. The boy, clad in a white 
 " sweater," was flushed with the ardor of his endeavors to punch 
 the ball, to raise himself up on the bar till his chin was between 
 his hands, to vault the horse neatly, and to turn somersaults 
 on the rings. The primrose-colored hair on his small round 
 head was all ruffled up, perspiration streamed over his pink
 
 ECHO 109 
 
 rosy cheeks, his eyes shone with determination, and his little 
 white teeth were gritted as, with all the solemn intensity of 
 childhood, he strove to obey on the instant Jenkins's loud words 
 of command. It was obvious that he looked to Jenkins as 
 a savage looks to his Tribal God. His anxious but admiring 
 mother was forgotten; the world was forgotten; Jenkins and 
 the small boy were alone in a universe of grip dumb-bells, 
 heavy weights, " exercisers," boxing gloves, horizontal bars, 
 swinging balls and wooden " horses." Dion stood in the door- 
 way and looked on till the lesson was finished. It ended with 
 a heavy clap on the small boy's shoulders from the mighty paw 
 of Jenkins, and a stentorian, " You're getting along and no 
 mistake, Master Tim! " 
 
 The face of Master Tim at this moment was a study. All 
 the flags of triumph and joy were hung out in it and floated on 
 the breeze; a soul appeared at the two windows shining with 
 perfect happiness; and, mysteriously, in all the little figure, 
 from the ruffled primrose-colored feathers of hair to the feet 
 in the white shoes, the pride of manhood looked forth through 
 the glowing rapture of a child. 
 
 "What a jolly boy! " said Dion to Jenkins, when Master 
 Tim and his mother had departed. " It must be good to have 
 a boy like that." 
 
 " I hope you'll have one some day, sir," said Jenkins, speak- 
 ing heartily in his powerful voice, but looking, for the moment, 
 unusually severe. 
 
 He and Bert, his wife, had had one child, a girl, which had 
 died of quinsy, and they had never had another. 
 
 "Now I'm ready for you, sir! " he added, with a sort of 
 outburst of recovery. " I should like a round with the gloves 
 to-day, if it's all the same to you." 
 
 It was all the same to Dion, and, when he reached Queen 
 Anne's Mansions in the darkness of evening, he was still 
 glowing from the exercise; the blood sang through his veins, 
 and his heart was almost as light as his step. 
 
 Marion, the parlor-maid, let him in, and told him his mother 
 was at home. Dion put his hand to his lips, stole across the 
 hall noiselessly, softly opened the drawing-room door, and 
 caught his mother unawares. 
 
 \Yhenever he came into the well-known flat alone, he had 
 a moment of retrogression, went back to his unmarried time, 
 and was again, as for so many years, in the intimate life of his 
 mother. But to-day, as he opened the door, he was abruptly
 
 no IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 thrust out of his moment. His mother was in her usual place 
 on the high-backed sofa near the fire. She was doing nothing, 
 was just sitting with her hands, in their wrinkled gloves, folded 
 in her lap, and her large, round blue eyes looking. Dion 
 thought of them as looking because they were wide open, but 
 they were strangely emptied of expression. All of his mother 
 seemed to him for just the one instant which followed on his 
 entrance to be emptied, as if the woman he had always known 
 loving, satirical, clever, kind, observant had been poured 
 away. The effect upon him was one of indescribable, almost 
 of horrible, dreariness. Omar Khayyam, his mother's black 
 pug, was not in the room as usual, stretched out before the fire. 
 
 Even as Dion realized this, his mother was poured back 
 into the round face and plump figure beside the fire, and greeted 
 him with the usual almost saccharine sweet smile, and: 
 
 " Dee-ar, I wasn't expecting you to-day. How is the be- 
 loved one? " 
 
 " The beloved one " was Mrs. Leith's rendering of Rosa- 
 mund. 
 
 " How particularly spry you look," she added. " I'm cer- 
 tain it's the Jenkins paragon. You've been standing up to 
 him. Now, haven't you ? " 
 
 Dion acknowledged that he had, and added: 
 
 "But you, mother? How are you? " 
 
 " Quite wickedly well. I ought to be down with influenza 
 like all well-bred people, Esme Darlington has it badly, 
 but I cannot compass even one sneeze." 
 
 "Where's Omar?" 
 
 Mrs. Leith looked grave. 
 
 " Poor little chap, we must turn down an empty glass for 
 him." 
 
 "What you don't mean ?" 
 
 " Run over yesterday just outside the Mansions, and by a 
 four-wheeler. I'm sure he never expected that the angel of 
 death would come for him in a growler, poor little fellow." 
 
 "I say! Little Omar dead! What a beastly shame! 
 Mother, I am sorry." 
 
 He sat down beside her; he was beset by a sensation of 
 calamity. Oddly enough the hammer of fate had never yet 
 struck on him so definitely as now with the death of a dog. 
 But, without quite realizing it, he was considering poor black 
 Omar as an important element in his mother's life, now 
 abruptly withdrawn. Omar had been in truth a rather greedy,
 
 ECHO 111 
 
 self-seeking animal, but he had also been a companion, an 
 adherent, a friend. 
 
 " You must get another dog," Dion added quickly. " I'll 
 find you one." 
 
 "Good of you, dee-ar boy! But I'm too old to begin on 
 a new dog." 
 
 "What nonsense! " 
 
 " It isn't. I feel I'm losing my nameless fascination for 
 dogs. A poodle barked at me this afternoon in Victoria Street. 
 One can't expect one's day to last for ever, though, really, some 
 Englishwomen seem to. But, tell me, how is the beloved one? " 
 
 " Oh to be sure ! I wanted to talk to you about Rose." 
 
 The smile became very sweet and welcoming on Mrs. Leith's 
 handsome round face. 
 
 " There's nothing wrong, I'm sure. Your Rosamund sheds 
 confidence in her dear self like a light all round her." 
 
 " Nothing wrong no. I didn't mean that." 
 
 Dion paused. Now he was with his mother he did not know 
 how to explain himself; his reason for coming began to seem, 
 even, to himself, a little vague. 
 
 " It's a little difficult," he began at last, " but I've been 
 wondering rather about women who are as Rosamund is just 
 now. D'you think all women become a good deal alike at 
 such times ? " 
 
 " In spirit, do you mean? " 
 
 " Well yes, of course." 
 
 " I scarcely know." 
 
 " I mean do they concentrate on the child a long while before 
 it comes." 
 
 " Many smart women certainly don't." 
 
 "Oh, smart women! I mean women." 
 
 " A good definition, dee-ar. Well, lots of poor women don't 
 concentrate on the child either. They have far too much to 
 do and worry about. They are ' seeing to ' things up till the 
 very last moment." 
 
 " Then we must rule them out. Let's say the good women 
 who have the time." 
 
 " I expect a great many of them do, if the husband lets 
 them." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Dion rather sharply. 
 
 " There are a few husbands, you see, who get fidgety directly 
 the pedestal on which number one thinks himself firmly estab- 
 lished begins to shake."
 
 112 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 'Stupid fools!" 
 
 ' Eminently human stupid fools." 
 
 'Are they?" 
 
 ' Don't you think so? " 
 
 ' Perhaps. But then humanity's contemptible." 
 
 ' Extra-humanity, or the attempt at it, can be dangerous." 
 
 ' What do you mean exactly by that, mater? " 
 
 ' Only that we have to be as we are, and can never really 
 be, can only seem to be, as we aren't." 
 
 " What a whipping I'm giving to myself just now ! " was 
 her thought, as she finished speaking. 
 
 " Oh yes, of course. That's true. I think I think 
 Rosamund's concentrating on the child, in a sort of quiet, big 
 way." 
 
 " There's something fine in that. But her doings are ofteo 
 touched with fineness." 
 
 " Yes, aren't they? She doesn't seem at all afraid." 
 
 " I don't think she need be. She has such splendid health." 
 
 " But she may suffer very much." 
 
 " Yes, but something will carry her gloriously through all 
 that, I expect." 
 
 " And you think it's very natural, very usual, her her 
 sort of living alone with the child before it is born? " 
 
 Mrs. Leith saw in her son's eyes an unmistakably wistful 
 look at this moment. It was very very hard for her not to 
 take him in her arms just then, not to say, " My son, d'you 
 suppose I don't understand it all all?" But she never 
 moved, her hands lay still in her lap, and she replied: 
 
 " Very natural, quite natural, Dion. Your Rosamund is 
 just being herself." 
 
 " You think she's able to live with the child already? " 
 
 Mrs. Leith hesitated for a moment. In that moment cer- 
 tainly she felt a strong, even an almost terrible inclination to 
 tell a lie to her son. But she answered: 
 
 " Yes, I do." 
 
 " That must be very strange," was all that Dion said just 
 then; but a little later on he stayed with his mother longer 
 than usual that day because poor little Omar was dead he 
 remarked : 
 
 " D'you know, mater, I believe it's the right thing to be 
 what's called a thorough-paced egoist at certain moments, in 
 certain situations." 
 
 " Perhaps it is," said his mother incuriously.
 
 ECHO 113 
 
 " I fancy there's a good deal of rot talked about egoism 
 and that sort of thing." 
 
 " There's a good deal of rot talked about most things." 
 
 " Yes, isn't there ? And besides, how is one to know ? Very 
 often what seems like egoism may not be egoism at all. As 
 I grow older I often feel how important it is to search out the 
 real reasons for things." 
 
 " Sometimes they're difficult to find," returned his mother, 
 with an unusual simplicity of manner. 
 
 " Yes, but still Well, I must be off." 
 
 He stood up and looked at the Indian rug in front of the 
 hearth. 
 
 " When are you coming to see us? " he asked. 
 
 " Almost directly, dee-ar." 
 
 " That's right. Rosamund likes seeing you. Naturally she 
 
 depends upon you at such " He broke off. " I mean, 
 
 do come as often as you can." 
 
 He bent down and kissed his mother. 
 
 " By the way," he added, almost awkwardly, " about that 
 dog?" 
 
 "What dog, dee-ar?" 
 
 " The dog I want to give you." 
 
 " We must think about it. Give me time. After a black 
 pug one doesn't know all in a moment what type would be the 
 proper successor. You remember your poor Aunt Binn?" 
 
 " Aunt Binn! Why, what did she do? " 
 
 " Gave Uncle Binn a hairless thing like a note of interroga- 
 tion, that had to sleep in a coating of vaseline, when his enor- 
 mous sheep-dog died who couldn't see for hair. She believed 
 in the value of contrast, but Uncle Binn didn't. It would have 
 led to a separation but for the hectic efforts of your aunt's 
 friend, Miss Vine. When I've decided what type of dog, I'll 
 tell you." 
 
 Dion understood the negative and, in spite of his feeling of 
 fitness, went away rather uncomfortably. He couldn't forget 
 the strange appearance of that emptied woman whom he had 
 taken unawares by the fireside. If only his mother would let 
 him give her another dog! 
 
 When he got home he found Beatrice sitting with Rosamund. 
 
 Dion had grown to be very fond of Beatrice. He had always 
 been rather touched and attracted by her plaintive charm, but 
 since she had become his sister-in-law he had learnt to ap- 
 preciate also her rare sincerity and delicacy of mind. She
 
 114 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 could not grip life, perhaps, could not mold it to her purpose 
 and desire, but she could do a very sweet and very feminine 
 thing, she could live, without ever being intrusive, in the life 
 of another. It was impossible not to see how " wrapped up " 
 she was in Rosamund. Dion had come to feel sure that it 
 was natural to Beatrice to lead her life in another's, and he 
 believed that Rosamund realized this and often let Beatrice 
 do little things for her which, full of vigor and " go " as she 
 was, she would have preferred to do for herself. 
 
 " I've been boxing and then to see mother," he said, as he 
 took Beatrice's long narrow hand in his. " She sent her best 
 love to you, Rosamund." 
 
 "The dear mother! " said Rosamund gently. 
 
 Dion sat down by Beatrice. 
 
 " I'm quite upset by something that's happened," he con- 
 tinued. "You know poor little Omar, Beattie? " 
 
 "Yes. Is he ill?" 
 
 " Dead. He was run over yesterday by a four-wheeler." 
 
 "Oh!" said Beatrice. 
 
 " Poor little dog," Rosamund said, again gently. 
 
 "When they picked him up are you going, Rose?" 
 
 " Only for a few minutes. I am sorry. I'll write to the 
 dear mother." 
 
 She went quietly out of the room. Dion sprang up to open 
 the door for her, but she had been sitting nearer to the door 
 than he, and he was too late; he shut it, however, and came 
 slowly back to Beatrice. 
 
 " I wonder " He looked at Beatrice's pale face and 
 
 earnest dark eyes. " D'you think Rosamund disliked my men- 
 tioning poor Omar's being killed? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " But didn't she leave us rather abruptly? " 
 
 " I think perhaps she didn't want to hear any details. You 
 were just beginning to " 
 
 " How stupid of me! " 
 
 " You see, Rosamund has the child to live for now." 
 
 " Yes yes. What blunderers we men are, however much 
 we try " 
 
 " That's not a blame you ought to take," Beatrice inter- 
 rupted, with earnest gentleness. " You are the most thought- 
 ful man I know for a woman, I mean." 
 
 Dion flushed.
 
 ECHO 115 
 
 " Am I ? I try to be. If I am it's because well, Beattie, 
 you know what Rose is to me." 
 
 " Yes, I know." 
 
 " Dearer and dearer every day. But nobody Mother 
 
 thinks a lot of her." 
 
 "Who doesn't? There aren't many Roses like ours." 
 
 "None. Poor mother! Beattie, d'you think she feels very 
 lonely? You know she's got heaps of friends heaps." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " It isn't as if she knew very few people, or lived alone in 
 the country." 
 
 " No, but I'm very sorry her little dog's dead." 
 
 " I want to give her another." 
 
 " It would be no use." 
 
 "'But why not?" 
 
 " You see, little Omar was always there when you were 
 living there." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " He was part of her life with you." 
 
 "Oh yes." 
 
 Dion looked rather hard at Beatrice. In that moment h& 
 began to realize how much of the intelligence of the heart she 
 possessed, and how widely she applied it. His application of 
 his intelligence of the heart was, he feared, much less wide- 
 spread than hers. 
 
 "Go to see mother when you can, will you?" he said. 
 " She's very fond of you, I think." 
 
 " I'll go. 1 like going to her." 
 
 "And, Beattie, may I say something rather intimate? I'm 
 your brother now." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 She was sitting opposite to him near the fire on a low chair. 
 There was a large shaded lamp in the room, but it was on a 
 rather distant table. He saw Beatrice's face by the firelight 
 and her narrow thoroughbred figure in a dark dress. And the 
 firelight, he thought, gave to both face and figure a sort of 
 strange beauty that was sad, and that had something of the 
 strangeness and the beauty of those gold and red castles chil- 
 dren see in the fire. They glow and that evening there was 
 a sort of glow in Beatrice; they crumble and there was a pa- 
 thetic something in Beatrice, too, which suggested wistful de- 
 sires, perhaps faint hopes and an ending of ashes.
 
 n6 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 "Would you marry old Guy if he asked you? Don't be 
 angry with me." 
 
 " I'm not." 
 
 " Of course we've all known for ages how much he cares for 
 you. He spoke to me about it to-day. He's desperately afraid 
 of your refusing him. He daren't put his fate to the test 
 Beattie would you? " 
 
 A slow red crept over Beatrice's face. She put up one hand 
 to guard herself from the glow of the fire. For a moment she 
 looked at Dion, and he thought, " What a strange expression 
 firelight can give to a face! " Then she said: 
 
 " I can't tell you." 
 
 Her voice was husky. 
 
 " Beattie, you've got a cold! " 
 
 "Have I?" 
 
 She got up. 
 
 " I must go, Dion. I'll just see Rosamund for a minute." 
 
 As she left the room, she said : 
 
 " I'll go and see your mother to-morrow." 
 
 The door shut. Dion stood with one elbow resting on the 
 mantelpiece and looked down into the fire. He saw his mother 
 sitting alone, a strange, emptied figure; he saw Beatrice. And 
 fire, which beautifies, or makes romantic and sad everything, 
 gave to Beatrice the look of his mother. For a moment his soul 
 was full of questions about the two women. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 I'VE joined the Artists' Rifles," Dion said to Rosamund one 
 day. 
 He spoke almost bruskly. Of late he had begun to 
 develop a manner which had just a hint of roughness in it some- 
 times. This manner was the expression of a strong inward 
 effort he was making. If, as his mother believed, already 
 Rosamund was able to live with the child, Dion's solitary pos- 
 session of the woman he loved was definitely over, probably 
 forever. Something within him which, perhaps, foolishly, 
 rebelled against this fact had driven him to seek a diversion; 
 he had found it in beginning to try to live for the child in the 
 man's way. He intended to put the old life behind him, and
 
 ECHO 117 
 
 to march vigorously on to the new. He called up Master Tim 
 before him in the little white " sweater," with the primrose-col- 
 ored ruffled feathers of hair, the gritted white teeth, small al- 
 most as the teeth of a mouse, the moist, ardent cheeks, and the 
 glowing eyes looking steadfastly to the Tribal God. He must 
 be the Tribal God to his little son, if the child were a son. 
 
 Rosamund did not seem surprised by Dion's abrupt state- 
 ment, though he had never spoken of an intention to join any 
 Volunteer Corps. She knew he was fond of shooting, and had 
 been in camp sometimes when he was at a public school. 
 
 " What's that? " she asked. " I've heard of it, but I thought 
 it was a corps for men who are painters, sculptors, writers and 
 musicians." 
 
 " It was founded, nearly forty years ago, I believe, for fel- 
 lows working in the Arts, but all sorts of business men are let 
 in now." 
 
 " Will it take up much time? " 
 
 " No; I shall have to drill a certain amount, and in summer 
 I shall go into camp for a bit, and of course, if a big war ever 
 came, I could be of some use." 
 
 " I'm glad you've joined." 
 
 " I thought you would be. I shall see a little bit less of you, 
 I suppose, but, after all, a husband can't be perpetually hang- 
 ing about the house, can he? " 
 
 Rosamund looked at him and smiled, then laughed gently. 
 
 " Dion, how absurd you are ! In some ways you are only a 
 boy still." 
 
 " Why, what do you mean ? " 
 
 " A man who sticks to business as you do, hanging about the 
 house! " 
 
 " You wouldn't like it if I did." 
 
 " No, because I should know it was doing you harm." 
 
 "And besides do you realize how independent you are?" 
 
 "Am I?" 
 
 " For a woman I think you are extraordinarily independ- 
 ent." 
 
 She sat still for a minute, looking straight before her in an 
 almost curious stillness. 
 
 " I believe I know why perhaps I seem so," she said at 
 length. 
 
 And then she quietly, and very naturally, turned the con- 
 versation into another channel; she was a quieter Rosamund in 
 these days of waiting than the Rosamund unaffected by mother-
 
 ii8 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 hood. That Rosamund had been vigorous and joyous; this 
 Rosamund was strongly serene. In all she was and did at 
 this time Dion felt strength; but it was shown chiefly in still- 
 ness. She worked sometimes; she read a great deal sitting 
 upstairs in her own little room. One day Dion found her 
 with a volume of Tennyson; another day she was reading 
 Shakespeare's "Henry the Fifth"; she had the " Paradiso " 
 at hand, too, and the Greek tragedians, and a Greek Testa- 
 ment with the English text in parallel columns. In the room 
 there was a cottage piano, and one evening, when Dion had 
 been drilling and came back late, he heard her singing. He 
 stood still in the hall, after shutting softly the door of the 
 lobby, and listened to the warm and powerful voice of the 
 woman he loved. He could hear the words of the song, which 
 was a setting of " Lead, kindly Light." Rosamund had only 
 just begun singing it when he came into the hall; the first 
 words he caught were, " The night is dark, and I am far from 
 home; lead thou me on." He thrust his hands into the pockets 
 of the black jacket he was wearing and did not move. He 
 had never before heard Rosamund sing any piece of music 
 through without seeing her while she was doing it; her voice 
 seemed to him now different from the voice he knew so well; 
 perhaps because he was uninfluenced by her appearance. That 
 counted for much in the effect Rosamund created when she 
 sang to people. The thought went through Dion's mind, " Am 
 I really the husband of this voice? " It was beautiful, it was 
 fervent, but it was strange, or seemed strange to him as it came 
 down through the quiet house on this winter evening. For 
 the first time, listening thus, he was able imaginatively to real- 
 ize something of what it must be like to be a mystic, or rather, 
 perhaps, to have within one a definite tendency towards mysti- 
 cism, a definite and ceaseless and governing aspiration towards 
 harmony with the transcendental order. When this voice 
 which he heard above him sang " The night is dark, and I am 
 far from home," he felt a sort of sharp comprehension of the 
 real meaning of homeless wandering such as he had certainly 
 never experienced before. He felt, too, that the spirit from 
 which this voice proceeded could never be at home in the 
 ordinary way of ordinary people, could not be at home even 
 as he himself could be at home. The spirit behind this voice 
 needed something of which, till now, he had not consciously 
 felt the need; something peculiar, out of the way and remote 
 something very different from human love and human com-
 
 ECHO 119 
 
 fort. Although he was musical, and could be critical about a 
 composition according to his lights, Dion did not think about 
 the music of this song qua music could not have said how 
 good he considered it to be. He knew only that this was not 
 poor or insincere music. But music sung in this peculiar way 
 was only a means by which the under part of a human being, 
 that which has its existence deep down under layers and layers 
 of the things which commonly appear and are known of, rose 
 to the surface and announced itself. 
 
 The Artists' Rifles and this ! 
 
 When the voice was silent, Dion went slowly upstairs. The 
 door of Rosamund's little room was shut. He paused outside 
 it, and stood looking at it, the movable barrier of dark shin- 
 ing wood which divided him from the voice. When he was 
 ascending the stairs he had meant to go in to Rosamund. But 
 now he hesitated, and presently he turned away. He felt that 
 a greater barrier than the door was between them. He might 
 open the door easily enough, but the other barrier would re- 
 main. The life of the body seemed to him just then an antag- 
 onist to the life of the soul. 
 
 " I'm on the lower plane," said Dion to himself that eve- 
 ning. " If it's a boy, I shall have to look after his body; she'll 
 take care of the rest. Perhaps mothers always do, but not as 
 she could and will." 
 
 From this moment he devoted himself as much as possible 
 to his body, almost, indeed, with the ardor of one possessed by 
 a sort of mania. The Artists' Corps took up part of his time; 
 Jenkins another part; he practised rifle shooting as diligently 
 almost as if he expected to have to take his place almost imme- 
 diately in the field; he began to learn fencing. Rosamund saw 
 very little 'of him, but she made no comment. He explained to 
 her what he was doing. 
 
 " You see, Rose," he said to her once, " if it's a boy it will 
 be my job eventually to train him up to be first-class in the 
 distinctively man's part of life. No woman can ever do that. 
 I mustn't let myself get slack." 
 
 " You never would, I'm sure." 
 
 " I hope not. Still, lots of business men do. And I'm sit- 
 ting about three-quarters of my time. One does get soft, and 
 the softer a chap gets the less inclined he is to make the effort 
 required of him, if he wants to get hard. If I ever am to be 
 the father of a growing-up son when they get to about six- 
 teen, you know, they get awfully critical about games and ath-
 
 120 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 letics, sport, everything of that kind I should like to be able 
 to keep my end up thoroughly well with him. He'd respect 
 me far more then. I know exactly the type of fellow real boys 
 look up to. It isn't the intelligent softy, however brainy he 
 may be; it's the man who can do all the ordinary things su- 
 perlatively well." 
 
 She smiled at him with her now curiously tranquil yellow- 
 brown eyes, and he thought he saw in them approval. 
 
 " I think few men would prepare as you do," she said. 
 
 " And how many women would prepare as you do? " he re- 
 turned. 
 
 " I couldn't do anything else. But now I feel as if we were 
 working together, in a way." 
 
 He squeezed her hand. She let it lie motionless in his. 
 
 " But if it weren't a boy? " he said, struck by a sudden reac- 
 tion of doubt. 
 
 And the thought went, like an arrow, through him: 
 
 " What chance should I have then? " 
 
 " I know it will be a boy," she answered. 
 
 "Why? Not because you sleep north and south!" he ex- 
 claimed, with a laughing allusion to the assertion of Herrick. 
 
 " I don't." 
 
 " I always thought the bed " 
 
 " No, it's east and west." 
 
 " Fishermen say the dead sleep east and west." 
 
 " Are you superstitious ? " 
 
 " I don't know. Perhaps, where you are concerned." 
 
 " Don't be. Superstition seems to me the opposite of belief. 
 Just wait, and remember, I know it will be a boy." 
 
 One evening Dion went to Great Cumberland Place to dine 
 with Bruce Evelin and Beatrice, leaving Rosamund apparently 
 in her usual health. She was going to have " something on 
 a tray " in her sitting-room, and he went in there to say 
 good-by to her just before he started. He found her sitting by 
 the fire, and looking at Hermes and the Child with steady eyes. 
 They were lit up rather faintly by a couple of wax candles 
 placed on the writing-table. The light from these candles and 
 from the fire made a delicate and soothing radiance in the room, 
 which was plainly furnished, and almost somber in color. A 
 very dim and cloudy purple-blue pervaded it, a very beautiful 
 hue, but austere, and somehow suggestive of things ecclesias- 
 tical. On a small, black oak table at Rosamund's elbow two
 
 ECHO 121 
 
 or three books were lying beside a large bowl of dim blue glass 
 which had opalescent lights in it. This bowl was nearly full 
 of water upon which a water-lily floated. The fire on the 
 hearth was small, but glowing with red and gold. Dark cur- 
 tains were drawn across the one window which looked out at the 
 back of the house. It was a frosty night and windless. 
 
 Dion stood still for a moment on the threshold of the room 
 after he had opened the door. 
 
 " How quiet you are in here ! " he said. 
 
 " This little room is always quiet." 
 
 " Yes, but to-night it's like a room to which some one has 
 just said' Hush! ' ; 
 
 He came in and shut the door quietly behind him. 
 
 " I've just a minute." 
 
 He came up to the fire. 
 
 " And so you were looking at him, our Messenger with 
 winged sandals. Oh, Rosamund, how wonderful it was at 
 Olympia! I wonder whether you and I shall ever see the 
 Hermes together again. I suppose all the chances are against 
 it." 
 
 " I hope we shall." 
 
 "Do you? And yet I don't know. It would be terrible 
 to see him together again if things were much altered ; if, for 
 instance, one was less happy and remembered " 
 
 He broke off, came to the settee at right angles to the fire 
 on which she was sitting, and sat down beside her. At this 
 moment he did not know why the great and always grow- 
 ing love he had for her seemed to surge forward abruptly like a 
 tidal wave, and he was conscious of sadness and almost of fear. 
 He looked at Rosamund as if he were just going to part from 
 her, anxiously, and with a sort of greed of detail. 
 
 " Alone I could never go back to Elis," he said. " Never. 
 What a power things have if they are connected in our hearts 
 with people. It's it's awful." 
 
 A clock chimed faintly. 
 
 " I must go." 
 
 He got up and stood for a moment looking down at the dear 
 head loved so much, at her brow. 
 
 " I don't know why it is," he said, " but this evening I hate 
 leaving you." 
 
 " But it's only for a little while." 
 
 There was a tap at the door.
 
 122 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 "Ah! here's my tray." 
 
 The maid came in carrying a woman's meal, and Dion's 
 strange moment was over. 
 
 When he got to Great Cumberland Place, Daventry, who was 
 to make a fourth, had just arrived, and was taking off his coat 
 in the hall. He looked unusually excited, alert in an almost 
 feverish way, which was surprising in him. 
 
 " I'm in a case," he said, " a quite big case. Bruce Evelin's 
 got it for me. I'm going to be junior to Addington; Lewis & 
 Lewis instruct me. What d'you think of that? " 
 
 Dion clapped him on the shoulder. 
 
 "The way of K salvation ! " 
 
 "Where will it lead me?" 
 
 "To Salvation, of course." 
 
 " I'll walk home with you to-night, old Dion. I must yap 
 across the Park with you to Hyde Park Corner, and tell you all 
 about the woman from Constantinople." 
 
 They were going upstairs. 
 
 "The woman ? " 
 
 " My client, my client. My dear boy, this is no ordinary 
 case " he waved a small hand ceremoniously " it's a cause 
 celebre or I shouldn't have bothered myself with it." 
 
 Lurby opened the drawing-room door. 
 
 " How's Rosamund? " was Beatrice's first question to Dion, 
 as they shook hands. 
 
 " All right. I left her just going to feed from a tray in her 
 little room." 
 
 " Rosamund always loved having a meal on a tray," said 
 Bruce Evelin. " She's a big child still. But enthusiasts never 
 really grow up, luckily for them." 
 
 " Dinner is served, sir." 
 
 " Daventry, will you take Beatrice ? " 
 
 As Dion followed with Bruce Evelin, he said: 
 
 " So you've got Daventry a case! " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Bruce Evelin lowered his voice. 
 
 " He's a good fellow and a clever fellow, but he's got to work. 
 He's been slacking for years." 
 
 Dion understood. Bruce Evelin wished Beatrice to marry 
 Daventry. 
 
 " He respects you tremendously, sir. If any one can make 
 him work, you can." 
 
 " I'm going to," returned Bruce Evelin. with his quiet
 
 ECHO 123 
 
 force. " He's got remarkable ability, and the slacker 
 well " 
 
 He looked at Dion with his dark, informed eyes, in which 
 knowledge of the world and of men always seemed sitting. 
 
 " I can bear with bad energy almost more easily and com- 
 fortably than with slackness." 
 
 During dinner, without seeming to, Dion observed and con- 
 sidered Beatrice and Daventry, imagining them wife and hus- 
 band. He felt sure Daventry would be very happy. As to 
 Beatrice, he could not tell. There was always in Beatrice's at- 
 mosphere, or nearly always, a faint suggestion of sadness which, 
 curiously, was not disagreeable but attractive. Dion doubted 
 whether Daventry could banish it. Perhaps no one could, and 
 Daventry had, perhaps, that love which does not wish to alter, 
 which says, " I love you with your little bit of sadness 
 keep it." 
 
 Daventry was exceptionally animated at dinner. The pros- 
 pect of actually appearing in court as counsel in a case had 
 evidently worked upon him like a powerful tonic. Always able 
 to be amusing when he chose, he displayed to-night a new some- 
 thing was it a hint of personal dignity? which Dion had 
 not hitherto found in him. " Dear old Daventry," the agree- 
 able, and obviously clever, nobody, who was a sure critic of 
 others, and never did anything himself, who blinked at mo- 
 ments with a certain feebleness, and was too fond of the cozy 
 fireside, or the deep arm-chairs of his club, had evidently caught 
 hold of the flying skirts of his self-respect, and was thoroughly 
 enjoying his capture. He did not talk very much to Beatrice, 
 but it was obvious that he was at every moment enjoying her 
 presence, her attention; when she listened earnestly he caught 
 her earnestness and it seemed to help him; when she laughed, 
 in her characteristic delicate way,~- her laugh seemed almost 
 wholly of the mind, he beamed with a joy that was touch- 
 ing in a man of his type because it was so unself-conscious. 
 His affection for Beatrice had performed the miracle of draw- 
 ing him out of the prison of awareness in which such men as 
 he dwell. To-night he was actually unobservant. Dion knew 
 this by the changed expression of his eyes. Even Beatrice he 
 was not observing; he was just feeling what she was, how she 
 was. For once he had passed beyond the narrow portals and 
 had left satire far behind him. 
 
 Vv'hen Beatrice got up to go to the drawing-room he opened 
 the door for her. She blushed faintly as she went out. When
 
 124 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 the door was shut, and the three men were alone, Bruce Evelin 
 said to Dion: 
 
 " Will you mind if Daventry and I talk a little shop to- 
 night?" 
 
 " Of course not. But would you rather I went up and kept 
 Beattie company? " 
 
 " No; stay till you're bored, or till you think Beatrice is 
 bored. Let us light up." 
 
 He walked slowly, with his gently precise gait, to a cigar cabi- 
 net, opened it, and told the young men to help themselves. 
 
 " And now for the Clarke case," he said. 
 
 " Is that the name of the woman from Constantinople? " 
 asked Dion. 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. Beadon Clarke," said Daventry. " But she hates 
 the Beadon and never uses it. Beadon Clarke's trying to di- 
 vorce her, and I'm on her side. She's staying with Mrs. Chet- 
 winde. Esme Darlington, who's an old friend of hers, thinks 
 her too unconventional for a diplomatist's wife." 
 
 Bruce Evelin had lighted his cigar. 
 
 " We mustn't forget that our friend Darlington has always 
 run tame rather than wild," he remarked, with a touch of dry 
 satire. " And now, Daventry, let us go through the main facts 
 of the case, without, of course, telling any professional secrets." 
 
 And he began to outline the Clarke case, which subsequently 
 made a great sensation in London. 
 
 It appeared that Mrs. Clarke had come first to him in her 
 difficulty, and had tried hard to persuade him to emerge from 
 his retirement and to lead for her defense. He had been de- 
 termined in refusal, and had advised her to get Sir John Ad- 
 dington, with Daventry as junior. This she had done. Now 
 Bruce Evelin was carefully " putting up " Daventry to every 
 move in the great game which was soon to be played out, a 
 game in which a woman's honor and future were at stake. 
 The custody of a much-loved child might also come into ques- 
 tion. 
 
 " Suppose Addington is suddenly stricken with paralysis in 
 the middle of the case, you must be ready to carry it through 
 triumphantly alone," he observed, with quietly twinkling eyes, 
 to Daventry. 
 
 " May I have a glass of your oldest brandy, sir? " returned 
 Daventry, holding on to the dinner-table with both hands. 
 
 The brandy was given to him and the discussion of the case 
 continued. By degrees Dion found himself becoming strongly
 
 ECHO 125 
 
 interested in Mrs. Clarke, whose name came up constantly. 
 She was evidently a talented and a very unusual woman. Per- 
 haps the latter fact partially accounted for the unusual diffi- 
 culties in which she was now involved. Her husband, Coun- 
 cilor to the British Embassy at Constantinople, charged her 
 with misconduct, and had cited two co-respondents, Hadi 
 Bey, a Turkish officer, and Aristide Dumeny, a French diplo- 
 mat, both apparently men of intellect and of highly culti- 
 vated tastes, and both slightly younger than Mrs. Clarke. A 
 curious fact in the case was that Beadon Clarke was deeply in 
 love with his wife, and had so Dion gathered from a re- 
 mark of Bruce Evelin's probably been induced to take action 
 against her by his mother, Lady Ermyntrude Clarke, who evi- 
 dently disliked, and perhaps honestly disbelieved in, her daugh- 
 ter-in-law. There was one child of the marriage, a boy, to 
 whom both the parents were deeply attached. The elements of 
 tragedy in the drama were accentuated by the power to love pos- 
 sessed by accuser and accused. As Dion listened to the discus- 
 sion he realized what a driving terror, what a great black figure, 
 almost monstrous, love can be not only the sunshine, but the 
 abysmal darkness of life. 
 
 Presently, in a pause, while Daventry was considering some 
 difficult point, Dion remembered that Beatrice was sitting up- 
 stairs alone. Her complete unselfishness always made him feel 
 specially chivalrous towards her. Now he got up. 
 
 " It's tremendously interesting, but I'm going upstairs to 
 Beattie," he said. 
 
 " Ah, how subtle of you, my boy! " said Bruce Evelin. 
 
 "Subtle! Why?" 
 
 " I was just coming to the professional secrets." 
 
 Dion smiled and went off to Beattie. He found her work- 
 ing quietly, almost dreamily, on one of those fairy garments 
 such as he had seen growing towards its minute full size in the 
 serene hands of his Rosamund. 
 
 "You too!" he said, looking down at the filmy white. 
 " How good you are to us, Beattie ! " 
 
 He sat down. 
 
 " What's this in your lap? " 
 
 The filmy white had been lifted in the process of sewing, 
 and a little exquisitely bound white book was disclosed be- 
 neath it. 
 
 "May I look?" 
 
 " Yes, do."
 
 126 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 Dion took the book up, and read the title, " The Kasidah of 
 Haji Abdu El-Yezdi." 
 
 " I never heard of this. Where did you get it? " 
 
 " Guy Daventry left it here by mistake yesterday. I must 
 give it to him to-night." 
 
 Dion opened the book, and saw on the title page: " Cynthia 
 Clarke, Constantinople, October 1896," written in a curiously 
 powerful, very upright caligraphy. 
 
 " It doesn't belong to Guy." 
 
 " No; it was lent to him by his client, Mrs. Clarke." 
 
 Dion turned some of the leaves of the book, began to read and 
 was immediately absorbed. 
 
 " By Jove, it's wonderful, it's simply splendid ! " he said in 
 a moment. " Just listen to this: 
 
 " Truu to tl-y nature, to thyself, 
 
 I-'ai. <: ?iul disfame nor hope, nor fear; 
 Enougii to thee the still small voice 
 Aye thundering in thine inner ear. 
 
 From self-approval seek applause: 
 
 What ken not men thou kennest thou! 
 
 Spurn every idol others raise : 
 Before thine own ideal bow." 
 
 He met the dark eyes of Beatrice. 
 
 " You care for that?" 
 
 " Yes, very much," she answered, in her soft and delicate 
 voice. 
 
 " Beattie, I believe you live by that," he said, almost 
 bruskly. 
 
 Suddenly he felt aware of a peculiar sort of strength in her, 
 in her softness, a strength not at all as of iron, mysterious and 
 tenacious. 
 
 " Dear old Beattie! " he said. 
 
 Moisture had sprung into his eyes. 
 
 " How lonely our lives are," he continued, looking at her 
 now with a sort of deep curiosity. " The lives of all of us. 
 I don't care who it is, man, woman, child, he or she, every one's 
 lonely. And yet " 
 
 A doubt had surely struck him. He sat very still for 9- 
 minute. 
 
 " When I think of Rosamund I can't think of her as lonely." 
 
 "Can't you?"
 
 ECHO 127 
 
 " No. Somehow it seems as if she always had a companion 
 with her." 
 
 He turned a few more pages of Mrs. Clarke's book, glancing 
 here and there. 
 
 " Rosamund would hate this book," he said presently. " It 
 seems thoroughly anti-Christian. But it's very wonderful." 
 
 He put the book down. 
 
 " Dear Beattie! Guy cares very much for you." 
 
 " Yes, I know," said Beatrice, with a great simplicity. 
 
 " If he comes well out of this case, and feels he's on the road 
 to success, he'll be another man. He'll dare as a man ought 
 to dare." 
 
 She went on sewing the little garment for Dion's child. 
 
 " I'll walk across the Park with you, old Dion," said Daven- 
 try that night, as they left the house in Great Cumberland 
 Place, " whether you're going to walk home or whether you're 
 not, whether you're in a devil of a hurry to get back to your 
 Rosamund, or whether you're in a mood for friendship. What 
 time is it, by the way? " 
 
 He was wrapped in a voluminous blue overcoat, with a wide 
 collar, immense lapels, and apparently only one button, and 
 that button so minute that it was scarcely visible to the naked 
 eye. From somewhere he extracted a small, abnormally thin 
 watch with a gold face. 
 
 " Only twenty minutes to eleven. We dined early." 
 
 " You really wish to walk? " 
 
 " I not only wish, I will walk." 
 
 The still glory of frost had surely fascinated London, had 
 subdued the rumbling and 'uneasy black monster; it seemed 
 to Dion unusually quiet, almost like something in ecstasy un- 
 der the glittering stars of frost, which shone in a sky swept 
 clear of clouds by the hand of the lingering winter. It was 
 the last night of February, but it looked, and felt, like a night 
 dedicated to the Christ Child, to Him who lay on the breast 
 of Mary with cattle breathing above Him. As Dion gazed up 
 at the withdrawn and yet almost piercing radiance of the won- 
 derful sky, instinctively he thought of the watching shepherds, 
 and of the coming of that Child who stands forever apart from 
 all the other children born of women into this world. He wished 
 Rosamund were with him to see the stars, and the frost glisten- 
 ing white on the great stretches of grass, and the naked trees in 
 the mysterious and romantic Park.
 
 128 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Shall we take the right-hand path and walk round the Ser- 
 pentine? " said Daventry presently. 
 
 " Yes. I don't mind. Rosamund will be asleep, I think. 
 She goes to bed early now." 
 
 "When will it be?" 
 
 " Very soon, I suppose; perhaps in ten days or so." 
 
 Daventry was silent. He wanted and meant to talk about 
 his own affairs, but he hesitated to begin. Something in the 
 night was making him feel very small and very great. Dion 
 gave him a lead by saying: 
 
 " D'you mind my asking you something about the Clarke 
 case? " 
 
 " Anything you like. I'll answer if I may." 
 
 " Do you believe Mrs. Clarke to be guilty or innocent? " 
 
 " Oh, innocent! " exclaimed Daventry, with unusual warmth. 
 
 " And does Bruce Evelin? " 
 
 " I believe so. I assume so." 
 
 " I noticed that, while I was listening to you both, he never 
 expressed any opinion, or gave any hint of what his opinion 
 was on the point." 
 
 " I feel sure he thinks her innocent," said Daventry, still 
 almost with heat. " Not that it much matters," he added, in 
 a less prejudiced voice. " The point is, we must prove her to 
 be innocent whether she is or not. I happen to feel positive 
 she is. She isn't the least the siren type of woman, though men 
 like her." 
 
 "What type is she?" 
 
 "The intellectual type. Not a blue-stocking! God for- 
 bid! I couldn't defend a blue-stocking. But she's a woman 
 full of taste, who cares immensely for fine and beautiful things, 
 for things that appeal to the eye and the mind. In that way, 
 perhaps, she's almost a sensualist. But, in any other way! 
 I want you to know her. She's a very very interesting woman. 
 Esme Darlington says her perceptions are exquisite. Mrs. 
 Chetwinde's backing her up for all she's worth." 
 
 " Then she believes her to be innocent too, of course." 
 
 " Of course. Come with me to Mrs. Chetwinde's next Sun- 
 day afternoon. She'll be there." 
 
 " On a night like this, doesn't a divorce case seem prepos- 
 terous? " 
 
 "Well, you have the tongue of the flatterer! " he looked 
 up " But perhaps it does, even when it's Mrs. Clarke's." 
 
 " Are you in love with Mrs. Clarke? "
 
 ECHO 129 
 
 " Deeply, because she's my first client in a cause cele- 
 bre." 
 
 " Have you forgotten her book again? " 
 
 "Her book? 'The Kasidah'? I've got it here." 
 
 He tapped the capacious side pocket of his coat. 
 
 " You saw it then? " he added. 
 
 " Beattie had it when I went upstairs." 
 
 " I wonder what she made of it," Daventry said, with soft- 
 ness in his voice. " Don't ever let Rosamund see it, by the 
 way. It's anything rather than Christian. Mrs. Clarke gets 
 hold of everything, dives into everything. She's got an unrest- 
 ing mind." 
 
 They had come to the edge of the Serpentine, on which there 
 lay an ethereal film of baby ice almost like frosted gauze. 
 The leafless trees, with their decoration of filigree, suggested 
 the North and its peculiar romance nature trailing away into 
 the mighty white solitudes where the Pole star reigns over fields 
 of ice. 
 
 " Hyde Park is bringing me illusions to-night," said Daven- 
 try. " That water might be the Vistula. If I heard a wolf 
 howling over there near the ranger's lodge, I shouldn't be sur- 
 prised." 
 
 A lifeguardsman, in a red cloak, and a woman drifted away 
 over the frost among the trees. 
 
 " I love Mrs. Clarke as a client, but perhaps I love her even 
 more because, through her, I hope to get hold of something I've 
 I've let drop," continued Daventry. 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 Daventry put his arm through Dion's. 
 
 " I don't know whether I can name it even to you; but it's 
 something a man of great intelligence, such as myself, should 
 always keep in his fist." 
 
 He paused. 
 
 " The clergy are apt to call it self-respect," he at length added, 
 in a dry voice. 
 
 Dion pressed his arm. 
 
 " Bruce Evelin wants you to marry Beatrice." 
 
 "He hasn't told you so? " 
 
 " No, except by taking the trouble to force you to work." 
 
 Daventry stood still. 
 
 " I'm going to ask her almost directly." 
 
 " Come on, Guy, or we shall have all the blackbirds round 
 us. Look over there."
 
 130 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 Not far off, among the trees, two slinking and sinister shadows 
 of men seemed to be intent upon them. 
 
 " Isn't it incredible to practise the profession of a black- 
 mailer out of doors on a night like this? " said Dion. " D'you 
 remember when we were in the night train coming from Bur- 
 stal? You had a feather that night." 
 
 " Damn it! Why rake up - 
 
 " And I said how wonderful it would be if some day I were 
 married to Rosamund." 
 
 " Is it wonderful? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Very wonderful?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Children too!" 
 
 Daventry sighed. 
 
 " One wants to be worthy of it all," he murmured. " And 
 then " he laughed, as if calling in his humor to save him from 
 something " the children, in their turn, feel they would like 
 to live up to papa. Dion, people can be caught in the net of 
 goodness very much as they can be caught in the net of evil. 
 Let us praise the stars for that." 
 
 They arrived at the bridge. The wide road, which looked 
 to-night extraordinarily clean, almost as if it had been pol- 
 ished up for the passing of some delicate procession in the 
 night, was empty. There were no vehicles going by; the night- 
 birds kept among the trees. The quarter after eleven chimed 
 from some distant church. Dion thought of Rosamund, as 
 he paused on the bridge, thought of himself as a husband yield- 
 ing his wife up to the solitude she evidently desired. He took 
 Daventry for his companion ; she had the child for hers. There 
 was suffering of a kind even in a very perfect marriage, but 
 what he had told Daventry was true; it had been very won- 
 derful. He had learnt a great deal in his marriage, dear les- 
 sons of high-mindedness in desire, of purity in possession. If 
 Rosamund were to be cut off from him even to-night he had 
 gained enormously by the possession of her. He knew what 
 woman can be, and without disappointment; for he did not 
 choose to reckon up those small, almost impalpable things 
 which, like passing shadows, had now and then brought a faint 
 obscurity into his life with Rosamund, as disappointments. 
 They came, perhaps, from himself. And what were they? He 
 looked out over the long stretch of unruffled water, filmed over 
 with ice near the shores, and saw a tiny dark object traveling
 
 ECHO 131 
 
 through it with self-possession and an air of purpose beneath 
 the constellations; some aquatic bird up to something, heedless 
 of the approaching midnight and the Great Bear. 
 
 "Look at that little beggar!" said Daventry. "And we 
 don't know so very much more about it all than he does. I ex- 
 pect he's a Muscovy duck, or drake, if you're a pedant about 
 genders." 
 
 " He's evidently full of purpose." 
 
 " Out in the middle of the ice-cold Serpentine. He's only a 
 speck now, like our world in space. Now I can't see him." 
 
 " I can." 
 
 " You're longer-sighted than I am. But, Dion, I'm seeing 
 a longish way to-night, farther than I've seen before. Love's 
 a great business, the greatest business in life. Ambition, and 
 greed, and vanity, and altruism, and even fanaticism, must give 
 place when it's on hand, when it harnesses its winged horses to 
 a man's car and swings him away to the stars." 
 
 " Ask her. I think she'll have you." 
 
 A star fell through the frosty clear sky. Dion remembered 
 the falling star above Drouva. This time he was swift with a 
 wish, but it was not a wish for his friend. 
 
 They reached Hyde Park Corner just before midnight and 
 parted there. Dion hailed a hansom, but Daventry declared 
 with determination that he was going to walk all the way home 
 to Phillimore Gardens. 
 
 " To get up my case, to arrange things mentally," he ex- 
 plained. " Big brains always work best at night. All the 
 great lawyers toil when the stars are out. Why should I be an 
 exception? I dedicate myself to Cynthia Clarke. She will 
 have my undivided attention and all my deepest solicitude." 
 
 " I know why." 
 
 " Xo, no." 
 
 He put one hand on the apron which Dion had already 
 closed. 
 
 " No, really, you're wrong. I am deeply interested in Mrs. 
 Clarke because she is what she is. I want her to win because 
 I'm convinced she's innocent. Will you come to Mrs. Chet- 
 winde's next Sunday and meet her? " 
 
 " Yes, unless Rosamund wants me." 
 
 " That's always understood." 
 
 The cab drove away, and the great lawyer was left to think 
 of his case under the stars. 
 
 When the cab turned the corner of Great Market Street, West-
 
 132 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 minster, and came into Little Market Street, Dion saw in the 
 distance before him two large, staring yellow eyes, which seemed 
 to be steadily regarding him like the eyes of something on the 
 watch. They were the lamps of a brougham drawn up in front 
 of No. 5. Dion's cabman, perforce, pulled up short before the 
 brown door of No. 4. 
 
 "A carriage in front of my house at this time of night! " 
 thought Dion, as he got out and paid the man. 
 
 He looked at the coachman and at the solemn brown horse 
 between the shafts, and instantly realized that this was the car- 
 riage of a doctor. 
 
 "Rosamund!" 
 
 With a thrill of anxiety, a clutch at his heart, he thrust his 
 latchkey into the door. It stuck; he could not turn it. This 
 had never happened before. He tried, with force, to pull the 
 key out. It would not move. He shook it. The doctor's 
 coachman, he felt, was staring at him from the box of the 
 brougham. As he struggled impotently with the key his shoul- 
 ders began to tingle, and a wave of acute irritation flooded him. 
 He turned sharply round and met the coachman's eyes, shrewd, 
 observant, lit, he thought, by a flickering of sarcasm. 
 
 "Has the doctor been here long? " said Dion. 
 
 " Sir? " 
 
 " This is a doctor's carriage, isn't it? " 
 
 " Yes, sir. Doctor Mayson." 
 
 "Well, I say, has he been here long?" 
 
 " About an hour, sir, or a little more." 
 
 " Thanks." 
 
 Dion turned again and assaulted the latchkey. 
 
 But he had to ring the bell to get in. When the maid came, 
 looking excited, he said: 
 
 " I don't know what on earth's the matter with this key. I 
 can't either turn it or get it out." 
 
 "No, sir?" 
 
 The girl put her hand to the key, and without any difficulty 
 drew it out of the door. 
 
 "I don't know I couldn't! " 
 
 The girl shut the door. 
 
 "What's the matter? Why's the doctor here? It 
 isn't ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir," said the girl, with a sort of intensely feminine 
 significance. " It came on quite sudden."
 
 ECHO 133 
 
 "How long ago? " 
 
 " A good while, sir. I couldn't say exactly." 
 
 " But why wasn't I sent for ? " 
 
 * My mistress wouldn't have you sent for, sir. Besides, we 
 were expecting you every moment." 
 
 " Ah ! and I and now it's past midnight." 
 
 He had quickly taken off his coat, hat and gloves. Now he 
 ran up the shallow steps of the staircase. There was a sort 
 of tumult within him. He felt angry, he did not know why. 
 His whole body was longing to do something strong, eager, 
 even violent He hated his latchkey, he hated the long stroll 
 in Hyde Park, the absurd delay upon the bridge, his preoccu- 
 pation with the Muscovy duck, or whatever bird it was, voy- 
 aging over the Serpentine. Why had nothing told him not to 
 lose a moment but to hurry home? He remembered that he 
 had been specially reluctant to leave Rosamund that evening, 
 that he had even said to her, " I don't know why it is, but this 
 evening I hate to leave you." Perhaps, then, he had been 
 warned, but he had not comprehended the warning. As he had 
 looked at the stars he had thought of the coming of the most 
 wonderful Child who had ever visited this earth. Perhaps then, 
 too He tried to snap off his thought, half confusedly ac- 
 cusing himself of some sort of blasphemy. At the top of the 
 staircase he turned and looked down into the hall. 
 
 "The nurse?" 
 
 "Sir?" 
 
 " Have you managed to get the nurse? " 
 
 " Yes, sir; she's been here some time." 
 
 At this moment Doctor Mayson opened the door of Rosa- 
 mund's room and came out upon the landing a tall, rosy 
 and rather intellectual-looking man, with tranquil gray eyes, 
 and hair thinning above the high, knobby forehead. Dion had 
 never seen him before. They shook hands. 
 
 " I shouldn't go into your wife's room," said Doctor Mayson 
 in a low bass voice. 
 
 " Why? Doesn't she wish it? " 
 
 " She wished you very much to be in the house." 
 
 " Then why not send for me? " 
 
 " She was against it, I understand. And she doesn't wish 
 any one to be with her just now except the nurse and myself." 
 
 " When do you expect . . . ? " 
 
 " Some time during the night. It's evidently going to be an
 
 134 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 easy confinement. I'm just going down to send away my car- 
 riage. It's no use keeping the horse standing half the night in 
 this frost. I'm very fond of horses." 
 
 " Fond of horses are you ? " said Dion, rather vacantly. 
 
 "Yes. Are you?" 
 
 The low bass voice almost snapped out the question. 
 
 " Oh, I dare say. Why not? They're useful animals. I'll 
 come down with you if I'm not to go into my wife's room." 
 
 He followed the doctor down the stairs he had just mounted 
 When the carriage had been sent away, he asked Doctor May- 
 son to come into his den for a moment. The pains of labor 
 had come on unexpectedly, but were not exceptionally severe; 
 everything pointed to an easy confinement. 
 
 " Your wife is one of the strongest and healthiest women I 
 have ever attended," Doctor Mayson added; "superb health. 
 It's a pleasure to see any one like that. I look after so many 
 neurotic women in London. They give themselves up for lost 
 when they are confronted with a perfectly natural crisis. Mrs. 
 Leith is all courage and self-possession." 
 
 " But then why shouldn't I see her? " 
 
 " Well, she seems to have an extraordinary sense of duty to- 
 wards the child that's coming. She thinks you might be less 
 calm than she is." 
 
 " But I'm perfectly calm." 
 
 Doctor Mayson smiled. 
 
 " D'you know, it's really ever so much better for us men to 
 keep right out of the way in such moments as these. It's the 
 kindest thing we can do." 
 
 " Very well. I'll do it of course." 
 
 " I never go near my own wife when she's like this." 
 
 Dion stared into the fire. 
 
 " Have you many children? " 
 
 " Eleven," remarked the bass voice comfortably. " But I 
 married very young, before I left Guy's. Now I'll go up again. 
 You needn't be the least alarmed." 
 
 " I'm not," said Dion bruskly. 
 
 "Capital!" 
 
 And Doctor Mayson went off, not treading with any precau- 
 tion. It was quite obvious that his belief in his patient was 
 genuine. 
 
 Eleven children! Well, some people were prepared to take 
 any risks and to face any responsibilities. Was it very absurd 
 to find in the coming of one child a tremendous event ? Really,
 
 ECHO 13^ 
 
 Doctor Mayson had almost succeeded in making Dion feel a 
 great fool. Just another child in the world crying, dribbling > 
 feebly trying to grasp the atmosphere; another child to cut its 
 first tooth, with shrieks, to have whooping-cough, chicken-pox, 
 rose rash and measles; another child to eat of the fruit of the 
 tree; another child to combat and love and suffer and die. No, 
 damn it, the matter was important. Doctor Mayson and his 
 rosy face were unmeaning. He might have eleven, or a hun- 
 dred and eleven children, but he had no imagination. 
 
 Dion shut himself into his room, sat down in a big arm- 
 chair, lit his pipe and thought about the Clarke case. He had 
 just told Doctor Mayson a white lie. He was determined not 
 to think about his Rosamund: he dared not do that; so his 
 mind fastened on the Clarke case. Almost ferociously he flung 
 himself upon it, called upon the unknown Mrs. Clarke, the 
 woman whom he had never seen, to banish from him his Rosa- 
 mund, to interpose between her and him. For Rosamund was 
 inevitably suffering, and if he thought about that suffering his 
 deep anxiety, his pity, his yearning would grow till they were 
 almost unendurable, might even lead his feet to the room up- 
 stairs, the room forbidden to him to-night. So he called to 
 Mrs. Clarke, and at last, obedient to his insistent demand, she 
 came and did her best for him, came, he imagined, from Con- 
 stantinople, to keep him company in this night of crisis. 
 
 As Daventry had described her, as Bruce Evelin had, with 
 casual allusions and suggestive hints, built her up before Dion 
 in the talk after dinner that night, so she was now in the little 
 room: a woman of intellect and of great taste, with an intense 
 love for, and fine knowledge of, beautiful things: a woman 
 who was almost a sensualist in her adoration for fine and rare 
 things. 
 
 " I detest the sensation of sinking down in things! " 
 
 Who had said that once with energy in Dion's hearing? 
 Oh Rosamund, of course! But she must not be admitted 
 into Dion's life in these hours of waiting. Mrs. Clarke must 
 be allowed to reign. She had come (in Dion's imagination) 
 all the way from the city of wood and of marble beside the sea- 
 way of the Golden Horn, a serious, intellectual and highly cul- 
 tivated woman, whom a cruel fate Kismet was now about 
 to present to the world as a horrible woman. Pale, thin, rather 
 melancholy she was, a reader of many books, a great lover of 
 nature, a woman who cared very much for her one child. Why 
 should Fate play such a woman such a trick? Perhaps be-
 
 136 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 cause she was very unconventional, and it is unwise for the bird 
 which sings in the cage of diplomacy to sing any but an 
 ordinary song. 
 
 Daventry had dwelt several times on Mrs. Clarke's uncon- 
 ventionality; evidently the defense meant to lay stress on it. 
 
 So now Dion sat with a pale, thin, unconventional woman, 
 and she told him about the life at Stamboul. She kne*.v, of 
 course, that he had hated Constantinople. He allowed her ta 
 know that. And she pointed out to him that he knew nothing 
 of the wonderful city, upon which Russia breathes from the 
 north, and which catches, too, strange airs and scents and mur- 
 murs of voices from distant places of Asia. What does the 
 passing tourist of a Pera hotel know about the great city of the 
 Turks? Nothing worth knowing. The roar of the voices of 
 the Levant deafens his ears; the glitter of the shop windows in 
 the Grande Rue blinds his eyes. He knows not the exquisite 
 and melancholy charm, full of nuances and of the most fragile 
 and evanescent subtleties, which Constantinople holds for those 
 who know her and love her well. 
 
 The defense was evidently going to make much of Mrs. 
 Clarke's passion for the city on the Bosporus. Daventry had 
 alluded to it more than once, and Bruce Evelin had said, " Mrs. 
 Clarke has always had an extraordinary feeling for places. If 
 her husband had accused her of a liaison with Eyub, or of an 
 unholy fancy for the forest of Belgrad, we might have been in a 
 serious difficulty. She had, I know, a regular romance once 
 with the Mosquee Verte at Brusa." 
 
 Evidently she was a woman whom ordinary people would be 
 likely to misunderstand. Dion sat in his arm-chair trying to 
 understand her. The effort would help him to forget, or to 
 ignore if he couldn't forget, what was going on upstairs in the 
 little house. He pulled hard at his pipe, as an aid to his mind ; 
 he sat alone for a long while with Mrs. Clarke. Sometimes he 
 looked across the Golden Horn from a bit of waste ground in 
 Pera, near to a small cemetery: it was from there, towards eve- 
 ning, that he had been able to " feel " Stamboul, to feel it as 
 an unique garden city, held by the sea, wooden and frail, mar- 
 ble and enduring. And somewhere in the great and mysterious 
 city Mrs. Clarke had lived and been adored by the husband who, 
 apparently still adoring, was now trying to get rid of her. 
 
 Sometimes Dion heard voices rising from the crowded har- 
 bor of the Golden Horn. They crept up out of the mystery 
 of the evening; voices from the caiques, and from the boats
 
 ECHO 137 
 
 f the fishermen, and from the big sailing vessels which ply 
 to the harbors of the East, and from the steamers at rest near 
 the Galata Bridge, and from the many craft of all descrip- 
 tions strung out towards the cypress-crowned hill of Eyub. 
 And Mrs. Clarke, standing beside him, began to explain to him 
 in a low and hoarse voice what these strange cries of the eve- 
 ning meant. 
 
 Daventry had mentioned that she had a hoarse voice. 
 
 At a little after three o'clock Dion sat forward abruptly in 
 his chair and listened intently. He fancied he had heard a 
 faint cry. He waited, surrounded by silence, enveloped by si- 
 lence. There was a low drumming in his ears. Mrs. Clarke 
 had escaped like a phantom. Stamboul, with its mosques, its 
 fountains, its pigeons and its plane trees, had faded away. 
 The voices from the Golden Horn were stilled. The drumming 
 in Dion's ears grew louder. He stood up. He felt very hot, 
 and a vein in his left temple was beating not fluttering, but 
 beating hard. 
 
 He heard, this time really heard, a cry overhead, and then 
 the muffled sound of some one moving about; and he went to 
 the door, opened it and passed out into the hall. He did not 
 go upstairs, but waited in the hall until Doctor Mayson came 
 down, looking as rosy and serene and unconcerned as ever. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Leith," he said, " you're a father. I congratulate 
 you. Your wife has got through beautifully." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " By the way, it's a boy." 
 
 " Yes, of course." 
 
 Doctor Mayson looked genuinely surprised. 
 
 " Why ' of course ' ? I don't quite understand." 
 
 " She knew it was going to be a boy." 
 
 The doctor smiled faintly. 
 
 " Women often have strange fancies at such times. I meaa 
 before they are confined." 
 
 " But you see she was right. It is a boy." 
 
 " Exactly," returned the doctor, looking at his nails. 
 
 Dion saw the star falling above the hill of Drouva. 
 
 Did the Hermes know?
 
 138 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 ON the following Sunday afternoon Dion was able to ful- 
 fil his promise to Daventry. Rosamund and the baby 
 were " doing beautifully "; he was not needed at home, 
 so he set out with Daventry, who came to fetch him, to visit 
 Mrs. Willie Chetwinde in Lowndes Square. 
 
 When they reached the house Daventry said: 
 
 " Now for Mrs. Clarke. She's really a wonderful woman, 
 Dion, and she's got a delicious profile." 
 
 " Oh, it's that " 
 
 " No, it isn't." 
 
 He gently pushed Mrs. Chetwinde's bell. 
 
 As they went upstairs they heard a soft hum of voices. 
 
 " Mrs. Clarke's got heaps of people on her side," whispered 
 Daventry. " This is a sort of rallying ground for the de- 
 fense." 
 
 " Where's her child ? Here ? " 
 
 " No, with some relations till the trial's over." 
 
 The butler opened the door, and immediately Dion's eyes 
 rested on Mrs. Clarke, who happened to be standing very near 
 to it with Esme Darlington. Directly Dion saw her he knew 
 at whom he was looking. Something he could not have said 
 what told him. 
 
 By a tall pedestal of marble, on which was poised a marble 
 statuette of Echo, not that Echo who babbled to Hera, but 
 she who, after her punishment, fell in love with Narcissus, 
 he saw a very thin, very pale, and strangely haggard-looking 
 woman of perhaps thirty-two talking to Esme Darlington. At 
 first sight she did not seem beautiful to Dion. He was accus- 
 tomed to the radiant physical bloom of his Rosamund. This 
 woman, with her tenuity, her pallor, her haunted cheeks and 
 temples, her large, distressed and observant eyes dark hazel 
 in color under brown eyebrows drawn with a precise straight- 
 ness till they neared the bridge of the nose and there turning 
 abruptly downwards, her thin and almost white-lipped mouth, 
 her cloudy brown hair which had no shine or sparkle, her 
 rather narrow and pointed chin, suggested to him unhealthi- 
 ness, a human being perhaps stricken by some obscure dis- 
 ease which had drained her body of all fresh color, and robbed 
 it of flesh, had caused to come upon her something strange,
 
 ECHO 139 
 
 not easily to be defined, which almost suggested the charnel- 
 house. 
 
 As he was looking at her, Mrs. Clarke turned slightly and 
 glanced up at the statue of Echo, and immediately Dion real- 
 ized that she had beauty. The line of her profile was wonder- 
 fully delicate and refined, almost ethereal in its perfection; and 
 the shape of her small head was exquisite. Her head, in- 
 deed, looked girlish. Afterwards he knew that she had en- 
 chanting hands moving purities full of expressiveness 
 and slim little wrists. Her expression was serious, almost mel- 
 ancholy, and in her whole personality, shed through her, there 
 was a penetrating refinement, a something delicate, wild and 
 feverish. She looked very sensitive and at the same time per- 
 fectly self-possessed, as if, perhaps, she dreaded Fate but could 
 never be afraid of a fellow-creature. He thought: 
 
 " She's like Echo after her punishment." 
 
 On his way to greet Mrs. Chetwinde, he passed by her; as 
 he did so she looked at him, and he saw that she thoroughly con- 
 sidered him, with a grave swiftness which seemed to be an es- 
 sential part of her personality. Then she spoke to Esme Dar- 
 lington. Dion just caught the sound of her voice, veiled, husky, 
 but very individual and very attractive a voice that could 
 never sing, but that could make of speech a music frail and 
 evanescent as a nocturne of Debussy's. 
 
 " Daventry's right," thought Dion. " That woman is surely 
 innocent." 
 
 Mrs. Chetwinde, who was as haphazard, as apparently ab- 
 sent-minded and as shrewd in her own house as in the houses 
 of others, greeted Dion with a vague cordiality. Her hus- 
 band, a robust and very definite giant, with a fan-shaped beard, 
 welcomed him largely. 
 
 " Never appear at my wife's afternoons, you know," he ob- 
 served, in a fat and genial voice. " But to-day's exceptional. 
 Always stick to an innocent woman in trouble." 
 
 He lowered his voice in speaking the last sentence, and 
 looked very human. And immediately Dion was aware of a 
 special and peculiar atmosphere in Mrs. Chetwinde's drawing- 
 room on this Sunday afternoon, of something poignant almost, 
 though lightly veiled with the sparkling gossamer which serves 
 to conceal undue angularities, something which just hinted at 
 tragedy confronted with courage, at the attempted stab and the 
 raised shield of affection. Here Mrs. Clarke was in sanctu- 
 ary. He glanced towards her again with a deepening interest
 
 i 4 o IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Canon Wilton's coming in presently," said Mrs. Chetwinde. 
 " He's preaching at St. Paul's this afternoon, or perhaps it's 
 Westminster Abbey something of that kind." 
 
 " I've heard him two or three times," answered Dion, who 
 was on very good, though not on very intimate, terms with Canon 
 Wilton. " I'd rather hear him than anybody." 
 
 " In the pulpit yes, I suppose so. I'm scarcely an ama- 
 teur of sermons. He's a volcano of sincerity, and never sends 
 out ashes. It's all red-hot lava. Have you met Cynthia 
 Clarke?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " She's over there, echoing my Echo. Would you 
 like ?" 
 
 " Very much indeed." 
 
 "Then I'll " 
 
 An extremely pale man, with long, alarmingly straight hair 
 and wandering eyes almost the color of silver, said something 
 to her. 
 
 " Watteau? Oh, no he died in 1721, not in 1722," she 
 replied. " The only date I never can remember is William the 
 Conqueror. But of course you couldn't remember about Wat- 
 teau. It's distance makes memory. You're too near." 
 
 " That's the fan painter, Murphy-Elphinston, Watteau's 
 reincarnation," she added to Dion. " He's always asking ques- 
 tions about himself. Cynthia this is Mr. Dion Leith. He 
 wishes " She drifted away, not, however, without dex- 
 terously managing to convey Mr. Darlington with her. 
 
 Dion found himself looting into the large, distressed eyes 
 of Mrs. Clarke. Daventry was standing close to her, but, v/ith 
 a glance at his friend, moved away. 
 
 " I should like to sit down," said Mrs. Clarke. 
 
 " Here are two chairs " 
 
 " No, I'd rather sit over there under the Delia Robbia. I 
 can see Echo from there." 
 
 She walked very slowly and languidly, as if tired, to a large 
 and low sofa covered with red, which was exactly opposite to 
 the statuette. Dion followed her, thinking about her age. He 
 supposed her to be about thirty-two or thirty-three, possibly a 
 year or two more or less. She was very simply dressed in a 
 gray silk gown with black and white lines in it. The tight 
 sleeves of it were unusually long and ended in points. They 
 were edged with some transparent white material which rested 
 against her small hands.
 
 ECHO 141 
 
 She sat down and he sat down by her, and they began to 
 talk. Unlike Mrs. Chetwinde, Mrs. Clarke showed that she 
 was alertly attending to all that was said to her, and, when she 
 spoke, she looked at the person to whom she was speaking, 
 looked steadily and very unself -consciously. Dion mentioned 
 that he had once been to Constantinople. 
 
 "Did you care about it?" said Mrs. Clarke, rather 
 earnestly. 
 
 " I'm afraid I disliked it, although I found it, of course, 
 tremendously interesting. In fact, I almost hated it." 
 
 " That's only because you stayed in Pera," she answered, 
 " and went about with a guide." 
 
 " But how do you know? " he was smiling. 
 
 " Well, of course you did." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I could easily make you love it," she continued, in an 
 oddly impersonal way, speaking huskily. 
 
 Dion had never liked huskiness before, but he liked it now. 
 
 " You are fond of it, I believe? " he said. 
 
 His eyes met hers with a great deal of interest. 
 
 He considered her present situation an interesting one; there 
 was drama in it; there was the prospect of a big fight, of great 
 loss or great gain, destruction or vindication. 
 
 In her soul already the drama was being played. He 
 imagined her soul in turmoil, peopled with a crowd of jostling 
 desires and fears, and he was thinking a great many things 
 about her, and connected with her, almost simultaneously 
 so rapidly a flood of thoughts seems to go by in the mind 
 as he put his question. 
 
 " Yes, I am," replied Mrs. Clarke. " Stamboul holds me 
 very fast in its curiously inert grip. It's a grip like this." 
 
 She held out her small right hand, and he put his rather 
 large and sinewy brown hand into it. The small hand folded 
 itself upon his in a curious way feeble and fierce at the same 
 time, it seemed and held him. The hand was warm, almost 
 hot, and soft, and dry as a fire is dry so dry that it hisses 
 angrily if water is thrown on it. 
 
 " Now, you are trying to get away," she said. " And of 
 course you can, but 
 
 Dion made a movement as if to pull away his hand, but 
 Mrs. Clarke retained it. How was that? He scarcely knew; 
 in fact he did not know. She did not seem to be doing any- 
 thing definite to keep him, did not squeeze or grip his hand,
 
 142 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 or cling to it; but his hand remained in hers nevertheless. 
 
 " There," she said, letting his hand go. " That is how 
 Stamboul holds. Do you understand? " 
 
 Mrs. Chetwinde's vague eyes had been on them during this 
 little episode. Dion had had time to see that, and to think, 
 " Now, at such a time, no one but an absolutely innocent woman 
 would do in public what Mrs. Clarke is doing to me." Mrs. 
 Chetwinde, he felt sure, full of all worldly knowledge, must 
 be thinking the very same thing. 
 
 " Yes," he said. " I think I do. But I wonder whether 
 it could hold me like that." 
 
 " I know it could." 
 
 " May I ask how you know? " 
 
 " Why not? Simply by my observation of you." 
 
 Dion remembered the swift grave look of consideration she 
 had given to him as he came into the room. Something almost 
 combative rose up in him, and he entered into an argument 
 with her, in the course of which he was carried away into the 
 revelation of his mental comparison between Constantinople and 
 Greece, a comparison into which entered a moral significance. 
 He even spoke of the Christian significance of the Hermes of 
 Olympia. Mrs. Clarke listened to him with a very still, and 
 apparently a very deep, attention. 
 
 " I've been in Greece," she said simply, when he had finished. 
 
 " You didn't feel at all as I did, as I do? " 
 
 " You may know Greece, but you don't know Stamboul," 
 she said quietly. 
 
 " If you had shown it to me I might feel very differently," 
 Dion said, with a perhaps slightly banal politeness. 
 
 And yet he did not feel entirely banal as he said it. 
 
 " Come out again and I will show it to you," she said. 
 
 She was almost staring at him, at his chest and shoulders, 
 not at his face, but her eyes still kept their unself-conscious 
 and almost oddly impersonal look. 
 
 " You are going back there? " 
 
 " Of course, when my case is over." 
 
 Dion felt very much surprised. He knew that Mrs. Clarke's 
 husband was accredited to the British Embassy at Constan- 
 tinople; that the scandal about her was connected with that 
 city and with its neighborhood Therapia, Prinkipo, and other 
 near places; that both the co-respondents named in the suit 
 lived there. Whichever way the case went, surely Constanti- 
 nople must be very disagreeable to Mrs. Clarke from now
 
 ECHO 143 
 
 onwards. And yet she was going back there, and apparently 
 intended to take up her life there again. She evidently either 
 saw or divined his surprise, for she added in the husky voice: 
 
 " Guilt may be governed by circumstances. I suppose it 
 is full of alarms. But I think an innocent woman who allows 
 herself to be driven out of a place she loves by a false accusa- 
 tion is merely a coward. But all this is very uninteresting to 
 you. The point is, I shall soon be settled down again at Con- 
 stantinople, and ready to make you see it as it really is, if you 
 ever return there." 
 
 She had spoken without hardness or any pugnacity; there 
 was no defiance in her manner, which was perfectly simple 
 and straightforward. 
 
 " Your moral comparison between Constantinople and 
 Greece it isn't fair, by the way, to compare a city with a 
 country doesn't interest me at all. People can be disgusting 
 anywhere. Greece is no better than Turkey. It has a wonder- 
 fully delicate, pure atmosphere; but that doesn't influence the 
 morals of the population. Fine Greek art is the purest art 
 in the world; but that doesn't mean that the men who created 
 it had only pure thoughts or lived only pure lives. I never 
 read morals into art, although I'm English, and it's the old 
 hopeless English way to do that. The man who made Echo " 
 she turned her large eyes towards the statuette " may have 
 been an evil liver. In fact, I believe he was. But Echo is 
 an exquisite pure bit of art." 
 
 Dion thought of Rosamund's words about Praxiteles as they 
 sat before the Hermes. His Rosamund and Mrs. Clarke were 
 mentally at opposite poles; yet they were both good women. 
 
 " My friend Daventry would agree with you, I know," he 
 said. 
 
 " He's a clever and a very dear little man. Who's that 
 coming in? " 
 
 Dion looked and saw Canon Wilton. He told Mrs. Clarke 
 who it was. , 
 
 " Enid told me he was coming. I should like to know him." 
 
 "Shall I go and tell him so?" 
 
 "Presently. How's your baby? I'm told you've got a 
 baby." 
 
 Dion actually blushed. Mrs. Clarke gazed at the blush, and 
 no doubt thoroughly understood it, but she did not smile, or 
 look arch, or full of feminine understanding. 
 
 " It's very well, thank you. It's just like other babies."
 
 144 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " So was mine. Babies are always said to be wonderful, 
 and never are. And we love ours chiefly because they aren't. 
 I hate things with wings growing out of their shoulders. My 
 boy's a very naughty boy." 
 
 They talked about the baby, and then about Mrs. Clarke's 
 son of ten; and then Canon Wilton came up, shook hands 
 warmly with Dion, and was introduced by Mrs. Chetwinde 
 to Mrs. Clarke. 
 
 Presently, from the other side of the room where he was 
 standing with Esme Darlington, Dion saw them in conversa- 
 tion; saw Mrs. Clarke's eyes fixed on the Canon's almost 
 fiercely sincere face. 
 
 " It's going to be an abominable case," murmured Mr. Darl- 
 ington in Dion's ear. " We must all stand round her." 
 
 " I can't imagine how any one could think such a woman 
 guilty," said Dion. 
 
 " It has all come about through her unconventionally." He 
 pulled his beard and lifted his ragged eyebrows. " It really 
 is much wiser for innocent people, such as Cynthia, to keep a 
 tight hold on the conventions. They have their uses. They 
 have their place in the scheme. But she never could see it, 
 and look at the result." 
 
 "But then don't you think she'll win?" 
 
 " No one can tell." 
 
 " In any case, she tells me she's going back to live at Con- 
 stantinople." 
 
 "Madness! Sheer madness!" said Mr. Darlington, almost 
 piteously. " I shall beg her not to." 
 
 Dion suppressed a smile. That day he had gained the im- 
 pression that Mrs. Clarke had a will of iron. 
 
 When he went up to say good-by to her, Daventry had 
 already gone; he said he had work to do on the case. 
 
 "May I wish you success?" Dion ventured to say, as he 
 took her hand. 
 
 "'Thank you," she answered. " I think you must go in for 
 athletic exercises, don't you? " 
 
 Her eyes were fixed on the breadth of his chest, and then 
 traveled to his strong, broad shoulders. 
 
 " Yes, I'm very keen on them." 
 
 " I want my boy to go in for them. It's so important to 
 be healthy." 
 
 " Rather! "
 
 ECHO 145 
 
 He felt the Stamboul touch in her soft, hot hand. As he 
 let it go, he added: 
 
 " I can give you the address of a first-rate instructor if your 
 boy ever wants to be physically trained. I go to him. His 
 name's Jenkins." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 She was still looking at his chest and shoulders. The ex- 
 pression of distress in her eyes seemed to be deepening. But 
 a tall man, Sir John Killigrew, one of her adherents, spoke to 
 her, and she turned to give him her complete attention. 
 
 " I'll walk with you, if you're going," said Canon Wilton's 
 strong voice in Dion's ear. 
 
 " That's splendid. I'll just say good-by to Mrs. Chetwinde." 
 
 He found her by the tea-table with three or four men and 
 two very smart women. As he came up one of the latter was 
 saying : 
 
 " It's all Lady Ermyntrude's fault. She always hated 
 Cynthia, and she has a heart of stone." 
 
 The case again! 
 
 " Oh, are you going ? " said Mrs. Chetwinde. 
 
 She got up and came away from the tea-table. 
 
 " D'you like Cynthia Clarke?" she asked. 
 
 " Yes, very much. She interests me." 
 
 "Ah?" 
 
 She looked at him, and seemed about to say something, but 
 did not speak. 
 
 " You saw her take my hand," he said, moved by a sudden 
 impulse. 
 
 "Did she?" 
 
 " We were talking about Stamboul. She did it to show 
 
 me " He broke off. " I saw you felt, as I did, that no 
 
 one but a through and through innocent woman could have 
 done it, just now like that, I mean." 
 
 " Of course Cynthia is innocent," Mrs. Chetwinde said, 
 rather coldly and very firmly. " There's Canon Wilton wait- 
 ing for you." 
 
 She turned away, but did not go back to the tea-table; as 
 Dion went out of the room he saw her sitting down on the 
 red sofa by Mrs. Clarke. 
 
 Canon Wilton and he walked slowly away from the house. 
 The Canon, who had some heart trouble of which he never 
 spoke, was not allowed to walk fast; and to-day he was tired
 
 146 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 after his sermon at the Abbey. He inquired earnestly about 
 Rosamund and the child, and seemed made happy by the good 
 news Dion was able to give him. 
 
 " Has it made all life seem very different to you? " he asked. 
 
 Dion acknowledged that it had. 
 
 " I was half frightened at the thought of the change which 
 was coming," he said. " We were so very happy as we were, 
 you see/' 
 
 The Canon's intense gray eyes shot a glance at him, which 
 he felt rather than saw, in the evening twilight. 
 
 " I hope you'll be even happier now." 
 
 " It will be a different sort of happiness now." 
 
 " I think children bind people together more often than not. 
 There are cases when it's not so, but I don't think yours is 
 likely to be one of them." 
 
 " Oh no." 
 
 " Is it a good-looking baby? " 
 
 " No, really it's not. Even Rosamund thinks that. D'you 
 know, so far she's marvel ously reasonable in her love." 
 
 " That's splendid," said Canon Wilton, with a strong ring 
 in his voice. " An unreasonable love is generally a love with 
 something rotten at its roots." 
 
 Dion stood still. 
 
 " Oh, is that true really? " 
 
 The Canon paused beside him. They were in Eaton Square, 
 opposite to St. Peter's. 
 
 " I think so. But I hate anything that approaches what 
 I call mania. Religious mania, for instance, is abhorrent to 
 me, and, I should think, displeasing to God. Any mania enter- 
 ing into a love clouds that purity which is the greatest beauty 
 of love. Mania it's detestable ! " 
 
 He spoke almost with a touch of heat, and put his hand on 
 Dion's shoulder. 
 
 " Beware of it, my boy." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 They walked on, talking of other things. A few minutes 
 before they parted they spoke of Mrs. Clarke. 
 
 " Did you know her before to-day? " asked the Canon. 
 
 " No. I'd never even seen her. How dreadful for her to 
 have to face such a case." 
 
 " Yes, indeed." 
 
 " The fact that she's innocent gives her a great pull, though. 
 I realized what a pull when I was having a talk with her."
 
 ECHO 147 
 
 " I don't know much about the case," was all that the Canon 
 said. " I hope justice will be done in it when it conies on." 
 
 Dion thought that there was something rather implacable 
 in his voice. 
 
 " I don't believe Mrs. Clarke doubts that." 
 
 " Did she say so? " asked Canon Wilton. 
 
 " No. But I felt that she expected to win almost knew 
 she would win." 
 
 " I see. She has confidence in the result." 
 
 " She seems to have." 
 
 " Women often have more confidence in difficult moments 
 than we men. Well, here I must leave you." 
 
 He held out his big, unwavering hand to Dion. 
 
 " Good-by. God bless you both, and the child, whether 
 it's plain or not. One good thing's added to us when we start 
 rather ill-favored; the chance of growing into something well- 
 favored." 
 
 He gripped Dion's hand and walked slowly, but power- 
 fully, away. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 AS Dion had said, the baby was an ordinary baby. " In 
 looks," the nurse remarked, " he favors his papa." 
 Certainly in this early stage of his career the baby 
 had little of the beauty and charm of Rosamund. As his head 
 was practically bald, his forehead, which was wrinkled as if 
 by experience and the troubles of years, looked abnormally 
 high. His face, full of puckers, was rather red; his nose 
 meant very little as yet; his mouth, with perpetually moving 
 lips, was the home of bubbles. His eyes were blue, and looked 
 large in his extremely small countenance, which was often 
 decorated with an expression of mild inquiry. This expres- 
 sion, however, sometimes changed abruptly to a network of 
 wrath, in which every feature, and even the small bald head, 
 became involved. Then the minute feet made feeble dabs, or 
 stabs, at the atmosphere; the tiny fists doubled themselves and 
 wandered to and fro as if in search of the enemy; and a voice 
 came forth out of the temple, very personal and very intense, 
 to express the tempest of the soul.
 
 148 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 "Hark at him! " said the nurse. " He knows already what 
 he wants and what he don't want." 
 
 And Rosamund, listening as only a mother can listen, shook 
 her head over him, trying to condemn the rage, but enjoying 
 the strength of her child in the way of mothers, to whom the 
 baby's roar perhaps brings the thought, " What a fine, bold 
 man he'll be some day." If Rosamund had such a thought 
 the nurse encouraged it with her, " He's got a proud spirit 
 already, ma'am. He's not to be put upon. Have his way he 
 will, and I don't altogether blame him." Nor, be sure, did 
 Rosamund altogether blame the young varmint for anything. 
 Perhaps in his tiny fisticuffs and startlingly fierce cries she 
 divined the Doric, in embryo, as it were; perhaps when " little 
 master " shrieked she thought of the columns of the Parthe- 
 non. 
 
 But Dion had told the truth to Canon Wilton when he had 
 said that Rosamund was marvelously reasonable, so far, in her 
 love for her baby son. The admirable sanity, the sheer healthi- 
 ness of outlook which Dion loved in her did not desert her now. 
 To Dion it seemed that in the very calmness and good sense 
 of her love she showed its great depth, showed that already she 
 was thinking of her child's soul as well as of his little body. 
 
 Dion felt the beginnings of a change in Rosamund, but he 
 did not find either her or himself suddenly and radically 
 changed by the possession of a baby. He had thought that 
 perhaps as mother and father they would both feel abruptly 
 much older than before, even perhaps old. It was not so. 
 Often Dion gazed at the baby as he bubbled and cooed, sneezed 
 with an air of angry astonishment, stared at nothing with a 
 look of shallow surmise, or, composing his puckers, slept, and 
 Dion still felt young, even very young, and not at all like a 
 father. 
 
 " I'm sure," he once said to Rosamund, " women feel much 
 more like mothers when they have a baby than men feel like 
 fathers." 
 
 " I feel like a mother all over," she replied, bending above 
 the child. " In every least little bit of me." 
 
 " Then do you feel completely changed? " 
 
 " Completely, utterly." 
 
 Dion sat still for a moment gazing at her. She felt his look, 
 perhaps, for she lifted her head, and her eyes went from the 
 baby to him. 
 
 "What is it, Rosamund? What are you considering?"
 
 ECHO 149 
 
 " Well " She hesitated. " Perhaps no one could quite 
 
 understand, but I feel a sense of release." 
 
 "Release! From what?" 
 
 Again she hesitated; then she looked once more at the child 
 almost as if she wished to gain something from his helplessness. 
 At last she said: 
 
 " Dion, as you've given me him, I'll tell you. Very often 
 in the past I've had an urgent desire some day to enter into 
 the religious life." 
 
 " D'you d'you mean to become a Roman Catholic and a 
 nun? " he exclaimed, feeling, absurdly perhaps, almost afraid 
 and half indignant. 
 
 " No. I've never wished to change my religion. There are 
 Anglican sisterhoods, you know." 
 
 " But your singing! " 
 
 " I only intended to sing for a time. Then some day, when 
 I felt quite ready, I meant " 
 
 " But you married me? " he interrupted. 
 
 " Yes. So you see I gave it all up." 
 
 " But you said it was the child which had brought you a 
 sensation of release! " 
 
 " Perhaps you have never been a prisoner of a desire which 
 threatens to dominate your soul forever," she said, quietly evad- 
 ing his point and looking down, so that he could not see her 
 eyes. " Look, he's waking! " 
 
 Surely she had moved abruptly and the movement had 
 awakened the child. She began playing with him, and the 
 conversation was broken. 
 
 The Clarke trial came on in May, when Robin was becoming 
 almost elderly, having already passed no less than ten weeks 
 in the midst of this wicked world. On the day before it 
 opened, Daventry made Dion promise to come into court at 
 least once to hear some of the evidence. 
 
 " A true friend would be there every day," he urged " to 
 back up his old chum." 
 
 " Business! " returned Dion laconically. 
 
 "What's your real reason against it? " 
 
 " Well, Rosamund hates this kind of case. I spoke to her 
 about it the other day." 
 
 "What did she say?" 
 
 " That she was delighted you had something to do, and 
 that she hoped, if Mrs. Clarke were innocent, she'd win. She 
 pities her for being dragged through all this mud."
 
 150 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " She said at the end that she hoped I wouldn't think her 
 unsympathetic if she neither talked about the case nor read 
 about it. She hates filling her mind with ugly details and 
 horrible suggestions." 
 
 " I see." 
 
 " You know, Guy, Rosamund thinks she's told me so 
 more than once that the mind and the soul are very sensitive, 
 and that that they ought to be watched over, and and 
 taken great care of." 
 
 Dion looked rather uncomfortable as he finished. It was 
 one thing to speak of such matters with Rosamund, and quite 
 another to touch on them with a man, even a man who was a 
 trusted friend. 
 
 " Perhaps you'd rather not come at all? " 
 
 " No, no. I'll come once. You know how keen I am on 
 your making a good start." 
 
 Daventry took him at his word, and got him a seat beside 
 Mrs. Chetwinde on the third day of the trial, when Mrs. 
 Clarke's cross-examination, begun on the previous day, was 
 continued by Sir Edward Jeffson, Beadon Clarke's leading 
 counsel. 
 
 Dion told Rosamund where he was going when he left the 
 house in the morning. 
 
 " I hope it will go well for poor Mrs. Clarke," she said 
 kindly, but perhaps rather indifferently. 
 
 She had not looked at the reports of the case in the papers, 
 and had not discussed its progress with Dion. He was not 
 sorry for that. It was a horrible case, full of abominable 
 allegations and suggestions such as he would have hated to 
 discuss with his Rosamund. As he stood in the little hall of 
 their house, which was delicately scented with lavender and 
 lit by pale sunshine, bidding her good-by, he realized the im- 
 possibility of such a woman as she was ever being " mixed up " 
 in such a trial. Simply that couldn't happen, he thought. 
 Instinct would keep her far from every suggestion of a pos- 
 sible impurity. He felt certain that Mrs. Clarke was innocent, 
 but, as he looked into Rosamund's honest brown eyes, he 
 thought that Mrs. Clarke must have been singularly imprudent. 
 He remembered how she had held his hand in Mrs. Chet- 
 winde's drawing-room. Wisdom and unwisdom; he compared 
 them: the one was a builder up, the other a destroyer of beauty
 
 ECHO 151 
 
 the beauty that is in every completely sane and perfectly 
 poised life. 
 
 " Rose," he said, leaning forward to kiss his wife, " I think 
 you are very wise." 
 
 "Why wise all of a sudden?" she asked, smiling. 
 
 " You keep the door of your life." 
 
 He glanced round at the little hall, simple, fresh, with a 
 few white roses in a blue pot, the pale sunshine lying on the 
 polished floor of wood, the small breeze coming in almost af- 
 fectionately between snowy curtains. Purity everything 
 seemed to whisper of that, to imply that; simplicity ruling, 
 complexity ruled out. 
 
 And then he was sitting in the crowded court, breathing 
 bad air, hearing foul suggestions, watching strained or hateful 
 faces, surrounded by people who were attracted by ugly things 
 as vultures are attracted by the stench of dead and decaying 
 bodies. At first he loathed being there; presently, however, he 
 became interested, then almost fascinated by his surroundings 
 and by the drama which was being played slowly out in the 
 midst of them. 
 
 Daventry, in wig and gown, looked tremendously legal and 
 almost severe in his tense gravity. Sir John Addington, his 
 leader, a man of great fame, was less tense in his watchfulness, 
 amazingly at his ease with the Court, and on smiling terms 
 with the President, who, full of worldly and unworldly 
 knowledge, held the balance of justice with an unwavering 
 firmness. The jury looked startlingly commonplace, smug and 
 sleepy, despite the variety of type almost inevitably presented 
 by twelve human beings. Not one of them looked a rascal; 
 not one of them looked an actively good man. The intense 
 Englishness of them hit one in the face like a well-directed 
 blow from a powerful fist. And they had to give the verdict 
 on this complex drama of Stamboul! How much they would 
 have to tell their wives presently! Their sense of their un- 
 usual importance pushed through the smugness heavily, like 
 a bulky man in broadcloth shoving through a dull crowd. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke occasionally glanced at them with an air of 
 almost distressed inquiry, as if she had never seen such cab- 
 bages before, and was wondering about their gray matter. Her 
 life in Stamboul must have effected changes in her. She looked 
 almost exotic in this court, despite the simplicity of her gown, 
 her unpretending little hat; as if her mind, perhaps, had become
 
 152 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 exotic. But she certainly did not look wicked. Dion was 
 struck again by the strong mentality of her and by her haggard- 
 ness. To him she seemed definitely a woman of mind, not 
 at all an animal woman. When he gazed at her he felt that 
 he was gazing at mind rather than at body. Just before she 
 went into the box she met his eyes. She stared at him, as if 
 carefully and strongly considering him; then she nodded. He 
 bowed, feeling uncomfortable, feeling indeed almost a brute. 
 
 " She'll think I've come out of filthy curiosity," he thought, 
 looking round at the greedy faces of the crowd. 
 
 No need to ask why those faces were there. 
 
 He felt still more uncomfortable when Mrs. Clarke was in 
 the witness-box, and Sir Edward Jeffson took up the cross- 
 examination which he had begun late in the afternoon of the 
 previous day. 
 
 Dion had very seldom been in a Court of Justice, and had 
 never before been in the Divorce Court. As the cross-examina- 
 tion of Mrs. Clarke lengthened out he felt as if his clothes, and 
 the clothes of all the human beings who crowded about him, 
 were being ruthlessly stripped off, as if an ugly and abom- 
 inable nakedness were gradually appearing. The shame of it 
 all was very hateful to him; and yet yes, he couldn't deny 
 it there was a sort of dreadful fascination in it, too. 
 
 The two co-respondents, Hadi Bey and Aristide Dumeny of 
 the French Embassy in Constantinople, were in court, sitting 
 not far from Dion, to whom Mrs. Chetwinde, less vague than, 
 but quite as self-possessed as, usual, pointed them out. 
 
 Both were young men. Hadi Bey, who of course wore the 
 fez, was a fine specimen of the smart, alert, cosmopolitan and 
 cultivated Turk of modern days. There was a peculiar look 
 of vividness and brightness about him, in his piercing dark 
 eyes, in his red lips, in his healthy and manly face with its 
 rosy brown complexion and its powerful decided chin. He had 
 none of the sleepiness and fatalistic languor of the fat hubble- 
 bubble smoking Turk of caricature. The whole of him looked 
 aristocratic, energetic, perfectly poised and absolutely self-pos- 
 sessed. Many of the women in court glanced at him without 
 any distaste. 
 
 Aristide Dumeny was almost strangely different an ashy- 
 pale, dark-eyed, thin and romantic-visaged man, stamped with 
 a curious expression of pain and fatalism. He looked as if he 
 had seen much, dreamed many dreams, and suffered not a little. 
 There was in his face something slightly contemptuous, as if,
 
 ECHO 153 
 
 intellectually, he seldom gazed up at any man. He watched 
 Mrs. Clarke in the box with an enigmatic closeness of atten- 
 tion which seemed wholly impersonal, even when she was reply- 
 ing to hideous questions about himself. That he had an inter- 
 esting personality was certain. When his eyes rested on the 
 twelve jurymen he smiled ever so faintly. It seemed to him, 
 perhaps, absurd that they should have power over the future 
 of the woman in the witness-box. 
 
 That woman showed an extraordinary self-possession which 
 touched dignity but which never descended to insolence. 
 Despite her obvious cleverness and mental resource she pre- 
 served a certain simplicity. She did not pose as a passionate 
 innocent, or assume any forced airs of supreme virtue. She 
 presented herself rather as a woman of the world who was 
 careless of the conventions, because, she thought of them as 
 chains which prevented free movement and were destructive 
 of genuine liberty. She acknowledged that she had been a 
 great deal with Hadi Bey and Dumeny, that she had often 
 made long excursions with each of them on foot, on horseback, 
 in caiques, that she had had them to dinner, separately, on 
 many occasions in a little pavilion which stood at the end of 
 her husband's garden and looked upon the Bosporus. These 
 dinners had frequently taken place when her husband was 
 away from home. Monsieur Dumeny was a good musician 
 and had sometimes sung and played to her till late in the night. 
 Hadi Bey had sometimes been her guide in Constantinople and 
 had given to her the freedom of his strange and mysterious 
 city of Stamboul. With him she had visited the mosques, 
 with him she had explored the bazaars, with him she had sunk 
 down in the strange and enveloping melancholy of the vast 
 Turkish cemeteries which are protected by forests of cypresses. 
 All this she acknowledged without the least discomposure. 
 One of her remarks to the cross-examining counsel was this: 
 
 " You suggest that I have been very imprudent. I answer 
 that I am not able to live what the conventional call a prudent 
 life. Such a life would be a living death to me." 
 
 " Kindly confine yourself to answering my questions," re- 
 torted Counsel harshly. " I suggest that you were far more 
 than imprudent. I suggest that when you and Hadi Bey re- 
 mained together in that pavilion on the Bosporus until mid- 
 night, until after midnight, you " and then followed 
 
 another hideous accusation, which, gazing with her observant 
 eyes at the brick-red shaven face of her accuser, Mrs. Clarke
 
 154 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 quietly denied. She never showed temper. Now and then she 
 gave indications of a sort of cold disgust or faint surprise. 
 But there were no outraged airs of virtue. A slight disdain 
 was evidently more natural to the temperament of this woman 
 than any fierceness of protestation. Once when Counsel said, 
 " I shall ask the jury to infer " something abominable, Mrs. 
 Clarke tranquilly rejoined: 
 
 " Whatever they infer it won't alter the truth." 
 
 Daventry moved his shoulders. Dion was certain that he 
 considered this remark ill-advised. The jury, however, at 
 whom Mrs. Clarke gazed in the short silence which followed, 
 seemed, Dion thought, impressed by her firmness. The 
 luncheon interval prevented Counsel from saying anything 
 further just then, and Mrs. Clarke stepped down from the box. 
 
 "Isn't she wonderful?" 
 
 Dion heard this murmur, which did not seem to be addressed 
 to any particular person. It had come from Mrs. Chetwinde, 
 who now got up and went to speak to Mrs. Clarke. The whole 
 court was in movement. Dion went out to have a hasty lunch 
 with Daventry. 
 
 " A pity she said that ! " Daventry said in a low voice to 
 Dion, hitching up his gown. " Juries like to be deferred to." 
 
 " I believe she impressed them by her independence." 
 
 "Do you, though? She's marvelously intelligent. Perhaps 
 she knows more of men, even of jurymen, than I do." 
 
 At lunch they discussed the case. Daventry had had two 
 or three chances given to him by Sir John Addington, and 
 thought he had done quite well. 
 
 " Do you think Mrs. Clarke will win? " said Dion. 
 
 " I know she's innocent, but I can't tell. She's so infernally 
 unconventional and a jury's so infernally conventional that 
 I can't help being afraid." 
 
 Dion thought of his Rosamund's tranquil wisdom. 
 
 " I think Mrs. Clarke's very clever," he said. " But I sup- 
 pose she isn't very wise." 
 
 " I'll tell you what it is, old Dion; she prefers life to 
 wisdom." 
 
 " Well, but " Dion began. 
 
 But he stopped. Now he knew Mrs. Clarke a little better, 
 from her own evidence, he knew just what Daventry meant. 
 He looked upon the life of unwisdom, and he was able to feel 
 its fascination. There were scents in it that lured, and there 
 were colors that tempted; in its night there was music; about
 
 ECHO 155 
 
 it lay mystery, shadows, and silver beams of the moon shining 
 between cypresses like black towers. It gave out a call to 
 which, perhaps, very few natures of men were wholly deaf. 
 The unwise life! Almost for the first time Dion considered 
 it with a deep curiosity. 
 
 He considered it more attentively, more curiously, during the 
 afternoon, when Mrs. Clarke's cross-examination was continued. 
 
 It was obvious that during this trial two women were being 
 presented to the judge and jury, the one a greedy and abom- 
 inably secret and clever sensualist, who hid her mania beneath 
 a cloak of intellectuality, the other a genuine intellectual, whose 
 mental appetites far outweighed the appetites of her body, who 
 was, perhaps, a sensualist, but a sensualist of the spirit and 
 not of the flesh. Which of these two women was the real 
 Cynthia Clarke? The jury would eventually give their de- 
 cision, but it might not be in accordance with fact. Meanwhile, 
 the horrible unclothing process was ruthlessly proceeded with. 
 But already Dion was becoming accustomed to it. Perhaps 
 Mrs. Clarke's self-possession helped him to assimilate the 
 nauseous food which was offered to him. 
 
 Beadon Clarke was in court, and had been pointed out to 
 Dion, an intellectual and refined-looking man, bald, with good 
 features, and a gentle, but now pained, expression; obviously 
 a straight and aristocratic fellow. Beside him sat his mother, 
 that Lady Ermyntrude who, it was said, had forced on the 
 trial. She sat upright, her eyes fixed on her daughter-in-law, 
 a rather insignificant small woman, not very well dressed, 
 young looking, with hair done exactly in Queen Alexandra's 
 way, and crowned with a black toque. 
 
 Dion noticed that she had a very firm mouth and chin. She 
 did not look actively hostile as she gazed at the witness, but 
 merely attentive deeply, concentratedly attentive. Mrs. 
 Clarke never glanced towards her. 
 
 Perhaps, whatever Lady Ermyntrude had believed hitherto, 
 she was now beginning to wonder whether her conception of 
 her son's wife had been a wrong one, was beginning to ask her- 
 self whether she had divined the nature of the soul inhabiting 
 the body which now stood up before her. 
 
 About an hour before the close of the sitting the heat in 
 court became almost suffocating, and the Judge told Mrs. Clarke 
 she might continue her evidence sitting down. She refused 
 this favor. 
 
 " I'm not at all tired, my lord," she said.
 
 156 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " She's made of iron," Mrs. Chetwinde murmured to Dion. 
 " Though she generally looks like a corpse. She was haggard 
 even as a girl." 
 
 " Did you know her then? " he whispered. 
 
 " I've known her all my life." 
 
 Daventry wiped his brow with a large pocket-handkerchief, 
 performing the action legally. One of the jurymen, who was 
 too fat, and had something of the expression of a pug dog, 
 opened his mouth and rolled slightly in his seat. The cross- 
 examination became with every moment more disagreeable. 
 Beadon Clarke never lifted his eyes from his knees. All the 
 women in court, except Mrs. Chetwinde and Mrs. Clarke, were 
 looking strangely alive and conscious. Dion had forgotten 
 everything except Stamboul and the life of unwisdom. Sup- 
 pose Mrs. Clarke had lived the life imputed to her by Counsel, 
 suppose she really were a consummately clever and astound- 
 ingly ingenious humbug, driven, as many human beings are 
 driven, by a dominating vice which towered over her life-issuing 
 commands she had not the strength to resist, how had it profited 
 her? Had she had great rewards in it? Had she been led 
 down strange ways guided by fascination bearing the torch 
 from which spring colored fires? Good women sometimes, per- 
 haps oftener than many people realize, look out of the window 
 and try to catch a glimpse of the world of the wicked women, 
 asking themselves, " Is it worth while? Is their time so much 
 better than mine? Am I missing missing?" And they 
 shut the window for fear. Far away, turning the corner 
 of some dark alley, they have seen the colored gleam of the 
 torch. 
 
 Rosamund would never do that would never even want 
 to do that. She was not one of the good women who love to 
 take just a peep at evil " because one ought to know something 
 of the trials and difficulties of those less fortunately circum- 
 stanced than oneself." 
 
 But, for the moment, Dion had quite forgotten his Rosa- 
 mund. She was in England, but he was in Stamboul, hearing 
 the waters of the Bosporus lapping at the foot of Mrs. Clarke's 
 garden pavilion, while Dumeny played to her as the moon 
 came up to shine upon the sweet waters of Asia ; or sitting under 
 the plane trees of the Pigeon Mosque, while Hadi Bey showed 
 her how to write an Arabic love-letter to somebody in the 
 air, of course. In this trial he felt the fascination of Con- 
 stantinople as he had never felt it when he was in Constant!-
 
 ECHO 157 
 
 nople; but he felt, too, that only those who strayed deliberately 
 from the beaten paths could ever capture the full fascination 
 of the divided city, which looks to Europe and to Asia, and 
 is set along the way of the sea. 
 
 Whether innocent or guilty, Mrs. Clarke had certainly done 
 that. He watched her with a growing interest. How very 
 much she must know that he did not know. Then he glanced 
 at Hadi Bey, who still sat up alertly, who still looked bright 
 and vivid, intelligent, ready for anything, a man surely with 
 muscles of steel and a courageous robust nature, and at Aris- 
 tide Dumeny. Upon the latter his eyes rested for a long time. 
 When at last he again looked at Mrs. Clarke he had formed 
 the definite impression that Dumeny was corrupt an interest- 
 ing man, a clever, probably a romantic as well as a cynical 
 man, but certainly corrupt. 
 
 Didn't that tell against Mrs. Clarke? 
 
 She was now being questioned about a trip at night in a 
 caique with Hadi Bey down the sweet waters of Asia where 
 willows lean over the stream. Mrs. Chetwinde's pale eyes 
 were fastened upon her. Beadon Clarke bent his head a little 
 lower as, in her husky voice, his wife said that he knew of the 
 expedition, had apparently smiled upon her unconventionalities, 
 knowing how entirely free she was from the ugly bias towards 
 vice attributed to her by Counsel. 
 
 Lady Ermyntrude Clarke shot a glance at her son, and her 
 firm mouth became firmer. 
 
 The willows bent over the sweet waters in the warm summer 
 night; the Albanian boatmen were singing. 
 
 " She must have had wonderful times ! " 
 
 The whisper came from an unseen woman sitting just behind 
 Dion. His mind echoed the thought she had expressed. 
 Now the Judge was rising from the bench and bowing to the 
 Court; Mrs. Clarke was stepping down from the witness-box; 
 Dumeny, his eyes half closed, was brushing his shining silk 
 hat with the sleeve of his coat; Beadon Clarke was leaning to 
 speak to his mother. 
 
 The Court was adjourned. 
 
 As Dion got up he felt the heat as if it were heat from a 
 furnace. His face and his body were burning. 
 
 " Come and speak to Cynthia, and take us to tea somewhere 
 can you?" said Mrs. Chetwinde. 
 
 " Of course, with pleasure." 
 
 "Your Rosamund ?"
 
 158 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 Her eyes were on him for a moment. 
 
 " She won't expect me at any particular time." 
 
 " Mr. Daventry can come too." 
 
 Dion never forgot their difficult exit from the court. It 
 made him feel ashamed for humanity, for the crowd which 
 frantically pressed to stare at a woman because perhaps she 
 had done things which were considered by all right-minded 
 people to be disgusting. Mrs. Clarke and her little party of 
 friends had to be helped by the police. When at length they 
 were driving away towards Claridge's Hotel, Dion was able 
 once more to meet the eyes of his companions, and again he was 
 amazed at the self-possession of Mrs. Clarke. Really she 
 seemed as composed, as completely mistress of herself, as when 
 he had first seen her standing near the statue of Echo in the 
 drawing-room of Mrs. Chetwinde. 
 
 " You haven't been in court before to-day, have you? " she 
 said to Dion. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Why did you come to-day? " 
 
 " Well, I He hesitated. " I promised Mr. Daventry 
 
 to come to-day." 
 
 "That was it!" said Mrs. Clarke, and she looked out of 
 the window. 
 
 Dion felt rather uncomfortable as he spoke to Mrs. Chet- 
 winde and left further conversation with Mrs. Clarke to Daven- 
 try; but when they were all in a quiet corner of the tearoom 
 at Claridge's, a tea-table before them and a band playing softly 
 at a distance, he was more at his ease. The composure of Mrs. 
 Clarke perhaps conveyed itself to him. She spoke of the case 
 quite naturally, as a guilty woman surely could not possibly 
 have spoken of it showing no venom, making no attack upon 
 her accusers. 
 
 " It's all a mistake," she said, " arising out of stupidity, 
 out of the most widespread and, perhaps, the most pitiable 
 and dangerous lack in human nature." 
 
 "And what's that?" asked Daventry, rather eagerly. 
 
 " I expect you know." 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "Don't you?" she asked of Dion, spreading thinly some 
 butter over a piece of dry toast. 
 
 " I'm afraid I don't." 
 
 " Cynthia means the lack of power to read character, the
 
 ECHO 159 
 
 lack of the psychological instinct," drifted from the lips of 
 Mrs. Chetwinde. 
 
 " Three-quarters of the misunderstandings and miseries of 
 the world come from that," said Mrs. Clarke, looking at the 
 now buttered toast. " If my mother-in-law and my husband 
 had any psychological faculty they would never have mistaken 
 my unconventionality, which I shall never give up, for common, 
 and indeed very vulgar, sinfulness." 
 
 " Confusing the pastel with the oleograph," dropped out 
 Mrs. Chetwinde, looking abstractedly at an old red woman 
 in a turret of ostrich plumes, who was spread out on the other 
 side of the room before a plate of cakes. 
 
 " You are sure Lady Ermyntrude didn't understand? " said 
 Daventry, with a certain sharp legality of manner. 
 
 " You mean that she might be wicked instead of only 
 stupid? " 
 
 " Well, yes. I suppose it does come to that." 
 
 " Believe me, Mr. Daventry, she's a quite honest stupid 
 woman. She honestly thinks that I'm a horrible creature." 
 
 And Mrs. Clarke began to bite the crisp toast with her lovely 
 teeth. Mrs. Chetwinde's eyes dwelt on her for a brief instant 
 with, Dion thought, a rather peculiar look which he could not 
 quite understand. It had, perhaps, a hint of hardness, or of 
 cold admiration, something of that kind, in it. 
 
 " Tell me some more about the baby," was Mrs. Clarke's 
 next remark, addressed to Dion.. "I want to get away for a 
 minute into a happy domestic life. And yours is that, I know." 
 
 How peculiarly haggard, and yet how young she looked as 
 she said that! She added: 
 
 "If the case ends as I feel sure it will, I hope your wife 
 and I shall get to know each other. I hear she's the most 
 delightful woman in London, and extraordinarily beautiful. 
 Isn't she?" 
 
 " I think she is beautiful," Dion said simply. 
 
 And then they talked about Robin, while Mrs. Chetwinde 
 and Daventry discussed some question of the day. Before they 
 parted Dion could not help saying: 
 
 " I want to ask you something." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " Why do you feel sure that the trial will end as it ought 
 to end? Surely the lack of the psychological instinct is 
 peculiarly abundant if a lack can be abundant!" he
 
 160 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 smiled, almost laughed, a little deprecatingly " in a British 
 jury? " 
 
 " And so you think they're likely to go wrong in their 
 verdict? " 
 
 " Doesn't it rather follow? " 
 
 She stared at him, and her eyes were, or looked, even more 
 widely opened than usual. After a long pause she said: 
 
 " You wish to frighten me." 
 
 She got up, and began to draw on her dove-colored Swedish 
 kid gloves. 
 
 " Tippie," she said to Mrs. Chetwinde, " I must go home 
 now and have a little rest." 
 
 Only then did Dion realize how marvelously she was bearing 
 a tremendous strain. He began to admire her prodigiously. 
 
 \Yhen he said good-by to her under the great porch he 
 couldn't help asking: 
 
 " Are your nerves of steel? " 
 
 She leaned forward in the brougham. 
 
 " If your muscles are of iron." 
 
 " My muscles ! " he said. 
 
 "Haven't you educated them?" 
 
 "Oh yes." 
 
 " And perhaps I've educated my nerves." 
 
 Mrs. Chetwinde's spirited horses began to prance and show 
 temper. Mrs. Clarke sat back. As the carriage moved away, 
 Dion saw Mrs. Chetwinde's eyes fixed upon him. They looked 
 at that moment not at all vague. If they had not been her 
 eyes, he would have been inclined to think them piercing. 
 But, of course, Mrs. Chetwinde's eyes could never be that. 
 
 "How does one educate one's nerves, Guy?" asked Dion, 
 as the two friends walked away. 
 
 " By being defendant in a long series of divorce cases, I 
 should say." 
 
 " Has Mrs. Clarke ever been in another case of this kind? " 
 
 " Good heavens, no. If she had, even I couldn't believe 
 in her innocence, as I do now." 
 
 "Then where did she get her education? " 
 
 "Where do women get things, old Dion? It seems to me 
 sometimes straight from God, and sometimes straight from 
 the devil." 
 
 Dion's mental comment on this was, " What about Mrs. 
 Clarke? " But he did not utter it. 
 
 Before he left Daventry, he was pledged to be in court on
 
 ECHO 161 
 
 the last day of the case, when the verdict would be given. He 
 wished to go to the court again on the morrow, but the thought 
 of Rosamund decided him not to do this; he would, he knew, 
 feel almost ashamed in telling her that the divorce court, at 
 this moment, fascinated him, that he longed, or almost longed, 
 to follow the colored fires of a certain torch down further 
 shadowy alleys of the unwise life. He felt quite sure that 
 Mrs. Clarke was an innocent woman, but she had certainly 
 been very unconventional indeed in her conduct. He remem- 
 bered the almost stern strength in her husky voice when she had 
 said " my unconventionality, which I shall never give up." 
 So even this hideous and widely proclaimed scandal would not 
 induce her to bow in the future before the conventional gods. 
 She really was an extraordinary woman. What would Rosa- 
 mund think of her? If she won her case she evidently meant 
 to know Rosamund. Of course, there could be nothing against 
 that. If she lost the case, naturally there could never be any 
 question of such an acquaintance; he knew instinctively that 
 she would never suggest it. Whatever she was, or was not, 
 she was certainly a woman of the world. 
 
 That evening, when he reached home, he found Rosamund 
 sitting in the nursery in the company of Robin and the nurse. 
 The window was partially open. Rosamund believed in plenty 
 of air for her child, and no " cosseting "; she laughed to scorn, 
 but genially, the nurse's prejudice against " the night air." 
 
 " My child," she said, " must get accustomed to night as well 
 as day, Nurse and the sooner the better." So now "Master 
 Robin " was played upon by a little wind from Westminster. 
 He seemed in no way alarmed by it. This evening he was 
 serene, and when his father entered the room he assumed his 
 expression of mild inquiry, vaguely agitated his small rose- 
 colored fists, and blew forth a welcoming bubble. 
 
 Dion was touched at the sight. 
 
 " Little rogue! " he said, bending over Robin. " Little, little 
 rogue! " 
 
 Robin raised his, as yet scarcely defined, eyebrows, stared 
 
 remendously hard at the nursery atmosphere, puffed out his 
 
 vet lips and gurgled, at the same time wagging his head, now 
 
 licely covered with silky fair hair, or down, whichever you 
 
 chose to call it. 
 
 " He knows his papa, ma'am, and that he does, a boy! " said 
 the nurse, who approved of Dion, and had said below stairs 
 that he was " as good a husband as ever wore shoe-leather."
 
 162 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Of course he does," said Rosamund softly. " Babies have 
 plenty of intelligence of a kind, and I think it's a darling kind." 
 
 Dion sat down beside her, and they both bent over Robin 
 in the gathering twilight, while the nurse went softly out of 
 the room. 
 
 Dion had quite forgotten the Clarke case. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THREE days later Daventry called in Little Market Street 
 early, and was shown into the dining-room where he 
 found Rosamund alone at the breakfast-table. 
 
 " Do forgive me for bursting in upon the boiled eggs," he 
 said, looking unusually excited. " I'm off almost directly to 
 the Law Courts and I want to take Dion with me. It's the last 
 day of Mrs. Clarke's case. We expect the verdict some time 
 this evening. I dare say the court will sit late. Where's 
 Dion?" 
 
 " He's just coming down. We were both disturbed in the 
 night, so we slept later than usual." 
 
 "Disturbed? Burglars? Fire?" 
 
 "No; Robin's not at all well." 
 
 " I say! I'm sorry for that. What is it? " 
 
 " He's had a very bad throat and been feverish, poor little 
 chap. But I think he's better this morning. The doctor came." 
 
 " You'll sever be one of the fussy mothers." 
 
 " I hope not," she said, rather gravely; " I'm not fond of 
 them. Here's Dion." 
 
 Daventry sat with them while they breakfasted, and Dion 
 agreed to keep his promise and go to the court. 
 
 " I told Uncle Biron I must be away from business to hear 
 the summing-up," he said. " I'll send a telegram to the office. 
 Do you think it will be all right for Mrs. Clarke? " 
 
 " She's innocent, but nobody can say. It depends so much 
 on the summing-up." 
 
 Dion glanced at Rosamund. 
 
 " You mustn't think I'm going to turn into an idler, Rose. 
 This is a very special occasion." 
 
 " I know. Mr. Daventry's first case."
 
 ECHO 163 
 
 " Haven't you followed it at all ? " Daventry asked. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " No, but I've been wishing you well all the same." 
 
 When the two men got up to go, Dion said: 
 
 "Rosamund!" 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " If Mrs. Clarke wins and is completely exonerated, I think 
 she would like very much to make your acquaintance." 
 
 Rosamund looked surprised. 
 
 " What makes you think so? " 
 
 " Well, she said something to that effect the other day." 
 
 " She's a very interesting, clever woman," interposed Daven- 
 try, with sudden warmth. 
 
 " I'm sure she is. We must see. It's very kind of her. 
 Poor woman! What dreadful anxiety she must be in to-day! 
 You'll all be glad when it's over." 
 
 When the two friends were out in the sunshine, walking 
 towards the Strand, Daventry said: 
 
 " Why is your wife against Mrs. Clarke? " 
 
 " She isn't. What makes you think so? " 
 
 " I'm quite sure she doesn't want to know her, even if she 
 gets the verdict." 
 
 " Well, of course all this sort of thing is it's very far away 
 from Rosamund." 
 
 " You don't mean to say you doubt Mrs. Clarke? " 
 
 "No, but " 
 
 " Surely if she's innocent she's as good as any other woman." 
 
 "I know, but I suppose it's like this: there are dif- 
 ferent ways of being good, and perhaps Mrs. Clarke's way isn't 
 Rosamund's. In fact, we know it isn't." 
 
 Daventry said nothing more on the subject; he began to 
 discuss the case in all its bearings, and presently dwelt upon the 
 great power English judges have over the decisions of juries. 
 
 " Mrs. Clarke gave her evidence splendidly on the whole," 
 he said. " And Hadi Bey made an excellent impression. My 
 one fear is that fellow Aristide Dumeny. You didn't hear 
 him, but, of course, you read his evidence. He was perfectly 
 composed and as clever as he could be in the box, but I'm sure, 
 somehow, the jury were against him." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " I hardly know. It may be something in his personality." 
 
 " I believe he's a beast," said Dion. 
 
 " There! " exclaimed Daventry, wrinkling his forehead. " If
 
 164 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 the Judge thinks as you do it may just turn things against us." 
 
 " Why did she make a friend of the fellow? " 
 
 " Because he's chock-full of talent and knowledge, and she 
 loves both. Dion, my boy, the mind can play the devil with 
 us as well as the body. But I hope I hope for the right 
 verdict. Anyhow I've done well, and shall get other cases out 
 of this. The odd thing is that Mrs. Clarke's drained me dry 
 of egoism. I care only to win for her. I couldn't bear to see 
 her go out of court with a ruined reputation. My nerves are 
 all on edge. If Mrs. Clarke loses, how d'you think she'll take 
 it?" 
 
 " Standing up." 
 
 " I expect you're right. But I don't believe I shall take 
 it standing. Perhaps some women make us men feel for them 
 more than they feel for themselves. Don't look at me in court 
 whatever you do." 
 
 They had arrived at the Law Courts. He hurried away. 
 
 Dion's place was again beside Mrs. Chetwinde, who looked 
 unusually alive, and whose vagueness had been swept away 
 by something anxiety for her friend, perhaps, or the excite- 
 ment of following day after day an unusually emotional cause 
 celebre. 
 
 Now, as Sir John Addington stood up to continue his speech 
 on Mrs. Clarke's behalf, begun on the previous day, Mrs. Chet- 
 winde leaned forward and fixed her eyes upon him, closing her 
 fingers tightly on the fan she had brought with her. 
 
 Sir John spoke with an earnestness and conviction which at 
 certain moments rose almost to passion, as he drew the portrait 
 of a woman whose brilliant mind and innocent nature had 
 led her into the unconventional conduct which her enemies now 
 asserted was wickedness. Beadon Clarke's counsel had sug- 
 gested that Mrs. Clarke was an abominable woman, brilliantly 
 clever, exquisitely subtle, who had chosen as an armor against 
 suspicion a bold pretense of simplicity and harmless uncon- 
 ventionality, but who was the prey of a hidden and ungovern- 
 able vice. He, Sir John, ventured to put forward for the jury's 
 careful examination a very different picture. He made no 
 secret of the fact that, from the point of view of the ordinary 
 unconventional man or woman, Mrs. Clarke had often acted 
 unwisely, and, with not too fine a sarcasm, he described for 
 the jury the average existence of " a careful drab woman " 
 in the watchful and eternally gossiping diplomatic world. 
 Then he contrasted with it the life led by Mrs. Clarke in the
 
 ECHO 165 
 
 wonderful city of Stamboul a life " full of color, of taste, 
 of interest, of charm, of innocent, joyous and fragrant liberty.. 
 Which of us," he demanded, " would not in our souls prefer 
 the latter life to the former? Which of us did not secretly 
 long for the touch of romance, of strangeness, of beauty, to 
 put something into our lives which they lacked? But we have 
 not the moral courage to break our prison doors and to emerge 
 into the nobler world." 
 
 " The dull, the drab, the platter-faced and platter-minded 
 people," he said, in a passage which Dion was always to remem- 
 ber, " who go forever bowed down beneath the heavy yoke 
 of convention, are too often apt to think that everything charm- 
 ing, everything lively, everything unusual, everything which 
 gives out, like sweet incense, a delicate aroma of strangeness, 
 must be, somehow, connected with wickedness. Everything 
 which deviates from their pattern must deviate towards the 
 devil, according to them; every step taken away from the beaten 
 path must be taken towards ultimate destruction. They have 
 no conception of intimacies between women and men cemented 
 not by similar lusts and similar vices, but by similar intellec- 
 tual tastes and similar aspirations towards beauty. In color 
 such people always find blackness, in gaiety wickedness, in 
 liberty license, in the sacred intimacies of the soul the hateful 
 vices of the body. But you, gentlemen of the jury " 
 
 His appeal to the twelve in the box at this moment was, 
 perhaps, scarcely convincing. He addressed them as if, like 
 Mrs. Clarke and himself, they were enamored of the unwise 
 life, which is only unwise because we live in a world of cen- 
 sorious fools, and as if he knew it. The strange thing was 
 that the jury were evidently impressed if not carried away, by 
 his appeal. They sat forward, stared at Sir John as if fasci- 
 nated, and even began to assume little airs which were almost 
 devil-may-care. But when, with a precise and deliberately 
 cold acuteness, Sir John turned to the evidence adverse to his 
 client, and began to tear it to shreds, they stared less, frowned, 
 and showed by their expressions their efforts to be legal. 
 
 As soon as Sir John had finished his speech, the Court rose 
 for the luncheon interval. 
 
 " Are you going out? " said Mrs. Chetwinde to Dion. " I've 
 brought some horrible little sandwiches, and I shan't stir." 
 
 " I'm not hungry. I'll stay with you." 
 
 He sighed. 
 
 " What a crowd ! " he said, looking round over the sea of
 
 166 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 hot, staring faces. " How horrid people look sometimes ! " 
 
 " When they're feeling cruel." 
 
 She began to eat her sandwiches, which were tightly packed 
 in a small silver box. 
 
 " Isn't Mrs. Clarke coming to-day? " Dion asked. 
 
 " Yes. I expect her in a moment. Esme Darlington is 
 bringing her." 
 
 "Mr. Darlington?" 
 
 " You're surprised? " 
 
 " Well, I should hardly have expected somehow that I 
 don't know." 
 
 " I do. But Esme Darlington's more of a man than he 
 seems. And he's thoroughly convinced of Cynthia's innocence. 
 Here they are." 
 
 There was a stir in the crowd. Many women present rustled 
 as they turned in their seats; some stood up and craned 
 forward; people in the gallery leaned over, looking eagerly 
 down ; a loud murmur and a wide hiss of whispering emphasized 
 the life in the court. The tall, loose-limbed figure of Esme 
 Darlington, looking to-day singularly dignified and almost im- 
 pressive, pushed slowly forward, followed by the woman whose 
 social fate was so soon to be decided. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke glanced round over the many faces without any 
 defiance as she made her way with difficulty to a seat beside 
 her solicitor. The lack of defiance in her expression struck 
 Dion forcibly. This woman did not seem to be mentally on 
 the defensive, did not seem to be wishing to repel the glances, 
 fierce with curiosity, which were leveled at her from all sides. 
 Apparently she had no fear at all of bristling bayonets. Her 
 haggard face was unsmiling, not cold, but intense with a sort 
 of living calm which was surely not a mask. She looked at 
 Mrs. Chetwinde and at Dion as she passed near to them, giving 
 them no greeting except with her large eyes which obviously 
 recognized them. In a moment she was sitting down between 
 her solicitor and Esme Darlington. 
 
 " It will quite break Guy Daventry up if she doesn't get the 
 verdict," said Dion in an uneven voice to Mrs. Chetwinde. 
 
 " Mr. Daventry ? " she said, with an odd little stress of 
 emphasis on the name. 
 
 " Of course I should hate it too. Any man who feels a 
 woman is innocent " 
 
 He broke off. She said nothing, and went on eating her 
 little sandwiches as if she rather disliked them.
 
 ECHO 167 
 
 " Mrs. Chetwinde, do tell me. I believe you've got an ex- 
 traordinary flair will she win? " 
 
 " My dear boy, now how can I know? " 
 
 Dion felt very young for a minute. 
 
 " I want to know what you expect." 
 
 Mrs. Chetwinde closed the small silver box with a soft snap. 
 
 " I fully expect her to win." 
 
 "Because she's innocent?" 
 
 " Oh no. That's no reason in a world like this, un- 
 fortunately." 
 
 " But, then, why? " 
 
 " Because Cynthia always does get what she wants, or needs. 
 She has quite abnormal will-power, and will-power is the con- 
 queror. If I'm to tell you the truth, I see only one reason 
 for doubt, I don't say fear, as to the result." 
 
 " Can you tell me what it is ? " 
 
 " Aristide Dumeny." 
 
 At this moment the Judge returned to the bench. An hour 
 later he began to sum up. 
 
 He spoke very slowly and rather monotonously, and at first 
 Dion thought that he was going to be " let down " by this 
 almost cruelly level finale to a dramatic, sometimes even hor- 
 rible, struggle between powerful opposing forces. But presently 
 he began to come under a new fascination, the fascination of 
 a cool and very clear presentation of undressed facts. Led by 
 the Judge, he reviewed again the complex life at Constantinople, 
 he followed again Mrs. Clarke's many steps away from the 
 beaten paths, he penetrated again through some of the winding 
 ways into the shadows of the unwise life. And he began to 
 wonder a little and a little to fear for the woman who was 
 sitting so near to him waiting for the end. He could not tell 
 whether the Judge believed her to be innocent or guilty, but 
 he thought he could tell that the Judge considered her indis- 
 creet, too heedless of those conventions on which social rela- 
 tions are based, too determined a follower after the flitting 
 light of her own desires. Presently the position of Beadon 
 Clarke in the Constantinople menage was touched upon, and 
 suddenly Dion found himself imagining how it would be to 
 have as his wife a Mrs. Clarke. Suppose Rosamund were to 
 develop the unconventional idiosyncrasies of a Cynthia Clarke? 
 He realized at once that he was not a Beadon Clarke; he could 
 never stand that sort of thing. He felt hot at the mere thought 
 of his Rosamund making night expeditions in caiques alone
 
 168 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 with young men such, for instance, as Hadi Bey; or listening 
 alone at midnight in a garden pavilion isolated, shaded by 
 trees, to the music made by a Dumeny. 
 
 Dumeny! The Judge pronounced his name. 
 
 " I come now to the respondent's relation with the second co- 
 respondent, Aristide Dumeny of the French Embassy in Con- 
 stantinople." 
 
 Dion leaned slightly forward and looked at Dumeny. Du- 
 meny was sitting bolt upright, and now, as the Judge men- 
 tioned his name, he folded his arms, raised his long dark eyes, 
 and gazed steadily at the bench. Did he know that he was the 
 danger in the case? If he did he did not show any apprehen- 
 sion. His white face, typically French, with its rather long 
 nose, slightly flattened temples, faintly cynical and ironic lips 
 and small but obstinate chin, was almost sinister in its com- 
 plete immobility. 
 
 " He's certainly a corrupt beast," Dion said to himself. 
 " But as certainly he's an interesting, clever, knowledgeable 
 beast." 
 
 Dumeny's very thick, glossy, and slightly undulating dark 
 hair, growing closely round his low forehead, helped to make 
 him almost romantically handsome, although his features were 
 rather irregular. His white ears were abnormally small, Dion 
 noticed. 
 
 The Judge went with cold minuteness into every detail of 
 Dumeny's intimacy with Mrs. Clarke that had been revealed in 
 the trial, and dwelt on the link of music which, it was said, had 
 held them together. 
 
 " Music stimulates the passions, and may, in highly sensi- 
 tive persons, generate impulses not easy to control, provided 
 that the situation in which such persons find themselves, when 
 roused and stirred, is propitious. It has been given in evi- 
 dence that Monsieur Dumeny frequently played and sang to the 
 respondent till late in the night in the pavilion which has been 
 described to you. You have seen Monsieur Dumeny in the box, 
 and can judge for yourselves whether he was a man likely to 
 avail himself of any advantage his undoubted talents may have 
 given him with a highly artistic and musical woman." 
 
 There was nothing striking in the words, but to Dion the 
 Judge's voice seemed slightly changed as it uttered the last sen- 
 tence. Surely a frigid severity had crept into it, surely it was 
 colored with a faint, but definite, contempt. Several of the jury
 
 
 ECHO 169 
 
 stared narrowly at Aristide Dumeny, and the foreman, with a 
 care and precision almost ostentatious, took a note. 
 
 The Judge continued his analysis of Mrs. Clarke's intimacy 
 with Dumeny. He was scrupulously fair; he gave full weight 
 to the mutual attraction which may be born out of common 
 intellectual tastes an attraction possibly quite innocent, quite 
 free from desire of anything but food for the brain, the sub- 
 tler emotions, and the soul " if you like to call it so, gentle- 
 men." But, somehow, he left upon the mind of Dion, and prob- 
 ably upon the minds of many others, an impression that he, the 
 Judge, was doubtful as to the sheer intellectuality of Monsieur 
 Dumeny, was not convinced that he had reached that condition 
 of moral serenity and purification in which a rare woman can be 
 happily regarded as a sort of disembodied spirit. 
 
 When the Judge at length finished with Dumeny and Du- 
 meny's relations with Mrs. Clarke, Dion felt very anxious 
 about the verdict. The Judge had not succeeded in making 
 him believe that Mrs. Clarke was a guilty woman, but he feared 
 that the jury had been made doubtful. It was evident to him 
 that the Judge had a bad opinion of Dumeny, and had con- 
 veyed his opinion to the jury. Was the unwisdom of Mrs. 
 Clarke to prove her undoing? Esme Darlington was pulling 
 his ducal beard almost nervously. A faint hum went through 
 the densely-packed court. Mrs. Chetwinde moved and used 
 her fan for a moment. Dion did not dare to look at Guy 
 Daventry. He was realizing, with a sort of painful sharpness, 
 how great a change a verdict against Mrs. Clarke must make 
 in her life. 
 
 Her boy, perhaps, probably indeed, would be taken from 
 her. She had only spoken to him casually about her boy, but 
 he hid felt that the casual reference did not mean that she 
 had a careless heart. The woman whose hand had held his 
 for a moment would be tenacious in love. He felt sure of that, 
 and sure that she loved her naughty boy with a strong vitality. 
 
 When the Judge had finished his task and the jury retired to 
 consider their verdict, it was past four o'clock. 
 
 "What do you think? " Dion said in a low voice to Mrs. 
 Chetwinde. 
 
 " About the summing-up ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " It has left things very much as I expected. Any danger 
 there is lies in Monsieur Dumeny."
 
 170 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Do you know him ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. I stayed with Cynthia once in Constantinople. 
 He took us about." 
 
 She made no further comment on Monsieur Dumeny. 
 
 " I wonder whether the jury will be away long? " Dion said, 
 after a moment. 
 
 " Probably. I shan't be at all surprised if they can't agree. 
 Then there will be another trial." 
 
 "How appalling!" 
 
 " Yes, it wouldn't be very nice for Cynthia." 
 
 "I can't help wishing " 
 
 He paused, hesitating. 
 
 " Yes ? " said Mrs. Chetwinde, looking about the court. 
 
 " I can't help wishing Mrs. Clarke hadn't been unconven- 
 tional in quite such a public way." 
 
 A faint smile dawned and faded on Mrs. Chetwinde's lips 
 and in her pale eyes. 
 
 " The public method's often the safest in the end," she mur- 
 mured. 
 
 Then she nodded to Esme Darlington, who presently got up 
 and managed to make his way to them. He, too, thought the 
 jury would probably disagree, and considered the summing-up 
 rather unfavorable to Mrs. Clarke. 
 
 " People who live in the diplomatic world live in a whisper- 
 ing gallery," he said, bending down, speaking in an under- 
 voice and lifting and lowering his eyebrows. " I told Cynthia 
 so when she married. I ventured to give her the benefit of 
 my if I may say so long and intimate knowledge of diplo- 
 matic life and diplomatists. I said to her, ' Remember you 
 will always be under observation.' Ah, well one can only 
 hope the jury will take the right view. But how can we 
 expect British shopkeepers, fruit brokers, cigar merchants, and 
 so forth to understand a really, one can only say a wild 
 nature like Cynthia's? It's a wild mind I'd say this before 
 her! in an innocent body, just that." 
 
 He pulled almost distractedly at his beard with bony fin- 
 gers, and repeated plaintively: 
 
 " A wild mind in an innocent body h'm, ha! " 
 
 "If only Mr. Grundy can be brought to comprehension of 
 such a phenomenon! " murmured Mrs. Chetwinde. 
 
 It was obvious to Dion that his two friends feared for the 
 result.
 
 ECHO 171 
 
 The Judge had left the bench. An hour passed by, and 
 the chime of a clock striking five dropped down coolly, almost 
 frostily, to the hot and curious crowd. Mrs. Clarke sat very 
 still. Esme Darlington had returned to his place beside her, 
 and she spoke to him now and then. Hadi Bey wiped his 
 handsome rounded brown forehead with a colored silk handker- 
 chief; and Aristide Dumeny, with half-closed eyes, ironically 
 examined the crowd, whispered to a member of his Embassy 
 who had accompanied him into court, folded his arms and 
 sat looking down. Beadon Clarke's face was rigid, and a fierce 
 red, like the red of a flush of shame, was fixed on his cheeks. 
 His mother had pulled a thick black veil with a pattern down 
 over her face, and was fidgeting perpetually with a chain of 
 small moonstones set in gold which hung from her throat to her 
 waist. Daventry, blinking and twitching, examined documents, 
 used his handkerchief, glanced at his watch, hitched his gown 
 up on his shoulders, looked at Mrs. Clarke and looked away. 
 
 Uneasiness, like a monster, seemed crouching in the court as 
 in a lair. 
 
 At a quarter-past five, the Judge returned to the bench. He 
 had received a communication from the jury, who filed in, to 
 say, through their foreman, that they could not agree upon a 
 verdict. A parley took place between the foreman and the 
 Judge, who made inquiry about their difficulties, answered two 
 questions, and finally dismissed them to further deliberations, 
 urging them strongly to try to arrive at an unanimous con- 
 clusion. 
 
 " I am willing to stay here till nightfall," he said, in a loud 
 and almost menacing voice, " if there is any chance of a ver- 
 dict." 
 
 The jury, looking weary, harassed and very hot, once more 
 disappeared, the Judge left the bench, and the murmuring crowd 
 settled down to another period of waiting. 
 
 To Dion it seemed that a great tragedy was impending. Al- 
 ready Mrs. Clarke had received a blow. The fact that the jury 
 had publicly announced their disagreement would be given out 
 to all the world by the newspapers, and must surely go against 
 Mrs. Clarke even if she got a verdict ultimately. 
 
 " Do you think there is any chance still? " he said to Mrs. 
 Chetwinde. 
 
 " Oh, yes. As I told you, Cynthia always manages to get 
 what she wants."
 
 1 7 2 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " I shouldn't think she can ever have wanted anything so 
 much as she wants the right verdict to-day." 
 
 " I don't know that," Mrs. Chetwinde replied, with a rather 
 disconcerting dryness. 
 
 She was using her fan slowly and monotonously, as if, per- 
 haps, she were trying to make her mind calm by the repetition 
 of a physical act. 
 
 " I'm sorry the foreman said they couldn't agree," Dion said, 
 almost in a whisper. " Even if the verdict is for Mrs. Clarke, 
 I'm afraid that will go against her." 
 
 " If she wins she wins, and it's all right. Cynthia's not the 
 sort of woman who cares much what the world thinks. The 
 only thing that really matters is what the world does; and if 
 she gets the verdict the world won't do anything except laugh 
 at Beadon Clarke." 
 
 A loud buzz of conversation rose from the court. Pres- 
 ently the light began to fade, and the buzz faded with it; then 
 some lights were turned on, and there was a crescendo of voices. 
 It was possible to see more clearly the multitude of faces, all 
 of them hot, nearly all of them excited and expressive. A 
 great many people were standing, packed closely together and 
 looking obstinate in their determined curiosity. Most of them 
 were either staring at, or were trying to stare at Mrs. Clarke, 
 who was now talking to her solicitor. Esme Darlington was 
 eating a meat lozenge and frowning, evidently discomposed by 
 the jury's dilemma. Lady Ermyntrude Clarke had lifted her 
 veil and was whispering eagerly to her son, bending her head, 
 and emphasizing her remarks with excited gestures which 
 seemed to suggest the energy of one already uplifted by triumph. 
 Beadon Clarke listened with the passivity of a man encom- 
 passed by melancholy, and sunk deep in the abyss of shame. 
 Aristide Dumeny was reading a letter which he held with long- 
 fingered, waxen-white hands very near to his narrow dark 
 eyes. His close-growing thick hair looked more glossy now 
 that there was artificial light in the court; from a distance its 
 undulations were invisible, and it resembled a cap of some 
 heavy and handsome material drawn carefully down over his 
 head. Hadi Bey retained his vivid, alert and martial de- 
 meanor. He was twisting his mustaches with a muscular brown 
 hand, not nervously, but with a careless and almost a lively 
 air. Many women gazed at him as if hypnotized; they found 
 the fez very alluring. It carried their thoughts to the East; 
 it made them feel that the romance of the East was not very
 
 ECHO 173 
 
 far from them. Some of them wished it very near, and thought 
 of husbands in silk hats, bowlers, and flat caps of Harris tweed 
 with the dawning of a dull distaste. The woman just behind 
 Dion was talking busily to her neighbor. Dion heard her say: 
 
 " Some women always manage to have a good time. I wish 
 I was one of them. Dick is a dear, but still " She whis- 
 pered for a minute or two; then out came her voice with, " There 
 must be great chances for a woman in the diplomatic world. 
 I knew a girl who married an attache and went to Bucharest. 
 
 You can have no idea what the Roumanians " whisper, 
 
 whisper, whisper. 
 
 That woman was envying Mrs. Clarke, it seemed, but surely 
 not envying her innocence. Dion began to be conscious of 
 faint breaths from the furnace of desire, and suddenly he saw 
 the gaunt and sickly-smiling head of hypocrisy, like the flat 
 and tremulously moving head of a serpent, lifted up above 
 the court. Only a little way off Robin, now better, but still 
 " not quite the thing," was lying in his cozy cot in the nursery 
 of No. 5 Little Market Street, with Rosamund sitting beside 
 him. The window to-day, for once, would probably be shut 
 as a concession to Robin's indisposition. A lamp would be 
 burning perhaps. In fancy, Dion saw Rosamund's head lit 
 up by a gentle glow, her hair giving out little gleams of gold, 
 as if fire were caught in its meshes. How was it that her head 
 always suggested to him purity; and not only her purity but 
 the purity of all sweet, sane and gloriously vigorous women 
 those women who tread firmly, nobly, in the great central paths 
 of life? He did not know, but he was certain that the head of 
 no impure, of no lascivious woman could ever look like his 
 Rosamund's. That nursery, holding little Robin and his 
 mother in the lamplight, was near to this crowded court, but it 
 was very far away too, as far as heaven is from hell. It would 
 be good, presently, to go back to it. 
 
 Chime after chime dropped down frostily into the almost 
 rancid heat of the court. Time was sending its warning that 
 night was coming to London. 
 
 An epidemic of fidgeting and of coughing seized the crowd, 
 which was evidently beginning to feel the stinging whip of an 
 intense irritation. 
 
 " What on earth," said the voice of a man, expressing the 
 thought which bound all these brains together, " what on earth 
 can the jury be up to? " 
 
 Surely by now everything for and against Mrs. Clarke must
 
 174 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 have been discussed ad nauseam. Only the vainest of repeti- 
 tions could be occupying the time of the jury. People began 
 positively to hate those twelve uninteresting men, torn from their 
 dull occupations to decide a woman's fate. Even Mrs. Chet- 
 winde showed vexation. 
 
 " This is really becoming ridiculous," she murmured. 
 " Even twelve fools should know when to give their folly a 
 rest." 
 
 " I suppose there must be one or two holding out against all 
 argument and persuasion. Don't you think so? " said Dion, al- 
 most morosely. 
 
 " I dare say. I know a great deal about individual fools, 
 but very little about them in dozens. The heat is becoming un- 
 bearable." 
 
 She sighed deeply and moved in her seat, opening and shut- 
 ting her fan. 
 
 " She must be enduring torment," muttered Dion. 
 
 "Yes; even Cynthia can hardly be proof against this intol- 
 erable delay." 
 
 Another dropping down of chimes: eight o'clock! A long 
 murmur went through the crowd. Some one said: "They're 
 coming at last." 
 
 Every one moved. Instinctively Dion leant forward to look 
 at Mrs. Clarke. He felt very much excited and nervous, al- 
 most as if his own fate were about to be decided. As he 
 looked he saw Mrs. Clarke draw herself up till she seemed taller 
 than usual. She had a pair of gloves in her lap, and she now 
 began to pull one of these gloves on, slowly and carefully, as 
 if she were thinking about what she was doing. The jury filed 
 in looking feverish, irritable and battered. Three or four of 
 them showed piteous and injured expressions. Two others had 
 the peculiar look of obstinate men who have been giving free 
 rein to their vice, indulging in an orgy of what they call will- 
 power. Their faces were, at the same time, implacable and ri- 
 diculous, but they walked impressively. The Judge was sent 
 for. Two or three minutes elapsed before he came in. During 
 those minutes there was no coughing and scarcely any moving. 
 The silence in the court was vital. During it, Dion stared hard 
 at the jury and strove to read the verdict in their faces. Natu- 
 rally he failed. No message came from them to him. 
 
 The Judge came back to the bench, looking weary and harsh. 
 
 " Do you find that the respondent has been guilty or not
 
 ECHO 175 
 
 guilty of misconduct with the co-respondent, Hadi Bey? " said 
 the clerk of the court. 
 
 " We find that the respondent has not been guilty of miscon- 
 duct with Hadi Bey." 
 
 After a slight pause, speaking in a louder voice than before, 
 the clerk of the court said: 
 
 " Do you find that the respondent has been guilty or not 
 guilty of misconduct with the co-respondent, Aristide Du- 
 meny ? " 
 
 " We find that the respondent has not been guilty of miscon- 
 duct with Aristide Dumeny." 
 
 Dion saw the Judge frown. 
 
 Slight applause broke out in the court, but it was fitful and 
 uncertain and almost immediately died away. 
 
 Mrs. Chetwinde said in a low voice, almost as if to herself : 
 
 "Cynthia has got what she wants again." 
 
 Then, after the formalities, the crowd was in movement; the 
 weary and excited people, their curiosity satisfied at last, began 
 to melt away; the young barristers hurried out, eagerly dis- 
 cussing the rights and wrongs of the case; and Mrs. Clarke's 
 adherents made their way to her to offer her their congratula- 
 tions. 
 
 Daventry was triumphant. He shook his client's hand, held 
 it, shook it again, and could scarcely find words to express his 
 excitement and delight. Even Esme Darlington's usual care- 
 ful serenity was for the moment obscured by an emotion emi- 
 nently human, as he spoke into Mrs. Clarke's ear the following 
 words of a ripe wisdom: 
 
 " Cynthia, my dear, after this do take my advice and live as 
 others live. In a conventional world conventionality is the line 
 of least resistance. Don't turn to the East unless the whole 
 congregation does it." 
 
 " I shall never forget your self-sacrifice in facing the crowd 
 with me to-day, dear Esme," was her answer. " I know how 
 much it cost you." 
 
 " Oh, as to that, for an old friend h'm, ha! " 
 
 His voice failed in his beard. He drew forth a beautiful In- 
 dian handkerchief a gift from his devoted friend the Vice- 
 roy of India and passed it over a face which looked unusually 
 old. 
 
 Mrs. Chetwinde said: 
 
 " I expected you to win, Cynthia. It was stupid of the jury
 
 176 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 to be so slow in arriving at the inevitable verdict. But stupid 
 people are as lethargic as silly ones are swift. How shall we 
 get to the carriage ? We can't go out by the public exit. I hear 
 the crowd is quite enormous, and won't move. We must try a 
 side door, if there is one." 
 
 Then Dion held Mrs. Clarke's hand, and looked down at her 
 haggard but still self-possessed face. It astonished him to find 
 that she preserved her earnestly observant expression. 
 
 " I'm very glad," was all he found to say. 
 
 " Thank you," she replied, in a voice perhaps slightly more 
 husky than usual. " I mean to stay on in London for some 
 time. I've got lots of things to settle " she paused " before 
 I go back to Constantinople." 
 
 " But are you really going back? " 
 
 " Of course eventually." 
 
 Her voice, nearly drowned by the noise of people departing 
 from the court, sounded to him implacable. 
 
 " You heard the hope of the Court that my husband and I 
 would come together again? Of course we never shall. But 
 I'm sure I shall get hold of Jimmy. I know my husband won't 
 keep him from me." She stared at his shoulders. " I want you 
 to help me with Jimmy's physical education I mean by get- 
 ting him to that instructor you spoke of." 
 
 " To be sure Jenkins," he said, marveling at her. 
 
 " Jenkins exactly. And I hope it will be possible for your 
 wife and me to meet soon, now there's nothing against it owing 
 to the verdict." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 " Do tell her, and see if we can arrange it." 
 
 Dumeny at this moment passed close to them with his friend 
 on his way out of court. His eyes rested on Mrs. Clarke, and a 
 faint smile went over his face as he slightly raised his hat. 
 
 " Good-by," said Mrs. Clarke to Dion. 
 
 And she turned to Sir John Addington. 
 
 Dion made his way slowly out into the night, thinking of the 
 unwise life and of the smile on the lips of Dumeny.
 
 ECHO 177 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THAT summer saw, among other events of moment, the 
 marriage of Beatrice and Daventry, the definite estab- 
 lishment of Robin as a power in his world, and the be- 
 ginning of one of those noiseless contests which seem peculiar to 
 women, and which are seldom, if ever, fully comprehended in 
 all their bearings by men. 
 
 Beatrice, as she wished it, had a very quiet, indeed quite a 
 hole-and-corner wedding in a Kensington church, of which no- 
 body had ever heard till she was married in it, to the great sur- 
 prise of its vicar, its verger, and the decent widow woman who 
 swept its pews for a moderate wage. For their honeymoon she 
 and Daventry disappeared to the Garden of France to make a 
 leisurely tour through the Chateaux country. 
 
 Meanwhile Robin, according to his nurse, " was growing 
 something wonderful, and improving with his looks like noth- 
 ing I ever see before, and me with babies ever since I can re- 
 member anything as you may say, a dear! " His immediate 
 circle of wondering admirers was becoming almost extensive, 
 including, as it did, not only his mother and father, his nurse, 
 and the four servants at No. 5 Little Market Street, but also 
 Mrs. Leith senior, Bruce Evelin now rather a lonely man 
 and Mr. Thrush of John's Court near the Edgware Road. 
 
 At this stage of his existence, Rosamund loved Robin rea- 
 sonably but with a sort of still and holy concentration, which 
 gradually impinged upon Dion like a quiet force which spreads 
 subtly, affecting those in its neighborhood. There was in it 
 something mystical and, remembering her revelation to him of 
 the desire to enter the religious life which had formerly threat- 
 ened to dominate her, Dion now fully realized the truth of a 
 remark once made by Mrs. Chetwinde about his wife. She had 
 called Rosamund " a radiant mystic." 
 
 Now changes were blossoming in Rosamund like new flow- 
 ers coming up in a garden, and one of these flowers was a beau- 
 tiful selfishness. So Dion called it to himself but never to 
 
 icrs. It was a selfishness surely deliberate and purposeful 
 an unselfish selfishness, if such a thing can be. Can the 
 ideal mother, Dion asked himself, be wholly without it? All 
 that she is, perhaps, reacts upon the child of her bosom, the 
 child who looks up to her as its Providence. And what she 
 is must surely be at least partly conditioned by what she does
 
 i;8 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 and by all her way of life. The child is her great concern, 
 and therefore she must guard sedulously all the gates by which 
 possible danger to the child might strive to enter in. This 
 was what Rosamund had evidently made up her mind to do, 
 was beginning to do. Dion compared her with many of the 
 women of London who have children and who, nevertheless, 
 continue to lead haphazard, frivolous, utterly thoughtless lives, 
 caring apparently little more for the moral welfare of their 
 children than for the moral welfare of their Pekinese. Mrs. 
 Clarke had a hatred of " things with wings growing out of 
 their shoulders." Rosamund would probably never wish their 
 son to have wings growing out of his shoulders, but if he had 
 little wings on his sandals, like the Hermes, perhaps she would 
 be very happy. With winged sandals he might take an occa- 
 sional flight to the gods. Hermes, of course, was really a ras- 
 cal, many-sided, and, like most many-sided people and gods, 
 capable of insincerity and even of cunning; but the Hermes 
 of Olympia, their Hermes, was the messenger purged, by Praxi- 
 teles, of every bit of dross noble, manly, pure, serene. Lit- 
 tle Robin bore at present no resemblance to the Hermes, or 
 indeed despite the nurse's statements to any one else ex- 
 cept another baby; but already it was beginning mysteriously 
 to be possible to foresee the great advance long clothes to 
 short clothes, short clothes to knickerbockers, knickerbockers to 
 trousers. Robin would be a boy, a youth, a man, and what 
 Rosamund was might make all the difference in that Trinity. 
 The mystic who enters into religion dedicates her life to God. 
 Rosamund dedicated hers to her boy. It was the same thing 
 with a difference. And as the mystic is often a little selfish 
 in shutting out cries of the world cries sometimes for human 
 aid which can scarcely be referred from the fellow-creature to 
 God so Rosamund was a little selfish, guided by the unusual 
 temperament which was housed within her. She shut out some 
 of the cries that she might hear Robin's the better. 
 
 Robin's sudden attack of illness during Mrs. Clarke's ordeal 
 had been overcome and now seemed almost forgotten. Rosa- 
 mund had encountered the small fierce shock of it with an ap- 
 parent calmness and self-possession which at the time had 
 astonished Dion and roused his admiration. A baby often 
 comes hardly into the world and slips out of it with the terri- 
 ble ease of things fated to far-off destinies. During one night 
 Robin had certainly been in danger. Perhaps that danger had 
 taught Rosamund exactly how much her child meant to her.
 
 ECHO 179 
 
 Dion did not know this; he suspected it because, since Robin's 
 illness, he had become much more sharply aware of the depth 
 of mother-love in Rosamund, of the hovering wings that guarded 
 the nestling. That efficient guarding implies shutting out was 
 presently to be brought home to him with a definiteness leading 
 to embarrassment. 
 
 The little interruptions a baby brings into the lives of a mar- 
 ried couple were setting in. Dion was sure that Rosamund 
 never thought of them as interruptions. When Robin grew 
 much older, when he was in trousers, and could play games, and 
 appreciate his father's prowess and God-given capacities in 
 the gymnasium, on the tennis lawn, over the plowland among 
 the partridges, Dion's turn would come. Meanwhile, did he 
 actually love Robin? He thought he did. He was greatly 
 interested in Robin, was surprised by his abrupt manifestations 
 and almost hypnotized by his outbursts of wrath; when Robin 
 assumed his individual look of mild inquiry, Dion was touched, 
 and had a very tender feeling at his heart. No doubt all this 
 meant love. But Dion fully realized that his feeling towards 
 Robin did not compare with Rosamund's. It was less intense, 
 less profound, less of the very roots of being. His love for 
 Robin was a shadow compared with the substance of his love 
 for Rosamund. How would Rosamund's two loves, for him 
 and for Toby, compare? He began to wonder, even sometimes 
 put to himself the questions, " Suppose Robin were to die, how 
 would she take it? And how would she take it if I were to 
 die?" And then, of course, his mind sometimes did fool- 
 ish things, asked questions beginning with, " Would she 
 
 rather ?" He remembered his talks with Rosamund on 
 
 the Acropolis talks never renewed and compared the 
 former life without little Robin, with the present life pervaded 
 gently, or vivaciously, or almost furiously by little Robin. 
 Among the mountains and by the deep-hued seas of Greece he 
 had foreseen and wondered about Robin. Now Robin was 
 here; the great change was accomplished. Probably Rosamund 
 and he, Dion, would never again be alone with their love. 
 Other children, perhaps, would come. Even if they did not, 
 Robin would pervade their lives, in long clothes, short skirts, 
 knickerbockers, trousers. He might, of course, some day choose 
 a profession which would carry him to some distant land: to 
 an Indian jungle or a West African swamp. But by that time 
 his parents would be middle-aged people. And how would 
 their love be then? Dion knew that now, when Rosamund and
 
 i8o IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 he were still young, both less than thirty, he would give a 
 hundred Robins, even if they were all his own Robins, to keep 
 his one Rosamund. That was probably quite natural now, 
 for Robin was really rather inexpressive in the midst of his 
 most unbridled demonstrations. When he was calm and blew 
 bubbles he had charm; when he was red and furious he had a 
 certain power; when he sneezed he had pathos; when he slept 
 the serenity of him might be felt; but he would mean very 
 much more presently. He would grow, and surely his father's 
 love for him would grow. But could it ever grow to the height, 
 the flowering height, of the husband's love for Rosamund? 
 Dion already felt certain that it never could, that it was his 
 destiny to be husband rather than parent, the eternal lover 
 rather than the eternal father. Rosamund's destiny was per- 
 haps to be the eternal mother. She had never been exactly a 
 lover. Perhaps her remarkable and beautiful purity of dispo- 
 sition had held her back from being that. Force, energy, vi- 
 tality, strong feelings, she had; but the peculiar something in 
 which body seems mingled with soul, in which soul seems 
 body and body soul, was apparently lacking in her. Dion had 
 perhaps never, with full consciousness, missed that element in 
 her till Robin made his appearance; but Robin, in his bubbling 
 innocence, and almost absurd consciousness of himself and of 
 others, did many things that were not unimportant. He even 
 had the shocking impertinence to open his father's eyes, and to 
 show him truths in a bright light truths which, till now, had 
 remained half-hidden in shadow; babyhood enlightened youth, 
 the youth persisting hardily because it had never sown wild 
 oats. Robin did not know that; he knew, in fact, scarcely any- 
 thing except when he wanted nourishment and when he desired 
 repose. He also knew his mother, knew her mystically and 
 knew her greedily, with knowledge which seemed of God, and 
 with an awareness whose parent was perhaps a vital appetite. 
 At other people he gazed and bubbled but with a certain in- 
 fantile detachment, though his nurse, of course, declared that 
 she had never known a baby to take such intelligent notice of 
 all created things in its neighborhood. " He knows," she as- 
 severated, with the air of one versed in the mysteries, " he 
 knows, does little master, who's who as well as any one, and 
 a deal better than some that prides themselves on this and that, 
 a little upsy-daisy-dear! " 
 
 Mrs. Leith senior paid him occasional visits, which Dion 
 found just the least bit trying. Since Omar had been killed,
 
 ECHO 181 
 
 Dion had felt more solicitous about his mother, who had defi- 
 nitely refused ever to have another dog. If he had been al- 
 lowed to give her a dog he would have felt more easy about 
 her, despite Beatrice's quiet statement of why Omar had meant 
 so much. As he might not do that, he begged his mother to 
 come very often to Little Market Street and to become intimate 
 with Robin. But when he saw her with Robin he was gen- 
 erally embarrassed, although she was obviously enchanted with 
 that gentleman, for whose benefit she was amazingly prodigal 
 ef nods and becks and wreathed smiles. It was a pity, he 
 thought, that his mother was at moments so apparently elab- 
 orate. He felt her elaboration the more when it was con- 
 trasted with the transparent simplicity of Rosamund. Even 
 Robin, he fancied, was at moments rather astonished by it, and 
 perhaps pushed on towards a criticism at present beyond the 
 range of his powers. But Mrs. Leith's complete self-possession, 
 even when immersed in the intricacies of a baby-language to- 
 tally unintelligible to her son, made it impossible to give her 
 a hint to be a little less well, like herself when at No. 5. So 
 he resigned himself to a faint discomfort which he felt sure was 
 shared by Rosamund, although neither of them ever spoke of it. 
 But they never discussed his mother, and always assumed that 
 she was ideal both as mother-in-law and grandmother. She was 
 Robin's godmother and had given him delightful presents. 
 Bruce Evelin and Daventry were his godfathers. 
 
 Bruce Evelin now lived alone in the large house in Great 
 Cumberland Place. He made no complaint of his solitude, 
 which indeed he might be said to have helped to bring about 
 by his effective, though speechless, advocacy of Daventry's de- 
 sire. But it was obvious to affectionate eyes that he some- 
 times felt rather homeless, and that he was happy to be in the 
 little Westminster home where such a tranquil domesticity 
 reigned. Dion sometimes felt as if Bruce Evelin were watch- 
 ing over that home in a wise old man's way, rather as Rosa- 
 mund watched over Robin, with a deep and still concentration. 
 Bruce Evelin had, he confessed, " a great feeling " for Robin, 
 whom he treated with quiet common sense as a responsible en- 
 tity, bearing, with a matchless wisdom, that entity's occasional 
 lapses from decorum. Once, for instance, Robin chose Bruce 
 Evelin's arms unexpectedly as a suitable place to be sick in, 
 without drawing down upon himself any greater condemnation 
 than a quiet, " How lucky he selected a godfather as his re- 
 ceptacle! "
 
 182 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 And Mr. Thrush of John's Court? One evening, when he 
 returned home, Dion found that old phenomenon in the house 
 paying his respects to Robin. He was quite neatly dressed, 
 and wore beneath a comparatively clean collar a wisp of black 
 tie that was highly respectable, though his top hat, deposited 
 in the hall, was still as the terror that walketh in darkness. 
 His poor old gray eyes were pathetic, and his long, battered old 
 face was gently benign; but his nose, fiery and tremendous as 
 ever, still made proclamation of his " failing." Dion knew that 
 Mr. Thrush had already been two or three times to see Robin, 
 and had wondered about it with some amusement. " Where 
 will your cult for Mr. Thrush lead you?" he had laughingly 
 said to Rosamund. And then he had forgotten " the phenome- 
 non," as he sometimes called Mr. Thrush. But now, when he 
 actually beheld Mr. Thrush in his house, seated on a chair in 
 the nursery, with purple hands folded over a seedy, but carefully 
 brushed, black coat, he genuinely marveled. 
 
 Mr. Thrush rose up at his entrance, quite unself-conscious 
 and self-possessed, and as Dion, concealing his surprise, greeted 
 the visitor, Rosamund, who was showing Robin, remarked: 
 
 " Mr. Thrush has great ideas on hygiene, Dion. He quite 
 agrees with us about not wrapping children in cotton-wool." 
 
 " Your conceptions are Doric, too, in fact? " said Dion to 
 Thrush, in the slightly rough or bluff manner which he now 
 sometimes assumed. 
 
 " I wouldn't go so far as to say exactly that, sir," said Mr. 
 Thrush, speaking with a sort of gentleness which was almost 
 refined. " But having been a chemist in a very good way of 
 business just off Hanover Square during the best years of 
 my life, I have my views, foolish or perhaps the reverse, on the 
 question of infants. My motto, so far as I have one, is, Never 
 cosset." 
 
 He turned towards Robin, who, from his mother's arms, sent 
 him a look of mild inquiry, and reiterated, with plaintive empha- 
 sis, " Never cosset! " 
 
 "There, Dion!" said Rosamund, with a delicious air of 
 genial appreciation which made Mr. Thrush gently glow. 
 
 " And I'll go further," pursued that authority, lifting a pur- 
 ple hand and moving his old head to give emphasis to his deliv- 
 erance, " I'll go further even than that. Having retired from 
 the pharmaceutical brotherhood I'll say this: If you can do it, 
 avoid drugs. Chemists " he leaned forward and emphati-
 
 ECHO 183 
 
 caKy lowered his voice almost to a whisper " Chemists alone 
 know what harm they do." 
 
 " By Jove, though, and do they? " said Dion heartily. 
 
 " Terrible, sir, terrible ! Some people's insides that I know 
 of used to know of, perhaps I should say must be made 
 of iron to deal with all the medicines they put into 'em. Oh, 
 keep your baby's inside free from all such abominations! " 
 (He loomed gently over Robin, who continued to stare at him 
 with an expression of placid interrogation.) "Keep it away 
 from such things as the Sampson Syrup, Mother Maybrick's 
 infant tablets, Price's purge for the nursery, Tinkler's tone-up 
 for tiny tots, Ada Lane's pills for the poppets, and above and 
 before all, from Professor Jeremiah T. Iplock's ' What baby 
 wants ' at two-and-sixpence the bottle, or in tabloid form for 
 the growing child, two-and-eight the box. Keep his inside clear 
 of all such, and you'll be thankful, and he'll bless you both on 
 his bended knees when he comes to know his preservation." 
 
 " He'll never have them, Mr. Thrush," said Rosamund, with 
 a sober voice and twinkling eyes. " Never." 
 
 " Bless you, ma'am, for those beautiful words. And now 
 really I must be going." 
 
 " You'll find tea in the housekeeper's room, Mr. Thrush, as 
 usual," said Rosamund. 
 
 " And very kind of you to have it there, I'm sure, ma'am! " 
 the old gentleman gallantly replied as he made his wavering 
 adieux. 
 
 At the door he turned round to face the nursery once more, 
 lifted one hand in a manner almost apostolic, and uttered the 
 final warning " Never cosset! " Then he evaporated, not with- 
 out a sort of mossy dignity, and might be heard tremblingly de- 
 scending to the lower regions. 
 
 "Rose, since when have we a housekeeper's room?" asked 
 Dion, touching Robin's puckers with a gentle fore-finger. 
 
 " I can't call it the servants' hall to him, poor old man. And 
 I like to give him tea. It may wean him from " An ex- 
 pressive look closed the sentence. 
 
 That night, at last, Dion drew from her an explanation of 
 her Thrush cult. On the evening when Mr. Thrush had res- 
 cued her in the fog, as they walked slowly to Great Cumber- 
 land Place, he had told her something of his history. Rosa- 
 mund had a great art in drawing from people the story of their 
 troubles when she cared to do so. Her genial and warm-hearted 
 sympathy was an almost irresistible lure. Mr. Thrush's present
 
 184 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 fate had been brought about by a tragic circumstance, the 
 death of his only child, a girl of twelve, who had been run over 
 by an omnibus in Oxford Circus and killed on the spot. Left 
 alone with a peevish, nagging wife who had never suited him, 
 or, as he expressed it, " studied " him in any way, he had gone 
 down the hill till he had landed near the bottom. All his love 
 had been fastened on his child, and sorrow had not strength- 
 ened but had embittered him. 
 
 " But to me he seems a gentle old thing," Dion said, when 
 Rosamund told him this. 
 
 " He's very bitter inside, poor old chap, but he looks upon us 
 as friends. He's taken sorrow the wrong way. That's how it 
 is. I'm trying to get him to look at things differently, and 
 Robin's helping me." 
 
 "Already!" said Dion, smiling, yet touched by her serious 
 face. 
 
 " Yes. He's an unconscious agent. Poor old Mr. Thrush 
 has never learnt the lesson of our dear Greek tombs: x a V e - 
 He hasn't been able to say that simply and beautifully, leaving 
 all in other hands. And so he's the poor old wreck we know. 
 I want to get him out of it if I can. He came into my life on 
 a night of destiny too." 
 
 But she explained nothing more. And she left Dion won- 
 dering just how she would receive a sorrow such as had over- 
 taken Mr. Thrush. Would she be able to submit as those calm 
 and simple figures on the tombs which she loved appeared to 
 be submitting? Would she let what she loved pass away into 
 the shades with a brave and noble, " Farewell "? Would she 
 take the hand of Sorrow, that hand of steel and ice, as one 
 takes the hand of a friend stern, terrible, unfathomed, never 
 to be fathomed in this world, but a friend? He wondered, but, 
 loving her with that love which never ceased to grow within 
 him, he prayed that he might never know. She seemed born to 
 shed happiness and to be happy, and indeed he could scarcely 
 imagine her wretched. 
 
 It was after the explanation of Mr. Thrush's exact relation to 
 Rosamund that the silent contest began in the waning summer, 
 when London was rather arid, and even the Thames looked hot 
 between its sluggish banks of mud. 
 
 After the trial of her divorce case was over, Mrs. Clarke had 
 left London and gone into the country for a little while, to rest 
 in a small house possessed by Esme Darlington at Hook Green, 
 a fashionable part of Surrey. At, and round about, Hook
 
 ECHO 185 
 
 Green various well-known persons played occasionally at be- 
 ing rural; it suited Mrs. Clarke very well to stay for a time 
 among them under Mr. Darlington's ample and eminently re- 
 spectable wing. She hated being careful, but even she, admon- 
 ished by Mr. Darlington, realized that immediately after emerg- 
 ing from the shadow of a great scandal she had better play 
 propriety for a time. It really must be " playing," for, as had 
 been proved at the trial, she was a thoroughly proper person 
 who hadn't troubled to play hitherto. So she rested at Hook 
 Green, till the season was over, with Miss Bainbridge, an old 
 cousin of Esme's; and Esme "ran down" for Saturdays and 
 Sundays, and " ran up " from Mondays to Saturdays, thus see- 
 ing something of the season and also doing his chivalrous 
 devoir by " poor dear Cynthia who had had such a cruel time 
 of it." 
 
 The season died, and Mr. Darlington then settled down for 
 a while at Pinkney's Place, as his house was called, and per- 
 suaded Mrs. Clarke to lengthen her stay there till the end of 
 August. He would invite a few of the people likely to " be of 
 use " to her under the present circumstances, and by September 
 things would be " dying down a little," with all the shooting 
 parties of the autumn beginning, and memories of the past sea- 
 son growing a bit gray and moldy. Then Mrs. Clarke could 
 do what she liked " within reason, of course, and provided she 
 gave Constantinople a wide berth." This she had not prom- 
 ised to do, but she seldom made promises. 
 
 Rosamund had expressed to Daventry her pleasure in the 
 result of the trial, but in the rather definitely detached man- 
 ner which had always marked her personal aloofness from the 
 whole business of the deciding of Mrs. Clarke's innocence or 
 guilt. She had only spoken once again of the case to Dion, 
 when he had come to tell her the verdict. Then she had said 
 how glad she was, and what a relief it must be to Mrs. Clarke, 
 especially after the hesitation of the jury. Dion had touched 
 on Mrs. Clarke's great self-possession, and Rosamund had 
 begun to tell him how much better little Robin was. He had 
 not repeated to Rosamund Mrs. Clarke's final words to him. 
 There was no necessity to do that just then. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke stayed at Hook Green till the end of August 
 without making any attempt to know Rosamund. By that time 
 Dion had come to the conclusion that she had forgotten about 
 the matter. Perhaps she had merely had a passing whim which 
 had died. He was not sorry, indeed, he was almost actively
 
 186 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 glad, for he was quite sure Rosamund had no wish to make Mrs. 
 Clarke's acquaintance. At the beginning of September, how- 
 ever, when he had just come back to work after a month in camp 
 which had hardened him and made him as brown as a berry, he 
 received the following note: 
 
 " CLARIDGE'S HOTEL, 
 2 September, 1897 
 
 " DEAR MR. LEITH, What of that charming project of 
 bringing about a meeting between your wife and me? Esme 
 Darlington is always talking about her beauty and talent, and 
 you know my love of the one and the other. Beauty is the con- 
 solation of the world; talent the incentive to action stirring 
 our latent vitality. In your marriage you are fortunate; in 
 mine I have been unfortunate. You were very kind to me when 
 things were tiresome. I feel a desire to see your happiness. 
 I'm here arranging matters with my solicitor, and expect to be 
 here off and on for several months. Perhaps October will see 
 you back in town, but if you happen to be in this dusty noth- 
 ingness now, you might come and see me one day. Yours with 
 goodwill, 
 
 " CYNTHIA CLARKE 
 
 " P. S. My husband and I are separated, of course, but I 
 have my boy a good deal with me. He will be up with me to- 
 morrow. I very much want to take him to that physical in- 
 structor you spoke of to me. I forget the name. Is it Hop- 
 kins? " 
 
 As Dion read this note in the little house he felt the soft 
 warm grip of Stamboul. Rosamund and Robin were staying 
 at Westgate till the end of September; he would go down there 
 every week from Saturday till Monday. It was now a Mon- 
 day evening. Four London days lay before him. He put 
 away the letter and resolved to answer it on the morrow. This 
 he did, explaining that his wife was by the sea and would not 
 be back till the autumn. He added that the instructor's name 
 was not Hopkins but Jenkins, and gave Mrs. Clarke the address 
 of the gymnasium. At the end of his short note he expressed his 
 intention of calling at Claridge's, but did not say when he would 
 come. He thought he would not fix the day and the hour until 
 he had been to Westgate. On a postcard Mrs. Clarke thanked 
 him for Jenkins's address, and concluded with " Suggest your 
 own day, or come and dine if you like. Perhaps, as you're 
 alone, you'll prefer that. C. C."
 
 ECHO 187 
 
 At Westgate Dion showed Rosamund Mrs. Clarke's letter. 
 As she read it he watched her, but could gather nothing from 
 her face. She was looking splendidly well and, he thought, 
 peculiarly radiant. A surely perfect happiness gazed bravely 
 out from her mother's eyes, changed in some mysterious way 
 since the coming of Robin. 
 
 " Well? " he said, as she gave him back the letter. 
 
 " It's very kind of her. Esme Darlington turns us all into 
 swans, doesn't he? He's a good-natured enchanter. How 
 thankful she must be that it's all right about her boy. Oh, 
 here's Robin! Robino, salute your father! He's a hard-bitten 
 military man, and some day who knows? he'll have to 
 fight for his country. Dion, look at him! Now isn't he trying 
 to salute? " 
 
 "And that he is, ma'am!" cried the ecstatic nurse. "He 
 knows, a boy ! It's trumpets, sir, and drums he's after already. 
 He'll fight some day with the best of them. Won't he then, a 
 marchy-warchy-umtums ? " 
 
 And Robin made reply with active fists and feet and mar- 
 tial noises, assuming alternate expressions of severe decision 
 almost worthy of a Field-Marshal, and helpless bewilderment 
 that suggested a startled puppy. He was certainly growing in 
 vigor and beginning to mean a good deal more than he had 
 meant at first. Dion was more deeply interested in him now, 
 and sometimes felt as if Robin returned the interest, was be- 
 ginning to be able to assemble and concentrate his faculties at 
 certain moments. Certainly Robin already played an active 
 part in the lives of his parents. Dion realized that when, on 
 the following Monday, he returned to town without having set- 
 tled anything with regard to Mrs. Clarke. Somehow Robin 
 had always intervened when Dion had drawn near to the sub- 
 ject of the projected acquaintance between the woman who kept 
 the door of her life and the woman who, innocently, followed 
 the flitting light of desire. There were the evenings, of course, 
 but somehow they were not propitious for a discussion of so- 
 cial values. Although Robin retired early, he was apt to per- 
 vade the conversation. And then Rosamund went away at 
 intervals to have a look at him, and Dion filled up the time 
 by smoking a cigar on the cliff edge. The clock struck ten- 
 thirty bedtime at Westgate before one had at all realized 
 how late it was getting; and it was out of the question to bother 
 about things on the edge of sleep. That would have made for 
 insomnia. The question of Mrs. Clarke could easily wait till
 
 i88 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 the autumn, when Rosamund would be back in town. It was 
 impossible for the two women to know each other when the one 
 v/us at Claridge's and the other at Westgate. Things would ar- 
 range themselves naturally in the autumn. Dion never said to 
 himself that Rosamund did not intend to know Mrs. Clarke, 
 but he did say to himself that Mrs. Clarke intended to know 
 Rosamund. 
 
 He wondered a little about that. Why should Mrs. Clarke 
 be so apparently keen on making the acquaintance of Rosa- 
 mund? Of course, Rosamund was delightful, and was known 
 to be delightful. But Mrs. Clarke must know heaps of attrac- 
 tive people. It really was rather odd. He decidedly wished 
 that Mrs. Clarke hadn't happened to get the idea into her head, 
 for he didn't care to press Rosamund on the subject. The week 
 passed, and another visit to Westgate, and he had not been to 
 Claridge's. In the second week another note came to him from 
 Mrs. Clarke. 
 
 " CLARIDGE'S, ETC. 
 
 " DEAR MR. LEITH, I'm enchanted with Jenkins. He's a 
 trouvaille. My boy goes every day to the ' gym,' as he calls 
 it, and is getting on splendidly. We are both grateful to you, 
 and hope to tell you so. Come whenever you feel inclined, but 
 only then. I love complete liberty too well ever to wish to de- 
 prive another of it even if I could. How wise of your wife 
 to stay by the sea. I hope it's doing wonders for the baby who 
 (mercifully) isn't wonderful. Yours sincerely, 
 
 " CYNTHIA CLARKE " 
 
 After receiving this communication Dion felt that he sim- 
 ply must go to see Mrs. Clarke, and he called at the hotel and 
 asked for her about five-thirty on the following afternoon. She 
 was out, and he left his card, feeling rather relieved. Next 
 morning he had a note regretting she had missed him, and ask- 
 ing him, " when " he came again, to let her know beforehand at 
 what time he meant to arrive so that she might be in. He 
 thanked her, and promised to do this, but he did not repeat his 
 visit. By this time, quite unreasonably he supposed, he had 
 begun to feel decidedly uncomfortable about the whole affair. 
 Yet, when he considered it fully and fairly, he told himself 
 that he was a fool to imagine that there could be anything in it 
 which was not quite usual and natural. He had been sympa- 
 thetic to Mrs. Clarke when she was passing through an un- 
 pleasant experience; he was Daventry's great friend; he was
 
 ECHO 189 
 
 also a friend of Mrs. Chetwinde and of Esme Darlington; 
 naturally, therefore, Mrs. Clarke was inclined to number him 
 among those who had " stuck to her " when she was being cru- 
 elly attacked. Where was the awkwardness in the situation? 
 After denying to himself that there was any awkwardness he 
 quite suddenly and quite clearly realized one evening that such 
 denial was useless. There was awkwardness, and it arose sim- 
 ply from Rosamund's passive resistance to the faint pressure 
 he thought it amounted to that applied by Mrs. Clarke. 
 This it 'was which had given him, which gave him still, a sen- 
 sation obscure, but definite, of contest. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke meant to know Rosamund, and Rosamund didn't 
 mean to know Mrs. Clarke. Well, then, the obvious thing for 
 him to do was to keep out of Mrs. Clarke's way. In such a 
 matter Rosamund must do as she liked. He had no intention 
 of attempting to force upon her any one, however suitable as an 
 acquaintance or even as a friend, whom she didn't want to 
 know. He loved her far too well to do that He decided not 
 to mention Mrs. Clarke again to Rosamund when he went down 
 to Westgate; but somehow or other her name came up, and her 
 boy was mentioned, too. 
 
 " Is he still with his mother? " Rosamund asked. 
 
 " Yes. He's nearly eleven, I believe. She takes him to 
 Jenkins for exercises. She's very fond of him, I think." 
 
 After a moment of silence Rosamund simply said, " Poor 
 child! " and then spoke of something else, but in those two 
 words, said as she had said them, Dion thought he heard a 
 definite condemnation of Mrs. Clarke. He began to wonder 
 whether Rosamund, although she had not read a full, or, so far 
 as he knew, any account of the case in the papers, had somehow 
 come to know a good deal about the unwise life of Constanti- 
 nople. Friends came to see her in London; she knew several 
 people at \Vestgate; report of a cause celebre floats in the air; 
 he began to believe she knew. 
 
 At the end of September, just before Rosamund was to re- 
 turn to London for the autumn and winter, Mrs. Clarke wrote 
 to Dion again. 
 
 " CLARIDGE'S, 
 28 September, 1897 
 
 " DEAR MR. LEITH, I'm so sorry to bother you, but I won- 
 der whether you can spare me a moment. It's about my boy. 
 He seems to me to have strained himself with his exercises. 
 Jenkins, as you probably know, has gone away for a fortnight's
 
 igo IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 holiday, so I can't consult him. I feel a little anxious. You're 
 an athlete, I know, and could set me right in a moment if I'm 
 making a fuss about nothing. The strain seems to be in the 
 right hip. Is that possible? Yours sincerely, 
 
 " CYNTHIA CLARKE " 
 
 Dion didn't know how to refuse this appeal, so he fixed an 
 hour, went to Claridge's, and had an interview with Mrs. Clarke 
 and her son, Jimmy Clarke. When he went up to her sitting- 
 room he felt rather uncomfortable. He was thinking of her 
 invitation to dinner, and to call again, of his lack of response. 
 She must certainly be thinking of them, too. But when he 
 was with her his discomfort died away before her completely 
 natural and oddly impersonal manner. Dinners, visits, seemed 
 far away from her thoughts. She was apparently concentrated 
 on her boy, and seemed to be thinking of him, not at all of 
 Dion. Had Dion been a vain man he might have been vexed 
 by her indifference; as he was not vain, he felt relieved, and 
 so almost grateful to her. Jimmy, too, helped to make things 
 go easily. The young rascal, a sturdy, good-looking boy, with 
 dark eyes brimming over with mischief, took tremendously to 
 Dion at first sight. 
 
 " I say," he remarked, " you must be jolly strong! May I? " 
 
 He felt Dion's biceps, and added, with a sudden profound 
 gravity : 
 
 " Well, I'm blowed ! Mater, he's almost as hard as Jen- 
 kins." 
 
 His mother gave Dion a swift considering look, and then at 
 once began to consult him about Jimmy's hip. The visit ended 
 with an application by Dion of Elliman's embrocation, for which 
 one of the hotel page-boys was sent to the nearest chemist. 
 
 "I say, mind you come again, Mr. Leith! " vociferated 
 Jimmy, when Dion was going. " You're better than doctors, 
 you know." 
 
 Mrs. Clarke did not back up her son's frank invitation. She 
 only thanked Dion quietly in her husky voice, and bade him 
 good-by with an " I know how busy you must be, and how diffi- 
 cult you must find it ever to pay a call. You've been very good 
 to us." At the door she added, " I've never seen Jimmy take so 
 much to anyone as to you." As Dion went down the stairs 
 something in him was gently glowing. He was glad that young 
 rascal had taken to him at sight. The fact gave him confidence 
 when he thought of Robin and the future.
 
 ECHO 191 
 
 It occurred to him, as he turned into the Greville Club, that 
 Mrs. Clarke had not once mentioned Rosamund during his visit. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 WHEN Rosamund, Robin and the nurse came back to 
 London on the last day of September, Beatrice and 
 Daventry were settled in their home. They had 
 taken a flat in De Lome Gardens, Kensington, high up on the 
 seventh floor of a big building, which overlooked from a dis- 
 tance the trees of Kensington Gardens. Their friends soon 
 began to call on them, and one of the first to mount up in the 
 lift to their " hill-top," as Daventry called their seventh floor, 
 was Mrs. Clarke. A few nights after her call the Daventrys 
 dined in Little Market Street, and Daventry, whose happiness 
 had raised him not only to the seventh-floor flat, but also to 
 the seventh heaven, mentioned that she had been, and that 
 they were going to dine with her at Claridge's on the follow- 
 ing night. He enlarged, almost with exuberance, upon her 
 savoir-vivre, her knowledge and taste, and said Beattie was 
 delighted with her. Beatrice did not deny it. She was never 
 exuberant, but she acknowledged that she had found Mrs. 
 Clarke attractive and interesting. 
 
 " A lot of the clever ones are going to-morrow," said Daven- 
 try. He mentioned several, both women and men, among them 
 a lady who was famed for her exclusiveness as well as for her 
 brains. 
 
 Evidently Mrs. Chetwinde had been speaking by the book 
 when she had said at the trial, " If she wins, she wins, and 
 it's all right. If she gets the verdict, the world won't do any- 
 thing, except laugh at Beadon Clarke." No serious impression 
 had apparently been left upon society by the first disagree- 
 ment of the jury. The " wild mind in the innocent body " had 
 been accepted for what it was. And perhaps now, chastened 
 by a sad experience, the wild mind was on the way to becom- 
 ing tame. Dion wondered if it were so. After dinner he was 
 undeceived by Daventry, who told him over their cigars that 
 Mrs. Clarke was positively going back to live in Constantinople, 
 and had already taken a flat there, " against every one's ad- 
 vice." Beadon Clarke had got himself transferred, and was to
 
 192 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 be sent to Madrid, so she wouldn't run against him; but never- 
 theless she was making a great mistake. 
 
 " However," Daventry concluded, " there's something fine 
 about her persistence ; and of course a guilty woman would never 
 dare to go back, even after an acquittal." 
 
 " No," said Dion, thinking of the way his hand had been 
 held in Mrs. Chetwinde's drawing-room. " I suppose not." 
 
 " I wonder when Rosamund will get to know her," said 
 Daventry, with perhaps a slightly conscious carelessness. 
 
 " Never, perhaps," said Dion, with equal carelessness. 
 " Often one lives for years in London without knowing, or even 
 ever seeing, one's next-door neighbor." 
 
 " To be sure! " said Daventry. " One of London's many ad- 
 vantages, or disadvantages, as the case may be." 
 
 And he began to talk about Whistler's Nocturnes. Dion had 
 never happened to tell Daventry about Jimmy Clarke's strained 
 hip and his own application of Elliman's embrocation. He had 
 told Rosamund, of course, and she had said that if Robin ever 
 strained himself she should do exactly the same thing. 
 
 That night, when the Daventrys had gone, Dion asked Rosa- 
 mund whether she thought Beattie was happy. She hesitated 
 for a moment, then she said with her usual directness: 
 
 " I'm not sure that she is, Dion. Guy is a dear, kind, good 
 husband to her, but there's something homeless about Beattie 
 somehow. She's living in that pretty little flat in De Lome 
 Gardens, and yet she seems to me a wanderer. But we must 
 wait; she may find what she's looking for. I pray to God that 
 she will." 
 
 She did not explain; he guessed what she meant. Had she, 
 too, been a wanderer at first, and had she found what she had 
 been looking for? While Rosamund was speaking he had been 
 pitying Guy. When she had finished he wondered whether 
 he had ever had cause to pity some one else now and then. 
 Despite the peaceful happiness of his married life there was 
 a very faint coldness at, or near to, his heart. It came upon 
 him like a breath of frost stealing up out of the darkness to one 
 who, standing in a room lit and warmed by a glowing fire, opens 
 a window and lets in for a moment a winter night. But he shut 
 his window quickly, and he turned to look at the fire and to 
 warm his hands at its glow. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke rapidly established a sort of intimacy with the 
 Daventrys. As Daventry had helped to fight for her, and genu- 
 inely delighted in her faculties, this was very natural; for
 
 ECHO 193 
 
 Beatrice, unlike Rosamund, was apt to take her color gently 
 from those with whom she lived, desiring to please them, not 
 because she was vain and wished to be thought charming, but 
 because she had an unusually sweet disposition and wished to 
 be charming. She was sincere, and if asked a direct ques- 
 tion always returned an answer that was true; but she some- 
 times fell in with an assumption from a soft desire to be kind. 
 Daventry quite innocently assumed that she found Mrs. Clarke 
 as delightful as he did. Perhaps she did; perhaps she did not. 
 However it was, she gently accepted Mrs. Clarke as a friend. 
 
 Dion, of course, knew of this friendship; and so did Rosa- 
 mund. She never made any comment upon it, and showed no 
 interest in it. But her life that autumn was a full one. She 
 had Robin; she had the house to look after, " my little house "; 
 she had Dion in the evenings; she had quantities of friends 
 and acquaintances; and she had her singing. She had now 
 definitely given up singing professionally. Her very short ca- 
 reer as an artist was closed. But she had begun to practise 
 diligently again, and showed by this assiduity that she loved 
 music not for what she could gain by it, but for its own sake. 
 Of her friends and acquaintances she saw much less than 
 formerly. Many of them complained that they never could get 
 a glimpse of her now, that she shut them out, that " not at 
 home " had become a parrot-cry on the lips of her well-trained 
 parlor-maid, that she cared for nobody now that she had a 
 husband and a baby, that she was self-engrossed, etc., etc. But 
 they could not be angry with her; for if they did happen to 
 meet her, or if she did happen to be " at home " when they 
 called, they always found her the genial, radiant, kind and 
 friendly Rosamund of old; full, apparently, of all the former 
 interest in them and their doings, eager to welcome and make 
 the most of their jokes and good stories, sympathetic towards 
 their troubles and sorrows. To Dion she once said in explana- 
 tion of her withdrawal from the rather bustling life which keep- 
 ing up with many friends and acquaintances implies: 
 
 " I think one sometimes has to make a choice between liv- 
 ing deeply in the essentials and just paddling up to one's ankles 
 in the non-essentials. I want to live deeply if I can, and I am 
 very happy in quiet. I can hear only in peace the voices that 
 mean most to me." 
 
 " I remember what you said to me once in the Acropolis," he 
 answered. 
 
 "What was that?"
 
 194 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " You said, ' Oh, Dion, if you knew how something in me 
 cares for freshness and for peace.' ' : 
 
 " You remember my very words! " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then you understand? " 
 
 " And besides," he said slowly, and as if with some hesita- 
 tion, " you used to long for a very quiet life, for the religious 
 life; didn't you?" 
 
 " Once, but it seems such ages ago." 
 
 " And yet Robin's not a year old yet." 
 
 She looked at him with a sudden, and almost intense, in- 
 quiry; he was smiling at her. 
 
 " Robino maestro di casa ! " he added. 
 
 And they both laughed. 
 
 Towards the end of November one day Daventry said to Dion 
 in the Greville Club: 
 
 " Beatrice is going to give a dinner somewhere, probably at 
 the Carlton. She thought of the twenty-eighth. Are Rosamund 
 and you engaged that night? She wants you, of course." 
 
 " No. We don't go out much. Rose is an early rooster, as 
 she calls it." 
 
 " Then the twenty-eighth would do capitally." 
 
 "Shall I tell Rose?" 
 
 " Yes, do. Beattie will write too, or tell Rosamund when 
 she sees her." 
 
 " Whom are you going to have? " 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Chetwinde for one, and we must see whom we 
 can get. We'll try to make it cheery and not too imbecile." 
 
 As Daventry was speaking, Dion felt certain that the din- 
 ner had an object, and he thought he knew what that object was. 
 But he only said: 
 
 " It's certain to be jolly, and I always enjoy myself at the 
 Carlton." 
 
 "Even with bores?" said Daventry, unable to refrain from 
 pricking a bubble, although he guessed the reason why Dion 
 had blown it. 
 
 "Anyhow, I'm sure you won't invite bores," said Dion, try- 
 ing to preserve a casual air, and wishing, for the moment, that 
 he and his friend were densely stupid instead of quite intelli- 
 gent. 
 
 " Pray that Beattie and I may be guided in our choice," re- 
 turned Daventry, going to pick up the " Saturday Review." 
 
 Rosamund said of course she would go on the twenty-eighth
 
 ECHO 195 
 
 and help Beattie with her dinner. She had accepted before 
 she asked who were the invited guests. Beattie, who was evi- 
 dently quite guileless in the matter, told her at once that Mrs. 
 Clarke was among them. Rosamund said nothing, and ap- 
 peared to be looking forward to the twenty-eighth. She even 
 got a new gown for it, and Dion began to feel that he had 
 made a mistake in supposing that Rosamund had long ago de- 
 cided not to know Mrs. Clarke. He was very glad, for he had 
 often felt uncomfortable about Mrs. Clarke, who, he supposed, 
 must have believed that his wife did not wish to meet her, 
 as her reiterated desire to make Rosamund's acquaintance had 
 met with no response. She had, he thought, shown the tact 
 of a lady and of a thorough woman of the world in not press- 
 ing the point, and in never seeking to continue her acquaint- 
 ance, or dawning friendship, with him since his wife had come 
 back to town. He felt a strong desire now to be pleasant and 
 cordial to her, and to show her how charming and sympathetic 
 his Rosamund was. He looked forward to this dinner as he 
 seldom looked forward to any social festivity. 
 
 On the twenty-sixth of November Robin had a cold! On 
 the twenty-seventh it was worse, and he developed a little hard 
 cough which was rather pathetic, and which seemed to surprise 
 and interest him a good deal. Rosamund was full of solicitude. 
 On the night of the twenty-seventh she said she would sit up 
 with Robin. The nurse protested, but Rosamund was smil- 
 ingly firm. 
 
 " I want you to have a good night, Nurse," she said. 
 " You're too devoted and take too much out of yourself. And, 
 besides, I shouldn't sleep. I should be straining my ears all 
 the time to hear whether my boy was coughing or not." 
 
 Nurse had to give in, of course. But Dion was dismayed 
 when he heard of the project. 
 
 " You'll be worn out! " he exclaimed. 
 
 " No, I shan't. But even if I were it wouldn't matter." 
 
 " But I want you to look your radiant self for Beattie's 
 dinner." 
 
 "Oh the dinner!" 
 
 It seemed she had forgotten it 
 
 " Robin comes first," she said firmly, after a moment of 
 silence. 
 
 And she sat up that night in an arm-chair by the nursery 
 fire, ministering at intervals to the child, who seemed impressed 
 and heartened in his coughings by his mother's presence.
 
 196 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 On the following day she was rather tired, the cough was 
 not abated, and when Dion came back from business he learnt 
 that she had telegraphed to Beattie to give up the dinner. 
 He was very much disappointed. But she did really look tired; 
 Robin's cough was audible in the quiet house; the telegram 
 had gone, and of course there was nothing more to be done. 
 Dion did not even express his disappointment; but he begged 
 Rosamund to go very early to bed, and offered to sleep in a 
 separate room if his return late was likely to disturb her. She 
 agreed that, perhaps, that would be best. So, at about eleven- 
 thirty that night, Dion made his way to their spare room, walk- 
 ing tentatively lest a board should creak and awaken 
 Rosamund. 
 
 Everybody had missed her and had made inquiries about 
 her, except Mrs. Clarke and Daventry. The latter had not 
 mentioned her in Dion's hearing. But he was very busy with 
 his guests. Mrs. Clarke had apparently not known that Rosa- 
 mund had been expected at the dinner, for when Dion, who 
 had sat next her, had said something about the unfortunate 
 reason for Rosamund's absence, Mrs. Clarke had seemed sin- 
 cerely surprised. 
 
 " But I thought your wife had quite given up going out 
 since her child was born? " she had said. 
 
 " Oh no. She goes out sometimes." 
 
 " I had no idea she did. But now I shall begin to be dis- 
 appointed and to feel I've missed something. You shouldn't 
 have told me." 
 
 It was quite gravely and naturally said. As he went into 
 the spare room, Dion remembered the exact tone of Mrs. 
 Clarke's husky voice in speaking it, the exact expression in 
 her eyes. They were strange eyes, he thought, unlike any other 
 eyes he had seen. In them there was often a look that seemed 
 both intent and remote. Their gaze was very direct but it 
 was not piercing. There was melancholy in the eyes but there 
 was no demand for sympathy. When Dion thought of the 
 expression in Rosamund's eyes he realized how far from happi- 
 ness, and even from serenity, Mrs. Clarke must be, and he could 
 not help pitying her. Yet she never posed as une femme 
 incomprise, or indeed as anything. She was absolutely simple 
 and natural. He had enjoyed talking to her. Despite her 
 gravity she was, he thought, excellent company, a really inter- 
 esting woman and strongly individual. She seemed totally 
 devoid of the little tiresomenesses belonging to many women -
 
 ECHO 197 
 
 tiresomenesses which spring out of vanity and affectation, the 
 desire of possession, the uneasy wish to " cut out " publicly 
 other women. Mrs. Clarke would surely never " manage " a 
 man. If she held a man it would be with the listless and yet 
 imperative grip of Stamboul. The man might go if he would, 
 but would he want to go ? 
 
 In thinking of Mrs. Clarke, Dion of course always con- 
 sidered her with the detached spectator's mind. No woman 
 on earth was of real importance to him except Rosamund. His 
 mother he did not consciously count among women. She was 
 to him just the exceptional being, the unique and homely mani- 
 festation a devoted mother is to the son who loves her without 
 thinking about it; not numbered among women or even among 
 mothers. She stood to him for protective love unquestioning, 
 for interest in him and all his doings unwavering, for faith in 
 his inner worth undying, for the Eternities without beginning 
 or ending; but probably he did not know it. Of Rosamund, 
 what she was, what she meant in his life, he was intensely, 
 even, secretly, almost savagely conscious. In Mrs. Clarke he 
 was more interested than he happened to be in any of the 
 women who dwelt in the great world of those whom he did not 
 love and never could love. 
 
 Had the dinner-party he had just been to been arranged by 
 Daventry in order that Rosamund and Mrs. Clarke might meet 
 in a perfectly natural way? If so, it must have been Daven- 
 try's idea and not Mrs. Clarke's. Dion had a feeling that 
 Daventry had been vexed by Rosamund's defection. He knew 
 his friend very well. It was not quite natural that Daventry 
 had not mentioned Rosamund. But why should Daventry 
 strongly wish Mrs. Clarke and Rosamund to meet if Mrs. 
 Clarke had not indicated a desire to know Rosamund? Daven- 
 try was an enthusiastic adherent of Mrs. Clarke's. He had, 
 Dion knew, a chivalrous feeling for her. Having helped to 
 win her case, any slight put upon her would be warmly re- 
 sented by him. 
 
 Had Rosamund put upon her a slight? Had she delib- 
 rately avoided the dinner? 
 
 Dion was on the point of getting into the spare-room bed 
 phen he asked himself the question. As he pulled back the 
 clothes he heard a dry little sound. It was Robin's cough. He 
 tole to the door and opened it. As he did so he saw the tail 
 )f Rosamund's dressing-gown disappearing over the threshold 
 the nursery. The nursery door shut softly behind her, and
 
 198 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 Dion got into bed feeling heartily ashamed of his suspicion. 
 How low it was to search for hidden motives in such a woman 
 as Rosamund. He resolved never to do that again. He lay 
 in bed listening, but he did not hear Robin's cough again, and 
 he wondered if the child was already old enough to be what 
 nurses call " artful," whether he had made use of his little 
 affliction to get hold of his providence in the night. 
 
 What a mystery was the relation of mother and little child! 
 He lay for a long while musing about it. Why hadn't he 
 followed Rosamund over the threshold of the nursery just now? 
 The mystery had held him back. 
 
 Was it greater than the mystery of the relation of man to 
 woman in a love such as his for Rosamund? He considered 
 it, but he was certain that he could not fathom it. No man, 
 he felt sure, knew or ever could know how a mother like 
 Rosamund, that is an intensely maternal mother, regarded her 
 child when he was little and dependent upon her; how she 
 loved him, what he meant to her. And no doubt the gift of 
 the mother to the child was subtly reciprocated by the child. 
 But just how? 
 
 Dion could not remember at all what he had felt, or how he 
 had regarded his mother when he was nine months old. Pres- 
 ently he recalled Hermes and the child in that remote and 
 hushed room hidden away in the green wilds of Elis; he even 
 saw them before him saw the wonderfully serene and con- 
 templative expression on the beautiful face of the Hermes, saw 
 the child's stretched-out arm. 
 
 Elis! He had been wonderfully happy there, far away in 
 the smiling wilderness. Would he ever be there again? And, 
 if fate did indeed lead his steps thither, would he again be 
 wonderfully happy? Of one thing he was certain; that he 
 would never see Elis, would never see Hermes and the child 
 again, unless Rosamund was with him. She had made the 
 green wilderness to blossom as the rose. She only could make 
 his life to blossom. He depended upon her terribly terribly. 
 Always that love of his was growing. People, especially 
 women, often said that the love of a man was quickly satisfied, 
 more quickly than a woman's, that the masculine satisfaction 
 was soon followed by satiety. Love such as that was only 
 an appetite, a species of lust. Such a woman as Rosamund 
 could not awaken mere lust. For her a man might have desire, 
 but only the desire that every great love of a man for a woman
 
 ! 
 
 ECHO 199 
 
 encloses. And how utterly different that was from physical 
 lust! 
 
 He thought of the maidens upholding the porch of the 
 Erechtheion. His Rosamund descended from them, was as 
 pure, as serene in her goodness, as beautiful as they were. 
 
 In thinking of the beloved maidens he did not think of 
 them as marble. 
 
 Before he went to sleep Dion had realized that, since Rosa- 
 mund was awake, the reason for his coming to the spare room 
 did not exist. Nevertheless he did not go to their bedroom 
 that night. Robin's little dry cough still sounded in his ears. 
 To-night was Robin's kingdom. 
 
 In a day or two Robin was better, in a week he was per- 
 fectly well. If he had not chanced to catch cold, would Rosa- 
 mund have worn that new evening-gown at the Carlton dinner? 
 
 On that question Dion had a discussion with Daventry which 
 was disagreeable to him. One day Daventry, who had evi- 
 dently been, in silence, debating whether to speak or not, said 
 to him: 
 
 " Oh, Dion, d'you mind if I use a friend's privilege and say 
 something I very much want to say, but which you mayn't 
 be so keen to hear? " 
 
 " No, of course not. We can say anything to each other." 
 
 " Can we? I'm not sure of that now." 
 
 " What d'you mean ? " 
 
 " Oh, well anyhow, this time I'll venture. Why did 
 Rosamund throw us over the other night at almost the last 
 moment? " 
 
 " Because Robin was ill." 
 
 " He's quite well now." 
 
 "Why not? It's ten days ago." 
 
 " He can't have been so very ill." 
 
 " He was ill enough to make Rosamund very anxious. She 
 was up with him the whole night before your dinner; and not 
 only that, she was up again on the nigh't of the dinner, though 
 she was very tired." 
 
 " Well, coming to our dinner wouldn't have prevented that 
 only eight till ten-thirty." 
 
 " I don't think, Guy, you at all understand Rosamund's feel- 
 ing for Robin," said Dion, with a sort of dry steadiness. 
 
 " Probably not, being a man." 
 
 " Perhaps a father can understand better."
 
 200 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Better ? It seems to me one either does understand a thing 
 or one doesn't understand it." 
 
 There was a not very attractive silence which Duventry broke 
 by saying: 
 
 " Then you think if Beattie and I give another dinner at the 
 Carlton a piece of reckless extravagance, but we are mad on 
 entertaining! Robin won't be ill again?" 
 
 "Another dinner? You'll be ruined." 
 
 " I've got several more briefs. Would Robin be ill? " 
 
 " How the deuce can any one know? " 
 
 " I'll hazard a guess. He would be ill." 
 
 Dion reddened. There was sudden heat not only in his 
 cheeks but also about his heart. 
 
 " I didn't know you were capable of talking such pernicious 
 rubbish! " he said. 
 
 " Let's prove whether it's rubbish or not. Beattie will send 
 Rosamund another dinner invitation to-morrow, and then we'll 
 wait and see what happens to Robin's health." 
 
 " Guy, I don't want to have a quarrel with you." 
 
 " A quarrel? What about? " 
 
 " If you imply that Rosamund is insincere, is capable of 
 acting a part, we shall quarrel. Robin was really ill. Rosa- 
 mund fully meant to go to your dinner. She bought a new 
 dress expressly for it." 
 
 " Forgive me, old Dion, and please don't think I was attack- 
 ing Rosamund. No. But I think sometimes the very sweetest 
 and best women do have their little bit of insincerity. To 
 women very often the motive seems of more importance than 
 the action springing from it. I had an idea that perhaps Rosa- 
 mund was anxious not to hurt some one's feelings." 
 
 "Whose?" 
 
 After a slight hesitation Daventry said: 
 
 " Mrs. Clarke's." 
 
 " Did Mrs. Clarke know that Rosamund accepted to go to 
 your dinner ? " asked Dion abruptly, and with a forcible direct- 
 ness that put the not unastute Daventry immediately on his 
 guard. 
 
 " What on earth has that to do with it? " 
 
 " Everything, I should think. Did she? " 
 
 " No," said Daventry. 
 
 "Then hovr could ?" Dion began. But he broke off, 
 
 and added more quietly:
 
 
 ECHO 201 
 
 " Why are you anxious that Rosamund should know Mrs. 
 Clarke?" 
 
 " Well, didn't Mrs. Clarke ages ago express a wish to know 
 Rosamund if the case went in her favor? " 
 
 " Oh, I yes, I fancy she did. But she probably meant 
 nothing by it, and has forgotten it." 
 
 " I doubt that. A woman who has gone through Mrs. 
 Clarke's ordeal is generally hypersensitive afterwards." 
 
 " But she's come out splendidly. Everybody believes in her. 
 She's got her child. What more can she want? " 
 
 " As she's such a great friend of ours I think it must seem 
 very odd to her not knowing Rosamund, especially as she's 
 good friends with you. D'you mind if we ask Rosamund to 
 meet her again ? " 
 
 " You've done it once. I should leave things alone. Mind, 
 Rosamund has never told me she doesn't want to know Mrs. 
 Clarke." 
 
 " That may be another example of her goodness of heart," 
 said Daventry. " Rosamund seldom or never speaks against 
 people. I'll tell you the simple truth, Dion. As I helped to 
 defend Mrs. Clarke, and as we won and she was proved to be 
 an innocent woman, and as I believe in her and admire her 
 very much, I'm sensitive for her. Perhaps it's very absurd." 
 
 " I think it's very chivalrous." 
 
 " Oh rot! But there it is. And so I hate to see a rela- 
 tion of my own I count Rosamund as a relation now 
 standing out against her." 
 
 " There's no reason to think she's doing that." 
 
 An expression that seemed to be of pity flitted over Daven- 
 try's intelligent face, and he slightly raised his eyebrows. 
 
 " Anyhow, we won't bother you with another dinner invita- 
 tion," he said. 
 
 And so the conversation ended. 
 
 It left with Dion an impression which was not pleasant, and 
 he could not help wondering whether, during the conversation, 
 his friend had told him a direct and deliberate lie. 
 
 No more dinners were given by Beattie and Daventry at the 
 Carlton. Robin's health continued to be excellent. Mrs. 
 Clarke was never mentioned at 5 Little Market Street, and she 
 gave to the Leiths no sign of life, though Dion knew that she 
 was still in London and was going to stay on there until the 
 spring. He did not meet her, although she knew many of
 
 202 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 those whom he knew. This was partly due, perhaps, to chance; 
 but it was also partly due to deliberate action by Dion. He 
 avoided going to places where he thought he might meet her: 
 to Esme Darlington's, to Mrs. Chetwinde's, to one or two other 
 houses which she frequented; he even gave up visiting Jenkins's 
 gymnasium because he knew she continued to go there regularly 
 with Jimmy Clarke, whom, since the divorce case, with his 
 father's consent, she had taken away from school and given 
 to the care of a tutor. All this was easy enough, and required 
 but little management on account of Rosamund's love of home 
 and his love of what she loved. Since Robin's coming she 
 had begun to show more and more plainly her root-indifference 
 to the outside pleasures and attractions of the world, was be- 
 coming, Dion thought, week by week, more cloistral, was giving 
 the rein, perhaps, to secret impulses which marriage had inter- 
 fered with for a time, but which were now reviving within her. 
 Robin was a genuine reason, but perhaps also at moments an 
 excuse. Was there not sometimes in the quiet little house, 
 quiet unless disturbed by babyhood's occasional outbursts, a 
 strange new atmosphere, delicate and subdued, which hinted 
 at silent walks, at twilight dreamings, at slowly pacing feet, 
 bowed heads and wide-eyed contemplation? Or was all this a 
 fancy of Dion's, bred in him by Rosamund's revelation of an 
 old and haunting desire? He did not know; but he did know 
 that sometimes, when he heard her warm voice singing at a 
 little distance from him within their house, he thought of a 
 nun's voice, in some dim and remote chapel with stained-glass 
 windows, singing an evening hymn in the service of Benedic- 
 tion. 
 
 In the midst of many friends, in the midst of the enormous 
 City, Rosamund effected, or began to effect, a curiously intent 
 withdrawal, and Dion, as it were, accompanied her; or perhaps 
 it were truer to say, followed after her. He loved quiet even- 
 ings in his home, and the love of them grew steadily upon him. 
 To the occasional protests of his friends he laughingly replied: 
 
 " The fact is we're both very happy at home. We're an 
 unfashionable couple." 
 
 Bruce Evelin, Esme Darlington and a few others, including, 
 of course, Dion's mother and the Daventrys, they sometimes 
 asked to come to them. Their little dinners were homely and 
 delightful; but Mr. Darlington often regretted plaintively their 
 " really, if I may say so, almost too definite domesticity." He 
 even said to certain intimates:
 
 ECHO 203 
 
 " I know the next thing we shall hear of will be that the 
 Leiths have decided to bury themselves in the country. And 
 Dion Leith will wreck his nerves by daily journeys to town 
 in some horrid business train." 
 
 At the beginning of January, however, there came an invita- 
 tion which they decided to accept. It was to an evening party 
 at Mrs. Chetwinde's, and she begged Rosamund to be nice to 
 her and to sing at it. 
 
 " Since you've given up singing professionally one never 
 hears you at all," she wrote. " I'm not going to tell the usual 
 lie and say I'm only having a few people. On the contrary, 
 I'm asking as many as my house will hold. It's on January 
 the fifteenth." 
 
 It happened that the invitation arrived in Little Market 
 Street by the last post, and that, earlier in the day, Daventry 
 had met Dion in the Club and had casually told him that Mrs. 
 Clarke was spending the whole of January in Paris, to get some 
 things for the flat in Constantinople which she intended to 
 occupy in the late spring. Rosamund showed Dion Mrs. Chet- 
 winde's note. 
 
 " Let's go," he said at once. 
 
 " Shall we ? Do you like these crowds ? She says ' as many 
 as my house will hold. ' " 
 
 " All the better. There'll be all the more to enjoy the result 
 of your practising. Do say yes." 
 
 His manner was urgent. Mrs. Clarke would be in Paris. 
 This party was certainly no ingenuity of Daventry's. 
 
 " We mustn't begin to live like a monk and a nun," he 
 exclaimed. " We're too young and enjoy life too much for 
 that." 
 
 "Do monks and nuns live together? Since when?" said 
 Rosamund, laughing at him. 
 
 " Poor wretches! If only they did, how much ! " 
 
 " Hush ! " she said, with a smiling pretense of thinking of 
 being shocked presently. 
 
 She went to the writing-table. 
 
 " Very well, then, we'll go if you want to." 
 
 " Don't you? " he asked, following her. 
 
 She had sat down and taken up a pen. Now she looked up 
 at him with her steady eyes. 
 
 " I'm sure I shall enjoy it when I'm there," she answered. 
 " I generally enjoy things. You know that. You've seen me 
 among people so often."
 
 204 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Yes. One would think you reveled in society if one only 
 knew you in that phase." 
 
 " Well, I don't really care for it one bit. I can't, because 
 I never miss it if I don't have it." 
 
 " I believe you really care for very few things and for very 
 few people," he said. 
 
 " Perhaps that's true about people." 
 
 "How many people, I wonder? " 
 
 " I don't think one always knows whom one cares for until 
 something happens." 
 
 " Something? " 
 
 " Until one's threatened with loss, or until one actually does 
 lose somebody one loves. I " she hesitated, stretched out 
 her hand, and drew some notepaper out of a green case which 
 stood on the table " I had absolutely no idea what I felt for 
 my mother until she died. She died very suddenly." 
 
 Tears rushed to her eyes and her whole face suddenly 
 reddened. 
 
 " Then I knew ! " she said, in a broken voice. 
 
 Dion had never before seen her look as she was looking now. 
 
 For a moment he felt almost as if he were regarding a 
 stranger. There was a sort of heat of anger in the face, which 
 looked rebellious in its emotion; and he believed it was the 
 rebellion in her face which made him realize how intensely she 
 had been able to love her mother. 
 
 " Now I must write to Mrs. Chetwinde," she said, suddenly 
 bending over the notepaper, " and tell her we'll come, and 
 I'll sing." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 He stood for a moment watching the moving pen. Then he 
 bent down and just touched her shoulder with a great gentleness. 
 
 " If you knew what I would do to keep every breath of 
 sorrow out of your life! " he said, in a low voice. 
 
 Without looking up she touched his hand. 
 
 " I know you would. You could never bring sorrow into 
 my life." 
 
 From that day Dion realized what intensity of feeling lay 
 beneath Rosamund's serene and often actively joyous de- 
 meanor. Perhaps she cared for very few people, but for those 
 few she cared with a force surely almost abnormal. Her mother 
 had now been dead for many years; never before had Rosa- 
 mund spoken of her death to him. He understood the reason 
 of that silence now, and from that day the desire to keep all
 
 ECHO 205 
 
 sorrow from her became almost a passion in him. He even 
 felt that its approach to her, that its cold touch resting upon 
 her, would be a hateful and almost unnatural outrage. Yet 
 he saw all around him people closely companioned by sorrow 
 and did not think that strange. Sorrow even approached very 
 near to Rosamund and to him in that very month of January, 
 for Beatrice had a miscarriage and lost her baby. She said 
 very little about it, but Dion believed that she was really 
 stricken to the heart. He was very fond of Beatrice, he almost 
 loved her; yet her sorrow was only a shadow passing by him, 
 not a substance pressing upon him. And that fact, which he 
 realized, made him know how little even imagination and quiet 
 affection can help men to feel the pains of others. The heart 
 knoweth only its own bitterness and the bitterness of those 
 whom it deeply and passionately loves. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 ON" January the fifteenth Rosamund put on the gown 
 which had been bought for the Carlton dinner but not 
 worn at it. 
 
 Although she had not really wanted to go to Mrs. Chetwinde's 
 party she looked radiantly buoyant, and like one almost shin- 
 ing with expectation, when she was ready to start for Lowndes 
 Square. 
 
 " You ought to go out every night," Dion said, as he put 
 her cloak over her shoulders. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " To enjoy and give enjoyment. Merely to look at you would 
 make the dullest set of people in London wake up and scin- 
 tillate. Don't tell me you're not looking forward to it, because 
 I couldn't believe you." 
 
 " Now the war-paint is on I confess to feeling almost eager 
 for the fray. How nicely you button it. You aren't clumsy." 
 
 "How could I be clumsy in doing something for you? 
 Where's your music? " 
 
 " In my head. Jennie will meet us there." 
 
 Jennie was Rosamund's accompanist, a clever Irish girl who 
 often came to Little Market Street to go through things with 
 Rosamund.
 
 206 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " It will be rather delightful singing to people again," she 
 added in a joyous voice as they got into the hired carriage. " I 
 hope I've really improved." 
 
 "How you love a thing for itself! " he said, as they drove 
 off. 
 
 " I think that's the only way to love." 
 
 " Of course it is. You know the only way to everything 
 beautiful and sane. What I have learnt from you! " 
 
 " Dion," she said, in the darkness, " I think you are rather 
 a dangerous companion for me." 
 
 "How can I be? " 
 
 " I'm not at all a piece of perfection. Take care you don't 
 teach me to think I am." 
 
 " But you're the least conceited " 
 
 "Hush, you encourager of egoism!" she interrupted 
 seriously. 
 
 " I'm afraid you'll find a good many more at Mrs. Chet- 
 winde's." 
 
 Dion thought he had been a true prophet half an hour later 
 when, from a little distance, he watched and listened while 
 Rosamund was singing her first song. Seeing her thus in the 
 midst of a crowd he awakened to the fact that Robin had 
 changed her very much. She still looked splendidly young,- 
 but she no longer looked like a girl. The married woman and 
 the mother were there quite definitely. Even he fancied that 
 he heard them in her voice, which had gained in some way, 
 perhaps in roundness, in mellowness. This might be the result 
 of study; he was inclined to believe it the result of motherhood. 
 She was wearing ear-rings tiny, not long drooping things; 
 they were green, small emeralds; and he remembered how he 
 had loved her better when he saw her wearing ear-rings for 
 the first time in Mr. Darlington's drawing-room. How definite 
 she was in a crowd. Crowds effaced ordinary people, but 
 when Rosamund was surrounded she always seemed to be 
 beautifully emphasized, to be made more perfectly herself. 
 She did not take, she gave, and in giving showed how much 
 she had. 
 
 She was giving now as she sang, " Caro mio ben." 
 
 Towards the end of the song, when Dion was deeply in it 
 and in her who sang it, he was disturbed by a woman's whisper 
 coming from close behind him. He did not catch the begin- 
 ning of what was communicated, but he did catch the end. It 
 was this: " Over there, the famous Mrs. Clarke."
 
 ECHO 207 
 
 But Mrs. Clarke was in Paris. Daventry had told him so. 
 Dion looked quickly about the large and crowded room, but 
 could not see Mrs. Clarke. Then he glanced behind him to 
 see the whisperer, and beheld a hard-faced, middle-aged and 
 very well-known woman one of those women who, by dint 
 of perpetually " going about," become at length something less 
 than human. He was quite sure Mrs. Brackenhurst would not 
 make a mistake about anything which happened at a party. 
 She might fail to recognize her husband, if she met him about 
 her house, because he was so seldom there; she would not fail 
 to recognize the heroine of a resounding divorce case. Mrs. 
 Clarke must certainly have returned from Paris and be some- 
 where in that room, listening to Rosamund and probably watch- 
 ing her. Dion scarcely knew whether this fact made him sorry 
 or glad. He did know, however, that it oddly excited him. 
 
 When " Caro mio ben " was ended people began to move. 
 Rosamund was surrounded and congratulated, and Dion saw 
 Esme Darlington bending to her, half paternally, half gallantly, 
 and speaking to her emphatically. Mrs. Chetwinde drifted 
 up to her; and three or four young men hovered near to her, 
 evidently desirous of putting in a word. The success of her 
 leaped to the eye. Dion saw it and glowed. But the excite- 
 ment in him persisted, and he began to move towards the far 
 side of the great room in search of Mrs. Clarke. If she had 
 just come in she would probably be near the door by which the 
 pathetic Echo stood on her pedestal of marble, withdrawn in 
 her punishment, in her abasement beautiful and wistful. How 
 different was Rosamund from Echo! Dion looked across at 
 her joyous and radiant animation, as she smiled and talked 
 almost with the eagerness and vitality of a child; and he had 
 the thought, "How goodness preserves!" Women throng the 
 secret rooms of the vanity specialists, put their trust in pomades, 
 in pigments, in tinctures, in dyes; and the weariness and the 
 sin become lustrous, perhaps, but never are hidden or even 
 obscured. His Rosamund trusted in a wholesome life, with 
 air blowing through it, with sound sleep as its anodyne, with 
 purity on guard at its door; and radiance and youth sparkled 
 up in her like fountain spray in the sunshine. And the whole- 
 someness of her was a lure to the many even in a drawing-room 
 of London. He saw powdered women, women with darkened 
 eyebrows, and touched-up lips, and hair that had forgotten long 
 ago what was its natural color, looking at her, and he fancied 
 there was a dull wonder in their eyes. Perhaps they were
 
 208 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 thinking: "Yes, that's the recipe being gay in goodness! " 
 And perhaps some of them were thinking, too: "We've lost 
 the power to follow that recipe, if we ever had it." Poor 
 women! With a sort of exultation he pitied them and their 
 husbands. A chord was sounded on the piano. He stood still. 
 The loud buzz of conversation died down. Was Rosamund 
 going to sing again so soon? Perhaps some one had begged 
 for something specially beloved. Jennie was playing a soft 
 prelude as a gentle warning to a few of those who seem ever 
 to find silence a physical difficulty. She stopped, and began 
 to play something Dion did not know, something very modern 
 in its strange atmospheric delicacy, which nevertheless instantly 
 transported him to Greece. He was there, even before Rosa- 
 mund began to sing in a voice that was hushed, in a far-off 
 voice, not antique, but the voice of modernity, prompted by a 
 mind looking away from what is near to what is afar and is 
 deeply desired. 
 
 " A crescent sail upon the sea, 
 So calm and fair and ripple-free 
 You wonder storms can ever be; 
 
 A shore with deep indented bays, 
 And o'er the gleaming water-ways 
 A glimpse of Islands in the haze; 
 
 A face bronzed dark to red and gold, 
 With mountain eyes that seem to hold 
 The freshness of the world of old ; 
 
 A shepherd's crook, a coat of fleece, 
 A grazing flock the sense of peace, 
 The long sweet silence this is Greece." 
 
 The accompaniment continued for a moment alone, whisper- 
 ing remoteness. Then, like a voice far off in a blue distance, 
 there came again from Rosamund, more softly and with less 
 pressure : 
 
 " The sense of peace, 
 
 The long sweet silence this is Greece ! 
 This is Greece ! " 
 
 It was just then that Dion saw Mrs. Clarke. She had, per- 
 haps, been sitting down; or, possibly, some one had been stand- 
 ing in front of her and had hidden her from him; for she was 
 not far off, and he wondered sharply why he had not seen her
 
 ECHO 209 
 
 till now, why, till now, she had refrained from snatching him 
 away from his land of the early morning. There was to him 
 at this moment something actually cruel and painful in her 
 instant suggestion of Stamboul. Yet she was not looking at 
 him, but was directing upon Rosamund her characteristic gaze 
 of consideration, in which there was a peculiar grave thorough- 
 ness. A handsome, fair young man, with a very red weak 
 mouth, stood close to her. Echo was just beyond. Without 
 speaking, Mrs. Clarke continued looking at Rosamund intently, 
 when the music evaporated, and Greece faded away into the 
 shining of that distance which hides our dreams. And Dion 
 noted again, with a faint creeping of wonder and of doubt, the 
 strange haggardness of her face, which, nevertheless, he had 
 come to think almost beautiful. 
 
 The fair young man spoke to her, bending and looking at 
 her eagerly. She turned her head slowly, and as if reluctantly 
 towards him, and was evidently listening to what he said, 
 listening with that apparent intentness which was character- 
 istic of her. She was dressed in black and violet, and wore a 
 large knot of violets in her corsage. Round her throat was 
 clasped an antique necklace of dull, unshining gold, and dim 
 purple stones, which looked beautiful, but almost weary with 
 age. Perhaps they had lain for years in some dim bazaar of 
 Stamboul, forgotten under heaps of old stuffs. Dion thought 
 of them as slumbering, made drowsy and finally unconscious 
 by the fumes of incense and the exhalations from diapered 
 perfume vials. As he looked at Mrs. Clarke, the bare and 
 shining vision of Greece, evoked by the song Rosamund had 
 just been singing, faded; the peculiar almost intellectually deli- 
 cate atmosphere of Greece was gone; and he saw for a moment 
 the umber mystery of Stamboul, lifted under tinted clouds of 
 the evening beyond the waters of the Golden Horn; the great 
 rounded domes and tapering speary minarets of the mosques, 
 couchant amid the shadows and the trailing and gauzy smoke- 
 wreaths, a suggestion of dense masses of cypresses, those trees 
 of the night which only in the night can be truly themselves, 
 guarding the innumerable graves of the Turkish cemeteries. 
 
 From that moment he connected Mrs. Clarke in his mind 
 with the cypress. Surely she must have spent very many 
 hours wandering in those enormous and deserted gardens of 
 the dead, where the very dust is poignant, and the cries of the 
 sea come faintly up to Allah's children crumbling beneath the 
 stone flowers and the little fezes of stone. Mrs. Clarke must
 
 210 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 love the cypress, for about her there was an atmosphere which 
 suggested dimness and the gathering shadows of night. 
 
 Greece and Stamboul, the land of the early morning and 
 the wonder-city of twilight; Rosamund and Mrs. Clarke; stand- 
 ing there for a moment, in the midst of the shifting crowd, 
 Dion traveled, compared, connected and was alone in the soul's 
 solitude. 
 
 Then Mrs. Chetwinde spoke to him, and he saw Bruce Evelin 
 in the distance going towards Rosamund. 
 
 Mrs. Chetwinde told him that Rosamund had made a great 
 advance. 
 
 " Now that she's given up singing professionally she's sing- 
 ing better than ever. That Grecian song is the distilled essence 
 of Greece felt in our new way. For we've got our new way 
 of feeling things. Rosamund tells us she repeated the words 
 to Jennie Stileman, and Jennie had them set by a young 
 Athenian who's over here studying English. He catches the 
 butterfly, lets it flutter for a moment in his hand and go. He 
 doesn't jab a pin into it as our composers would. Oh, there's 
 Cynthia! I hope she heard the last thing." 
 '"Yes, she did." 
 
 "Ah?" 
 
 " I thought Mrs. Clarke was spending January in Paris." 
 
 " She came back to-day, and sent round to ask if she might 
 come." 
 
 Mrs. Chetwinde wandered away, insouciant and observant 
 as ever. Even at her own parties she always had an air of 
 faintly detached indifference, never bothered about how " it " 
 was " going." If it chose to stop it could, and her guests must 
 put up with it. 
 
 When she left him Dion hesitated. Mrs. Clarke had just 
 seen him and sent him a grave nod of recognition. Should 
 he go to her? But the fair young man was still at her side, 
 was still, with his weak red mouth, talking into her ear. Dion 
 felt a strange distaste as he saw those moving lips under the 
 brushed-up, almost ridiculously small, golden mustache; and 
 just as he was conscious of this distaste Mrs. Clarke got rid 
 of the young man, and spoke to a woman. Then she moved 
 forward slowly. Mr. Chetwinde spoke to her, moving his 
 ample fan-shaped beard, which always looked Assyrian, though 
 he was profoundly English and didn't know it. She drew 
 nearer to Dion as she answered Mr. Chetwinde, but in a wholly 
 unconscious manner. To-night she looked more haggard even
 
 ECHO 211 
 
 than usual, no doubt because of the journey from Paris. But 
 Mrs. Chetwinde had once said of her: " Cynthia is made of 
 iron."' Could that be true? She was quite close to Dion now, 
 and he was aware of a strange faint perfume which reminded 
 him of Stamboul; and he realized here in Lowndes Square 
 that Stamboul was genuinely fascinating, was much more fas- 
 cinating than he had realized when he was in it. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke passed him without looking at him, and he felt 
 sure quite unconscious of his nearness to her. Evidently she 
 had forgotten all about him. Just after she had gone by he 
 decided that of course he ought to go and speak to her, and 
 that to-night he must introduce Rosamund to her. Not to 
 do so would really be rude. Daventry was not there to be 
 chivalrous. The illness of Beattie, and doubtless his own dis- 
 tress at the loss of his unborn child, had kept him away. Dion 
 thought that he would be unchivalrous if he now neglected to 
 make a point of speaking to Mrs. Clarke and of introducing 
 his wife to her. 
 
 Having made up his mind on this he turned to follow Mrs. 
 Clarke, and at once saw that Esme Darlington, that smoother 
 of difficult social places, was before him. A little way off he 
 saw Mr. Darlington, with Rosamund well but delicately in 
 hand, making for Mrs. Clarke somewhat with the gait of Agag. 
 In a moment the thing was done. The two women were speak- 
 ing to each other, and Rosamund had sent to Mrs. Clarke one 
 of her inquiring looks. Then they sat down together on that 
 red sofa to which Mrs. Clarke had led Dion for his first con- 
 versation with her. Esme Darlington remained standing before 
 it. The full acquaintance was joined at last. 
 
 Were they talking about the baby? Dion wondered, as for 
 a moment he watched them, forgetting his surroundings. Rosa- 
 mund was speaking with her usual swift vivacity. At home 
 she was now often rather quiet, moving, Dion sometimes 
 thought, in an atmosphere of wide serenity; but in society she 
 was always full of sunshine and eager life. Something within 
 her leaped up responsively at the touch of humanity, and to- 
 night she had just been singing, and the whole of her was 
 keenly awake. The contrast between her and Mrs. Clarke 
 was almost startling: her radiant vitality emphasized Mrs. 
 Clarke's curious, but perfectly natural, gravity; the rose in her 
 cheeks, the yellow of her hair, the gaiety in her eyes, drew the 
 attention to Mrs. Clarke's febrile and tense refinement, which 
 seemed to have worn her body thin, to have drained the luster
 
 212 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 out of her hair, to have fixed the expression of observant dis- 
 tress in her large and fearless eyes. Animal spirits played 
 through Rosamund to-night; from Mrs. Clarke they were absent. 
 Her haggard composure, confronting Rosamund's pure sparkle, 
 suggested the comparison of a hidden and secret pool, steel 
 colored in the depths of a sunless forest, with a rushing moun- 
 tain stream leaping towards the sea in a tangle of sun-rays. 
 Dion realized for the first time that Mrs. Clarke never laughed, 
 and scarcely ever smiled. He realized, too, that she really 
 was beautiful. For Rosamund did not "kill" her; her deli- 
 cacy of line and colorless clearness stood the test of nearness 
 to Rosamund's radiant beauty. Indeed Rosamund somehow 
 enhanced the peculiarly interesting character of Mrs. Clarke's 
 personality, which was displayed, but with a sort of shadowy 
 reticence, in her physique, and at the same time underlined its 
 melancholy. So might a climbing rose, calling to the blue with 
 its hundred blossoms, teach something of the dark truth of 
 the cypress through which its branches are threaded. 
 
 But Mrs. Clarke would certainly never be Rosamund's stair- 
 way towards heaven. 
 
 Some one he knew spoke to Dion, and he found himself 
 involved in a long conversation; people moving hid the two 
 women from him; but presently the piano sounded again, and 
 Rosamund sang that first favorite of hers and of Dion's, the 
 " Heart ever faithful," recalling him to a dear day at Portofino 
 where, in a cozy room, guarded by the wintry woods and the 
 gray sea of Italy, he had felt the lure of a faithful spirit, and 
 known the basis of clean rock on which Rosamund had built 
 up her house of life. Bruce Evelin stood near to him while she 
 sang it now, and once their eyes met and exchanged affectionate 
 thoughts of the singer, which went gladly out of the gates 
 eager to be read and understood. 
 
 When the melody of Bach was finished many people, impelled 
 thereto by the hearty giant whom Mrs. Chetwinde had most 
 strangely married, went downstairs to the black-and-white 
 dining-room to drink champagne and eat small absurdities of 
 various kinds. A way was opened for Dion to Mrs. Clarke, 
 who was still on the red sofa. Dion noticed the fair young 
 man hovering, and surely with intention in his large eyes, in 
 the middle distance, but he went decisively forward, took Mrs. 
 Clarke's listless yet imperative hand, and asked her if she 
 would care to go down with him. 
 
 " Oh no; I never eat at odd times."
 
 ECHO 213 
 
 " Do you ever eat at all? " 
 
 " Yes, at my chosen moments. Do find another excuse." 
 
 " For going to eat? " 
 
 " Or drink." 
 
 His reply was to sit down beside her. Mrs. Chetwinde's 
 dining-room was large. People probably knew that, for the 
 drawing-room emptied slowly. Even the fair young man went 
 away to seek consolation below. Rosamund had descended 
 with Bruce Evelin and Esme Darlington. There was a pleas- 
 ant and almost an intimate hush in the room. 
 
 " I heard you were to be in Paris this month," Dion said. 
 
 " I came back to-day." 
 
 " Aren't you tired ? " 
 
 " No. I want to speak to you about Jimmy, if you don't 
 mind." 
 
 " Please do," said Dion rather earnestly, struck by a sort 
 of little pang as he remembered the boy's urgent insistence 
 that his visitor was to come again soon. 
 
 " I'm not quite satisfied with his tutor." 
 
 She began to ask Dion's advice with regard to the boy's 
 bringing up, explaining that her husband had left that matter 
 in her hands. 
 
 " He's very sorry and ashamed now, poor man, about his 
 attacks on me, and tries to make up from a distance by trusting 
 me completely with Jimmy. I don't bear him any malice, but 
 of course the link between us is smashed and can't ever be 
 resoldered. I'm asking you what I can't ask him because he's 
 a weak man." 
 
 The implication was obvious and not disagreeable to Dion. 
 He gave advice, and as he did so thought of Robin at ten. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke was a remarkably sensible woman, and agreed 
 with his views on boys, and especially with his theory, sud- 
 denly discovered in the present heat of conversation, that to give 
 them " backbone " was of even more importance than to develop 
 their intellectual side. She spoke of her son in a way that 
 was almost male. 
 
 " He mustn't be small," she said, evidently comprehending 
 both soul and body in the assertion. " D'you know Lord 
 Brayfield who was talking to me just now? " 
 
 " You mean a fair man? " 
 
 " Yes, with a meaningless mouth. Jimmy mustn't grow up 
 into anything of that kind." 
 
 The conversation took a decidedly Doric turn as Mrs. Clarke
 
 214 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 developed her ideas of what a man ought to be. In the midst 
 of it Dion remembered Dumeny, and could not help saying: 
 
 " But that type " they had been speaking of what he con- 
 sidered to be Rosamund's type of man, once described by her as 
 " a strong soul in a strong body, and a soft heart but not a 
 softy's heart " " is almost the direct opposite of the artistic 
 type of man, isn't it? " 
 
 Her large eyes looked " Well ? " at him, but she said nothing. 
 
 " I thought you cared so very much for knowledge and taste 
 in a man." 
 
 " So I do. But Jimmy will never have knowledge and taste. 
 He's the boisterous athletic type." 
 
 "And you're glad?" 
 
 " Not sorry, at any rate. He'll just be a thorough man, if 
 he's brought up properly, and that will do very well." 
 
 " I think you're very complex," Dion said, still thinking of 
 Dumeny. 
 
 " Because I make friends in so many directions? " 
 
 " Well yes, partly," he answered, wondering if she was 
 reading his thought. 
 
 " Jimmy's not a friend but my boy. I know very well Mon- 
 sieur Dumeny, for instance, whom you saw, and I dare say 
 wondered about, at the trial; but I couldn't bear that my boy 
 should develop into that type of man. You'll say I am a 
 treacherous friend, perhaps. It might be truer to say I was 
 born acquisitive and too mental. I never really liked Monsieur 
 Dumeny; but I liked immensely his musical talent, his knowl- 
 edge, his sure taste, and his power of making almost everything 
 flower into interestingness. Do you know what I mean ? Some 
 people take light from your day; others add to its light and 
 paint in wonderful shadows. If I went to the bazaars alone 
 they were Eastern shops; if I went with Dumeny they were the 
 Arabian Nights. Do you understand?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " The touch of his mind on a thing gave it life. It stirred. 
 One could look into its heart and see the pulse beating. I care 
 to do that, so I cared to go about with Monsieur Dumeny. 
 But one doesn't love people for that sort of thing. In the 
 people one loves one needs character, the right fiber in the 
 soul. You ought to know that." 
 
 "Why? " he asked, almost startled. 
 
 " I was introduced to your wife just now." 
 
 "Oh! "
 
 ECHO 215 
 
 There was a pause. Then Dion said: 
 
 " I'm glad you have met." 
 
 " So am I," said Mrs. Clarke, in a voice that sounded more 
 husky even than usual. " She sang that Greek song quite 
 beautifully. I've just been telling her that I want to show 
 her some curious songs I have heard in Turkey, and Asia 
 Minor, at Brusa. There was one man who used to sing to me 
 at Brusa outside the Mosquee Verte. Dumeny took down the 
 melody for me." 
 
 "Did you like the ' Heart ever faithful ' ? " 
 
 " Of course it's excellent in that sledge-hammer sort of way, 
 a superb example of the direct. Stamboul is very indirect. 
 Perhaps it has colored my taste. It's full of mystery. Bach 
 isn't mysterious, except now and then in rare bits of his 
 passion music, for instance." 
 
 " I wonder if my wife could sing those Turkish songs." 
 
 " We must see. She sang that Greek song perfectly." 
 
 " But she's felt Greece," said Dion. " And I think there's 
 something in her that " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " I only mean," he said, with reserve in his voice, " that I 
 think there's something of Greece in her." 
 
 " She's got a head like a Caryatid." 
 
 " Yes," he said, with much less reserve. " Hasn't she? " 
 
 Mrs. Clarke had paid to his Rosamund two noble compli- 
 ments, he thought; and he liked her way of payment, casual 
 yet evidently sincere, the simple utterance of two thoughts in 
 a mind that knew. He felt a sudden glow of real friendship 
 for her, and, on the glow as it were, she said : 
 
 " Jimmy's quite mad about you." 
 
 "Still?" he blurted out, and was instantly conscious of a 
 false step. 
 
 "He's got an extraordinary memory for a biceps, and then 
 Jenkins talks about you to him." 
 
 As they went on talking people began coming up from the 
 black-and-white dining-room. Dion said he would come to 
 see Jimmy again, would visit the gymnasium in the Harrow 
 Road one day when Jimmy was taking his lesson. Did Jimmy 
 ever go on a Saturday? Yes, he was going next Saturday at 
 four. Dion would look in next Saturday. Now Mrs. Clarke 
 and Rosamund had met, and Mrs. Clarke evidently admired 
 Rosamund in two ways, Dion felt quite different about his 
 acquaintance with her. If it had already been agreed that
 
 216 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 Mrs. Clarke should show Rosamund Turkish songs, there was 
 no need for further holding back. The relief which had come 
 to him made Dion realize how very uncomfortable he had been 
 about Mrs. Clarke in the immediate past. He was now thor- 
 oughly and cordially at his ease with her. They talked till 
 the big drawing-room was full again, till Rosamund reappeared 
 in the midst of delightful friends; talked of Jimmy's future, 
 of the new tutor who must be found, a real man, not a mere 
 bloodless intellectual, and, again, of Constantinople, to which 
 Mrs. Clarke would return in April, against the advice of her 
 friends, and in spite of Esme Darlington's almost frantic pro- 
 tests, " because I love it, and because I don't choose to be driven 
 out of any place by liars." Her last remark to him, and he 
 thought it very characteristic of her, was this: 
 
 " Liberty's worth bitterness. I would buy it at the price 
 of all the tears in my body." 
 
 It was, perhaps, also very characteristic that she made the 
 statement with a perfectly quiet gravity which almost con- 
 cealed the evidently tough inflexibility beneath. 
 
 And then, when people were ready to go, Rosamund sang 
 Brahm's " Wiegenlied." 
 
 " Guten Aben, gut' Nacht, 
 
 Tu'die Auglein zu 
 Von Engeln bewacht, 
 
 Schlaf in guter Ruh 
 Morgen fruh wenn Gott will, 
 Wirst du wieder geweckt." 
 
 Dion stood beside Bruce Evelin while Rosamund was singing 
 this. She sang it with a new and wonderful tenderness which 
 had come to her with Robin, and in her face, as she sang, there 
 was a new and wonderful tenderness. The meaning of Robin 
 in Rosamund's life was expressed to Dion by Rosamund in 
 this song as it had never been expressed before. Perhaps it 
 was expressed also to Bruce Evelin, for Dion saw tears in his 
 eyes almost brimming over, and his face was contracted, as if 
 only by a strong, even a violent, effort he was able to preserve 
 his self-control. 
 
 As people began to go away Dion found himself close to 
 Esme Darlington. 
 
 " My dear fellow," said Mr. Darlington, with unusual aban- 
 don, " Rosamund has made a really marvelous advance 
 marvelous. In that ' Wiegenlied ' she reached high-water mark.
 
 ECHO 217 
 
 No one could have sung it more perfectly. What has hap- 
 pened to her ? " 
 
 " Robin," said Dion, looking him full in the face, and speak- 
 ing with almost stern conviction. 
 
 " Robin? " said Mr. Darlington, with lifted eyebrows. 
 
 Then people intervened. 
 
 In the carriage going home Rosamund was very happy. She 
 confessed to the pleasure her success had given her. 
 
 " I quite loved singing to-night," she said. " That song 
 about Greece was for you." 
 
 " I know, and the ' Wiegenlied ' was for Robin." 
 
 " Yes," she said. 
 
 She was silent; then her voice came out of the darkness: 
 
 " For Robin, but he didn't know it." 
 
 " Some day he will know it." 
 
 Not a word was said about Airs. Clarke that night. 
 
 On the following day, however, Dion asked Rosamund how 
 she had liked Mrs. Clarke. 
 
 " I saw you talking to her with the greatest animation." 
 
 " Was I ? " said Rosamund. 
 
 " And she told me it had been arranged that she should 
 no, I don't mean that; but she said she wanted to show you 
 some wonderful Turkish songs." 
 
 "Did she? What a beautiful profile she has! " 
 
 " Ah, you noticed that! " 
 
 " Oh yes, directly." 
 
 "Didn't she mention the Turkish songs?" 
 
 " I believe she did, but only in passing, casually. D'you 
 know, Dion, I've an idea that Greece is our country, not Turkey 
 at all. You hate Constantinople, and I shall never see it, 
 I'm sure. We are Greeks, and Robin has to be a Greek, too, 
 in one way a true Englishman, of course, as well. Do you 
 remember the Doric boy? " 
 
 And off went the conversation to the hill of Drouva, and 
 never came back to Turkey. 
 
 When Friday dawned Dion thought of his appointment for 
 Saturday afternoon at the gymnasium in the Harrow Road, 
 and began to wish he had not made it. Rosamund had not 
 mentioned Mrs. Clarke again, and he began to fear that she 
 had not really liked her, although her profile was beautiful. 
 If Rosamund had not liked Mrs. Clarke, his cordial enthusiasm 
 at T.Irs. Chetwinde's in retrospect he felt that his attitude 
 and manner must have implied that had been premature,
 
 218 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 even, perhaps, unfortunate. He wished he knew just what 
 impression Mrs. Clarke had made upon Rosamund, but some- 
 thing held him back from asking her. He had asked her 
 already once, but somehow the conversation had deviated 
 was it to Mrs. Clarke's profile? and he had not received a 
 direct answer. Perhaps that was his fault. But anyhow he 
 must go to the gymnasium on the morrow. To fail in doing 
 that after all that had happened, or rather that had not hap- 
 pened, in connexion with Mrs. Clarke would be really rude. 
 He did not say anything about the gymnasium to Rosamund 
 on Friday, but on the Saturday he told her what had been 
 arranged. 
 
 " Her son, Jimmy Clarke, has taken a boyish fancy to me, 
 it seems. I said I'd look in and see his lesson just for once." 
 
 " Is he a nice boy? " 
 
 " Yes, first-rate, I should think, rather a pickle, and likely 
 to develop into an athlete. The father is awfully ashamed now 
 of what he did that horrible case, I mean and is trying 
 to make up for it." 
 
 "How?" said Rosamund simply. 
 
 " By giving her every chance with the boy." 
 
 " I'm glad the child likes you." 
 
 " I've only seen him once." 
 
 " Twice won't kill his liking," she returned affectionately. 
 
 And then she went out of the room. She always had plenty 
 to do. Small though he was, Robin was a marvelous consumer 
 of his mother's time. 
 
 When Dion got to the gymnasium Mrs. Clarke and Jimmy 
 were already there, and Jimmy, in flannels and a white sweater, 
 his dark hair sticking up in disorder, and his face scarlet with 
 exertion, was performing feats with an exerciser fixed to the 
 wall, while Mrs. Clarke, seated on a hard chair in front of a 
 line of heavy weights and dumb-bells, was looking on with 
 concentrated attention. Jenkins was standing in front of 
 Jimmy, loudly directing his movements with a stentorian: 
 " One two one two one two ! Keep it up ! No 
 slackening ! Put some guts into it, sir ! One two one 
 two!" 
 
 As Dion came in Mrs. Clarke looked round and nodded; 
 Jimmy stared, unable to smile because his mouth and lower 
 jaw were working, and he had no superfluous force to spare 
 for polite efforts; and Jenkins uttered a gruff, " Good day, 
 sir."
 
 ECHO 219 
 
 " How are you, Jenkins ? " returned Dion, in his most off- 
 hand manner. 
 
 Then he jerked his hand at Jimmy with an encouraging smile, 
 went over to Mrs. Clarke, shook her hand and remained stand- 
 ing beside her. 
 
 "Do you think he's doing it well?" she murmured, after 
 a moment. 
 
 " Stunningly." 
 
 " Hasn't he broadened in the chest? " 
 
 "Rather!" 
 
 She looked strangely febrile and mental in the midst of the 
 many appliances for developing the body. Rosamund, with 
 her splendid physique and glowing health, would have crowned 
 the gymnasium appropriately, have looked like the divine 
 huntress transplanted to a modern city where still the cult of 
 the body drew its worshipers. The Arcadian mountains 
 Olympia in Elis, Jenkins's " gym " in the Harrow Road 
 differing shrines but the cult was the same. Only the condi- 
 tions of worship were varied. Dion glanced down at Mrs. 
 Clarke. Never had she seemed more curiously exotic. Yet 
 she did not look wholly out of place; and it occurred to him 
 that a perfectly natural person never looks wholly out of place 
 anywhere. 
 
 " Face to the wall, sir! " cried Jenkins. 
 
 Jimmy found time for a breathless and half-inquiring smile 
 at Dion as he turned and prepared for the most difficult feat. 
 
 " His jaw always does something extraordinary in this exer- 
 cise," said Mrs. Clarke. " It seems to come out and go in 
 again with a click. Jenkins says it's because Jimmy gets his 
 strength from there." 
 
 ' I know. Mine used to do just the same." 
 Jimmy doesn't mind. It amuses him." 
 That's the spirit! " 
 He finishes with this." 
 Already?" said Dion, surprised. 
 
 You must have been a little late. How did you come ? " 
 On my bicycle. I had a puncture. That must have been 
 it. And there was a lot of traffic." 
 
 "Keep it up, sir! " roared Jenkins imperatively. "What's 
 the matter with that left arm ? " 
 
 Click went Jimmy's lower jaw. 
 
 "Dear little chap!" muttered Dion, full of sympathetic 
 interest. " He's doing splendidly."
 
 220 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 "You really think so?" 
 
 " Couldn't be better." 
 
 " You understand boys? " 
 
 " Better than I understand women, I expect," Dion returned, 
 with a sudden thought of Rosamund at home and the wonderful 
 Turkish songs Mrs. Clarke wished to show to her. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke said nothing, and just at that moment Jenkins 
 announced : 
 
 " That'll do for to-day, sir." 
 
 In a flood of perspiration Jimmy turned round, redder than 
 ever, his chest heaving, his mouth open, and his eyes, but with- 
 out any conceit, asking for a word of praise from Dion, who 
 went to clap him on the shoulder. 
 
 "Capital! Hallo! What muscles we're getting! Eh, 
 Jenkins? " 
 
 " Master Jimmy's not doing badly, sir. He puts his heart 
 into it. That I must say." 
 
 Jimmy shone through the red and the perspiration. 
 
 " He sticks it," continued Jenkins, in his loud voice. 
 " Without grit there's nothing done. That's what I always 
 tell my pupils." 
 
 " I say " began Jimmy, at last finding a small voice 
 " I say, Mr. Leith, you haven't hurried over it." 
 
 "Over what?" 
 
 " Letting me see you again. Why, it's " 
 
 " Run along to the bath, sir. You've got to have it before 
 you cool down," interposed the merciless Jenkins. 
 
 And Jimmy made off with an instant obedience which showed 
 his private opinion of the god who was training him. 
 
 When he was gone Jenkins turned to Dion and looked him 
 over. 
 
 " Haven't seen much of you, sir, lately," he remarked. 
 
 " No, I've been busy," returned Dion, feeling slightly un- 
 comfortable as he remembered that the reason for his absence 
 from the Harrow Road was listening to the conversation. 
 
 " Going to have a round with the gloves now you are here, 
 sir? " pursued Jenkins. 
 
 Dion looked at Mrs. Clarke. 
 
 " Well, I hadn't thought of it," he said, rather doubtfully. 
 
 " Just as you like, sir." 
 
 " Do, Mr. Leith," said Mrs. Clarke, getting up from the 
 hard chair, and standing close to the medicine ball with her
 
 ECHO 221 
 
 back to the vaulting-horse. " Jimmy and I are going in a 
 moment. You mustn't bother about us." 
 
 " Well, but how are you going home ? " 
 
 " We shall walk. Of course have your boxing. It will do 
 you good." 
 
 " You're right there, ma'am," said Jenkins, with a sort of 
 stern approval. " Mr. Leith's been neglecting his exercises 
 lately." 
 
 " Oh, I've been doing a good deal in odd times with the 
 Rifle Corps." 
 
 " I don't know anything about that, sir." 
 
 " All right, I'll go and change," said Dion, who always kept 
 
 a singlet and flannels at the gymnasium. " Then " he 
 
 turned to Mrs. Clarke as if about to say good-by. 
 
 " Oh, Jimmy will want to see you for a moment after his 
 bath. We'll say good-by then." 
 
 " Yes, I should like to see him," said Dion, and went off 
 to the dressing cubicles. 
 
 When he returned ready for the fray, with his arms bared 
 to the shoulder, he found Jimmy, in trousers and an Eton 
 jacket, with still damp hair sleeked down on his head, waiting 
 with his mother, but not to say good-by. 
 
 " We aren't going," he announced, in a voice almost shrill 
 with excitement, as Dion came into the gymnasium. " The 
 mater was all for a trot home, but Jenkins wishes me to stay. 
 He says it'll be a good lesson for me. I mean to be a boxer." 
 
 "Why not?" observed the great voice of Jenkins. "It's 
 the best sport in the world bar none." 
 
 "There!" said Jimmy. "And if I can't be anything else 
 I'll be a bantam, that's what I'll be." 
 
 " Oh, you'll grow, sir, no doubt. We may see you among 
 the heavy-weights yet." 
 
 " What's Mr. Leith? Is he a heavy-weight?" vociferated 
 Jimmy. " Just look at his arms." 
 
 " You'll see him use them in a minute," observed Jenkins, 
 covering Dion with a glance of almost grim approval, " and 
 then you can judge for yourself." 
 
 " You can referee us, Jimmy," said Dion, smiling, as he 
 pulled on the gloves. 
 
 " I say, by Jove, though ! " said Jimmy, looking suddenly 
 overwhelmed and very respectful. 
 
 He shook his head and blushed, then abruptly grinned.
 
 222 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " The mater had better do that." 
 
 They all laughed except Mrs. Clarke. Even Jenkins un- 
 bent, and his bass " Ha ha ! " rang through the large vaulted 
 room. Mrs. Clarke smiled faintly, scarcely changing the ex- 
 pression of her eyes. She looked unusually intent and, when 
 the smile was gone, more than usually grave. 
 
 " I hope you don't mind our staying just for a few minutes," 
 she said to Dion. " You see what he is! " 
 
 She looked at her boy, but not with deprecation. 
 
 " Of course not, but I'm afraid it will bore you." 
 
 " Oh no, it won't. I like to see skill of any kind." 
 
 She glanced at his arms. 
 
 " I'll get out of your way. Come, Jimmy! " 
 
 She took him by the arm and went back to the hard chair, 
 while Dion and Jenkins in the middle of the floor stood up op- 
 posite to one another. 
 
 " Have you got a watch, Master Jimmy? " said Jenkins, look- 
 ing over his shoulder at his pupil. 
 
 " Rather! " piped Jimmy. 
 
 " Well, then, you'd better time us if you don't referee us." 
 
 Jimmy sprang away from his mother. 
 
 " Keep out of our road, or you may chance to get a kidney 
 punch that'll wind you. Better stand here. That's it. Three- 
 minute rounds. Keep your eye on the watch." 
 
 " Am I to say ' Go '? " almost whispered Jimmy, tense with a 
 fearful importance such as Caesar and Napoleon never felt. 
 
 " Who else ? You don't expect us to order ourselves about, 
 do you ? " 
 
 After a pause Jimmy murmured, " No " in a low voice. So 
 might a mortal whisper a reply when interrogated from Olym- 
 pus as to his readiness to be starter at a combat of the immortal 
 gods. 
 
 " Now, then, watch in hand and no favoritism ! " bellowed 
 Jenkins, whose sense of humor was as boisterous as his firm- 
 ness was grim. " Are we ready? " 
 
 Dion and he shook hands formally and lifted their arms, gaz- 
 ing at each other warily. Mrs. Clarke leaned forward in the 
 chair which stood among the dumb-bells. Jimmy perspired 
 and his eyes became round. He had his silver watch tight in 
 his right fist. Jenkins suddenly turned his head and stared 
 with his shallow and steady blue eyes, looking down from Olym- 
 pus upon the speck of a mortal far below.
 
 ECHO 223 
 
 " Go! " piped Jimmy, in the voice of an ardent, but awe- 
 struck mouse. 
 
 Homeric was that combat in the Harrow Road; to its starter 
 and timekeeper a contest of giants, awful in force, in skill, in 
 agility, in endurance. Dion boxed quite at his best that day, 
 helped by his gallery. He fought to win, but he didn't win. 
 Nobody won, for there was no knock-out blow given and taken, 
 and, when appealed to for a decision on points, Jimmy, breath- 
 ing stertorously from excitement, was quite unable to give the 
 award. He could only stare at the two glorious heroes before 
 him and drop the silver watch, glass downwards of course, on 
 the floor, where its tinkle told of destruction. Later on, when 
 he spoke, he was able to say: 
 
 " By Jove! " which he presently amplified into, " I say, mater, 
 by Jove eh, wasn't it, though ? " 
 
 " Not so bad, sir ! " said Jenkins to Dion, after the latter 
 had taken the shower bath. " You aren't as stale as I expected 
 to find you, not near as stale. But I hope you'll keep it up 
 now you've started with it again." 
 
 And Dion promised he would, put his bicycle on the top of a 
 fourwheeler, sent it off to Westminster, and walked as far as 
 Claridge's with Mrs. Clarke and Jimmy. 
 
 The boy made him feel tremendously intimate with Mrs. 
 Clarke. The hero-worship he was receiving, the dancing of 
 the blood through his veins, the glow of hard exercise, the ver- 
 dict of Jenkins on his physical condition all these things com- 
 bined spurred him to a joyous exuberance in which body and 
 mind seemed to run like a matched pair of horses in perfect ac- 
 cord. Although not at all a conceited man, the feeling that 
 he was being admired, even reverenced, was delightful to him, 
 and warmed his heart towards the jolly small boy who kept 
 along by his side through the busy streets. He and Jimmy 
 talked in a comradely spirit, while Mrs. Clarke seemed to lis- 
 ten like one who has tilings to learn. She was evidently a 
 capital walker in spite of her delicate appearance. To-day 
 Dion began to believe in her iron health, and, in his joy of the 
 body, he liked to think of it. After all delicacy, even in a 
 woman, was a fault a fault of the body, a sort of fretful im- 
 perfection. 
 
 " Are you strong? " he said to her, when Jimmy's voice ceased 
 for a moment to demand from him information or to pour upon 
 him direct statement.
 
 224 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Oh yes. I've never been seriously ill in my life. Don't I 
 look strong? " she asked. 
 
 " I don't think you do, but I feel as if you are." 
 
 " It's the wiry kind of strength, I suppose." 
 
 " The mater's a stayer," quoth Jimmy, and forthwith took 
 up the wondrous tale with his hero, who began to consult him 
 seriously on the question of " points." 
 
 " If you'd had to give a decision, Jimmy, which of us would 
 have got it, Jenkins or I ? " 
 
 Jimmy looked very grave and earnest. 
 
 "It's jolly difficult to tell a thing like that, isn't it?" he 
 said, after a longish pause. " You see, you're both so jolly 
 strong, aren't you? " 
 
 His dark eyes gazed at the bulk of Dion. 
 
 " Well, which is the quicker? " demanded Dion. 
 
 But Jimmy was not to be drawn. 
 
 " I think you're both as quick as as cats," he returned 
 diplomatically, seeking anxiously for the genuine sporting com- 
 parison that would be approved at the ring-side. " Don't you, 
 mater? " 
 
 Mrs. Clarke huskily agreed. They were now nearing 
 Claridge's, and Jimmy was insistent that Dion should come in 
 and have a real jam tea with them. 
 
 " Do, Mr. Leith, if you have the time," said Mrs. Clarke, but 
 without any pressure. 
 
 " The strawberry they have is ripping, I can tell you ! " cried 
 Jimmy, with ardor. 
 
 But Dion refused. Till he was certain of Rosamund's atti- 
 tude he felt he simply couldn't accept Mrs. Clarke's hospital- 
 ity. He was obliged to get home that day. Mrs. Clarke did 
 not ask why, but Jimmy did, and had to be put off with an 
 evasion, the usual mysterious " business," which, of course, a 
 small boy couldn't dive into and explore. 
 
 Dion thought Mrs. Clarke was going to say good-by with- 
 out any mention of Rosamund, but when they reached Claridge's 
 she said: 
 
 " Your wife and I didn't decide on a day for the Turkish 
 songs. You remember I mentioned them to you the other night? 
 I can't recollect whether she left it to me to fix a time, or whether 
 I left it to her. Can you find out? Do tell her I was stupid 
 and forgot. Will you ? " 
 
 Dion said he would. 
 
 " I think they'll interest her. Now, Jimmy! "
 
 ECHO 225 
 
 But Jimmy hung on his god. 
 
 " I say, you'll come again now ! You promise ? " 
 
 What could Dion do? 
 
 " You put your honor into it? " pursued Jimmy, with des- 
 perate earnestness. " You swear ? " 
 
 " If I swear in the open street the police will take me up," 
 said Dion jokingly. 
 
 " Not they ! One from the shoulder from you and I bet they 
 lose enough claret to fill a bucket. You've given your honor, 
 hasn't he, mater? " 
 
 " Of course we shall see him again," said Mrs. Clarke, star- 
 ing at Dion. 
 
 " What curious eyes she has! " Dion thought, as he walked 
 homeward. 
 
 Did they ever entirely lose their under-look of distress? 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THAT evening Dion told Rosamund what Mrs. Clarke had 
 said when he parted from her at Claridge's. 
 " I promised her I'd find out which it was," he added. 
 " Do you remember what was said? " 
 
 After a minute of silence, during which Rosamund seemed to 
 be considering something, she answered: 
 
 " Yes, I do." 
 
 "Which was it?" 
 
 " Neither, Dion. Mrs. Clarke has made a mistake. She 
 certainly spoke of some Turkish songs to me, but there was 
 never any question of fixing a day for us to try them over to- 
 gether." 
 
 " She thinks there was." 
 
 " It's difficult to remember exactly what is said, or not said, 
 in the midst of a crowd." 
 
 " But you remember? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then you'd rather not try them over? " 
 
 " After what you've told me about Constantinople I expect 
 I should be quite out of sympathy with Turkish music," she 
 answered, lightly and smiling. " Let us be true to our Greek 
 ideal."
 
 226 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 She seemed to be in fun, but he detected firmness of purpose 
 behind the fun. 
 
 " What shall I say to Mrs. Clarke? " he asked. 
 
 " I should just leave it. Perhaps she'll forget all about it." 
 
 Dion was quite sure that wouldn't happen, but he left it. 
 Rosamund had determined not to allow Mrs. Clarke to be 
 friends with her. He wished very much it were otherwise, not 
 because he really cared for Mrs. Clarke, but because he liked 
 her and Jimmy, and because he hated the idea of hurting the 
 feelings of a woman in Mrs. Clarke's rather unusual situa- 
 tion. He might, of course, have put his point of view plainly 
 to Rosamund at once. Out of delicacy he did not do this. 
 His great love for Rosamund made him instinctively very deli- 
 cate in all his dealings with her; it told him that Rosamund 
 did not wish to discuss her reasons for desiring to avoid Mrs. 
 Clarke. She had had them, he believed, before Mrs. Clarke 
 and she had met. That meeting evidently had not lessened 
 their force. He supposed, therefore, that she had disliked 
 Mrs. Clarke. He wondered why, and tried to consider Mrs. 
 Clarke anew. She was certainly not a disagreeable woman. 
 She was very intelligent, thoroughbred, beautiful in a peculiar 
 way, even Rosamund thought that, ready to make herself 
 pleasant, quite free from feminine malice, absolutely natural, 
 interested in all the really interesting things. Beattie liked her; 
 Daventry rejoiced in her; Mrs. Chetwinde was her intimate 
 friend; Esme Darlington had even made sacrifices for her; 
 Bruce Evelin 
 
 There Dion's thought was held up, like a stream that en- 
 counters a barrier. What did Bruce Evelin think of Mrs. 
 Clarke? He had not gone to the trial. But since he had re- 
 tired from practise at the Bar he had never gone into court. 
 Dion had often heard him say he had had enough of the Law 
 Courts. There was no reason why he should have been drawn 
 to them for Mrs. Clarke's sake, or even for Daventry's. But 
 what did he think of Mrs. Clarke? Dion resolved to tell him 
 of the rather awkward situation which had come about through 
 his own intimacy it really amounted almost to that with 
 Mrs. Clarke, and Rosamund's evident resolve to have nothing 
 - to do with her. 
 
 One day Dion went to Great Cumberland Place and told 
 Bruce Evelin all the facts, exactly what Mrs. Clarke had said 
 and done, exactly what Rosamund had said and done. As he 

 
 ECHO 227 
 
 spoke it seemed to him that he was describing a sort of contest, 
 shadowy, perhaps, withdrawn and full of reserves, yet definite. 
 
 " What do you think of it ? " he said, when he had told the 
 comparatively little there was to tell. 
 
 " I think Rosamund likes to keep her home very quiet, don't 
 you? " 
 
 " Yes, I do." 
 
 " Even her friends complain that she shuts them out." 
 
 " I know they do." 
 
 " She may not at all dislike Mrs. Clarke. She may simply 
 not wish to add to her circle of friends." 
 
 " The difficulty is, that Mrs. Clarke is such friends with 
 Beattie and Guy, and that I've got to know her quite well. 
 Then there's her boy; he's taken a fancy to me. If Mrs. 
 Clarke and Rosamund could just exchange calls it would be all 
 right, but if they don't it really looks rather as if Rosamund 
 well, as if she thought the divorce case had left a slur on 
 Mrs. Clarke. What I mean is, that I feel Mrs. Clarke will take 
 it in that way." 
 
 " She may, of course." 
 
 " I wonder why she is so determined to make friends with 
 Rosamund," blurted out Dion abruptly. 
 
 " You think she is determined ? " said Bruce Evelin quietly. 
 
 " Yes. Telling you has made me feel that quite plainly." 
 
 " Anyhow, she'll be gone back to Constantinople in April, 
 and then vour little difficulty will come to an end automati- 
 cally." 
 
 Dion looked rather hard at Bruce Evelin. When he spoke 
 to Rosamund of Mrs. Clarke, Rosamund always seemed to try 
 for a gentle evasion. Now Bruce Evelin was surely evading 
 the question, and again Mrs. Clarke was the subject of conver- 
 sation. Bruce Evelin was beginning to age rather definitely. 
 He had begun to look older since Beattie was married. But his 
 dark eyes were still very bright and keen, and one could not be 
 with him for even a few minutes without realizing that his in- 
 tellect was sharply alert. 
 
 " Isn't it strange that she should go back to live in Constan- 
 tinople? " Dion said. 
 
 " Yes. Not many women in her position would do it." 
 
 " And yet there's reason in her contention that an innocent 
 woman who allows herself to be driven away from the place she 
 lived in is a bit of a coward."
 
 228 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Beadon Clarke's transferred to Madrid, so Mrs. Clarke's 
 reason it was a diplomatic one for living in Constantinople 
 falls to the ground." 
 
 " Yes, that's true. But of course her husband and she have 
 parted." 
 
 " Naturally. So she has the world to choose from." 
 
 " For a home, you mean ? Yes. It's an odd choice, Con- 
 stantinople. But she's not an ordinary woman." 
 
 " No, I suppose not," said Bruce Evelin. 
 
 Again Dion was definitely conscious of evasion. He got up 
 to go away, feeling disappointed. 
 
 " Then you advise me to do nothing ? " he said. 
 
 "What about, my boy?" 
 
 " About Mrs. Clarke." 
 
 " What could you do ? " 
 
 Dion was silent. 
 
 " I think it's better to let women settle these little things 
 among themselves. They have a deep and comprehensive 
 understanding of trifles which we mostly lack. How's 
 Robin?" 
 
 Robin again! Was he always to be the buffer between 5 
 Little Market Street and Mrs. Clarke? 
 
 " He's well and tremendously, lively, and I honestly think 
 he's growing better looking." 
 
 "Dear little chap! " said Bruce Evelin, with a very great 
 tenderness in his voice. " Dion, we shall have to concentrate 
 on Robin." 
 
 Dion looked at him with inquiry. 
 
 " Poor Beattie, I don't think she'll have a child." 
 
 "Beattie! Not ever? " 
 
 " I'm afraid not." 
 
 Dion was shocked and startled. 
 
 " But I haven't heard a word " he began. 
 
 " No. Both Beattie and Guy feel it terribly. I had a talk 
 with Beattie's doctor to-day." 
 
 "How dreadful! I'm sorry. But " He paused. 
 
 He didn't like to ask intimate questions about Beattie. 
 
 " I'm afraid it is so," said Bruce Evelin. " You must let us 
 all have a share in your Robin." 
 
 He spoke very quietly, but there was very deep, even intense, 
 feeling in his voice. 
 
 " Poor Beattie ! " Dion said. 
 
 And that, too, was an evasion.
 
 ECHO 229 
 
 He went away from Great Cumberland place accompanied by 
 a sense of walking, not perhaps in darkness, but in a dimness 
 which was not delicately beautiful like the dimness of twilight, 
 but was rather akin to the semi-obscurity of fog. 
 
 Not a word more was said about Mrs. Clarke between Rosa- 
 mund and Dion, and the latter never let Mrs. Clarke know 
 about the Turkish songs, never fulfilled his undertaking to go 
 and see Jimmy again. In a contest he could only be on Rosa- 
 mund's side. The whole matter seemed to him unfortunate, 
 even almost disagreeable, but, for him, there could be no ques- 
 tion as to whether he wished Rosamund's or Mrs. Clarke's 
 will to prevail. Whatever Rosamund's reason was for not 
 choosing to be friends with Mrs. Clarke he knew it was not 
 malicious or petty. Perhaps she had made a mistake about 
 Mrs. Clarke. If so it was certainly an honest mistake. It 
 was when he thought of his promise to Jimmy that he felt most 
 uncomfortable about Rosamund's never expressed decision. 
 Jimmy had a good memory. He would not forget. As to 
 Mrs. Clarke, of course she now fully understood that Mrs. Dion 
 Leith did not want to have anything to do with her. She con- 
 tinued to go often to Beattie and Daventry, consolidated her 
 friendship with them. But Dion never met her in De Lome 
 Gardens. From Daventry he learnt that Mrs. Clarke had been 
 extraordinarily kind to Beattie when Beattie's expectation of 
 motherhood had faded away. Bruce Evelin's apprehension was 
 well founded. For reasons which Daventry did not enter into 
 Beattie could never now hope to have a child. Daventry was 
 greatly distressed about it, but rather for Beattie's sake than for 
 his own. 
 
 " I married Beattie because I loved her, not because I wanted 
 to become a father," he said. 
 
 After a rather long pause he added, almost wistfully. 
 
 " As to Beattie's reasons for marrying me, well, Dion, I 
 haven't asked what they were and I never shall. Women are 
 mysterious, and I believe it's wisdom on our part not to try to 
 force the locks and look into the hidden chambers. I'll do what 
 I can to make up to Beattie for this terrible disappointment. It 
 won't be nearly enough, but that isn't my fault. Rosamund and 
 you can help her a little." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " She she's extraordinarily fond of Robin." 
 
 " Extraordinarily? " said Dion, startled almost by Daventry's 
 peculiar emphasis on the word.
 
 230 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Yes. Let her see a good deal of Robin if you can. Poor 
 Beattie! She'll never have a child of her own to live in." 
 
 Dion told Rosamund of this conversation, and they agreed 
 to encourage Beattie to come to Little Market Street as often 
 as possible. Nevertheless Beattie did not come very often. 
 It was obvious that she adored Robin, who was always polite 
 to her; but perhaps delicacy of feeling kept her from making 
 perpetual pilgrimages to the shrine before which an incense 
 not hers was forever ascending; or perhaps she met a gaunt 
 figure of Pain in the home of her sister. However it was, her 
 visits were rather rare, and no persuasion availed to make her 
 come oftener. At this time she and Dion's mother drew closer 
 together. The two women loved and understood each other 
 well. Perhaps between them there was the link of loneliness, 
 or perhaps there was another link. 
 
 Early in April Dion received one morning the following let- 
 ter: 
 
 " CLARIDGE'S HOTEL, 
 
 6 April 
 
 " DEAR MR. LEITH, I feel pretty rotten about you. I 
 thought when once a clever boxer gave his honor on a thing it 
 was a dead cert. The mater wouldn't let me write before, 
 though I've been at her over it every day for weeks. But now 
 we're going away, so she says I may write and just tell you. 
 If you want to say good-by could you telephone, she says. 
 P'raps you don't. P'raps you've forgotten us. I can tell you 
 Jenkins is sick about it all and your never going to the Gim. 
 He said to me to-day, ' I don't know what's come over Mr. 
 Leith.' No more do I. The mater says you're a busy man and 
 have a kid. I say a true friend is never too busy to be friendly. 
 I really do feel rotten over it, and now we are going. Your 
 affectionate JIMMY " 
 
 Dion showed Rosamund the letter, and telephoned to say he 
 would call on the following day. Jimmy's voice answered on 
 the telephone and said: 
 
 " I say, you have been beastly to us. The mater says noth- 
 ing, but we thought you liked us. Jenkins says that between 
 boxers there's always a " 
 
 At this point Jimmy was cut off in the flower of his re- 
 proaches. 
 
 On arriving at Claridge's Dion found Jimmy alone. Mrs.
 
 ECHO 231 
 
 Clarke was out but would return in a moment. Jimmy re- 
 ceived his visitor not stiffly but with exuberant and vociferous 
 reproaches, and vehement demands to know the why and where- 
 fore of his unsportsmanlike behavior. 
 
 " I've ordered you a real jam tea all the same," he con- 
 cluded, with a magnanimity which did him honor, and which, 
 as he was evidently aware, proved him to be a true sportsman. 
 
 " You're a trump," said Dion, pulling the boy down beside 
 him on a sofa. 
 
 " Oh, well but I say, why didn't you come? " 
 
 He stared with the mercilessly inquiring eyes of boyhood. 
 
 " I don't think I ever said on my honor that I would come." 
 
 " But you did. You swore." 
 
 " No. I was afraid of the policeman." 
 
 " I say, what rot! As if you could be afraid of any one! 
 Why, Jenkins says you're the best pupil he's ever had. Why 
 didn't you? Don't you like us? " 
 
 " Of course I do." 
 
 " The mater says you're married, and married men have no 
 time to bother about other people's kids. Is that true ? " 
 
 " Well, of course there's a lot to be done in London, and I 
 go to business every day." 
 
 " You've got a kid, haven't you? " 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 "It's a boy, isn't it?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I say, how old is it? " 
 
 " A year and a month old, or a little over." 
 
 Jimmy's face expressed satire. 
 
 " A year and a month ! " he repeated. " Is that all ? Then 
 it can't be much good yet, can it? " 
 
 " It can't box or do exercise as you can. You are getting 
 broad." 
 
 " Rather! Box? I should think not! A kid of a year old 
 boxing! I should like to see it with Jenkins." 
 
 He began to giggle. By the time Mrs. Clarke returned and 
 they sat down to the real jam tea, the ice was in fragments. 
 
 " I believe you were right, mater, and it was all the kid that 
 prevented Mr. Leith from sticking to his promise," Jimmy an- 
 nounced, as he helped Dion to " the strawberry," with a liber- 
 ality which betokened an affection steadfast even under the 
 -stress of blighting circumstances. 
 
 " Of course I was right," returned his mother gravely.
 
 232 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 Dion was rather glad that she looked away from him as she 
 said it 
 
 Her manner to him was unchanged. Evidently she was a 
 woman not quick to take offense. He liked that absence of all 
 " touchiness " from her, and felt that a man could rest com- 
 fortably on her good breeding. But this very good breeding in- 
 creased within him a sense of discomfort which amounted al- 
 most to guilt. He tried to smother it by being very jolly with 
 Jimmy, to whom he devoted most of his attention. When tea 
 was over Mrs. Clarke said to her son: 
 
 " Now, Jimmy, you must go away for a little while and let 
 me have a talk with Mr. Leith." 
 
 " Oh, mater, that's not fair. Mr. Leith's my pal. Aren't 
 you, Mr. Leith? Why, even Jenkins says " 
 
 " I should rather think so. Why " 
 
 " You shall see Mr. Leith again before he goes." 
 
 He looked at his mother, suddenly became very grave, and 
 went slowly out of the room. It was evident to Dion that Mrs. 
 Clarke knew how to make people obey her when she was in 
 earnest. 
 
 As soon as Jimmy had gone Mrs. Clarke rang for the waiter 
 to take away the tea-table. 
 
 " Then we shan't be bothered," she remarked. " I hate peo- 
 ple coming in and out when I'm trying to have a quiet talk." 
 
 " So do I," said Dion. 
 
 The waiter rolled the table out gently and shut the door. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke sat down on a sofa. 
 
 " Do light a cigar," she said. " I know you want to smoke, 
 and I'll have a cigarette." 
 
 She drew out of a little case which lay on a table beside her 
 a Turkish cigarette and lit it, while Dion lighted a cigar. 
 
 " So you're really going back to Constantinople? " he began. 
 " And taking Jimmy with you? " 
 
 " Yes, for a time. My husband raises no objection. In a 
 year I shall send Jimmy to Eton. Lady Ermyntrude is furious, 
 of course, and has tried to stir up my husband. But her influ- 
 ence with him is dead. He's terribly ashamed at what she made 
 him do." 
 
 "The action?" 
 
 " Yes. It was she who made him think me guilty against 
 his real inner conviction. Now, poor man, he realizes that he 
 dragged me through the dirt without reason. He's ashamed to 
 show his face in the Clubs, and nearly resigned from diplo-
 
 ECHO 233 
 
 macy. But he's a valuable man, and they've persuaded him to 
 go to Madrid." 
 
 " "Why go back to Constantinople? " 
 
 " Merely to show I'm not afraid to and that I won't be driven 
 from my purpose by false accusations." 
 
 " And you love it, of course." 
 
 " Yes. My flat will be charming, I think. Some day you'll 
 see it." 
 
 Dion was silent in surprise. 
 
 " Don't you realize that? " she asked, staring at him. 
 
 " I think it very improbable that I shall ever go back to Con- 
 stantinople." 
 
 " And I'm sure you will." 
 
 " Why are you sure? " 
 
 " That I can't tell you. Why is one sometimes sure that cer- 
 tain things will come about? " 
 
 " Do you claim to be psychic ? " said Dion. 
 
 " I never make verbal claims. Now about Jimmy." 
 
 She discussed for a little while seriously her plans for the 
 boy's education while he stayed with her. She had found a 
 tutor, a young Oxford man, who would accompany them to Tur- 
 key, but she wanted Dion's advice on certain points. He gave 
 it, wondering all the time why she consulted him after his neg- 
 lect of her and of her son, after his failure to accept invita- 
 tions and to fulfil pledges (or to stick to the understandings 
 which were almost pledges), after the tacit refusals of Rosa- 
 mund. Did it not show a strange persistence, even a certain 
 lack of pride in her? Perhaps she heard the haunting ques- 
 tions which he did not utter, for she suddenly turned from the 
 topic of the boy and said: 
 
 " You're surprised at my bothering you with all this when 
 we really know each other so slightly. It is unconventional; 
 but I shall never learn the way to conventionality in spite of all 
 poor Esme's efforts to shepherd me into the path he thinks nar- 
 row and I find broad a way that leads to destruction. I feel 
 you absolutely understand boys, and know by instinct the best 
 way with them. That's why I still come to you." 
 
 She paused. She had deliberately driven home her mean- 
 ing by a stress on one word. Now she sat looking at him, with 
 a wide-eyed and deeply grave fixity, as if considering what 
 more she should say. Dion murmured something about being 
 very glad if he could help her in any way with regard to 
 Jimmy.
 
 234 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " You can be conventional," she remarked. " Well, why 
 not? Most English people are perpetually playing for safety." 
 
 " I wish you wouldn't go back to Constantinople," said Dion. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " I believe it's a mistake. It seems to me like throwing down 
 a defiance to your world." 
 
 " But I never play for safety." 
 
 " But think of the danger you've passed through." 
 
 The characteristic distressed look deepened in her eyes till 
 they seemed to him tragic. Nevertheless, fearlessness still 
 looked out of them. 
 
 " What shall I gain by doing that ? " she asked. 
 
 " Esme Darlington once said you were a wild mind in an in- 
 nocent body. I believe he was right. But it seems to me that 
 some day your wild mind may get you into danger again and 
 that perhaps you won't escape from it unscathed a second time." 
 
 " How quiet and safe and calm it must be at Number 5 ! " 
 she rejoined, without any irony. 
 
 " You wouldn't care for that sort of life. You'd find it hum- 
 drum," said Dion, with simplicity. 
 
 " You never would," she said, still without irony, without 
 even the hint of a sneer. " And the truth is that the hum- 
 drum is created not by a way of living but by those who follow 
 it. Your wife and the humdrum could never occupy the same 
 house. I shall always regret that I didn't see something of her. 
 Do give her a cordial ' au revoir ' from me. You'll hear of me 
 again. Don't be frightened about me in your kind of chival- 
 rous heart. I am grateful to you for several things. I'm not 
 going to give the list now. That would either bore you, or 
 make you feel shy. Some day, perhaps, I shall tell you what 
 they are, in a caique on the sweet waters of Asia or among the 
 cypresses of Eyub." 
 
 With the last sentence she transported Dion, as on a magic 
 carpet, to the unwise life. Her husky voice changed a little; 
 her face changed a little too; the one became slower and more 
 drowsy; the other less haggard and fixed in its expression of 
 distress. This woman had her hours of happiness, perhaps 
 even of exultation. For a moment Dion envisaged another 
 woman in her. And when he had bidden her good-by, and had 
 received the tremendous farewells of Jimmy, he realized that she 
 had made upon him an impression which, though soft, was cer- 
 tainly deep. He thought of how a cushion looks when it lies on 
 a sofa in an empty room, indented by the small head of a woman
 
 ECHO 235 
 
 who has been thinking, thinking alone. For a moment he was 
 out of shape, and Mrs. Clarke had made him so. 
 
 In the big hall, as he passed out, he saw Lord Brayfield stand- 
 ing in front of the bureau speaking to the hall porter. 
 
 " Some day, perhaps, I shall tell you what they are, in a 
 cai'que on the sweet waters of Asia or among the cypresses of 
 Eyub." 
 
 Dion smiled as he recalled Mrs. Clarke's words, which had 
 been spoken fatalistically. Then his face became very grave. 
 
 Suddenly there dawned upon him, like a vision in the Lon- 
 don street, one of the vast Turkish cemeteries, dusty, forlorn, 
 disordered, yet full of a melancholy touched by romance; and 
 among the thousands of graves, through the dark thickets of 
 cypresses, he was walking with Mrs. Clarke, who looked ex- 
 actly like Echo. 
 
 A newsboy at the corner was crying the latest horror a 
 woman found stabbed in Hyde Park. But to Dion his raucous 
 and stunted voice sounded like a voice from the sea, a strange 
 and sad cry lifted up between Europe and Asia.
 
 BOOK III 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 MORE than a year and a half passed away, and in the 
 autumn of 1899 the Boer War broke out and the face 
 of England was changed ; for the heart of England be- 
 gan to beat more strongly than usual, and the soul of England 
 was stirred. The winter came, and in many Englishmen a 
 hidden conflict began; in their journey through life they came 
 abruptly to a parting of the ways, stood still and looked to the 
 right and the left, balancing possibilities, searching their na- 
 tures and finding within them strange hesitations, recoils, af- 
 firmations, determined nobilities. 
 
 Dion had followed the events which led up to the fateful 
 decision of Wednesday, October the eleventh, with intense in- 
 terest. As the October days drew on he had felt the approach 
 of war. It came up, this footfall of an enemy, it paced at his 
 side. Would he presently be tried by this enemy, would it test 
 him and find out exactly what metal he was made of? He 
 wondered, but from the moment when the first cloud showed 
 itself on the horizon he had a presentiment that this distant war 
 was going to have a strong effect on his life. 
 
 On the afternoon of October the eleventh he walked slowly 
 home from the City alone. There was excitement in the air. 
 The voices of the newsvendors sounded fateful in his ears; the 
 faces of the passers-by looked unusually eager and alert. As 
 he made his way through the crowd he did not debate the 
 rights and wrongs of the question about to be decided between 
 Briton and Boer. His mind avoided thoughts about politics. 
 For him, perhaps strangely, the issue had already narrowed 
 down to a personal question : " What is this war going to mean 
 to me?" 
 
 He asked himself this; he put the question again and again. 
 
 237
 
 238 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 Nevertheless it was answered somewhere within him almost as 
 soon as it was put. If there came a call for volunteers he would 
 be one of the many who would answer it. The call might not 
 come, of course; the war might be short, a hole-and-corner af- 
 fair soon ended. He told himself that, and, as he did so, he 
 felt sure that the call would come. 
 
 He knew he would not hold back; but he knew also that his 
 was not the eagerness to go of the man assumed by journalists 
 to be the typical Englishman. He was not mad to plunge into 
 the great game, reckless of the future and shouting for the 
 fray. He was not one of the " hard-bitten raw-boned men with 
 keen eyes and ready for anything " beloved of the journalists, 
 who loom so large in the public eye when " big things are afoot." 
 On that autumn evening, as he walked homeward, Dion knew 
 the bunkum that is given out to the world as truth, knew that 
 brave men have souls undreamed of in newspaper offices. He 
 perceived the figure of war just then as a figure terribly aus- 
 tere, grim, cold, harsh a figure stripped of all pleasant flesh 
 and sweet coloring, of all softness and warm humanity. It ac- 
 companied him like an iron thing which nevertheless was in- 
 formed with life. Joy withered beside it, yet it had the power 
 to make things bloom. Already he knew that as he had not 
 known it before. 
 
 In the crowded Strand the voices of the newsvendors were 
 insistently shrill, raucous, almost fierce. As he heard them he 
 faced tests. Many things were going to be put to the test in 
 the almost immediate future. Among them perhaps would be 
 Rosamund's exact feeling for him. 
 
 Upon the hill of Drouva they had slept in the same tent, hus- 
 band and wife, more than three years ago; in green and remote 
 Elis they had sat together before the Hermes, hidden away from 
 the world and hearing the antique voices; in Westminster 
 Robin was theirs; yet this evening, facing in imagination the 
 tests of war, Dion knew that Rosamund's exact feeling for him 
 was still a secret from him. If he went to South Africa that 
 secret must surely be revealed. Rosamund would inevitably 
 find out then the nature of her feeling for him, how much she 
 cared, and even if she did not tell him how much she cared he 
 would know, he could not help knowing. 
 
 He knew with a terrible thoroughness this evening how much 
 he cared for her. 
 
 He considered Robin. 
 
 Robin was now more than two and a half years old; a
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 239 
 
 personage in a jersey and minute knickerbockers, full of danc- 
 ing energy and spirits, full of vital interest in the smaller prob- 
 lems of life. He was a fidget and he was a talker. Out of a 
 full mind he poured forth an abundant stream of words, care- 
 lessly chosen at times, yet on the whole apt to the occasion. 
 His intelligence was marked, of course, what very young 
 child's is not ? and he had inherited an ample store of the 
 joie de vivre which distinguished his mother. The homeliness 
 of feature which had marked him out in the baldhead stage 
 of his existence had given place to a dawning of what promised 
 to be later on distinct good looks. Already he was an at- 
 tractive-looking child, with a beautiful mouth, a rather short 
 and at present rather snub nose, freckled on the bridge, large 
 blue eyes, and a forehead, temples and chin which hinted at 
 Rosamund's. His hair was now light brown, and had a bold, 
 almost an ardent, wave in it. Perhaps Robin's most marked 
 characteristic at this time was ardor. Occasionally the mildly 
 inquiring expression which Dion had been touched by in the 
 early days came to his little face. He could be very gentle 
 and very clinging, and was certainly sensitive. Often imag- 
 ination, in embryo as it were, was shown by his eyes. But 
 ardor informed and enveloped him, he swam in ardor and of 
 ardor he was all compact. Even the freckles which disfigured, 
 or adorned, the bridge of his nose looked ardent. Rosamund 
 loved those freckles in a way she could never have explained, 
 loved them with a strength and tenderness which issued from the 
 very roots of her being. To her they were Robin, the dearest 
 part of the dearest thing on earth. Many of her kisses had gone 
 to those little freckles. 
 
 Dion might have to part not only from Rosamund but also 
 from Robin. 
 
 He had become very fond of his little son. The detachment 
 which had perhaps marked his mental attitude to the baby 
 did not mark his mental attitude to the boy. In the Robin of 
 to-day, the jerseyed and knickerbockered person, with the in- 
 cessantly active legs, the eager eyes, the perpetually twittering 
 voice, Dion was conscious of the spirit of progress. Already 
 he was able to foresee the small school-boy, whom only a fa- 
 ther could properly help and advise in regard to many aspects 
 of the life ahead; already he was looking forward to the time 
 when he could take a hand in the training of Robin. It would 
 be very hard to go away from that little bit of quicksilver, very 
 hard indeed.
 
 240 IX THE WILDERNESS 
 
 But the thought which made his heart sink, which brought 
 with it almost a sensation of mortal sickness to his soul, was 
 the thought of parting from Rosamund. As he walked down 
 Parliament Street he imagined the good-by to her on the eve 
 of sailing for South Africa. That acute moment might never 
 come. This evening he felt it on the way. Whatever hap- 
 pened it would be within his power to stay with Rosamund, for 
 there was no conscription in England. If he went to South 
 Africa then the action of leaving her would be deliberate on his 
 part. Was there within him something that was stronger than 
 his love for her ? There must be, he supposed, for he knew that 
 if men were called for, and if Rosamund asked, or even begged 
 him not to go, he would go nevertheless. 
 
 Vaporous Westminster, dark and leaning to the great river, 
 for how long he had not seen it, or realized what it meant to 
 him! Custom had blinded his eyes and had nearly closed his 
 mind to it The day's event had given him back sight and 
 knowledge. This evening his familiarity with Westminster 
 bred in him intensity of vision and apprehension. It seemed to 
 him that scales had fallen from his eyes, that for the first time 
 he really saw Parliament Street, the Houses of Parliament, 
 Westminster Bridge, the river. The truth was, that for the 
 first time he really felt them, felt that he belonged to them and 
 they to him, that their blackness in the October evening was 
 part of the color of him, that the Westminster sounds, chimes, 
 footfalls, the dull roar of traffic, human voices from street, from 
 bridge, from river, harmonized with the voices in him, in the 
 very depths of him. This was England, this closeness, this 
 harmony of the outer to and with the inner, this was Eng- 
 land saying to one of her sons, " You belong to me and I to 
 you." The race spoke and the land, they walked with Dion 
 in the darkness. 
 
 For he did not go straight home. He walked for a long 
 time beside the river. By the river he kissed Robin and he 
 said good-by to Rosamund, by the river he climbed upon the 
 troopship, and he saw the fading of England on the horizon, 
 and he felt the breath of the open sea. And in the midst of a 
 crowd of men going southward he knew at last what loneli- 
 ness was. The lights that gleamed across the river were the 
 last lights of England that he would see for many a day. per- 
 haps forever; the chime from the clock -tower was the last of 
 the English sounds. He endured in imagination a phantom 
 bitterness of departure which seemed abominably real; then sud-
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 241 
 
 denly he was recalled from a possible future to the very definite 
 present. 
 
 He met by the river two men, sleek people in silk hats, with 
 plump hands hands which looked as if they were carefully 
 fed on very nutritious food even- day by their owners warmly 
 covered. As they passed him one of these know-alls said to 
 the other: 
 
 "Oh, it'll only be a port) 7 little war. What can a handful of 
 peasants do against our men? I'll lay you five to one in sov- 
 ereigns two months will see it out." 
 
 " I dare say you will," returned the other, in a voice that was 
 surely smiling, " but I won't take you." 
 
 " By Jove, what a plunger I am! " thought Dion. " Racing 
 ahead like a horse that's lost his wits. Ten to one they'll never 
 want volunteers.'' 
 
 But Westminster still looked exceptional, full of the inner 
 meaning, and somewhere within him a voice still said, " You 
 will go."' Nevertheless he was able partly to put off his hybrid 
 feeling, half-dread, half-desire. The sleek people in the silk 
 hats had made their little effect on the stranger. " The man 
 in the street is often right," Dion said to himself; though he 
 knew that the man in the street is probably there, and remains 
 there, because he is so often WTong. 
 
 \Yhen he reached Little Market Street Dion told Rosamund 
 there would be war in South Africa, but he did not even hint 
 at his thought that volunteers might be called for, at his inten- 
 tion, if they were, to offer himself. To do that would not only 
 be absurdly premature, but might even seem slightly bombastic, 
 an uncalled-for study in heroics. He kept silence. The bat- 
 tles of Ladysmith, of Magersfontein, of Stormberg, of Colenso, 
 unsettled the theories of sleek people in silk hats. England 
 came to a very dark hour when Robin was playing with a new 
 set of bricks which his Aunt Beattie had given him. Dion 
 began to understand the rightness of his instinct that evening 
 by the river, when Westminster had spoken to him and Eng- 
 land had whispered in his blood. As he had thought of things, 
 so they were going to be. The test was very great It was as 
 if already it stood by him, a living entity, and touched him 
 with an imperious hand. Sometimes he looked at Rosamund 
 and saw great stretches of sea rolling under great stretches of 
 sky. The barrier! How would he be able to bear the long 
 separation from Rosamund? The habit of happiness in cer- 
 tain circumstances can become the scourge of a man. Men who
 
 242 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 were unhappy at home could go to the war with a lighter heart 
 than he. 
 
 Just before Christmas the call for men came, and in Dion a 
 hesitation was born. Should he go and offer himself at once 
 without telling Rosamund, or should he tell her what he wished 
 to do and ask her opinion? Suppose she were against his 
 going out? He could not ask her advice if he was not pre- 
 pared to take it. What line did he wish her to take ? By what 
 course of action would such a woman as Rosamund prove depth 
 of love? Wouldn't it be natural for a woman who loved a 
 man to raise objections to his going out to fight in a distant 
 country? Wouldn't she prove her love by raising objections? 
 On the other hand, wouldn't a wpman who loved a man in 
 the greatest way be driven by the desire to see him rise up 
 in an emergency and prove his manhood at whatever cost to 
 her? 
 
 Dion wanted one thing of Rosamund at this moment, wanted 
 it terribly, with longing and with fear, the proof absolute and 
 unhesitating of her love for him. 
 
 He decided to volunteer without telling her beforehand that 
 he meant to do so. He told no one of his intention except his 
 Uncle Biron, whom he was obliged to consult as they were part- 
 ners in business. 
 
 " You're right, my boy," said his uncle. " WV11 get on as 
 best we can without you. We shall miss you, of course. Since 
 you've been married your energy has been most praiseworthy, 
 but, of course, the nation comes before the firm. What does 
 your mother say? " 
 
 Dion was struck with a sense of wonder by this question. 
 Why didn't his uncle ask him what Rosamund had said? 
 
 " I haven't spoken to her," he answered. 
 
 " She'll wish you to go in spite of all," said his uncle 
 gravely. 
 
 " I haven't even spoken to Rosamund of my intention to en- 
 list." 
 
 His uncle looked surprised, even for a moment astonished, 
 but he only said: 
 
 " She's rather on heroic lines, I should judge. There's some- 
 thing spacious in her nature." 
 
 "Yes," said Dion. 
 
 He pledged his uncle to silence. Then they talked business. 
 
 From that moment Dion wondered how his mother would 
 take his decision. That he had not wondered before proved
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 243 
 
 to himself the absorbing character of his love for his wife. He 
 loved his mother very much, yet, till his uncle had spoken about 
 her in the office, he had only thought about Rosamund in con- 
 nexion with his decision to enlist. The very great thing had 
 swallowed up the big thing. There is something ruthless, al- 
 most at moments repellent, in the very great thing which rules in 
 a man's life. But his mother would never know. 
 
 That was what he said to himself, unconscious of the fact 
 that his mother had known and had lived alone with her knowl- 
 edge for years. 
 
 He offered himself for service in South Africa with the City 
 Imperial Volunteers. The doctor passed him. He was in- 
 formed that he would be sworn in at the Guildhall on 4th Janu- 
 ary. The great step was taken. 
 
 Why had he taken it without telling Rosamund he was go- 
 ing to take it? 
 
 'As he came out into the dark winter evening he wondered 
 about that almost vaguely. He must have had a driving rea- 
 son, but now he did not know what it was. How was Rosa- 
 mund going to take it? Suddenly he felt guilty, as if he had 
 done her a wrong. They were one flesh, and in such vital mat- 
 ter he had not consulted her. Wasn't it abominable? 
 
 As soon as he was free he went straight home. 
 
 This time, as he walked homeward, Dion held no inter- 
 course with Westminster. If he heard the chimes, the voices, 
 the footfalls, he was not conscious of hearing them; if he saw 
 the vapors from the river, the wreaths of smoke from the chim- 
 neys, the lights gleaming in the near houses and far away across 
 the dark mystery of the water, he did not know that he saw 
 them. In himself he was imprisoned, and against the great city 
 in which he walked he had shut the doors. 
 
 He arrived at his house and put his hand in his pocket to 
 get his latch-key. Before he was able to draw it forth the green 
 door was opened and Beatrice came out. 
 ' Dion ! " she said, startled. 
 ' You nearly ran over me! " 
 ' What is it? " she asked. " What have you done? " 
 
 But " 
 
 I know! " she interrupted. 
 
 She put out her hand and took hold of his coat sleeve. The 
 action was startlingly impulsive in Beatrice, who was always so 
 almost plaintive, so restrained, so dim. 
 
 "But you can't! "
 
 244 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " I do. You are going to South Africa." 
 
 He said nothing. How could he tell Beatrice before he told 
 Rosamund ? 
 
 " When are you going? " 
 
 " Is Rosamund in the house, Beattie? " he asked, very gently. 
 
 Beatrice flushed deeply, painfully, and took her hand from 
 his sleeve. 
 
 " Yes. I've been playing with Robin, building castles with 
 the new bricks. Good-by, Dion." 
 
 She went past him and down the small street rather quickly. 
 He stood for a moment looking after her; then he turned into 
 the house. As he shut the door he heard a chord struck on 
 the piano upstairs in Rosamund's sitting-room. He took off his 
 coat and hat and came into the little hall. As he did so he 
 heard Rosamund's voice beginning to sing Brahms's " Wiegen- 
 lied " very softly. He guessed that she was singing to an 
 audience of Robin. The bricks had been put away after the 
 departure of Aunt Beattie, and now Robin was being sung to- 
 wards sleep. How often would he be sung to by Rosamund 
 in the future when his father would not be there to listen! 
 
 Robin was going to have his mother all to himself, and Rosa- 
 mund was going to have her little son all to herself. But they 
 did not know that yet. The long months of their sacred com- 
 panionship stretched out before the father as he listened to 
 the lullaby, which he could only just hear. Rosamund had 
 mastered the art of withdrawing her voice and yet keeping it 
 perfectly level. 
 
 When the song was finished, whispered away into the spaces 
 where music disperses to carry on its sweet mission, Dion went 
 up the stairs, opened the door of Rosamund's room, and saw 
 something very simple, and, to him, very memorable. Rosa- 
 mund had turned on the music-stool and put her right arm 
 round Robin, who, in his minute green jersey and green knick- 
 erbockers, stood leaning against her with the languid happi- 
 ness and half-wayward demeanor of a child who has been 
 playing, and who already feels the soothing influence of ap- 
 proaching night with its gift of profound sleep. Robin's cheeks 
 were flushed, and in his blue eyes there was a curious ex- 
 pression, drowsily imaginative, as if he were welcoming dreams 
 which were only for him. With a faint smile on his small rosy 
 lips he was listening while Rosamund repeated to him in Eng- 
 lish the words of the song she had just been singing. Dion 
 heard her say:
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 245 
 
 " Sink to slumber, good-night, 
 And angels of light 
 With love you shall fold 
 As the Christ Child of old." 
 
 " There's Fa ! " whispered Robin, sending to Dion a semi- 
 roguish look. 
 
 Dion held up his hand and formed " Hush ! " with his lips. 
 Rosamund finished the verse: 
 
 " While the stars dimly shine 
 May no sorrow be thine." 
 
 She bent and kissed Robin on the top of his head just in the 
 middle, choosing the place, and into his hair she breathed a 
 repetition of the last words, " May no sorrow be thine." 
 
 And Dion was going to the war. 
 
 Robin slipped from his mother's arm gently and came to his 
 father. 
 
 " 'Allo, Fa ! " he observed confidentially. 
 
 Dion bent down. 
 
 "Hallo, Robin!" 
 
 He picked the little chap up and gave him a kiss. What 
 a small bundle of contentment Robin was at that moment. In 
 South Africa Dion often remembered just how Robin had felt 
 to him then, intimate and a mystery, confidential, sleepy with 
 happiness, a tiny holder of the Divine, a willing revelation and 
 a soft secret. So much in so little ! 
 
 " You've been playing with Auntie Beattie." 
 
 Robin acknowledged it. 
 
 " Auntie's putty good at bricks." 
 
 " Did you meet Beattie, Dion ? " asked Rosamund. 
 
 " On the doorstep." 
 
 He thought of Beatrice's question. There was no question in 
 Rosamund's face. But perhaps his own face had changed. 
 
 A tap came to the door. 
 
 "Master Robin? " said nurse, in a voice that held both in- 
 quiry and an admonishing sound. 
 
 When Robin had gone off to bed, walking vaguely and full 
 of the forerunners of dreams, Dion knew that his hour had 
 come. He felt a sort of great stillness within him, stillness of 
 presage, perhaps, or of mere concentration, of the will to be, to 
 do, to endure, whatever came. Rosamund shut down the lid 
 of the piano and came away from the music-stool. Dion looked
 
 246 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 at her, and thought of the maidens of the porch and of the col- 
 umns of the Parthenon. 
 
 "Rosamund," he said, that stillness within him forbade 
 any preparation, any " leading up," " I've joined the City Im- 
 perial Volunteers." 
 
 "The City Imperial Volunteers? " she said. 
 
 He knew by the sound of her voice that she had not grasped 
 the meaning of what he had done. She looked surprised, and a 
 question was in her brown eyes. 
 
 "Why? What are they? I don't understand. And the 
 Artists' Rifles?" 
 
 " I've got my transfer from them. I've joined for the war." 
 
 " The war? Do you mean ? " 
 
 She came up to him, looking suddenly intent. 
 
 " Do you mean you have volunteered for active service in 
 South Africa?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Without consulting me ? " 
 
 Her whole face reddened, almost as it had reddened when she 
 spoke to him about the death of her mother. 
 
 " Yes. I haven't signed on yet, but the doctor has passed 
 me. I'm to be sworn in at the Guildhall on the fourth, I be- 
 lieve. We shall sail very soon, almost directly, I suppose. 
 They want men out there." 
 
 He did not know how bruskly he spoke; he was feeling too 
 much to know. 
 
 " I didn't think you could do such a thing without speaking 
 to me first. My husband, and you ! " 
 
 She stopped abruptly, as if afraid of what she might say if 
 she went on speaking. Two deep lines appeared in her fore- 
 head. For the first time in his life Dion saw an expression of 
 acute hostility in her eyes. She had been angry, or almost an- 
 gry with him for a moment in Elis, when he broke off the 
 branch of wild olive; but she had not looked like this. There 
 was something piercing in her expression that was quite new 
 to him. 
 
 ' I felt I ought to do it," he said dully. 
 
 ' Did you think I should try to prevent you? " 
 
 ' No. I scarcely know what I thought." 
 
 ' Have you told your mother? " 
 
 ' No. I had to tell Uncle Biron because of the business. 
 Nobody else knows."
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 247 
 
 And then suddenly he remembered Beattie. 
 
 " At least I haven't told any one else." 
 
 " But some one else does know knew before I did." 
 
 " I saw Beattie just now, as I said. I believe she guessed. 
 I didn't tell her." 
 
 " But how could she guess such a thing if you gave her no 
 hint? " 
 
 " That's just what I have been wondering." 
 
 Rosamund was silent. She went away from him and stood 
 by the fire, turning her back to him. He waited for a moment, 
 then he went to the hearth. 
 
 " Don't you think perhaps it's best for a man to decide such 
 a thing quite alone? It's a man's job, and each man must 
 judge for himself what he ought to do in such a moment. If 
 you had asked me not to go I should have felt bound to go all 
 the same." 
 
 " But I should have said ' Go.' Then you never understood 
 me in Greece ? All our talks told you nothing about me ? And 
 now Robin is here you thought I should ask you not to go ! " 
 
 She turned round. She seemed almost passionately sur- 
 prised. 
 
 " Perhaps in a way I wished to think that." 
 
 " Why? Did you wish to despise me? " 
 
 " Rosamund! As if I could ever do that." 
 
 " If you did a despicable thing I should despise you." 
 
 " Don't! I haven't much more time here." 
 
 " I never, never shall be able to understand how you could 
 do this without telling me beforehand that you were going to 
 do it." 
 
 " It wasn't from any want of respect or love for you." 
 
 " I can't talk about it any more just now." 
 
 The flush on her face deepened. She turned and went out 
 of the room. 
 
 Dion was painfully affected. He had never before had a 
 serious disagreement with Rosamund. It was almost intoler- 
 able to have one now on the eve of departure from her. He 
 felt like one who had committed an outrage out of the depths 
 of a terrible hunger, a hunger of curiosity. He knew now why 
 he had volunteered for active service without consulting Rosa- 
 mund. Obscurely his nature had spoken, saying, " Put her to 
 the test and make the test drastic." And he had obeyed the 
 command. He had wanted to know, to find out suddenly, in
 
 248 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 a moment, the exact truth of years. And now he had roused a 
 passion of anger in Rosamund. 
 
 Her anger wrapped him in pain such as he had never felt 
 till now. 
 
 The house seemed full of menace. In the little room the at- 
 mosphere was changed. He looked round it and his eyes rested 
 on the Hermes. He went up to it and stood before it. 
 
 Instantly he felt again the exquisite calm of Elis. The face 
 of the Hermes made the thought of war seem horrible and ri- 
 diculous. Men had learnt so much when Praxiteles created his 
 Hermes, and they knew so little now. The enigma of their 
 violence was as great as the enigma of the celestial calm which 
 the old Greeks had perpetuated to be forever the joy and the 
 rest of humanity. And he, Dion, was going to take an active 
 part in violence. The enchanting serenity of the Hermes, which 
 brought all Elis before him, with its green sights and its won- 
 derful sounds, of the drowsy insects in the sunshine, of the 
 sheep-bells, and of the pines whose voices hold within them all 
 the eternal secrets, increased the intensity of his misery. He 
 realized how unstable are the foundations of human happiness, 
 and his house of life seemed crumbling about him. 
 
 Presently he went downstairs to his room and wrote letters 
 to his mother and to Bruce Evelin, telling them what he had 
 done. 
 
 When he had directed and stamped these letters he thought 
 of Beattie and Guy. Beattie knew. What was it which had 
 led her so instantly to a knowledge denied to Rosamund? 
 Rosamund had evidently not noticed any difference in him when 
 he came in that evening. But, to be sure, Robin had been 
 there. 
 
 Robin had been there. 
 
 Dion sat before the writing-table for a long while doing noth- 
 ing. Then a clock struck. He had only half an hour to 
 spare before dinner would be ready. Quickly he wrote a few 
 words to Beattie: 
 
 " MY DEAR BEATTIE, You were right. I have volunteered 
 for active service and shall soon be off to South Africa. I don't 
 know yet exactly when we shall start, but I expect they'll hurry 
 us off as quickly as they can. Men are wanted out there badly. 
 Lots of fellows are coming forward. I'll tell you more when I 
 see you again. Messages to Guy. Yours affectionately, 
 
 " DION "
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 249 
 
 It was not an eloquent letter, but Beattie would understand. 
 Beattie was not a great talker but she was a great under- 
 stander. He went out to put the three letters into the pillar- 
 box. Then he hurried upstairs to his dressing-room. For the 
 first time in his life he almost dreaded spending an evening 
 alone with Rosamund. 
 
 He did not see her till he came into the drawing-room. As 
 he opened the door he saw her sitting by the fire reading, in a 
 dark blue dress. 
 
 " I'm afraid I'm late," he said, as he walked to the hearth. 
 " I wrote to mother, Beattie and godfather to tell them what I 
 was going to do." 
 
 " What you had done," she said quietly, putting down the 
 book. 
 
 " I haven't actually been sworn in yet, but of course it is 
 practically the same thing." 
 
 He looked at her almost surreptitiously. She was very 
 grave, but there was absolutely nothing hostile or angry in her 
 expression or manner. They went into the dining-room, and 
 talked together much as usual during dinner. As soon as din- 
 ner was over, and the parlor-maid had gone out, having finished 
 her ministrations, which to Dion that night had seemed innu- 
 merable and well-nigh unbearable, he said: 
 
 " I'm dreadfully sorry about to-day. I did the wrong thing 
 in volunteering without saying anything to you. Of course you 
 were hurt and startled " 
 
 He looked at her and paused. 
 
 " Yes, I was. I couldn't help it, and I don't think you ought 
 to have done what you did. But you have made a great sacri- 
 fice very great. I only want to think of that, Dion, of how 
 much you are giving up, and of the cause our cause." 
 
 She spoke very earnestly and sincerely, and her eyes looked 
 serious and very kind. 
 
 " Don't let us go back to anything sad, or to any misunder- 
 standing now," she continued. " You are doing an admirable 
 thing, and I shall always be glad you had the will to do it, 
 were able to do it. Tell me everything. I want to live in your 
 new life as much as I can. I want you to feel me in it as much 
 as you can." 
 
 " She has prayed over it. While I was writing my letters she 
 was praying over it." 
 
 Suddenly Dion knew this as if Rosamund had opened her 
 heart to him and had told it. And immediately something
 
 250 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 which was like a great light seemed not only to illumine the 
 present moment but also to throw a piercing ray backwards 
 upon all his past life with Rosamund. In the light of this 
 ray he discerned a shadowy something, which stood between 
 Rosamund and him, keeping them always apart. It was a 
 tremendous Presence; his feeling was that it was the Presence 
 of God. Abruptly he seemed to be aware that God had always 
 stood, was standing now, between him and his wife. He re- 
 membered the words in the marriage service, " Those whom 
 God hath joined together let no man put asunder." " But 
 God," he thought, " did not join us. He stood between us 
 always. He stands between us now." It was an awful 
 thought. It was like a great blasphemy. He was afraid of 
 it. And yet he now felt that it was an old, old thought in his 
 mind which only now had he been able to formulate. He had 
 known without knowing consciously, but now he consciously 
 knew. 
 
 He took care at this moment not to look at Rosamund. If he 
 looked, surely she would see in his eyes his terrible thought, 
 the thought he was going to carry with him to South Africa. 
 Making a -great effort he began to tell her all that he knew 
 about the C.I.V. They discussed matters in a comradely spirit. 
 Rosamund said many warm-hearted things, showed herself 
 almost eagerly solicitous. They went up to sit by the fire in 
 her little room. Dion smoked. They talked for a long time. 
 Had any one been there to listen he would probably have 
 thought, " This man has got the ideal wife. She's a true 
 comrade as well as a wife." But all the time Dion kept on 
 saying to himself, " This is the result of her prayers before 
 dinner. She is being good." Only when it was late, past 
 their usual hour for going to bed, did he feel that the strong 
 humanity in Rosamund had definitely gained ground, that she 
 was being genuinely carried away by warm impulses connected 
 with dear England, our men, and with him. 
 
 When they got up at last to go to bed she exclaimed: 
 
 " I shall always love what you have done, Dion. You know 
 that." 
 
 " But not the way of my doing it! " trembled on his lips. 
 
 He did not say it, however. Why lead her back even for 
 a moment to bitterness? 
 
 That night he lay with his thought, and in the darkness the 
 ray was piercing bright and looked keen like a sharpened sword.
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 251 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 ON the fourth of January Dion and about nine hundred 
 other men were sworn in at the Guildhall; on January 
 the seventeenth, eight hundred of them, including 
 Dion, were presented with the Freedom of the City of London; 
 on the nineteenth they were equipped and attended a farewell 
 service at St. Paul's Cathedral, after which they were enter- 
 tained at supper, some at Gray's Inn and some at Lincoln's 
 Inn; on the twentieth they entrained for Southampton, from 
 which port they sailed in the afternoon for South Africa. 
 Dion was on board of the " Ariosto." 
 
 Strangely, perhaps, he was almost glad when the ship cast 
 off and the shores of England faded and presently were lost 
 beyond the horizon line. He was alone now with his duty. 
 Life was suddenly simplified. It was better so. In the last 
 days he had often felt confused, beset, had often felt that he 
 was struggling in a sea of complications which threatened to 
 overwhelm him. There had been too much to do and there 
 had been too much to endure; he had been obliged to be prac- 
 tical when he was feeling intensely emotional. The effort to 
 dominate and to conceal his emotion had sometimes almost 
 exhausted him in the midst of all he had had to do. He had 
 come to the knowledge of the fact that it is the work of the 
 spirit which leaves the whole man tired. He was weary, not 
 from hard energies connected with his new profession, not from 
 getting up at dawn, marching through dense crowds of cheering 
 countrymen, traveling, settling in on shipboard, but from fare- 
 wells. He looked back now upon a sort of panorama of fare- 
 wells, of partings from his mother, his uncle, Bruce Evelin, 
 Guy, Beatrice, Robin, Rosamund. 
 
 Quite possibly all these human companions had vanished out 
 of his life for ever. It was a tremendous thought, upon which 
 he was resolved not to dwell lest his courage and his energies 
 might be weakened. 
 
 Through good-bys a man may come to knowledge, and Dion 
 had, in these last few days, gone down to the bedrock of knowl- 
 edge concerning some of those few who were intimately in his 
 life knowledge of them and also of himself. Nobody had 
 traveled to Southampton to see him off. He had a very English 
 horror of scenes, and had said all his good-bys in private. 
 With Bruce Evelin he had had a long talk; they had spoken
 
 252 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 frankly together about the future of Rosamund and Robin in 
 the event of his not coming back. Dion had expressed his 
 views on the bringing up of the boy, and, in doing so, had let 
 Bruce Evelin into secrets of Greece. The father did not ex- 
 pect, perhaps did not even desire, that the little son should 
 develop into a paragon, but he did desire for Rosamund's 
 child the strong soul in the strong body, and the soft heart that 
 was not a softy's heart. 
 
 In that conversation Bruce Evelin had learnt a great deal 
 about Dion. They had spoken of Rosamund, perhaps more 
 intimately than they had ever spoken before, and Dion had 
 said, " I'm bothering so much about Robin partly because her 
 life is bound up with Robin's." 
 
 " Several lives are bound up with that little chap's," Bruce 
 Evelin had said. 
 
 And a sudden sense of loneliness had come upon Dion. But 
 he had only made some apparently casual remark to the effect 
 that he knew Bruce Evelin would do his best to see that Robin 
 came to no harm. No absurd and unnecessary promises had 
 been exchanged between the old and the young man. Their 
 talk had been British, often seemingly casual, and nearly 
 always touched with deep feeling. It had not opened to Dion 
 new vistas of Bruce Evelin. For a long time Dion had felt 
 that he knew Bruce Evelin. But it had given him a definite 
 revelation of the strong faithfulness, the tenacity of faithfulness 
 in friendship, which was perhaps the keynote of Bruce Evelin's 
 character. 
 
 The parting from Guy had been less eventful. Neverthe- 
 less it had helped to get rid of certain faint misunderstandings 
 which neither of the friends had ever acknowledged. Since 
 the Mrs. Clarke episode Dion had been aware that Guy's feel- 
 ing towards him had slightly changed. They were such old 
 and tried friends that they would always care for each other, 
 but Guy could not help resenting Rosamund's treatment of 
 Mrs. Clarke, could not help considering Dion's acquiescence in 
 it a sign of weakness. These feelings, unexpressed, but under- 
 stood by Dion, had set up a slight barrier between the two 
 young men ; it had fallen when they said good-by. Mrs. Clarke 
 had been forgotten then by Guy, who had only remembered 
 the gifts of war, and that possibly this was his final sight 
 of old Dion. All their common memories had been with them 
 when the last hand-clasp was given, and perhaps only when 
 their hands fell apart had they thoroughly tested at last the
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 253 
 
 strength of the link between them. They were friends for 
 life without knowing exactly why. Thousands of Englishmen 
 were in the same case. 
 
 Dion had gone to De Lome Mansions to bid good-by to 
 Beattie, and with her, too, he had talked about Robin. Beattie 
 had known when Dion was coming, and had taken care to be 
 alone. Always quiet, she had seemed to Dion quieter even 
 than usual in that final hour by the fire, almost singularly 
 timid and repressed. There had even been moments when 
 she had seemed to him cold. But the coldness if really 
 there had been any had been in her manner, perhaps in her 
 voice, but had been absent from her face. They had sat in 
 the firelight, which Beattie was always fond of, and Dion had 
 not been able to see her quite clearly. If the electric light 
 had been turned on she might have told him more; but she 
 surely would not have told him of the quiet indifference which 
 manner and voice and even inexpressive attitude had seemed 
 to be endeavoring to convey to him. For Beattie's only half- 
 revealed face had looked eloquent in the firelight, eloquent of 
 a sympathy and even of a sorrow she had said very little about. 
 Whenever Dion had begun to feel slightly chilled he had looked 
 at her, and the face in the firelight had reassured him. 
 " Beattie does care," he had thought; and he had realized how 
 much he wanted Beattie to care, how he had come to depend 
 upon Beattie's sisterly affection and gentle but deep interest 
 in all the course of his life. 
 
 Quickly, too quickly, the moment had come for him to say 
 the last word to Beattie, and suddenly he had felt shy. It had 
 seemed to him that something in Beattie he could not have 
 said what had brought about this unusual sensation in him. 
 He had got up abruptly with a " Well, I suppose I must be off 
 now! " and had thrust out his hand. He had felt that his 
 manner and action were almost awkward and hard. Beattie 
 had got up too in a way that looked listless. 
 
 'Are you well, Beattie?" he had asked. 
 
 ' Quite well." 
 
 ' Perhaps you are tired? " 
 
 ' No." 
 
 ' I fancied well, good-by, Beattie." 
 
 ' Good-by, Dion." 
 
 That had been all. At the door he had looked round, and 
 had seen Beattie standing with her back to liim and her face 
 to the firelight, stooping slightly, and he had felt a strong im-
 
 254 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 pulse to go to her again, and to he hardly knew what to 
 say good-by again, perhaps, in a different, more affectionate or 
 more tender way. But he had not done it. Instead he had 
 gone out and had shut the door behind him very quietly. It 
 was odd that Beattie had not even looked after him. Surely 
 people generally did that when a friend was going away, per- 
 haps for ever. But Beattie was different from other people, 
 and somehow he was quite sure she cared. 
 
 The three last good-bys had been said to his mother, Robin 
 and Rosamund, in Queen Anne's Mansions and Little Market 
 Street. He had stayed with his mother for nearly two hours. 
 She had a very bad cold, unbecoming, complicated with fits 
 of sneezing, a cold in the " three handkerchiefs an hour " 
 stage. And this commonplace malady had made him feel very 
 tender about her, and oddly pitiful about all humanity, includ- 
 ing, of course, himself. While they talked he had thought 
 several times, " It's hard to see mother in such a state when 
 perhaps I shall never see her again. I don't want to remember 
 her with a cold." And the thought, " I shan't be here to see 
 her get well," had pained him acutely. 
 
 " I'm looking and feeling glazed, dee-ar," had been her 
 greeting to him. " My nose is shiny and my mind is woolly. 
 I don't think you ought to kiss me or talk to me." 
 
 And then he had kissed her, and they had talked, intimately, 
 sincerely. In those last hours mercifully Dion had not felt 
 shy with his mother. But perhaps this was because she was 
 never shy, not even in tenderness or in sorrow. She was not 
 afraid of herself. They had even been able to discuss the 
 possibility of his being killed in the war, and Mrs. Leith had 
 been quite simple about it, laying aside all her usual elaboration 
 of manner. 
 
 " The saddest result of such an honorable and noble end 
 would be the loss to Robin, I think," she had said. 
 
 "To Robin? But he's got such a mother! " 
 
 " Do you think he doesn't need, won't need much more later 
 on, the father he's got? Dion, my son, humility is a virtue, 
 no doubt, but I don't believe in excess even in the practice of 
 virtue, and sometimes I think you do." 
 
 " I didn't know it." 
 
 " This going to the war is a splendid thing for you. I 
 wouldn't have you out of it even though " 
 
 Here she had been overcome by a tremendous fit of sneezing 
 from which she had emerged with the smiling remark:
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 255 
 
 " I'm not permitted to improve the occasion." 
 
 " I believe I know what you mean. Perhaps you're right, 
 mother. You're cleverer than I am. Still I can't help seeing 
 that Robin's got a mother such as few children have. Look 
 round at all the mothers you know in London! " 
 
 " Yes. Rosamund was created to be a mother. But just 
 to-day I want to look at Robin's father." 
 
 And so they had talked of him. 
 
 That talk had done Dion good. It had set his face towards 
 a shining future. If he came back from the war he now felt, 
 through the feeling of his mother, that he would surely come 
 back tempered, tried, better fitted to Robin's uses, more worthy 
 of any woman's gift of herself. Without preaching, even with- 
 out being remarkably definite, his mother had made him see 
 in this distant war a great opportunity, not to win a V.C. or 
 any splashing honor that would raise him up in the eyes of the 
 world, but to reach out and grip hold of his own best possi- 
 bilities. Had his mother done even more than this? Had she 
 set before him some other goal which the war might enable 
 him to gain if he had not already gained it? Had she been 
 very subtle when seeming to be very direct? Even when she 
 held him in her arms despite the cold ! and gave him 
 the final kiss and blessing, he was not sure. If it had been 
 done it had been done with extraordinary delicacy, with the 
 marvelous cunning of clever love which knows how to avoid 
 all the pitfalls. And it had been done, too, with the marvelous 
 unselfishness of which, perhaps, only the highest type of mother- 
 love is capable. 
 
 After he had left his mother, and was just going out of the 
 flat, Dion had heard through the half-open door a sound, a 
 ridiculous sound, which had made him love her terribly, and 
 with the sudden yearning which is the keenest pain of the heart 
 because it defines all the human limitations: she was sneezing 
 again violently. As he shut the front door, " If she were to 
 die while I'm away, and I were to come back! " had stabbed 
 his mind. Outside in the court he had gazed up at the towering 
 rows of lighted windows and had said another good-by out 
 there. 
 
 Shutting his eyes for a moment as the " Ariosto " plowed 
 her way onwards through a rather malignant sea, Dion saw 
 again those rows of lighted windows, and he wondered, almost 
 as earnestly as a child wonders, whether his mother's cold was 
 better. What he had done, volunteering for active service and
 
 256 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 joining the C.I.V. battalion, had made him feel simpler than 
 usual; but he did not know it, did not look on at his own 
 simplicity. 
 
 And then, last of all, had come the parting from Robin and 
 Rosamund. 
 
 Rosamund and Dion had agreed not to make very much 
 of his departure to Robin. Father was going away for a time, 
 going over the sea picturesquely, with a lot of friends, all men, 
 all happy to be together and to see wonderful things in a 
 country quite different from England. Some day, when Robin 
 was as big as father, perhaps he, too, would make such a voyage 
 with his friends. Robin had been deeply interested, and had 
 shown his usual ardor in comment and this was more em- 
 barrassing in research. He had wanted to know a great 
 deal about father's intentions and the intentions of father's 
 numerous male friends. What were they going to do when 
 they arrived in the extremely odd country which had taken it 
 into its head to be different from England? How many male 
 friends was father taking with him? Why hadn't they all 
 been to " see us "? Was Uncle Guy one of them? Was Mr. 
 Thrush going too? Why wasn't Mr. Thrush going? If he 
 was too old to go was Uncle Guy too old? Did Mr. Thrush 
 want to go? Was he disappointed at father's not being able 
 to take him ? Was it all a holiday for father ? Would mummy 
 have liked to go? No lies had been told to Robin, but some 
 of the information he had sought had been withheld. Dion 
 had made skilful use of Mr. Thrush when matters had become 
 difficult, when Robin had nearly driven him into a corner. 
 The ex-chemist, though seldom seen, loomed large in Robin's 
 world, on account of his impressive coloring and ancient re- 
 spectabilities. Robin regarded him with awful admiration, 
 and looked forward to growing like him in some far distant 
 future. Dion had frequently ridden off from difficult ques- 
 tions on Mr. Thrush. Even in the final interview between 
 father and son Mr. Thrush had been much discussed. 
 
 The final interview had taken place in the nursery among 
 Aunt Beattie's bricks, by which Robin was still obsessed. Dion 
 had sat on the floor and built towers with his boy, and had 
 wondered, as he handled the bricks in the shining of the 
 nursery fire, whether he would come back to help Robin with 
 his building later on. He was going out to build, for England 
 and for himself, perhaps for Robin and Rosamund, too. Would 
 he be allowed to see the fruits of his labors?
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 257 
 
 The tower of bricks had grown high, and with it Dion had 
 built up another tower, unknown to Robin, a tower of hopes 
 for the child. So much ardor in so tiny a frame! It was a 
 revelation of the wonder of life. \Yhat a marvel to have helped 
 to create that life and what a responsibility. And he was 
 going away to destroy life, if possible. The grotesqueness of 
 war had come upon him then, as he had built up the tower 
 with Robin. And he had longed for a released world in which 
 his boy might be allowed to walk as a man. The simplicity 
 of Robin, his complete trustfulness, his eager appreciation of 
 human nature, his constant reaching out after kindness without 
 fear of being denied, seemed to imply a world other than the 
 world which must keep on letting blood in order to get along. 
 Robin, and all the other Robins, female and male, revealed 
 war in its true light. Terrible children whose unconscious 
 comment on life bites deep like an acid! Terrible Robin in 
 that last hour with the bricks! 
 
 When the tower had become a marvel such as had been seen 
 in no nursery before, Dion had suggested letting it be. An- 
 other brick and it must surely fall. The moment was at hand 
 when he must see the last of Robin. He had had a furtive but 
 strong desire to see the tower he and his son had built still 
 standing slenderly erect when he went out of the nursery. Just 
 then he had been the man who seeks a good omen. Robin 
 had agreed with his suggestion after a long moment of rapt 
 contemplation of the tower. 
 
 " I wish Mr. Thush could see it," he had observed, laying 
 down the brick he had taken up to add to the tower just before 
 his father had spoken. " He would be pleased." 
 
 The words had been lifted out on a sigh, the sigh of the 
 wonder-worker who had achieved his mission. And then they 
 had talked of Mr. Thrush, sitting carefully, almost motionless, 
 beside the tower, and speaking softly " for fear." The fire- 
 light had danced upon the yellow bricks and upon the cream- 
 colored nursery walls, filtering through the high nursery 
 " guard " which protected Robin from annihilation by fire, and 
 the whisper, whisper of their voices had only emphasized the 
 quiet. And, with every moment that went by, the lit-up tower 
 had seemed more like a symbol to Dion. Then at last the 
 cuckoo-clock had chimed and the wooden bird, with trembling 
 tail, hnd made its jerky obeisance. 
 
 "Cuckoo!" 
 
 Dion had put his arm round the little figure in the green
 
 258 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 jersey and the tiny knickerbockers, and had whispered, still 
 governed by the tower: 
 
 " I must go now, Robin." 
 
 " Good-by, Fa," Robin had whispered back, with his eyes 
 on the tower." 
 
 With a very careful movement he had lifted his face to be 
 kissed, and on his soft lips Dion had felt a certain remoteness. 
 Did the tower stand between him and his little son as he said 
 good-by to Robin? 
 
 Just as he had reluctantly let Robin go and, with his legs 
 crossed, had been about to perform the feat of getting up with- 
 out touching the floor with his hands, and without shaking the 
 bricks in their places, moved to this trifling bodily feat by 
 the desire to confront his emotion with an adversary, the door 
 behind him had been opened. Already in movement he had 
 instinctively half-turned round. Something had happened, 
 he never knew exactly what, something had escaped from his 
 physical control because his mind had abruptly been deflected 
 from its task of vigilance; there had been a crash and a cry 
 of " Oh, Fa! " from Robin, and he had met Rosamund's eyes 
 as the tower toppled down in ruin. Not so much as one brick 
 had been left upon another. 
 
 Robin had been greatly distressed. Tears had come into his 
 eyes, and for a moment he had looked reproachfully at his 
 father. Then, almost immediately, something chivalrous had 
 spoken within him, admonishing him, and he had managed 
 a smile. 
 
 " It'll be higher next time, Fa, won't it? " he had murmured, 
 still evidently fighting a keen disappointment. 
 
 And Dion had caught him up, given him a hug, whispered 
 "My boy! " to him, put him down and gone straight out of 
 the room with Rosamund, who had not spoken a word. 
 
 And that had been the last of Robin for his father. 
 
 In the evening, when Robin was asleep, Dion had said 
 good-by to Rosamund. The catastrophe of the tower of bricks 
 had haunted his mind. As he had chosen to make of the tower 
 an omen, in its destruction he had found a presage of evil 
 which depressed him, which even woke in him ugly fears of 
 the future. He had had a great deal out of life, not all he had 
 wanted, but still a great deal. Perhaps he was not going to 
 have much more. He had not spoken of his fears to Rosa- 
 mund, but had been resolutely cheerful with her in their last 
 conversation. Neither of them had mentioned the possibility
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 259 
 
 of his not coming back. They had talked of what probably 
 lay before him in South Africa, and of Robin, and presently 
 Rosamund had said: 
 
 " I want to make a suggestion. Will you promise to tell 
 me if you dislike it? " 
 
 "Yes. What is it?" 
 
 " Would you mind if I succeeded in letting this house and 
 went into the country with Robin to wait for your coming 
 back?" 
 
 " Letting it furnished, do you mean? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " But won't you be dull in the country, away from mother, 
 and Beattie, and godfather, and all our friends? " 
 
 " I could never be dull with Robin and nature, never, and I 
 wouldn't go very far from London. I thought of something 
 near Welsley." 
 
 " So that you could go in to Cathedral service when ' The 
 Wilderness ' was sung! " 
 
 He had smiled as he had said it, but his own reference to 
 Rosamund's once-spoken-of love of the wilderness had, in a 
 flash, brought the hill of Drouva before him, and he had faced 
 man's tragedy remembered joys of the past in a shadowed 
 present. 
 
 " Go into the country, Rose. I only want you to be happy, 
 but " he had hesitated, and then had added, almost in spite 
 of himself " but not too happy." 
 
 Not too happy! That really was the great fear at his heart 
 now that he was voyaging towards South Africa, that Rosamund 
 would be too happy without him. He no longer deceived him- 
 self. This drastic change in his life had either taught him 
 to face realities, or simply prevented him from being able to 
 do anything else. He told himself the truth, and it was this, 
 that Rosamund did not love him at all as he loved her. She 
 was fond of him, she trusted him, she got on excellently with 
 him, she believed in him, she even admired him for having 
 been able to live as he had lived before their marriage, but 
 she did not passionately love him. He might have been tempted 
 to think that, with all her fine, even splendid, qualities, she 
 was deprived of the power of loving intensely if he had not 
 seen her with Robin, if he had not once spoken with her about 
 her mother. 
 
 If he were killed in South Africa would Rosamund be angry 
 at his death? That was her greatest tribute, anger, directed
 
 2 6o IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 surely not against any human being, but against the God Whom 
 she loved and Who, so she believed, ruled the world and 
 directed the ways of men. Once Rosamund had said that she 
 knew it was possible for human beings to hurt God. She 
 had doubtless spoken out of the depths of her personal ex- 
 perience. She had felt sure that by her anger at the death of 
 her mother she had hurt God. Such a conviction showed how 
 she thought of God, in what a closeness of relation with God 
 she felt herself to be. Dion knew now that she had loved her 
 mother, that she loved Robin, as she did not love him. If he 
 were to die she would be very sorry, but she would not be 
 very angry. No, she would be able to breathe out a " x<upe! " 
 simply, with a resignation comparable to that of the Greeks 
 on those tombs which she loved, and then she would con- 
 centrate on Robin. 
 
 If he, Dion, were to be shot, and had time for a thought 
 before dying, he knew what his thought would be: that the 
 Boer's bullet had only hit a man, not, like so many bullets fired 
 in war, a man and a woman. And that thought would add an 
 exquisite bitterness to the normal bitterness of death. 
 
 So Dion, on the " Ariosto," voyaged towards South Africa, 
 companioned by new and definite knowledge new at any 
 rate in the light and on the surface, definite because in the very 
 big moments of life truth becomes as definite as the bayonet 
 piercing to the man who is pierced. 
 
 His comrades were a mixed lot, mostly quite young. The 
 average age was about twenty-five. Among them were bar- 
 risters, law students, dentists, bank clerks, clerks, men of the 
 Civil Service, architects, auctioneers, engineers, schoolmasters, 
 builders, plumbers, jewelers, tailors, Stock Exchange men, etc., 
 etc. There were representatives of more than a hundred and 
 fifty trades, and adherents to nine religions, among the men 
 of the C.I.V. Their free patriotism welded them together, the 
 thing they had all spontaneously done abolished differences 
 between Baptists and Jews, Methodists and Unitarians, Cath- 
 olics and Protestants. The perfumery manager and the marine 
 engineer comprehended each the other's language; the dentist 
 and the insurance broker " hit it off together " at first sight; 
 printers and plumbers, pawnbrokers and solicitors, varnish 
 testers and hop factors they were all friendly and all cheerful 
 together. Each one of them had done a thing which all the 
 rest secretly admired. Respect is a good cement, and can stand 
 a lot of testing. In his comrades Dion was not disappointed.
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 261 
 
 Among them were a few acquaintances, men whom he had 
 met in the City, but there was only one man whom he could 
 count as a friend, a barrister named Worthington, a bachelor, 
 who belonged to the Greville Club, and who was an intimate 
 of Guy Daventry's. Worthington knew Daventry much better 
 than he knew Dion, but both Dion and he were glad to be 
 together and to exchange impressions in the new life which 
 they had entered so abruptly, moved by a common impulse. 
 Worthington was a dark, sallow, narrow-faced man, wiry, with 
 an eager intellect, fearless and energetic, one of the most cheer- 
 ful men of the battalion. His company braced Dion. 
 
 The second day at sea was disagreeable; the ship rolled 
 considerably, and many officers and men were sea-sick. Dion 
 was well, but Worthington was prostrated, and did not show 
 on deck. Towards evening Dion went down to have a look at 
 him, and found him in his bunk, lead-colored, with pinched 
 features, but still cheerful and able to laugh at his own misery. 
 They had a small " jaw " together about people and things at 
 home, and in the course of it Worthington mentioned Mrs. 
 Clarke, whom he had several times met at De Lome Gar- 
 dens. 
 
 " You know she's back again in London? " he said. " The 
 winter's almost impossible at Constantinople because of the 
 winds from the Black Sea." 
 
 " Yes, I heard she was in London, but I haven't seen her 
 this winter." 
 
 " I half thought only half she'd send me a wire to wish 
 me good luck when we embarked," said Worthington, shifting 
 uneasily in his bunk, and twisting his white lips. " But she 
 didn't. She's a fascinating woman. I should have liked to 
 have had a wire from her." 
 
 " By Jove ! " exclaimed Dion. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " I've just remembered I got some telegrams when we were 
 going off. I read one, from my wife, and stuffed the others 
 away. There was such a lot to do and think of. I believe 
 they're here." 
 
 He thrust a hand into one of his pockets and brought out 
 four telegrams, one, Rosamund's, open, the rest unopened. 
 Worthington lay staring at him and them, glad perhaps to be 
 turned for a moment from self-contemplation by any incident, 
 however trifling. 
 
 " I'll bet I know whom they're from," said Dion. " One's
 
 262 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 from old Guy, one's from Bruce Evelin, and one's from '" 
 
 He paused, fingering the telegrams. 
 
 " Eh ? " said Worthington, still screwing his lips about. 
 
 " Perhaps from Beattie, my sister-in-law, unless she and 
 Guy have clubbed together. Well, let's see." 
 
 He tore open the first telegram. 
 
 " May you have good luck and come back safe and soon. 
 BEATTIE GUY." 
 
 He opened the second. It was from Bruce Evelin. 
 " May you be a happy warrior. BRUCE EVELIN." 
 
 Dion read it more than once, and his lip quivered for a 
 second. He shot a glance at Worthington, and said, rather 
 bruskly : 
 
 " Beatrice and Guy Daventry and Bruce Evelin ! " 
 
 Worthington gave a little faint nod in the direction of the 
 telegram that was still unopened. 
 
 " Your mater ! " 
 
 "No; she wrote to me. She hates telegrams, says they're 
 public property. I wonder who it is." 
 
 He pushed a forefinger under the envelope, tore it and pulled 
 out the telegram. 
 
 " The forgotten do not always forget. May Allah have you 
 and all brave men in His hand. CYNTHIA CLARKE." 
 
 Dion felt Worthington's observant eyes upon him, looked 
 up and met them as the " Ariosto " rolled and creaked in the 
 heavy gray wash of the sea. 
 
 " Funny ! " he jerked out 
 
 Worthington lifted inquiring eyebrows but evidently hesi- 
 tated to speak just then. 
 
 " It's from Mrs. Clarke." 
 
 "Beastly of her!" tipped out Worthington. "What she 
 say?" 
 
 " Just wishes me well." 
 
 And Dion stuck the telegram back into the flimsy envelope. 
 
 When he looked at it again that night he thought the woman 
 from Stamboul was a very forgiving woman. Almost he wished 
 that she were less forgiving. She made him now, she had 
 made him in days gone by, feel as if he had behaved to her 
 r.Imost badly, like a bit of a brute. Of course that wasn't
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 263 
 
 true. If he hadn't been married no doubt they might have been 
 good friends. As things were, friendship between them was 
 impossible. He did not long for friendship with Mrs. Clarke. 
 His life was full. There was no room in it for her. But he 
 slightly regretted that he had met her, and he regretted more 
 that she had wished to know Rosamund and him better than 
 Rosamund had wished. He kept her telegram, with the rest 
 of the telegrams he had received on his departure; now and 
 then he looked at it, and wondered whether its wording was 
 not the least bit indelicate. It would surely have been wiser 
 if Mrs. Clarke had omitted the opening six words. They con- 
 veyed a reproach; they conveyed, too, a curious suggestion of 
 will power, of quiet persistence. When he read them Dion 
 seemed to feel the touch or the grip of Stamboul, listless 
 apparently, yet not easily to be evaded or got rid of. 
 
 That telegram caused him to wonder whether he had made 
 a really strong impression upon Mrs. Clarke, such as he had not 
 suspected till now, whether she had not, perhaps, liked him a 
 good deal more than she liked most people. " May Allah have 
 you and all brave men in His hand." Worthington would have 
 been glad to have had that message. Dion had discovered 
 that Worthington was half in love with Mrs. Clarke. He 
 chaffed Dion about Mrs. Clarke's telegram with a rather per- 
 sistent gaiety which did not hide a faint, semi-humorous 
 jealousy. One day he even said, " To him that hath shall be 
 given. It's so like a woman to send her word of encourage- 
 ment to the man who's got a wife to encourage him, and to 
 leave the poor beggar who's got no one out in the cold. It's 
 a cruel world, and three-quarters of the cruelty in it is the pro- 
 duction of women." He spoke with a smile, and the argument 
 which followed was not serious. They laughed and bantered 
 each other, but Dion understood that Worthington really 
 envied him because Mrs. Clarke had thought of him at the 
 moment of departure. Perhaps he had been rather stupid in 
 letting Worthington know about her telegram. But Worthing- 
 ton had been watching him ; he had had a feeling that Worthing- 
 ton had guessed whom the telegram was from. The matter 
 was of no importance. If Mrs. Clarke had cared for him, or 
 if he had cared for her, he would have kept her message secret; 
 as they were merely acquaintances who no longer met each 
 other, her good wishes from a distance meant very little, merely 
 a kindly thought, for which he was grateful and about which 
 no mystery need be made.
 
 264 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 Of course he must write a letter of thanks to Mrs. Clarke. 
 
 One day, after he had written to Rosamund, to Robin, to 
 his mother, to Beattie and to Bruce Evelin, Mrs. Clarke's turn 
 came. His letter tocher was short and cheery, but he was slow 
 in writing it. There was a noise of men, a turmoil of activity 
 all about him. In the midst of it he heard a husky, very in- 
 dividual voice, he saw a pair of wide-open distressed eyes 
 looking directly at him. And an odd conviction came to him 
 that life would bring Mrs. Clarke and him together again. 
 Then he would come back from South Africa? He had no 
 premonition about that. What he felt as he wrote his letter 
 was simply that somehow, somewhere, Mrs. Clarke and he 
 would get to know each other better than they knew each other 
 now. Kismet! In the vast Turkish cemeteries there were 
 moldering bodies innumerable. Why did he think of them 
 whenever he thought of Mrs. Clarke? No doubt because she 
 lived in Constantinople, because much of her life was passed 
 in the shadow of the towering cypresses. He had thought of 
 her as a cypress. Did she keep watch over bodies of the dead ? 
 
 A bugle rang out. He put his letter into the envelope and 
 hastily scribbled the address. Mrs. Clarke was again at 
 Claridge's. 
 
 Every man who loves very deeply wishes to conquer the 
 woman he loves, to conquer the heart of her and to have it as 
 his possession. Dion had left England knowing that he had 
 won Rosamund but had never conquered her. This South 
 African campaign had come upon him like a great blow de- 
 livered with intention; a blow which does not stun a man but 
 which wakes the whole man up. If this war had not broken 
 out his life would have gone on as before, harmoniously, com- 
 fortably, with the daily work, and the daily exercise, and the 
 daily intercourse with wife and child and friends. And would 
 he ever have absolutely known what he knew now, what 
 he was certain of it ! his mother knew, what perhaps Beattie 
 and even Bruce Evelin knew? 
 
 He had surely failed in a great enterprise, but he was re- 
 solved to succeed if long enough life were given to him. He 
 was now awake and walked in full knowledge. Surely, Rosa- 
 mund being what she was, the issue lay with himself. If God 
 had stood between them that must be because he, Dion, 
 was not yet worthy of the full happiness which was his greatest
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 265 
 
 earthly desire. Dion was certain that God did not stand 
 between Rosamund and Robin. 
 
 He had dreams of returning to England a different, or per- 
 haps a developed, man. The perfect Iqpers ought to stand 
 together on the same level. Rosamund and he had never done 
 that yet. He resolved to gain in South Africa, to get a grip 
 on his best possibilities, to go back to England, if he ever went 
 back, a bigger soul, freer, more competent, more generous, more 
 fearless. He could never be a mystic. He did not want to 
 be that. But surely he could learn in this interval of separa- 
 tion which, like a river, divided his life from Rosamund's, to 
 match her mysticism with something which would be able to call 
 it out of its mysterious understanding. Instead of retreating 
 to God alone she might then, perhaps, take him with her; in- 
 stead of praying over him she might pray with him. If, after 
 he returned from South Africa, Rosamund were ever again to 
 be deliberately good with him, making such an effort as she 
 had made on that horrible evening in Little Market Street when 
 he had told her he was going on active service, he felt that he 
 simply couldn't bear it. 
 
 He put firmly aside the natural longings for home which 
 often assailed him, and threw himself heart and soul into his 
 new duties. Already he felt happier, for he was " out " to draw 
 from the present, from the whole of it, all the building material 
 it contained, and was resolute to use all that material in the 
 construction of a palace, a future based on marble, strong, 
 simple, noble, a Parthenon of a future. Only the weak man 
 looks to omens, is governed in his mind, and so in his actions, 
 by them. That which he had not known how to win in an 
 easy life he must learn to win in a life that was hard. This 
 war he would take as a gift to him, something to be used finely. 
 If he fell in it still he would have had his gift, the chance to 
 realize some of his latent and best possibilities. He swept out 
 of his mind an old thought, the creeping surmise that perhaps 
 Rosamund had given him all she had to give in lover's love, 
 that she knew how to love as child and as mother, but that 
 she was incapable of being a great lover in man's sense of 
 the term when he applies it to woman. 
 
 Madeira was passed on January the twenty-fifth, and the 
 men, staring across the sea, saw its lofty hills rising dreamily 
 out of the haze, watchers of those who would not stop, who 
 had no time for any eating of the lotus. Heat came upon 
 the ship, and there were some who pretended that they heard
 
 266 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 sounds, and smelled perfumes wafted, like messages, from the 
 hidden shores on which probably they would never land. Every 
 one was kept busy, after a sail bath, with drilling, musketry 
 instruction, physical drill, cleaning of accouterments, a dozen 
 things which made the hours go quickly in a buzz of human 
 activities. Some of the men, Dion among them, were trying to 
 learn Dutch under an instructor who knew the mysteries. A 
 call came for volunteers for inoculation, and both Dion and 
 Worthington answered it, with between forty and fifty other 
 men. The prick of the needle was like the touch of a spark; 
 soon after came a mystery of general wretchedness, followed by 
 pains in the loins, a rise of temperature and extreme, in Dion's 
 case even intense, weakness. He lay in his bunk trying to 
 play the detective on himself, to stand outside of his body, 
 saying to himself, " This is I, and I am quite unaffected by 
 my bodily condition." For what seemed to him a long time 
 he was fairly successful in his effort; then the body began to 
 show definitely the power of its weakness upon the Ego, to 
 assert itself by feebleness. His will became like an invalid who 
 is fretful upon the pillows. Soon his strong resolutions, cher- 
 ished and never to be parted from till out of them the deeds 
 had blossomed, lost blood and fell upon the evil day of anemia. 
 He had a sensation of going out. When the midnight came 
 he could not sleep, and with it came a thought feeble but per- 
 sistent: " If she loves me it's because I've given her Robin." 
 And in the creaking darkness, encompassed by the restlessness 
 of the sea, again and again he repeated to himself the words 
 " it's because I've given her Robin." That was the plain 
 truth. If he was loved, he was loved because of something he 
 had done, not because of something that he was. Towards 
 dawn he felt so weak that his hold on life seemed relaxing, 
 and at last he almost wished to let it go. He understood why 
 dying people do not usually fear death. 
 
 Three days later he was quite well and at work, but the 
 memory of his illness stayed with him all through the South 
 African campaign. Often at night he returned to that night 
 on shipboard, and said to himself, " The doctor's needle helped 
 me to think clearly." 
 
 The voyage slipped away with the unnoticed swiftness that 
 is the child of monotony. The Southern Cross shone above 
 the ship. When the great heat set in the men were allowed to 
 sleep on deck, and Dion lay all night long under the wheeling
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 267 
 
 stars, and often thought of the stars above Drouva, and heard 
 Rosamund's voice saying, " I can see the Pleiades." 
 
 The ship crossed the line. Early in February the moon 
 began to show a benign face to the crowd of men. One night 
 there was a concert which was followed by boxing. Dion 
 boxed and won his bout easily on points. 
 
 This little success had upon him a bracing effect, and gave 
 him a certain prestige among his comrades. He did well also 
 at revolver and musketry practice better than many men 
 who, though good enough shots at Bisley, found sectional prac- 
 tice with the service rifle a difficult job, were adepts at missing 
 a mark with the revolver, and knew nothing of fire discipline. 
 Because he had set an aim before him on which he knew that 
 his future happiness depended, he was able to put his whole 
 heart into everything he did. In the simplest duty he saw a 
 means to an end which he desired intensely. Everything that 
 lay to hand in the life of the soldier was building material 
 which he must use to the best advantage. He knew fully, for 
 the first time, the joy of work. 
 
 On a day in the middle of February the " Ariosto " passed 
 the mail-boat from the Cape bound for England, sighted Table 
 Mountain, and came to anchor between Robben Island and the 
 docks. On the following morning the men of the C.I.V. felt the 
 earth with eager feet as they marched to Green Point Camp. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 ROBIN," said Rosamund, " would you like to go and 
 live in the country? " 
 Robin looked very serious and, after a moment of 
 silent consideration, remarked: 
 " Where there's no houses ? " 
 " Some houses, but not nearly so many as here." 
 Another point presented itself to Robin. 
 "Would Mr. Thush be there?" 
 "Well no, I'm afraid he wouldn't." 
 Robin began to look decidedly adverse to the proposition. 
 " You see Mr. Thrush has always lived in London," began 
 Rosamund explanatorily. 
 
 " But so've we," interrupted Robin.
 
 268 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " But we aren't as old as Mr. Thrush." 
 
 " Is he very old, mummie ? How old is he ? " 
 
 " I don't know, but he's a very great deal older than you 
 are." 
 
 " I s'poses," observed Robin meditatively, slightly wrinkling 
 his little nose where the freckles were. " Well, mummie? " 
 
 " Old people don't generally like to move about much, but 
 I think it would be very good for you and me to go into the 
 country while father's away." 
 
 And taking Robin on her knees, and putting her arms round 
 Jiim, Rosamund began to tell him about the country, developing 
 enthusiasm as she talked, bending over the little fair head that 
 was so dear to her the little fair head which contained 
 Robin's dear little thoughts, funny and very touching, but 
 very one of them dear. 
 
 She described to Robin the Spring as it is in the English 
 country, frail and fragrant, washed by showers that come and 
 go with a waywardness that seems very conscious, warmed by 
 sunbeams not fully grown up and therefore not able to do the 
 work of the sunbeams of summer. She told him of the rain- 
 bow that is set in the clouds like a promise made from a very 
 great distance, and of the pale and innocent flowers of Spring: 
 primroses, periwinkles, violets, cowslips, flowers of dells in the 
 budding woods, and of clearings round which the trees stand 
 on guard about the safe little daisies and wild hyacinths and 
 wild crocuses; flowers of the sloping meadows that go down 
 to the streams of Spring. And all along the streams the twigs 
 are budding; the yellow "lambs' tails" swing in the breeze, 
 as if answering to the white lambs' tails that are wagging in 
 the fields. The thrush sings in the copse, and in his piercing 
 sweet note is the sound of Spring. 
 
 Bending over Robin, Rosamund imitated the note of the 
 thrush, and Robin stared up at her with ardent eyes. 
 
 " Does Mr. Thush ever do that? " 
 
 " I've never heard him do it." 
 
 And she went on talking about the Spring. 
 
 How she loved that hour talking of Spring in the country 
 with her human Spring in her arms. What was the war to 
 her just then? Robin abolished war. While she had him 
 there was always the rainbow, the perfect rainbow, rising from 
 the world to the heavens and falling from the heavens to the 
 world. The showers were fleeting Spring showers, and the 
 clouds were fleecy and showed the blue.
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 269 
 
 " Robin, Robin, Robin ! " she breathed over her child, when 
 they had lived in the Spring together, the pure and exquisite 
 Spring. 
 
 And Robin, all glowing with the ardor he had caught from 
 her, declared for the country. 
 
 A few days later Rosamund wrote to Canon Wilton, who 
 happened to be in residence at Welsley out of his usual time, 
 and asked him if he knew of any pretty small house, with a 
 garden, in the neighborhood, where she and Robin could settle 
 down till Dion came back from the war. In answer she got a 
 letter from the Canon inviting her to spend a night or two at 
 his house in the Precincts. In a P.S. he wrote: 
 
 " If you can come next week I think I can arrange with Mr, 
 Soames, our precentor, for Wesley's ' Wilderness ' to be sung 
 at one of the afternoon services; but let me know by return 
 what days you will be here." 
 
 Rosamund replied by telegraph. Aunt Beatrice was installed 
 in Little Market Street for a couple of nights as Robin's pro- 
 tector, and Rosamund went down to Welsley, and spent two 
 days with the Canon. 
 
 She had never been alone with him before, except now and 
 then for a few minutes, but he was such a sincere and plain- 
 spoken man that she had always felt she genuinely knew him. 
 To every one with whom he spoke he gave himself as he was. 
 This unusual sincerity in Rosamund's eyes was a great attrac- 
 tion. She often said that she could never feel at home with 
 pretense even if the intention behind it was kindly. Perhaps, 
 however, she did not always detect it, although she possessed 
 the great gift of feminine intuition. 
 
 She arrived by the express, which reached Welsley Station 
 in the evening, and found Canon Wilton at the station to meet 
 her. His greeting was: 
 
 " The ' Wilderness,' Wesley, at the afternoon service to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " That's good of you ! " she exclaimed, with the warm and 
 radiant cordiality that won her so many friends. " I shall 
 revel in my little visit here. It's an unexpected treat." 
 
 The Canon seemed for a moment almost surprised by her 
 buoyant anticipation, and a look that was sad flitted across 
 his face; but she did not notice it. 
 
 As they drove in a fly to his house in the Precincts she looked 
 out at the busy provincial life in the narrow streets of the old 
 country town, and enjoyed the intimate concentration of it all.
 
 270 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " I should like to poke about here," she said. " I should 
 feel at home as I never do in London. I believe I'm thoroughly 
 provincial at heart." 
 
 In the highest tower of the Cathedral, which stood in the 
 heart of the town, the melodious chimes lifted up their crystal- 
 line voices, and " Great John " boomed out the hour in a voice 
 of large authority. 
 
 " Seven o'clock," said the Canon. " Dinner is at eight. 
 You'll be all alone with me this evening." 
 
 " To-morrow too, I hope," Rosamund said, with a smile. 
 
 " No, to-morrow we shall be the awkward number three. 
 Mr. Robertson, from Liverpool, is coming to stay with me for 
 a few days. He preaches here next Sunday evening." 
 
 Rosamund's thought was carried back to a foggy night in 
 London, when she had heard a sermon on egoism, and a quota- 
 tion she had never forgotten: ''Ego dormio et cor meum 
 vigilat." 
 
 "Can you manage with two clergymen?" said Canon 
 Wilton. 
 
 " I'll try. I don't think they'll frighten me, and I've been 
 wishing to meet Mr. Robertson for a long time." 
 
 " He's a good man," said Canon Wilton very simply. But 
 die statement as he made it was like an accolade. 
 
 Rosamund enjoyed her quiet evening with the Canon in 
 the house with the high green gate, the elm trees and the gray 
 gables. As they talked, at first in the oak-paneled dining- 
 room, later in the Canon's library by a big wood fire, she was 
 always pleasantly conscious of being enclosed, of being closely 
 sheltered in the arms of the Precincts, which held also the 
 mighty Cathedral with its cloisters, its subterranean passages, 
 its ancient tombs, its mysterious courts, its staircases, its towers 
 hidden in the night. The ecclesiastical flavor which she tasted 
 was pleasant to her palate. She loved the nearness of those 
 stones which had been pressed by the knees of pilgrims, of 
 those walls between which so many prayers had been uttered, 
 so many praises had been sung. A cosiness of religion en- 
 wrapped her. She had a delicious feeling of safety. They 
 could hear the chimes where they sat encompassed by a silence 
 which was not like ordinary silences, but which to Rosamund 
 seemed impregnated with the peace of long meditations and of 
 communings with the unseen. 
 
 " This rests me," she said to her host. " Don't you love 
 your time here? "
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 271 
 
 " I'm fond of Welsley, but I don't think I should like to 
 pass all my year in it. I don't believe in sinking down into 
 religion, or into practises connected with it, as a soft old man 
 sinks down into a feather bed. And that's what some people 
 do." 
 
 "Do they?" said Rosamund abstractedly. 
 
 Just then a large and murmurous sound, apparently from 
 very far off, had begun to steal upon her ears, level and deep, 
 suggestive almost of the vast slumber of a world and of the 
 underthings that are sleepless but keep at a distance. 
 
 " Is it the organ? " she asked, in a listening voice. 
 
 Canon Wilton nodded. 
 
 " Dickinson practising." 
 
 They sat in silence for a long time listening. In that silence 
 the Canon was watching Rosamund. He thought how beau- 
 tiful she was and how good, but he almost disliked the joy 
 which he discerned in her expression, in her complete repose. 
 He rebuked himself for this approach to dislike, but his rebuke 
 was not efficacious. In this enclosed calm of the precincts of 
 Welsley where, pacing within the walls by the edge of the 
 velvety lawns, the watchman would presently cry out the hour 
 Canon Wilton was conscious of a life at a distance, the life of 
 a man he had met first in St. James's Square. The beautiful 
 woman in the chair by the fire had surely forgotten that man. 
 
 Presently the distant sound of the organ ceased. 
 
 " I love Welsley," said Rosamund, on a little sigh. " I just 
 love it. I should like to live in the Precincts." 
 
 That brought them to a discussion of plans in which Dion 
 was talked of with warm affection and admiration by Rosa- 
 mund; and all the time she was talking, Canon Wilton saw 
 the beautiful woman in the chair listening to the distant organ. 
 He knew of a house that was to be let in the Precincts, but 
 that night he did not mention it. Something prevented him 
 from doing so something against which he struggled, but 
 which he failed to overcome. 
 
 When they separated it was nearly eleven o'clock. As Rosa- 
 mund took her silver candlestick from the Canon at the foot 
 of the shallow oak staircase she said: 
 
 " I've had such a happy evening! " 
 
 It was a very sweet compliment very sweetly paid. No man 
 could have been quite indifferent to it. Canon Wilton was 
 not. As he looked at Rosamund a voice within him said: 
 
 "That's a very dear woman."
 
 272 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 It spoke undeniable truth. Yet another voice whispered: 
 
 " Oh, if I could change her! " 
 
 But that was impossible. The Canon knew that, for he 
 was very sincere with himself; and he realized that the change 
 he wanted to see could only come from within, could never be 
 imposed by him from without upon the mysterious dweller in 
 the Temple of Rosamund. 
 
 That night Rosamund undressed very slowly and " pottered 
 about " in her room, doing dreamily unnecessary things. She 
 heard the chimes, and she heard the watchman calling the 
 midnight hour near her window as " Great John " lifted up his 
 voice. In the drawers where her clothes were laid the Canon's 
 housekeeper had put lavender. She smelt it as she listened to 
 the watchman's voice, shutting her eyes. Presently she drew 
 aside curtain and blind and looked out of the window. She 
 saw the outline of part of the great Cathedral with the principal 
 tower, the home of " Great John "; she felt the embracing arms 
 of the Precincts; and when she knelt down to say her prayers 
 she thought: 
 
 " Here is a place where I can really pray." 
 
 Nuns surely are helped by their convents and monks by 
 the peace of their whitewashed cells. 
 
 " It is only in sweet places of retirement that one can pray 
 as one ought to pray," thought Rosamund that night as she 
 lay in bed. 
 
 She forgot that the greatest prayer ever offered up was uttered 
 on a cross in the midst of a shrieking crowd. 
 
 On the following day she went to the morning service in the 
 Cathedral, and afterwards heard something which filled her 
 with joyful anticipation. Canon Wilton told her there was a 
 house to let in the Precincts. 
 
 " I'll take it," said Rosamund at once. " Esme Darlington 
 has found me a tenant for No. 5, an old friend of his, or rather 
 two old friends, Sir John and Lady Tenby. Where is it? " 
 
 He took her to see it. 
 
 The house in question had been occupied by the widow of 
 a Dean, who had recently been driven by her health to " relapse 
 upon Bournemouth." It was a small old house with two 
 very large rooms one the drawing-room, the other a bed- 
 room. 
 
 The house stood at right angles to the east end of the Cathe- 
 dral, from which it was only divided by a strip of turf broken 
 up by fragments of old gray ruins, and edged by an iron rail-
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 273 
 
 ing, and by a paved passage-way, which led through the Dark 
 Entry from the " Green Court," where the Deanery and Minor 
 Canons' houses were situated, to the pleasaunce immediately 
 around the Cathedral. To the green lawns of this wide 
 pleasaunce the houses of the residentiary Canons gave access. 
 One projecting latticed window of the drawing-room of Mrs. 
 Browning's house, another of the big bedroom above it, and 
 the windows of the kitchen and the servants' quarters looked 
 on to the passage-way and the Cathedral; all the other windows 
 looked into an old garden surrounded by a very high brick 
 wall, a garden of green turf like moss, of elm trees, and, in 
 summer, of gay herbaceous borders, a garden to which the voices 
 of the chimes dropped down, and to which the Cathedral organ 
 sent its message, as if to a place that knew how to keep safely 
 all things that were precious. Even the pure and chill voices 
 of the boy choristers found a way to this hidden garden, in 
 which there were straight and narrow paths, where nuns might 
 have loved to walk unseen of the eyes of men. 
 
 The Dean's widow had left behind all her furniture, and 
 was now adorning a Bournemouth hotel, in which her sprightly 
 invalidism and close knowledge of the investments of the 
 Ecclesiastical Commissioners, and of the habits and customs 
 of the lesser clergy, were greatly appreciated. Some of the 
 furniture did not wholly commend itself to Rosamund. There 
 were certain settees and back-to-backs, certain whatnots and 
 occasional tables, which seemed to stamp the character of the 
 Dean's widow as meretricious. But these could easily be 
 " managed." Rosamund was enchanted with the house, and 
 went from room to room with Canon Wilton radiantly curious, 
 and almost as excited as a joyous schoolgirl. 
 
 " I must poke my nose into everything ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 And she did it, and made the Canon poke his too. 
 
 Presently, opening the lattice of the second window in the 
 big, low-ceiled drawing-room, she leaned out to the moist and 
 secluded garden. She was sitting sideways on the window- 
 seat, of which she had just said, " I won't have this dreadful 
 boudoir color on my cushions! " Canon Wilton was standing 
 behind her, and presently heard her sigh gently, and almost 
 voluptuously, as if she prolonged the sigh and did not want to 
 let it go. 
 
 " Yes? " he said, with a half-humorous inflection of the 
 voice. 
 
 Rosamund looked round gravely.
 
 274 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Did you say something? " 
 
 " Only yes? in answer to your sigh." 
 
 " Did I ? Yes, I must have. I was thinki 
 
 thinking 
 
 She hesitated, while he stood looking at her with his strong, 
 steady gray-blue eyes. 
 
 " I was thinking of a life I shall never live." 
 
 He came up to the window-seat. 
 
 " Some of it might have been passed in just such a garden 
 as this within sound of bells." 
 
 With a change of voice she added: 
 
 "How Robin will love it! " 
 
 "The life you will never live?" said the Canon, smiling 
 gravely. 
 
 " No, the garden." 
 
 " Then you haven't a doubt? " 
 
 " Oh no. When I know a thing there's no room in me for 
 hesitation. I shall love being here with Robin as I have never 
 loved anything yet." 
 
 The quarter struck in the Cathedral tower. 
 
 " Very different from South Africa ! " said Canon Wilton. 
 
 Rosamund knitted her brows for a moment. 
 
 " I wonder whether Dion will come back altered," she said. 
 
 " D'you wish him to? " 
 
 She got up from the window-seat, put out her hand, and 
 softly pulled the lattice towards her. 
 
 " Not in most ways. He's so dear as he is. It would all 
 depend on the alteration." 
 
 She latched the window gently, and again looked at the 
 garden through it. 
 
 "I may be altered, too, by living here!" she said. "All 
 alone with Robin. I think I shall be." 
 
 Canon Wilton made no comment. He was thinking: 
 
 " And when the two, altered, come together again, if they 
 ever do, what then ? " 
 
 He had noticed that Rosamund never seemed to think of 
 Dion's death in South Africa as a possibility. When she spoke 
 of him she assumed his return as a matter of course. Did she 
 never think of death, then? Did she, under the spell of her 
 radiant and splendidly healthy youth, forget all the tragic 
 possibilities? He wondered, but he did not ask. 
 
 Mr. Robertson arrived at the Canon's house just in time for 
 the afternoon service " my Wilderness service," as Rosamund 
 called it. The bells were ringing as he drove up with his
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 275 
 
 modest luggage, and Rosamund had already gone to the 
 Cathedral and was seated in a stall. 
 
 " I should like to have half an hour's quiet meditation in 
 church before the service begins," she had remarked to Canon 
 Wilton. And the Canon had put her in a stall close to where 
 he would presently be sitting, and had then hurried back to 
 meet Father Robertson. 
 
 " My Welsley ! " was Rosamund's thought as she sat in her 
 stall, quite alone, looking up at the old jeweled glass in the 
 narrow Gothic windows, at the wonderful somber oak, age- 
 colored, of the return stalls and canopy beneath which Canon 
 Wilton, as Canon-in-Residence, would soon be sitting at right 
 angles to her, at the distant altar lifted on high and backed 
 by a delicate marble screen, beyond which stretched a further, 
 tranquilly obscure vista of the great church. The sound of 
 the bells ringing far above her head in the gray central tower 
 was heard by her, but only just heard, as we hear the voices 
 of the past murmuring of old memories and of deeds which 
 are almost forgotten. Distant footsteps echoed among the great 
 tombs of stone and of marble, which commemorated the dead 
 who had served God in that place in the gray years gone by. 
 In her nostrils there seemed to be a perfume, like an essence of 
 concentrated prayers sent up among these stone traceries, these 
 pointed arches, these delicate columns, by generations of be- 
 lievers. She felt wrapped in a robe never woven by hands, 
 in a robe that gave warmth to her spirit. 
 
 A few people began stealing quietly in through the narrow 
 archway in the great screen which shut out the raised choir 
 from the nave. Only one bell sounded now in the gray tower. 
 A faint noise, like an oncoming sigh, above Rosamund's head 
 heralded the organ's awakening, and was followed by the 
 whisper of its most distant voice, a voice which made her think 
 she knew not why of the sea whispering about a coral 
 reef in an isle of the Southern Seas, part of God's world, 
 mysteriously linked to "my Welsley." She shut her eyes, 
 seeking to feel more strongly the sensation of unity. When 
 she opened them she saw, sitting close to her in the return 
 stalls, Father Robertson. His softly glowing eyes were looking 
 at her, and did not turn away immediately. She felt that he 
 knew she was his fellow-guest, and was conscious of a delicious 
 sensation of sympathy, of giving and taking, of cross currents 
 of sympathy between the Father and herself. 
 
 " I love this hour I love all this! " she said to herself.
 
 276 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 If only little Robin were submerged in the stall beside her! 
 
 The feet of the slow procession were heard, and the silver 
 wand of the chief verger shone out of the delicate gloom. 
 
 When the anthem was given out Rosamund looked across at 
 Canon Wilton, and her eyes said to him, " Thank you." Then 
 she stood up, folded her hands on the great cushion in front 
 of her, and looked at the gray vistas and at the dim sparkle of 
 the ancient glass in the narrow windows. 
 
 " The wilderness and the solitary places . . ." 
 
 She had spoken of this to Dion as they looked at Zante 
 together, before little Robin had come, and she had said that 
 if she had committed a great sin she would like to take her 
 sin into the Wilderness, because purification might be found 
 there. And she had meant what she said, had spoken out of 
 her heart sincerely. But now, as she listened to this anthem, 
 she saw a walled-in garden, with green turf like moss, old elm 
 trees and straight narrow paths. Perhaps she had been mis- 
 taken when she had spoken of the sin and the Wilderness, per- 
 haps she would find purification with fewer tears and less 
 agony in the cloister, within sound of the bells which called 
 men to the service of God, and of the human voices which sang 
 His praises. Saints had fled into the Wilderness to seek God 
 there, but was He not in the Garden between the sheltering 
 walls, ready there, as in the farthest desert, to receive the sub- 
 mission of the soul, to listen to the cry, " I have sinned "? 
 
 As in Elis the spell of the green wild had been upon Rosa- 
 mund, so now the spell of these old Precincts was upon her, and 
 spoke to her innermost being, and as in Elis Dion had been 
 woven into her dream of the Wilderness, so now in Welsley 
 Robin was woven into it. But Dion had seemed a forerunner, 
 and little Robin seemed That for which she had long waited, 
 the fulfilment of the root desire of her whole being as applied 
 to human life. 
 
 When the service was over and the procession had gone out 
 Rosamund sat very still listening to the organ. She believed 
 that Canon Wilton had given the organist a hint that he would 
 have an attentive hearer, for he was playing one of Bach's 
 greatest preludes and fugues. Father Robertson stayed on 
 in his place. All the rest of the small congregation drifted 
 away through the archway in the rood-screen and down the 
 steps to the nave. The fugue was a glorious, sturdy thing, 
 like a great solid body inhabited by a big, noble, unquestioning
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 277 
 
 soul a soul free from hesitations, that knew its way to God 
 and would not be hindered from taking it. A straight course 
 to the predestined end that was good, that was glorious! 
 The splendid clamor of the organ above her, growing in sonor- 
 ous force, filled Rosamund with exultation. She longed to 
 open her mouth and sing; the blood came to her cheeks; her 
 eyes shone ; she mounted on the waves of sound ; she was wound 
 up with the great fugue, and felt herself part of it. The 
 gradual working up thrilled her whole being; she was physically 
 and spiritually seized hold of and carried along towards a 
 great and satisfying end. At last came the trumpet with its 
 sound of triumphant flame, and the roar of the pedals was like 
 the roaring of the sea. Already the end was there, grandly 
 inherent in the music, inevitable, desired by all the voices of 
 the organ. All the powers of the organ thundered towards itj 
 straining to be there. 
 
 It came, like something on the top of the world. 
 
 " If I were a man that's the way I should like to go to God! " 
 said Rosamund to herself, springing up. "That's the way, 
 in a chariot of fire." 
 
 Unconscious of what she was doing she stretched out her 
 hands with a big gesture and opened her lips to let out a 
 breath; then, in the gray silence of the now empty Cathedral, 
 she saw Father Robertson's eyes. 
 
 He stepped down from his stall and went out through the 
 archway, and she followed him. On the steps, just beyond 
 the rood-screen, she met a small, determined-looking man with 
 hot cheeks and shining eyes. She guessed at once that he was 
 the organist, went up to him and thanked him enthusiastic- 
 ally. 
 
 The organist was the first person she captivated in Welsley, 
 where she was to have so many warm adherents very soon. 
 
 Father Robertson went back to Canon Wilton's house while 
 Rosamund talked to the organist, with whom she walked as far 
 as a high wooden gate labeled " Mr. Dickinson." 
 
 " You've got a walled garden too ! " she remarked, as her 
 companion took off his hat with an " I live here." 
 
 The organist looked inquiring. Rosamund laughed. 
 
 " How could you know ? It's only that I've been visiting 
 a delicious old house, with a walled garden, to-day. It's to 
 let." 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Duncan Browning's!" said Mr. Dickinson. 
 "I I'm sure I hope you're going to take it."
 
 278 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " I may! " said Rosamund. " Good-by, and thank you again 
 for your splendid music. It's done me good." 
 
 " My dear! " exclaimed Mr. Dickinson, about a minute later, 
 bursting rather than going into his wife's small drawing- 
 room, " I've just met the most delightful woman, a goddess to 
 look at, and as charming as a siren brought up to be a saint." 
 
 "More epigrams, Henry!" murmured Mrs. Dickinson. 
 
 " She's staying with Canon Wilton. She's a thorough mu- 
 sician such as one seldom comes across. There's a chance I 
 hope it materializes of her taking " 
 
 " Your tea is nearly cold, Henry." 
 
 " Her name is Mrs. Dion Leith. If she really does come 
 here we must be sure to " 
 
 " Scones, Henry ? " 
 
 Thus urged, Mr. Dickinson's body for the moment took pre- 
 cedence of his soul. 
 
 Rosamund knew she was going to like Mr. Robertson as she 
 liked very few people. She felt as if already she was his 
 friend, and when they shook hands in Canon Wilton's draw- 
 ing-room she cordially told him so, and referred to the Sunday 
 evening when she had heard him preach. The rooks were 
 cawing among the elms in the Canon's garden. She could hear 
 their voices in the treetops while she was speaking. A wind 
 was stirring as the afternoon waned, and there came a patter 
 of rain on the lofty windows. And the voices of the rooks 
 in the windy treetops, the patter of the rain, and the sigh of 
 the wind were delightful to Rosamund, because she was safely 
 within the Precincts, like a bird surrounded by the warmth of 
 its nest. 
 
 " I'm coming to live here," she said to Mr. Robertson, as 
 she poured out tea for the two clergymen. " My husband has 
 gone to South Africa with the City Imperial Volunteers. He's 
 in business, so we live in London. But while he's away I mean 
 to stay here." 
 
 And eagerly almost as a child, she told him about the house 
 of the Dean's widow', and described to him the garden. 
 
 " It's like a convent garden, isn't it? " she asked Canon Wil- 
 ton, who assented. " That's why I love it. It gives me the 
 feeling of enclosed peace that must be so dear to nuns." 
 
 Something in her voice and look as she said this evidently 
 struck Mr. Robertson, and when she presently left the room he 
 said to Canon Wilton: 
 
 " If I didn't know that sweet woman had a husband I
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 279 
 
 should say she was born with the vocation for a religious life. 
 From the first moment I spoke to her, looked at her, I felt that, 
 and the feeling grows upon me. Can't one see her among sis- 
 ters?" 
 
 " I don't wish to," said Canon Wilton bluntly. " Shall we 
 go to my study? " 
 
 With the composed gentleness that was characteristic of him 
 Father Robertson assented, and they went downstairs. When 
 they were safely shut up in the big room, guarded by multitudes 
 of soberly bound volumes, Canon Wilton said: 
 
 " Robertson, I want to talk to you in confidence about my 
 guest, who, as you say, is a very sweet woman. You could do 
 something for her which I couldn't do. I have none of your im- 
 pelling gentleness. You know how to stir that which dwells in 
 the inner sanctuary, to start it working for itself; I'm more apt 
 to try to work for it, or at it. Perhaps I can rouse up a sinner 
 and make him think. I've got a good bit of the instinct of the 
 missioner. But my dear guest here isn't a sinner, except as we 
 all are!' She's a very good woman who doesn't quite under- 
 stand. I think perhaps you might help her to understand. She 
 possesses a great love, and she doesn't know quite how to handle 
 it, or even to value it." 
 
 The clock struck seven when they stopped talking. 
 
 That evening, after dinner, Canon Wilton asked Rosamund to 
 sing. Almost eagerly she agreed. 
 
 " I shall love to sing in the Precincts," she said, as she went 
 to the piano. 
 
 Father Robertson, who had been sitting with his back to 
 the piano, moved to the other side of the room. While Rosa- 
 mund sang he watched her closely. He saw that she was quite 
 unconscious of being watched, and her unconsciousness of her- 
 self made him almost love her. Her great talent he appreci- 
 ated fully, for he was devoted to music; but he appreciated 
 much more the moral qualities she showed in her singing. He 
 was a man who could not forbear from searching for the soul, 
 from following its workings. He had met all sorts and con- 
 ditions of men, and with few he had not been friends. He 
 had known, knew now, scientists for whose characters and lives 
 he had strong admiration, and who felt positive that the so- 
 called soul of man was merely the product of the brain, resided 
 in the brain, and must cease with the dispersal of the brain 
 at death. He was not able to prove the contrary. That did 
 not trouble him at all. It was not within the power of any-
 
 280 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 thing or of any one to trouble this man's faith. He did not 
 mind being thought a fool. Indeed, being without conceit, 
 and even very modest, he believed himself to be sometimes very 
 foolish. But he knew he was not a fool in his faith, which 
 transcended forms, and swore instinctively brotherhood with all 
 honest beliefs, and even with all honest disbeliefs. In his gen- 
 tle, sometimes slightly whimsical way, he was as sincere as 
 Canon Wilton; but whereas the Canon showed the blunt side 
 of sincerity, he usually showed the tender and winning side. 
 He found good in others as easily and as surely as the diviner 
 finds the spring hidden under the hard earth's surface. His 
 hazel twig twisted if there was present only one drop of the 
 holy water. 
 
 He discerned many drops in Rosamund. In nothing of her 
 was her enthusiasm for what was noble and clean and sane and 
 beautiful more apparent than in her singing. Her voice and 
 her talent were in service when she sang, in service to the good. 
 Music can be evil, neurotic, decadent and even utterly base. 
 She never touched musical filth, which she recognized as swiftly 
 as dirt on a body or corruption in a soul. 
 
 " We must have Bach's ' Heart ever faithful,' " said Canon 
 Wilton strongly, when Rosamund, after much singing, was 
 about to get up from the piano. 
 
 Almost joyfully she obeyed his smiling command. When at 
 last she shut the piano she said to Father Robertson: 
 
 "That's Dion's my husband's best-loved melody." 
 
 " I should like to know your husband," said Father Robert- 
 son. 
 
 " You must, when he comes back." 
 
 " You have no idea, I suppose, how long he will be away? " 
 
 " No, nor has he." 
 
 " Then what are you going to do about Mrs. Browning's 
 house? " said the Canon's bass. 
 
 " Oh well " 
 
 Two lines appeared in her forehead. 
 
 " I thought of taking it for six months, and then I can see. 
 My little house in Westminster is let for six months from the 
 first of March." She had turned to Father Robertson: " I'm 
 only afraid " She paused. She looked almost dis- 
 turbed. 
 
 " What are you afraid of? " asked Canon Wilton. 
 
 " I'm afraid of getting too fond of Welsley."
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 281 
 
 The Canon looked across at Father Robertson on the other 
 side of the fireplace. 
 
 Rosamund went back to Robin and London on the following 
 afternoon. In the morning she took Father Robertson to see 
 Mrs. Browning's house. Canon Wilton was busy. After the 
 morning service in the Cathedral he had to go to a meeting of 
 the Chapter, and later on to a meeting in the City about some- 
 thing connected with education. 
 
 " I shall be in bonds till lunch," he said, " unless I burst 
 them, as I'm afraid I sometimes feel inclined to do when people 
 talk at great length on subjects they know nothing about." 
 
 " Perhaps Mrs. Leith will kindly take me to see her house 
 and garden," observed Father Robertson. 
 
 Rosamund was frankly delighted. 
 
 " Bless you for calling them mine! " she said. " That's just 
 what I'm longing to do." 
 
 The wind and the rain were still hanging about in a fash- 
 ion rather undecided. It was a morning of gusts and of show- 
 ers. The rooks swayed in the elm tops, or flew up under the 
 scudding clouds of a treacherous sky. There was a strong 
 smell of damp earth, and the turf of the wide spreading lawns 
 looked spongy. 
 
 " Oh, how English this is! " said Rosamund enthusiastically 
 to the Father as they set forth together. " It's like the smell 
 of the soul of England. I love it. I should like to lie on the 
 grass and feel the rain on my face." 
 
 " You know nothing of rheumatism evidently," said Father 
 Robertson, in a voice that was smiling. 
 
 "No, but I suppose I should if I gave way to my impulse. 
 And the rooks would be shocked." 
 
 " Do you mean the Cathedral dignitaries ? " 
 
 They were gently gay as they walked along, but very soon 
 Rosamund, in her very human but wholly unconscious way, put 
 her hand on Father Robertson's arm. 
 
 "There it is! " 
 
 "Your house?" 
 
 "Yes. Isn't it sweet? Doesn't it look peacefully old? I 
 should like to grow old like that, calmly, unafraid and unrepin- 
 ing. I knew you'd love it." 
 
 He had not said so, but that did not matter.
 
 282 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " There's a dear old caretaker, with only one tooth in front 
 and such nice gray eyes, who'll let us in. Not an electric 
 bell!" 
 
 She gave him a look half confidential, half humorous, and 
 wholly girlish. 
 
 " We have to pull it. That's so much nicer! " 
 
 She pulled, and the dear old caretaker, a woman in Cathe- 
 dral black, with the look of a verger's widow all over her, 
 showed the tooth in a smile as she peeped round the door. 
 
 " And now the garden ! " said Rosamund, in the withdrawn 
 voice of an intense anticipation, half an hour later, when Fa- 
 ther Robertson had seen, and been consulted, about everything 
 from kitchen to attic. 
 
 She turned round to Mrs. Soper, as the verger's widow in- 
 deed she was that ! was called. 
 
 " Shall you mind if we stay a good while in the garden, Mrs. 
 Soper? It's so delightful there. Will it bother you? " 
 
 "Most pleased, ma'am! I couldn't wish for anything else. 
 You do hear the chimes most beautiful from there. But it's 
 very damp. That we must allow." 
 
 " Are you afraid of the damp, Father? " 
 
 " Not a bit." 
 
 " I knew you wouldn't be," she said, almost exultantly. 
 
 Mrs. Soper took her stand by the drawing-room window and 
 gazed through the lattice with the deep interest which seems pe- 
 culiar to provincial towns, and which is seldom manifested in 
 capitals, where the curiosity is rather of the surface than of the 
 very entrails of humanity. She showed the tooth as she stood, 
 but not in a smile. She was far too interested in the lady and 
 the white-haired clergyman to smile. 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder but what they're going to be mar- 
 ried ! " was her feminine thought, as she watched them walking 
 about the garden, and presently pacing up and down one of 
 the narrow paths, to the far-off wall that bordered one end of 
 the Bishop's Palace, and back again to the wall near the Dark 
 Entry. Canon Wilton had not mentioned Rosamund's name 
 to the verger's widow, who had no evil thoughts of bigamy. 
 Presently the chimes sounded in the tower, and Mrs. Soper saw 
 the two visitors pause in their walk to listen. They both looked 
 upwards towards the Cathedral, and on the lady's face there was 
 a rapt expression which was remarked by Mrs. Soper. 
 
 " She do look religious," murmured that lady to the tooth. 
 " She might be a bishop's lady when she a-stands like that."
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 283 
 
 The chimes died away, the visitors resumed their pacing walk, 
 and Mrs. Soper presently retired to the kitchen, which looked 
 out on the passage-way, to cook herself " a bit of something " 
 for the midday staying of her stomach. 
 
 In the garden that morning Rosamund and Father Robert- 
 son became friends. Rosamund had never had an Anglican 
 confessor, though she had sometimes wished to confess, not be- 
 cause she was specially conscious of a burden of sin, but rather 
 because she longed to speak to some one of those inmost thoughts 
 which men and women seldom care to discuss with those who 
 are always in their lives. In Father Robertson she had found 
 the exceptional man with whom she would not mind being per- 
 fectly frank about matters which were not for Dion, not for 
 Beattie, not for godfather matters which she could never 
 have hinted at even to Canon Wilton, whose strong serenity 
 she deeply admired. Had any of her nearest and dearest 
 heard Rosamund's talk with Father Robertson that day, they 
 would have realized, perhaps with astonishment, how strong 
 was the reserve which underlay her forthcoming manner and 
 capacious frankness about the ordinary matters of everyday ex- 
 istence. 
 
 " Father, a sermon from you changed my life, I think," she 
 said, when they had paced up and down the path only two or 
 three times; and, without any self -consciousness, she told him 
 of Dion's proposal on that foggy afternoon in London, of her 
 visit to St. Mary's, Welby Street, and of the impression the 
 sermon had made upon her. She described her return home, 
 and the painful sensation which had beset her when she lost 
 herself in the fog the sensation of desertion, of a horror of 
 loneliness. 
 
 " The next day I accepted my husband," she said. " I re- 
 solved to take the path of life along which I could walk with 
 another. I decided to share. Do you remember? " 
 
 She looked at him gently, earnestly, and he understood the 
 allusion to his sermon. 
 
 " Yes, I remember. But," his question came very gently 
 " in coming to that decision, were you making a sacrifice? " 
 
 " Yes, I was." 
 
 And then Rosamund made a confession such as she had never 
 yet made to any one, though once she had allowed Dion to 
 know a little of what was in her heart. She told Father Rob- 
 ertson of the something almost imperious within her which 
 had longed for the religious life. He listened to the story of
 
 284 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 a vocation ; and he was able to understand it as certainly Canon 
 Wilton could not have understood it. For Rosamund's creep- 
 ing hunger had been not for the life of hard work among the 
 poor in religion, not for the dedication of all her energies to the 
 lost and unreclaimed, who are sunk in the mire of the world, 
 but for that peculiar life of the mystic who leaves the court 
 of the outer things for the court of the mysteries, the inner 
 things, who enters into prayer as into a dark shell filled with 
 the vast and unceasing murmur of the voice which is not hu- 
 man. 
 
 " I wished to sing in public for a time. Something made 
 me long to use my voice, to express myself in singing noble 
 music, in helping on its message. But I meant to retire while 
 I was still quite young. And always at the back of my mind 
 there was the thought ' then I'll leave the world, I'll give my- 
 self up to God.' I longed for the enclosed life of perpetual 
 devotion. I didn't know whether there was any community in 
 our Church which I could join, and in. which I could find what 
 I thought I needed. I didn't get so far as that. You see I 
 meant to be a singer at first." 
 
 " Yes, I quite understand. And the giving up of this mys- 
 tical dream was a great sacrifice ? " 
 
 " Really it was. I had a sort of absolute hunger in me to do 
 eventually what I have told you." 
 
 " I understand that hunger," said Father Robertson. 
 
 Just then the chimes sounded in the Cathedral, and they 
 stopped on the narrow path to listen, looking up at the great 
 gray tower which held the voices sweet to their souls. 
 
 " I understand that hunger," he repeated, when the chimes 
 died away. " It can be fierce as any hunger after a sin. In 
 your case you felt it was not free from egoism, this strong de- 
 sire? " 
 
 " Your sermon made me look into my heart, and I did think 
 that perhaps I was an egoist in my religious feeling, that I 
 was selfishly intent on my own soul, that in my religion, if I 
 did what I longed presently to do, I should be thinking almost 
 solely of myself." 
 
 Rather abruptly Father Robertson put a question : 
 
 " There was nothing else which drew you towards mar- 
 riage? " 
 
 " I liked and admired Dion very much. I thought him an 
 exceptional sort of man. I knew he cared for me in a beauti- 
 ful sort of way. That touched me. And " she slightly hesi-
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 285 
 
 tated, and a soft flush came to her cheeks " I felt that he was 
 a good man in a way I believe, I am almost sure, that very 
 few young men are good in the particular way I mean. Of all 
 the things in Dion that was the one which most strongly called 
 to me." 
 
 Father Robertson understood her allusion to physical purity. 
 
 " I couldn't have married him but for that," she added. 
 
 " If I had known you when you were a girl I believe I 
 should not have expected you to marry," said Father Robert- 
 son. 
 
 Afterwards, when he had seen Rosamund with Robin, he 
 thought he had been very blind when he had said that. 
 
 " You understand me," she said, very simply. " But I knew 
 you would." 
 
 " You have given up something. Many people, perhaps 
 most people, would deny that. But I know how difficult it 
 is " his voice became lower " to give up retirement, to give 
 up that food which the soul instinctively longs to find, thinks 
 perhaps it only can find, in silence, perpetual meditation, per- 
 petual prayer, in the world that is purged of the insistent 
 clamor of human voices. But " he straightened himself with 
 a quick movement, and his voice became firmer " a man may 
 wish to draw near to God in the Wilderness, or in the desert, 
 and may find Him most surely in " and here he hesitated 
 slightly, almost as a few minutes before Rosamund had hesi- 
 tated " in the Liverpool slums. What a blessing it is, what 
 an unspeakable blessing it is, when one has learnt the lesson 
 that God is everywhere. But how difficult it is to learn! " 
 
 They walked together for a long time in the garden, and 
 Rosamund felt strangely at ease, like one who has entered a 
 haven and has found the desired peace. She had given up 
 something, but how much had been given to her ! In the shelter 
 of the gray towers, and within the enclosing walls, she would go 
 again to some of her dreams, while the chimes marked the pass- 
 ing of the quiet hours, and the watchman's voice was lifted up 
 to the stars which looked down on Welsley. 
 
 And Robin would be with her.
 
 286 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 A LITTLE more than six months later, when a golden 
 September lay over the land, Rosamund could scarcely 
 believe that she had ever lived out of Welsley. Dion 
 was still in South Africa, in good health and " without a 
 scratch." In his last letter home he had written that he had 
 no idea how long the C. I. V.'s would be kept in South Africa. 
 The war dragged on, and despite the English successes which 
 had followed such bitter defeats no one could say when it 
 would end. There was no immediate reason, therefore, for 
 Rosamund to move back to London. 
 
 She dreaded that return. She loved Welsley and could not 
 now imagine herself living anywhere else. Robin, too was a 
 pronounced, even an enthusiastic, " Welsleyite," and had prac- 
 tically forgotten " old London," as he negligently called the 
 greatest city in the world. They were very happy in Welsley. 
 In fact, the Dean's widow was the only rift in Rosamund's lute, 
 that lute which was so full of sweet and harmonious music. 
 
 Rosamund's lease of the house in the Precincts, " Little 
 Cloisters," as it was deliciously named, had been for six months, 
 from the 1st of March till the 1st of September. As Dion was 
 not coming home yet, and as he wrote begging her to live on 
 at Welsley if she preferred it to London, she was anxious to 
 " renew " for another six months. The question whether Mrs. 
 Duncan Browning would, or would not, renew really tormented 
 Rosamund, and the uncertainty in which she was living, and 
 the misery it caused her, showed her how much of her heart 
 had been given to Welsley. 
 
 The Dean's widow was capricious and swayed by fluctua- 
 tions of health. She was " up and down," whatever that be- 
 tokened. At one moment she " saw the sun," her poetical 
 way of expressing that she began to feel pretty well, and 
 thought she had had enough of the " frivolous existence one 
 leads in an hotel "; at another a fit of sneezing, " not the early 
 morning sneeze but the real thing," a pang of rheumatism, 
 or a touch of bronchitis, made her fear for the damp of Wels- 
 ley. She would and she would not, and Rosamund could not 
 induce her to come to a decision, and suffered agonies at the 
 thought of being turned out of Little Cloisters. When Dion 
 came back, of course, a flitting from Welsley would have to be 
 faced, but to be driven away without that imperative reason
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 287 
 
 would indeed be gall and wormwood. There were days when 
 Rosamund felt unchristian towards Mrs. Dean, upon whom she 
 had never looked, but with whom she had exchanged a great 
 many cordial letters. 
 
 In August, under the influence of a " heavy cold, which seems 
 the worse because of the heat," Mrs. Browning had agreed to 
 let Rosamund stay on for another month, September; and now 
 Rosamund was anxiously awaiting a reply to her almost im- 
 passioned appeal for a six months' extension of her lease. 
 Canon Wilton was again in residence in the Precincts, and one 
 afternoon he called at Little Cloisters, after the three o'clock 
 service, to inquire what was the result of this appeal. Beatrice 
 was staying with her sister for a few days, and when the Canon 
 was shown in she was alone in the drawing-room, having just 
 come up from the garden, where she had been playing with 
 Robin, whose chirping high voice was audible, floating up from 
 below. 
 
 "Is your sister busy?" asked the Canon, after greeting 
 Beatrice. 
 
 Beatrice smiled faintly. 
 
 " She's in her den. What do you think she is doing? " 
 
 The Canon looked hard at her, and he too smiled. 
 
 " Not writing again to Mrs. Browning ? " 
 
 Beatrice nodded, and sat gently down on the window-seat. 
 
 " Begging and praying for an extension." 
 
 " I've never seen any one so in love with a place as your sister 
 is with Welsley." 
 
 He sat down near Beatrice. 
 
 " But it is attractive, isn't it? " she said. 
 
 She turned her head slowly and looked out of the open win- 
 dow to the enclosed garden which was bathed in mellow sun- 
 shine. The sky above the gray Cathedral towers was a clear 
 and delicate, not deep, blue. Above the mossy red wall of the 
 garden appeared the ruined arches of the cloisters which gave 
 to the house its name. Among them some doves were cooing. 
 Up in the blue, about the pinnacles of the towers, the rooks 
 were busily flying. Robin, in a little loose shirt, green knicker- 
 bockers, and a tiny soft white hat set well on the back of his 
 head, was gardening just below the window with the intensity 
 that belongs to the dawn. His bare brown legs moved rapidly, 
 as he ran from place to place carrying earth, a plant, a bright 
 red watering-pot. The gardener, a large young man, with 
 whom Robin was evidently on the most friendly, and even inti-
 
 288 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 mate, terms, was working with him, and apparently under his 
 close and constant supervision. A thrush with very bright eyes 
 looked on from an adjacent elder bush. Upon the wall, near 
 the end of the Bishop's Palace, a black cat was sunning itself 
 and lazily attending to its toilet. 
 
 " It's the very place for Rosamund," said Beatrice, after a 
 pause, during which she drank in Welsley. " She seems to 
 know and love every stick and stone in it." 
 
 " And almost every man, woman and child," said the Canon. 
 " She began by captivating the Precincts, not such an easy 
 task either, for a bishop usually has not the taste of a dean, 
 and minor canons think very lightly of the praises of an arch- 
 deacon, and she has ended by captivating the whole city. 
 Even the wives of the clergy sing her praises with one accord. 
 It's the greatest triumph in the history of the church." 
 
 " You see she likes them and is thoroughly interested in all 
 their little affairs." 
 
 " Yes, it's genuine sympathy. She makes Welsley her world, 
 and so Welsley thinks the world of her." 
 
 He looked across at Beatrice for a moment meditatively, and 
 then said: 
 
 " And when her husband comes back? " 
 
 " Dion! Well, then, of course " 
 
 She hesitated, and in the silence the drawing-room door 
 opened and Rosamund came in, holding an open letter in her. 
 hand, knitting her brows, and looking very grave and intense. 
 She greeted the Canon with her usual warm cordiality, but still 
 looked grave and preoccupied. 
 
 " I've been writing to Mrs. Browning, about this house," she 
 said earnestly. " It is damp, isn't it? " 
 
 "Damp?" said the Canon. "I've never noticed it. But 
 then do you think the house is unwholesome? " 
 
 " Not for us. What I feel is, that for a bronchial person it 
 might be." 
 
 She paused, looking at her letter. 
 
 " I've put just what I feel here, in a letter to Mrs. Brown- 
 ing. I know the house is considered damp; by the Precincts, 
 I mean. Mrs. Murry told me so, and Mrs. Tiling-Smith thinks 
 the same. Even the Bishop why are you smiling, Canon 
 Wilton?" 
 
 But she began to smile too. 
 
 " What does the Bishop say about the danger to health of 
 Little Cloisters?"
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 289 
 
 Her lips twitched, but she replied with firm sweetness: 
 
 " The Bishop says that all, or nearly all, old houses are apt 
 to be damp in winter." 
 
 " A weighty utterance ! But I'm afraid Mrs. Browning 
 by the way, have you put the Bishop into your letter? " 
 
 " I had thought of reading it to you both, but now I shall 
 not." 
 
 She put the letter into an envelope, sealed it up with prac- 
 tical swiftness, rang the bell for Annie and sent it to the post- 
 box round the corner. 
 
 " I did put the Bishop in," she added, with a mockery of de- 
 fiance that was almost girlish, when Annie had gone out. 
 
 " That was a mistake," said the Canon sonorously. 
 
 " Why? " 
 
 " Bishops never carry weight with the wives, or widows, of 
 deans." 
 
 " But why not? " asked Rosamund, with a touch of real anx- 
 iety. 
 
 " Because the wives of deans always think their husbands 
 ought to be bishops instead of those who are bishops, and the 
 widows of deans always consider that they ought to be the 
 widows of bishops. They therefore very naturally feel that 
 bishops are not entitled by merit to the positions they hold, and 
 should be treated with a delicate disdain." 
 
 " I never thought of that. I wonder if Annie " 
 
 " Too late! " said the Canon. " You'll have to turn out of 
 Little Cloisters, I foresee that." 
 
 Rosamund sat down, leaned towards him with her hands 
 clasped tightly together, and, in her absolutely unself-conscious 
 way, began to tell him and Beattie what she felt about Wels- 
 ley, or something of what she felt. A good deal she could only 
 have told to Father Robertson. When she had finished, Canon 
 Wilton said, in his rather abrupt and blunt way: 
 
 " Well, but if your husband comes home unexpectedly? You 
 can't stay here then, can you? " 
 
 Beatrice, who was still on the window seat, leaned out, and 
 began to speak to Robin below her in a quiet voice which could 
 scarcely be heard within the room. 
 
 " But Dion sees no prospect of coming home yet." 
 
 " I heard to-day from some one in London that the C. I. V. 
 may be back before Christmas." 
 
 " Dion doesn't say so." 
 
 " It mayn't be true."
 
 290 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Dion writes that no one out there has any idea when the 
 war will end." 
 
 " Probably not. But the C. I. V. mayn't be needed all 
 through the war. Most of them are busy men who've given up 
 a great deal out of sheer patriotism. Fine fellows! They've 
 done admirable work, and the War Office may decide that 
 they've done enough. Things out there have taken a great turn 
 since Roberts and Kitchener went out. The C. I. V. may come 
 marching home long before peace is declared." 
 
 He spoke with a certain pressure, a certain intensity, and 
 his eyes never left Rosamund's face. 
 
 " I'm glad my Dion's one of them," she said. " And Robin 
 will be glad, too, some day." 
 
 She said nothing more about Mrs. Browning and Little 
 Cloisters. But when Canon Wilton had gone she said to her 
 sister : 
 
 " Beattie, does it ever strike you that Canon Wilton's rather 
 abrupt and unexpected sometimes in what he says? " 
 
 " He doesn't beat about the bush," replied Beatrice. " Do 
 you mean that ? " 
 
 " Perhaps I do. Now I'm going down to Robin. How 
 strong he's getting here! Hark at his voice! Can't you hear 
 even in his voice how much good Welsley has done him? " 
 
 Robin's determined treble was audible as he piped out: 
 
 " Oh no, Fipper! not by the Bish's wall! Why, I say, the 
 slugs always comes there. They do, weally! You come and 
 see! Come quick! I'll show " 
 
 The voice faded in the direction of the Palace. 
 
 " I must go down and see if it's true about the slugs," ex- 
 claimed Rosamund. 
 
 And with beaming eyes she hastened out of the room. 
 
 Beatrice looked after her and sighed. Dion's last letter from 
 South Africa was lying on the writing-table close to her. Rosa- 
 mund had already given it to her to read. Now she took it 
 up and read it carefully again. The doves cooed in the clois- 
 ters; the bells chimed in the tower; the mellow sunshine al- 
 ready the sunshine not of full summer, but of the dawning 
 autumn, with its golden presage of days not golden, and of 
 nights heavy with dews and laden with floating leaves, came 
 in through the lattice, and lay over her soft and wistful melan- 
 choly, as she read of hardship, and dust, and blood and death, 
 told truthfully, but always cheerfully, as a soldier tells a thing 
 to a woman he loves and wishes to be sincere with.
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 291 
 
 Dion was not in the peace. Dear Rosamund! Did she 
 quite realize ? And then Beattie pulled herself up. A disloyal 
 thought surely leaves a stain on the mind through which it 
 passes. Beattie did not want to have a stain on her mind. She 
 cared for it as a delicately refined woman cares for her body, 
 bathing it every day. 
 
 She put Dion's letter down. 
 
 That evening Rosamund sang at a charity concert in the 
 City Hall. Her music was already a legend in Welsley and the 
 neighborhood. Mr. Dickinson, who always accompanied her 
 singing, declared it emphatically to be " great." The wife of 
 the Bishop, Mrs. Mabberley, pronounced the verdict, " She sings 
 with her soul rather than with her voice," without intention 
 of paying a left-handed compliment. The Cathedral choir boys 
 affirmed that " our altos are a couple of squeaks beside her." 
 Even Mrs. Dickinson, " the cold douche," as she was named 
 in the Precincts, had long ago " come round " about Mrs. Dion 
 Leith, and had been heard to say of her, " She's got more than 
 a contralto, she's got a heart, and I couldn't say that of some 
 women in high positions." This was " aimed " at the Dean's 
 wife, Mrs. Jasper, who gave herself musical airs, and sometimes 
 tried to " interfere with the Precentor's arrangements," which 
 meant falling foul of " Henry." 
 
 As Rosamund looked down upon the rows of friendly and 
 familiar faces from the platform, as she heard the prolonged 
 applause which greeted her before she sang, and the cries of 
 " Encore! " which saluted her when she finished, she felt that 
 she had given her heart irrevocably to Welsley, and the thought 
 came to her, " How can I leave it? " This was cozy, and Lon- 
 don could never be cozy. She could identify herself with the 
 concentrated life here, without feeling it a burden upon her. 
 For she was so much beloved that people even respected her 
 privacy, and fell in with what she called " my absurd little 
 ways." In London, however many people you knew, you saw 
 strangers all the time, strangers with hard, indifferent eyes and 
 buttoned-up mouths. And one could never say of London " my 
 London." 
 
 When the concert was over she wound a veil about her 
 pale yellow hair, wrapped a thin cloak round her shoulders, 
 took up her music case and asked for Beattie. An eager boy 
 with a smiling round face, one of the Cathedral choristers, darted 
 off to find Mrs. Daventry, the sister of "our Mrs. Leith"; 
 Mr. Dickinson gently, but decisively, took the music case from
 
 292 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 Rosamund's hand with an "I'll carry that home for you"; 
 a thin man, like an early primrose obliged by some inadvertence 
 of spring to work for its living, sidled up and begged for the 
 name of " your most beautiful and chaste second encore for 
 our local paper, the 'Welsley Whisperer' "; and Mrs. Dickin- 
 son in a pearl gray shawl, with an artificial pink camellia care- 
 lessly entangled in her marvelously smooth mouse-colored hair, 
 appeared to tell Mrs. Leith authoritatively that " Madame 
 Patey in her heyday never sang ' O Rest in the Lord ' as we have 
 heard it sung to-night." 
 
 Then Rosamund, pleasantly surrounded by dear provincial 
 enthusiasts, made her way to the door where Beattie, with more 
 enthusiasts, was waiting for her; and they all came out into 
 the narrow High Street, and found the September moon riding 
 above their heads to give them a greeting nobly serene and 
 beneficent, and they set out sans facon, many of them bare- 
 headed, to walk home down tiny " Archbishop's Lane " to the 
 Precincts. 
 
 Rosamund walked with Mr. Dickinson on one side of her 
 and the Dean of Welsley and Mrs. Japer on the other; Canon 
 Wilton, Beattie, the Archdeacon of Welsley and the Precentor 
 were just in front; behind peacefully streamed minor canons 
 and their wives, young sons and daughters of the Precincts, 
 and various privileged persons who, though not of the hierarchy, 
 possessed small houses within the sacred pale. Only the 
 Bishop and his consort drove majestically home in " Harring- 
 ton's Fly." 
 
 What a chatter of voices there was under the projecting eaves 
 of the dear old houses! What happy laughter was wafted to- 
 wards the smiling moon ! Mrs. Dickinson, presently " com- 
 ing up with " Rosamund's party, became absolutely " waggish " 
 (the Dean's expression), and made Rosamund laugh with 
 that almost helpless spontaneity which is the greatest compli- 
 ment to a joke. And then the gate in the ancient archway 
 was opened, and they all passed into their great pleasaunce, 
 and, with a sensation of joyous proprietorship, heard the gate 
 shut and locked behind them, and saw the Cathedral lifting its 
 towers to the moon. Laughter was hushed then, and some 
 of the voices were silent; feet went more slowly along the edges 
 of the velvety lawns; the spell of ancient things which are noble, 
 and which tell of the noble ideals of humanity, fell upon them; 
 their hearts within them were lifted up. 
 
 When the Dean bade good-night to Rosamund he said :
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 293 
 
 " Your music and you mean a great deal to Welsley." 
 
 " Not half as much as Welsley means to me," she replied with 
 earnest sincerity. 
 
 " We are all looking forwai J to greeting your gallant, self- 
 sacrificing husband presently, very soon I hope. Good-night to 
 you. It has been" he paused, looked at Rosamund and 
 gently pressed her hand, " a most fragrant evening." 
 
 A most fragrant evening! When Beattie and Rosamund 
 had eaten their sandwiches, and drunk their still lemonade and 
 claret, and when Beattie had gone to bed, Rosamund slipped out 
 alone into the dear walled garden, and paced up and down in 
 the moonlight. 
 
 Yes, there was something fragrant here, something that in- 
 fected the soul, something of old faiths and old holy aspira- 
 tions, a murmur and a perfume of trust and love. There might 
 be gossip, trickling jealousies in this little world, mean actions, 
 even, perhaps, ugly desires and ugly fulfilments of desire. 
 Rosamund scarcely noticed, or did not notice, these things. 
 With her people were at their best. That night, when Beattie 
 was going to bed, Rosamund had said to her: 
 
 " I can't think why Mrs. Dickinson is called ' the cold 
 douche.' I find her so warm-hearted and so amusing! " 
 
 And so it was with them all. Rosamund had the magic touch 
 which drew the best out of every one in Welsley, because she was 
 happy there, and sincerely loved the place. 
 
 "How can I leave Welsley?" she thought now, as she 
 walked up and down in the garden, and heard presently the 
 chiming of midnight and the voice of the watchman beyond 
 the Dark Entry. God seemed very near to her in Welsley, 
 God and the happiness of God. In Welsley she felt, or was 
 beginning to feel, that she was almost able to combine two 
 lives, the life she had grasped and the life she had let go. 
 Here she was a mother and at moments she was almost a re- 
 ligious too. She played with her boy, she trained him, watched 
 over his small body and his increasing soul; and she medi- 
 tated between the enclosing walls, listened to bells and floating 
 praises, to the Dresden Amen, and to the organ with its many 
 voices all dedicated to the service of God. Often, when she 
 walked alone in the garden, or sat alone in some hidden corner 
 under the mossy walls, she felt like a nun who had given up 
 the world forever, and had found the true life in God. In imag- 
 ination, then, she lived the life of which she had dreamed as a 
 girl before any man had brought her his love.
 
 294 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 She could never, even in imagination, live that life truly, 
 without effort, in London. Welsley had made her almost hate 
 London. She did not know how she would be able to bear the 
 return to it. Yet, if Canon Wilton were right in what he had 
 said to her that afternoon, Dion might come back very soon, 
 and therefore very soon she might have to leave Welsley. 
 
 No. 5 Little Market Street once more; vaporous Westmin- 
 ster leaning to the dark river! 
 
 Rosamund sighed deeply as she looked up again to the tow- 
 ers, and the moon, and turned to go into Little Cloisters. It 
 was difficult to shut out such a night; it would be more difficult 
 to give up the long meditations, the dreams that came in thia 
 sweet retirement sheltered by the house of God. 
 
 Two days later, at breakfast-time, Rosamund received the 
 following letter, written on paper scented with " Wood violet ": 
 
 "HOTEL PALACE-BY-THE-SEA, BOURNEMOUTH, 
 Thursday 
 
 "MY DEAR MRS. LEITH, I have received your two or 
 is it three ? charming letters recently written, suggesting a 
 renewal of the lease of Little Cloisters beyond September. At 
 first I hesitated. The atmosphere of a Cathedral town natu- 
 rally attracts me and recalls sweet memories of the past. On 
 the other hand the life of a well-managed hotel, such as this, 
 is not without its agrements. Frivolous it may be (though 
 not light) ; comfortable and restful it undoubtedly is. The 
 against and the for in a nutshell as it were! Your last let- 
 ter, in which you dwell on the dampness inevitable in old 
 houses, and quote the Bishop's opinion, would, I think, have 
 left me undisturbed in mind I have recently taken up the 
 ' new mind ' cult, which is, of course, not antagonistic to our 
 cherished Anglican beliefs had it not happened to coincide 
 with more than a touch of bronchial asthma. The Bishop 
 (quite between you and me!) though a very dear man and a 
 very good Christian, is not a person of great intellect. My hus- 
 band would never enter into controversy with him, as he said 
 it was useless to strive in argument with a mind not sure of 
 its bearings! An opinion of the Bishop's would not, there- 
 fore, weigh much with me. But there is an element of truth 
 in the contention as to the damp. Old houses are damp at
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 295 
 
 times. Little Cloisters, placed as it is in the shadow of the Ca- 
 thedral, doubtless suffers in some degree from this defect. My 
 doctor here, such a clever man ! though very reluctant to 
 prevent me from returning home, confessed to-day that he 
 thought my case needed careful watching by some one who 
 knew. Now (between you and me), nobody knows in Wels- 
 ley, and therefore, after weighing pros and cons, and under- 
 going an hour of mental treatment merely the silent encour- 
 agement and purification of the will by an expert here, I 
 have decided to remain for the winter. I am willing, there- 
 fore, to extend your lease for another six months on the terms as 
 before. Perhaps you will kindly visit my solicitor, Mr. Colling- 
 wood of Cattle Market Lane, but you are sure to know his 
 address ! who will arrange everything legally with you. 
 With my kindest regards and all good wishes, believe me, dear 
 Mrs. Leith, always sincerely yours, 
 
 " IMOGENE DUNCAN BROWNING." 
 
 It was Beattie's last morning at Little Cloisters; she had 
 settled to go back to De Lome Gardens in the afternoon of that 
 day. Rosamund read Mrs. Browning's letter sitting opposite 
 to her sister at the breakfast-table in the small, paneled dining- 
 room. At the same time Beattie was reading a letter from Guy. 
 As she finished it she looked up and said: 
 
 " Anything interesting? " 
 
 " What does Guy say? " replied Rosamund. " Oh, here's a 
 letter from godfather! Perhaps to say he's coming down." 
 
 Rather hastily she tore open another envelope. 
 
 Later on in the morning, when Beattie was doing mysterious 
 things in the garden with Robin, Rosamund slipped out alone 
 and made her way to Cattle Market Lane. She came back just 
 before lunch, looking unusually preoccupied. 
 
 The day after Beattie had returned to London, a note from 
 Rosamund told her that the lease of Little Cloisters had been 
 renewed for another six months, till the end of March, 1901. 
 
 " And if old Dion comes back in the meanwhile, as I fully 
 expect he will?" said Guy, when Beattie told him of Rosa- 
 mund's note. 
 
 " I suppose it is possible to sublet a house," said Beattie, 
 looking unusually inexpressive, Guy thought. 
 
 " They say at the Clubs the C. I. V. will be back before 
 Christmas, Beattie," said Guy. 
 
 " The Tenbys' lease of Number 5 is up."
 
 296 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Yes, but do you think Dion can afford to run two houses? " 
 
 " Perhaps " she stopped. 
 
 " I don't believe Rosamund will ever be got out of Welsley," 
 said Guy. " And I'm pretty sure you agree with me." 
 
 " I must go now," said Beattie gently. " I'm going to Queen 
 Anne's Mansions to tell the dear mother all about my visit to 
 Welsley." 
 
 "When is she going there? " 
 
 " I don't know. She's very lazy about moving. She's not 
 been out of London since Dion sailed." 
 
 " I think she's the most delicate mother-in-law I don't 
 mean physically who has ever been born into the world." 
 
 Beattie looked down, and in a moment went out of the room 
 without saying anything more. 
 
 " Darling Beattie," murmured Guy, looking after his wife. 
 " How she bears her great disappointment." 
 
 For Beattie's sake far more than for his own he longed to 
 have a child in his home, a child of hers and his. But that 
 would never be. And so Beattie gave all the mother-love that 
 was in her to Robin, but much of it secretly. Guy knew that, 
 and believed he knew the secret of her reticence even with Robin. 
 She loved Robin, as it were, from a little distance; only his 
 mother must love him cheek to cheek, lips to lips, heart to heart, 
 and his father as men love the sons they think of as the bravery 
 and strength of the future. 
 
 But even Guy did not know how much his wife loved Robin, 
 how many buried hopes and dreams stirred in their graves when 
 Robin threw himself impulsively into her arms and confiden- 
 tially hung on her neck and informed her of the many important 
 details of his life. No man knows all that a certain type of 
 woman is able to feel about a child. 
 
 When Rosamund had arranged about the renewal of the 
 lease, she tried to feel the joy which was evidently felt by all 
 her Welsley friends with one exception which, however, she 
 either did not notice or did not seem to notice. They were 
 frankly delighted and enthusiastic at the prospect of keeping 
 her among them. She was very grateful for their affection, 
 so eagerly shown, but somehow, although she had signed her 
 name in a solicitor's office, and her signature had been wit- 
 nessed by a neat young man with a neat bald head, she did 
 not feel quite at ease. She found herself looking at " my Wels- 
 ley " with the anxiously loving eyes of one who gathers in dear 
 details before it is too late for such garnering; she sat in the
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 297 
 
 garden and listened to the beloved sounds from the Cathedral 
 with strained attention, like one who sets memory at its mys- 
 terious task. 
 
 The Dean's widow had yielded to the suggestion of inevitable 
 dampness in old houses, but ! 
 
 On September 28, towards evening, when Rosamund was 
 in the garden with Robin, Annie, the parlor-maid, came out 
 holding a salver on which lay a telegram. Rosamund opened 
 it and read: 
 
 " Coming home. DION." 
 " Any answer, ma'am? " 
 
 " Is there any answer, ma'am? Shall I tell the boy to 
 wait?" 
 
 " What did you say, Annie ? " 
 
 " Shall I tell the boy to wait, ma'am? " 
 
 " No, thank you, Annie. There's no answer." 
 
 Annie turned and recrossed the garden, looking careful, as 
 if she were thinking of her cap, round which the airs were 
 blowing. 
 
 Rosamund sat for a few minutes almost motionless, with 
 the slip of paper lying in her lap; then the breeze came lightly, 
 as if curious, and blew it away. Robin saw it and ran. 
 
 " I'll catch it, mummie. You see! I'll catch it! " 
 
 The little brown legs were amazingly swift, but the telegram 
 was elusive because the breeze was naughty. When Robin 
 ran up to his mother holding it out he was almost breathless. 
 
 " Here it is, mummie." 
 
 His blue eyes and his voice held triumph. 
 
 "I said I would, and I did!" 
 
 Rosamund put her arm round him. 
 
 " Who do you think sent this? " 
 
 " I dunno." 
 
 " Daddy sent it." 
 
 Robin's eyes became round. 
 
 "Daddy! What for?" 
 
 " To tell us he's coming home." 
 
 A deeply serious expression came to Robin's face. 
 
 " Have I growed much ? " 
 
 " Yes, a great deal."
 
 298 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 "Will daddy see it?" 
 
 " Yes, I'm sure he will directly he comes." 
 
 Robin seemed relieved. 
 
 " Is daddy coming here ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Is he goin' to live here with us ? " 
 
 " We shall see about all that when he comes." 
 
 Annie, evidently still thinking about her cap, reappeared 
 on the garden path. 
 
 " The Dean to see you, ma'am." 
 
 Rosamund got up, gave Robin a long kiss on the freckles 
 and said: 
 
 " Robin, I believe the Dean has come about Mr. Thrush." 
 
 " Does he know Mr. Thrush? " 
 
 " Not yet. I'll tell you something presently." 
 
 And she went slowly into the house. Was a scheme of hers 
 
 coming to fruition just when ? She tried to close her mind 
 
 to an approaching thought. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 ON the 7th of October the C.I.V. sailed from South 
 Africa for England; on the 19th of October they 
 made St. Vincent; on the 23rd Dion again looked 
 over the sea at the dreaming hills of Madeira. The sight of 
 these hills made him realize the change brought about in him 
 by the work he had done in South Africa. As he gazed at 
 them he suddenly and sharply remembered the man who had 
 gazed at them nine months before, a man who was gathering 
 together determination, who was silently making preparations 
 for progress, or for what he thought of as progress. Those 
 hills then had seemed to be calling to him out of the mists of 
 heat, and to himself he had seemed to be defying them, to be 
 thrusting their voices from him. For were they not the hills 
 of a land where the lotus bloomed, where a weariness bred of 
 stagnant delights wrapped men in a garment of Nessus, steeped 
 in a subtle poison which drew from them all their energies, 
 which brought them not pain but an inertia more deadly to 
 the soul than pain? Now they had no power over him. He
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 299 
 
 did not need to defy them, because he had gained in strength. 
 Ere they vanished from his eyes over the sea he remembered 
 another Island rising out of waters that gleamed with gold. 
 How far off now seemed to him that evening when he had 
 looked on it as he traveled to Greece! How much he had left 
 behind on the way of his life! 
 
 The experience of separation and of war had not aged him, 
 but it had made him feel older. Nothing of the boy was left 
 in him. He felt himself of manhood all compact. He had 
 seen men die, had seen how they were able to die, how they met 
 severe physical suffering; he had silently tried to prepare himself 
 for death, keeping a cheerful countenance; he had known, like 
 most brave men, the cold companionship of fear, and he had 
 got rid of that companionship. Knowing death better, he knew 
 life much better than when he had left England. 
 
 On the voyage out he had looked at the hills of Madeira 
 with Worthington. Now Worthington was not with him; he 
 had died of enteric at Pretoria in September. Dion was carry- 
 ing back to England Worthington's last written message to his 
 people. He was carrying also another letter written by an 
 English officer, whose body lay in the earth of Africa, to a 
 woman at home. On the voyage Dion often thought of that 
 dead man and of the living woman to whom he would presently 
 give the letter. He had promised to deliver it personally. 
 
 At St. Vincent he had received a welcome by cable from 
 Rosamund, and had sent a cable to her asking not to be met. 
 He wished to meet her in her home at Welsley. She had 
 written to him enthusiastic accounts of its peace and beauty. 
 Her pen had been tipped with love of it. Their first meeting, 
 their reunion, must take place there in the midst of that 
 wonderful peace of green England which she loved so much. 
 After the heat and the dust and the pain of South Africa that 
 would surely be very good. 
 
 Their reunion! 
 
 Dion had escaped death. He had been allowed to return 
 to Rosamund in splendid health, without a wound, though he 
 had been in battle. He had a strong presentiment that he was 
 allowed to return for some definite purpose. Could he not now 
 be of far more use to his little son than if he had never volun- 
 teered for active service? Rosamund and he had looked up 
 together at the columns of the Parthenon and had thought of 
 the child who might come. Dion felt that he understood the 
 Parthenon better now that he had looked death in the face,
 
 300 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 now that he had been ready to give up his life if it had been 
 required of him. He even had a whimsical feeling he smiled 
 at it seriously to himself that the Parthenon, if he again 
 stood before it, would understand him better. He was not 
 proud of himself for what he had done. But in the depths of 
 him he often felt earnestly glad, almost thankful, that he had 
 been able to do it. The doing of it had brought a new zest into 
 life, new meanings, a new outlook. He seemed to feel life like 
 something precious in his hand now; he had not felt it so before, 
 even when he had won Rosamund and had been with her in 
 Greece. 
 
 The hills of Madeira faded. Three days later there was 
 a burial at sea in the early morning. A private, who had 
 been ill with enteric, had died in the night. The body sank 
 into the depths, the ship went on her way and ran into a stiff 
 gale. Already England was rousing herself to welcome her 
 returning sons, bruskly but lustily, in her way, which was 
 not South Africa's way. Dion loved that gale though it kept 
 him awake all night. 
 
 Next morning they were off the Start, and heard the voices 
 of the sirens bidding them good day. 
 
 On the last day of October, at about four o'clock in the 
 afternoon, Rosamund was waiting for Dion. He was due by 
 the express which, when up to time, reached Welsley Station 
 at 3.55. She would naturally have been at the station to meet 
 him if she had not received a telegram from him begging her 
 to stay at home. 
 
 " Would much rather meet you first in Little Cloisters, 
 Dion," were the last words of the telegram. 
 
 So Rosamund had stayed at home. 
 
 It was a peculiarly still autumn afternoon. A suggestion 
 it was scarcely more than that of mist made the Precincts 
 look delicately sad, but not to the eyes of Rosamund. She 
 delighted in this season of tawny colors and of fluttering leaves, 
 of nature's wide-eyed and contemplative muteness. The beauty 
 of autumn appealed to her because she possessed a happy spirit, 
 and was not too imaginative. She had imagination, but it 
 was not of the intensely sensitive and poetic kind which dies 
 with the dying leaves, and in the mists loses all the hopes that
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 301 
 
 were born with the birth of summer. The strong sanity which 
 marked her, and which had always kept her in central paths, 
 far away from the byways in which the neurotic, the decadent, 
 the searchers after the so-called " new " things loved to tread, 
 led her to welcome each season in its turn, and to rejoice in its 
 special characteristics. 
 
 So she loved the cloistral feeling autumn brought with it 
 to Welsley. Green summer seemed to open the doors, and 
 one rejoiced in a golden freedom; tawny autumn seemed softly 
 to close the doors, and one was happy in a sensation of being 
 tenderly guarded, of being kept very safe in charge for the 
 coming winter with its fires, and its cosy joys of the interior. 
 
 Another reason which made Rosamund care very much for 
 the autumn was this: in the autumn the religious atmosphere 
 which hung about the Precincts of Welsley seemed to her to 
 become more definite, more touching; the ancient things more 
 living and powerful in their message. 
 
 " Welsley always sends out influences," she had once said 
 to Father Robertson. " But in certain autumn days it speaks. 
 I hear its voice in the autumn." 
 
 She heard its voice now as she waited for Dion. 
 
 The lattice window which gave on to the garden was partly 
 open; there was a fire in the wide, old-fashioned grate; vases 
 holding chrysanthemums stood on the high wooden mantelpiece 
 and on the writing-table; the low tea-table had been placed 
 by Annie near the hearth. 
 
 Rosamund listened to the cloistral silence, and looked at 
 two deep, old-fashioned arm-chairs which were drawn up by 
 the tea-table. 
 
 Just how much had she missed Dion? 
 
 That question had suddenly sprung up in her mind as she 
 looked at the two arm-chairs. 
 
 The first time she had been in Little Cloisters she had spoken 
 to Canon Wilton of Dion, had wondered if he would come 
 back from South Africa altered; and she had said that if she 
 came to live in it Welsley might alter her. Canon Wilton 
 had made no comment on her remark. She had scarcely 
 noticed that at the time, perhaps had not consciously noticed 
 it; but her subconscious mind had recorded the fact, and she 
 recalled it now. 
 
 Welsley, she thought, had changed her a good deal. She 
 was not a self-conscious woman as a rule, but to-day was not 
 like other days, and she was not quite like herself on other
 
 302 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 days. Perhaps, for once, she was what women often call 
 "strung up"; certainly she felt peculiarly alive alive spe- 
 cially in the nerves of her body. 
 
 Those two arm-chairs were talking to her; they were telling 
 her of the imminent renewal of the life closely companioned, 
 watched over, protected, beloved. They were telling, and they 
 were asking, too. She felt absurdly that it was they who were 
 asking her how much she had missed Dion. 
 
 It would be good to have him back, but she now suddenly 
 realized, in a self-conscious way, that she had managed to be 
 very happy without him. But then she had always looked 
 forward to his eventual return. Suppose he had not come back ? 
 
 She got up restlessly, went to the window and looked out 
 into the garden. Robin was not there, nor was he in the house. 
 Obedient to an impulse which she had not understood at the 
 time, Rosamund had arranged a small, and rather odd, festivity 
 for him which had taken him away from home, and would 
 keep him out till five o'clock: he was having tea in a cake-shop 
 near the top of Welsley High Street with his nurse and Mr. 
 Thrush, who, not unexpectedly, had arrived in Welsley. The 
 first meeting between his father and mother would not be com- 
 plicated by his eager young presence. 
 
 So the garden was empty to-day. Not even the big young 
 gardener was to be seen ; he only came on four days in the week, 
 and this was not one of them. As Rosamund looked down 
 into the garden, she loved its loneliness, its misty, autumnal 
 aspect. It was surely not her fault if she had a natural affec- 
 tion for solitude not for the hideous solitude of a childless 
 mother, but for the frequent privacy of a mother who was alone, 
 but who knew that her child was near, playing perhaps, or gone 
 for a little jaunt with his faithful nurse, or sleeping upstairs. 
 
 As she looked at the garden a faint creeping sense of some- 
 thing almost like fear came to her. Since Dion had been 
 away she had surely altered, because she had had a new expe- 
 rience; she had, as it were, touched the confines of that life 
 which she had deliberately renounced when she had married. 
 
 It seemed to her, as she stood there and remembered her 
 long meditations in that enclosed and ancient garden, that 
 in these months she had drawn much nearer to God, and 
 could it be because of that ? perhaps had receded a little 
 from her husband. 
 
 The sense of uneasiness she could not call it fear 
 deepened in her. Was the receding then implicit in the draw-
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 303 
 
 ing near? She began to feel almost confused. She put up 
 a hand to her face; her cheek was hot. 
 
 The clock in the room struck four; two minutes later the 
 chimes sounded, and then Big John announced the hour. 
 
 Dion might arrive at any moment now. She turned away 
 rather quickly from the window. She hated the unusual feeling 
 of self -consciousness which had come to her. 
 
 At ten minutes past four the door bell rang. It must be he. 
 She went to the drawing-room door, opened it and listened. 
 She heard a man's voice and a bump; then another bump, a 
 creaking, a sort of scraping, and the voice once more saying, 
 " I'll manage, miss." 
 
 It was Dion's luggage. Harrington's man explained that 
 the gentleman had said he would walk to Little Cloisters. 
 
 Rosamund went back into the drawing-room and shut the 
 door. Now that Dion's luggage was actually in the house 
 everything seemed curiously different. A period was definitely 
 over; her loneliness with Robin in Little Cloisters was at an 
 end. She sat down in one of the two arm-chairs by the tea- 
 table, clasped her hands together and looked at the fire. 
 
 If she had held to her girlish idea? If she had become 
 a " Sister " ? But she shook her head as she sat there alone 
 
 Robin! And then she sighed; she had not thought, "But 
 
 Dion ! " She was almost angry with herself for being so 
 introspective, so mentally observant of herself. All this was 
 surely unnatural in her. Was she going to become morbid 
 she who had such a hatred of morbidity? She tried to force 
 herself to feel that she had missed Dion tremendously, that 
 his return would make things right in Little Cloisters. 
 
 But had they ever been wrong ? And, besides, Little Cloisters 
 would almost immediately be only a dear memory of the past. 
 
 Rosamund began almost to hate herself. Was she capable 
 of any sort of treachery? Swiftly she began to dwell upon 
 all the dear goodness of Dion, upon his love, his admiration, 
 his perpetual thoughtfulness, his unselfishness, his straight 
 purity, his chivalry, his unceasing devotion. He was a man 
 to trust implicitly. That was enough. She trusted him and 
 loved him. She thanked God that he was back in England. 
 She had missed him more, much more than she had realized; 
 she was quite sure of that now that she had recalled things. 
 One happiness is apt to oust the acute memory of another. 
 That had (quite naturally) happened in her case. It would 
 indeed have been strange if, living in such a dear place as
 
 304 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " My Welsley," with Robin the precious one, she had been 
 a miserable woman ! And she had always known as women 
 know things they do not know that Dion would come back 
 after behaving nobly. And that was exactly what had 
 happened. 
 
 She looked at the arm-chair opposite. 
 
 How splendid it would be to see dear, brave, good, faithful 
 Dion sitting in it in a moment, safe after all his hardships and 
 dangers, comfortable, able to rest at last in his own home. 
 
 For Little Cloisters would be his home even if only for a few 
 
 days. And then What about Mr. Thrush? What 
 
 about oh, so many things ? 
 
 " I'll find the way all right," Dion had said at the station, 
 after he had been assured that it was only ten minutes' walk, 
 " or so," to Little Cloisters. 
 
 The little walk would be a preparation for the very great 
 event. He only knew how great it was when he got out at the 
 Welsley Station. 
 
 He had never seen Welsley before, though its fame had been 
 familiar to him from childhood. Thousands of pilgrims had 
 piously visited it, coming from afar; now yet another pilgrim 
 had come from afar, sensitively eager to approach a shrine 
 which held something desired by his soul. 
 
 That part of the city which immediately surrounded the 
 station was not attractive, but very soon Dion came into a 
 narrow street and was aware of an ancient flavor, wholly 
 English, and only to be savored thoroughly- by an English 
 palate. In this street he began to taste England. He passed 
 an old curiosity shop, black and white, with a projecting upper 
 storey, lattice windows with tiny panes, a door of black oak 
 upon which many people had carved their names. By the door 
 stood a spinning-wheel. In the window were a tea service of 
 spode and a collection of luster ware. There were also some 
 Toby jugs. 
 
 Dion went in quickly and bought one for Robin. He carried 
 it unwrapped in his hand as he walked on. One could do that 
 here, in this intimate, cozy old town of dear England. He 
 enjoyed the light mist, the moisture in the air. He had come 
 to hate aridity and the acrid dryness of dust blown by hot 
 winds across great spaces. The moisture caressed his skin, 
 burnt almost to the color of copper by the African sun. 
 
 He came into the High Street. On its farther side, straight 
 in front of him, the narrowest street he had ever seen, a rivulet
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 305 
 
 of a street, with leaning houses which nearly formed an arcade, 
 stretched to a wonderful gray gateway, immensely massive, with 
 towers at its corners, and rows of shields above its beetling 
 archway. 
 
 This must be the entrance to the Precincts. 
 
 In the tiny street he met a verger in mufti, an old bent man, 
 with a chin-beard and knotty hands, English in every vein, in 
 every sinew of his amazingly respectable and venerable body. 
 This worthy he stopped, and inquired of him the way to Little 
 Cloisters. 
 
 "Where Mrs. Leith and her boy lives, sir?" mouthed the 
 old man, with a kindly gaping smile. 
 
 " That's it." 
 
 " She's a nice lady," said the verger. " We think a lot of 
 her here, especially we Cathedral folk." 
 
 He went on to explain elaborately where Little Cloisters was, 
 and to describe minutely two routes, by either of which it might 
 be come at. It was evident that he was one of those who 
 love to listen to themselves and who take a pride in words. 
 
 Dion decided for the route " round at the back " by Chantrey 
 Lane, through the Green Court, leaving the Deanery on the 
 left and the Bishop's Palace on the right, and so by way of the 
 Prior's Gate and the ruins of the Infirmary through the Dark 
 Entry to Little Cloisters. 
 
 " You can't miss it. The name's writ on the door in the 
 wall, and a rare old wall it is," said the venerable man. 
 
 Dion thanked him warmly and walked on, while the verger 
 looked after him. 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder if that's Mrs. Leith's husband home 
 from the war," he murmured. " Looks as if he'd been fighting, 
 he does, and burnt pretty near to a cinder by something, the 
 sun as like as not." 
 
 And he walked on down the tiny street towards the muffin 
 which awaited him at home, well pleased with his perspicuity, 
 and making mental preparations for the astonishing of his 
 wife with a titbit of news. 
 
 Dion came into the Green Court, and immediately felt 
 Welsley, felt it in the depths of him, and understood Rosa- 
 mund's love of it so often expressed in her letters. As he 
 looked at the moist green lawn in the center, at the gray and 
 brown houses which fronted it, at the Deanery garden full of 
 the ruddy flowers of autumn behind the iron railings, at the 
 immense Cathedral with its massive and yet almost tenderly
 
 306 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 graceful towers, a history in stone of the faithful work and 
 the progress of men, he knew why Rosamund had come to live 
 here. He stood still. In the misty air he heard the voices 
 of the rooks. The door of a Canon's house opened, and two 
 clergymen, one of them in gaiters and a shovel hat, came out, 
 and walked slowly away in earnest conversation. Bells 
 sounded in one of the towers. 
 
 He understood. Here was a sort of essence of ecclesiasticism. 
 It seemed to penetrate the whole atmosphere. Rosamund was 
 at home in it. 
 
 He remembered his terrible thought that God had always 
 stood between his wife and him, dividing them. 
 
 How would it be now? 
 
 Again he looked up at the great house of God, and he felt 
 almost afraid. But he was not the man he had been when 
 he said good-by to Rosamund; he had gained in force of 
 character, and he knew it. Surely out there in South Africa 
 he had done what his mother had wanted him to do, he had 
 laid hold of his best possibilities. At any rate, he had sin- 
 cerely tried to do that. Why, then, should he be afraid 
 and of God? 
 
 He walked on quickly, and came to Little Cloisters by way 
 of the Dark Entry. 
 
 It was very dark that day, for the autumn evening was 
 already making its moist presence felt, and there was a breath- 
 ing of cold from the old gray stones which looked like the 
 fangs of Time. 
 
 Dion shook his broad shoulders in an irresistible shiver as 
 he came out into the passage-way between Rosamund's garden 
 wall and the ruined cloisters, immediately beyond which rose 
 the east end of the Cathedral. South Africa had evidently 
 made him sensitive to the dampness and cold of England. 
 
 " Little Cloisters." The white words showed on a tall green 
 door let into the wall on his left; and, as the verger had said, 
 it was a rare old wall. So here it actually was! He was at 
 home. His heart thumped as he pulled at the bell, and uncon- 
 sciously he gripped the Toby jug hard with his other hand.
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 307 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 DION! Is it you at last?" 
 A warm voice called from above, and the blood 
 rushed to his temples. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 It seemed to him that he took the old staircase in his stride, 
 and he had a feeling almost such as a man has when he is 
 going into action. 
 
 "Rose!" 
 
 He held her in his arms and kissed her. 
 
 " It's seemed a long time! " 
 
 He felt moisture springing to his eyes. The love he felt foi 
 her almost overwhelmed his self-control. Till this moment he 
 had never known how great it was. All his deprivation was 
 in that embrace. 
 
 " Years it's seemed ! " he said, letting her go with a little 
 laugh, summoned up he did not know how to save him 
 from too much emotion. 
 
 She gazed at him. 
 
 " Oh, Dion, how you have altered! " 
 
 "Have I?" 
 
 " Tremendously." 
 
 How well he knew the kindly glance of her honest brown 
 eyes; a thousand times he had called it up before him in South 
 Africa. But this was not the glance so characteristic of her. 
 In the firelit room her eyes looked puzzled, almost wide, with 
 a sort of startled astonishment. 
 
 " You had a lot of the boy in you still when you went away. 
 At least, I used to think so." 
 
 "Haven't I any left?" 
 
 " I can't see any. No, I think you've come back all man. 
 And how tremendously burnt you are." 
 
 " Almost black, I suppose. But I'm so accustomed to it." 
 
 " It's right," she said. " Your face tells the story of what 
 you've done. Robin " she paused, then slowly she said 
 " Robin's got almost a new father." 
 
 " Where is he? He's sure to have altered more than I have." 
 
 " Oh no. He'll be in about five. I've sent him out to tea 
 with some one you know." 
 
 "With whom?"
 
 308 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 "Mr. Thrush." 
 
 "Mr. Thrush at Welsley? " 
 
 " Yes. I'll explain all that presently. I thought I'd have 
 you all to myself for half an hour, and then Robin should have 
 his turn. Here comes Annie." 
 
 When the two arm-chairs were occupied, Dion said: 
 
 "And you, Rosamund?" 
 
 "What about me?" 
 
 "Haven't you altered?" 
 
 " If I have, probably you would know it and I shouldn't." 
 
 " Yes, I dare say that's true. You aren't conscious of it, 
 then?" 
 
 But she was giving him his tea, and that took her mind 
 away from his question, no doubt. He felt a change in her, 
 but it was not almost fiercely marked like the change in him, 
 on whom a Continent had written with its sun and its wind, 
 and with its battlefields. The body of a man was graven by 
 such a superscription. And no doubt even a child could read 
 something of it. But the writing on Rosamund was much 
 fainter, was far less easy to decipher; it was perhaps traced 
 on the soul rather than on the body. The new legend of Dion 
 was perhaps an assertion. But this story of Rosamund, what 
 was it? She saw the man in Dion, lean, burnt, strong, ardent, 
 desirous, full of suppressed emotion that was warmly and in- 
 tensely human; he saw in her, as well as the mother, something 
 that was perhaps almost pale, almost elusive, like the still 
 figure and downbent face of a recluse seen in passing an open 
 window. 
 
 She saw in Dion his actions; he saw in her her meditations. 
 Perhaps that was it. All this time he had been living inces- 
 santly in the midst of men, never alone, nearly always busy, 
 often fiercely active, marching, eating, sleeping in company. 
 And all the time she had been here, in the midst of this clois- 
 tral silence, and perhaps often alone. 
 
 " You know everybody here, I suppose? " he asked, drinking 
 his tea with relish, and eating the toast which seemed to him 
 crisply English, but always faintly aware of that still figure 
 and of that downbent face. 
 
 " Almost everybody. I've sung a great deal, and got to 
 know them all partly through that. And they're dear people 
 most of them. They let one alone when they know one wants 
 to be alone." 
 
 " And I expect you can enjoy being alone here."
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 309 
 
 " Yes," she said simply. " At times. It would be difficult 
 to feel lonely, in the miserable, dreadful way, I mean, in the 
 Precincts. We are rather like a big family here, each one with 
 his, or her, own private room in the big family house." 
 
 " I know you've always loved a certain amount of solitude, 
 Rose," he said tenderly. " D'you remember that day in Lon- 
 don when I burst in upon your solitude with Dante, and was 
 actually jealous of the ' Paradiso ' ? " 
 
 " Yes," she said, smiling. 
 
 " But you forgave me, or I shouldn't be here now." 
 
 He gave her his cup for some more tea. 
 
 " You can't imagine how absolutely wonderful it is to me to 
 be here after what I've been through." 
 
 He lay back in his chair, but he still looked tremendously 
 alert, wiry, powerful even. 
 
 Dion was much more impressive than he had been when 
 he went away. Rosamund felt a faint creeping of something 
 that was almost like shyness in her as she looked at him. 
 
 " After Green Point Camp and Orange River I shall never 
 forget the dust-storm we had there ! and Springfontein and 
 Kaffir River oh, the heat there, Rose! and Kaalfontein, 
 and all the rest of it. It was near Kaalfontein that we first 
 came under fire. I shan't forget that." 
 
 He was silent for a moment. She looked at him across the 
 tea-table. All that he knew and she did not know now made 
 him seem rather strange to her. The uniting of two different, 
 utterly different, experiences of life, was more tremendous, 
 more full of meaning and of mystery, than the uniting of two 
 bodies. This, then, was to be a second wedding-day for her 
 and for Dion? All their letters, in which, of course, they had 
 tried to tell each other something of their differing experiences, 
 had really told very little, almost nothing. Dion's glance told 
 her more than all his letters, that and his color, and certain 
 lines in his face, and the altered shapes of his hands, and his 
 way of holding himself, and his way of speaking. Even his 
 voice was different. He was an unconscious record of what 
 he had been through out there; and much of it, she felt sure, 
 he would never tell to her except unconsciously by being a 
 different Dion from the Dion who had gone away. 
 
 " How little one can tell in letters," she said. " Scarcely 
 anything." 
 
 " You made me feel Welsley in yours." 
 
 " Did I ? Why did you walk from the station ? "
 
 310 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " I wanted to taste your home, to get into your atmosphere, 
 if I could, before seeing you. Rose, love can make a man 
 almost afraid at times." 
 
 It seemed to her that his dark eyes burned with fires they 
 had captured in South Africa. Sitting in the old room, with 
 its homely and ecclesiastical look, he had an oddly remote 
 appearance, she thought, as if he belonged to a very different 
 milieu. Always dark, he now looked almost gipsy-like; yet 
 he had the unmistakable air of a soldier. But if there had 
 ever been anything there was now nothing left of the business 
 man in Dion. 
 
 "Won't you find it very difficult to settle down again to 
 the life in Austin Friars, Dion ? " she said. 
 
 " Perhaps I should, but for one thing." 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 " You and Robin at home when the drudgery is done." 
 
 Rosamund saw Welsley receding from her into darkness, 
 with its familiar faces and voices, its gray towers, its cloisters, 
 its bells, the Dresden Amen, the secret garden, the dreams she 
 had had in the garden. 
 
 "Number 5 is all ready to go into. It was lucky we only 
 let it for six months," she said quietly. 
 
 " Uncle Biron has given me a fortnight's holiday, or rather 
 gladly agreed to my taking it. Of course I'm my own master 
 in a way, being a partner, but I want to consider him. He 
 was awfully good about my going away. Mother's looking 
 well. She was at our Thanksgiving Service; Beattie and Guy 
 too. I've had just a glimpse of godfather." 
 
 They talked about family things till Robin came in from 
 his festivity with Mr. Thrush, who was staying at Little Clois- 
 ters, but only till the following day. 
 
 That was a great moment, the moment of Robin's arrival. 
 Mr. Thrush did not appear with him, but, being a man of deli- 
 cate perceptions despite his unfortunate appearance, retired 
 discreetly to the servants' hall, leaving his devoted adherent 
 free for the " family reunion," as he called it. 
 
 " Go up quietly, dear," said the nurse to Robin, " and tap 
 at the drawing-room door." 
 
 "Shall I tap?" asked Robin earnestly. 
 
 He was looking unusually solemn, his lips were parted, and 
 his eyes almost stared. 
 
 " Yes, dear. Tap prettily, like a young gentleman as you 
 are, and when you hear ' Come in! ' "
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 311 
 
 " I know then! " interrupted Robin, with an air of decision. 
 
 He walked rather slowly upstairs, lifting one brown leg after 
 the other thoughtfully from step to step, till he was outside the 
 drawing-room door. Inside he heard the noise of a man's 
 voice, which sounded to him very tremendous and important, 
 the voice of a brave soldier. 
 
 "That's Fa!" he thought, and he listened for a moment 
 as to the voice of a god. 
 
 Then he doubled his small fist and gave a bang to the door. 
 Some instinct told him not to follow nurse's injunction, not to 
 try to be pretty in his tapping. The voice of the soldier ceased 
 inside, there was a brief sound of a woman's voice, then came 
 a strong " Come in! " 
 
 Robin opened the door, went straight up to the very dark 
 and very thin man whom he saw sitting by the fire, and, staring 
 at this man with intensity, lifted up his face, at the same time 
 saying : 
 
 "'Ullo, Fa!" 
 
 There was a dropped aitch for which nurse, who was very 
 choice in her English, would undoubtedly have rebuked him 
 had she been present. The dark man did not rebuke Robin, 
 but caught him up and enfolded him in a hug that was power- 
 ful but not a bit rough. Robin was quite incapable of analyz- 
 ing a hug, but he loved it as he would not have loved it if it 
 had been rough, or if it had been merely gentle. A sense of 
 great happiness and of great confidence flooded him. From 
 that moment he adored his father as he had never adored him 
 before. The new authority of his father's love for him cap- 
 tured him. He knew nothing about it and he knew all about 
 it, as is the way with children, those instinctive sparks fresh 
 from the great furnace. 
 
 Long before dinner time Dion knew that he had won some- 
 thing beside the D.C.M. which he had won in South Africa, 
 something that was wonderfully precious to him. He gave 
 Robin the Toby jug and another gift. 
 
 He cared for his little son that night as he had never cared 
 for him before. It was as if the sex in Robin spoke to the 
 sex in him for the first time with a clear, unmistakable voice, 
 saying, " We're of the comradeship of the male sex, we're of the 
 brotherhood." It was not even a child's voice that spoke, 
 though it spoke in a little child. Dion blessed South Africa 
 that night, felt as if South Africa had given him his son. 
 
 That gift would surely be a weapon in his hands by meani
 
 312 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 of which, or with the help of which, he would conquer the 
 still unconquered mystery, Rosamund's whole heart. South 
 Africa had <ione much for Dion. Out there in that wonderful 
 atmosphere he had seen very clearly, his vision had pierced 
 great distances; he saw clearly still, in England. War, it 
 seemed, was so terribly truthful that it swept a man clean of 
 lies; Dion was swept clean of lies. He did not feel able any 
 longer even to tell them occasionally to himself. He knew 
 that Rosamund's greeting to him, warm, sweet, sincere though 
 it had been, had lacked something which he had found in 
 Robin's. But he felt that now that he had got hold of Robin 
 so instantly, and so completely, the conquest of the woman he 
 had only won must be but a question of time. That was not 
 pride in him but instinct, speaking with that voice which seems 
 a stranger to the brain of man, but a friend to something else; 
 something universal of which in every man a fragment is 
 housed, or by which every man is mysteriously penetrated. 
 
 A fortnight's holiday and then? 
 
 On that first evening it had been assumed that as soon as 
 Dion went back to business in Austin Friars, No. 5 Little 
 Market Street would receive its old tenants again, be scented 
 again with the lavender, made musical with Rosamund's voice, 
 made gay with the busy prattle and perpetual activities of 
 Robin. 
 
 For two days thereafter no reference was made by either 
 Rosamund or Dion to the question of moving. Dion gave him- 
 self up to Welsley, to holiday-making. With a flowing eager- 
 ness, not wholly free from undercurrents, Rosamund swept him 
 sweetly through Welsley's delights. She inoculated him with 
 Welsley, or at any rate did her best to inoculate him, secretly 
 praying with all her force that the wonderful preparation might 
 " take." Soon she believed that it was " taking." It was 
 evident that Dion was delighted with Welsley. On his very 
 first day they went together to the afternoon service in the 
 Cathedral, and when the anthem was given out it proved to 
 be " The Wilderness." Rosamund's quick look at Dion told 
 him that this was her sweet doing, and that she remembered 
 their talk on the hill of Drouva. He listened to that anthem 
 as he had never listened to an anthem before. After the service 
 Canon Wilton, who, though no longer in residence as " three 
 months' Canon," was still staying on at his house in the 
 Precincts for a few days, came up to welcome him home. 
 Then Mr. Dickinson appeared, full of that modesty which is
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 313 
 
 greedy for compliments. Mrs. Dickinson, too, drifted up the 
 nave in a casual way which scarcely concealed her curiosity 
 about Mrs. Dion's husband; when, later, Rosamund told Dion 
 of her Precincts' name, " the cold douche," he could not see its 
 applicability. 
 
 " I thought her an observant but quite a warm-hearted 
 woman," he said. 
 
 " She is warm-hearted; in fact she's a dear, and I'm very 
 fond of her," said Rosamund. 
 
 " Every one here seems very fond of you," he replied. 
 
 Indeed, he was struck by Welsley's evident love of Rosa- 
 mund. It was like a warm current flowing about her, and 
 about him now, because he was her husband. He was greeted 
 with cordial kindness by every one. 
 
 " It is jolly to be received like this," he said to Rosamund. 
 " It does a fellow good when he's just come home. It makes 
 him feel that there is indeed no place like England. But it's 
 all owing to you." 
 
 But she protested. 
 
 " They all admire and respect you for what you've done," 
 she said. " You've brought the best introductions here, your 
 own deeds. They speak for you." 
 
 He shook his head, loving her perfectly sincere modesty. 
 
 " You may be a thousand things," he told her, " but one 
 thing you'll never be vain or conceited." 
 
 The charm of her, which was compounded of beauty and 
 goodness, mixed with an extraordinary hold upon, and joy in, 
 the simple and healthy things of life, came upon him with a 
 sort of glorious newness after his absence in South Africa. 
 He loved other people's love of her and the splendid reasons 
 for it so apparent in her. But for Robin he might nevertheless 
 have felt baffled and sad even in these moments dedicated to 
 the joys of reunion, he might have felt acutely that the com- 
 pleteness and perfection of reunion depended upon the exact 
 type of union it followed upon. Robin saved him from that. 
 He hoped very much in Robin, who had suddenly given him 
 a confidence in himself which he had never known till now. 
 This was a glorious possession. It gave him force. People 
 in Welsley were decidedly impressed by Mrs. Leith's husband. 
 Mrs. Dickinson remarked to her Henry over griddle cakes 
 after the three o'clock service: 
 
 " I call Mr. Leith a very personable man. Without having 
 Mrs. Leith's wonderful charm what man could have? he
 
 3H IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 makes a distinct impression. He has suppressed force, and 
 that's what women like in a man." 
 
 Henry took another griddle cake, and wondered whether he 
 was wise in looking so decided. Perhaps he ought to suppress 
 his undoubted force; perhaps all his life, without knowing it, 
 he had hovered on the verge of the blatant. 
 
 Canon Wilton also was struck by the change in Dion, and 
 said something, but not just then all, of what he felt. 
 
 " You know the phrase, ' I'm my own man again,' Leith, 
 don't you? " he said, in his strong bass voice, looking steadily 
 at Dion with his kindly stern eyes. (He always suggested to 
 Dion a man who would be very stern with himself.) 
 
 " Yes," said Dion. "Why?" 
 
 " I think South Africa's made you your own man." 
 
 Dion looked tremendously, but seriously, pleased. 
 
 " Do you ? And what about the again ? " 
 
 " Cut it out. I don't think you'd ever been absolutely your 
 own man before you went away." 
 
 " I wonder if I am now," Dion said, but without any 
 weakness. 
 
 He had been through one war and had come out of it well; 
 now he had come home to another. The one campaign had 
 been but a stern preparation for the other perhaps. But Rosa- 
 mund did not know that. Nevertheless, it seemed to him that 
 already their relation to each other was slightly altered. He 
 felt that she was more sensitive to him than formerly, more 
 closely observant of what he was and what he did, more watch- 
 ful of him with Robin, more anxious about his opinion on 
 various matters. 
 
 For instance, there was the matter of Mr. Thrush. 
 
 Dion had not seen Mr. Thrush on the evening of his first 
 day at Welsley. He had been kept so busy by Rosamund, had 
 done and seen so much, that he had quite forgotten the ex- 
 chemist. In the evening, however, before dinner, he suddenly 
 remembered him. 
 
 "What's become of Mr. Thrush?" he asked. "And, by 
 the way, what is he doing down here? You never told me, 
 Rose, and even Robin's not said a word." 
 
 " I asked him not to," said Rosamund, with her half-shrewd, 
 half-soft look. " The fact is " She broke off, then con- 
 tinued, with her confidential air, " Dion, when you see Mr. 
 Thrush I want you to tell me something truthfully. Will 
 you?"
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 315 
 
 "I'll try to. What is it?" 
 
 " I want you to look at his nose " 
 
 "Rosamund!" 
 
 " No, really," she pursued, with great earnestness. " And 
 I want you to tell me whether you think, honestly think, it 
 better." 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 "It's very important for Mr. Thrush that it should look 
 better. He's down here to be seen." 
 
 Her voice had become almost mysterious. 
 
 "To be seen? By whom? Is he on show in the town?" 
 
 " No don't laugh. It's really important for his future. 
 I must tell you something. He's taken the modified pledge." 
 
 Her look said, "There! what d'you think of that? " 
 
 " Modified! " said Dion, rather doubtfully. 
 
 "Never between meals never." 
 
 " At any rate that's a step in the right direction." 
 
 " Isn't it? I took it with him." 
 
 "The modified pledge?" 
 
 " Yes," she said, with great seriousness. 
 
 "But you never ! To help him, of course." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And has it made a difference to the nose? " 
 
 " I think it's made a considerable difference. But I want 
 your opinion." 
 
 " I'll give it you for what it's worth. But who's going to 
 see Mr. Thrush ? " 
 
 "The Dean." 
 
 "The Dean! Why on earth?" 
 
 " Almost directly there's going to be a vacancy among the 
 vergers, and the Dean has promised me faithfully that if Mr. 
 Thrush seems suitable he shall have the post." 
 
 "Mr. Thrush a verger! Mr. Thrush carry a poker before 
 a bishop! " 
 
 " Not a poker, only a white wand. I've been making him 
 practise here in the garden, and he does it quite admirably 
 already." 
 
 She spoke now with almost defiant emphasis. Dion loved 
 her for the defiance and for its deliciously absurd reason. 
 
 " The Dean is away, but he's coming back to-morrow, so 
 I begin to feel rather anxious. Of course, he'll see at once 
 that Mr. Thrush is an educated man. I'm not afraid about 
 that. It's only well, the little failing. It would mean so
 
 316 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 much for Mr. Thrush to get the post. He'd be provided for for 
 life. I've set my heart on it" 
 
 Annie came in. 
 
 " Oh, Annie, is it Mr. Thrush? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " Please ask him to come in." 
 
 With a very casual air, as of one doing a thing for no par- 
 ticular reason and almost without thought, she lowered the wick 
 of the lamp which illuminated the room. 
 
 " We don't want it to flare," she said, as she came away 
 from it. " Oh, Mr. Thrush, here's my husband back again ! " 
 
 With a certain unostentatious dignity Mr. Thrush stepped 
 into the room. He was most respectably dressed in a neat 
 black suit, the coat of which looked rather like either a frock 
 coat which was in course of diminishing gradually into what 
 tailors call " a morning coat," or a morning coat which was 
 in course of expanding gently into a frock coat; a speckless 
 collar with points appeared above a black bow tie at his thin 
 and pathetic old neck; he carried a pair of dark worsted gloves, 
 and a hat which resembled a square bowler half-way on the 
 road to top hatdom. 
 
 Dion felt touched by his appearance and his gait, which 
 seemed to hint at those rehearsals in the garden, and especially 
 touched by the fact that he had bought a new hat. 
 
 " Welcome home, sir! " he said at once to Dion. " I'm sure 
 the country is proud of you." 
 
 He paid the compliment with so much sincerity that Dion 
 did not feel embarrassed by it. 
 
 " Do sit down, Mr. Thrush," said Rosamund, after hands 
 had been cordially shaken. " No, not there ! " as he was 
 about to sit full in the lamplight " This chair will be more 
 comfortable. Now I'll leave you to have a little talk with 
 my husband." 
 
 With an inquiring look at Dion she went out of the room. 
 
 Before she came back Mr. Thrush had told Dion all his 
 hopes and fears with regard to the Dean, and had dwelt on 
 his overwhelming desire to become a verger. Quite unself- 
 conscious in his simplicity he rose almost to dignity. He 
 frankly confessed his " failing," and alluded to the taking of 
 the modified pledge.- 
 
 "We took it together, sir, your kind lady and I, we both 
 pledged ourselves never to touch a drop of liquor between 
 meals whatever the occasion."
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 317 
 
 "Quite right!" said Dion, with firmness, almost with 
 bruskness. 
 
 " I'm glad you think so, sir. But a verger can't be too 
 careful. He's held up as an example to the whole city by his 
 position, walking so often in procession as he does before the 
 eyes of all men. Even a chemist scarcely takes so much upon 
 himself. In respect of the body he may, I'll allow you, for 
 no verger has to do with prussic acid, iodine, cascara and all 
 such-like, but in respect of what I might call the uplifting of 
 the soul not a doubt of it but that the verger comes far before 
 any chemist. It's a solemn thing to think of, and I hope, if 
 so be as I'm elected, I shall be worthy of the position. I see 
 Mr. Dean to-morrow, sir, at eleven o'clock. I trust I shall 
 make a favorable impression. I lived just off Hanover Square 
 for more years than some can remember, and that, I hope, with 
 a Very Reverend will tell in my favor. None of the vergers 
 here, though I'm sure they're a splendid body of men, any 
 one who has seen them walking before his Lordship, the Bishop, 
 the Canons and what not, as I did last Sunday morning, would 
 say the same, but none of the vergers here can say as much. 
 I've made inquiry, but of course with all discretion. As to 
 the duties, sir, I think I can fulfil them. The carrying of the 
 wand I may say I am almost perfect in already. I've been 
 at it in the garden with your kind good lady since I came. I 
 found it a bit difficult at first, sir. There's a what you might 
 call a knack to it, though from the congregation it looks simple 
 enough. But there, what does a congregation know of the 
 things a verger has to master any more than it does of what is 
 required of a good chemist? Often and often when I was 
 just off Hanover Square " 
 
 He was still flowing on with imperturbable volubility when 
 Rosamund came back and sent another, more inquiring, glance 
 to Dion. 
 
 When Mr. Thrush had retired she at once said anx- 
 iously: 
 
 'Well?" 
 
 ' He's a nice old chap." 
 
 ' Yes, isn't he ? But what did you really think ? " 
 
 'About the nose? " 
 
 Yes." 
 
 " The lamp was turned rather low, but I really believe the 
 modified pledge has " 
 
 "There! What did I say?" she interrupted triumphantly.
 
 3 i8 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " I knew you'd notice the difference. It's really very much 
 like yours or mine now, and I'm sure " 
 
 But here Dion broke in decisively. 
 
 " No, Rosamund, I can't let that pass. It's not like yours 
 yet I say nothing about mine. But I honestly think it's 
 modified and I hope the Dean will pass it." 
 
 " The Dean and I are great cronies! " she murmured doubt- 
 fully. " My only fear is that after he is a verger Mr. Thrush 
 may may lapse if I'm not " 
 
 She stopped, looking at Dion, and again he thought that 
 she was more sensitive to his opinion, to his wishes, than she 
 had formerly been. Her slightly changed attitude made Dion 
 gladly aware of change in himself. He meant more to Rosa- 
 mund now than he had meant when he left England. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THREE days had slipped by. Dion had been accepted 
 as one of the big Welsley family, had been made free 
 of the Precincts. During those three days he had for- 
 gotten London, business, everything outside of Welsley. It 
 had seemed to him that he had the right to forget, and he had 
 exercised it. Robin had played a great part in those three 
 days. His new adoration of his father was obvious to every 
 one who saw them together. The soldier appealed to the little 
 imagination. Robin's ardor was concentrated for the moment 
 in his pride of possession. He owned a father who his own 
 nurse had told him so was not as other fathers, not as 
 ordinary fathers such as stumped daily about the narrow streets 
 of Welsley, rubicund and, many of them, protuberant in the 
 region of the watch-chain. They were all very well; Robin 
 had nothing against them; many of them were clergymen and 
 commanded his respect by virtue of their office, their gaiters, 
 the rosettes and cords that decorated their wide-winged hats. 
 But they were not like " Fa." They had not become lean, and 
 muscular, and dark, and quick-limbed, and keen-eyed, and 
 spry, in the severe service of their country. They had not 
 even the Archdeacon, Robin's rather special pal, had not 
 ever killed any wicked men who did not like England, or gone 
 into places where wicked men who did not like England might
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 319 
 
 have killed them. Some of them did not know much about 
 guns, did not seem to take any interest in guns. It was rather 
 pitiable. Since his father had come back Robin had had an 
 opportunity of sounding the Archdeacon on the subject of an 
 advance in open order. The result had not been satisfactory. 
 The Archdeacon, Robin thought, had taken the matter with 
 a lightness, almost a levity, which one could not have looked 
 for from a man in his position, and when questioned as to his 
 methods of taking cover had frankly said that he had none. 
 
 " I like him," Robin said ruefully. " But he'll never be a 
 good scout, will he, Fa ? " 
 
 To which Dion replied with discretion. 
 
 " There are plenty of good scouts, old boy, who would never 
 make good archdeacons." 
 
 " Is there? " said Robin. " Why not? I know what scouts 
 does, but what does archdeacons does ? " 
 
 And with that he had his father stumped. Dion had not 
 been long enough at Welsley to dive into all its mysteries. 
 
 On the evening of the third day Dion told Rosamund that 
 he must go to London on the following morning. 
 
 " I've got something I must do and I want to tell you about 
 it," he said. " You remember Mrs. Clarke? " 
 
 " Yes," said Rosamund. 
 
 " It must be more than two years since I've seen her. She 
 lives a great deal in Constantinople, you know. But she some- 
 times comes to London in the winter. It's abominably cold in 
 Constantinople in winter. There are perpetual winds from the 
 Black Sea." 
 
 " Yes, I know there are. Esme Darlington has told me 
 about them." 
 
 " Mrs. Clarke's in London now." 
 
 " Did you see her when you passed through ? " 
 
 " No, but I want to see her to-morrow. Rose, I'm going 
 to tell you something which nobody else must know. I was 
 asked to keep it entirely to myself, but I refused. I was re- 
 solved to tell you, because I don't believe in secrets between 
 husband and wife about their doings, I mean." (Just then 
 he had happened to think of Mrs. Clarke's farewell telegram 
 to him when he had sailed for South Africa.) 
 
 " I know how frank and sincere you always are, Dion," she 
 said gently. 
 
 "I try to be. You remember that party at Mrs. Chet- 
 winde's where you sang? You met Mrs. Clarke that night."
 
 320 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Of course I remember. We had quite an interesting talk." 
 
 " She's clever. Lord Brayfield was there, too, that night, 
 a fair man." 
 
 " I saw him. He wasn't introduced to me." 
 
 " Brayfield was shot in the war. Did you know it? " 
 
 " No. I thought I had read everything. But I didn't hap- 
 pen to see it." 
 
 " And I didn't mention it when I wrote. I thought I'd tell 
 you if I came home. Brayfield, poor fellow, didn't die imme- 
 diately. He suffered a great deal, but he was able to write 
 two or three letters last messages home. One of these 
 messages was written to Mrs. Clarke. He gave it to me and 
 made me promise to convey it to her personally, not to put it 
 in the post." 
 
 "Was Lord Brayfield in the C.I.V.?" asked Rosamund. 
 
 " Oh no. He was a captain in the 5th Lancers. We were 
 brigaded with them for a bit and under fire at the same time. 
 Brayfield happened to see me. He knew I was an acquaintance 
 of Mrs. Clarke's, and when he was shot he asked that I should 
 be allowed to come to him. Permission was given. I went, 
 and he asked me if I'd give Mrs. Clarke a letter from him 
 when I got home. It seems none of his brother officers hap- 
 pened to know her. He might have given the letter to one 
 of them. It would have been more natural. But " Dion 
 hesitated " well, he wanted to say a word or two to some 
 one who knew her, I suppose." 
 
 Rosamund quite understood there were things Dion did not 
 care to tell even to her. She did not want to hear them. She 
 was not at all a curious woman. 
 
 " I'm glad you are able to take the letter," she said. 
 
 And then she began to talk about something else. Mr. 
 Thrush's prospects with the Dean, which were even yet not 
 quite decided. 
 
 By the quick train at nine o'clock Dion left Welsley next 
 morning; he was in London by half-past ten. He had of 
 course written to Mrs. Clarke asking if he could see her. She 
 had given him an appointment for three o'clock at the flat 
 she had taken for a few months in Park Side, Knightsbridge. 
 Dion went first to the City, and after doing some business 
 there, and lunching with his uncle at the Cheshire Cheese, 
 got into a cab and drove to Knightsbridge. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke's flat was on the first floor of a building which 
 faced the street on one side and Hyde Park on the other.
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 321 
 
 Dion rang at a large, very solid oak door. In two or three 
 minutes the door was opened by an elderly maid, with high 
 cheek-bones and long and narrow light gray eyes, who said, 
 with a foreign accent, that Mrs. Clarke was at home. After- 
 wards Dion knew that this woman was a Russian and Mrs. 
 Clarke's own maid. 
 
 She showed Dion into a long curving hall in which a fire 
 was burning. Here he left his hat and coat. While he was 
 taking the coat off he had time to think, " What an original 
 hall this is! " From it he got an impression of warmth and 
 of a pleasant dimness. He had really no time to look care- 
 fully about, but a quick glance told him that there were inter- 
 esting things in this hall, or at any rate interestingly combined. 
 He was conscious of the stamp of originality. 
 
 The Russian maid showed him into a drawing-room and 
 went away to tell " Madame." She did not go out by the hall, 
 but walked the whole length of the long narrow drawing-room, 
 and passed through a small doorway at its farther end. 
 Through this doorway there filtered into the drawing-room a 
 curious blue light. All the windows of the drawing-room 
 looked into Hyde Park, on to the damp grass, the leafless trees, 
 the untenanted spaces of autumn. 
 
 Dion went to the fireplace, which faced the far doorway. 
 There was not a sound in the room; not a sound came to it 
 just then from without. He could scarcely believe he was in 
 Knightsbridge. Not even a clock was ticking on the mantel- 
 piece above the fire, in which ship logs were burning. The 
 flames which came from them were of various shades of blue, 
 like magical flames conjured up by a magician. He looked 
 round. He had never seen a room like this before. It was 
 a room to live in, to have long talks in, to lie dreaming in, to 
 read curious books in, to hear strange music in; it was not 
 a reception-room. Not crowded with furniture it was not at 
 all bare. Its " note " was not austere but quite the contrary. 
 It was a room which quietly enticed. Dion was not one of 
 those men who know all about women's dresses, and combina- 
 tions of color, and china, and furniture, but he was observant; 
 as a rule he noticed what he saw. Fresh from South Africa, 
 from a very hard life out of doors, he looked at this room and 
 was almost startled by it. The refinement of it was excessive 
 in his eyes and reminded him of something overbred, of certain 
 Italian greyhounds, for instance. Strange blues and greens 
 were dexterously combined through the room, in the carpet,
 
 322 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 the curtains, the blinds, the stuffs which covered the chairs, 
 sofas, divans, cushions blues and greens innumerable. He 
 had never before seen so many differing shades of the two 
 colors; he had not known that so many shades existed. In 
 the china these colors were repeated. The door by which he 
 had come in was of thick glass in a frame of deep blue wood 
 and, by means of a mysterious light in the hall, was made 
 mistily blue. All along the windows, lilies were growing, or 
 seemed to be growing, in earth closely covered with green moss. 
 There were dwarf trees, like minute yew trees, in green and 
 blue china pots. 
 
 And always the ship logs in the fire gave out the magical 
 blue flames. 
 
 Certainly the general effect of the room was not only lux- 
 uriously comfortable, but also strangely beautiful, though there 
 was nothing in it which a lover of antiques would have given 
 his eyes for. To Dion, fresh from South Africa, the room 
 looked too comfortable, too ingeniously beautiful. It struck 
 him as ultra modern, ahead of anything he had ever yet seen, 
 and almost as evil. But certainly it enticed. 
 
 He heard the distant sound of a woman's dress and saw 
 Mrs. Clarke coming slowly in from the room beyond (another 
 blue and green room perhaps), and he thought of Brayfield 
 dying. He thrust a hand into the breast-pocket of his coat 
 and brought out the dead man's letter. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke came up to the fire and greeted him. She did 
 not look a moment older than when he had seen her last at 
 Claridge's, or indeed than when he had first seen her standing 
 under the statue of Echo in Mrs. Chetwinde's drawing-room. 
 The same feverish refinement still was with her, belonged to 
 her; she looked as before, wasted as if by some obscure disease, 
 haunted, almost distressed, and yet absolutely self -con trolled, 
 mistress of herself and unconscious of critical observation. 
 Not even for a moment, seeing her thus again after a long 
 interval of time, did Dion hesitate about her beauty. Un- 
 doubtedly she had beauty. The shape of her head was lovely, 
 and her profile was like a delicate vision seen in water. The 
 husky sound of her voice in her first words to him took him 
 back to the Divorce Court. 
 
 " You haven't changed," she said, staring intently at him 
 in her oddly impersonal way, which appraised and yet held 
 something of inwardness. 
 
 " But people say I have changed very much."
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 323 
 
 "People?" 
 
 "Well my people." 
 
 " I don't call natural development change. I saw in you 
 very plainly when we first met what you are now. You have 
 got there. That's all." 
 
 Her lips were very pale. How strangely unshining her hair 
 was. 
 
 "Yes, she looks punished!" he thought. "It's that look 
 of punishment which sets her quite apart from all other 
 women." 
 
 She glanced at the letter he was holding and sat down on 
 a very broad green divan. There were many cushions upon 
 it; she did not heap them behind her, but sat quite upright. 
 She did not ask him to sit down. He would do as he liked. 
 Absurd formalities of any kind did not enter into her scheme 
 of life. 
 
 " How is Jimmy? " he asked. 
 
 " Brilliantly well. He's been at Eton for a long time, doing 
 dreadfully at work he's a born dunce and splendidly at 
 play. How he would appreciate you as you are now ! " 
 
 She spoke with a gravity that was both careless and intense. 
 He sat down near her. In his letter asking to see her he had 
 not told her that he had a special object in wishing to visit 
 her. t By her glance at Brayfield's letter he knew that she had 
 gathered it. 
 
 They talked of Jimmy for a few minutes; then Dion said: 
 
 " My regiment was brigaded with Lord Brayfield's for a 
 time in South Africa. I was in the action in which he was 
 shot, poor chap. He saw me and remembered that I was a 
 a friend of yours. When he was dying he wanted to see me. 
 I was sent for, and he gave me this letter for you. He asked 
 me to give it to you myself if I came back." 
 
 He bent down to her with the letter. 
 
 "Thank you," she said, and she took it without looking 
 at all surprised, and with her habitual composed gravity. 
 " There are Turkish cigarettes in that ivory box," she added, 
 looking at a box on a table close by. 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 As Dion turned to get a cigarette he heard her tearing Bray- 
 field's envelope. 
 
 " Will you give me one? " said the husky voice. 
 
 Without saying anything he handed to her the box, and held 
 a lighted match to her cigarette when it was between the pale
 
 324 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 lips. She smoked gently as she opened and read Brayfield's 
 letter. When she had finished it evidently it was not a long 
 letter she put it back into the envelope, laid it down on the 
 green divan and said: 
 
 "What do you think of this room? It was designed and 
 arranged by Monsieur de Vaupre, a French friend of mine." 
 
 " By a man! " said Dion irrepressibly. 
 
 " Who hasn't been in the South African War. Do you like 
 it?" 
 
 " I don't think I do, but I admire it a good deal." 
 
 He was looking at the letter lying on the divan, and Bray- 
 field was before him, tormented and dying. He had always 
 disliked the look of Brayfield, but he had felt almost a sort of 
 affection for him when he was dying. Foolishly perhaps, Dion 
 wanted Mrs. Clarke to say something kind about Brayfield now. 
 
 " If you admire it, why don't you like it? " she asked. " A 
 person I could understand; but a room!" 
 
 He looked at her and hesitated to acknowledge a feeling at 
 which he knew something in her would smile; then he thought 
 of Rosamund and of Little Cloisters and spoke out the truth. 
 
 " I think it's an unwholesome-looking room. It looks to 
 me as if it had been thought out and arranged by somebody 
 with a beastly, though artistic, mind." 
 
 " The inner room is worse," she said. 
 
 But she did not offer to show it to him, nor did she disagree 
 with his view. He even had the feeling that his blunt remark 
 had pleased her. 
 
 He asked her about Constantinople. She lived there, she 
 told him, all through the spring and autumn, and spent the 
 hottest months on the Bosphorus. 
 
 " People are getting accustomed to my temerity," she said. 
 " Of course Esme Darlington is still in despair, and Lady 
 Ermyntrude goes about spreading scandal. But it doesn't 
 seem to do much harm. She hasn't any more influence over 
 my husband. He won't hear a word against me. Like a good 
 dog, I suppose, he loves the hand which has beaten him." 
 
 " You've got a will of iron, I believe," said Dion. 
 
 She changed the subject. 
 
 " I don't ask you to tell me about South Africa," she said. 
 " Because you told me the whole story as soon as I came into 
 the room. But what are you going to do now ? Settle down in 
 the Church's bosom at Welsley ? " 
 
 There was no sarcasm in her voice.
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 325 
 
 " Oh I'm going back to business in a few days." 
 
 " You'll run up and down, I suppose." 
 
 " It's too far, an hour and a half each way. I shall have to 
 be in London." 
 
 He spoke rather indecisively. 
 
 " I'm taking a fortnight's holiday, and then we shall settle 
 down." 
 
 " I've been in Welsley," said Mrs. Clarke. " It's beautiful 
 but, to me, stifling. It has an atmosphere which would soon 
 dry up my mind. All the petals would curl up and go brown 
 at the edges. I'm glad you're not going to live there. But 
 after South Africa you couldn't." 
 
 " I don't know. I find it very attractive," he said, in- 
 stinctively on the defensive because of Rosamund, who had not 
 been attacked. " The coziness and the peace of it are very de- 
 lightful after all the well, of course, it was a pretty stiff life 
 in South Africa." 
 
 Again he looked at Brayfield's letter. He wanted to tell Mrs. 
 Clarke about Brayfield, but it seemed she had no interest in 
 the dead man. While he was thinking this she quietly put out 
 her hand, took the letter, got up and dropped it into the fire 
 among the blue flames from the ship logs. 
 
 " I seldom keep letters," she said, " unless I have to answer 
 them." 
 
 She turned round. 
 
 " I've kept yours," she said. 
 
 " The one I it was awfully good of you to send me that 
 telegram." 
 
 " So Allah had you in His hand." 
 
 " I don't know why when so many much better fellows " 
 
 He broke off, and then he plunged into the matter of Bray- 
 field. He could not go without telling her, though hearing, per- 
 haps, would not interest her. 
 
 All the time he was speaking she remained standing by the 
 fire, with her lovely little head slightly bending forward and 
 her profile turned towards him. The emaciation of her figure 
 almost startled him. She wore a black dress. It seemed to him 
 a very simple dress. She could have told him that such sim- 
 plicity only comes from a few very great dressmakers, and is 
 only fully appreciated by a very few women. 
 
 Brayfield, though he was dying, had been very careful in 
 what he had said to .Dion. In his pain he had shown that he 
 had good blood in him. He had not hinted even at any claim
 
 326 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 on Mrs. Clarke. But he had spoken of a friendship which had 
 meant very much to him, and had asked Dion, if he ever had the 
 opportunity, to tell Mrs. Clarke that when he was dying she 
 was the woman he was thinking about. He had not spoken 
 interestingly; he was not an interesting man; but he had spoken 
 with sincerity, with genuine feeling. 
 
 " She's a woman in a thousand," he had said. " Tell her I 
 thought so till the last. Tell her if she had been free I should 
 have begged her to marry me." 
 
 And he had added, after a pause: 
 
 " Not that she'd ever have done it. I'm pretty sure of 
 that." 
 
 When Dion had finished, still standing by the fire, Mrs. 
 Clarke said: 
 
 " Thank you for remembering it all. It shows your good 
 heart." 
 
 "Oh please!" 
 
 Why didn't she think about Brayfield? 
 
 She turned round and fixed her distressed eyes on him. 
 
 " Which is best, to be charitable or to be truthful ? " she 
 said, without any vibration of excitement. " De Mortuis 
 it's a kindly saying. A true Turk, one of the old Osmanlis, 
 might have said it. If you hadn't brought me that letter and 
 the message I should probably never have mentioned Bray- 
 field to you again. But as it is I am going to be truthful. 1 
 can say honestly peace to Brayfield's ashes. His death was 
 worthy. Courage he evidently had. But you mustn't think 
 that because he liked me I ever liked him. Don't make a mis- 
 take. I'm not a nervous suspicious fool of a woman anxiously 
 defending, or trying to defend, her honor not attacked, by 
 the way. If Lord Brayfield had ever been anything to me I 
 should just be quiet, say nothing. But I didn't like him. If 
 I had liked him I shouldn't have burnt his letter. And now " 
 to Dion's great astonishment she made slowly the sign of the 
 Cross " requiescat in pace." 
 
 After a long pause she added: 
 
 " Now come and see the other room. I'll give you Turkish 
 coffee there."
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 327 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 IT had been understood between Rosamund and Dion that 
 he should spend that night in London. He had sev- 
 eral things to see to after his long absence, had to visit his 
 tailor, the dentist, the bootmaker, to look out some things in 
 Little Market Street, to have an interview with his banker, et 
 cetera. He would go back to Welsley on the following after- 
 noon. In the evening of that day he dined in De Lome Gar- 
 dens with Beatrice and Guy Daventry and his mother, and 
 again, as in Knightsbridge, something was said about the Wels- 
 ley question. Dion gathered that Rosamund's devotion to 
 Welsley was no secret in " the family." The speedy return to 
 Little Market Street was assumed; nevertheless he was certain 
 that his mother, his sister-in-law, and Guy were secretly won- 
 dering how Rosamund would be able to endure the departure 
 from Welsley. Beatrice had welcomed him back very quietly, 
 but he had felt more definitely than ever before the strong sym- 
 pathy which existed between them. 
 
 " I quite love Beattie," he said to his mother in the jobbed 
 brougham with the high stepping, but slow moving, horse 
 which conveyed them to Queen Anne's Mansions after the din- 
 ner. 
 
 " She is worth it," said Mrs. Leith. " Beatrice says very lit- 
 tle, but she means very much." 
 
 " Yes. I wonder I wonder how much of her meaning I 
 thoroughly understand, mater." 
 
 " Perhaps about five per cent of it, dee-ar," observed Mrs. 
 Leith in her sweetest voice. 
 
 And then she began to talk about Esme Darlington. 
 
 That night Dion stayed at Queen Anne's Mansions, and slept 
 in his old room. 
 
 In her room his mother lay awake because she wished to 
 lie awake. In sleep she would have lost the precious sense of 
 her boy's nearness to her. So she counted the hours and she 
 thanked God; and twice in the night she slipped out into the 
 hall, with her ample dressing-gown folded about her, and she 
 looked at her boy's coat hanging on its hook, and she listened 
 just outside his door. Once she felt certain she heard his quiet 
 breathing, and then, shutting her eyes, for a moment she was 
 again the girl mother with little Dion. 
 
 Little, little Dion! The soldier, burnt and hardened and
 
 328 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 made wholly a man by South Africa, was still that to his mother, 
 more than ever that since he had been to the war. 
 
 That question of Welsley! 
 
 Going down in the train next day Dion thought about it a 
 great deal. With his return the old longing, almost an old 
 need it was, to give Rosamund whatever she wanted, or cared 
 at all for, had come to him again. But something fought it, 
 the new longing to dominate and the wish to give Rosamund 
 chances. Besides, how could they possibly live on in Welsley? 
 He could not spend from three to four hours every day in the 
 train. He might get away from London on Fridays and stay 
 at Welsley every week till Monday morning, but that would 
 mean living alone in Little Market Street for four days in the 
 week. If he seemed willing to do that, would Rosamund con- 
 sent to it? 
 
 Another test! He remembered his test before the war. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke's allusion to Welsley had left a rather strong 
 impression upon him. He did not know whether he had a great 
 respect for her, but he knew that he had a great respect for her 
 mind. Like Beattie, but in a very different way, she meant a 
 great deal. He no longer doubted that she liked him very much, 
 though why he honestly did not know. When with her he felt 
 strongly that he was not an interesting man. Dumeny was a 
 beast, he felt sure, but he also felt sure that Dumeny was an 
 interesting man. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke's wild mind attracted something in him. 
 Through her eyes he was able to see the tameness of Welsley, 
 a dear tameness, safe, cozy, full of a very English charm and 
 
 touched with ancient beauty, but still ! Would the petals 
 
 of Rosamund ever curl up and go brown at the edges from liv- 
 ing at Welsley? No, he could not imagine that ever happen- 
 ing. A dried-up mind she could never have. 
 
 He would not see Welsley through the eyes of Mrs. Clarke. 
 
 Nevertheless when he got out of the train at Welsley Sta- 
 tion, and saw Robin's pal, the Archdeacon, getting out too, and 
 a couple of minor canons, who had come up for evening papers 
 or something, greeting him with an ecclesiastical heartiness 
 mingled with just a whiff of professional deference, Mrs. 
 Clarke's verdict of " stifling " recurred to his mind. 
 
 Stamboul and Welsley Mrs. Clarke and Rosamund I 
 
 The dual comparison made him at once see the truth. Stam- 
 boul and Welsley were beautiful; each possessed an enticing 
 quality; but the one enticed by its grandiose mystery, by its
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 329 
 
 sharp contrasts of marble stability and matchboard frailty, by 
 its melancholy silences and spaces, by its obscure peace and its 
 dangerous passion; the other by its delightful simplicity, its 
 noble homeliness, its dignity and charm of an old faith and a 
 smiling unworldliness, its harmonies of gray and of green, of 
 stone and verdure, its serenity lifted skywards by many bells. 
 
 But at the heart of Stamboul the dust lay thick, and there 
 was dew at the heart of Welsley. 
 
 Perhaps green Elis, with its sheep-bells, the eternal voices 
 of its pine trees, the celestial benignity of its Hermes, was more 
 to be desired than either Stamboul or Welsley. But for the 
 moment Welsley was very desirable. 
 
 Dion gave his bag to an " outside porter," and walked to the 
 Precincts with the Archdeacon. 
 
 He found Rosamund uplifted and triumphant; Mr. Thrush 
 had finally captivated the Dean, and had been given the " sit- 
 uation " which Rosamund had desired for him. Her joy was 
 almost ebullient. She could talk of nothing else. Mr. Thrush 
 was to be installed on the following Sunday. 
 
 " Installed ? " said Dion. " Is the Archbishop coming down 
 to conduct the ceremony? " 
 
 " No, no ! What I mean is that Mr. Thrush will walk in 
 the procession for the first time. Oh, I shall be so nervous! If 
 only he carries the wand as I've taught him! I don't know 
 what Mr. Thrush would do without me. He seems to depend 
 on me for everything now, poor old gentleman." 
 
 " I'm afraid he'll miss you dreadfully," said Dion. 
 
 "Miss me? When?" 
 
 Before he could answer she said quickly : 
 
 " Oh, by the way, Dion, while you've been away I've done 
 something for you." 
 
 "What is it, Rose?" 
 
 She was looking gaily mysterious, and almost cunning, but 
 in a delightful way. 
 
 " I don't want you to be bored during your holiday." 
 
 " Bored! Don't you realize that this is an earthly Paradise 
 for me? You and Robin and peace after South Africa." 
 
 She looked very shrewd. 
 
 " That's all very well, but a man, especially a soldier man, 
 wants sport." 
 
 She laid a strong and happy emphasis on the last word, 
 and then she disclosed the secret. A brother of "the cold 
 douche," a gentleman farmer who had land some four miles
 
 330 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 from Welsley, and who was " a great friend " of Rosamund's 
 she had met him three times at the organist's house hear- 
 ing of Dion's arrival, had written to say that he had some part- 
 ridges which needed " keeping down." He himself was " laid 
 by " with a bad leg, but he would be very glad if Mr. Leith 
 would " take his chance among the birds " any day, or days, 
 he liked while at Welsley. The gentleman farmer could not 
 offer much, just the ground, most of it stubble, and a decent 
 lot of birds. 
 
 " Dear Mrs. Dickinson knew through me how fond of shoot- 
 ing you are. We owe it all to her," said Rosamund, in con- 
 clusion. " I've written to thank him, and to say how glad 
 you'll be." 
 
 " But you must come too," he said. " You shot in Greece, 
 you must shoot again here." 
 
 " I don't think I will here," said Rosamund, confidentially 
 and rather mysteriously. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Well, I don't think the Dean would approve of it. And 
 he's been so bricky about Mr. Thrush that I shouldn't like to 
 hurt him." 
 
 " I can't go alone. I shall take Robin then." 
 
 He spoke half-laughingly. 
 
 "Robin?" 
 
 " Yes, why not? I'm sure he'd love to go." 
 
 " Of course he would. But how could his little legs walk 
 over stubble? He's not four years old yet." 
 
 " Robin's got to be Doric. He can't begin too soon." 
 
 She smiled, then looked at him seriously. 
 
 " Dion, do you know that you've come back much more Doric 
 than you were when you went out? " 
 
 "Have I, Rose?" 
 
 " Much more." 
 
 " Do you like me less because of that? " 
 
 She blushed faintly. 
 
 " No," she said. 
 
 That faint blush made Dion's heart bound, he scarcely knew 
 why. But he only said soberly: 
 
 " I'm glad of that. And now about Robin. You're right. 
 He can't walk over stubble with me, but why shouldn't I stick 
 him on a pony ? " 
 
 " Oh a pony! How he would love it! " 
 
 "Can't I get hold of one?"
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 331 
 
 " But Job Crickendon's got one ! " 
 
 " Job Crick ...?" 
 
 " Mrs. Dickinson's brother who's lending you the partridges. 
 Don't say another word, Dion. I'll arrange it all. Robin will 
 be in the seventh heaven." 
 
 " And you must come with us." 
 
 Rosamund was about to speak quickly. Dion saw that. Her 
 eyes shone; she opened her lips. But something, some sudden 
 thought, stopped her. After a minute she said quietly: 
 
 " We'll see." 
 
 And she gave Dion a curious, tender look which he did not 
 quite understand. Surely she was keeping some delicate se- 
 cret from him, one of those dear secrets which perhaps will never 
 be told, but which are sometimes happily guessed. 
 
 Dion could not help seeing that Rosamund eagerly wanted to 
 attach him to Welsley. He felt that she had not honestly and 
 fully faced the prospect of returning to live in London. Her 
 plan he saw it plainly; the partridge shooting was part of 
 it was to make Welsley so delightful to him that he would 
 not want to give up the home at Little Cloisters. What was 
 to be done? He disliked, he almost hated, the thought that 
 his return should necessitate an unpleasant change in Rosa- 
 mund's life. Yet something within him told him that he ought 
 to be firm. He was obliged to live in London, and therefore 
 it was only natural and right that Rosamund and Robin should 
 live in London too. After this long separation he ought not to 
 have to face a semi-bachelor life; three days of the week at 
 Little Cloisters and four days alone in Little Market Street. 
 He must put Rosamund to the test. That faint blush, which 
 he would not soon forget, made him hope that she would come 
 out of the test triumphantly. 
 
 If she did, how splendid that would be. His heart yearned 
 at the thought of a Rosamund submissive to his wish, unselfish 
 out of the depth of dared he think of it as a new growth of 
 love within her, tending towards a great flowering which would 
 bring a glory into two lives? But if she yielded at once to 
 his wish, without a word of regret, if she took the speedy re- 
 turn to London quite simply as a matter of course, he would feel 
 almost irresistibly inclined to take her in his arms and to say, 
 " No, you shall stay on at Little Cloisters. We'll manage some- 
 how." Perhaps he could stand three hours daily in the train. 
 He could read the papers. A man must do that. As well do 
 it in the train as in an arm-chair at home.
 
 332 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 But at any rate he would put her to the test. On that he was 
 resolved. 
 
 At dinner that night Rosamund told him she had already 
 written to " dear, kind Job Crickendon " about the pony. 
 
 " You might shoot on Monday," she said. 
 
 " Right you are. When we hear about the pony we'll tell 
 Robin." 
 
 " Yes. Not till it's all delightfully settled. Robin on horse- 
 back! " 
 
 Her eyes shone. 
 
 " I can see him already with a gun in his hand old enough 
 to shoot with you," she added. " We must bring him up to 
 be a thorough little sportsman; like that Greek boy Dirmi- 
 kis." 
 
 They talked about Robin's future till dinner was over. 
 Dion loved their talk, but he could not help seeing that in 
 Rosamund's forecast town life held no place at all. In every- 
 thing, or in almost everything, that she said the country held 
 pride of place. There was not a word about Jenkins's gym- 
 nasium, or the Open Air Club with its swimming facilities, or 
 riding in the Park, or fencing at Bernardi's. Rosamund seemed 
 tacitly to assume that everything which was Doric was connected 
 with country life. 
 
 On the following morning she hastened out " to buy riding 
 gaiters for Robin." She had his " size " with her. 
 
 Not a word had been said about Dion's visit to Mrs. Clarke. 
 Rosamund's lack of all curiosity in regard to Mrs. Clarke and 
 himself gave him the measure of her faith in him. Few women, 
 he thought, would be able to trust a man so completely. And 
 this trust was the more remarkable because he felt positive 
 that Rosamund distrusted Mrs. Clarke. She had never said 
 so, but he considered that by her conduct she had proved her 
 distrust. 
 
 It was a great virtue in Rosamund, that power she had to trust 
 where trust was deserved. 
 
 Dear, kind Job Crickendon wrote that Master Robin could 
 ride his pony, Jane, and welcome. The letter arrived on Sat- 
 urday. Rosamund read it aloud to Dion. 
 
 " The people about here are the dearest people I've ever 
 come across," she said. " So different from people in Lon- 
 don." 
 
 " Why, what's the matter with people in London ? " asked 
 Dion.
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 333 
 
 "Oh, I don't know; they're more artificial. They think so 
 much about clothes, and hats, and the way their hair's done." 
 
 "The men!" 
 
 " I was talking of the women." 
 
 " But is Job Crickendon a woman? " 
 
 " Don't be absurd, Dion. You know what I mean. The 
 country brings out the best that is in people." 
 
 " That's a bad look out for me, who've lived nearly all my 
 life in London." 
 
 " You would be yourself anywhere. Now about Robin. 
 I've got the gaiters. They're not exactly riding gaiters they 
 don't make them for such little boys but they'll do beauti- 
 fully. But I don't want to tell Robin till Monday morning. 
 You see he's got a very exciting day before him to-morrow, and 
 I think to know about Monday on the top of it might be al- 
 most too much for him." 
 
 " But what excitement is there to-morrow? " 
 
 She looked at him reproachfully. 
 
 "Mr. Thrush!" 
 
 " Oh, of course. And is Robin coming to the Cathedral? " 
 
 " Yes, for once. It's a terribly long service for a child, but 
 Robin would break his heart if he didn't see Mr. Thrush walk 
 in the procession for the first time." 
 
 " Then we won't tell him till Monday morning. I'll hire a 
 dog-cart and we can all drive out together." 
 
 Again she gave him the tender look, but she did not then ex- 
 plain what it meant. 
 
 That evening they dined with Canon Wilton, who had a sur- 
 prise in store for them. Esme Darlington had come down to 
 stay with him over Sunday, and to have a glimpse of his dear 
 young friends in Little Cloisters. 
 
 The dinner was a delightful one. Mr. Darlington was be- 
 nignly talkative and full of kindly gossip; Canon Wilton al- 
 most beamed upon his guests; after dinner Rosamund sang song 
 after song while the three men listened and looked. She sang 
 her very best for them, and when she was winding a lace 
 shawl about her hair preparatory to the little walk home, Canon 
 Wilton thanked her in a way that brought the blood to her 
 cheeks. 
 
 " You've made me very happy to-night," he said finally. 
 And his strong bass voice was softer than usual. 
 
 " I'm glad." 
 
 " Not only by your singing," he added.
 
 334 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 She looked at him inquiringly. His eyes had gone to Dion. 
 
 " Not only by that." 
 
 And then he spoke almost in a murmur to her. 
 
 " He's come back worth it," he said. " Good night. God 
 bless you both." 
 
 The following day was made memorable by the " in- 
 stallation " of Mr. Thrush as a verger of Welsley Cathe- 
 dral. 
 
 The Cathedral was not specially crowded for the occasion, 
 but there was a very fair congregation when Rosamund, Dion 
 and Robin (in a sailor suit with wide blue trousers) walked in 
 together through the archway in the rood-screen. One of the 
 old established vergers, a lordly person with a " presence " and 
 the air of a high dignitary, met them as they stepped into the 
 choir, and wanted to put them into stalls ; but Rosamund begged 
 for seats in a pew just beyond the lectern, facing the doorway by 
 which the procession came into the choir. 
 
 " Robin would be swallowed up in a stall," she whispered to 
 Dion. 
 
 And they both looked down at the little chap tenderly, and 
 met his blue eyes turned confidingly, yet almost anxiously too, 
 up to them. He was wondering about all this whispering with 
 the verger, and hoping that nothing had happened to Mr. 
 Thrush. 
 
 They found perfect seats in a pew just beyond the deanery 
 stalls. Far up in the distance above them one bell, the five 
 minutes' bell, was chiming. Its voice recalled to Rosamund 
 the " ping-ping " of the bell of St. Mary's Church which had 
 welcomed her in the fog. How much had happened since then ! 
 Robin was nestling against her. He sat between her and his 
 father, and was holding his father's hand. By dividing Dion 
 from her he united her with Dion. She thought of the mys- 
 tery of the Trinity, and then of their mystery, the mystery of 
 father, mother and child. To-day she felt very happy, and 
 happy in an unusual way. In her happiness she knew that, 
 in a sort of under way, she had almost dreaded Dion's return. 
 She had been so peacefully content, so truly at rest and deeply 
 serene in the life at Welsley with Robin. In her own heart 
 she could not deny that she had loved having her Robin all 
 to herself; and she had loved, too, the long hours of solitude 
 during which, in day-dreams, she had lived the religious life. 
 A great peace had enveloped those months at Welsley. In them 
 she had mysteriously grown into a closer relation with her lit-
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 335 
 
 tie son. She had often felt in those months that this mys- 
 terious nearness could never have become quite what it had be- 
 come to her unless she had been left alone with Robin. It was 
 their solitude which had enabled her to concentrate wholly on 
 Robin, and it was surely this exclusive concentration on Robin 
 which had drawn him so very close to her. All the springs of 
 his love had flowed towards her. 
 
 She had been just a wee bit frightened about Dion's return. 
 
 And that was why at this moment, while the five minutes' 
 bell was ringing, she felt so happy. For Dion's return had 
 not made any difference; or, if it had made a difference, she 
 did not actively regret it. The child's new adoration of his 
 father had made her care more for Dion, and even more for 
 Robin; for she felt that Robin was unconsciously loving in his 
 father a strength and a nobility which were new in Dion, which 
 had been born far away across the sea. War destroys, and all 
 the time war is destroying it is creating. Robin was holding a 
 little bit of what the South African War had created as he held 
 his father's hand. For are not the profound truths of the soul 
 conveyed through all its temple? 
 
 " Happiness is a mystery," thought Rosamund. 
 
 And then she silently thanked God that this mystery was 
 within herself, and that she felt it in Robin and in Dion. 
 
 She looked down at her little son, and as she met his soft 
 and yet ardent eyes, full of innocent anxiety, and almost of 
 awe, about Mr. Thrush, she blessed the day when she had de- 
 cided to marry Dion, when she had renounced certain dreams, 
 when she had taken the advice of the man who was now her 
 friend and had resolved to tread that path of life in which she 
 could have a companion. 
 
 Her companion had given her another companion. In the 
 old gray Cathedral, full of the silent voices of men who had 
 prayed and been gathered to their rest long since, Rosamund 
 looked down the way of happiness, and she could not see its 
 end. 
 
 The five minutes' bell stopped and Robin sat up very straight 
 in the pew. The Bishop's wife proceeded to her stall with a 
 friend. Robin stared reverently, alert for the tribute to Mr. 
 Thrush. Miss Piper glided in sideways, holding her head 
 down as if she were searching for a dropped pin on the pave- 
 ment. She, too, was an acquaintance of Robin's, and he whis- 
 pered to his mother: 
 
 " Miss Piper's come to see Mr. Thrush."
 
 336 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 "Yes, darling." 
 
 What a darling he was in his anxiety for his old friend! 
 She looked at the freckles on the bridge of his little nose and 
 longed to kiss them. This was without doubt the most won- 
 derful day in Robin's life so far. She looked ahead and saw 
 how many wonderful days for Robin! And over his fair hair 
 she glanced at Dion, and she felt Dion's thought hand in hand 
 with hers. 
 
 A long sigh came from the organ, and then Mr. Dickinson 
 was at work preluding Mr. Thrush. Distant steps sounded on 
 the pavement behind the choir screen coming from some hid- 
 den place at the east end of the Cathedral. The congregation 
 stood up. All this, in Robin's mind, was for Mr. Thrush. 
 Still holding his father's hand tightly he joined in the congrega- 
 tion's movement. The solemnly pacing steps drew nearer. 
 Robin felt very small, and the pew seemed very deep to him now 
 that he was standing up. There was a fat red footstool by his 
 left leg. He peeped at his father and whispered : 
 
 "May I, Fa?" 
 
 Dion bent down, took him under the arms and lifted him 
 gently on to the footstool just as the vergers appeared with their 
 wands, walking nobly at the head of the procession. 
 
 At Welsley the ordinary vergers did not march up the choir 
 to the return stalls, but divided and formed up in two lines 
 at the entrance, making a dignified avenue down which the 
 choristers and the clergy passed with calm insouciance into the 
 full view of the waiting congregation. Only two picked men, 
 with wands of silver, preceded the dignitaries to their massive 
 stalls. Mr. Thrush was though not in Robin's eyes an 
 ordinary verger. He would not therefore penetrate into the 
 choir. But, mercifully, he with one other had been placed in 
 the forefront of the procession. He led the way, and Robin and 
 his parents had a full and satisfying view of him as the pro- 
 cession curved round and made for the screen. In his dark and 
 flowing robe he came on majestical, holding his wand quite per- 
 fectly, and looking not merely self-possessed but as Rosa- 
 mund afterwards put it " almost uplifted." 
 
 Robin began to breathe hard as he gazed. From Mr. 
 Thrush's shoulders the robe swung with his lordly movements. 
 He reached the entrance. It seemed as if nothing could pre- 
 vent him from floating on, in all the pride and dignity of his 
 new office, to the very steps of the Dean's stall. But discipline 
 held him. He stood aside; he came to rest with his wand be-
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 337 
 
 fore him; he let the procession pass by, and then, almost mys- 
 tically, he evaporated with his brother vergers. 
 
 Rosamund sent a quick look to Dion, a look of subdued and 
 yet bright triumph. Then she glanced down at Robin. She 
 had been scarcely less excited, less strung up, than he. But she 
 had seen the fruit of her rehearsals and now she was satisfied. 
 Robin, she saw, was more than satisfied. His eyes were round 
 with the glory of it all. 
 
 That was the happiest Sunday Dion had ever spent, and it 
 was fated to close in a happiness welling up out of the very 
 deeps of the heart. 
 
 Canon Wilton and Esme Darlington came in to tea, and 
 Mr. Thrush was entertained at a sumptuous repast in the 
 nursery " between the services." Robin presided at it with anx- 
 ious rapture, being now just a little in awe of his faithful old 
 friend. His nurse, who approved of Mr. Thrush, and was 
 much impressed by the fact that after two interviews with the 
 Dean he had been appointed to a post in the Cathedral, sat 
 down to it too; and Rosamund and Dion looked in to congratu- 
 late Mr. Thrush, and to tell him how delighted they were with 
 his bearing in the procession and his delicately adroit manipu- 
 lation of his wand. Mr. Thrush received their earnest con- 
 gratulations with the quiet dignity of one who felt that they did 
 not spring from exaggeration of sentiment. Like all great art- 
 ists he knew when he had done well. But when Rosamund and 
 Dion were about to retire, and to leave him with Robin and the 
 nurse to the tea and well-buttered toast, he suddenly emerged 
 into an emotion which did him credit. 
 
 "Madam! " he said to Rosamund, in a rather hoarse and 
 tremulous voice. 
 
 " Now don't trouble to get up again, dear Mr. Thrush. Yes, 
 what is it?" 
 
 Mr. Thrush looked down steadily at the " round " which 
 glistened on his plate. Something fell upon it. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Thrush ! " began Robin, and paused in dis- 
 may, looking up at his mother. 
 
 " Madam," said Mr. Thrush again, still looking at the 
 " round," " I haven't felt as I do now since I stood behind my 
 counter just off Hanover Square, respected. Yes," he said, and 
 his old voice quavered upwards, gaining in strength, " respected 
 by all who knew me. She was with me then, and now she isn't 
 But I feel I feel I'm respected again." 
 
 Something else fell upon the toast.
 
 338 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " And it's all your doing, madam. I all I can say is that 
 I all I can say " His voice failed. 
 
 Rosamund put her hand on his shoulder. 
 
 " There, Mr. Thrush, there! I know, I know just how it is." 
 
 " Madam," said Mr. Thrush, with quavering emphasis, " one 
 can depend upon you, a man can depend upon you. What 
 you undertake you carry through, even if it's only the putting on 
 his feet of of I never thought to be a verger, never. I 
 never could have looked up to such a thing but for you. But 
 Mr. Dean he said to me, ' Mr. Thrush, when Mrs. Leith speaks 
 up for a man, even an archbishop has to listen.' ' 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Thrush. Robin, give Mr. Thrush the 
 brown sugar. He always likes brown sugar in his tea." 
 
 " It's more nourishing, madam," said Mr. Thrush, with a 
 sudden change from emotion to quiet self-confidence. " It does 
 more work for the stomach. A chemist knows." 
 
 " Dear old man ! " said Rosamund, when she and Dion were 
 outside in the passage. " To say all that before nurse it was 
 truly generous." 
 
 And she frankly wiped her eyes. A moment later she added : 
 
 " I pray he doesn't fall back into his little failing! " 
 
 She looked at Dion interrogatively. He looked at her, un- 
 derstanding, he believed, the inquiry in her eyes. Before he 
 could say anything the kind and careful voice of Mr. Darlington 
 was heard below, asking: 
 
 " Is Mrs. Dion Leith at home? " 
 
 Mr. Darlington was delighted with Little Cloisters. He said 
 it had a " flavor which was quite unique," and was so enthusi- 
 astic that Rosamund became almost excited. Dion saw that 
 she counted Mr. Darlington as an ally. When Mr. Darling- 
 ton's praises sounded she could not refrain from glancing at her 
 husband, and when at length their guests got up to go " with 
 great reluctance," she begged them to come and dine on the 
 following night. 
 
 Mr. Darlington raised his ragged eyebrows and looked at 
 Canon Wilton. 
 
 " I'm by way of going back to town to-morrow afternoon," 
 he began tentatively. 
 
 " Stay another night and let us accept," said Canon Wilton 
 heartily. 
 
 " But I'm dining with dear Lavinia Barkhamstead, one of 
 my oldest friends. It's not a set dinner, but I should hardly 
 like "
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 339 
 
 "For once! " pleaded Rosamund. 
 
 Mr. Darlington wavered. He looked round the room and 
 then at Rosamund and Dion. 
 
 " It's most attractive here," he murmured, " and Lady Berk- 
 hamstead lives in the Cromwell Road, at the far end. I won- 
 der " 
 
 "It's settled!" Rosamund exclaimed. "Dinner at half- 
 past seven. We keep early hours here, and Dion goes shooting 
 to-morrow with Robin and may get sleepy towards ten o'clock." 
 
 After explanations about Robin, Mr. Darlington gracefully 
 yielded. He would wire to dear Lavinia Berkhamstead and ex- 
 plain matters. 
 
 As he and Canon Wilton walked back to the Canon's house 
 he said: 
 
 " What dear people those are! " 
 
 " Yes, indeed," said the Canon. 
 
 " Happiness has brought out the very best in them both. 
 Leith is a fine young fellow, and she, of course, is unique, a 
 piece of radiance, as her beautiful mother was. It does one 
 good to see such a happy household." 
 
 He gently glowed, and presently added: 
 
 *' You and I, dear Canon, have missed something." 
 
 After a moment the Canon's strong voice came gravely out of 
 the winter darkness: 
 
 " You think great happiness the noblest education? " 
 
 Mr. Darlington began to pull his beard. 
 
 " You mean, my dear Wilton ? " 
 
 " Do you think the education of happiness is the education 
 most likely to bring out the greatest possibilities of the soul? " 
 
 This was the sort of very definite question that Mr. Darling- 
 ton preferred to get away from if possible, and he was just pre- 
 paring to " hedge," when, fortunately, they ran into the Dean, 
 and the conversation deviated to a discussion concerning the 
 effect the pursuit of scientific research was likely to have upon 
 religious belief. 
 
 After supper that evening supper instead of dinner on Sun- 
 days was the general rule in Welsley Dion lit his pipe. It 
 had been a very happy day. He wished the happiness to last 
 till sleep came to Rosamund and to him; nevertheless he was 
 resolved to take a risk, and to take it now before they went to 
 bed, while they still had two quiet hours before them. He 
 looked at Rosamund and reluctance surged up in him, but he 
 beat it back. Something told him that he had been allowed
 
 340 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 to come back from South Africa in order that he might build 
 firm foundations. The perfect family life must be set upon 
 rock. He meant to get through to the rock if possible. Rosa- 
 mund and he were beginning again. Now surely was the day 
 of salvation if he played the man, the man instead of merely 
 the lover. 
 
 " This has been one of the happiest days of my life," he said. 
 
 He was standing by the fire. Rosamund was sitting on a 
 low chair doing some embroidery. Gold thread gleamed against 
 a rough cream-colored ground in her capable hands. 
 
 " I'm so thankful you like Welsley," she said. 
 
 " Won't you hate leaving Welsley? " he asked. 
 
 Rosamund went on quietly working for a moment. Perhaps 
 she bent a little lower over the embroidery. 
 
 " I've made a great many friends here," she said at length, 
 " and " 
 
 She paused. 
 
 " Yes do tell me, Rose." 
 
 " There's something here that I care for very much." 
 
 " Is it the atmosphere of religion? There's a great deal here 
 that suggests the religious life." 
 
 "Yes; it's that I care for." 
 
 " I was almost afraid of meeting you here when I came back, 
 Rose. I remembered what you had once told me, that you 
 had had a great longing to enter the religious life. I was half 
 afraid that, living here all alone with Robin, you might have 
 become I don't know exactly how to put it become clois- 
 tral. I didn't want to find you a sort of nun when I came 
 back." 
 
 He spoke with a gentle lightness. 
 
 " It might have been so, mightn't it? " 
 
 She remembered her dreams in the walled-in garden almost 
 guiltily. 
 
 " No," she said steadily and as she spoke she felt as if 
 she were firmly putting those dreams behind her forever. 
 " Motherhood changes a woman more than men can ever know." 
 
 "I I know it's all right. Then you won't hate me for tak- 
 ing you both back to Little Market Street in a few days? " 
 
 He saw the color deepen in her face. For an instant she 
 went on working. Then she put the work down, sat back in the 
 low chair, and looked up at him. 
 
 " No, of course we must go back. And I was very happy in 
 Little Market Street."
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 341 
 
 And then quickly, before he could say anything, she began 
 to recall the pleasant details of their life in Westminster, dwell- 
 ing upon every household joy, and everything that though 
 " Londony " had been delightful. Having conquered, with an 
 effort which had cost her more than even Dion knew, a terri- 
 ble reluctance she gave herself to her own generous impulse with 
 enthusiasm. Rosamund could not do things by halves. She 
 might obstinately refrain from treading a path, but if once she 
 had set her feet on it she hurried eagerly along it. Something 
 to-night had made her decide on treading the path of unselfish- 
 ness, of generosity. When Dion lit his pipe she had not known 
 she was going to tread it. It seemed to her almost as if she had 
 found herself upon the path without knowing how she had got 
 there. Now without hesitation she went forward. 
 
 " It was delightful in Westminster," she concluded, " and it 
 will be delightful there again." 
 
 " And all your friends here? And Mr. Thrush? " 
 
 " I don't know what Mr. Thrush will do," she said, with a 
 change to deep gravity. 
 
 The two lines showed in her pure forehead. 
 
 " Tm so afraid that without me he will fall back. But per- 
 haps I can run down now and then just for the day to keep 
 him up to his promise, poor dear old man." 
 
 " And your friends? " 
 
 " Oh, well of course I shall miss them. But I suppose 
 there is always something to miss. There must be a crumpled 
 rose leaf. I am far more fortunate than almost any woman I 
 know." 
 
 Dion put down his pipe. 
 
 " I simply can't do it," he said. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Take you away from here. It seems your right place. You 
 love it; Robin loves it. What's to be done? Shall I run up 
 and down ? " 
 
 " You can't. It's too far." 
 
 " I have to read the papers somewhere. Why not in the 
 train?" 
 
 "Three hours or more! It's impossible. If only Welsley 
 were nearer London! But, then, it wouldn't be Welsley." 
 
 " Now I know you'll go I can't take you away." 
 
 " Did you what did you think I should do? " 
 
 "How could I tell?" 
 
 He sat down and took her hands.
 
 342 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Rose, you've made this the happiest day of my life." 
 
 " Do you mean because ? " 
 
 She stopped. Her face became very grave, almost severe. 
 She looked at him, but he felt that she was really looking in- 
 ward upon herself. When at last he let go her hands she said: 
 
 " Dion, you are very different from what you were when you 
 went to the war. If I seem different, too, it's because of that, 
 I think." 
 
 " War changes women, perhaps, as well as men," he said ten- 
 derly. 
 
 They sat by the fire in the quiet old room and talked of the 
 future and of all the stages of Robin: as schoolboy, as youth, 
 as budding undergraduate, as man. 
 
 " Perhaps hell be a soldier-man as his father has been," said 
 Rosamund. 
 
 "Do you wish it?" 
 
 She looked at him steadily for a moment. Then she said : 
 
 " Yes, if it helps him as I think it has helped you. I expect 
 when men go to fight for their country they go, perhaps without 
 knowing it, to fight just for themselves." 
 
 " I believe everything we do for others, without any thought 
 of ourselves, we do for ourselves," he said, very seriously. 
 
 " Altruism! But then I ought to live in London for you, and 
 you in Welsley for me." 
 
 They both laughed. Nothing had been absolutely decided; 
 and yet it seemed as if through that laughter a decision had been 
 reached about everything really important. 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 A DOGCART from Harrington's had been ordered to be 
 " round " the next day at noon. Dion had decided 
 against a long day's shooting on Robin's account. He 
 must not tire the little chap. In truth it would be impossible to 
 take the shooting seriously, with Robin there all the time, cling- 
 ing on to Jane and having to be looked after. 
 
 " It's going to be Robin's day," Dion said the next morning. 
 " When are you going to tell him ? " 
 
 " Directly after breakfast. By the way, Dion," she spoke
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 343 
 
 carelessly, and was opening a letter while she spoke, " I'm 
 not coming." 
 
 4 Oh, but you must! " 
 
 ' No; I'll stay quietly here. I have lots of things to do." 
 
 ' But Robin's first day as a sportsman! " * 
 
 ' He isn't going to shoot," she said, with a mother's smile. 
 
 ' Why won't you come ? You've got some very special rea- 
 son." 
 
 " Perhaps I have, but I'm not going to tell it. Women aren't 
 wanted everywhere. Sometimes a couple of men like to be 
 alone." 
 
 " Robin's a man now? " 
 
 " Yes, a little man. I do hope the gaiters will fit him. I 
 haven't dared to try them on yet. And I've got him the dear- 
 est little whip you ever saw." 
 
 " Jane will have to look to her paces. I'm sorry you're not 
 coming, Rose." 
 
 But he did not try to persuade her. He believed that she 
 had a very sweet reason behind her abstention. She had had 
 Robin all to herself for many months; perhaps she thought the 
 father ought to have his turn now, perhaps to-day she was hand- 
 ing over her little son to his father for the education which al- 
 ways comes from a man. Her sudden unselfishness Dion 
 believed it was that touched him to the heart. But it made 
 him long to do something, many things, for her. 
 
 " I'm determined that you and Welsley shan't part from each 
 other forever," he said. " We'll hit on some compromise. This 
 house is on our hands, anyhow, till the spring." 
 
 " Perhaps we could sublet it," said Rosamund, trying to speak 
 with brisk cheerfulness. 
 
 " We'll talk it over again to-night." 
 
 " And now for Robin's gaiters! " 
 
 They fitted perfectly; " miraculously " was Rosamund's word 
 for the way they fitted. 
 
 " His legs might a-been poured into them almost, a-dear," 
 was nurse's admirably descriptive comment on the general effect 
 produced. 
 
 Robin looked at his legs with deep solemnity. When the 
 great project for this day of days had been broken to him he 
 had fallen upon awe. His prattling ardors had subsided, stilled 
 by a greater joy than any that had called them forth in his 
 complex past of a child. Now he gazed at his legs, which were 
 stretched out at right angles to his body on a nursery chair, as
 
 344 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 if they were not his. Then he looked up at his mother, his 
 father, nurse; then once more down at his legs. His eyes were 
 inquiring. They seemed to say, " Can it be? " 
 
 " Bless him ! He can't hardly believe in it ! " muttered nurse. 
 " And no wonder." 
 
 A small sigh came from Robin. To his father and mother it 
 came like the whisper of happiness, that good fairy which men 
 cannot quite get rid of, try as they may. Two small hands 
 went down to the little gaiters and felt them carefully. Then 
 Robin looked up again, this time at his father, and smiled. In- 
 stinctively he connected his father with these wonderful appur- 
 tenances, although his mother had bought them and put them 
 on him. With that smile he gave the day to his father, and 
 Dion took it with just a glance at Rosamund a glance which 
 deprecated and which accepted. 
 
 When the dogcart was announced by Annie, with beaming 
 eyes, Dion got his gun, Robin received his whip, a miniature 
 hunting-crop with a horn handle, his cap was pulled down 
 firmly on his head by Rosamund, and they set forth to the 
 Green Court. Here they found Harrington's most fiery horse 
 harnessed to quite a sporting dogcart and doing his very best 
 to champ his bit. From the ground Robin looked up at him 
 with solemn eyes. The occasion was almost too great. His 
 father with a gun, his own legs in gaiters, the whip which he 
 felt in his hand, the packet of sandwiches thrust tenderly by 
 nurse into the pocket of his little covert coat, and now this 
 glorious animal and this high and unusual carriage gleaming 
 with light-colored wood between its immense wheels! There 
 was almost too much of meaning, too much of suggestion in it 
 all. No words came to him. He could only feel and gaze. 
 
 A stableman with hard lips stood sentinel in front of the 
 fiery horse, and put up a red forefinger on the right side of his 
 temple to give them greeting. 
 
 " I'll get in first," said Dion to Rosamund, " and then you 
 can hand me up Robin." 
 
 He put in his gun and took the reins, while Robin instinc- 
 tively extended his arms so that his mother could take hold of 
 him under them. 
 
 " Up we go! " cried Dion. 
 
 And he mounted lightly to the high seat. 
 
 "Now, Robin!" 
 
 Rosamund took hold of Robin, whose short arms were still 
 solemnly outstretched. She was about to lift him into the cart,
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 345 
 
 but, overcome by an irresistible impulse, she paused, put one 
 arm under the little legs in the gaiters, drew him to her and 
 pressed her lips on the freckled bridge of his tiny nose. 
 
 " You darling! " she whispered, so that only he could hear. 
 " I love you in your gaiters better than I ever loved you be- 
 fore." Then she handed him up to his father as if he were a 
 dear little parcel. 
 
 " That's it," said Dion. " Put your arm round here, boy. 
 Hold on tight! Let him go! " 
 
 The hard-lipped man stood to one side and the horse 
 well, moved. Robin gazed down at his mother with the faint 
 hint of an almost shy smile, Dion saluted her with his whip, 
 and the glorious day was fairly begun. Traveling with a sort 
 of rakish deliberation the dogcart skirted the velvet lawn of the 
 Green Court and disappeared from sight beneath the ancient 
 archway. 
 
 Rosamund sighed as she turned to walk back to Little Clois- 
 ters. She had made a real sacrifice that day in giving up 
 Robin to his father and staying at home. Secretly she had 
 longed to go with her " men-folk " upon the great expedition, 
 to be present at Robin's initiation into the Doric life. But 
 something very dear in Dion had prompted her to be unselfish. 
 Dion was certainly much more impressive to her since his re- 
 turn from the war. Even the dear things in him meant more. 
 There seemed to be more muscle in them than there had been 
 when he went away. 
 
 " Even our virtues can be weak or strong, I suppose," Rosa- 
 mund thought, as she turned into the walled garden which she 
 loved so much, and there followed the thought: 
 
 " I wonder which mine are." 
 
 She meant to spend that day in saying good-by to Welsley. 
 Dion had said they would talk things over again that night; 
 probably he would be ready to fall in with any desire of hers, 
 but she felt almost sure that she would not tell him how much 
 she wished to stay on at Little Cloisters. 
 
 An obscure feeling had come to her that perhaps it was not 
 quite safe for her to remain any longer here in the arms of the 
 Precincts. Looking backward to that which has been deliber- 
 ately renounced is surely an act of weakness. 
 
 Even the imaginative effort to live a life that has been put 
 aside is a feeble concession to an inclination at least partially 
 morbid. Rosamund was in fact a mother, and yet here in Wels- 
 ley, she had, as it were, sometimes played at being one of those
 
 346 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Sisters " who are content to be brides of heaven and mothers 
 of the poor. For her own sake it was doubtless best to renounce 
 Welsley at once. The new meaning of Dion would help her to 
 do that bravely. He had often been unselfish for her; she 
 would try to counter his unselfishness with hers. 
 
 When she was in the house again she had a colloquy with 
 the cook about the dinner for that evening. As Esme Darling- 
 ton had given up an engagement in London to come to Little 
 Cloisters, her dinner must be something special. She told the 
 cook so in her cordial, almost confidential, way, and they " put 
 their heads together " and devised a menu full of attractions. 
 That done she had the day to herself. Dion and Robin would 
 come home some time in the afternoon, and they were all going 
 to have tea together up in the nursery. It might be at half-past 
 four, it might be at half-past five. Till then she was free. 
 
 For a moment she thought of going to see some of her friends, 
 of telling Mrs. Dickinson and other adherents of hers that her 
 days in Welsley were numbered. But a reluctance seized her. 
 She felt a desire to be alone. W T hat if instead of saying good-by 
 to Welsley, she said good-by to her dreams in Welsley? She 
 summoned Annie and told her not to let any one in. 
 
 " I'm going to spend a quiet day, Annie," she said. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," said Annie, with an air of intelligent compre- 
 hension. 
 
 " Though what else any one ever does in old Welsley I'm sure 
 I couldn't say," she aftenvards remarked to the cook. 
 
 " You're a cockney at 'eart, Annie," repeated that function- 
 ary. " The country says nothing to you. You want the parks, 
 that's what you want." 
 
 " Well, I was brought up in 'em, as you may say," said An- 
 nie, whose father had been a park-keeper, and whose mother and 
 grandmother were natives of Westbourne Grove. 
 
 By a quiet day Rosamund meant a day lived through in 
 absolute solitude, a day of meditation in the cloistered garden. 
 She would not have any lunch. Then she would have a better 
 appetite for the nursery tea at which Robin would relate to her 
 all the doings of the greatest day of his life. Precious, precious 
 Robin ! 
 
 She went down into the garden. 
 
 It was a mistily bright day of November. The sun shone 
 through a delicate veil. The air was cold but not sharp. 
 Neither autumn nor winter ruled. It seemed like a day which 
 had slipped into an interstice between two seasons, a day that
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 347 
 
 was somehow rare and exceptional, holding a faint stillness 
 that was strange. There was in it something of the far away. 
 If a fairy day can be cold, it was like a fairy day. On such a 
 day one treads lightly and softly and at moments feels almost 
 as if out of the body. 
 
 Lightly and softly Rosamund went to and fro between the 
 high and mossy walls of the garden, keeping to the straight 
 paths. When the bells chimed in the tower of the Cathedral they 
 sounded much farther away than usual; the song of the thrush 
 somewhere in the elder bush near the garden door was curiously 
 remote; the caw-caw of the rooks dropped down as if from an 
 immeasurable distance. Through the mist the sunshine filtered, 
 lightly pale and pure, a sensitive sunshine which would surely 
 not stay very long in Rosamund's garden. 
 
 A sort of thin stillness had fallen upon the world. 
 
 And so another chapter of life was closing, the happy chap- 
 ter of Welsley! 
 
 Something of sadness accompanied Rosamund along the 
 straight paths, the delicate melancholy which attends the fare- 
 wells of one who has regret but who has hope. 
 
 With the new Dion and with the old Robin, the Robin 
 blessedly unchanged, she could not be really unhappy. Yet it 
 was sad to give up the dear garden and all the dreams which 
 belonged to it. Far down in her she knew it there was 
 certainly a recluse. She could see the black figure, the sheltered 
 face, the eyes looking down, the praying hands. It would have 
 been very natural to her long ago to seek God in the way of the 
 recluse. But not now! 
 
 Hermes and the child came before her. In the stillness of 
 Welsley it was as if she heard the green stillness of Elis. She 
 was quite alone in that inner room where stood the messenger 
 with the wings on his sandals. Dion had stayed outside. He 
 had been unselfish that day as to-day she had been unselfish. 
 For she had wanted to go with the little gaiters. She could 
 see the smiling look of eternity upon the face of the messenger. 
 He had no fear for the child. He had mounted on winged feet 
 to the region where no fear is. How his benign and eternal 
 calm had sunk into Rosamund's soul that day in Elis. Far 
 off she had seen through the frame of the Museum doorway 
 a bit of the valley in which the Hermes had dwelt, and stretch- 
 ing across it a branch of wild olive. She had looked at it and 
 had thought of the victor's Crown, a crown which had even been 
 won by a boy at the games.
 
 348 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 Already then a fore-knowledge of Robin had been in her. 
 
 She had gazed at the branch and loved it. Certainly she 
 had been dreaming, as she had afterwards told Dion, and in 
 her dream had been Hermes and the child, and surely another 
 child for whose future the messenger would not fear. The 
 branch of wild olive had, perhaps, entered into the dream. Into 
 a crown she had wound it to set upon a little fair head. And 
 that was why she had suffered, had really suffered, when a 
 cruel hand had come into Elis and had torn down the wild olive 
 branch. Dion's hand! 
 
 That action had been like a murder. She remembered even 
 now her feeling of anger and distress. She had been startled. 
 She had been ruthlessly torn away from the exquisite calm in 
 which, with the Hermes, she had been celestially dreaming. 
 Dion had torn her away, Dion who loved her so much. 
 
 Why had he done it? Even now she did not know. 
 
 He had taken her out of that dream, and now he was going 
 to take her away from Welsley. 
 
 The misty brightness was already fading from the garden; 
 the song of the thrush was no longer audible: he had flown 
 away from the elder bush and from Rosamund. The coldness 
 and silence of the day seemed to deepen about her. Welsley 
 was fading out of her life. She felt that. She was going to 
 begin again. But as she had carried Elis with her when she left 
 it, and the dear tombs and temples of Greece, when she had 
 bidden good-by to the bare and beautiful land whose winds 
 and whose waters are not as the winds and the waters of any 
 other region, so she would carry away with her Welsley, this 
 garden with its seclusion, its old religious atmosphere, the music 
 of the chimes, even the thrush's song from the elder bush. 
 " Xaipc! " She must say that. But she had her precious pos- 
 session. Another page of the book of life would be turned. 
 That was all. 
 
 That was all? She sighed. A painful sense of the im- 
 permanence of the things of this world came suddenly upon her. 
 Like running water life was slipping by; its joys, the shining 
 bubbles poised upon the surface, drifted into the distance and 
 how quickly! were out of reach. 
 
 Perhaps the great attraction, the lure of the religious life, 
 was the sense felt by those who led it of having a close grip 
 upon that which was permanent. The joys of the world 
 even the natural, healthy, allowed joys were shut out, but 
 there was the great compensation, companionship with that to
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 349 
 
 which no " x<pe " would ever have to be said, with that to which 
 death only brought the human being nearer. 
 
 Rosamund stopped in her walk, and looked up at the great 
 Cathedral which towered above the wall of the garden. She 
 had been pacing to and fro for a long time. She did not feel 
 tired, but she was beset by an unaccustomed sensation of weari- 
 ness, mental and spiritual rather than physical. 
 
 After a minute she went into the house, found a rug and 
 a book, came back into the garden, and sat down on a bench in 
 a corner hidden from observation. This bench was close to 
 the wall which divided the garden from the " Dark Entry." 
 It was separated from the lawn and the view of the house by 
 a belt of shrubs. Rosamund was fond of this nook and had 
 very often sat in it, sometimes alone, sometimes with Robin. 
 She had told the maids never to look for her there; if any 
 visitor came and she was not seen in that part of the garden 
 which was commanded by the windows of the house, they were 
 to conclude that she was " out." Here, then, she was quite safe, 
 and could turn the last page of the chapter of Welsley in her 
 book of life. 
 
 She wrapped herself up in the big and heavy rug. The sun 
 was gone, the mist had become slightly more dense, the air was 
 colder. 
 
 Presently Dion and Robin would come back; there would be 
 tea in the warm old-fashioned nursery, gay talk, the telling of 
 wonderful deeds. 
 
 If only Robin did not fall off Jane! But Dion would take 
 care of that. Dion certainly loved Robin very much. The 
 bond between father and son had evidently been strengthened 
 by the intervention of the war, which had broken off their inter- 
 course for a time, and given Robin a father changed by contact 
 with hard realities. 
 
 For a few minutes in imagination Rosamund followed the 
 two figures over the stubble, the thin strong walking figure, and 
 the little darling figure on pony back. Would Robin quite 
 forget her in the midst of his proud and triumphant joy? She 
 wondered. Even if he did, she would not really mind. She 
 wanted him to be very happy indeed without her just for a 
 short time : that he could not be happy without her for long she 
 knew very well. 
 
 Oddly, her sensation of weariness persisted. She recognized 
 it now as wholly unphysical. She was certainly feeling what 
 people call " depressed." No doubt this unusual depression
 
 350 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 for she had been born with a singularly cheerful spirit was 
 caused by the resolution she had taken to give up Welsley. Per- 
 haps Welsley meant more to her even than she had supposed. 
 But it was absurd wasn't it? to be so dominated by places. 
 People, certain people, might mean everything in the life of a 
 woman; many women lived, really lived, only in and through 
 their lovers, their husbands, their children; but what woman 
 lived in and through the life of the place? She had only to 
 compare mentally the loss of Welsley with say the loss of 
 Dion, the new Dion, to realize how little Welsley really meant 
 to her. Certainly she loved it as a place, but probably a woman 
 can only love a place with a bit of her. 
 
 And yet to-day, she certainly felt depressed. Even the 
 thought of the nursery tea did not drive the depression from 
 her. 
 
 She opened the book she had brought from the house. It 
 was a volume of Browning's poems. She had opened it at hap- 
 hazard, and now her eyes rested on these words, words loved 
 almost above all others by one of the greatest souls that ever 
 spent itself for England: 
 
 " I go to prove my soul ! 
 I see my way as birds their trackless way 
 I shall arrive ! What time, what circuit first 
 I ask not; but unless God send His Hail 
 Or blinding fire-balls, sleet, or stifling snow, 
 In some time, His good time! I shall arrive: 
 He guides me and the bird. In His good time ! " 
 
 She read the lines three four times. Then she laid the book 
 down on her knees and sat very still. Consciously she tried 
 to withdraw herself, to pass into meditation carrying the poem 
 with* her. 
 
 " I see my way as birds their trackless way 
 I shall arrive ! " 
 
 Rosamund was gazing downward at a coping of worn brick 
 on which she had set her feet, but she did not see it now. She 
 saw migratory birds traveling steadily through a vast expanse 
 of gray sky; birds that were going, at the appointed time, to 
 some far-distant place, in search of a golden climate, in search 
 of the sun. Inevitably they would come into the golden cli- 
 mate, inevitably they would find the sun which they needed. 
 Like them she was traveling through a vast gray expanse, the
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 351 
 
 life of the world. Robin and Dion were with her. They were 
 seeking the sun which they needed. Surely, like the birds, 
 they would find the sun at last. She had thought to seek her 
 way deliberately. When she was quite a girl it had seemed to 
 her that the human being had the power, and was therefore al- 
 most under the obligation, to find the way to God for herself. 
 When she had contemplated entering the religious life the 
 thought at the back of her mind had perhaps been something like 
 this: " I'll conquer the love and the mercy of God by my own 
 exertions; I'll find the way to God by my own ingenuity and de- 
 termination in searching it out." Possibly she had never quite 
 simply and humbly said in her soul, with Newman, " Be Thou 
 my Guide." Now, as she sat in the garden, with the image of 
 the migratory birds in her mind, she thought, " The birds do 
 that. They give themselves to the sky, and God does the rest. 
 He knows the way by which each human soul can best go back 
 to that from which once it issued forth." Perhaps as a Sister, 
 leading the hidden secluded life, she could not have found the 
 way; perhaps she had to find it in the world, through Dion with 
 whom she had united herself, or through Robin to whom she 
 had given birth. 
 
 Through Robin! Yes, surely that was her way to God. 
 " A little child shall lead them." The words started up in 
 her mind without their context, and she realized that, though 
 people believe it is the mother who teaches the child, neverthe- 
 less the mother learns the greatest truths from the child. Who 
 living on the earth could keep her from sin as surely as her 
 Robin? How could she be evil when Robin looked to her as 
 the embodiment of goodness? What would she not do, what 
 would she not give up, to increase Robin's love for her, to give 
 him more reason for regarding her with innocent confidence 
 and simple reverence? 
 
 Yes, Robin was surely her way to God. 
 
 And now, withdrawn into the very depths of meditation, 
 and hearing no longer the distant voices of the rooks as they 
 wheeled about the elm-tops near Canon Wilton's house, she 
 went onwards down the way chosen for her by God, the " Robin- 
 way." 
 
 Now Robin was a young child, and naturally looked up to 
 her as a kind of Providence. Presently he would be a lad; 
 inevitably he would reach the age when the growing mind be- 
 comes critical. Young animals gnaw hard things to test the 
 strength of their teeth; so do young growing minds gnaw the
 
 352 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 bones that come in their way. Even the mother comes in for 
 much secret criticism from the son who loves her. Rosamund's 
 time for being criticized by Robin would come in the course of 
 the years. She must try to get ready against that time; she 
 must try to be worthy of Robin's love when he was able to be 
 critical. And so onwards down the way across the gray ex- 
 panse, guided, like the birds ! 
 
 Rosamund saw herself now as the mother of a tall son, har- 
 dened a little by public-school life, a cricketer, a rower, a swim- 
 mer; perhaps intellectual too, the winner of a scholarship. 
 There were so many hearts and minds that the mother of a son 
 must learn to keep, to companion, to influence, to go forward 
 with: the heart and the mind of the child, the schoolboy, the 
 undergraduate, the young man out in the world taking up his 
 life-task a soldier perhaps, or a man of learning, a pioneer, 
 a carver of new ways for the crowd following behind. 
 
 It was a tremendous thing to be a mother; it was a diffi- 
 cult way to God. But it was the most beautiful way of all 
 the ways, and Rosamund was very thankful that she had been 
 guided to take it. Robin, she knew, had taught her already 
 very much, but how little compared with all that he was destined 
 to teach her in the future! Even when her hair was white no 
 doubt she would still be learning from him, would still be try- 
 ing to lift herself a little higher lest he should ever have to look 
 downward to see her. 
 
 For a long while she meditated on these things, for a very 
 long while. The sun never came back to the garden as she 
 dreamed of the sun which the birds were seeking, of the sun 
 which she and Dion and Robin were seeking; the afternoon 
 hours passed on in a gray procession ; the chimes sounded many 
 times, but she did not hear them. She had forgotten Welsley 
 in remembering how small a part Welsley must play in her 
 mother-life, in remembering how very small were the birds in the 
 immense expanse of the sky. 
 
 In Meditation she had entered into Vastness. 
 
 The sound of the organ in the Cathedral recalled her. It 
 was four o'clock. The afternoon service was just beginning. 
 She sat still and listened. It was growing dark now, but she 
 had no wish to move. Probably in half an hour Robin and 
 Dion would come back from the shooting. From to-day she 
 would think of Robin in a different way. He would be even 
 dearer to her, even more sacred, her little teacher. What did 
 it matter where she lived if her little teacher was with her?
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 353 
 
 The sting had gone out of her unselfishness; she was glad 
 she had been able to be unselfish, to put Dion before her- 
 self. 
 
 The organ ceased. They were praying now in the Cathe- 
 dral. Presently she heard them singing the psalms faintly. 
 The voices of the boys came to her with a sort of vague sweet- 
 ness through the gathering darkness and the mist. They died 
 away; the Magnificat followed, then silence, then the Nunc 
 Dimittis, then another silence, presently the anthem. Finally 
 she heard the organ alone in a Fugue of Bach. 
 
 The quarter to five chimed in the tower. Dion and Robin 
 were a little late. 
 
 She got up, and carried the rug into the house. 
 
 "Annie! " she called. 
 
 Annie came. 
 
 " When Mr. Leith and Robin come back, they'll be here 
 directly, will you ask them to give me a call ? I shall be in 
 the garden." 
 
 " Very well, ma'am." 
 
 Again Rosamund paced up and down the paths. Now she 
 was very conscious of herself and of her surroundings. The 
 long night of early winter was falling upon Welsley. Five 
 o'clock struck, a quarter-past five, then the half-hour. She 
 stood still on the path, beginning to wonder. How late they 
 were! Robin would surely be very tired. It would be too 
 much for him. Directly he had had his tea he must be put to 
 bed. Or perhaps it would be best to put him to bed at once. 
 He would be disappointed, but they could easily have tea in 
 the night nursery. She smiled, conjuring up a picture of Robin 
 under the bedclothes being fed with pieces of cake. He would 
 enjoy that. And she would hold his cup for him while he 
 drank, so that the bed might be safe. Meals in bed are often 
 dangerous to the bed. How delightful were all the little absurd 
 things she did for Robin! 
 
 When the chimes told her that it was a quarter to six she 
 began to feel puzzled, and just the least little bit anxious. It 
 had been quite dark for a little while now. Job Crickendon's 
 farm was only about four miles from Welsley. Harrington's 
 horse might not be an exceptionally fast-goer, but surely he 
 could cover six miles in an hour. Dion and Robin could get 
 back in forty minutes at the most. They must have stayed on 
 at Job Crickendon's till past five o'clock. Could they have 
 had tea there? No, she was sure they would not have done
 
 354 !^ T THE WILDERNESS 
 
 that, when they knew she was waiting for them, was looking 
 forward eagerly to tea in the nursery. 
 
 When six o'clock struck and they had not returned she felt 
 really uneasy, although she was not at all a nervous mother, 
 and seldom, or never, worried about her little son. She 
 could not doubt any longer that something unexpected had oc- 
 curred. They were dining at half-past seven that night. In 
 an hour's time at the latest she and Dion would have to dress. 
 The hopes she had set on the family tea were vanishing. In 
 her uneasiness she began to feel almost absurdly disappointed 
 about the tea. She was hungry, too; she had had no lunch just 
 because of the tea. It was to be a sort of family revel, and 
 she had wished to enjoy it in every way, to make of it a real 
 meal. Her abstention from lunch now seemed to her almost 
 pitiful. Disappointment became acute in her. Yet even now 
 her uneasiness, though definite, was not strong. If it had been 
 she would not have been able to feel so disappointed, even so 
 sorry for herself. She had given up the day to Dion. The 
 nursery tea was to have been her little reward. Now she would 
 be deprived of it. For a moment she felt hurt, almost the least 
 bit angry. 
 
 As the words formed themselves in her mind she heard the 
 quarter-past six chime out in the tower. She stood still on 
 the path. What had happened? Perhaps Robin had fallen 
 off Jane and hurt himself, or perhaps there had been an acci- 
 dent when they were driving home. Harrington's horse was 
 probably a crock. He might have fallen down. The dogcart 
 was a high one 
 
 She pulled herself up. She had always secretly rather de- 
 spised the typical " anxious mother," had always thought that 
 the love which shows itself in perpetual fear was a silly, poor 
 sort of affection. Even when Robin, as a baby, had once been 
 seriously ill, at the time of the Clarke divorce case, she had been 
 calm, had shown complete self-control. She had even sur- 
 prised people by her fearlessness and quiet determination. 
 
 They did not know how she had prayed, and almost agonized 
 in secret. She had drawn the calm at which they had wondered 
 from prayer. She had asked God to let Robin get well, and 
 she had felt that her prayer had been heard, and that God 
 would grant her the life of her child. 
 
 Perhaps she had exaggerated to herself the danger he was 
 in. But he was ill for a short time he was very ill, and a 
 baby's hold on life is but frail.
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 355 
 
 Now she remembered her self-control during Robin's illness, 
 and resolutely she banished her anxiety. There was no doubt 
 some perfectly simple explanation which presently would 
 account to her for their not coming at the tea hour. 
 
 "Ma'am!" cried a respectable voice. " Ma-a-aw/ " 
 
 "What is it, Nurse? They haven't come back?" 
 
 Nurse was coming down the path gingerly, with a shawl 
 over her cap. 
 
 " No, ma'am. Whatever can have happened? Some-thing's 
 a-happened, that's certain." 
 
 " Nonsense, Nurse! " 
 
 " But whatever should keep them out till late into the night, 
 ma'am? " 
 
 " It's only a little after six. It isn't night at all." 
 
 " But the tea, ma'am ! And Master Robin's so regular in 
 his habits. He'll be fair famished, ma'am, that he will. 
 
 I Well, ma'am, if I may say it, I really don't hold with 
 
 all this shooting, and sport, and what not for such young 
 children." 
 
 " It's only just for once, Nurse. Go in now. You'll catch 
 cold." 
 
 " But yourself, ma'am? " 
 
 " I'm quite warm. I'd rather stay out." 
 
 Nurse stared anxiously for a moment, then turned away and 
 went gingerly back to the house. Her white shawl faded 
 against the background of darkness. With its fading Rosa- 
 mund entered into not exactly darkness, but into deep 
 shadows. She supposed that nurse's fear had communicated 
 itself to her; she had caught the infection of fear from nurse. 
 But when was nurse not afraid? She was an excellent woman 
 and absolutely devoted to Robin, but she was not a Spartan. 
 She leaped at sight of a mouse, and imagined diseases to be 
 for ever floating Robinwards on all the breezes. Rosamund 
 had strictly forbidden her ever to talk nonsense about illness 
 to Robin, and she had obeyed. But that was her one fault; 
 she had a timorous nature. 
 
 Rosamund wished nurse had not come out into the garden 
 to infect her with foolish fear. 
 
 Nurse's invitation to her to come into the house had made 
 her suddenly know that to be shut in would be intolerable to 
 her. \Vhy was that? She now knew that lately, while she 
 had been walking in the garden, she had been straining her 
 ears to hear the sound of wheels in the Green Court. She
 
 356 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 knew she would be able to hear them in the garden. In the 
 house that would be impossible. Therefore she could not go 
 into the house till Robin came back. , 
 
 All her fear was for Robin. He was so young, so tiny. 
 Perhaps she ought not to have allowed him to go. Perhaps 
 nurse was right, and such an expedition ought to have been 
 ruled out as soon as it was suggested. Perhaps Dion and she 
 had been altogether too Doric. She began to think so. But 
 then she thought: "Robin's with his father. What harm 
 could come to him with his father, and such a competent father 
 too? " That thought of Dion's strength, coolness, competency 
 reassured her; she dwelt on it. Of course with Dion Robin 
 must be all right. 
 
 Presently, leaving the path in front of the house, she went 
 again to the seat hidden away behind the shrubs against the 
 wall which separated the garden from the Dark Entry. This 
 dark entry was an arched corridor of stone which led directly 
 from the Green Court to the passage-way on which the main 
 door of the garden opened. It was paved with worn slabs 
 of stone upon which the feet of any one passing rang with a 
 mournful and hollow sound. A tiny path skirted the garden 
 wall, running between the hidden seat and the small belt of 
 shrubs which shut out a view of the house. Just before she 
 turned into this path Rosamund looked back at the old house, 
 and saw a lamp gleaming in the lattice window of the nursery. 
 She did not sit down on the seat. She had thought to do that 
 and to listen. But the mist had made the wood very wet, and 
 she had left the rug in the house. If she walked softly up and 
 down the little path she would be sure to hear the hoofs of 
 Harrington's horse, the wheels of the dogcart directly the 
 wanderers drove into the Green Court. There they would get 
 down, and would walk home through the Dark Entry. She 
 intended to call out to them when she heard their footsteps 
 ringing on the old stones. That would surprise them. She 
 tried to enjoy the thought of their surprise when they heard 
 her voice coming out of the darkness. How Robin would jump 
 at the sound of mummy! 
 
 She stood just in front of the seat for two or three minutes, 
 listening intently in the misty darkness. She heard nothing 
 except for a moment a rustling which sounded like a bird 
 moving in ivy. Then she began to walk softly up and down, 
 passing and repassing the seat. When she came up to the 
 seat for the fourth time in her walk, an ugly memory she
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 357 
 
 knew not why rose in her mind like a weed in a pool ; it 
 was the memory of a story which she had long ago read and 
 disliked. She had read it, she remembered, in a railway train 
 on a long journey. She had had a book, something interesting 
 and beautiful, with her, but she had finished it. A passenger, 
 who had got out of the carriage, had left behind him a paper- 
 covered volume of short stories. She had taken it up and had 
 read the first story, which now, after an interval of years, re- 
 curred to her mind. 
 
 There was in the story a very commonplace business man, 
 middle-aged, quite unromantic and heavy, the sort of man 
 who does not know what " nerves " mean, who thinks suggestion 
 " damned nonsense," and psychical research, occultism, and 
 so forth, absurdities fit only to take up the time of " a pack of 
 silly women." This worthy person lived in the suburbs of 
 London in a semi-detached villa with a long piece of garden 
 at the back. On the other side of the fairly high garden wall 
 was the garden of his next-door neighbor, another business 
 man of the usual suburban type. Both men were busy gar- 
 deners in their spare time. Number one had conceived the 
 happy idea of putting up a tea-house in the angle of the wall 
 at the bottom of his lawn. Number two, having heard of this 
 achievement, and not wishing to be outdone, put up a very 
 similar tea-house in the corresponding angle on his side of the 
 wall. The two tea-houses stood therefore back to back with 
 nothing but the wall between them. Now, one warm summer 
 evening Mr. Jenkins-Smith Rosamund could remember his 
 name, though she had not thought of him for years had been 
 very busy watering his flowers and mowing his lawn. He had 
 worked really hard, and when the evening began to close in 
 he thought he would go into the tea-house and have a rest. 
 On each side of the curly-legged tea-table of unpolished wood 
 stood a wicker arm-chair. Into one of these chairs Mr. Jenk- 
 ins-Smith sank with a sigh of content. Then he lighted 
 his pipe, stretched out his short legs, and, gazing at his beau- 
 tifully trimmed garden, prepared to enjoy a delicious hour of 
 well-earned repose. Things were going well with him; money 
 was easy; his health was good; when he sat down in the wicker 
 chair and put his pipe into his mouth he was, perhaps, as 
 happy a man as you could find in all Surbiton. 
 
 But presently, in fact very soon, he became conscious of a 
 disagreeable feeling. A curious depression began to come upon 
 him. He smoked steadily, he gazed out at his garden green
 
 358 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 with turf and gay with flowers, but his interest and pleasure 
 in it were gone from him. He wondered why. Presently he 
 turned his head and looked over his shoulder. What he was 
 looking for he did not know; simply he felt obliged to do what 
 he did. He saw, of course, nothing but the curved wooden 
 back of the tea-house. He listened, he strained his ears, but 
 he heard nothing except the faint " ting-ting " of a tram-bell, 
 and voices of some children playing in a distant garden. His 
 pipe had gone out. As he lit a match and held it to his pipe 
 bowl he saw that his hand was shaking. Whatever had come 
 to him? He was no drinker; he had always been a temperate 
 man, proud of his clear eyes and steady limbs, yet now he was 
 shaking like a drunkard. Perspiration burst out upon his 
 forehead. He was seized by an intense desire to get away 
 from the tea-house, to get out into the open, and he half rose 
 from his chair, holding on to the arms and dropping his pipe 
 on the wooden floor. The tiny noise it made set his nerves in a 
 turmoil. He was afraid. But of what? He took his hands 
 from the chair and sat back, angry with himself, almost 
 ashamed. That he should feel afraid, here in his own garden, 
 in his own cozy tea-house! It was absurd, monstrous; it was 
 like a sort of madness come upon him. But he was determined 
 not to give way to such nonsense. Just because he was longing 
 to go out of the tea-house he would remain in it. Let the dark- 
 ness come; he did not mind it; he was going to smoke his pipe. 
 Again he stared over his shoulder, and the sweat ran down 
 his face. Had not he heard sometning in the tea-house of his 
 neighbor on the other side of the wall? It seemed to him that 
 he had rather felt a sound than actually heard it. Nausea 
 came upon him. He got up trembling. But still he was 
 ashamed of himself, and he would not go out of the tea-house. 
 Instead he went behind the table, stood close to the wooden 
 wall, put his ear to it and listened intently. He heard nothing; 
 but when he was standing against the wall his horror and 
 fear increased until he could no longer combat them. He 
 turned sharply, knocked over a chair, and hurried out into the 
 garden. There for a moment he stood still. Under the sky 
 he felt better, but not himself; he did not feel himself at all. 
 After a pause for consideration he put on his jacket, he had 
 been gardening in his shirt-sleeves, went into his house, out 
 into the road, and then up to the door of his neighbor. There 
 he rang the bell and knocked. A maid came. " Is your 
 master in? " he asked. " Yes, sir, he's sitting in the summer-
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 359 
 
 house at the end of the garden." " How long's he been there? " 
 " About half an hour, sir, as near as I can reckon." " Could 
 I see him?" "Certainly, sir." "Perhaps you'd perhaps 
 you'd show me to the summer-house." " Yes, sir." 
 
 Mr. Jenkins-Smith and the maid went to the end of the 
 garden, and there, in the summer-house, they found the corpse 
 of a suicide hanging from a beam in the roof. 
 
 This was the ugly story which had come into Rosamund's 
 mind as she stood by the seat close to the garden wall. On 
 the other side of Mr. Jenkins-Smith's wall had been the sum- 
 mer-house of his neighbor; on the other side of her wall there 
 was the Dark Entry. She stood considering this fact and 
 thinking of the man's terror in his garden. He had been sub- 
 ject surely to an emanation. A mysterious message had been 
 sent to him by the corpse which dangled from the beam on the 
 other side of the wall. 
 
 She went nearer to the wall of the garden and listened 
 attentively. Had she not heard a sound in the Dark Entry? 
 It seemed to her that some one had come into the stone corridor 
 while she had been walking up and down on the path, and was 
 now standing there motionless. But how very unlikely it was 
 that any one would do such a thing! It must be quite black 
 there now, and very cold on the stone pavement, between the 
 stone walls, under the roof of stone. Of course no one was 
 there. 
 
 Nevertheless she went on listening with a sort of painful 
 attention. And distress came upon her. It began in a sort of 
 physical malaise out of which a mental dread, such as she had 
 never yet experienced, was born. She felt now quite certain 
 that some one was standing still in the Dark Entry, very close 
 to her, but separated from her by two walls of brick and stone; 
 and something of this unseen person, of his attention, or his 
 anger, or his terror, or his criminal intent, in any case some- 
 thing tremendously powerful, pierced the walls and came upon 
 her and enveloped her. She opened her lips, not knowing 
 what she was going to say, and from them came the cry : 
 
 " Dion ! " 
 
 Silence followed her cry. 
 
 "Dion! Dion! " she called again. 
 
 Immediately after the third cry she heard a slow step on the 
 stones of the Dark Entry, passing close to her but muffled by 
 the intervening walls. It went on very slowly indeed; it was 
 a dragging footfall; the sound of it presently died away.
 
 360 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 Then she sat down on the bench close to the wall. She still 
 felt distressed, even afraid. Whoever it was that loiterer 
 in the Dark Entry he had left the corridor by the archway 
 near Little Cloisters; he had not gone into the Green Court. 
 
 She sat waiting in the darkness. 
 
 That afternoon, while Rosamund was in the garden, Mr. 
 Esme Darlington was paying a little visit to his old friend and 
 crony, the Dean of Welsley. He had known the Dean well, 
 almost ever since he could remember, and the Dean's wife ever 
 since she had married the Dean. His delay in returning to 
 town, caused by Rosamund's attractive invitation, enabled him 
 to spend an hour at the Deanery, where he had tea in the great 
 drawing-room on the first floor, which looked out on the Green 
 Court. So pleasant were the Dean and his wife, so serenely 
 flowed the conversation, that the hour lengthened out into two 
 hours, and the Cathedral chimes announced that it was a 
 quarter to seven before Mr. Darlington uncrumpled his length 
 to go. Even then Mrs. Dean begged him to stay on a little 
 longer. 
 
 " It's such a treat to hear all the interesting gossip of Lon- 
 don," she said, almost wistfully. " When Dickie " Dickie 
 was the Dean, " when Dickie was at St. Peter's, Eaton Square, 
 we knew everything that was going on, but here in Welsley 
 well, I often feel rather rusty." 
 
 Mr. Darlington paid the appropriate compliment, not in a 
 banal way, and then mentioned that at half-past seven he was 
 dining in Little Cloisters. 
 
 " That delightful creature Mrs. Dion Leith ! " exclaimed 
 Mrs. Dean. " Dickie's hopelessly in her toils." 
 
 "My dear!" began the Dean, in pleased protestation. 
 
 But she interrupted him. 
 
 " I assure you," she went on to Mr. Darlington, " he is 
 always making excuses to see her. She has even influenced 
 him to appoint a new verger, a most extraordinary old person, 
 called Thrush, with a nose! " 
 
 Mr. Darlington cocked an interrogative eyebrow. 
 
 " My darling ! " said the Dean. " He's a good old man, 
 very deserving, and has recently taken the pledge." 
 
 " He's a modified teetotaler ! " said his wife to Mr. Darling- 
 ton, patting her husband's arm. " You see what Dickie's 
 coming to. If it goes on he will soon be a modified Dean." 
 
 It was past seven when they finished talking about Rosa-
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 361 
 
 mund and Dion, when Mr. Darlington at length tore himself 
 delicately away from their delightful company, and, warmly 
 wrapped in an overcoat lined with unostentatious sable, set 
 out on the short walk to Canon Wilton's house. To reach the 
 Canon's house he Had to pass through the Dark Entry and skirt 
 the garden wall of Little Cloisters. 
 
 Now, as he came out of the Dark Entry and stepped into 
 the passage-way, which led by the wall and the old house into 
 the great open space of green lawns and elm trees round which 
 the dwellings of the canons showed their lighted windows to 
 the darkness of the November evening, he was stopped by a 
 terrible sound. It came to him from the garden of Little 
 Cloisters. It was short, sharp and piercing, so piercing that 
 for an instant he felt as if literally it had torn the flesh of his 
 body. He had never before heard any sound at all like it; 
 but, when he was able to think, he thought, he felt almost 
 certain, that it had come from an animal. He shuddered. 
 Always temperamentally averse from any fierce demonstrations 
 of feeling, always instinctively restrained, careful and intelli- 
 gently conventional, he was painfully startled and moved by 
 this terrible outcry which could only have been caused by 
 intense agony. As he believed that the cry had come from an 
 animal, he naturally supposed that the agony which had caused 
 it was physical. He was a very humane man, and as soon as 
 he had mastered the feeling of cold horror which had for a 
 moment held him rigid, he hastened on to the door of Little 
 Cloisters and pulled the bell. After a pause which seemed 
 to him long the door was opened by Annie, Rosamund's parlor- 
 maid. She presented to Mr. Darlington's peering gaze a face 
 full of ignorance and fear. 
 
 " What is the matter? " he asked, in a hesitating voice. 
 
 " Sir? " said Annie. 
 
 "What has happened in the garden? " 
 
 " Nothing, sir, that I know of. I have been in the house." 
 She paused, then added, with a sort of timorous defiance: 
 " I'm not one as would listen, sir." 
 
 " Then you didn't hear it? " 
 
 "Hear what, sir?" 
 
 Her question struck upon Mr. Darlington's native con- 
 ventionality, and made him conscious of the fact that, perhaps 
 almost indiscreetly, he was bandying words with a maid- 
 servant. He put up one hand to his beard, pulled at it, and 
 then said, almost in his usual voice:
 
 362 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 Is Mrs. Leith in? " 
 She's in the garden, sir." 
 In the garden ? " 
 Yes, sir." 
 
 Is is Mr. Leith at home? " 
 
 He's just come home, sir, and gone to Mrs. Leith in the 
 garden." 
 
 Mr. Darlington stood for a moment pulling his beard and 
 raising and lowering his eyebrows. Then he said doubtfully: 
 
 " Thank you. I won't disturb them now. I shall be here 
 with Canon Wilton at half-past seven." 
 
 Annie stood staring at him in silence. 
 
 "They Mr. and Mrs. Leith expect us, I believe? " added 
 Mr. Darlington. 
 
 " They haven't said anything to the contrary, sir." 
 
 " No? " 
 
 Slowly Mr. Darlington turned away, slowly he disappeared 
 into the darkness; his head was bent, and he looked older than 
 usual. Annie gazed after him. Once she opened her lips 
 as if she were going to call him back, but no sound came from 
 them. 
 
 "Annie! Annie! " cried a voice in the house behind her. 
 
 She turned sharply and confronted Robin's nurse. 
 
 'Where's Master Robin?" said the nurse, almost fiercely. 
 
 ' I don't know. He hasn't come back with master. 1 
 
 ' I'm going into the garden," said the nurse. 
 
 'For God's sake, don't! " said Annie. 
 
 ' Why not? " asked the nurse. 
 
 Suddenly Annie began to cry. The nurse pulled her in 
 and shut the door of the house. 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 ROSAMUND did not know how. long she sat in the 
 garden after she had heard the footfall in the Dark 
 Entry. Perhaps five minutes, perhaps many more had 
 slipped by before she was aware of feeling cold. A chill had 
 gone through her mind when she heard the footfall; now her 
 body was chilled. She shivered and got up. She must go 
 into the house.
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 363 
 
 It was now very dark. The path was a pale grayish blur 
 at her feet. On her left the shrubs which concealed the house 
 from her showed as a heavy morose blackness against the softer 
 and more mysterious blackness of the night. The dampness 
 which rose in the garden was like the dreary whispering of 
 sad earth voices. 
 
 She shivered again. 
 
 Then she heard a faltering step on the path beyond the 
 shrubs. It was certainly Dion's step. At last they had come 
 back! 
 
 With a movement of her shoulders she tried to throw off 
 her depression, as if it were something heavy resting upon her, 
 something which a physical effort could get rid of. Then she 
 called out in a brisk and cheerful voice: 
 
 " Dion, I'm here. How late you are ! What have you 
 shot ?" 
 
 It was too late now for the nursery tea, but they had come 
 back and all was well. 
 
 "Dion!" 
 
 The step had stopped on the path and no voice answered 
 hers. Nevertheless she was certain that it was Dion who had 
 come into the garden. Perhaps Robin was with him, perhaps 
 they were going to give her a surprise. She waited for an 
 instant. Something within her was hesitating. She conquered 
 it, not without an effort, and went round the angle of the path. 
 Beyond the shrubs, but not far from them, a man was standing. 
 It was Dion. He was alone. It was so dark that Rosamund 
 could not see him clearly, but she noticed at once that the 
 outline of his figure looked strange. His body seemed to be 
 all awry as if he were standing in an unnatural position. She 
 stopped and stared at this body. 
 
 "Is anything wrong, Dion?" she asked. "What's the 
 matter? Why do you stand like that? " 
 
 After her last quick question she heard a long-drawn quiv- 
 ering breath. 
 
 "Where's Robin?" she said sharply. 
 
 He did not answer. She meant to go up to him; but she 
 did not move. 
 
 "Why are you so late? Where's Robin?" she repeated. 
 
 " Rosamund " 
 
 " Don't move! Stand there, and tell me what it is." 
 
 "Haven't I always tried to make you happy?" 
 
 The words came from the body before her, but she did not
 
 364 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 know the voice. It was Dion's voice, of course. It must be 
 that. But she had never heard it before. 
 
 " Don't come nearer to me. What have you done? " 
 
 " Robin I have I have Robin my gun " 
 
 The voice failed in the darkness. Rosamund shut her eyes. 
 She had seen an angry hand tear down a branch of wild olive. 
 Suddenly she knew. It seemed to her that ever since that day 
 long ago in Elis some part of her had always prophetically 
 known that Dion was fated to bring terror and ruin into her 
 life. This was not true, but now she felt it to be true. 
 
 " You've killed Robin," she said, quietly and coldly. 
 
 Her brain and heart seemed to stand still, like things staring 
 into an immense void. They had come to the end of their road. 
 
 " You've killed Robin," she said again. 
 
 " Rosamund " 
 
 The body in front of her moved to come towards her. Then 
 she uttered the fearful cry which was heard by Mr. Darlington 
 on his way home from the Deanery, and she fled from the 
 body which had slain Robin. 
 
 That purely instinctive action was the beginning of Dion's 
 punishment. A cry, the movement of a body, and everything 
 which meant life to him, everything for which he had lived, 
 was gone. But he followed Rosamund with a sort of blind 
 obstinacy, driven as she was by instinct. Dimly he knew that 
 he was a man who only merited compassion, all the compassion 
 of the world. He had no horror of himself, but only a horror 
 of that Fate to which mortals have to submit and which had 
 overtaken him in a shining moment of happiness. The gun 
 accident of which his little son had been the victim presented 
 itself to his erring mind as a terrific stroke from above, or from 
 beyond, falling equally upon father and child. He was not 
 responsible for it. The start of a frightened pony, its sudden 
 attempt to bolt, the pulling of a rein which had brought the 
 animal against him just as he was lifting his gun to fire at 
 a rising bird what were these things? Only the clumsy 
 machinery used by implacable Fate to bring about that which 
 had been willed somewhere, far off in the dark and the dis- 
 tance. 
 
 He must tell Rosamund, he must tell Rosamund. 
 
 Annie and the nurse came out to the edge of the broad path 
 which ran along the front of the house and peered into the
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 365 
 
 darkness. Annie was crying and holding on to the nurse, 
 whose almost fierce determination faded as she confronted the 
 mystery of the night which hid her master and mistress. 
 
 " H'sh, Annie," she whispered. "Where can they be? 
 Listen, I tell you!" 
 
 Annie strove to choke down her sobs. 
 
 "I can hear some one," whispered the nurse, after a 
 moment. "Don't you? Listen, I tell you! Right over by 
 the wall near the Bishop's! " 
 
 The sound of steps indeed came to them through the dark- 
 ness. Annie broke away from the nurse. 
 
 "I'm frightened! I'm frightened! I don't know what's 
 come to them," she whispered through her teeth, resisting the 
 impulse to cry out. " Come in, Nurse, for God's sake! " 
 
 She shrank into the house. The nurse stood where she was 
 for a moment, but when she heard the steps a little nearer to 
 her she, too, was overcome by fear and followed Annie trem- 
 bling, shutting the door behind her. 
 
 Exactly at half-past seven Mr. Darlington and Canon Wilton 
 were outside the door of Little Cloisters and Mr. Darlington 
 pulled the bell. Always the most discreet of men, he had not 
 mentioned to his host the terrible cry he had heard in the 
 Leiths' garden, or his short colloquy with Annie. He was 
 seriously disturbed in mind, but, being a trained man of the 
 world and one who prided himself upon his powers of self- 
 control, he had concealed this unpleasant fact from the Canon, 
 and had talked quite agreeably during their little walk between 
 the two houses. The sound of that dreadful cry still seemed 
 to shudder through his flesh, but it was not for him to pry 
 into the private lives of others, even of those whom he knew 
 intimately, and had a great regard for. He hoped all was well 
 with his dear young friends. There might be some quite simple 
 explanation of that cry. He fervently hoped there was. In 
 any case it was not for him to ask questions, or to 
 
 " They're a long while answering the bell," said Canon 
 Wilton, in his strong, earnest voice. " Hadn't you better give 
 it another tug, Darlington? " 
 
 Mr. Darlington started. 
 
 "H'm ha!" 
 
 He raised his hand and pulled the bell a second time. 
 
 " That's better," said the Canon, as he heard inside the 
 house a long tinkle. " Annie's bound to come now. As a rule 
 she's very quick in answering the door. Among her many
 
 366 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 virtues, Mrs. Leith counts that of being a first-rate housewife. 
 She trains her maids well." 
 
 "Does she? " murmured Mr. Darlington abstractedly, bend- 
 ing forward till he seemed almost to be listening at the door. 
 "Does she? I hear some one coming. H'm! " 
 
 He straightened himself. The door opened and Annie ap- 
 peared. When she saw the two men she drew back quickly 
 to let them pass in. Canon Wilton said kindly: " Good eve- 
 ning, Annie." 
 
 " Oh, sir," said Annie, and began to cry audibly. 
 
 "What's the matter?" asked the Canon, surprised. 
 
 They were now in the little oak paneled hall, and by the 
 light of the lamp they could see the tears running down the 
 flushed face of the maid. 
 
 " Is anything wrong? " said the Canon. 
 
 " Oh, sir, I'm so glad you've come! Oh, we don't know 
 what it is! " 
 
 At this moment Robin's nurse showed herself on the stair- 
 case. 
 
 " For God's sake, sir," she said, with trembling lips, " do 
 go into the garden! " 
 
 " Why ? " said Canon Wilton, in a loud, firm voice. 
 
 " Mr. and Mrs. Leith are both there, sir. They've been 
 there this long time. Mr. Leith he's come back from the shoot- 
 ing without Master Robin. Oh, there's something wrong, sir, 
 there's something wrong! " 
 
 " Stay here for a moment, Darlington," said the Canon, 
 with a sudden, almost fiery, decision. " I'll go at once and 
 see what's the matter." 
 
 But Mr. Darlington laid a bony hand on his friend's arm. 
 
 " I'll come with you, Wilton. I'm I'm afraid it's some- 
 thing very bad." 
 
 He lowered his voice almost to a whisper in saying the last 
 words. 
 
 The Canon formed " Why? " with his lips. 
 
 " Just now, as I was passing the garden here coming back 
 from the Deanery, I heard a most dreadful cry. I thought 
 at the time that it came from an animal, but now " 
 
 The Canon stared at him almost sternly. 
 
 " We'd better not waste time," he said. " I wish you'd 
 gone in then." 
 
 And he turned bruskly. He had opened the door, and was 
 about to step on to the broad path which divided the front of
 
 LITTLE CLOISTERS 367 
 
 the house from the lawn, when he heard steps approaching 
 swiftly on the gravel. 
 
 " Some one coming! " he said. " Stop where you are, Darl- 
 ington. I believe it's . . ." 
 
 Before he could finish his sentence Rosamund came upon 
 him out of the darkness. Her face was distorted, so distorted 
 that he scarcely recognized it. It seemed to have shrunk and 
 sharpened, and it had the look of fierceness which is char- 
 acteristic of the faces of starving people. She put out both 
 her hands as she came up to him, pushed him with violence 
 into the house, and followed him. 
 
 "Lock the door!" she whispered. "Lock it! Lock it!" 
 
 " But " 
 
 . Her voice rose. She seemed savage with fear. 
 
 "Lock it, I tell you!" 
 
 A long arm shot out and a bony hand turned the key in 
 the door. 
 
 " It's the only thing to be done for the moment," said Mr. 
 Darlington to the Canon. " She's mad with fear." 
 
 Both the maids had disappeared, terrified by the face of 
 their mistress. Rosamund caught hold of the stair-rail and 
 began to hurry upstairs, but Mr. Darlington followed her and 
 seized her by the arm. 
 
 "Rosamund! Rosamund! What is it? " 
 
 She turned. 
 
 " I'm going to find Robin. That man's killed Robin ! 
 Keep him out! Keep him away from me! " 
 
 A dreadful surreptitious expression made her face hideous. 
 She leaned fonvard, nodding her head, and whispered in Mr. 
 Darlington's ear: 
 
 " You keep him away from me while I find Robin. He's 
 killed Robin! " 
 
 Her whole body began to shake. Mr. Darlington put one 
 arm round her. 
 
 " But, Rosamund " 
 
 Below, the handle of the door leading to the garden was 
 turned, the door was shaken, and there came a knocking on 
 the wood. 
 
 Then Mr. Darlington heard again the cry which had come 
 to him that evening as he passed the garden of Little Cloisters. 
 His arm dropped. 
 
 Rosamund went frantically up the stairs and disappeared 
 on the dark landing above.
 
 BOOK IV 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 IN June of the following year two young Englishmen, who 
 were making a swift tour in the near East, were sitting 
 one evening in a public garden at Pera. The west wind, 
 which had been blowing all day, had gone down with the 
 coming of night. The air was deliciously warm, but not sultry. 
 The travelers had dined well, but not too well, and were ready 
 to be happy, and to see in others the reflection of their own 
 contented holiday mood. It was delightful to be " on the 
 loose," without responsibilities, and with a visit to Brusa to 
 look forward to in the immediate future. They sat under the 
 stars, sipped their coffee, listened to the absurd music played 
 by a fifth-rate band in a garishly-lighted kiosk, and watched 
 with interest the coming and going of the crowd of Turks and 
 Perotes, with whom mingled from time to time foreign sailors 
 from ships lying off the entrance to the Golden Horn and a 
 few tourists from the hotels of Pera. Just behind them sat 
 their guide, a thin and eager Levantine, half-Greek and half- 
 Armenian, who, for some inscrutable reason, declared that his 
 name was John. 
 
 There was little romance in this garden set in the midst of 
 the noisy European quarter of Constantinople. The music was 
 vulgar; Greek waiters with dissipated faces ran to and fro 
 carrying syrups and liqueurs; corpulent Turks sat heavily over 
 glasses of lager beer; overdressed young men of enigmatic ap- 
 pearance, with oily thick hair, shifty eyes, and hands covered 
 with cheap rings, swaggered about smoking cigarettes and 
 talking in loud, ostentatious voices. Some women were there, 
 fat and garish for the most part, liberally powdered and 
 painted, and crowned with hats at which Paris would have 
 
 369
 
 370 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 stared almost in fear. There were also children, dark, even 
 swarthy, with bold eyes, shrill voices, immodest bearing, who 
 looked as if they had long since received the ugly freedom of 
 the streets, and learned lessons no children ought to know. 
 
 Presently the band stopped playing and there was a general 
 movement of the crowd. People got up from the little tables 
 and began to disperse. " John " leaned forward to his em- 
 ployers, and in a quick and rattling voice informed them that 
 a " fust-rate " variety entertainment was about to take place 
 in another part of the garden. Would they come to see it? 
 There would be very beautiful women, very fine girls such as 
 can only be gazed on in Constantinople, taking part in the 
 " show." 
 
 The young men agreed to " have a look at it," and followed 
 John to a place where many round tables and chairs were 
 set out before a ramshackle wooden barrack of a theater, under 
 the shade of some pepper trees, through whose tresses the stars 
 peeped at a throng and a performance which must surely have 
 surprised them. 
 
 The band, or a portion of it, was again at work, playing 
 an inane melody, and upon the small stage two remarkably 
 well-developed and aquiline-featured women of mature age, 
 dressed as very young children in white socks, short skirts 
 which displayed frilled drawers, and muslin bonnets adorned 
 with floating blue and pink ribbons, swayed to and fro and 
 joined their cracked voices in a duet, the French words of 
 which seemed to exhale a sort of fade obscenity. While they 
 swayed and jigged heavily, showing their muscular legs to 
 the staring audience, they gazed eagerly about, seeking an 
 admiration from which they might draw profit when their 
 infantile task was over. Presently they retired, running skit- 
 tishly, taking small leaps into the air, and aimlessly blowing 
 kisses to the night. 
 
 " Very fine girls ! " murmured John to his young patrons. 
 " They make much money in Pera." 
 
 One of the young men shrugged his shoulders with a smile. 
 
 " Get us two Turkish coffees, John ! " he said. Then he 
 turned to his companion. " I say, Ellis, have you noticed an 
 English feller at least I take him to be English who's 
 fitting over there close to the stage, sideways to us ? " 
 
 " No; where is he? " asked his companion. 
 
 " You see that old Turk with the double chin ? " 
 
 ;< Rather."
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 371 
 
 " Just beyond him, sitting with a guide who's evidently 
 Greek." 
 
 " I've got him." 
 
 " Watch him. I never saw such a face." 
 
 A blowzy young woman, in orange color and green, with 
 short tinsel-covered skirts, bounded wearily on to the stage, 
 smiling, and began to sing: 
 
 " Je suis une boite de surprises! 
 
 O la la ! O la la ! 
 Je suis une boite de surprises." 
 
 Ellis looked across at the man to whom his attention had 
 been drawn. This man was seated by a little table on which 
 were a siphon, a bottle of iced water, and a tall tumbler nearly 
 half-full of a yellow liquid. He was smoking a large dark- 
 colored cigar which he now and then took from his mouth 
 with a hand that was very thin and very brown. His face 
 was dark and browned by the sun, but looked startlingly hag- 
 gard, as if it were pale or even yellowish under the sunburn. 
 About the eyes there were large wrinkles, spraying downwards 
 over the cheek bones and invading the cheeks. He wore a 
 mustache, and was well-dressed in a tweed suit. But his low 
 collar was not very fresh, and his tie was arranged in a slov- 
 enly fashion and let his collar stud be seen. He sat with his 
 legs crossed, staring at the grimacing woman on the stage with 
 a sort of horribly icy intentness. The expression about his 
 lips and eyes was more than bitter; it showed a frozen 
 fierceness. 
 
 On the other side of the table was seated a lean, meager 
 guide, obviously one of those Greeks who haunt the quays of 
 Constantinople on the look out for arriving travelers. Now 
 and then this Greek leaned forward and, with a sort of servile 
 and anxious intelligence, spoke to his companion. He received 
 no reply. The other man went on smoking and staring at the 
 boite de surprises as if he were alone. And somehow he seemed 
 actually to be alone, encompassed by a frightful solitude. 
 
 " A tragic face, isn't it? " said the man who had first spoken. 
 
 " By Jove it is ! " returned the other. " I wonder that 
 woman can go on singing so close to it." 
 
 " Probably she hasn't seen him. How many years do you 
 give him? " 
 
 "Thirty-eight or forty." 
 
 "He isn't out for pleasure, that's certain."
 
 372 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Pleasure 1 One would suppose he'd been keeping house 
 with Medusa and the deuce, she's seen him ! " 
 
 At this moment the singer looked towards the stranger, 
 quavered, faltered, nearly broke down, then, as if with an 
 effort, raised her voice more shrilly and defiantly, exaggerated 
 her meaningless gestures and looked away. A moment later 
 she finished her song and turned to strut off the stage. As she 
 did so she shot a sort of fascinated glance at the dark man. 
 He took his cigar from his mouth and puffed the smoke towards 
 her, probably without knowing that he did so. With a startled 
 jerk she bounded into the wings. 
 
 At this moment John returned with two cups of coffee. 
 
 " You know everything, John. Tell us who that man over 
 there is," said Ellis, indicating the stranger. 
 
 John sent a devouring glance past the old Turk's double 
 chin, a glance which, as it were, swallowed at one gulp the 
 dark man, his guide, the siphon, the water-bottle and the glass 
 partially full of the yellow liquid. 
 
 " I dunno him. He is noo." 
 
 "Is he English?" 
 
 "Sure! " returned John, almost with a sound of contempt 
 
 He never made a mistake about any man's nationality, 
 could even tell a Spanish Jew from a Portuguese Jew on a dark 
 night at ten yards' distance. 
 
 " I tell you who he is later. I know the guide, a damned 
 fool and a rogue of a Greek what has been in prison. He 
 robs all his people what take him." 
 
 " You needn't bother," said Ellis curtly. 
 
 " Of course not. Shut up, John, and don't run down your 
 brothers in crime." 
 
 " That man my brother! " 
 
 John upraised two filthy ringed hands. 
 
 "That dirty skunk my brother! That son of " 
 
 "That'll do, John! Be quiet." 
 
 " To-morrow I tell you all about the gentleman. Here is 
 another fine girl! I know her very well." 
 
 A languid lady, with a face painted as white as a wall, large 
 scarlet lips, eyes ringed with bluish black, and a gleaming and 
 trailing black gown which clung closely to her long and snake- 
 like body, writhed on to the stage, looking carefully sinister. 
 
 The dark man swallowed his drink, got up and made his 
 way to the exit from the garden. He passed close to the two 
 young men, followed by his Greek, at whom John cast a glance
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 373 
 
 of scowling contempt, mingled, however, with very definite 
 inquiry. 
 
 "By Jove! he's almost spoilt my evening," said Ellis. 
 " But we made a mistake, Vernon. He isn't anything like 
 forty." 
 
 " No; more like thirty under a cloud." 
 
 " By the look of things I should guess there are plenty of 
 people under a cloud in Fera. But that English feller stands 
 out even here. This girl is certainly a first-class wriggler, if 
 she's nothing else." 
 
 They did not mention the stranger again that night. But 
 John had not forgotten him, and when he arrived at their hotel 
 next day he at once opened his capacious mouth and let out 
 the following information: 
 
 " The gentleman's name is Denton, his other name is Mervyn, 
 he is three days in Constantinople, he lives in Hughes's Hotel 
 in Pera, a very poor house where chic people they never goes, 
 he is out all day and always walkin', he will not take a carriage, 
 and he is never tired, Nicholas Gounaris the Greek guide 
 he is droppin' but the gentleman he does not mind, he only 
 sayin' if you cannot walk find me another guide what can, 
 every night he is out, too, and he is goin' to Stamboul when it 
 is dark, he is afraid of nothin' and goin' where travelers they 
 never go, one night Gounaris he had to show the traveler " 
 
 But at this point Ellis shut John up. 
 
 " That'll do," he observed. " You're a diligent rascal, John. 
 One must say that. But we aren't a couple of spies, and we 
 don't want to hear any more about that feller." 
 
 And John, without bearing any malice, went off to com- 
 plete his arrangements for the journey to Brusa. 
 
 Two days later, Mrs. Clarke, who was at Buyukderer in a 
 villa she had taken for the summer months, but who had come 
 into Constantinople to do some shopping, saw " Mervyn Den- 
 ton " in a side street close to the British Embassy. Those 
 distressed eyes of hers were very observant. There were many 
 people in the street, and " Denton," who was alone, was several 
 yards away from her, and was walking with his back towards 
 her; but she immediately recognized him, quickened her steps 
 till she was close to him, and then said: 
 
 "Dion Leith!" 
 
 Dion heard the husky voice and turned round. He did 
 not say anything, but he took off the soft hat he was wearing. 
 Mrs. Clarke stared at him with the unself-conscious directness
 
 374 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 which was characteristic of her. She saw Dion for the first 
 time since the tragedy which had changed his life, but she had 
 written to him more than once. Her last letter had come from 
 Buyukderer. He had answered it, but he had not told her 
 where he was, had not even hinted to her that he might come 
 to Constantinople. Nevertheless, she did not now show any 
 surprise. She just looked at him steadily, absorbed all the 
 change in him swiftly, and addressed herself to the new man 
 who stood there before her. 
 
 " Come with me to the Hotel de Paris. I'm spending the 
 night there, and go back to-morrow to Buyukderer. I had 
 something to do in town." 
 
 She had not given him her hand, and he did not attempt 
 to take it. He put on his hat, turned and walked at her side. 
 Neither of them spoke a word until they had come into the 
 uproar of the Grande Rue, which surrounded them with a 
 hideous privacy. Then Mrs. Clarke said: 
 
 "Where are you staying?" 
 
 " At Hughes's Hotel." 
 
 " I never heard of it." 
 
 " It's in Briisa Street. It's cheap." 
 
 " And horrible," she thought. 
 
 But she did not say so. 
 
 " I have only been here three days," Dion added. 
 
 " Do you remember that I once said to you I knew you 
 would come back to Constantinople?" 
 
 For a moment his face was distorted. When she saw that 
 she looked away gravely, at the glittering shops and at the 
 Perotes who were passing by with the slow and lounging walk 
 which they affect in the Grande Rue. Presently she heard 
 him say: 
 
 " You were right. It was all arranged. It was all planned 
 out. Even then I believe I knew it would be so, that I should 
 come back here." 
 
 " Why have you come? " 
 
 " I don't know," he answered, and his voice, which had been 
 hard and fierce, became suddenly dull. 
 
 " He really believes that," she thought. 
 
 " Here is the hotel," she said. " I'm all alone. Jimmy has 
 been out, but has had to go back to Eton. I wish you had 
 seen him." 
 
 " Oh no! " said Dion, almost passionately. 
 
 They went up in a lift, worked by a Montenegrin boy with
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 375 
 
 a big round forehead, to her sitting-room on the second floor. 
 It was large, bare and clean, with white walls and awnings at 
 the windows. She rang the bell. A Corsican waiter came 
 and she ordered tea. The roar of the street noises penetrated 
 into the shadowy room through the open windows, and came 
 to Dion like heat. He remembered the silence of Claridge's. 
 Suddenly his head began to swim. It seemed to him that his 
 life, all of it that he had lived till that moment, was spinning 
 round him, and that, as it spun, it gave out a deafening noise 
 and glittered. He sat down on a chair which was close to a 
 small table, laid his arms on the table, and hid his face against 
 them. Still the deafening noise continued. The sum of it 
 was surely made up of the uproar of the Grande Rue with the 
 uproar of his spinning life added to it. He saw yellow balls 
 ringed with pale blue rapidly receding from his shut eyes. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke looked at him for a moment; then she went 
 into the adjoining bedroom and shut the door behind her. 
 She did not come back till the waiter knocked and told her 
 that tea was ready. Then she opened the door. She had 
 taken off her hat and gloves, and looked very white and cool, 
 and very composed. 
 
 Dion was standing up near the windows. The waiter, who 
 had enormously thick mustaches, and who evidently shaved 
 in the evening instead of in the morning, was going out at the 
 farther door. He shut it rather loudly. 
 
 " Every one makes a noise in Pera. It's de rigueur," said 
 Mrs. Clarke, coming to the tea-table. 
 
 " Do you know," said Dion, " I used to think you looked 
 punished? " 
 
 "Punished I!" 
 
 There was a sudden defiance in her voice which he had never 
 heard in it before. He came up to the table. 
 
 " Yes. In London I used to think you had a punished look 
 and even a haunted look. Wasn't that ridiculous? I didn't 
 know then what it meant to be punished, or to be haunted. 
 I hadn't enough imagination to know, not nearly enough. But 
 some one or something's seen to it that I shall know all about 
 punishment and haunting. So I shall never be absurd about 
 you again." 
 
 After a pause she said : 
 
 " I wonder why you thought that about me? " 
 
 " I don't know. It just came into my head." 
 
 " Well, sit down and let us have our tea."
 
 376 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 Dion sat down mechanically, and Mrs. Clarke poured out 
 the tea. 
 
 " I wish it was Buyukderer," she said. 
 
 " Oh, I like the uproar." 
 
 " No, you don't you don't. Pera is spurious, and all its 
 voices are spurious voices. To-morrow morning, before I go 
 back, you and I will go to Eyub." 
 
 " To the dust and the silence and the cypresses O God ! " 
 said Dion. 
 
 He got up from his chair. He was beginning to tremble. 
 Was it coming upon him at last then, the utter breakdown 
 which through all these months he had somehow kept at 
 a distance? Determined not to shake, he exerted his will 
 violently, till he felt as if he were with dreadful difficulty 
 holding, keeping together, a multitude of living, struggling 
 things which were trying to get away out of his grasp. And 
 these living, struggling things were the multitudinous parts of 
 the whole which was himself. 
 
 All that now was had been foreshadowed. There had been 
 writing on the wall. 
 
 " I am grateful to you for several things. I'm not going 
 to give you the list now. Some day, perhaps, I shall tell you 
 what they are ... among the cypresses of Eyub." 
 
 She had said that to him in London, and her voice had been 
 fatalistic as she spoke; and in the street that same day, on 
 his way home, the voice of the boy crying the last horror had 
 sounded to him like a voice from the sea, a strange and sad 
 cry lifted up between Europe and Asia. And now 
 
 " How did you know? " he said. " How did you know that 
 we should be here together some day? " 
 
 " Sit down. You must sit down." 
 
 She put her languid and imperative hand on his wrist, and 
 he sat down. He took her hand and put it against his fore- 
 head for a moment. But that was no use. For her hand 
 seemed to add fever to his fever. 
 
 " I have seen you standing amongst graves in the shadow 
 of cypress trees," he said. " In England I saw you like that. 
 But how did you know ? " 
 
 " Drink your tea. Don't hurry. We've got such a long 
 time." 
 
 " I have. I have all the days and the nights every hour 
 of them at my own disposal. I'm the freest man on earth, 
 I suppose. No work, no ties."
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 377 
 
 " You've given up everything ? " 
 
 " Oh, of course. That is, the things that were still left to 
 me to give up. They didn't mean much." 
 
 " Eat something," she said, in a casual voice, pushing a 
 plate of delicious little cakes towards him. 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 He took one and ate. He had regained self-control, but 
 he knew that at almost any moment, if anything unusual hap- 
 pened, or if he dared to think, or to talk, seriously about the 
 horror of his life, he would probably go down with a crash 
 into an abyss in which all of his manhood, every scrap of his 
 personal dignity, would be utterly lost. And still almost 
 blindly he held on to certain things in the blackness which 
 encompassed him. He still wished to play the man, and 
 though in bitterness he had tried sometimes to sink down in 
 degradation, his body or so it had seemed to him had 
 resisted the will of the injured soul, which had said to it, " Go 
 down into the dirt; seek satisfaction there. Your sanity and 
 your purity of life have availed you nothing. From them you 
 have had no reward. Then seek the rewards of the other life. 
 Thousands of men enjoy them. Join that crowd, and put all 
 the anemic absurdities of so-called goodness behind you." 
 
 He had almost come to hate the state he conceived of as 
 goodness; yet the other thing, its opposite, evil, he instinctively 
 rebelled against and even almost feared. The habit of a life- 
 time was not to be broken in a day, or even in many days. 
 Often he had thought of himself as walking in nothingness, 
 because he rejected evil. 
 
 Goodness had ruthlessly cast him out; and so far he had 
 made no other friend, had taken no other comrade to his bruised 
 and bleeding heart. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke began to talk to him quietly. She talked about 
 herself, and he knew that she did this not because of egoism, 
 but because delicately she wished to give him a full oppor- 
 tunity for recovery. She had seen just where he was, and she 
 had understood his recoil from the abyss. Now she wished, 
 perhaps, to help him to draw back farther from it, to draw 
 back so far that he would no longer see it or be aware of it. 
 
 So she talked of herself, of her life at Buyukderer in the 
 summer, and in Pera in the autumn and spring. 
 
 " I don't go out to Buyukderer till the middle of May," she 
 said, " and I come back into town at the end of September." 
 
 " You manage to stand Pera for some months every year? "
 
 378 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 said Dion, listening at first with difficulty, and because he was 
 making a determined effort. 
 
 " Yes. An Englishwoman even a woman like me can't 
 live in Stamboul. And Pera, odious as it is, is in Constanti- 
 nople, in the city which has a spell, though you mayn't feel 
 it yet." 
 
 She was silent for a moment, and they heard the roar from 
 the Grande Rue, that street which is surely the noisiest in 
 all Europe. Hearing it, Dion thought of the silence of the 
 Precincts at Welsley. That sweet silence had cast him out. 
 Hell must be full of roaring noises and of intense activities. 
 Then Mrs. Clarke went on talking. There was something 
 very feminine and gently enticing in her voice, which resembled 
 no other voice ever heard by Dion. He felt kindness at the 
 back of her talk, the wish to alleviate his misery if only for 
 a moment, to do what she could for him. She could do nothing, 
 of course. Nevertheless he began to feel grateful to her. She 
 was surely unlike other women, incapable of bearing a grudge. 
 For he had not been very " nice " to her in the days when he 
 was happy and she was in difficulties. At this moment he 
 vaguely exaggerated his lack of " niceness," and perhaps also 
 her pardoning temperament. In truth, he was desperately in 
 need of a touch from the magic wand of sympathy. Believing, 
 or even perhaps knowing, that to the incurably wounded man 
 palliatives are of no lasting avail, he had deliberately fled from 
 them, and gone among those who had no reason to bother 
 about him. But now he was grateful. 
 
 " Go on talking," he said once, when she stopped speaking. 
 And she continued talking about her life. She said nothing 
 more about Jimmy. 
 
 The Corsican waiter came and took away the tea things 
 noisily. Her spell was broken. For a moment Dion felt 
 dazed. 
 
 He got up. 
 
 " I ought to go," he said. 
 
 "Must you? " 
 
 "Must! Oh no! My time is my own, and always will 
 be, I suppose." 
 
 " You have thrown up everything? " 
 
 "What else could I do? The man who killed his own son! 
 How could I stay in London, go among business men who knew 
 me, talk about investments to clients? Suppose you had killed 
 Jimmy! "
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 379 
 
 There was a long silence. Then he said: 
 
 " I've given up my name. I call myself Mervyn Denton. 
 I saw the name in a novel I opened on a railway bookstall." 
 
 She got up and came near to him quietly. 
 
 " This is all wrong," she said. 
 
 "What is?" 
 
 " All you are doing, the way you are taking it all." 
 
 " What other way is there of taking such a thing? " 
 
 " Will you come with me to Eyub to-morrow? " 
 
 " It was written long ago that I am to go there with you. 
 I'm quite sure of that." 
 
 " I'll tell you what I mean there to-morrow." 
 
 She looked towards the window. 
 
 " It's like the roar of hell," he said. 
 
 And he went away. 
 
 That night Mrs. Clarke dined alone downstairs in the 
 restaurant. The cooking at the Hotel de Paris was famous, 
 and attracted many men from the Embassies. Presently Cyril 
 Vane, one of the secretaries at the British Embassy, came in 
 to dine. He had with him a young Turkish gentleman, who 
 was called away by an agent from the Palace in the middle of 
 dinner. Vane, left thus alone, presently got up and came to 
 Mrs. Clarke's table. 
 
 "May I sit down and talk to you for a little?" he said, 
 with a manner that testified to their intimacy. " My guest 
 has deserted me." 
 
 " Yes, do. Tell the waiter to bring the rest of your dinner 
 here." 
 
 " But I have finished." 
 
 " Light your cigar then." 
 
 " If you don't mind." 
 
 They talked for a few minutes about the things of every 
 day and the little world they both lived in on the Bosporus; 
 then Mrs. Clarke said: 
 
 " I met a friend from England unexpectedly to-day." 
 
 "Did you?" 
 
 " A man called Dion Leith." 
 
 "Dion Leith?" repeated Vane. 
 
 He looked at her earnestly. 
 
 " Now wait a moment ! " 
 
 His large, cool blue eyes became meditative. 
 " It's on the edge of my mind who that is, and yet I can't 
 remember. I don't know him, but I'm sure I know of him."
 
 380 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " He fought in the South African War." 
 
 Suddenly Vane leaned forward. He was frowning. 
 
 " I've got it! He fought, came back with the D.C.M., and 
 only a few days afterwards killed his only child, a son, out 
 shooting. I remember the whole thing now, the inquest at 
 which he was entirely exonerated, and the rumors about his 
 wife. She's a beautiful woman, they say." 
 
 " Very beautiful." 
 
 " She took it very badly, didn't she? " 
 
 " What do you mean by very badly? " 
 
 " Didn't she bear very hard on him? " 
 
 " She couldn't endure to see him, or to have him near her. 
 Is that very wonderful ? " 
 
 " You stand up for her then ? " 
 
 " She was first and foremost a mother." 
 
 " Do you know," Vane said rather dryly, " you are the only 
 woman I never hear speak against other women. But when 
 the whole thing was an accident? " 
 
 " We can't always be quite fair, or quite reasonable, when 
 a terrible shock comes to us." 
 
 " It's a problem, a terrible problem of the affections," Vane 
 said. "Had she loved her husband? Do you know?" 
 
 " I know that he loved her very much," said Mrs. Clarke. 
 " He is here under an assumed name." 
 
 Vane looked openly surprised and even, for a moment, rather 
 disdainful. 
 
 " But then - He paused. 
 
 " Why did I give him away? " 
 
 " Well yes." 
 
 " Because I wish to force him to face things fully and 
 squarely. It's his only chance." 
 
 "Won't he be angry?" 
 
 " But I don't mind that." 
 
 " You've had a reason in telling me," said Vane quietly. 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " Come up to my sitting-room. We'll have coffee there." 
 
 " Willingly. I feel your spell even when you're weaving it 
 for another man's sake." 
 
 Mrs. Clarke did not reject the compliment. She only looked 
 at Vane, and said: 
 
 " Come."
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 381 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 IN the morning Mrs. Clarke sent a messenger to Hughes's 
 Hotel asking Dion to meet her at the landing-place on 
 the right of the Galata Bridge at a quarter to eleven. 
 
 " We will go to Eyub by caique," she wrote, " and lunch 
 at a Turkish cafe I know close to the mosque." 
 
 She drove to the bridge. When she came in sight of it she 
 saw Dion standing on it alone, looking down on the crowded 
 water-way. He was leaning on the railing, and his right 
 cheek rested on the palm of his brown hand. Mrs. Clarke 
 smiled faintly as she realized that this man who was waiting 
 for her had evidently forgotten all about her. 
 
 She dismissed the carriage, paid the toll and walked on to 
 the bridge. As usual there was a crowd of pedestrians passing 
 to and fro from Galata to Stamboul and from Stamboul to 
 Galata. She mingled with it, went up to Dion and stood near 
 him without uttering a word. For perhaps two minutes she 
 stood thus before he noticed her. Then he turned and sent 
 her a hard, almost defiant glance before he recognized who 
 his companion was. 
 
 "Oh, I didn't know it was Why didn't you speak? 
 
 Is it time to go? I meant to be at the landing." 
 
 He spoke like a man who had been a long way off, and who 
 returned weary and almost dazed from that distance. He 
 looked at his watch. 
 
 " Please forgive me for putting you to the trouble of com- 
 ing to find me." 
 
 " You needn't ever ask me to forgive you for anything. 
 Don't let us bother each other with all the silly little things that 
 worry the fools. We've got beyond all that long ago. There's 
 my caique." 
 
 She made a signal with her hand. Two Albanians below sa- 
 luted her. 
 
 " Shall we go at once? Or would you rather stay here a lit- 
 tle longer?" 
 
 " Let us go. I was only looking at the water." 
 
 He turned and sent a long glance to Stamboul. 
 
 "Your city! " he said. 
 
 " I shall take you."
 
 382 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 For the first time that day he looked at her intimately, and 
 his look said: 
 
 " Why do you trouble about me? " 
 
 They went down, got into the caique, and were taken by the 
 turmoil of the Golden Horn. Among the innumerable caiques, 
 the steamboats, the craft of all kinds, they went out into the 
 strong sunshine, guarded on the one hand by the crowding, dis- 
 colored houses of Galata rising to Pera, on the other hand by 
 the wooden dwellings and the enormous mosques of Stamboul. 
 The voices of life pursued them over the water and they sat in 
 silence side by side. Dion made no social attempt to enter- 
 tain his companion. Had she not just said to him that long 
 ago they had gone beyond all the silly little things that worry 
 the fools? In the midst of the fierce activity and the riot of 
 noise which marks out the Golden Horn from all other water- 
 ways, they traveled towards emptiness, silence, the desolation 
 on the hill near the sacred place of the Turks, where each new 
 Sultan is girded with the sword of Osman, and where the 
 standard-bearer of the Prophet sleeps in the tomb that was seen 
 in a vision. 
 
 In the strong heat of noon they left the caique and walked 
 slowly towards the hill which rises to the north-east, where 
 the dark towers of the cypresses watch over the innumerable 
 graves. Mrs. Clarke had put up a sun umbrella. Her face 
 was protected by a thin white veil. She wore a linen dress, 
 pale gray in color, with white lines on it, and long loose gloves 
 of suede. She looked extraordinarily thin. Her unshining, 
 curiously colorless hair was partly covered by a small hat of 
 burnt straw, turned sharply and decisively up on the left side 
 and trimmed with a broad riband of old gold. Dion remem- 
 bered that he had thought of her once as a vision seen in 
 water. Now he was with her in the staring definite clear- 
 ness of a land dried by the heats of summer and giving to them 
 its dust. And she was at home in this aridity. In the dust 
 he was aware of the definiteness of her. Since the blackness 
 had overtaken him people had meant to him less than shadows 
 gliding on a wall mean to a joyous man. Often he had ob- 
 served them, even sharply and with a sort of obstinate per- 
 sistence; he had been trying to force them to become real to 
 him. Invariably he had failed in his effort. Mrs. Clarke was 
 real to him as she walked in silence beside him, between the 
 handsome railed-in mausoleums which line the empty roads 
 from the water's edge almost to the mosque of the Conqueror.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 383 
 
 A banal phrase came to his lips, " You are in your element 
 here." But he held it back, remembering that they walked in 
 the midst of dust. 
 
 Leaving the mosque they ascended the hill and passed the 
 Tekkeh of the dancing dervishes. All around them were the 
 Turkish graves with their leaning headstones, or their head- 
 stones fallen and lying prone in the light flaky earth above 
 the smoldering corpses of the dead. Here and there tight 
 bunches of flowers were placed upon the graves. Gaunt 
 shadows from old cypresses fell over some of them, denning the 
 sunlight. Below was the narrowing sea, the shallow north-west 
 arm of the Golden Horn, which stretches to Kiathareh, where 
 are the sweet waters of Europe, and to Kiahat Haneh. 
 
 " We'll sit here," said Mrs. Clarke presently. 
 
 And she sat down, with the folding ease almost of an Orien- 
 tal, on the warm earth, and leaned against the fissured trunk 
 of a cypress. 
 
 Casually she had seemed to choose the resting-place, but she 
 had chosen it well. More times than she could count she had 
 come to that exact place, had leaned against that cypress and 
 looked down the Golden Horn to the divided city, one-half of 
 which she loved as she loved few things, one-half of which she 
 endured for the sake of the other. 
 
 " From here," she said to Dion, " I can feel Stamboul." 
 
 He had lain down near to her sideways and rested his cheek 
 on his hand. The lower half of his body was in sunshine, but 
 the cypress threw its shadow over his head and shoulders. As 
 Mrs. Clarke spoke he looked down the Golden Horn to the 
 Turkish city, and his eyes were held by the minarets of its 
 mosques. Seldom had he looked at a minaret without thinking 
 of prayer. He thought of prayer now, and then of his dead 
 child, of the woman he had called wife, and of the end of his 
 happiness. The thought came to him: 
 
 " I was kept safe in the midst of the dangers of war for a 
 reason; and that reason was that I might go back to England 
 and kill my son." 
 
 And yet every day men went up into these minarets and called 
 upon other men to bow themselves and pray. 
 
 God is great. . . . 
 
 In the sunlit silence of the vast cemetery the wheels of Dion's 
 life seemed for a moment to cease from revolving. 
 
 God is great great in His power to inflict misery upon 
 men. And so pray to Him! Mount upon the minarets, go up
 
 384 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 high, till you are taken by the blue, till, at evening, you are 
 nearer to the stars than other men, and pray to Him and proclaim 
 His glory. For He is the repository of the power to cover you 
 with misery as with a garment, and to lay you even with the 
 dust. Pray then pray! Unless the garment is upon you, 
 unless the dust is already about you! 
 
 Dion lay on the warm earth and looked at the distant mina- 
 rets, and smiled at the self-seeking slave-instinct in men, which 
 men sought to glorify, to elevate into a virtue. 
 
 " Why are you smiling? " said a husky voice above him. 
 
 He did not look up, but he answered: 
 
 " Because I was looking at those towers of prayer." 
 
 " The minarets." 
 
 She was silent for a few minutes ; after a while she said : 
 
 " You remember the first time you met me? " 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 " I was in great difficulties then. They culminated in the 
 scandal of my divorce case. Tell me, how did you think I 
 faced all that trouble?" 
 
 " With marvelous courage." 
 
 " In what other way can thoroughbred people face an enemy? 
 Suppose I had lost instead of won, suppose Jimmy had been 
 taken from me, do you think it would have broken me ? " 
 
 " I can't imagine anything breaking you," said Dion. " But 
 I don't believe you ever pray." 
 
 " What has that to do with it? " 
 
 " I believe the people who pray are the potential cowards." 
 
 " Do you pray ? " 
 
 " Not now. That's why I was smiling when I looked at 
 the minarets. But I don't make a virtue of it. I have noth- 
 ing to pray for." 
 
 " Well then, if you have put away prayer, that means you are 
 going to rely on yourself." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 " For all the sustaining you will need in the future. The 
 people commonly called good think of God as something out- 
 side themselves to which they can apply in moments of fear, 
 necessity and sorrow. If you have really got beyond that 
 conception you must rely on yourself, find in yourself all you 
 need." 
 
 " But I need nothing you don't understand." 
 
 " You nearly told me yesterday."
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 385 
 
 " Perhaps if you hadn't gone out of the room I should have 
 been obliged to tell you, but not because I wished to." 
 
 " I understood that. That is why I went out of the room and 
 left you alone." 
 
 For the first time Dion looked up at her. She had lifted her 
 veil, and her haggard, refined face was turned towards him. 
 
 " Thank you," he said. 
 
 At that moment he liked her as he had never liked her in 
 the past 
 
 " Can you tell me now because you wish to? " 
 
 "Here among the graves?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Again he looked at the distant minarets lifted towards the 
 blue near the way of the sea. But he said nothing. She shut 
 her sun umbrella, laid it on the ground beside her, pulled off her 
 gloves and spread them out on her knees slowly. She seemed 
 to be hesitating; for she looked down and for a moment she 
 knitted her brows. Then she said: 
 
 " Tell me why you came to Constantinople." 
 
 " I couldn't." 
 
 " If I hadn't met you in the street by chance, would you have 
 come to see me? " 
 
 " I don't think I should." 
 
 " And yet it was I who willed you to come here." 
 
 Dion did not seem surprised. There was something remote 
 in him which perhaps could not draw near to such a simple 
 commonplace feeling in that moment. He had gone out a 
 long way, a very long way, from the simple ordinary emotions 
 which come upon, or beset, normal men living normal lives. 
 
 " Did you? " he asked. " Why? " 
 
 " I thought I could do something for you. I began last 
 night." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Doing something for you. I told an acquaintance of mine 
 called Vane, who is attached to the British Embassy, that you 
 were here." 
 
 A fierce flush came into Dion's face. 
 
 " I said you would probably come out to Buyukderer," she 
 continued, " and that I wanted to bring you to the summer 
 Embassy and to introduce you to the Ambassador and Lady 
 Ingleton." 
 
 Dion sat up and pressed his hands palm downwards on the 
 ground.
 
 386 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " I shall not go. How could you say that I was here? You 
 knew I had dropped my own name." 
 
 " I gave it back to you deliberately." 
 
 " I think that was very brutal of you," he said, in a low 
 voice, tense with anger. 
 
 " You wanted to be very kind to me when I was in great diffi- 
 culties. Circumstances got rather in the way. That doesn't 
 matter. The intention was there, though you were too chival- 
 rous to go very far in action." 
 
 " Chivalrous to whom? " 
 
 " To her." 
 
 His face went pale under its sunburn. 
 
 " What are you doing? " he said, in a low voice that was al- 
 most terrible. " Where are you taking me? " 
 
 "Into the way you must walk in. Dion " even in 
 
 calling him by his Christian name for the first time her voice 
 sounded quite impersonal " you've done nothing wrong. You 
 have nothing, absolutely nothing, to be ashamed of. Kismet! 
 We have to yield to fate. If you slink through the rest of 
 your years on earth, if you get rid of your name and hide your- 
 self away, you Avill be just a coward. But you aren't a coward, 
 and you are not going to act like one. You must accept your 
 fate. You must take it right into your heart bravely and 
 proudly, or, if you can't do that, stoically. I should." 
 
 " If you had killed Jimmy?" 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 " If you had killed Jimmy? " he repeated, in a hard voice. 
 
 " I should never hide myself. I should always face things." 
 
 " You haven't had the blow I have had. I know I am not 
 in fault. I know I have nothing to blame myself for. I 
 wasn't even careless with my gun. If I had been I could never 
 have forgiven myself. But I wasn't." 
 
 " It was the pony. I know. I read the account of the in- 
 quest. You were absolutely exonerated." 
 
 " Yes. The coroner and the jury expressed their deep sym- 
 pathy with me," he said, with intense bitterness. " They real- 
 ized how how I loved my little boy. But the woman I loved 
 more even than my boy, whom I had loved for ever since I first 
 saw her well, she didn't feel at all as the coroner and the 
 jury did." 
 
 " Where is she? I hear now and then from Beatrice Daven- 
 try, but she never mentions her sister."
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 387 
 
 " She is in Liverpool doing religious work, I believe. She 
 has given herself to religion." 
 
 "What does that mean exactly?" 
 
 " People give themselves to God, don't they, sometimes? " 
 
 " Do they? " said Mrs. Clarke, with her curious grave direct- 
 ness, which seemed untouched by irony. 
 
 " It seems a way out of things. But she always had a 
 tendency that way." 
 
 "Towards the religious life? " 
 
 " Yes. She always cared for God a great deal more than 
 she cared for me. She cared for God and for Robin, and she 
 seemed to be just beginning to care for me when I deprived her 
 of Robin. Since then she has hated me." 
 
 He spoke quietly, sternly. All the emotion of which she 
 had been conscious on the previous afternoon had left him. 
 
 " I didn't succeed in making her love me! " he continued. 
 " I thought I had gained a good deal in South Africa. When 
 I came back I felt I was starting again, and that I should 
 carry things through. Robin felt the difference in me directly. 
 He would have got to care for me very much, and I could 
 have done a great deal for him when he had got older. But 
 God didn't see things that way. He had planned it all out 
 differently. When I was with her in Greece, one day I tore 
 down a branch of wild olive and stripped the leaves from it. 
 She saw me do it, and it distressed her very much. She had 
 been dreaming over a child, and my action shattered her dream, 
 I suppose. Women have dreams men can't quite understand 
 about children. She forgave me for that almost directly. 
 She knew I would never have done anything to make her un- 
 happy even for a moment, if I had thought. Now I have 
 broken her life to pieces, and there's no question of forgiveness. 
 If there were, I should not speak of her to you. We are abso- 
 lutely parted forever. She would take the hand of the most 
 dreadful criminal rather than my hand. She has a horror of 
 me. I'm the thing that's killed her child." 
 
 He looked down at the dilapidated graves, and then at the 
 lonely water which seemed trying to hide itself away in the re- 
 cesses of the bare land. 
 
 " That's how it is. Robin forgave me. He was alive for a 
 moment after, and I saw by his eyes he understood. Yes, 
 he understood he understood ! " 
 
 Suddenly his body began to shake and his arms jerked con-
 
 388 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 vulsively. Instinctively, but quite quietly, Mrs. Clarke put out 
 her hand as if she were going to lay hold of his right arm. 
 
 "No don't! " he said. "Yesterday your hand made me 
 worse." 
 
 She withdrew her hand. Her face did not change. She 
 seemed wholly unconscious of any rudeness on his part. 
 
 " Let's move let's walk! " he said. 
 
 He sprang up. When he was on his feet he regained control 
 of his body. 
 
 " I don't know what's the matter with me," he said. " I'm 
 not ill." 
 
 " My friend, it will have to come," she said, getting up too. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 But she did not reply. 
 
 " I've never been like this till now," he added vaguely. 
 
 She knew why, but she did not tell him. She was a woman 
 who knew how to wait. 
 
 They wandered away through that cemetery above the 
 Golden Horn, among the cypresses and the leaning and fallen 
 tombstones. Now and then they saw veiled women pausing 
 beside the graves with flowers in their hands, or fading among 
 the cypress trunks into sunlit spaces beyond. Now and then 
 they saw a man praying. Once they came to a tomb where 
 children were sitting in a circle chanting the Koran with a 
 sound like the sound of bees. 
 
 Before they went down to the Turkish cafe, which is close 
 to the holy mosque, they stood for a long while together on 
 the hillside, looking at distant Stamboul. The cupolas of the 
 many mosques and the tall and speary minarets gave their 
 Eastern message that message which, even to Protestant men 
 from the lands of the West, is as the thrilling sound of a still, 
 small voice. And the voice will not be gainsaid; it whispers, 
 " In the East thou shalt find me if thou hast not found me in 
 the West." 
 
 " Why do you care for Stamboul so much ? " Dion asked his 
 companion. " I think you are utterly without religion. I may 
 be wrong, but I think you are. And Stamboul is full of calls 
 to prayer and of places for men to worship in." 
 
 " Oh, there is something," she answered. " There is the Un- 
 known God." 
 
 " The Unknown God ? " he repeated, with a sort of still bit- 
 terness. 
 
 " And His city is Stamboul for me. When the muezzin
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 389 
 
 calls I bow myself in ignorance. What He is, I don't know. 
 All I know is that men cannot explain Him to me, or teach 
 me anything about Him. But Stamboul has lures for me. It 
 is not only the city of many prayers, it is also the city of many 
 forgetfulnesses. The old sages said, ' Eat not thy heart nor 
 mourn the buried Past.' Stay here for a time, and learn to 
 obey that command. Perhaps, eventually, Stamboul will help 
 you." 
 
 " Nothing can help me," he answered. 
 
 They went down the hill by the Tekkeh of the Dancing 
 Dervishes. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke did not go back to her villa at Buyukderer that 
 day. It was already late in the afternoon when her cai'que 
 touched the wharf at the foot of the Galata bridge. 
 
 " I shall stay another night at the hotel," she said to Dion. 
 " Will you drive up with me ? " 
 
 He assented. When they reached the hotel he said: 
 
 " May I come in for a few minutes ? " 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 When they were in the dim, rather bare room with the white 
 walls, between which the fierce noises from the Grande Rue 
 found a home, he said: 
 
 " I feel before I leave I must speak about what you did last 
 night, the message you gave to Vane of our Embassy. I dare 
 say you are right and that I ought to face things. But no one 
 can judge for a man in my situation, a man who's had every- 
 thing cut from under him. I haven't ended it That proves 
 I've got a remnant of something you needn't call it strength 
 left in me. Since you've told my name, I'll take it back. 
 Perhaps it was cowardly to give it up. I believe it was. Robin 
 might think so, if he knew. And he may know things. But I 
 can't meet casual people." 
 
 " I'm afraid I did what I did partly for myself," she said, 
 taking off her little hat and laying it, with her gloves, on a 
 table. 
 
 "For yourself? Why?" 
 
 " I'll explain to-morrow. I shall see you before I go. Come 
 for me at ten, will you, and we'll drive to Stamboul. I'll tell 
 you there." 
 
 " Please tell me now, if you're not tired after being out all 
 day."
 
 390 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " I'm never tired." 
 
 " Once Mrs. Chetwinde told me that you were made of iron." 
 
 Mrs. Clarke sent him a curious keen glance of intense and 
 almost lambent inquiry, but he did not notice it. The strong 
 interest that notices things was absent from him. Would it 
 ever be in him again? 
 
 " I suppose I have a good deal of stamina," she said casually. 
 " Well, sit down, and I'll try to explain." 
 
 She lit a cigarette and sat on a divan in the far corner of 
 the large room, between one of the windows and the door which 
 led into the bedroom. Dion sat down, facing her and the noise 
 from the Grande Rue. He wondered for a moment why she 
 had chosen a place so close to the window. 
 
 " I had a double reason for doing what I did," she said. 
 " One part unselfish, the other not I'll be very frank. I 
 willed that you should come here." 
 
 "Why did you do that?" 
 
 " I wanted to see you. I wanted to help you. You don't 
 think I, or any one, can do that You think everything is over 
 for you " 
 
 " I know it is," he interrupted, in a voice which sounded cold 
 and dull and final. 
 
 " You think that. Any man like you, in your situation, 
 would think that. Let us leave it for the moment. I wished 
 you to come here, and willed you to come here. For some 
 reason you have come. You didn't let me know you were here, 
 but, by chance as it seems, we met. I don't mean to lose sight 
 of you. I intend that you shall come either to Buyukderer, 
 or to some place on the Bosporus not far off that's endurable in 
 the summer, and that you shall stay there for a time." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " I want to find out if I can be of any good to you." 
 
 " You can't. I don't even know why you wish to. But you 
 can't." 
 
 " We'll leave that," she said, with inflexible composure. " I 
 don't much care what you think about it. I shan't be gov- 
 erned, or affected even, by that. The point is, I mean you to 
 come. How are you to come, surreptitiously or openly, sneak- 
 ing in by-ways, your real name concealed, or treading the 
 highway, your real name known? For your own sake it must 
 be openly and with your own name, and for my sake too. You 
 need to face your great tragedy, to stand right up to it. It's 
 your only chance. A man is always pursued by what he runs
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD ,91 
 
 away from; he can always make a friend of what he stands 
 up to." 
 
 "A friend?" 
 
 His voice broke in with the most piercing and bitter irony 
 through the many noises in the room sounds of cries, of car- 
 riage wheels, of horses' hoofs ringing on an uneven pavement, of 
 iron shutters being pulled violently down over shop fronts, of 
 soldiers marching, of distant bugles calling, of guitars and 
 mandolins accompanying a Neapolitan song. 
 
 " Yes, a friend," said the husky and inflexible, but very 
 feminine voice, which resembled no other voice of woman that 
 he had ever heard. " So much for my thought of you. And 
 now for my thought of myself. I am a woman who has faced 
 a great scandal and come out of it the winner. I was horribly 
 attacked, and I succeeded in what the papers call reestablish- 
 ing my reputation. You and I know very well what that 
 means. I know by personal experience, you by the behavior of 
 your own wife." 
 
 Dion moved abruptly like a man in physical pain, but Mrs. 
 Clarke continued: 
 
 " I don't ask you to forgive me for hurting you. You and 
 I must be frank with each other, or we can be of no use to 
 each other. After what has happened many women might be 
 inclined to avoid me as your wife did. Fortunately I have so 
 many friends who believe in me that I am in a fairly strong 
 position. I don't want to weaken that position on account of 
 Jimmy. Now, if you came to Buyukderer under an assumed 
 name, I couldn't introduce you to any one, or explain you with- 
 out telling lies. Gossip runs along the shores of the Bosporus 
 like fire along a hayrick. How can I be seen perpetually with 
 a man whom I. never introduce to any of my friends, who isn't 
 known at his own Embassy? Both for your own sake and for 
 mine we must be frank about the whole thing." 
 
 " But I never said I should come to Buyukderer," he said. 
 
 And there was a sort of dull, lifeless obstinacy in his voice. 
 
 " You have come to Constantinople and you will come to 
 Buyukderer," she replied quietly. 
 
 He looked at her across the room. The light was beginning 
 to fade, but still the awnings were drawn down beyond the 
 windows, darkening the large bare room. He saw her as a 
 study in gray and white, with colorless, unshining hair, a body 
 so thin and flexible that it was difficult to believe it contained 
 nerves like a network of steel and muscles capable of prolonged
 
 392 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 endurance, a face that was haggard in its white beauty, eyes 
 that looked enormous and fixed in the twilight. The whole 
 aspect of her was melancholy and determined, beautiful and 
 yet almost tragic. He felt upon him the listless yet imperative 
 grasp which he had first known in Mrs. Chetwinde's drawing- 
 room, the grasp which resembled Stamboul's. 
 
 " I suppose I shall go to Buyukderer," he said slowly. " But 
 I don't know why you wish it." 
 
 " I have always liked you." 
 
 " Yes, I think you have." 
 
 " I don't care to see a man such as you are destroyed by a 
 good woman." 
 
 He got up. 
 
 " No one is destroying me," he said, with a dull and hope- 
 less defiance. 
 
 " Dion, don't misunderstand me. It wouldn't be strange if 
 you thought I bore your wife a grudge because she didn't care 
 about knowing me. But, honestly, I am indifferent to a great 
 many things that most women fuss about. I quite understood 
 her reluctance. Directly I saw her I knew that she had ideals, 
 and that she expected all those who were intimately in her life 
 to live up to them. Instead of accepting the world as it has 
 been created, such women must go one better than the Creator 
 (if there is one), and invent an imaginary world. Now I 
 shouldn't be at home in an imaginary world. I'm not good 
 enough for that, and don't want to be. Your wife is very good, 
 but she lives for herself, for her own virtues and the peace and 
 happiness she gets out of them." 
 
 " She lived for Robin," he interrupted. 
 
 " Robin was a part of herself," Mrs. Clarke said dryly. 
 " Women like that don't know how to love as lovers, because 
 they care for the virtues in men rather than for the men them- 
 selves. They are robed in ideals, and they are in mortal fear 
 of a speck of dust falling on the robe. The dust of my scan- 
 dal was upon me, so your wife avoided me. That I was inno- 
 cent didn't matter. I had been mixed up with something ugly. 
 Your chivalry was instinctively on the side of justice. Her 
 virtue inclined to the other side. Her virtue is destructive." 
 
 He was silent. 
 
 " Now it has driven you out like a scapegoat into the wilder- 
 ness!" 
 
 "No, no! " he muttered, without conviction. 
 
 " But don't let it destroy you. I would rather deliberately
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 393 
 
 destroy myself than let any one destroy me. In the one case 
 there's strength of a kind, in the other there's no strength at all. 
 I speak very plainly, but I'm not a woman full of ideals. I 
 accept the world just as it is, men just as they are. If a speck 
 of dust alights on me, I don't think myself hopelessly befouled; 
 and if some one I loved made a slip, I should only think that it 
 is human to err and that it's humanity I love." 
 
 "Humanity!" he repeated, looking down. "Ah!" He 
 sighed deeply. 
 
 He raised his head. 
 
 " And if some one you loved killed your Jimmy? " 
 
 "As you ?" 
 
 "Yes yes?" 
 
 " I should love him all the more because of the misery added 
 to him," she said firmly. " There's only one thing a really 
 great love can't forgive." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " The deliberate desire and intention to hurt it and degrade 
 it." 
 
 " I never had that." 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Then then you think she never loved me at all? " 
 
 But Mrs. Clarke did not answer that question. 
 
 The daylight was rapidly failing. She seemed almost to be 
 fading away in the dimness and in the noises of evening which 
 rose from the Grande Rue. Yet something of her remained and 
 was very definite, so definite that even Dion, broken on the 
 wheel and indifferent to casual influences as few men are ever 
 indifferent, felt it almost powerfully the concentration of her 
 will, the unyielding determination of her mind, active and in- 
 tense behind the pale mask of her physical body. 
 
 He turned away and went to the window farthest from her. 
 He leaned out to the Grande Rue. Above his head was the 
 sloping awning. It seemed to him to serve as a sounding-board 
 to the fierce noises of the mongrel city. 
 
 "Start again! " 
 
 Surely among the voices of the city now filling his ears there 
 was a husky voice which said that. 
 
 Had Mrs. Clarke spoken? 
 
 " Start again." 
 
 But not on the familiar road! To do that would be impos- 
 sible. If there were indeed any new life for him it must be an 
 utterly different life from any he had known.
 
 394 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 He had tried the straight life of unselfishness, purity, fidel- 
 ity and devotion devotion to a woman and also to a manly 
 ideal. That life had convulsively rejected him. Had he still 
 within him sufficient energy of any kind to lay hold on a new 
 life? 
 
 For a moment he saw before him under the awning Robin's 
 eyes as they had been when his little son was dying in his 
 arms. 
 
 He drew back from the street. The sitting-room was empty, 
 but the door between it and the bedroom was open. No doubt 
 Mrs. Clarke had gone in there to put away her hat. As he 
 looked at the door the Russian maid, whom he had seen at Park 
 Side, Knightsbridge, came from the inner room. 
 
 " Madame hopes Monsieur will call to see her to-morrow be- 
 fore she starts to Buyukderer," she said, with her strong foreign 
 accent. 
 
 " Thank you," said Dion. 
 
 As he went out the maid shut the bedroom door. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 TWO days later Mrs. Clarke sat with the British Ambas- 
 sadress in the British Palace at Therapia, a building 
 of wood with balconies looking over the Bosporus. 
 She was alone with Lady Ingleton in the latter's sitting-room, 
 which was filled with curious Oriental things, with flowers, and 
 with little dogs of the Pekinese breed, who lay about in various 
 attitudes of contentment, looking serenely imbecile, and as if 
 they were in danger of water on the brain. 
 
 Lady Ingleton was an old friend of Mrs. Clarke, and was 
 a woman wholly indifferent to the prejudices which govern 
 ordinary persons. 'She had spent the greater part of her life 
 abroad, and looked like a weary Italian, though she was half 
 English, a quarter Irish, and a quarter French. She was very 
 dark, and had large, dreamy dark eyes which knew how to look 
 bored, a low voice which could say very sharp things at times, 
 and a languid manner which concealed more often than it be- 
 trayed an intelligence always on the alert. 
 
 "What is it, Cynthia?" said Lady Ingleton. "But first
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 395 
 
 tell me if you like this Sine carpet I found it in the bazaar 
 last Thursday, and it cost the eyes out of my head. Carey, of 
 course, has said for the hundredth time that I am ruining him, 
 and bringing his red hair in sorrow to the tomb. Even if I am, 
 it seems to me the carpet is worth it." 
 
 Mrs. Clarke studied the carpet for a moment with earnest at- 
 tention. She even knelt down to look closely at it, and passed 
 her hands over it gently, while Lady Ingleton watched her with 
 a sort of dark and still admiration. 
 
 " It's a marvel," she said, getting up. " If you had let it 
 go I should almost have despised you." 
 
 " Please tell that to Carey when he comes to you to complain. 
 And now, what is it? " 
 
 " You remember several months ago the tragedy of a man 
 called Dion Leith, who fought in the South African War, came 
 home and almost immediately after his return killed his only 
 son by mistake out shooting? " 
 
 " Yes. You knew him, I think you said. He was married 
 to that beautiful Rosamund Everard who used to sing. I heard 
 her once at Tippie Chetwinde's. Esme Darlington was a great 
 admirer of hers, of course pour le bon motif." 
 
 " Dion Leith's here." 
 
 "In Therapia?" 
 
 " No, in a hideous little hotel in Constantinople." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " I don't think he knows. His wife has given him up. She 
 was a mother, not a lover, so you can imagine her feelings about 
 the man who killed her child. It seems she was une mere 
 folle. She has left him and, according to him, has given her- 
 self to God. He's in a most peculiar condition. He was a 
 model husband, absolutely devoted and entirely irreproachable. 
 Even before marriage, I should think he had kept out of the 
 way of things. The athlete with ideals he was that, one 
 supposes." 
 
 " How extraordinarily attractive ! " said Lady Ingleton, in a 
 lazy and rather drawling voice. 
 
 " So he had a great deal to fasten on the woman who has 
 cast him out. Just now, like the coffin of Mohammed, he's sus- 
 pended. That's the impression I get from him." 
 
 " Do you want to bring him down to earth? " 
 
 " All he's known and cared for in life has failed him. He 
 was traveling under an assumed name even, for fear people 
 should point him out as the man who killed his own son. A1J
 
 396 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 that sort of thing is no use. I gave his secret away deliberately 
 to young Vane, and asked him to speak to the Ambassador. 
 And now I've come to you. I want you to have him here once 
 or twice and to be nice to him. Then I can see something of 
 him, poor fellow, and do something for him." 
 
 A faint smile curved Lady Ingleton's sensitive lips. 
 
 " Of course. Then he's coming to the Bosporus ? " 
 
 " He'll probably spend some time at Buyukderer. He must 
 face his fate and take up life again." 
 
 " He doesn't intend to do what his wife has done? " 
 
 Lady Ingleton was still smiling faintly. 
 
 " I should say his experience rather inclines him to take an 
 opposite direction." 
 
 " Is he good-looking? " 
 
 " What he has been through has ravaged his face." 
 
 " That probably makes him much handsomer than he ever 
 was before." 
 
 " He hates the thought of meeting any one. But if you will 
 have him here once or twice, and people know it, it will make 
 things all right." 
 
 "Will he come?" 
 
 "Yes." . 
 
 " You know I always do what you want." 
 
 " I never want you to do dull things." 
 
 " That's true. The dogs don't come into play against the 
 people you bring here." 
 
 It was a legend in Constantinople in Embassy circles that 
 Lady Ingleton always " set the dogs " at bores. Even at offi- 
 cial dinners, when she had as much as she could stand of the 
 heavy bigwigs whom she was obliged to invite, she surrepti- 
 tiously touched a bell. This was a signal to the footman to 
 bring in the dogs, who were trained to yap at and to investi- 
 gate closely visitors. The yapping and the investigations cre- 
 ated a feeling of general restlessness and an almost inevitable 
 movement, which invariably led to the speedy departure of the 
 unwelcome guests; who went, as Lady Ingleton said, "not 
 knowing why." Enough that they went! The dogs were re- 
 warded with lumps of sugar as are the canine performers in a 
 circus. Sir Carey complained that it was bad diplomacy, but 
 he was devoted to his wife, and even secretly loved her charac- 
 teristic selfishness. 
 
 " Let Dion Leith come and I'll cast my mantle over him 
 for your sake, Cynthia. You are a remarkable woman."
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 
 
 397 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 But Lady Ingleton did not say why. There were immense 
 reticences between her and Cynthia Clarke. 
 
 Dion left Hughes's Hotel and went to Buyukderer. 
 
 He had not consciously known why he did this. Until he 
 met Mrs. Clarke near the British Embassy he had scarcely been 
 aware how sordid and ugly and common under its small osten- 
 tations Hughes's Hotel was. She made him see the dreariness 
 of his surroundings, although she had never seen them; she made 
 him again aware of things. That she was able to affect him 
 strongly, although he did not care for her, he knew by the 
 sudden approach to the brink of a complete emotional break- 
 down which she had brought about in him at their first meet- 
 ing. He remembered the hand he had taken and had put 
 against his forehead. There had been no cool solace in it for 
 the fever within him. Why, then, did he go to Buyukderer? 
 Certainly he did not go in hope. He was dwelling in a region 
 far beyond any where hope can live. 
 
 But here was some one who was far away from the land that 
 had seen his tragedy, and who meant something in connexion 
 with him, who intended something which had to do with him. 
 In England his mother had been powerless to help him; Beat- 
 tie had been powerless to help him. Canon Wilton had tried 
 to use his almost stern power of manly sincerity on behalf of 
 the soul of Dion. He and Dion had had a long interview after 
 the inquest on the little body of Robin was over, and he had 
 drawn nearer to the inmost chamber than any one else had, 
 though Bruce Evelin, even in his almost fierce grief for Robin, 
 had been wonderfully kind and understanding. But even 
 Canon Wilton had utterly failed to be of any real use. Perhaps 
 he had known Rosamund too well. 
 
 Till now Mrs. Clarke was the one human being who had suc- 
 ceeded in making a definite impression on Dion since Robin's 
 death and Rosamund's fearful reception of the news of it. He 
 felt her will, and perhaps he felt something else in her with- 
 out telling himself that he did so: her knowledge of a life ab- 
 solutely different from the life he had hitherto known, abso- 
 lutely different, too, from the life known to, and lived by, those 
 who had been nearest to him and with whom he had been most 
 closely intimate. The old life with all its associations had 
 cast him out. That was his feeling. Possibly, without be- 
 ing aware of it, and driven by the necessity that is within man 
 to lay hold of something, to seek after refuge in the blackest
 
 398 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 moments of existence, he was feebly and instinctively feeling 
 after an unknown life which was represented to his imagina- 
 tion by the pale beauty of Mrs. Clarke. She had described 
 his situation as one of suspension between the heaven and the 
 earth. His heaven had certainly rejected him. Possibly, 
 without knowing it, and without any hope of future happiness 
 or even of future peace, he faintly descried her earth; possibly, 
 in going to Buyukderer, he was making an unconscious effort 
 to gain it. 
 
 He wondered about this afterwards, but not at all in the 
 moment of his going. Things were not clear to him then. He 
 was still in the vague, but he was not to walk in vagueness for- 
 ever. Fate which, by its malign action, had caused him to in- 
 flict a frightful injury upon the good woman he loved still held 
 in reserve for him new and tremendous experiences. He 
 thought that in Welsley he had reached the ultimate depths 
 which a man can sound. It was not so. 
 
 Dion came to Buyukderer on a breezy blue day, a day which 
 seemed full of hope and elation, which was radiant with sun- 
 light and dancing waters, and buoyant with ardent life. Gone 
 were those delicate dreamy influences which sometimes float 
 over the Bosporus even in the noontides of summer, when the 
 winds are still, and the long shores of Asia seem to lie wrapped 
 in a soft siesta, holding their secrets of the Orient closely hid- 
 den from the eyes of Europe. Europe gazes at Asia, but Asia 
 is gravely indifferent to Europe; she listens only to the voices 
 which come to her from her o\yn depths, and, like an Almeh re- 
 clining, is stirred only by music unknown to the West. 
 
 As the steamer on which he traveled voyaged towards the 
 Black Sea, Dion paced up and down the deck and looked al- 
 ways at the shores of Asia. That line of hills represented to 
 him the unknown. If he could only lose himself in Asia and 
 forget! But there was nothing passionate in his longing. It 
 was only a gray desire born in a broken mind and a broken na- 
 ture. 
 
 Once during the voyage he thought of Robin. Did Robin 
 know where he was, whither he was going? Since Rosamund 
 had utterly rejected him, strangely his dead boy and he had 
 at moments seemed to Dion to be near to each other encom- 
 passed by the same thick darkness. Even once he had seemed 
 to see Robin groping, like one lost and vainly seeking after 
 light. His vagueness was broken upon sometimes by fantas- 
 tic visions. But to-day he had no consciousness at all of Robin.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 399 
 
 The veil of death which hung between him and the child he 
 had slain seemed to be of stone, absolutely impenetrable. And 
 all his visions had left him. 
 
 Palaces and villas came into sight and vanished; Yildiz 
 upon its hill scattered among the trees of its immense park; 
 Dolmabaghcheh stretched out along the water's edges, with its 
 rose-beds before it; and its gravely staring sentinels; Beylerbey 
 Serai on the Asian shore, with its marble quay and its terraced 
 gardens, not far from Kandili and the sweet waters of Asia. 
 Presently the Giant's Mountain appeared staring across the 
 water at Buyukderer. The prow of the steamer was headed for 
 the European shore. Dion saw the bay opening to receive them 
 under its wooded hills which are pierced by the great valley. 
 It stretched its arms as if in welcome, and very calm was the 
 water between them. Here the wind failed. Along the shore 
 were villas, and gardens rising in terraces, where roses, lemon 
 trees, laurels grew in almost rank abundance. Across the 
 water came the soft sound of music, a song of Greece lifted 
 above the thrumming of guitars. And something in the aspect 
 of this Turkish haven, sheltered from the winds of that Black 
 Sea which had come into sight off Kirech Burnu, something 
 in the song which floated over the water, struck deep into 
 Dion's heart. Abruptly he was released from his frozen de- 
 tachment; tears sprang into his eyes, memories surged up in 
 his mind memories of a land not very far from this land; 
 of the maidens of the Porch; of the hill of Drouva kept by 
 the stars and the sleeping winds ; of Zante dreaming of the sun- 
 set; of Hermes keeping watch over the child in the green re- 
 cesses of Elis. 
 
 " Why do I come here ? What have I to do here, or in any 
 place dedicated to beauty and to peace? " 
 
 His brown face twitched, and the wrinkles which sprayed 
 out from his eyelids over his thin cheeks worked till the 
 network of them seemed to hold an independent and furious 
 life. 
 
 " If I were a happy traveler as I once was! " 
 
 The thought pierced him, and was followed immediately by 
 the remembrance of some words spoken by Mrs. Clarke : 
 
 " My friend, it will have to come." 
 
 That which had to come, would it come here, in this shel- 
 tered place, where the song died away like a thing enticed by 
 the long valley to be kept by the amorous trees ? Mrs. Clarke's 
 voice had sounded full of inflexible knowledge when she had
 
 400 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 spoken those words, and she had looked at him with eyes that 
 were full of knowledge. It was as if those eyes had seen the 
 weeping of many men. 
 
 The steamer drew near to the shore. The bright bustle of 
 the quay was apparent. Dion made his effort and conquered 
 himself. But he felt almost afraid of Buyukderer. In the 
 ugly roar of the Grande Rue he had surely been safer than he 
 would be here in this place which seemed planned for intimate 
 happiness. 
 
 The steamer came alongside the pier. 
 
 When Dion stepped on to the quay a tall young Englishman 
 with broad shoulders, rather a baby face, and large intelligent 
 blue eyes immediately walked up to him. 
 
 " Are you Mr. Dion Leith? " 
 
 Dion, startled, was about to say " No " with determined hos- 
 tility when he remembered Mrs. Clarke. He had come here; 
 he was, he supposed, going to stay here for some days at least; 
 of course he must face things. 
 
 " Yes," he said gruffly. 
 
 In an easy, agreeable manner the stranger explained that 
 he was Cyril Vane, second secretary of the British Embassy, 
 and a friend of Mrs. Clarke's, and that he had come down at 
 her request to meet Dion, and to tell him that there was a charm- 
 ing room reserved for him at the Belgrad Hotel. 
 
 " I'll walk up with you if you like," he added, in a casual 
 voice. " It's no distance. That your luggage ? " 
 
 He put it in the charge of a porter from the hotel. 
 
 " I'm over at Therapia just now. The Ambassador hopes to 
 see you. He's a delightful fellow." 
 
 He talked pleasantly, and looked remarkably unobservant till 
 they reached the hotel, where he parted from Dion. 
 
 " I dare say I shall see you soon. Very glad to do anything 
 I can for you. Mrs. Clarke lives at the Villa Hafiz. Any one 
 will tell you where it is." 
 
 He walked coolly away in the sun, looking like an immense 
 fair baby in his thin, light-colored clothes. 
 
 " Does he know? " thought Dion, looking after him. 
 
 Then he went up into his bedroom which looked out upon 
 the sea. When the luggage had been brought in and the door 
 was shut, he sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at the 
 polished uncarpeted floor. 
 
 " Why have I come here ? What have I to do here ? " he 
 thought.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 401 
 
 He missed the uproar of Pera. It had exercised a species of 
 pressure upon his soul, a deadening influence. 
 
 Ever since Robin's death he had lived in towns, and had 
 walked about streets. He had been for a time in Paris, then in 
 Marseilles, where he had stayed for more than two months 
 haunted by an idea of crossing over to Africa and losing him- 
 self in the vastness of the lands of the sun. But something had 
 held him back, perhaps a dread of the immense loneliness which 
 would surely beset him on the other side of the sea; and he 
 had gone to Geneva, then to Zurich, to Milan, Genoa, Naples, 
 Berlin and Budapest. From Budapest he had come to Con- 
 stantinople. He had known the loneliness of cities, but an in- 
 stinct had led him to avoid the loneliness of the silent and 
 solitary places. There had been an atmosphere of peace in 
 quiet Welsley. He was afraid of such an atmosphere and had 
 sought always its opposite. 
 
 " Why have I come here? " he thought again. 
 
 In this small place he felt exposed, almost as if he were naked 
 and could be seen by strangers. In Pera at least he was cov- 
 ered. 
 
 " I shall have to go away from here," he thought. 
 
 He got up from the bed and began to unpack. As he did 
 this, the uselessness of what he was doing, the arid futility of 
 every bit of the web of small details which, in their sum, were 
 his life, flowed upon his soul like stagnant water forced into 
 movement by some horrible machinery. He was like some- 
 thing agitating in a vast void, something whose incessant move- 
 ments produced no effect, had no sort of relation to anything. 
 In his loneliness of the cities he had begun to lose that self-re- 
 spect which belongs to all happy Englishmen of his type. Mrs. 
 Clarke had immediately noticed that certain details in his dress 
 showed a beginning of neglect. Since he had met her he had 
 rectified them, almost unconsciously. But now suddenly the 
 burden of detail seemed unbearable. 
 
 It was only by an almost fierce exercise of the will that he 
 forced himself to finish unpacking, and to lay his things out 
 neatly in drawers and on the dressing-table. Then he took off 
 his boots and his jacket, stretched himself out on the bed with 
 his arms behind him and his hands grasping the bedstead, and 
 shut his eyes. 
 
 There was something shameful in his flaccid idleness, in 
 the aimlessness of his whole life now, devoid of all work, un- 
 directed towards any effort. But that was not his fault. He
 
 4 02 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 had worked with energy in business, with equal energy in play, 
 worked for self's sake, for love's sake, and for country's sake. 
 And for all he had done, for his effort of purity as a boy and 
 a youth, for his effort of love as a husband and a father, for 
 his effort of valor as a soldier, he had been rewarded with 
 the most horrible punishment which can fall upon a man. 
 Effort, therefore, on his part was useless; it was worse than 
 useless, it was grotesque. Let others make their efforts, his 
 were done. 
 
 He wished that he could sleep. 
 
 The dreadful inertia of Dion did not seem to be dreadful to 
 Mrs. Clarke. Perhaps she was more intelligent than most 
 women, and generated within herself so much energy of some 
 kind that she was not driven to seek for it in others; or per- 
 haps she was more sympathetic, more imaginative, than most 
 women, and pardoned because she understood. At any rate, 
 she accepted Dion as he was, and neither criticized him, at- 
 tempted to bully him, nor seemed to wish to change him. 
 
 She had indeed insisted that he must face his fate and 
 had ruthlessly given him back his name; she had also delib- 
 erately set about to entangle him in the silken cords of a social 
 relation. But he knew within a couple of days of his arrival 
 at Buyukderer that he need not fear her. No woman perhaps 
 ever lived who worried a man less in friendship, or who gave, 
 without any insistence upon it, a stronger impression of loy- 
 alty, of tenacity in affection to those for whom she cared. Al- 
 though often almost delicately blunt in words, in action she was 
 full of tact. She was one of those rare women who absolutely 
 understand men, and who know how to convey to men instantly 
 the fact of their understanding. Such women are always at- 
 tractive to men. Even if they are plain, and not otherwise spe- 
 cially clever, they possess for men a lure. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke had told Dion in Constantinople that she meant 
 him to come to Buyukderer. This was an almost insolent as- 
 sertion of will-power. But when he was there she let him 
 alone. On the day of his arrival there came no message from 
 the Villa Hafiz to his hotel. He had, perhaps, expected one; 
 he knew that he was relieved not to receive it. Late in the 
 afternoon he went for a solitary walk up the valley, avoiding 
 the many people who poured forth from the villas and hotels 
 to take their air, as the sun sank low behind Therapia, and the 
 light upon the water lost in glory and gained in magic. Gay
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 403 
 
 parties embarked in caiques. Some people drove in small vic- 
 torias drawn by spirited, quick-trotting horses; others rode; 
 others strolled up and down slowly by the edge of the sea. A 
 gay brightness of sociable life made Buyukderer intimately 
 merry as evening drew on. Instinctively Dion left the laughter 
 and the voices behind him. 
 
 His wandering led him to the valley of roses, where he sat 
 down by the stream, and for the first time tasted something of 
 the simplicity and charm of Turkish country life. It did not 
 charm him, but in a dim way he felt it, was faintly aware of 
 a soothing influence which touched him like a cool hand. For 
 a long time he stayed there, and he thought, " If I remain at 
 Buyukderer I shall often visit this place beside the stream." 
 Once he was disturbed by the noise of a cantering horse in 
 the lane close by, but otherwise he was fortunate that day; few 
 people came to his retreat, and none of them were foreigners. 
 Two or three Turks strolled by, holding their beads; and once 
 some veiled women came, escorted by a eunuch, threw some 
 petals of flowers upon the surface of the tinkling water, and 
 walked on up the narrow valley, chattering in childish voices, 
 and laughing with a twitter that was like the twitter of birds. 
 
 In the soft darkness he walked slowly back to his hotel. And 
 that night he slept better than he had ever slept in Pera. 
 
 On the following day there was still no message from the 
 Villa Hafiz, and he did not see Mrs. Clarke. He took a row 
 boat, with a big Albanian boatman for company, and rowed 
 out on the Bosporus till they came in sight of the Black Sea. 
 The wind got up; Dion stripped to his shirt and trousers, rolled 
 his shirt sleeves up to the shoulders, and had a long pull at the 
 oars. He rowed till the perspiration ran down his lean body. 
 The boatman admired his muscles and his strength. 
 
 " Inglese? " he asked. 
 
 Dion nodded. 
 
 " Les Inglesi tres forts, molto forte ! " he observed, mixing 
 French with Italian to show his linguistic accomplishments, 
 " Moi tres fort aussi." 
 
 Dion talked to the man. When he left the boat at the quay 
 he said he would take it again on the morrow. The intention 
 to go away from Buyukderer, to drown himself again in the up- 
 roar of Pera, was already fading out of his mind. Mrs. 
 Clarke's silence had, perhaps, reassured him. The Villa Hafiz 
 did not summon him. He could seek it if he would. Evidently 
 it was not going to seek him.
 
 404 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 Again he felt grateful to Mrs. Clarke. Her silence, her neg- 
 lect of him, increased his faith in her friendship for him. 
 
 His second day in Buyukderer dawned; in the late after- 
 noon of it, now sure of his freedom, he went to the Villa Hafiz. 
 
 He did not know that Mrs. Clarke was rich. Indeed he 
 had heard in London that she only had a small income, but 
 that she " did wonders " with it. In London he had seen 
 her at Claridge's and at the marvelous flat in Knightsbridge. 
 Now, at Buyukderer, he found her in a small, but beautifully 
 arranged and furnished, villa with a lovely climbing garden 
 behind it. Evidently she could not live in ugly surroundings 
 or among cheap and unbeautiful things. He saw at a glance 
 that the rugs and carpets on the polished floors of the villa 
 were exquisite, that the furniture was not merely graceful and 
 in place but really choice and valuable, and that the few orna- 
 ments and pieces of china scattered about, with the most deft 
 decision as to the exactly right place for each mirror, bowl, 
 vase and incense holder, were rarely fine. Yet in the airy 
 rooms there was no dreary look of the museum. On the con- 
 trary, they had an intimate, almost a homely air, in spite of 
 their beauty. Books and magazines were allowed their place, 
 and on a grand piano, almost in the middle of the largest room, 
 which opened by long windows into an adroitly tangled rose 
 garden where a small fountain purred amongst blue lilies, there 
 was a quantity of music. The whole house was strongly scented 
 with flowers. Dion was greeted at its threshold by a wave of 
 delicious perfume. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke received him in her most casual, most impersonal 
 manner, and made no allusion to the fact that she knew he 
 had already been for two days in Buyukderer without coming 
 near her. She asked him if his room at the hotel was all right, 
 and when he thanked her for bothering about him said that 
 Cyril Vane had seen to it. 
 
 " He's a kind, useful sort of boy," she added, " and often 
 helps me with little things." 
 
 That day she said nothing about the Ambassador and Lady 
 Ingleton, and showed no disposition to assume any proprietor- 
 ship over Dion. She took him over the house, and also into 
 the garden. 
 
 Upon the highest terrace of the latter, far above the house, 
 between two magnificent cypresses, there stood a pavilion. It 
 was made of the wood of the plane tree, was painted dull 
 green, had trees growing thickly at its back, and was partially
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 405 
 
 concealed by a luxuriant creeper with deep orange-colored 
 flowers, not unlike orange-colored jasmine, which Mrs. Clarke 
 had seen first in Egypt and had acclimatized in Turkey. The 
 center of the front of this pavilion was open to the terrace, 
 but could be closed by sliding doors which, when pushed back, 
 fitted into the hollow walls on either side. The interior was 
 furnished with bookcases, divans covered with cushions and 
 embroideries, coffee tables, and Eastern rugs. Antique bronze 
 lamps hung by chains from the painted ceiling, which was di- 
 vided into lozenges alternately dull green and dull gold. The 
 view from this detached library was very beautiful. Over the 
 roof of the villa, beyond the broad white road and the quay, 
 the long bay stretched out into the Bosporus. Across its tran- 
 quil waters, and the waters beaten up into waves by the winds 
 from the Black Sea, rose the shores of Asia, Beikos, Anadoli 
 Kavak, Anadoli Fanar, with lines of hills and the Giant's 
 Mountain. Immediately below, and stretching away to right 
 and left, were the curving shores of Europe, with the villas 
 and palaces of Buyukderer held between the blue sea and the 
 tree-covered heights of Kabatash; the park of the Russian Pal- 
 ace, the summer home of Russia's representative at the Sublime 
 Porte, gardens of many rich merchants of Constantinople and 
 of Turkish, Greek and Armenian magnates, and the fertile and 
 well-watered country extending to Therapia, Stania and Bebek 
 on the one hand, and to Rumili Kavak, with the great Belgrad 
 forest behind it, and to Rumili Fanar, where the Bosporus flows 
 into the Black Sea, on the other. 
 
 " Come up here whenever you like," Mrs. Clarke said to 
 Dion. " You can ring at the side gate of the garden, and come 
 up without entering the house or letting me know you are here. 
 I have my own sitting-room on the first floor of the villa next 
 to my bedroom, the little blue-and-green room I showed you just 
 now. The books I'm reading at present are there. No one will 
 bother you, and you won't bother any one." 
 
 He thanked her, not very warmly, perhaps, but with a genu- 
 ine attempt at real gratitude, and said he would come. They 
 walked up and down the terrace for a little while, in silence for 
 the most part. Before they went down he mentioned that he 
 had been out rowing. 
 
 " I ride for exercise," said Mrs. Clarke. " You can easily 
 hire a good horse here, but I have one of my own, Selim. 
 Nearly every afternoon I ride." 
 
 " Were you riding the day before yesterday? " Dion asked.
 
 406 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Yes, in the Kesstane Dereh, or Valley of Roses, as many 
 people call it." 
 
 " Were you alone? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Dion had thought of the cantering horse which he had 
 heard in the lane as he sat beside the stream. He felt sure it 
 was Selim he had heard. Mrs. Clarke did not ask the reason 
 for his questions. She seemed to him a totally incurious 
 woman. Presently they descended to the house, and he wished 
 her good-by. She did not ask him to stay any longer, did not 
 propose any expedition, or any day or hour for another meet- 
 ing. She just let him go with a grave, and almost abstracted 
 good-by. 
 
 When he was alone he realized something; she had as- 
 sumed that he was going to make a long stay in Buyukderer. 
 Once, in speaking of the foliage, she had said, " You will no- 
 tice in September " Why was she so certain he would 
 
 stay on? There was nothing to prevent him from going away 
 by the steamer on the morrow. She did nothing to curb his 
 freedom ; she seemed almost indifferent to the fact of his presence 
 there; yet she had told him he would come, and was evidently 
 certain that he would stay. 
 
 He wondered a little, but only a little, about her will. Then 
 his mind returned to an old haunt in which continually it wan- 
 dered, obsessed by a horror that seemed already ancient, the 
 walled garden at Welsley in which he had searched in the dark 
 for a fleeing woman. Perpetually he heard the movement of 
 that woman's dress as she disappeared into the darkness, and 
 the sound of a door, the door of his own home, being locked 
 against him to give her time to escape from him. That sound 
 had cut his life in two. He saw, as he had seen many times 
 in the past, the falling downwards of edges that bled, the edges 
 of his severed life. 
 
 And he forgot the garden of the Villa Hafiz, the pavilion 
 which stood on the hill looking over the sea to Asia, the grave 
 woman who had told him, indifferently, that he could go to 
 it when he would. 
 
 Nevertheless on the following day he found himself at the 
 garden gate; he rang the bell; he was admitted by Osman, the 
 placidly smiling gardener, and he ascended to the pavilion. 
 No one was there. He stayed for three hours, and nobody 
 came to interrupt him. Down below the wooden villa held 
 closely the secret of its life. Once, as he gazed down on it, he
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 407 
 
 wondered for a moment about Mrs. Clarke, how she passed her 
 hours without a companion, which she was doing just then. 
 The siren of a steamer sounded in the bay. He went into the 
 pavilion. On one of the coffee-tables he found lying a small 
 thin book bound in white vellum. He took it up and read the 
 name in gold letters: "The Kasidah of Haji Abdu El- 
 Yezdi." It was the book he had found Beattie reading on 
 the night when Robin was born, on the night when Bruce 
 Evelin and Guy had discussed Mrs. Clarke's divorce case and 
 Mrs. Clarke. He shuddered in the warmth of the pavilion. 
 Then resolutely he picked the book up. At the beginning, 
 after some blank pages, there was a portrait of Sir Richard 
 Burton. Dion looked at the strong, tragic face, with its burning 
 expression, for a long time. Then he stretched himself on 
 one of the divans and began to read the book. 
 
 Down below, in the villa, Mrs. Clarke was sitting in the 
 green-and-blue room on the first floor with Lady Ingleton, 
 and they were talking about Dion. 
 
 " He's here now," said Mrs. Clarke to her friend. 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " In the garden. I haven't seen him, but Osman tells me 
 he has gone up to the pavilion." 
 
 " We can stroll up there later on, and then you can intro- 
 duce him if you want to." 
 
 " No." 
 
 Lady Ingleton did not look surprised on receiving this brusk 
 negative. 
 
 "Shall I get Carey to see him first?" she asked, in her 
 lazy voice. " Cyril Vane iias prepared the way before him, 
 and Carey is all sympathy and readiness to do what he can. 
 The Greek tragedy of the situation appeals to him tremend- 
 ously, and of course he has a hundredfold more tact than I 
 have." 
 
 " Mr. Leith must go to the Embassy. But what he has 
 been through has developed in him a sort of wildness that 
 is almost like that of an animal. If he saw an outstretched 
 hand he would probably bolt." 
 
 " And yet he's sitting in your pavilion." 
 
 " Because he knows he won't see any outstretched hand 
 there. He was here for two days without coming near me, and 
 even then he only came because I had taken no notice of 
 him." 
 
 " I know. You spread the food outside, go indoors and
 
 408 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 close the shutters, and then, when no one is looking, it creeps 
 up, takes the food, and vanishes." 
 
 " A very great grief eats away the conventions, and beneath 
 the conventions there is always something strongly animal." 
 
 For a moment Lady Ingleton looked at Mrs. Clarke and 
 was silent. Then she said, very quietly and simply: 
 
 " Does he realize yet how cruel you are? " 
 
 " He isn't thinking about me." 
 
 " But he will." 
 
 Mrs. Clarke stared at the wall for a minute. Then she 
 said: 
 
 " Ask the Ambassador if he will ride with me to-morrow 
 afternoon, will you, unless he's engaged?" 
 
 "At what time?" 
 
 " Half-past four. Perhaps he'll dine afterwards." 
 
 " Very well. And now I'm going up to the pavilion." 
 
 But she did not go, although she was genuinely curious 
 about the man who had killed his son and had been cast out 
 by the woman he loved. Secretly Lady Ingleton was much 
 more softly romantic than Mrs. Clarke was. She was hard on 
 bores, and floated in an atmosphere of delicate selfishness, 
 but she could be very kind if her imagination was roused, and 
 though almost strangely devoid of prejudices she had instincts 
 that were not unsound. 
 
 That evening she gave Mrs. Clarke's message to her 
 husband. 
 
 "To-morrow to-morrow?" he said, in his light tenor 
 voice, inquiringly. " Yes, I can go. As it happens, I'm break- 
 fasting with Borinsky at the Russian Palace, so I shall be on 
 the spot. John can meet me with Freddie." 
 
 Freddie was the Ambassador's favorite horse. 
 
 " But can Borinksy put up with you till half-past four? " 
 
 " Cynthia Clarke won't mind if I turn up before my time." 
 
 " No. She's devoted to you, and you know it, and love 
 it." 
 
 Sir Carey smiled. He and his wife were happy people, and 
 he never wished to stray from his path of happiness, not even 
 with Mrs. Clarke. But he had been a beautiful youth, whom 
 many women had loved, and was a remarkably handsome man, 
 although his red hair was turning gray. Honestly he liked to 
 be admired by women, and to feel that his fascination for 
 them was still intact. And he did not actively object to the 
 fact of his wife's being aware of it. For he loved her very
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 409 
 
 much, and he knew that a woman does not love a man less 
 because other women feel his power. 
 
 He appreciated Mrs. Clarke, and thought her full of in- 
 telligence, of nuances, and tres fine. Her husband had been 
 his right-hand man at the Embassy, but he had taken Mrs. 
 Clarke's part when the divorce proceedings were initiated, and 
 had stood up for her ever since. Like Esme Darlington he 
 believed that she was a wild mind in an innocent body. 
 
 On the following day he rode with her towards Rumili 
 Kavak, and presently, returning, to the four cross-roads at 
 the mouth of the Valley of Roses. A Turkish youth was stand- 
 ing there. Mrs. Clarke spoke to him in Turkish and he re- 
 plied. She turned to the Ambassador. 
 
 " You do want a cup of coffee, don't you? " 
 
 " If you tell me I do." 
 
 " By the stream just beyond the lane. And I'll ride home. 
 I've ordered all the things you like best for dinner. Ahmed 
 Bey and Madame Davroulos will make a four." 
 
 "And Delia and Cyril Vane a two! " 
 
 " You must try to control your very natural jealousy." 
 
 " I will." 
 
 He dismounted and gave the reins to the Turkish youth. 
 
 Sitting very erect on her black Arab horse, Mrs. Clarke 
 watched him disappear down the lane in which Dion had 
 heard the cantering feet of a horse as he sat alone beside the 
 stream. 
 
 Then she rode back to Buyukderer. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 WHETHER Mrs. Clarke had put " The Kasidah " in 
 a conspicuous place in the pavilion with a definite 
 object, or whether she had been reading it and by 
 chance had laid it down, Dion could not tell. He believed, 
 however, that she had intended that this book should be read 
 by him at this crisis in his life. She had frankly acknowledged 
 that she wished to rouse him out of his inertia; she was a 
 very mental woman; a book was a weapon that such a woman 
 would be likely to employ.
 
 410 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 At any rate, Dion felt her influence in " The Kasidah." 
 
 The book took possession of him; it burnt him like a flame; 
 even it made him for a short time forget. That was incred- 
 ible, yet it was the fact. 
 
 It was an antichristian book. A woman's love of God had 
 made Dion in his bitterness antichristian. It was an enor- 
 mously vital book, and called to the vitality which misery had 
 not killed within him. There were passages in it which seemed 
 to have been written specially for him passages that went 
 into him like a sword and drew blood from out of the very 
 depths of him. 
 
 " Better the worm of Izrail than Death that walks in form 
 of life" that was for him. He had substituted for death, 
 swift, easy, a mere nothing, the long, slow, terrific something. 
 Death that walks in form of life. Deliberately he had chosen 
 that. 
 
 " On thought itself feed not thy thought ; nor turn 
 
 From Sun and Light to gaze 
 
 At darkling cloisters paved with tombs where rot 
 The bones of bygone days " 
 
 What else had he done since he had wandered in the 
 wilderness ? 
 
 " There is no Good, there is no Bad, these be 
 
 The whims of mortal will: 
 
 What works me weal that call I ' good,' what harms 
 And hurts I hold as ' ill.' " 
 
 Those words drove out the pale Fantasy he had fallen down 
 and worshiped. It had harmed and hurt him. Haji Abdu 
 El-Yezdi bade him henceforth hold it as " ill." If he could 
 only do that, would not gates open before him, would not, per- 
 haps, the power to live again in a new way arise within him? 
 
 " Do what thy Manhood bids thee do, from 
 
 None but self expect applause; 
 He noblest lives and noblest dies who makes 
 And keeps his self-made laws. 
 
 All other Life is living Death, a world where 
 
 None but Phantoms dwell, 
 A breath, a wind, a sound, a voice, a tinkling 
 
 Of the Camel bell." 
 
 He had lived the other life, for he had lived for another; 
 he had lived to earn the applause of affection from Rosamund;
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 411 
 
 he had striven always to fit his life into her pattern; now he 
 was alone with the result. 
 
 " Pluck the old woman from thy breast : be 
 Stout in woe, be stark in weal 
 
 spurn 
 
 Bribe of Heav'n and threat of Hell." 
 
 He had chosen the death that walks in form of life; now 
 something powerful, stirred from sleep by the influence of a 
 dead thinker wedded, perhaps, with the influence of one not 
 dead, rose up in him to reject that death. And it was the 
 same thing which long ago had enabled him to be pure before 
 his marriage, the same thing which had enabled him to put 
 England before even Rosamund, the same thing which had 
 held him up in many difficult days in South Africa, and had 
 kept him cheerful and bravely gay through the long separation 
 from all he cared for, the same thing which had begun to 
 dominate Rosamund during those few short days at Welsley, 
 the brief period of reunion in happiness which had preceded 
 the crash into the abyss; it was the fiery spark of Dion's 
 strength which not all his weakness had succeeded in ex- 
 tinguishing, a strength which had made for good in the past, 
 a strength which might make for evil in the future. 
 
 Did Mrs. Clarke know of that strength, and was she subtly 
 appealing to it? 
 
 " Pluck the old woman from thy breast." 
 
 Again and again Dion repeated those words to himself, and 
 he saw himself, an ineffably tragic, because a weak figure, 
 feebly drifting with his black misery through cities which knew 
 him not, wandering alone, sitting alone, peering at the lives of 
 others, watching their vices without interest, without either 
 approval or condemnation, staring with dull eyes at their fetes 
 and their funerals, their affections, their cruelties, their pas- 
 sions, their crimes. He saw himself in a garden at Pera 
 staring at painted women, neither desiring them nor turning 
 from them with any disgust. He saw himself as an old 
 woman. A smoldering defiance within him sent out a spurt 
 of scorching flame. 
 
 Sitting alone by the stream in the Valley of Roses Dion 
 heard the sound of steps, and presently saw a slight, very 
 refined-looking man in riding-breeches, with a hunting-crop 
 in his hand, coming down to the bank. He sat down on a
 
 412 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 rough wooden bench under a willow tree, lit a cigar and gazed 
 into the water. He had large, imaginative gray eyes. There 
 was something military and something poetic in his manner 
 and bearing and in his whole appearance. Almost directly 
 from a little rustic cafe close by a Greek lad came, carrying a 
 wooden stool. On it he placed a steaming brass coffee pot, 
 a cup and saucer, sugar, a stick of burning incense in a tiny 
 vase, and a rose with a long stalk. Then he went swiftly away, 
 looking very intelligent. The stranger obviously an Eng- 
 lishman picked up the rose, held it, smelt it, laid it down 
 and began to sip his coffee. Then in a very casual, easy-going 
 way, like a man who was naturally sociable, and who enjoyed 
 having a word with any one whom he came across, he began 
 to speak to Dion. 
 
 \Yhen that day died Dion stood alone looking down into 
 the stream. He looked till he saw in it the face of night. 
 Broken stars quivered in the water; among them for a moment 
 he perceived the eyes of a child, of a child who had been able 
 to love him as a woman had not been able to love him, and to 
 forgive him as a woman could not forgive him. 
 
 When Dion walked back to his hotel the candlelight glim- 
 mered over the dining-table at the Villa Hafiz where Mrs. 
 Clarke sat with her three guests the Ambassador, Madame 
 Davroulos, the wife of a Greek millionaire whose home was at 
 Smyrna, and Ahmed Bey, one of the Sultan's adjutants. 
 
 Hadi Bey had long ago passed out of her life. 
 
 That evening the Ambassador got up to go rather early. 
 His caique was lying against the quay. 
 
 "Come out by the garden gate, won't you?" said Mrs. 
 Clarke to him, and she led the way to the tangled rose garden, 
 where sometimes she sat and read the poems of Hafiz. 
 
 Madame Davroulos was smoking a large cigar in a corner 
 of the drawing-room and talking volubly to Ahmed Bey, who 
 was listening as only a Turk can listen, with a smiling and 
 immense serenity, twisting a string of amber beads in his 
 padded fingers. 
 
 " He was there? " said Mrs. Clarke, in her quietest and most 
 impersonal manner. 
 
 "Yes he was there." 
 
 The Ambassador paused by the fountain, and stood with 
 one foot on the marble edge of the basin, gazing down on the 
 blue lilies whose color looked dull and almost black in the 
 night.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 413 
 
 " He was there. I talked with him for quite half an hour. 
 He seemed glad to talk; he talked almost fiercely." 
 
 Mrs. Clarke's white face looked faintly surprised. 
 
 " Eventually I told him who I was, and he told his name 
 to me, watching me narrowly to see how I should take it. My 
 air of complete serenity over the revelation seemed to reassure 
 him. I said I knew he was a friend of yours and that my 
 wife and I would be very glad to see him at Therapia, and 
 at the Embassy in Pera later on. He said he would come to 
 Therapia to-morrow." 
 
 This time Mrs. Clarke looked almost strongly surprised. 
 
 "What did you talk about?" she asked. 
 
 " Chiefly about a book he seems to have been reading re- 
 cently, Richard Burton's ' Kasidah.' You know it, of course? " 
 
 " I remember Omar Khayyam much better." 
 
 " He spoke strangely, almost terribly about it. Perhaps 
 you know how converts to Roman Catholicism talk in the early 
 days of their conversion, as if they alone understood the true 
 meaning of being safe in sunlight, cradled and cherished in the 
 blaze, as it were. Well, he spoke like one just converted to a 
 belief in the all-sufficiency of this life if it is thoroughly lived; 
 and, I confess, he gave me the impression of being cradled 
 and cherished in thick darkness." 
 
 Sir Carey was silent for a moment. Then he said: 
 
 " What was this man, Leith? " 
 
 " Do you mean ? " 
 
 " Before his married life came to an end? " 
 
 "The straight, athletic, orthodox young Englishman; very 
 sane and simple; healthily moral; not perhaps particularly 
 religious, but full of sentiment and trust in a boyish sort of 
 way. I remember he read Christian morals into Greek art." 
 
 Sir Carey raised his eyebrows. 
 
 " One could sum him up by saying that he absolutely be- 
 lieved in and exclusively adored a strongly religious, beautiful, 
 healthy-minded and healthy-bodied Englishwoman, who has 
 now, I believe, entered a sisterhood, or something of the kind. 
 She colored his whole life. He saw life through her eyes, 
 and believed through her faith. At least, I should think so." 
 
 " Then he's an absolutely different man from what he was." 
 
 "The strongly religious, beautiful, healthy-minded and 
 bodied Englishwoman has condemned as a crime a mere terrible 
 mistake. She has taken herself away from her husband and 
 given herself to God. She cared for the child."
 
 4 14 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 Mrs. Clarke laid a curious cold emphasis on the last 
 sentence. 
 
 " Horrible! " said Sir Carey slowly. " And so now he turns 
 from the Protestant's God to Destiny playing with the pawns 
 upon the great chessboard. But if he's a man of sentiment, 
 and not an intellectual, he'll never find this life all-sufficient, 
 however he lives it. The darkness will never be enough for 
 him." 
 
 " It has to be enough for a great many of us," said Mrs. 
 Clarke. 
 
 There was a long pause, which she broke by saying, in a 
 lighter voice: 
 
 " As he's going to visit you, I can go on having him here. 
 You'll let people know, won't you? " 
 
 "That he's a friend of ours? Of course." 
 
 " That will make things all right." 
 
 " You run your unconventionalities always on the public 
 race-course, in sight of the grand stand packed with the con- 
 ventionalities." 
 
 "What else can I do? Besides, secret things are always 
 found out." 
 
 " You never went in for them." 
 
 " And yet my own husband misunderstood me." 
 
 "Poor Beadon! He was an excellent councilor." 
 
 " And an excellent husband." 
 
 " But he made a great fool of himself." 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Clarke, without any animus. " And so 
 Mr. Leith made a sad impression upon you? " 
 
 " A few men can be tormented. He is one of them. He 
 has gone down into the dark places. Perhaps the Furies are 
 with him there, the attendants of the Goddess of Death." 
 
 He glanced at his companion. She was standing absolutely 
 still, gazing down into the water. Her white face looked 
 beautiful, but strangely haggard and implacable in the night. 
 And for a moment his mind dwelt on the image conjured up by 
 his last words, and he thought of her as the Goddess of Death. 
 
 " Well," he said, " I must go, or Delia will be wondering. 
 She knows your power." 
 
 " And knows I am too faithful to her not to resist yours." 
 
 He pressed her hand, then said rather abruptly: 
 
 " Are you feverish to-night? " 
 
 " No," said Mrs. Clarke, almost with the hint of a sudden 
 irritation. " I am never feverish."
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 415 
 
 Sir Carey went away to his caique. 
 
 When he had gone Mrs. Clarke stood alone by the fountain 
 for a moment, frowning, and with her thin lips closely com- 
 pressed, almost, indeed, pinched together. She gazed down at 
 her hands. They were lovely hands, small, sensitive, refined; 
 they looked clever, too, not like tapering fools. She knew very 
 well how lovely they were, yet now she looked at them with a 
 certain distaste. Betraying hands! Abruptly she extended 
 them towards the fountain, and let the cool silver of the water 
 spray over them. And as she watched the spray she thought 
 of the wrinkles about Dion's eyes. 
 
 "Ah, ma chere, qu'est-ce que vous faites la toute seule? 
 Vous prenez un bain ? " 
 
 The powerful contralto of Madame Davroulos flowed out 
 from the drawing-room, and her alluring mustache appeared 
 at the lighted French windows. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke dried her hands with a minute handkerchief, 
 and, without troubling about an explanation, turned away from 
 the rose garden. But when her two guests were gone she told 
 her Greek butler to bring out an arm-chair and a foot-stool, 
 and the Russian maid, whom Dion had seen, to bring her a 
 silk wrap. Then she sent them both to bed, lit a cigarette 
 and sat down by the fountain, smoking cigarette after cigarette 
 quickly. Not till the freshness of dawn was in the air, and 
 a curious living grayness made the tangled rose bushes look 
 artificial and the fountain strangely cold, did she get up to go 
 to bed. 
 
 She looked very tired; but she always looked tired, although 
 she scarcely knew what physical fatigue was. The gray of 
 dawn grew about her and emphasized her peculiar pallor, the 
 shadows beneath her large eyes, the haunted look about her 
 cheeks and her temples. 
 
 As she went into the house she pulled cruelly at a rose bush. 
 A white rose came away from its stalk in her hand. She 
 crushed its petals and flung them away on the sill of the 
 window. 
 
 While Mrs. Clarke was sitting by the fountain in the garden 
 of the Villa Hafiz, Dion was sleepless in his bedroom at the 
 Hotel Belgrad. He was considering whether he should end 
 his life or whether he should change the way of his life. He 
 was not conscious of struggle. He did not feel excited. But 
 he did feel determined. The strength he possessed was assert- 
 ing itself. It had slumbered within him; it had not died.
 
 416 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 Either he would die now or he would genuinely live, would 
 lay a grip on life somehow. 
 
 If he chose to die how would Mrs. Clarke take the news of 
 his death? He imagined some one going to the Villa Hafiz 
 from the Hotel Belgrad with a message: "The English 
 gentleman Mr. Vane took the room for has just killed himself. 
 What is to be done with the body? " What would Mrs. Clarke 
 say? What would she look like? What would she do? He 
 remembered the sign of the cross she had made in the flat in 
 Knightsbridge. With that sign she had dismissed the soul 
 of Brayfield into the eternities. Would she dismiss the soul 
 of Dion Leith with the sign of the cross? 
 
 If she heard of his death, Rosamund would of course be 
 unmoved, or would, perhaps, feel a sense of relief. And doubt- 
 less she would offer up to God a prayer in which his name 
 would be mentioned. Women who loved God were always 
 ready with a prayer. If it came too late, never mind ! It was 
 a prayer, and therefore an act acceptable to God. 
 
 But Mrs. Clarke? Certainly she would not pray about it. 
 Dion had a feeling that she would be angry. He had never 
 seen her angry, but he felt sure she could be enraged in a 
 frozen, still, terrible way. If he died perhaps a thread would 
 snap, the thread of her design. For she had some purpose 
 in connexion with him. She had willed him to come to this 
 place; she was willing him to remain in it. Apparently she 
 wished to raise him out of the dust. He thought of Eyub, of 
 Mrs. Clarke walking beside him on the dusty road. She had 
 seemed very much at home in the dust. But she was not like 
 Rosamund; she was not afraid of a speck of dust falling 
 upon the robe of her ideals. What was Mrs. Clarke's purpose 
 in connexion with him? He did not pursue that question, 
 but dismissed it, incurious still in his misery, which had 
 become more active since his strength had stirred out of sleep. 
 If he did not die how was he going to live? He had lived 
 by the affections. Could he live by the lusts? He had no 
 personal ambitions; he had no avarice to prompt him to energy; 
 he was not in love with himself. Suddenly he realized the 
 value of egoism to the egoist, and that he w r as very poor be- 
 cause he was really not an egoist by nature. If he had been, 
 if he were, perhaps things would have gone better for him in 
 the past, would be more endurable now. But he had lived 
 not to himself but to another. 
 
 He told himself that to do that was the rankest folly. At
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 417 
 
 any rate he would never do that again. But the unselfishness 
 of love had become a habit with him. Even in his extreme 
 youth he had instinctively saved up, moved, no doubt, by an 
 inherent desire to have as large a gift as possible ready when 
 the moment for giving came. 
 
 If he lived on he must live for himself; he must reverse all 
 his rules of conduct; he must fling himself into the life of 
 self-gratification. He had come to believe that the men who 
 trample are the men who succeed and who have the happiest 
 lives. Sensitiveness does not pay; loving consideration of 
 others brings no real reward; men do not get what they give. 
 It is the hard and the passionate man who is the victor in life, 
 not the man who is tender, thoughtful, even unselfish in the 
 midst of his passion. Self-control what a reward Dion had 
 received for the self-control of his youth! 
 
 If he lived he would cast it away. 
 
 He sat at his window till dawn, till the sea woke and the 
 hills of Asia were visible under a clear and delicate sky. He 
 leaned out and felt the atmosphere of beginning that is peculiar 
 to the first hour of daylight. Could he begin again? It 
 c eemed impossible. Yet now he felt he could not deprive him- 
 self of life. Suicide is a cowardly act, even though a certain 
 kind of courage must prompt the pulling of the trigger, the 
 insertion of the knife, or the pouring between the lips of the 
 poison. Dion had not the courage of that cowardice, or the 
 cowardice of that courage. Perhaps, without knowing it, in 
 deciding to live he was only taking one more step on the road 
 whose beginning he had seen in Elis, as he waited alone out- 
 side of the house where Hermes watched over the child; was 
 saving the distant Rosamund from a stroke which would pierce 
 through her armor even though she knelt before the throne of 
 God. But he was conscious only of the feeling that he could 
 not kill himself, though he did not know why he could not. 
 The capacity for suicide evidently was not contained in his 
 nature. He rejected the worm of Izrail; he rejected, too, the 
 other death. He must, then, live. 
 
 He washed and lay down on his bed. And directly he lay 
 down he wondered why he had been sitting up and mentally 
 debating a great question. For in the Valley of Roses he had 
 surely decided it before he spoke to Sir Carey Ingleton. When 
 he said he would visit Lady Ingleton he must have decided. 
 That visit would mean the return to what is called normal life, 
 the exit from the existence of a castaway, the entrance into
 
 4 i8 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 relations with his kind. He dreaded that visit, but he meant 
 to pay it. In paying it he would take his first step away 
 from the death that walks in form of life. 
 
 He could not sleep, and soon he got up again and went to 
 the window. A gust of wind came to him from the sea. It 
 seemed to hint at a land that was cold, and he thought of 
 Russia, and then again of the distant places in which he might 
 lose himself, places in which no one would know who he was, 
 or trouble about the past events of his life. There before him 
 was Asia rising out of the dawn. He had only to cross a 
 narrow bit of sea and a continent was ready to receive him 
 and to hide him. So he had thought of Africa on many a 
 night as he sat in the Hotel des Colonies at Marseilles. But 
 he had not crossed to Africa. 
 
 The wind died away. It had only been a capricious gust, 
 a wandering guest of the morning. Down below^ in the Bay 
 of Buyukderer the waters were quiet; the row boats lay still 
 at the edge of the quay; the small yachts, with their sails furled, 
 slept at their moorings. The wind had been like a summons, 
 a sudden tug at him as of a hand saying, with its bones, its 
 muscles, its nerves, its sinews, " Come with me ! " 
 
 Once before he had felt something like that in a London 
 Divorce Court, but it had been fainter, subtler and perhaps 
 warmer. The memory of his curiosity about the unwise life 
 returned to him, somehow linked with the wandering wind. 
 In his months of the living death he had often looked on at it 
 in the cities through which he had drifted, but he had never 
 taken part in it. He had been emptied of the force to do that 
 by his misery. Now he was conscious of force though his 
 misery was not lessened, seemed to him even to have increased. 
 He had often been dulled by grief; now he felt cruelly 
 alive. 
 
 He went down to the sea, found the Albanian boatman with 
 whom he had rowed on his first day at Buyukderer, took his 
 boat out and bathed from it. The current beyond the bay 
 was strong. He had a longing to let it take him whither it 
 would. If only he could find an influence to which he could 
 give himself, an influence whose strength upon him would be 
 tremendous, an influence which would sweep him away! 
 
 If only he could get rid of his long fidelity! 
 
 When he climbed dripping, and with his hair plastered 
 down on his forehead, into the boat, the Albanian stared at 
 him as if in surprise.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 419 
 
 "What's the matter?" said Dion in French, when he was 
 dry and getting into his clothes. 
 
 But the man only replied: 
 
 ' Monsieur tres fort molto forte, moi aussi tres fort. Mon- 
 sieur venez sempre con moi! " 
 
 And he smiled with the evident intention of being agree- 
 able to a valuable client. Dion did not badger him with any 
 more questions. As the boat touched the quay he told the 
 man to be ready to start for Therapia that day at any time 
 after three o'clock. 
 
 When he reached the summer villa of the Ambassador he 
 was informed by a tall English footman that Lady Ingleton 
 was at home. She received Dion in the midst of the little dogs, 
 but after he had been with her for a very few minutes she rang 
 for a servant and banished them. Secretly she was deeply 
 interested in this man who had killed his son, but she gave 
 Dion no reason to suppose that she was concentrating on him. 
 Her lazy, indifferent manner was perfectly natural, but per- 
 haps now and then she was more definitely kind than usual; 
 and she managed somehow to show Dion that she was ready 
 to be his friend. 
 
 " If you stay long we must take you over one day on the 
 yacht to Brusa," she said presently. " Cynthia loves Brusa, 
 and so does my husband. We went over there once with Pierre 
 Loti. Cynthia and poor Beadon Clarke were of the party, 
 I remember. We had a delightful time." 
 
 " Why do you say poor Beadon Clarke ? " asked Dion 
 abruptly. 
 
 That day he was at a great parting of the ways. He was 
 concentrated upon himself and his own decision, so concen- 
 trated that the conventions meant little to him. He was totally 
 unaware of the bruskness of such a question asked of a woman 
 whom he had never seen before. 
 
 " One pities a thoroughly good fellow who does a thoroughly 
 foolish thing. It was a very, very foolish thing to do to attack 
 Cynthia." 
 
 " I was in court during part of the trial." 
 
 " Well, then, you know how foolish it was. Some people 
 can't be attacked with impunity." 
 
 The inflexion of Lady Ingleton's voice at that moment made 
 Dion think of Mrs. Chetwinde. Once or twice Mrs. Chet- 
 winde's voice had sounded almost exactly like that when she 
 had spoken of Mrs. Clarke.
 
 420 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Especially people who are innocent," he said. 
 
 " Naturally, as Cynthia was. Beadon Clarke made a ter- 
 rible mistake, poor fellow." 
 
 When Dion got up to go she again alluded to his staying 
 on at Bu>ukderer, with an " if " attached to the allusion, and 
 her dark eyes, which looked like an Italian's, rested upon him 
 with a soft, but very intelligent, scrutiny. He had an odd 
 feeling that she had taken a liking to him, and yet that she did 
 not wish him to stay on in Buyukderer. 
 
 " I don't quite know what I am going to do," he said. 
 
 As he spoke the hideous freedom of his empty life seemed 
 to gather itself together, and to flow stealthily upon him like 
 a filthy wave bearing refuse upon its surface. 
 
 " I'm a free agent," he added, looking hard at Lady Ingle- 
 ton. " I have no ties." 
 
 He shook her hand and went away. 
 
 That evening she said to her husband: 
 
 " I have felt sorry for myself occasionally, and for other 
 people in my Christian moments, but I have never in the past 
 felt so sorry for any one as I feel now for Mr. Leith." 
 
 " Because of the tragedy which has marred his life? " 
 
 " It isn't only that. He's on the edge of so much." 
 
 "You don't mean ?" 
 
 Sir Carey paused. 
 
 " No, no," Lady Ingleton said, almost impatiently. " Life 
 hasn't done with that man yet. I could almost find it in my 
 heart to wish it had. Shall we take him to Brusa on the yacht? 
 That would advertise our acquaintance with him to all the 
 gossips on the Bosporus. I promised Cynthia I would throw 
 my mantle over him." 
 
 " I'm always ready for a visit to your only rival," said Sir 
 Carey. 
 
 " La Mosquee Verte ! I'll think about it. We might go 
 for three or four days." 
 
 Her warm voice sounded rather reluctant; yet her husband 
 knew that she wished to go. 
 
 " It would be an excellent way of showing your mantle to 
 the gossips," he remarked. " But you always think of excellent 
 ways." 
 
 Two days later the Embassy yacht, the " Leyla," having on 
 board Sir Carey and Lady Ingleton, Mrs. Clarke, Cyril Vane, 
 Dion, and Turkish Jane, the doyenne of the Pekinese, sailed 
 for Mudania on the sea of Marmora, which is the Port of Brusa.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 421 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 ON the day after the return of the " Leyla " from 
 Mudania, Mrs. Clarke asked Dion if he would dine 
 with her at the Villa Hafiz. She asked him by word 
 of mouth. They had met on the quay. It was morning, 
 and Dion was about to embark in the Albanian's boat for a 
 row on the Bosporus when he saw Mrs. Clarke's thin figure 
 approaching him under a white umbrella lined with delicate 
 green. She was wearing smoked spectacles, which made her 
 white face look strange and almost forbidding in the strong 
 sunlight. 
 
 " I can't come," he said. 
 
 And there was a sound almost of desperation in his voice. 
 
 " I can't." 
 
 She said nothing, but she stood there beside him looking 
 very inflexible. Apparently she was waiting for an explana- 
 tion of his refusal, though she did not ask for it. 
 
 " I can't be with people. It's no use. I've tried it. You 
 didn't know " 
 
 " Yes, I did," she interrupted him. 
 
 "You did know?" 
 
 He stood staring blankly at her. 
 
 " Surely I I tried my best. I did my utmost to hide it." 
 
 " You couldn't hide it from me." 
 
 " I must go away," he said. 
 
 " Come to-night. Nobody will be there." 
 
 " It isn't a party?" 
 
 " We shall be alone." 
 
 " You meant to ask people? " 
 
 " I won't. I'll ask nobody. Half-past eight? " 
 
 " I'll come," he said. 
 
 She turned away without another word. 
 
 Just after half-past eight he rang at the door of the villa. 
 
 As he went into the hall and smelt the strong perfume of 
 flowers he wondered that he had dared to come. But he had 
 been with Mrs. Clarke when she was in horrible circumstances; 
 he had sat and watched her when she was under the knife; 
 he had helped her to pass through a crowd of people fighting 
 to stare at her and making hideous comments upon her. Then 
 why, even to-night, should he dread her eyes? His remem-
 
 422 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 brance of her tragedy made him feel that hers was the one 
 house into which he could enter that night. 
 
 As he walked into the dra,wing-room he recollected walking 
 into Mrs. Chetwinde's drawing-room, full of interest in the 
 woman who was in sanctuary, but who was soon to be de- 
 livered up, stripped by a man of the law's horrible allegations, 
 to the gaping crowd. Now she was living peacefully among 
 her friends, the custodian of her boy, a woman who had won 
 through; and he was a wanderer, a childless father, the slayer 
 of his son. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke kept him waiting for a few minutes. He stood 
 at the French window and listened to the fountain. In the 
 fall of the water there was surely an undertune. He seemed 
 to know that it was there and yet he could not hear it; and 
 he felt baffled as if by a thin mystery. 
 
 Then Mrs. Clarke came in and they went at once to dinner. 
 
 During dinner they talked very little. She spoke when the 
 Greek butler was in the room, and Dion did his best in reply; 
 nevertheless the conversation languished. Although Dion had 
 so few words to give to his hostess he felt abnormally alive. 
 The whole of him was like a quivering nerve. 
 
 When dinner was over Mrs. Clarke said to the butler: 
 
 " Osman will make the coffee for us. He knows about it. 
 We shall have it in the pavilion." 
 
 The butler, who, although a Greek, looked at that moment 
 almost incredibly stolid, moved his rather pouting lips, no 
 doubt in assent, and was gone. They saw him no more that 
 night. 
 
 They walked slowly from terrace to terrace of the climbing 
 garden till they came to the height on which the pavilion stood 
 guarded by the two mighty cypresses. There was no moon, 
 and the night was a very dark purple night, with stars that 
 looked dim and remote, like lost stars in the wilderness of 
 infinity. From the terraces came the scent of flowers. In the 
 pavilion one hanging lamp gave a faint light which empha- 
 sized the obscurity. It shone through colored panes and drew 
 thick shadows on the floor and on sections of the divans. The 
 heaps of cushions were colorless, and had a strange look of 
 unyielding massiveness, as if they were blocks of some hard 
 material. Osman stood beside one of the coffee-tables. 
 
 As soon as his mistress appeared he began to make the coffee. 
 Dion stayed upon the terrace, and Mrs. Clarke went into the 
 pavilion and sat down.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 423 
 
 The cypresses were like dark towers in the night. Dion 
 looked up at them. Their summits were lost in the brooding 
 purple darkness. Cypresses! Why had he thought of 
 cypresses in England in connexion with Mrs. Clarke? Why 
 had he seen her standing among cypresses, seen himself coming 
 to her and with her in the midst of the immense shadows they 
 cast? No doubt simply because he knew she lived much in 
 Turkey, the land of the cypress. That must have been the 
 reason. Nevertheless now he was oppressed by a weight of 
 mystery somehow connected with those dark and gigantic trees; 
 and he remembered the theory that the past, the present and 
 the future are simultaneously in being, and that those who are 
 said to read the future in reality possess only the power of 
 seeing what already is on another plane. Had he in England, 
 however vaguely, however dimly, seen as through a crack some 
 blurred vision of what was already in existence? He felt 
 almost afraid of the cypresses. Nevertheless, as he stood look- 
 ing up at them, his sense almost of fear tempted him to make 
 an experiment. He remained absolutely still, and strove to con- 
 centrate all his faculties. After a long pause he shut his eyes. 
 
 " If the far future is even now in being," he said mentally, 
 " let me look upon it now." 
 
 He saw nothing; but immediately he heard the sound of 
 wind among pine trees, as he had heard it with Rosamund in 
 the green valley of Elis. It rose in the silent night, that long 
 murmur of eternity, and presently faded away. 
 
 He shuddered and turned sharply towards the pavilion. 
 
 Osman had gone, and Mrs. Clarke was pouring the coffee 
 into the tiny cups. 
 
 "There's no wind, is there is there? " he asked her. 
 
 She looked up at him. 
 
 " But not a breath! " she said. 
 
 After a pause she added: 
 
 "Why do you ask such a thing? " 
 
 " I heard wind in in the tops of trees," he almost 
 stammered. 
 
 " That's impossible." 
 
 " But I say I did! " he exclaimed, with violence. " In 
 pine trees." 
 
 " There are no pine trees here," she said, in her husky voice. 
 " Sit down and have your coffee." 
 
 He obeyed her and sat down quickly, and quickly he took 
 the coffee-cup from her.
 
 424 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Have a little mastika with it," she said. 
 
 And she pushed a tall liqueur-glass full of the colorless liquid 
 towards him. 
 
 " Yes," he said. 
 
 As he drank he looked out sideways through the wide opening 
 in the pavilion. There was not a breath of wind. 
 
 " I can't understand why I heard the noise of wind in pine 
 trees," he forced himself to say. 
 
 " Seemed to hear it," she corrected him. " Perhaps you 
 were thinking of it." 
 
 "But I wasn't!" 
 
 A jeweled gleam from the lamp fell upon one side of her 
 face. She moved, and the light dropped away from her. 
 
 " What were you thinking of? " she asked. 
 
 " Of the future." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "That's why it is inexplicable." 
 
 " I don't understand." 
 
 " Don't let us talk about it any more," he said, in an almost 
 terrible voice. " I must have had an hallucination." 
 
 " Have you ever before thought you were the victim of an 
 hallucination ? " she asked. 
 
 " Yes. Several times I have seen the eyes of my little boy. 
 I saw them a few nights ago in the stream that flows through 
 the Valley of Roses, just after Sir Carey had left me." 
 
 " Don't look into water again except in daylight. It is the 
 night that brings fancies with it. If you gaze very long at 
 anything in a dim light you are sure to see something strange 
 or horrible." 
 
 " But an hallucination of sound ! I must go away from 
 here! Perhaps in some other place " 
 
 But she interrupted him inflexibly. 
 
 " Going away would be absolutely useless. A man can't 
 travel away from himself." 
 
 " But I can't lead a normal life. It's impossible. Those 
 horrible nights on the ' Leyla ' " 
 
 He stopped. The effort he had made during the trip to 
 Brusa seemed to have exhausted the last remnants of any moral 
 force he had still possessed when he started on that journey. 
 
 " I had made up my mind to begin again, to lay hold on 
 some sort of real life," he continued, after a pause. " I was 
 determined to face things. I called at Therapia. I accepted 
 Lady Ingleton's invitation. I've done all I can to make a new
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 425 
 
 start. But it's no use. I can't keep it up. I haven't the 
 force for it. It was hell being with happy people." 
 
 " You mean the Ingletons. Yes, they are very happy." 
 
 " And Vane, who's just engaged to be married. I saw her 
 photograph in his cabin. They were all all very kind. 
 Lady Ingleton did everything to make me feel at ease. He's 
 a delightful fellow the Ambassador, I mean. But I simply 
 can't stand mingling my life with lives that are happy. So 
 I had better go away and be alone again." 
 
 " And lives that are unhappy? " 
 
 "What do you mean? " 
 
 " Can't you mingle your life with them, or with one of 
 them?" 
 
 He was silent, looking towards her. She was wearing a 
 very dark blue tea-gown of some thin material in which her 
 thin body seemed lost. He saw the dark folds of it flowing 
 over the divan on which she was leaning, and trailing to the 
 rug at her feet. Her face was a faint whiteness under her 
 colorless hair. Her eyes were two darknesses in it. He could 
 not see them distinctly, but he knew they were looking intent 
 and distressed. 
 
 "Haven't you told me I look punished?" said the husky 
 voice. 
 
 " Are you unhappy? " he asked. 
 
 " Do you think I have much reason to be happy? " 
 
 " You have your boy." 
 
 " For a few weeks in the year. I have lost my husband 
 in a horrible way, worse than if he had died. I live entirely 
 alone. I can't marry again. And yet I'm not at all old, and 
 not at all finished. But perhaps you have never really thought 
 about my situation seriously. After all, why should you? 
 Why should any one? I won my case, and so of course it's 
 all right." 
 
 " Are you unhappy, then ? " 
 
 "What do you suppose about me?" 
 
 " I know you've gone through a great deal. But you have, 
 your boy." 
 
 There was a sound almost of dull obstinacy in his voice. 
 
 " Some women are not merely mothers, or potential mothers ! " 
 said an almost fierce voice. " Some women are just women 
 first and mothers second. There are women who love men for 
 themselves, not merely because men are possible child-bringers. 
 To a real and complete woman no child can ever be the perfect
 
 426 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 substitute for a husband or a lover. Even nature has put the 
 lover first and the child second. I forbid you to say that I 
 have my boy, as if that settled the question of my happiness. 
 I forbid you." 
 
 He heard her breathing quickly. Then she added: 
 
 " But how could you be expected to understand women like 
 me?" 
 
 The intensity of her sudden outburst startled him as the 
 strength of the current in the Bosporus had startled him when 
 he plunged into the sea from the Albanian's boat. 
 
 " You have been brought up in another school," she con- 
 tinued slowly, and with a sort of icy bitterness. " I forgive 
 you." 
 
 She got up from the divan and went out upon the terrace, 
 leaving him alone in the pavilion, which seemed suddenly 
 colder when she had left it. 
 
 He did not follow her. A breath from a human furnace 
 had scorched him had scorched the nerve, and the nerve 
 quivered. 
 
 " You have been brought up in a different school." Welsley 
 and Stamboul Rosamund and Mrs. Clarke. Once, some- 
 where, he had made that comparison. As he sat in the pavilion 
 it seemed to him that for a moment he heard the cool chiming 
 of bells in a gray cathedral tower, the faint sound of the 
 Dresden Amen. But he looked out through the opening in 
 the pavilion, and far down below he saw lights on the Bay 
 of Buyukderer, the vague outlines of hills; and the perfume 
 that came to him out of the night was not the damp smell of 
 an English garden. 
 
 An English garden! In the darkness of a November night 
 he stood within the walls of an English garden; he heard a cry, 
 saw the movement of a woman's body, and knew that his life 
 was in ruins. The woman fled, but he followed her blindly; 
 he sought for her in the dark. He wanted to tell her that he 
 had been but the instrument of Fate, that he was not to blame, 
 that he needed compassion more than any other man living. 
 But she eluded him in the darkness, and presently he heard a 
 key grind in a lock. A friend had locked the door of his home 
 against him in order that his wife might have time to escape 
 from him. 
 
 Then he heard a husky voice say, " My friend, it will have 
 to come." And, suddenly, it came. 
 
 He broke down absolutely, threw himself on his face on
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 427 
 
 the divan with his arms stretched out beyond his head, grasped 
 the cushions and sobbed. His body shook and twitched; his 
 face was contorted; his soul writhed. A storm that came from 
 within him broke upon him. He crashed into the abyss. 
 Down, down he went, till the last faint ray from above was 
 utterly blotted out. She whom he had loved so much sent 
 him down, she who far away had given herself to God. He 
 felt her ruthless hands the hands of a good woman, the 
 hands of a loving mother pressing him down. Let her have 
 her will. He would go into the last darkness. Then, perhaps, 
 she would be more at ease; then, perhaps, she would know the 
 true peace of God. He would pay to the uttermost farthing 
 both for himself and for her. 
 
 Outside, just hidden from him by the pavilion wall, Mrs. 
 Clarke stood in the shadow of one of the cypresses, and listened. 
 The trip on the " Leyla " had served two purposes. It was 
 better so. When a thing must be, the sooner it is over the 
 better. And she had waited for a very long time. She drew 
 her brows together as she thought of the long time she had 
 waited. Then she moved and walked away down the terrace. 
 She had heard enough. 
 
 She went to the far end of the terrace. A wooden seat was 
 placed there in the shadow of a plane tree. She sat down on 
 it, rested her pointed chin in the palm of her right hand, with 
 her elbow on her knee, and remained motionless. She was 
 giving him time; time to weep away the past and the good 
 woman who had ruined his life. Even now she knew how to 
 be patient. In a way she pitied him. If she had not had to 
 be patient for such a long time she would have pitied him much 
 more. But he had often hurt her; and, as Lady Ingleton had 
 said, she was by nature a cruel woman. Nevertheless she pitied 
 him for being, or for having been, so exclusive in love. And 
 she wondered at him not a little. 
 
 Lit-up caiques glided out on the bay far beneath her. A 
 band was playing on the quay. She wished it would stop, 
 and she glanced at a little watch which Aristide Dumeny had 
 given her, and which was pinned among the dark blue folds 
 of her gown. But she could not see its face clearly, and she 
 lit a match. A quarter-past ten. The band played till eleven. 
 She lit a cigarette and stared down the hill at the moving lights 
 in the bay. 
 
 She had made many water excursions at night. Some of 
 them two or three at least had been mentioned in the
 
 428 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 Divorce Court. She had had a narrow escape that summer 
 in London. It had given her a lesson; but she still had much 
 to learn before she could be considered a past mistress in the 
 school of discretion. Almost ever since she could remember 
 she had been driven by the reckless spirit within her. But 
 she had been given a compensation for that in the force of her 
 will. That force had done wonders for her all through her 
 life. It had even captured and retained for her many women 
 friends. Driven she had been, and no doubt would always 
 be, but she believed that she would always skirt the precipices 
 of life, and would never fall into the abysses. 
 
 The timorous and overscrupulous women were the women 
 who missed their footing, because, when they made a false 
 step, they made it in fear and trembling, with the shadow of 
 regret always dogging their heels. And yet, now Jimmy was 
 getting a big boy, even she knew moments of fear. 
 
 She moved restlessly. The torch was luring her on, and 
 yet now, for an instant, she was conscious of holding back. 
 August was not far off; Jimmy was coming out to her for his 
 holidays. Suppose, after all, she gave it up? A word from 
 her or merely a silence and that man in the pavilion close 
 by would go away from Buyukderer and would probably never 
 come back. If, for once in her life, she played for safety? 
 
 The sound of the band on the quay there had been a short 
 interval of silence came up to her again. Forty minutes 
 more! She would give that man in the pavilion and herself 
 forty minutes. She could see the lights which outlined the 
 kiosk. When they went out she would come to a decision. 
 Till then, sitting alone, she could indulge in a mental debate. 
 The mere fact that, at this point, she debated the question 
 which filled her mind proved Jimmy's power over her. As she 
 thought that she began to resent her boy's power. And it 
 would grow; inevitably it would grow. She moved her thin 
 shoulders. Then she sat very still. 
 
 If only she didn't love Jimmy so much! Suppose she had 
 lost her case in the Divorce Court and Jimmy had been taken 
 away from her? Even now she shuddered when she thought 
 of the risk she had run. She remembered again the period 
 of waiting M 7 hen the jury could not come to an agreement. 
 What torture she had endured, though no one knew it, or, 
 perhaps, ever would know it! Had not that torture been a 
 tremendous warning to her against the unwise life? Why 
 go into danger again? But perhaps there was no danger any
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 
 
 429 
 
 more. A man who has tried to divorce his wife once, and has 
 failed, is scarcely likely to try again. Nevertheless she was 
 full of hesitation to-night. 
 
 This fact puzzled and almost alarmed her, for she was not 
 given to hesitation. She was a woman who thought clearly, 
 who knew what she wanted and what she did not want, and 
 who acted promptly and decisively. Perhaps she hesitated 
 now because she had been forced to remain inactive in this 
 particular case for such a long time; or perhaps she had re- 
 ceived an obscure warning from something within her which 
 knew what she the whole of her that was Cynthia Clarke 
 did not consciously know. 
 
 The leaves of the plane tree rustled above her head, and she 
 sighed. As she sat there in the purple darkness she looked 
 like a victim; and for a moment she thought of herself as a 
 victim. 
 
 Even that man in the pavilion who was agonizing had said 
 to her that she looked " punished." She had been surprised, 
 almost startled, by his flash of discernment. But she was sure 
 he thought that matter only a question of coloring, of emaci- 
 ation, of the shapes of features, and of the way eyes were set 
 in the head. 
 
 When would the lights far below go out? She hated her 
 indecision. It was new to her, and she felt it to be a weak- 
 ness. Whatever she had been till now, she had certainly never 
 been a weak womnn, except perhaps from the absurd point of 
 view of the Exeter Hall moralist. Scruples had been strangers 
 to her, a baggage she had not burdened herself with on her 
 journey. 
 
 Jimmy! That night Dion Leith had told her that he had 
 seen the eyes of his boy in the stream that flowed through 
 the Kesstane Dereh. She looked out into the purple night, 
 and somewhere in the dim vastness full of mysteries and of 
 half revelations she saw the frank and merciless eyes of a 
 young Eton boy. 
 
 Should she be governed by them? Could she submit to 
 the ignorant domination of a child who knew nothing of the 
 complications of human life, nothing of the ways in which 
 human beings are driven by imperious desires, or needs, which 
 have perhaps been sown in ground of flesh and blood by dead 
 parents, or by ancestors laid even with the dust? Could she 
 immolate herself before the altar of the curious love which 
 grew within her as Jimmy grew?
 
 430 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 She was by nature perverse, and it was partly her love for 
 Jimmy which pushed her towards the man who had killed his 
 son. But she had not told that even to herself. And she 
 never told her secrets to other people, not even when they were 
 women friends! 
 
 The lights in the kiosk on the quay went out. Mrs. Clarke 
 was startled by the leaping up of the darkness which seemed 
 to come from the sea. For her ears had been closed against 
 the band, and she had forgotten the limit she had mentally 
 put to her indecision. Eleven o'clock already! She got up 
 from her seat. But still she hesitated. She did not know 
 what she was going to do. She stood for a moment. Then 
 she walked softly towards the pavilion. When she was near 
 to it she stopped and listened. She did not hear any sound 
 from within. There was nothing to prevent her from descend- 
 ing to the villa, from writing a note to Dion Leith asking him 
 to leave Buyukderer on the morrow, and from going up to 
 her bedroom. He would find the note in the hall when he 
 came down; he would go away; she need never see him again. 
 If she did that it w : ould mean a new life for her, free from 
 complications, a life dedicated to Jimmy, a life deliberately 
 controlled. 
 
 It would mean, too, the futile close of a long pursuit; the 
 crushing of an old and hitherto frustrated desire; the return, 
 when Jimmy went back to England after the holidays, to an 
 empty life which she hated, more than hated, a life of horrible 
 restlessness, a life in which the imagination preyed, like a 
 vulture, upon the body. It would mean the wise, instead of 
 the unwise, life. 
 
 She stood there. With one hand she felt the little watch 
 which Dumeny had given her. It was cold to the touch of 
 her dry, hot hand. She felt the rough emerald set in the 
 back of it. She and Dumeny had found that in the bazaars 
 together, in those bazaars which Dumeny changed from Eastern 
 shops into the Arabian Nights. Dion Leith could never do 
 such a thing as that for her. But perhaps she could do it for 
 him. The thought of that lured her. She stood at the street 
 corner; it was very dark and still; she knew that the strange 
 ways radiated from the place where she stood, but there was 
 no one to go with her down them. She waited waited. And 
 then she saw far off the gleam of the torch from which spring 
 colored fires. It flitted through the darkness; it hovered. 
 The gleam of it lit up, like a goblin light, the beginnings of
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 431 
 
 the strange ways. She saw shadowy forms slipping away 
 stealthily into their narrow and winding distances; she saw 
 obscure stairways, leaning balconies full of soft blackness. 
 She divined the rooms beyond. And whispering voices came 
 to her ears. 
 
 All the time she was feeling the watch with its rough uncut 
 emerald. 
 
 Government came upon her. She felt, as often before, a 
 great hand catch her in a grip of iron. She ceased to resist. 
 
 Still holding the watch, she went to the opening in the 
 pavilion. 
 
 The hanging lamp had gone out. For a moment she could 
 only see darkness in the interior. It looked empty. There 
 was no sound within. Could the man she had been thinking 
 about, debating about, have slipped away while she was sitting 
 under the plane tree? She had been thinking so deeply that 
 she had not heard the noise of the band on the quay; she might 
 not have heard his footsteps. While she had been consider- 
 ing whether she should leave him perhaps he had fled from 
 her. 
 
 This flashing thought brought her back at once to her true 
 and irrevocable self, and she was filled instantly with fierce 
 determination and a cold intense anger. Jimmy was forgotten. 
 He was dead to her at that moment. She leaned forward, 
 peering into the darkness. 
 
 "Dion!" she said. "Dion!" 
 
 There was no answer, but she saw something stir within, 
 something low down. He was there or something was there, 
 something alive. She went into the pavilion, and knelt down 
 by it. 
 
 " Dion ! " she said. 
 
 He raised himself on the divan, and turned on his side. 
 
 "Why are you kneeling down?" he said. "Don't kneel. 
 I hate to see a woman kneeling, and I know you never pray. 
 Get up." 
 
 He spoke in a voice that was new to her. It seemed to her 
 hot and hard. She obeyed him at once and got up from her 
 knees. 
 
 " What did you mean just now when you asked me whether 
 I couldn't mingle my life with an unhappy life? Sit here 
 beside me." 
 
 She sat down on the edge of the divan very near to him. 
 
 "What do you suppose I meant?"
 
 432 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Do you mean to say you like me in that way? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " That you care about me? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You said you willed me to come out to Constantinople. 
 Was it for that reason? " 
 
 She hesitated. She had an instinctive understanding of 
 men, but she knew that, in one way, Dion was not an ordinary 
 man; and even if he had been, the catastrophe in his life might 
 well have put him for the time beyond the limits of her ex- 
 perience, wide though they were. 
 
 " No," she said, at last. " I didn't like you in that way 
 till I met you in the street, and saw what she had done to 
 you." 
 
 " Then it was only pity? " 
 
 "Was it? I knew your value in England." 
 
 She paused, then added, in an almost light and much more 
 impersonal voice: 
 
 " I think I may say that I'm a connoisseur of values. And 
 I hate to see a good thing flung away." 
 
 " I'm not a good thing. Perhaps I might have become one. 
 I believe I was on the way to becoming worth something. 
 But now I'm nothing, and I wish to be nothing." 
 
 " I don't wish you to be anything but what you are." 
 
 " Once you telegraphed to me ' May Allah have you in 
 His hand.' >; 
 
 " I remember." 
 
 " It's turned out differently," he said, almost with brutality. 
 
 " We don't know that. You came back." 
 
 " Yes. I was kept safe for a very good reason. I had to 
 kill my child. I've accomplished that mission, and now, per- 
 haps, Allah will let me alone." 
 
 She could not see his face or the expression in his eyes 
 clearly, but now she saw his body move sharply. It twisted 
 to the right and back again. She put out her hand and took 
 his listlessly, almost as she had taken it in Mrs. Chetwinde's 
 drawing-room when she had met him for the first time. 
 
 " Your hand is like fire," he whispered. 
 
 " Do you think I am ice? " she whispered back, huskily. 
 
 " Once I tried to take my hand away from yours." 
 
 " Try to take it away now, if you wish to." 
 
 As she spoke she closed her hand tenaciously upon his. Her 
 little fingers felt almost like steel on his hand, and he thought
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 433 
 
 of the current of the Bosporus which had pulled at his swim- 
 ming body. 
 
 To be taken and swept away ! That at least would be better 
 than drifting, better than death in the form of life, better than 
 slinking in loneliness to watch the doings of others. 
 
 " I don't wish to take it away," he said. 
 
 And with the words mentally he bade an eternal farewell 
 to Rosamund and to all the aspirations of his youth. From 
 her and from them he turned away to follow the gleam of the 
 torch. It flickered through the darkness; it wavered; it waited 
 for him. He had tried the life of wisdom, and it had cast 
 him out; perhaps there was a place for him in the unwise life. 
 He felt spiritually exhausted; but there was within him a 
 physical fever which answered to the fever in the hand which 
 had closed on his. 
 
 " Let the spirit die," he thought, " that the body may live! " 
 
 He put one arm round his companion. 
 
 " If you want me " he whispered, on a deep breath. 
 
 His voice died away in the darkness between the giant 
 cypresses, those trees which watch over the dead in the land 
 of the Turk. 
 
 She had said once that the human being can hurt God. 
 
 Obscurely he wished to do that. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 MRS. CLARKE looked up from a letter written in a 
 large boyish hand which had just been brought out 
 on to the terrace of the fountain by the butler. 
 
 "Jimmy will be here on Thursday that is, in Con- 
 stantinople. The train ought to be in early in the morning." 
 
 Her eyes rested on Dion for a moment; then she looked 
 down again at the letter from Eton. 
 
 " He's in a high state of spirits at the prospect of the journey. 
 But perhaps I oughtn't to have had him out; perhaps I ought 
 to have gone to England for his holidays." 
 
 " Do you mean because of me? " said Dion. 
 
 " I was thinking of cricket," she replied impassively. 
 
 He was silent. After a moment she continued: 
 
 " There are no suitable companions for him out here. I wish 
 the Ingletons had a son. Of course there is riding, swimming,
 
 434 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 boating, and we can make excursions. You'll be good to him, 
 won't you? " 
 
 She folded the letter up and put it into the envelope. 
 
 " I always keep all Jimmy's letters," she said. 
 
 "Look here!" Dion said, in a hard voice. "I think I'd 
 better go." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " You know why." 
 
 " Have I asked you to go? " 
 
 " No, but I think I shall clear out. I don't feel like acting 
 a part to a boy. I've never done such a thing, and it isn't at all 
 the sort of thing I could do well." 
 
 " There will be no need to act a part. Be with Jimmy as 
 you were in London." 
 
 " Look at me ! " he exclaimed, with intense bitterness. " Am 
 I the man I was in London? " 
 
 " If you are careful and reasonable, Jimmy won't notice any 
 difference. Hero worship doesn't look at things through a mi- 
 croscope. Jimmy's got his idea of you. It will be your fault 
 if he changes it." 
 
 " Did you tell him I should be here during the holidays? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I can't help that," he said, almost brutally. 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 " I mean that you answered for me before you knew where I 
 should be." 
 
 He got up from the straw chair on which he was sitting, al- 
 most as if he meant to go away from her and from Buyukderer 
 at once. 
 
 " Dion, you mustn't go," she said inflexibly. " I can't let 
 you. For if you go, you will never come back." 
 
 " How do you know that? " 
 
 " I do know it." 
 
 They looked at each other across the fountain; his eyes fell 
 at last almost guiltily before her steady glance. 
 
 " And you know it too," she said. 
 
 " I may go, nevertheless. Who is to prevent me? " 
 
 She got up, went to the other side of the fountain, and put 
 her hand behind his arm, after a quick glance round to make 
 sure that no eyes were watching her. She pushed her hand 
 down gently and held his wrist. 
 
 "Do you realize how badly you sometimes treat me?" she 
 said.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 435 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 She pulled his soft cuff with her little fingers. 
 
 " I do realize it, but I can't help it. I have to do it." 
 
 " If I didn't know that I should mind it much more," she 
 said. 
 
 " I never thought I had it in me to treat a woman as I some- 
 times treat you. I used to be so different." 
 
 " You were too much the other way. But yours is a nature 
 of extremes. That's partly why I " 
 
 She did not finish the sentence. 
 
 " Then you don't resent my beastliness to you? " he asked. 
 
 " Not permanently. Sometimes you are nice to me. But if 
 you were ever to treat me badly when Jimmy was with me, I 
 don't think I could ever forgive you." 
 
 " I dread his coming," said Dion. " I had much better go. 
 If you don't let me go, you may regret it." 
 
 In saying that he acknowledged the power she had already 
 obtained over him, a power from which he did not feel sure that 
 he could break away, although he was acutely aware of it and 
 sometimes almost bitterly resented it. Mrs. Clarke knew very 
 well that most men can only be held when they do not know 
 that they are held, but Dion, in his present condition, was not 
 like any other man she had known. More than once in the 
 earliest stages of their intimacy she had had really to fight to 
 keep him near her, and so he knew how arbitrary she could be 
 when her nature was roused. 
 
 Sometimes he hated her with intensity, for she had set her- 
 self to destroy the fabric of his spirit, which not even Rosa- 
 mund had been able entirely to destroy by her desertion of 
 him. Sometimes he felt a sort of ugly love of her, because she 
 was the agent through whom he was learning to get rid of all 
 that Rosamund had most prized in him. It was as if he called 
 out to her, " Help me to pull down, to tear down, all that I 
 built up in the long years till not one stone is left upon another. 
 What I built up was despised and rejected. I won't look upon 
 it any more. I'll raze it to the ground. But I can't do that 
 alone. Come, you, and help me." And she came and she 
 helped in the work of destruction, and in an ugly, horrible way 
 he loved her for it sometimes, as a criminal might love an as- 
 sistant in his crime. 
 
 But from such a type of love there are terrible reactions. 
 During those reactions Dion had treated Cynthia Clarke 
 abominably sometimes, showing the hatred which alternated
 
 436 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 with his ugly love, if love it could properly be called. He 
 hated her in such moments for the fierce lure she had for the 
 senses, a lure which he felt more and more strongly as he left 
 farther behind him the old life of sane enjoyments and of the 
 wisdom which walks with restraint; he hated her for the per- 
 versity which he was increasingly conscious of as he came to 
 know her more intimately; he hated her because he had so much 
 loved the woman who would not make a friend of her; he hated 
 her because he knew that she was drawing him into a path 
 which led into the center of a maze, the maze of hypocrisy. 
 
 Hitherto Dion had been essentially honest and truthful, 
 what men call " open and above-board." He had walked clear- 
 eyed in the light; he had had nothing dirty to hide; what his 
 relations with others had seemed to be that they had actually 
 been. But since that first night in the pavilion Cynthia Clarke 
 had taught him very thoroughly the hypocrisy a man owes to 
 the woman with whom he has a secret liaison. 
 
 He still believed that till that night she had been what the 
 world calls " a straight woman." She did not ape a rigid 
 morality for once betrayed by passion, or pretend to any re- 
 ligious scruples, or show any fears of an eventual punishment 
 held in reserve for all sinners by an implacable Power; she did 
 not, when Dion was brutal to her, ever reproach him with hav- 
 ing made of her a wicked or even a light woman. But she 
 made him feel by innumerable hints and subtleties that for him 
 she had exchanged a safe life for a life that was beset with dan- 
 ger, the smiled-on life of a not too conventional virtue for some- 
 thing very different. She seemed sometimes uneasy in her love, 
 as if such a love were an error new to her experience. 
 
 Jimmy \vas her chief weapon against Dion's natural sin- 
 cerity. Dion realized that she was passionately attached to 
 her boy, and that she would make almost any sacrifice rather 
 than lose his respect and affection. Nevertheless, she was ready 
 to take great risks. The risks she was not prepared to take 
 were the smaller risks. And in connexion with them her call 
 for hypocrisy was incessant. If Dion ever tried to resist her de- 
 mands for small lies and petty deceptions, she would look at him, 
 and say huskily: 
 
 " I have to do these things now because of Jimmy. No one 
 must ever have the least suspicion of what we are to each other, 
 or some day Jimmy might get to know of it. It isn't my hus- 
 band I'm afraid of, it's Jimmy." 
 
 If Dion had been by nature a suspicious man, or if he had
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 437 
 
 had a wider experience with women, Mrs. Clarke's remarkable 
 ingenuity in hypocrisy would almost certainly have suggested 
 to him that she was no novice in the life of deception. Her 
 appearance of frankness, even of bluntness, was admirable. To 
 every one she presented herself as a woman of strong will 
 and unconventional temperament who took her own way openly, 
 having nothing to conceal, and therefore nothing to fear. She 
 made a feature of her friendship with the tragic Englishman; 
 she even dwelt upon it and paraded it for the benefit of the 
 gossiping world on the Bosporus; but that pretense of blunt 
 and Platonic friendship was the cloud with which she con- 
 cealed the fire of their illicit relation. The trip on the " Leyla " 
 to Brusa had tortured Dion. Since the episode in the pa- 
 vilion a more refined torment had been his. Mrs. Clarke had 
 not allowed him to escape from the social ties which were so 
 hateful to him. She had made him understand that he must 
 go among her acquaintances now and then, that he must take 
 a certain part in the summer life of Therapia and Buyukderer, 
 that the trip to Brusa had been only a beginning. More than 
 once he had tried to break away, but he had not succeeded 
 in his effort. Her will had been too strong for his, not merely 
 because she did not fear at moments to be fierce and deter- 
 mined, but because behind her fierceness and determination 
 was an unuttered plea which his not dead chivalry heard; 
 " For you I have become what I was falsely accused of being 
 in London." He remembered the wonderful fight she had made 
 then; often her look and manner, when they were alone to- 
 gether, implied, " I couldn't make such a fight now." She 
 never said that, but she made him float in an atmosphere of 
 that suggestion. 
 
 He believed that she loved him. Sometimes he compared 
 her love with the affection which Rosamund had given him, 
 and then it seemed to his not very experienced heart that per- 
 haps intense love can only show itself by something akin to 
 degradation, by enticements which a genuinely pure nature 
 could never descend to, by perversities which the grand sim- 
 plicity and wholesomeness of goodness would certainly abhor. 
 Then a distortion of love presented itself to his tragic inves- 
 tigation as the only love that was real, and good and evil lost 
 for him their true significance. He had said to himself, " Let 
 the spirit die that the body may live." He had wished, he 
 still wished, to pull down. He had a sort of demented desire 
 for ruins and dust. But he longed for action on the grand
 
 438 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 scale. Small secrecies, trickeries, tiptoeing through the maze 
 all these things revolted that part of his nature which was, 
 perhaps, unchangeable. They seemed to him unmanly. In 
 his present condition he could quite easily have lain down in 
 the sink of Pera's iniquity, careless whether any one knew; but 
 it was horribly difficult to him to dine with the Ingletons and 
 Vane at the Villa Hafiz, to say " Good night " to Mrs. Clarke 
 before them, to go away, leaving them in the villa, and then, 
 very late, to sneak back, with a key, to the garden gate, when 
 all the servants were in bed, and to creep up, like a thief, to 
 the pavilion. Some men would have enjoyed all the small de- 
 ceptions, would have thought them good fun, would have found 
 that they added a sharp zest to the pursuit of a woman. Dion 
 loathed them. 
 
 And now he was confronted with something he was going 
 to loathe far more, something which would call for more sus- 
 tained and elaborate deception than any he had practised yet. 
 He feared the eyes of an English boy more than he feared the 
 eyes of the diplomats and the cosmopolitans of varying types 
 who were gathered on the Bosporus during the months of heat. 
 He detested the idea of playing a part to a boy. How could a 
 mother lay plots to deceive her son? And yet Mrs. Clarke 
 adored Jimmy. 
 
 Rosamund and Robin started up in his mind. He saw 
 them before him as he had seen them one night in Westmin- 
 ster when Rosamund had been singing to Robin. Ah, she had 
 been a cruel, a terribly cruel, wife, but she had been an ideal 
 mother! He saw her head bent over her child, the curve of her 
 arm round his little body. A sensation of sickness came upon 
 him, of soul-nausea; and again he thought, " I must get away." 
 
 The night before the day on which Jimmy was due to ar- 
 rive, Mrs. Clarke was in Constantinople. She had gone there 
 to meet Jimmy, and had started early in the morning, leaving 
 Dion at Buyukderer. When she was gone he took the Al- 
 banian's boat and went out on the Bosporus for a row. The 
 man and he were both at the oars, and pulled out from the bay. 
 When they had gone some distance they had been rowing for 
 perhaps ten minutes the man asked : 
 
 "Oil allons-nous, S ignore ?" 
 
 " Vers Constantinople," replied Dion. 
 
 " Bene ! " replied the man. 
 
 That night Mrs. Clarke had just finished dinner when a 
 waiter tapped at her sitting-room door.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 439 
 
 "What is it?" she said. 
 
 " A gentleman asks if he can see you, Madame." 
 
 " A gentleman? Have you got his card? " 
 
 "No, Madame; he gave no card." 
 
 "What is he like?" 
 
 " He is English, I think, very thin and very brown. He 
 looks very strong." 
 
 The waiter paused, then added : 
 
 " He has a hungry look." 
 
 Mrs. Clarke stared at the man with her very wide-open eyes. 
 
 " Go down and ask him to wait." 
 
 " Yes, Madame." 
 
 The man went out. When he had shut the door Mrs. Clarke 
 called : 
 
 "Sonia!" 
 
 Her raised voice was rather harsh. 
 
 The bedroom door was opened, and the Russian maid looked 
 into the sitting-room. 
 
 " Sonia," said Mrs. Clarke rapidly in French, " some one 
 a man has called and asked for me. He's waiting in the 
 hall. Go down and see who it is. If it's Mr. Leith you can 
 bring him up." 
 
 " And if it is not Monsieur Leith? " 
 
 " Come back and tell me who it is." 
 
 The maid came out of the bedroom, shut the door, crossed 
 the sitting-room rather heavily on flat feet, and went out on to 
 the landing. 
 
 " Shut the door! " Mrs. Clarke called after her. 
 
 When the sitting-room door was shut she sat waiting with 
 her forehead drawn to a frown. She did not move till the 
 sitting-room door was opened by the maid and a man walked 
 in. 
 
 " Monsieur Leith," said the maid. 
 
 And she disappeared. 
 
 " Come and sit down," said Mrs. Clarke. " Why have you 
 come to Pera? " 
 
 " I wanted to speak to you." 
 
 " How tired you look! Have you had dinner? " 
 
 " No, I don't want it." 
 
 " Did you come by steamer? " 
 
 " No, I rowed down." 
 
 "All the way?" 
 
 He nodded.
 
 440 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " V\*here are you staying? " 
 
 " I haven't decided yet where I shall stay. Not here, of 
 course." 
 
 " Of course not. Dion, sit down." 
 
 He sat down heavily. 
 
 "If you haven't decided about an hotel, where is your lug- 
 gage?" 
 
 " I haven't brought any." 
 
 She said nothing, but her distressed eyes questioned him. 
 
 " I started out for a row. The current set towards Constan- 
 tinople, so I came here." 
 
 " I'm glad," she said. 
 
 But she did not look glad. 
 
 " We can spend a quiet evening together," she added non- 
 chalantly. 
 
 " I didn't come for that," he said. 
 
 He began to get up, but she put one hand on him. 
 
 " Do sit still. What is it, then ? Whatever it is, tell me 
 quietly." 
 
 He yielded to her soft but very imperative touch, and sat 
 back in his chair. 
 
 "Now, what is it?" 
 
 "I'm sure you know. It's Jimmy." 
 
 She lowered her eyelids, and her pale forehead puckered. 
 
 "Jimmy! What about Jimmy? " 
 
 " I don't want to be at Buyukderer while he's with you." 
 
 " And you have rowed down all the way from Buyukderer 
 to Constantinople, without even a brush and comb, to tell me 
 that!" 
 
 " I told you at Buyukderer." 
 
 " And we decided that it would be much jollier for Jimmy 
 to have you there for his holidays. I depend upon you to make 
 things tolerable for Jimmy. You know how few people there 
 are near us who would trouble themselves about a boy. You 
 will be my stand-by with Jimmy all through his holidays." 
 
 She spoke serenely, even cheerfully, but there was a decisive 
 sound in her voice, and the eyes fixed upon him were full of 
 determination. 
 
 " I can't understand how you can be willing to act a lie to 
 your own boy, especially when you care for him so much," said 
 Dion, almost violently. 
 
 " I shall not act a lie." 
 
 " But you will."
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 441 
 
 " Sometimes you are horribly morbid," she said coldly. 
 
 "Morbid! Because I want to keep a young schoolboy out 
 of " 
 
 "Take care, Dion! " she interrupted harshly. 
 
 " If you you don't really love Jimmy," he said. 
 
 " I forbid you to say that." 
 
 " I will say it. It's true." 
 
 And he repeated with a cruelly deliberate emphasis: 
 
 " You don't really love Jimmy." 
 
 Her white face was suddenly flooded with red, which even 
 covered her forehead to the roots of her hair. She put up one 
 hand with violence and tried to strike Dion on the mouth. He 
 caught her wrist. 
 
 " Be quiet! " he said roughly. 
 
 Gripping her wrist with his hard, muscular brown fingers he 
 repeated : 
 
 " You don't love Jimmy." 
 
 " Do you wish me to hate you? " 
 
 " I don't care. I don't care what happens to me." 
 
 She sat looking down. The red began to fade out of her 
 face. Presently she curled her fingers inwards against his palm 
 and smiled faintly. 
 
 " I am not going to quarrel with you," she said quietly. 
 
 He loosened his grip on her; but now she caught and held 
 his hand. 
 
 " I do love Jimmy, and you know it when you aren't mad. 
 But I care for you, too, and I am not going to lose you. If 
 you went away while Jimmy was out here I should never see 
 you again. You would disappear. Perhaps you would cross 
 over to Asia." 
 
 Her great eyes were fixed steadily upon him. 
 
 " Ah, you have thought of that! " she said, almost in a whis- 
 per. 
 
 He was silent. 
 
 " Women would get hold of you. You would sink; you 
 would be ruined, destroyed. I know! " 
 
 " If I were it wouldn't matter." 
 
 " To me it would. I can't risk it. I am not going to risk 
 it." 
 
 Dion leaned forward. His brown face was twitching. 
 
 " Suppose you had to choose between Jimmy and me ! " 
 
 He was thinking of Robin and Rosamund. A child had con- 
 quered him once. Now again a child for Jimmy was no
 
 442 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 more than a child as yet, although he thought himself impor- 
 tant and almost a young man intruded into his life with a 
 woman. 
 
 " I shall not have to choose. But I have told you that a 
 child is not enough for the happiness of a woman like me. 
 You know what I am, and you must know I am speaking the 
 truth." 
 
 "Did you love your husband?" he asked, staring into her 
 eyes. 
 
 " Yes," she replied, without even a second of hesitation. 
 " I did till he suspected me." 
 
 " And then " 
 
 " Not after that," she said grimly. 
 
 " I wonder he let you do all you did." 
 
 " What do you mean? " 
 
 She let his hand go. 
 
 " I would never have let you go about with other men, how- 
 ever innocently. I thought about that at your trial." 
 
 " I should never let any one interfere with my freedom of 
 action. If a man loves me I expect him to trust me." 
 
 " You don't trust me." 
 
 " Sometimes you almost hate me. I know that." 
 
 " Sometimes I hate everybody, myself most of all. But I 
 should miss you. You are the only woman in all the world who 
 wants me now." 
 
 Suddenly a thought of his mother intruded into his mind, 
 and he added: 
 
 " Wants me as a lover." 
 
 She got up quickly, almost impulsively, and went close to him. 
 
 " Yes, I want you, I want you as a lover, and I can't let you 
 go. That is why I ask you, I beg you, to stay with me while 
 Jimmy's here." 
 
 She leaned against him, and put her small hands on his 
 shoulders. 
 
 " How can a child understand the needs of a woman like me 
 and of a man like you? How can he look into our hearts or 
 read the secrets of our natures secrets which we can't help 
 having? You hate what you call deceiving him. But he will 
 never think about it. A boy of Jimmy's age never thinks about 
 his mother in that way." 
 
 " I know. That's just it! " 
 
 " What do you mean? " 
 
 But he did not explain. Perhaps instinctively he felt that
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 443 
 
 her natural subtlety could not be in accord with his natural sin- 
 cerity, felt that in discussing certain subjects they talked in 
 different languages. She put her arms round his neck. 
 
 " I need the two lives," she said, in a very low voice. " I 
 need Jimmy and I need you. Is it so very wonderful? Often 
 when a woman who isn't old loses her husband and is left 
 with her child people say, ' It's all right for her. She has got 
 her child.' And so she's dismissed to her motherhood, as if 
 that must be quite enough for her. Dion, Dion, the world 
 doesn't know, or doesn't care, how women suffer. Women don't 
 speak about such things. But I am telling you because I don't 
 want to have secrets from you. I have suffered. Perhaps I 
 have some pride in me. Anyhow, I don't care to go about com- 
 plaining. You know that. You must have found that out in 
 London. I keep my secrets, but not from you." 
 
 She put her white cheek against his brown one. 
 
 " It's only the two lives joined together that make life com- 
 plete for a woman who is complete, who isn't lopsided, lacking 
 in something essential, something that nature intends. I am 
 a complete woman, and I'm not ashamed of it. Do you think 
 I ought to be ? " 
 
 She sighed against his cheek. 
 
 " You are a courageous woman," he said; " I do know that." 
 
 " Don't you test my courage. Perhaps I'm getting tired of 
 being courageous." 
 
 She put her thin lips against his. 
 
 " It's acting deception I hate," he murmured. " With a 
 boy especially I like always to be quite open." 
 
 Again he thought of Robin and of his old ideal of a father's 
 relation to his son; he thought of his preparation to be worthy 
 of fatherhood, worthy to guide a boy's steps in the path to- 
 wards a noble manhood. And a terrible sense of the irony of 
 life almost overcame him. For a moment he seemed to catch a 
 glimpse of the Creator laughing in darkness at the aspirations 
 of men; for a moment he was beset by the awful conviction that 
 the world is ruled by a malign Deity. 
 
 " All the time Jimmy is at Buyukderer we'll just be friends," 
 said the husky voice against his cheek. 
 
 The sophistry of her remark struck home to him, but he made 
 no comment upon it. 
 
 " There are white deceptions," she continued, " and black 
 deceptions, as there are white and black lies. Whom are we 
 hurting, you and I ? "
 
 444 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 "Whom are we hurting?" he said, releasing himself from 
 her. 
 
 And he thought of God in a different way in Rosamund's 
 way. 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 He looked at her as if he were going to speak, but he said 
 nothing. He felt that if he answered she would not under- 
 stand, and her face made him doubtful. Which view of life 
 was the right one, Rosamund's or Cynthia Clarke's? Rosa- 
 mund had been pitiless to him and Cynthia Clarke was merci- 
 ful. She put her arms round his neck when he was in misery; 
 she wanted him despite the tragedy that was his perpetual com- 
 panion. Perhaps her view of life was right. It was a good 
 working view, anyhow, and was no doubt held by many people. 
 
 " We can base our lives on truth," she continued, as he said 
 nothing. " On being true to ourselves. That is the great truth. 
 But we can't always tell it to all the casual people about us, 
 or even to those who are closely in our lives, as for instance 
 Jimmy is in mine. They wouldn't understand. But some day 
 Jimmy will be able to understand." 
 
 " Do you mean " 
 
 "I mean just this: if Jimmy were twenty-one I would tell 
 him everything." 
 
 He looked down into her eyes, which never fell before the 
 eyes of another. 
 
 " I believe you would," he said. 
 
 She continued looking at him, as if tranquilly waiting for 
 something. 
 
 " I'll I'll go back to Buyukderer," he said. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 IN his contrition for the attack which he had made upon 
 the honor of his wife at his mother's instigation, Beadon 
 Clarke had given up all claims on his boy's time. Actu- 
 ally, though not legally, Mrs. Clarke had complete control over 
 Jimmy. He spent all his holidays with her, and seldom saw 
 his father, who was still attached to the British Embassy in 
 Madrid. He had never been allowed to read any reports of 
 the famous case which had been fought out between his parents, 
 and was understood to think that his father and mother had,
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 445 
 
 for some mysterious reason, found it impossible to " hit it off 
 together," and had therefore decided to live apart. He was 
 now rather vaguely fond of his father, whom he considered 
 to be " quite a good sort," but he was devoted to his mother. 
 Mrs. Clarke's peculiar self-possession and remarkably strong 
 will made a great impression on Jimmy. " It's jolly difficult 
 to score my mater off, I can tell you," he occasionally remarked 
 to his more intimate chums at school. He admired her ap- 
 pearance, her elegance, and the charm of her way of living, 
 which he called "doing herself jolly well"; even her unsmil- 
 ing face and characteristic lack of what is generally called 
 vivacity won his approval. " My mater's above all that silly 
 gushing and giggling so many women go in for, don't you 
 know," was his verdict on Mrs. Clarke's usually serious de- 
 meanor. Into her gravity boyishly he read dignity of charac- 
 ter, and in his estimation of her he set her very high. Although 
 something of a pickle, and by nature rather reckless and in- 
 clined to be wild, he was swiftly obedient to his mother, partly 
 perhaps because, understanding young males as well as she un- 
 derstood male beings of all ages, she very seldom drew the reins 
 tight. He knew very well that she loved him. 
 
 On the evening of his arrival at Buyukderer for the summer 
 holidays Jimmy had a confidential talk with his mother about 
 " Mr. Leith," whom he had not yet seen, but about whom he 
 had been making many anxious inquiries. 
 
 " I'll tell you to-night," his mother had replied. And after 
 dinner she fulfilled her promise. 
 
 " You'll see Mr. Leith to-morrow," she said. 
 
 "Well, I should rather think so! " returned Jimmy, in an 
 injured voice. " Where is he? " 
 
 " He's living in rooms in the house of a Greek not far from 
 here." 
 
 " I thought he was in the hotel. I say, mater, can't I have 
 a cigarette just for once? " 
 
 " Yes, you may, just for once." 
 
 Jimmy approached the cigarette box with the air of a non- 
 chalant conqueror. As he opened it with an apparently prac- 
 tised forefinger he remarked: 
 
 " Well, mater? " 
 
 " He's left the hotel. You know, Jimmy, Mr. Leith has had 
 great misfortunes." 
 
 Jimmy had heard of the gun accident and its terrible result, 
 and he now looked very grave.
 
 446 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 "I know poor chap! " he observed. "But it wasn't his 
 fault. It was the little brute of a pony. Every one knows that. 
 It was rotten bad luck, but who would be down on a fellow 
 for bad luck?" 
 
 " Exactly. But it's changed Mr. Leith's life. His wife has 
 left him. He's given up his business, and is, consequently, less 
 well off than he was. But this isn't all." 
 
 Jimmy tenderly struck a match, lighted a cigarette, and, with 
 half-closed eyes, blew forth in a professional manner a delicate 
 cloud of smoke. He was feeling good all over. 
 
 "First-rate cigarettes!" he remarked. "The very best! 
 Yes, mater?" 
 
 " He's rather badly broken up." 
 
 "No wonder! " said Jimmy, with discrimination. 
 
 " You'll find him a good deal changed. Sometimes he's 
 moody and even bad-tempered, poor fellow, and he's fearfully 
 sensitive. I'm trying my best to buck him up." 
 
 " Good for you, mater! He's our friend. We're bound tc 
 stand by him." 
 
 " And that's exactly w'hat I'm trying to do. When he's a lit' 
 tie difficult, doesn't take things quite as one means them 
 you know? " 
 
 "Rather! Do I?" 
 
 " I put it down to all the trouble he's been through. I 
 never resent it. Now I ought really to have got out a holiday 
 tutor for you." 
 
 " Oh, I say, after I've swotted my head off all these months ! 
 A chap needs some rest if he's to do himself justice, hang it, 
 mater, now! " 
 
 " I know all about that! " 
 
 She looked at him shrewdly, and he smiled on one side of 
 his mouth. 
 
 "Goon, mater! " 
 
 " But having Mr. Leith here I thought I wouldn't do that. 
 Mr. Leith's awfully fond of boys, and it seemed to me you might 
 do him more good than any one else could." 
 
 " Well, I'm blowed! D'you really think so? " 
 
 Jimmy came over and sat on the arm of her chair, blowing 
 rings of smoke cleverly over her lovely little head. 
 
 " Put me up to it, mater, there's a good girl. I'm awfully 
 keen on Mr. Leith, as you know. He's got the biggest biceps I 
 ever saw, and I'm jolly sorry for him. What can I do? Put 
 me up to it."
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 447 
 
 And Mrs. Clarke proceeded to put Jimmy up to it. She 
 had told Dion that Jimmy wouldn't see the difference in him. 
 Now she carefully prepared Jimmy to face that difference, and 
 gave him his cue for the part she wished him to play. Jimmy 
 felt very important as he listened to her explanations, trifling 
 seriously with his cigarette, and looking very worldly-wise. 
 
 " I twig! " he interrupted occasionally, nodding his round 
 young head, which was covered with densely thick, rather coarse 
 hair. " I've got it." 
 
 And he went off to bed very seriously, resolved to take Mr. 
 Leith in hand and to do his level best for him. 
 
 So it was that when Dion and he met next day he was not 
 surprised at the change in Dion's appearance and manner. Nor 
 were his young eyes merciless in their scrutiny. Just at first, 
 perhaps, they stared with the unthinking observation of boy- 
 hood, but almost immediately Jimmy had taken the cue his 
 mother had given him, and had entered into his part of a driver- 
 away of trouble. 
 
 He played it well, with a tact that was almost remarkable 
 in so young a boy; and Dion, ignorant of what Mrs. Clarke 
 had done on the night of Jimmy's arrival, was at first surprised 
 at the ease with which they got on together. He had dreaded 
 Jimmy's coming, partly because of the secrets he must keep 
 from the boy, but partly also because of Robin. A boy's hands 
 would surely tear at the wound which was always open. Some- 
 times Dion felt horribly sad when he was in contact with 
 Jimmy's light-hearted and careless gaiety; sometimes he felt 
 the gnawing discomfort of one not by nature a hypocrite forced 
 into a passive hypocrisy; nevertheless there were moments when 
 the burden of his life was made a little lighter on his shoulders 
 by the confidence his young companion had in him, by the ad- 
 miration for him showed plainly by Jimmy, by the leaping 
 spirits which ardently summoned a reply in kind. 
 
 The subtlety of Mrs. Clarke, too, helped Dion at first. 
 
 Since her son's arrival, without ostentation she had lived 
 for him. She entered into all Jimmy's plans, was ready to 
 share his excitements and to taste, with him, those pleasures 
 which were possible to a woman as well as to a boy. But she 
 was quick to efface herself where she saw that she was not 
 needed or might even be in the way. As a mother she was 
 devoid of jealousy, was unselfish without seeming to be so. 
 She did not parade her virtue. Her reticence was that of a 
 perfectly finished artist. When she was wanted she was on
 
 448 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 the spot; when she was not wanted she disappeared. She sped 
 Dion and Jimmy on their way to boating, shooting, swimming 
 expeditions, with the happiest grace, and never assumed the 
 look and manner of the patient woman " left behind." 
 
 Not once, since Jimmy's arrival, had she shown to Dion 
 even a trace of the passionate and perverse woman he now 
 knew her to be under her pale mask of self-controlled and very 
 mental composure. At the hotel in Constantinople she had 
 said to Dion, " All the time Jimmy's at Buyukderer we'll just 
 be friends." Now she seemed utterly to have forgotten that 
 they had ever been what the world calls lovers, that they had 
 been involved in scenes of passion, and brutality, and exhaus- 
 tion, that they had torn aside the veil of reticence behind which 
 women and men hide from each other normally the naked truth 
 of what they can be. She treated Dion casually, though very 
 kindly, as a friend, and never, even by a swift glance or a lin- 
 gering touch of her fingers, reminded him of the fires that 
 burned within her. Even when she was alone with him, when 
 Jimmy ran off, perhaps, unexpectedly in the wake of a passing 
 caprice, she never departed from her role of the friend who was 
 before all things a mother. 
 
 So perfect was her hypocrisy, so absolutely natural in its 
 manifestation, that sometimes, looking at her, Dion could 
 scarcely forbear from thinking that she had forgotten all about 
 their illicit connexion; that she had put it behind her forever; 
 that she was one of those happy people who possess the power 
 of slaying the past and blotting the murder out of their memo- 
 ries. 
 
 That scene between them in Constantinople on the eve of 
 Jimmy's arrival had it ever taken place? Had she really 
 ever tried to strike him on the mouth? Had he caught her 
 wrist in a grip of iron ? It seemed incredible. 
 
 And if he was involved in a great hypocrisy since the boy's 
 arrival he was released from innumerable lesser hypocrisies. 
 His life at present was what it seemed to be to the little world 
 on the Bosporus. 
 
 Just at first he did not realize that though Mrs. Clarke genu- 
 inely loved her son she was not too scrupulous to press his un- 
 conscious services in aid of her hypocrisy. 
 
 The holiday tutor whom she ought to have got out from Eng- 
 land to improve the shining hour on Jimmy's behalf was re- 
 placed by Dion in the eyes of Mrs. Clarke's world. 
 
 One day she said to Dion:
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 
 
 449 
 
 " Will you do me a good turn? " 
 
 " Yes, if I can." 
 
 " It may bore you." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Read a little bit with Jimmy sometimes, will you? He's 
 abominably ignorant, and will never be a scholar, but I should 
 like him just to keep up his end at school." 
 
 " But I haven't got any school-books." 
 
 " I have. He's specially behindhand with his Greek. His 
 report tells me that. If you'll do a little Greek grammar and 
 construing with him in the mornings now and then, I shall be 
 tremendously grateful. You see, owing to my miserable domes- 
 tic circumstances, Jimmy is practically fatherless." 
 
 " And you ask me to take his father's place! " was in Dion's 
 mind. 
 
 But she met his eyes so earnestly and with such sincerity that 
 he only said: 
 
 " Of course I'll read with him in the mornings." 
 
 Despite the ardent protests of Jimmy Dion kept his promise. 
 Soon Mrs. Clarke's numerous acquaintances knew of the morn- 
 ing hours of study. She had happened to tell Sir Carey Ingle- 
 ton about Jimmy's backwardness in book-learning and Mr. 
 Leith's kind efforts to " get him on during the holidays." Sir 
 Carey had spoken of it to Cyril Vane. The thing " got about." 
 The name of Dion Leith began to be connected rather with 
 Jimmy Clarke than with Mrs. Clarke. Continually Dion and 
 Jimmy were seen about together. Mrs. Clarke, meanwhile, 
 often went among her friends alone, and when they asked about 
 Jimmy she would say: 
 
 " Oh, he's gone off somewhere with Mr. Leith. I don't know 
 where. Mr. Leith's a regular boy's man and was a great chum 
 of Jimmy's in London; used to show him how to box and that 
 sort of thing. It's partly for Jimmy that he came to Buyuk- 
 derer. They read together in the mornings. Mr. Leith's get- 
 ting Jimmy on in Greek." 
 
 Sometimes she would add: 
 
 " Mr. Leith loves boys, and since his own child died so sadly 
 I think he's taken to Jimmy more than ever." 
 
 Soon people began to talk of Dion Leith as " Jimmy Clarke's 
 holiday tutor." Once, when this was said in Lady Ingleton's 
 drawing-room at Therapia, she murmured: 
 
 " I don't think it quite amounts to that. Mr. Leith has never 
 been a schoolmaster."
 
 450 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 And there she left it, with a faint smile in which there was 
 just the hint of an almost cynical sadness. 
 
 Since the trip to Brusa on the " Leyla " she had thought a 
 great deal about Dion Leith, and she was very sorry for him in 
 a rather unusual way. Out of her happiness with her husband 
 she seemed to draw an instinctive knowledge of what such a 
 nature as Dion Leith's wanted and of the extent of his loss. 
 Once she said to Sir Carey, with a sort of intensity such as she 
 seldom showed: 
 
 " Good women do terrible things sometimes." 
 
 " Such as ? " said Sir Carey, looking at Her almost with 
 
 surprise in his eyes. 
 
 " I think Mrs. Leith has done a terrible thing to her hus- 
 band." 
 
 " Perhaps she loved the child too much." 
 
 " Even love can be almost abominable," said Lady Ingle- 
 ton. " If we had had a child, and you had done what poor 
 Dion Leith has done, do you think I should have cast you out of 
 my life?" 
 
 " But are you a good woman ? " he asked her, smiling. 
 
 " No, or you would never have bothered about me." 
 
 He touched her hand. 
 
 " When you do that," Lady Ingleton said, " I could almost 
 cry over poor Dion Leith." 
 
 Sir Carey bent down and kissed her with a very tender gal- 
 lantry. 
 
 " You and I are secretly sentimentalists, Delia," he said. 
 " That is why we are so happy together." 
 
 "Why doesn't Dion Leith go to England?" she exclaimed, 
 almost angrily. 
 
 " Perhaps England seems full of his misery. Besides, his 
 wife is there." 
 
 " He ought to go to her. He ought to force her to see the evil 
 she is doing." 
 
 " Leith will never do that, I feel sure," said Sir Carey gravely. 
 " And in his place I don't know that I could." 
 
 Lady Ingleton looked at him with an almost sharp impatience 
 such as she seldom showed him. 
 
 " When a man has right on his side he ought to browbeat a 
 woman! " she exclaimed. " And even if he is in the wrong it's 
 the best way to make a woman see things through his eyes. 
 Dion Leith is too delicate with women." 
 
 After a moment she added:
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 451 
 
 " At any rate with some women, the first of whom is his 
 own wife. A man should always put up a big fight for a really 
 big thing, and Dion Leith hasn't done that! " 
 
 " He fought in South Africa for England." 
 
 " Ah," she said, lifting her chin, " that sort of thing is so 
 different." 
 
 " Tell him what you think," said the Ambassador. 
 
 " I know him so little. But perhaps who knows some 
 day I shall " 
 
 She said no more on that subject. 
 
 Meanwhile Dion was teaching Jimmy, who was really full 
 of the happiest ignorance. Jimmy's knowledge of Greek was 
 a minus quantity, and he said frankly that he considered all 
 that kind of thing " more or less rot." Nevertheless, Dion per- 
 severed. One morning when they were going to get to work 
 as usual in the pavilion, chosen by Mrs. Clarke as the suit- 
 able place for his studies, taking up the Greek Grammar Dion 
 opened it by chance at the verb " iravw." He stood by the 
 table from which he had picked the book up staring down at 
 the page. By one of those terrible rushes of which the mind 
 is capable he was swept back to the famous mound which fronts 
 the plain of Marathon; he saw the curving line of hills, the 
 sea intensely blue and sparkling, empty of ships, the river's 
 course through the tawny land marked by the tall reeds and the 
 sedges; he heard the distant lowing of cattle coming from that 
 old battlefield, celebrated by poets and historians. And then 
 he heard, as if just above him, the dry crackle of brushwood 
 Rosamund moving in the habitation of Arcady. And he re- 
 membered the cry, the intense human cry which had echoed in 
 the recesses of his soul on that day long how long ago in 
 Greece, " Whither ? Whither am I and my great love going ? 
 To what end are we journeying? " 
 
 He heard again that cry of his soul in the pavilion at 
 Buyukderer, and beneath the sunburn his lean cheeks went 
 lividly pale. 
 
 Reluctantly Jimmy was getting an exercise book and a pen 
 and ink out of the drawer of a table, which Mrs. Clarke had 
 had specially made for the lessons by a little Greek carpenter 
 who sometimes did odd jobs for her. He found the ink bottle 
 almost empty. 
 
 " I say," he began. 
 
 He looked up. 
 
 " I say, Mr. Leith "
 
 452 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 His voice died away and he stared. 
 
 " What's wrong ? " he managed to bring out at last. 
 
 He thrust out a hand and laid hold of the grammar. Dion 
 let it go. 
 
 " Travo) I " said Jimmy. 
 
 His eyes searched the page. 
 
 " There's nothing else. What's up, Mr. Leith? " 
 
 He looked frankly puzzled and almost afraid. He had never 
 seen any one look just like that before. 
 
 " This is only ' Trauw,' " he continued, in a voice which, as 
 he afterwards said to his mother, " sounded just like a rab- 
 bit's." 
 
 " I know it is," said Dion, in a stern voice. 
 
 " Well then " said Jimmy. 
 
 He stopped. There was a moment of silence. Then, with 
 a sudden change of manner, and in a different voice, Dion 
 exclaimed : 
 
 "Come on, Jimmy! I don't feel like doing lessons this 
 morning. I vote we go out. I'm going to ask your mother if 
 we can ride to the Belgrad forest. Perhaps she'll come with us." 
 
 He was suddenly afraid to remain alone with the boy, and 
 he felt that he could not stay in that pavilion full of the at- 
 mosphere of feverish passion, of secrecy, of betrayal. Yes, of 
 betrayal! For there he had betrayed the obstinate love, which 
 he had felt at Marathon as a sort of ecstasy, and still felt, 
 but now like a wound, within him in spite of Rosamund's re- 
 jection of him. Not yet had the current taken him and swept 
 him away from all the old landmarks. Perhaps it never 
 would. And yet he had given himself to it, he had not tried 
 to resist. 
 
 Jimmy jumped up with alacrity, though he still looked rather 
 grave and astonished. They went down the terraced garden 
 to the villa. 
 
 " Run up and ask your mother," said Dion. " Probably she's 
 in her sitting-room. I'll wait here to know what she says." 
 
 "Right you are! " 
 
 He went off, looking rather relieved. 
 
 Robin at fifteen! Dion shut his eyes. 
 
 Jimmy was away for more than ten minutes. Then he came 
 back to say his mother would come with them to the forest and 
 would be ready in an hour's time. 
 
 " I'll go back to my rooms, change my breeches, and order 
 the horses," said Dion.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 453 
 
 He was longing to get away from the scrutiny which at this 
 moment Jimmy could not forego. He knew that Jimmy had 
 been talking about him to Mrs. Clarke, had probably been 
 saying how " jolly odd " he had been in the pavilion. For 
 once the boy's tact had failed him, and Dion's sensitiveness 
 tingled. 
 
 An hour later they were on horseback and rode into the midst 
 of the forest. At the village of Belgrad they dismounted, left 
 the horses in the care of a Turkish stableman, and went for a 
 walk among the trees. It was very hot and still, and pres- 
 ently Mrs. Clarke said she would sit down and rest. 
 
 " You and Jimmy go on if you want to," she said. 
 
 But Jimmy threw himself down on the ground. 
 
 " I'm tired. It's so infernally hot." 
 
 " Take a nap," said his mother. 
 
 The boy laid his head on his curved arms sideways. Mrs. 
 Clarke leaned down and put his panama hat over his left cheek 
 and eye. 
 
 " Thank you, mater," he murmured. 
 
 He lay still. 
 
 Dion had stood by with an air of hesitation during this lit- 
 tle talk between mother and son. Now he looked away to the 
 forest. 
 
 " You go," Mrs. Clarke said to him. " You'll find us here 
 when you come back. The Armenians call the forest Defet- 
 gamm. Perhaps you will come under its influence." 
 
 " Defetgamm! What does that mean? " 
 
 " Dispeller of care." 
 
 He stood looking at her for a moment; then, without an- 
 other word, he turned quickly away and disappeared among 
 the trees. 
 
 Jimmy slept with his face hidden, and Mrs. Clarke, with 
 wide-open eyes, sat motionless staring into the forest. 
 
 When they reached the Villa Hafiz late in the afternoon Dion 
 helped Mrs. Clarke to dismount. As she slid down lightly 
 from the saddle she whispered, scarcely moving her lips : 
 
 " The pavilion to-night eleven. You've got the key." 
 
 She patted Selim's glossy black neck. 
 
 " Come, Jimmy! " she said. " Say good night to Mr. Leith. 
 I'm sure he's tired and has had more than enough of us for to- 
 day. We'll give him a rest from us till to-morrow." 
 
 And Jimmy bade Dion good-by without any protest. 
 
 As Dion rode off Mrs. Clarke did not turn to look after him.
 
 454 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 She had npt troubled even to question him with her eyes. She 
 had assumed that he would do what she wanted. Would he 
 do that? 
 
 At first he believed that he would not go. He had been 
 away in the forest with his misery for nearly two hours, strug- 
 gling among the shadows of the trees. Jimmy had seen in the 
 pavilion that morning that his " holiday tutor " was strangely 
 ill at ease, and had discussed the matter with his mater, and 
 asked her why on earth the sight of a page of Greek grammar 
 should make a fellow stand staring as if he were confronted by 
 a ghost. But Jimmy had no conception of what Dion had been 
 through in the forest, where happy Greeks and Armenians were 
 lazily enjoying the empty hours of summer, forgetting yesterday, 
 and serenely careless of to-morrow. 
 
 In the forest Dion had fought with an old love of which he 
 began to be angrily ashamed, with a love which was now his 
 greatest enemy, a thing contemptible, inexplicable. In the pa- 
 vilion that morning it had suddenly risen up before him strong, 
 intense, passionate. It seemed irresistible. But he was almost 
 furiously resolved not merely to resist it, but to crush it down, 
 to break it in pieces, or to drive it finally out of his life. 
 
 And he had fought with it alone in the forest which the 
 Armenians call Defetgamm. And in the forest something 
 some adherent, it seemed had whispered to him, " To kill 
 your enemy you must fill your armory with weapons. The 
 woman who came to you when you were neither in one world 
 nor in the other is a weapon. Why have you ceased to use 
 her? " 
 
 And now, as if she had heard the voice of that adherent, 
 and had known of the struggle in the forest, the woman her- 
 self had suddenly broken through the reserve she had imposed 
 upon them both since the coming of her son. 
 
 In a hideous way Dion wanted her, and yet he shrank from 
 going back to her secretly. The coming of Jimmy, his rela- 
 tions with the boy, the boy's hearty affection for him and ad- 
 miration for him, had roused into intense activity that part of 
 his nature which had always loved, which he supposed always 
 must love, the straight life; the life with morning face and 
 clear, unfaltering eyes; the life which the Hermes suggested, 
 immune from the fret and fever of secret vices and passions, 
 lifted by winged sandals into a region where soul and body 
 were in perfect accord, and where, because of that, there was 
 peace; not a peace of stagnation, but a peace living and in-
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 455 
 
 tense. But that part of his nature led him even now instinc- 
 tively back to the feet of Rosamund. And he revolted against 
 such a pilgrimage. 
 
 "The pavilion to-night eleven; you've got the key." 
 
 Her face had not changed as she whispered the words, and 
 immediately afterwards she had told a lie to her boy, or had 
 implied a lie. She had made Jimmy believe the thing that was 
 not. Loving Jimmy, she did not scruple to play a part to 
 him. 
 
 Dion ate no dinner that night. After returning to his rooms 
 and getting out of his riding things into a loose serge suit he 
 went out again and walked along the quay by the water. He 
 paced up and down, ignoring the many passers-by, the boatmen 
 and watermen who now knew him so well. 
 
 He was considering whether he should go to the pavilion 
 at the appointed hour or whether he should leave Buyukderer 
 altogether and not return to it. This evening he was in the 
 mood to be drastic. He might go down to Constantinople and 
 finally cast his burden away there, never to take it up again 
 the burden of an old love whose chains still hung about him; 
 he might plunge into the lowest depths, into depths where per- 
 haps the remembrance of Rosamund and the early morning 
 would fade away from him, where even Mrs. Clarke would not 
 care to seek for him, although her will was persistent. 
 
 He fully realized now her extraordinary persistence, the fierce 
 firmness of character that was concealed by her quiet and gen- 
 erally impersonal manner. Certainly she had the temperament 
 of a ruler. He remembered it seemed to him with a bizarre 
 abruptness the smile on Dumeny's lips in the Divorce Court 
 when the great case had ended in Mrs. Clarke's favor. 
 
 Did he really know Cynthia Clarke even now? 
 
 He walked faster. Now he saw Hadi Bey before him, self- 
 possessed, firm, with that curiously vivid look which had at- 
 tracted the many women in Court. 
 
 And Jimmy believed in his mother. Perhaps, until Dion's 
 arrival in Buyukderer, the boy had had reason in his belief 
 perhaps not. Dion was very uncertain to-night. 
 
 A sort of cold curiosity was born in him. Until now he 
 had accepted Mrs. Clarke's presentment of herself to the world, 
 which included himself, as a genuine portrait; now he began to 
 recall the long speech of Beadon Clarke's counsel. But the 
 man had been only speaking according to his brief, had been 
 only putting forth all the ingenuity and talent which enabled
 
 456 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 him to command immense fees for his services. And Mrs. 
 Clarke had beaten him. The jury had said that she was not 
 what he had asserted her to be. 
 
 Suppose they had made a mistake, had given the wrong ver- 
 dict, why should that make any difference to Dion? He had 
 definitely done with the goodness of good women. Why should 
 he fear the evil of a woman who was bad? Perhaps in the 
 women who were called evil by the respectable, or by those 
 who were temperamentally inclined to purity, there was more 
 warm humanity than the women possessed who never made a 
 slip, or stepped out of the beaten path of virtue. Perhaps those 
 to whom much must be forgiven were those who knew how to 
 forgive. 
 
 If Mrs. Clarke really were what Beadon Clarke's counsel 
 had suggested that she was, how would it affect him? Dion 
 pondered that question on the quay. Mrs. Clarke's pale and 
 very efficient hypocrisy, which he had been able to observe at 
 close quarters since he had been at Buyukderer, might well have 
 been brought into play against himself, as it had been brought 
 into play against the little world on the Bosporus and against 
 Jimmy. 
 
 Dion made up his mind that he would go to the pavilion 
 that night. The cold curiosity which had floated up to the 
 surface of his mind enticed him. He wanted to know whether 
 he was among the victims, if they could reasonably be called 
 so, of Mrs. Clarke's delicate hypocrisy. He was still thinking 
 of Mrs. Clarke as a weapon; he was also thinking that perhaps 
 he did not yet know exactly what type of weapon she was. He 
 must find that out to-night. Not even the thought of Jimmy 
 should deter him. 
 
 At a few minutes before eleven he went back to his rooms, 
 unlocked his despatch box, and drew out the key of the gate of 
 Mrs. Clarke's garden. He thrust it into his pocket and set out 
 on the short walk to the Villa Hafiz. The night was dark 
 and cloudy and very still. Dion walked quickly and surrep- 
 titiously, not looking at any of the people who went by him 
 in the darkness. All the windows of the villa which faced the 
 sea were shuttered and showed no lights. He turned to the 
 right, stood before the garden gate and listened. He heard 
 no sound except a distant singing on the oily waters of the 
 Bay. Softly he put his key into the gate, gently unlocked it, 
 stepped into the garden. A few minutes later he was on the 
 highest terrace and approached the pavilion. As he did so Mrs.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 457 
 
 Clarke came out of the drawing-room of the villa, passed by the 
 fountain, and began to ascend the garden. 
 
 She was dressed in black and in a material that did not 
 rustle. Her thin figure did not show up against the night, and 
 her light slow footfall was scarcely audible on the paths and 
 steps as she went upward. Jimmy had gone to bed long ago, 
 tired out with the long ride in the heat. She had just been into 
 his bedroom, without a light, and had heard his regular breath- 
 ing. He was fast asleep, and once he was asleep he never woke 
 till the light of day shone in at the window. It was a comfort 
 that one could thoroughly rely on the sleeping powers of a 
 healthy boy of fifteen. 
 
 She sighed as she thought about Jimmy. The boy was go- 
 ing to complicate her life. She was by nature an unusually 
 fearless woman, but she was beginning to realize that there 
 might come a time when she would know fear unless she 
 could begin to live differently as Jimmy began to grow up. 
 But how could she do that? There are things which seem to 
 be impossible even to strong wills. Her will was very strong, 
 but she had always used it not to renounce but to attain, not 
 to hold her desires in check but to bring them to fruition. And 
 it was late in the day to begin reversing the powerful engine 
 of her will. She was not even sure that she could reverse it. 
 Hitherto she had never genuinely tried to do that. She did 
 not want to try now, partly but only partly because she 
 hated to fail in anything she undertook. And she had a sus- 
 picion, which she was not anxious to turn into a certainty, that 
 she who had ruled many people was only a slave herself. Per- 
 haps some day Jimmy would force her to a knowledge of her 
 exact condition. 
 
 For the first time in her life she was half afraid of that mys- 
 terious energy which men and women call love; she began to 
 understand, with a sort of ample fulness of comprehension, 
 that of all loves the most determined is the love of a mother for 
 her only son. A mother may, perhaps, have a son and not love 
 him; but if once she loves him she holds within her a thing 
 that will not die while she lives. 
 
 And if the thing that was without lust stood up in battle 
 against the thing that was full of lust what then? 
 
 The black and still night seemed a battlefield. 
 
 Softly she stepped upon the highest terrace and stood for 
 a moment under the great plane tree, where was the wooden 
 seat on which she had waited for Dion to weep away the past
 
 458 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 and the good woman who had ruined his life. To-night she 
 was invaded by an odd uncertainty. If she went to the pavilion 
 and Dion were not there? If he did not come? Would some 
 part of her, perhaps, be glad, the part that in a mysterious way 
 was one with Jimmy? She stared into the darkness, looking 
 towards the pavilion. Dion Leith had once said she looked 
 punished. Perhaps when he had said that he had shown that 
 he had intuition. 
 
 Was he there? It was past eleven now. She had assumed 
 that he would come, and she was inclined to believe that he 
 had come. If so she need not see him even now. There was 
 still time for her to go back to the villa, to shut herself in, to 
 go to bed, as Jimmy had gone to bed. But if she did that she 
 would not sleep. All night long she would lie wide awake, 
 tossing from side to side, the helpless prey of her past life. 
 
 She frowned and slipped through the darkness, almost like 
 a fluid, to the pavilion. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 SHE came so silently that Dion heard nothing till against 
 the background of the night he saw a shadow, her thin 
 body, a faint whiteness, her face, motionless at the open- 
 ing of the pavilion; from this shadow and this whiteness came 
 a voice which said: 
 
 " Did you come under the influence of Defetgamm ? " 
 
 " It's impossible that you see me! " he said. 
 
 " I see you plainly with some part of me, not my eyes." 
 
 He got up from the divan where he had been sitting in the 
 dark and went to the opening of the pavilion. 
 
 " Did you come under the influence of Defetgamm? " she re- 
 peated. 
 
 " You know I didn't." 
 
 He paused, then added: 
 
 " I nearly didn't come to-night." 
 
 " And I nearly went down, after I had come up here, with- 
 out seeing you. And yet we are together again." 
 
 " Why do you want to see me here? We agreed " 
 
 " Yes, we agreed ; but after to-day in the forest that agree-
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 459 
 
 ment had to be broken. When you left me under the trees you 
 looked like a man who was thinking of starting on a very 
 long journey." 
 
 She spoke with a peculiar significance which at once con- 
 veyed her full meaning to him. 
 
 " No, I shall never do that," he said. " If I had been capa- 
 ble of it, I should have done it long ago." 
 
 " Yes? Let me in." 
 
 He moved. She slipped into the pavilion and sat down. 
 
 " How can you move without making any sound? " he asked 
 somberly. 
 
 There had been in her movement a sort of perfection of sur- 
 reptitiousness that was animal. He noticed it, and thought that 
 she must surely be accustomed to moving with precaution lest 
 she should be seen or heard. Rosamund could not move like 
 that. A life story seemed to him to be faintly traced in Mrs. 
 Clarke's manner of entering the pavilion and of sitting down 
 on the divan. 
 
 He stood beside her in the dark. She returned no answer 
 to his question. 
 
 " You spoke of a journey," he said. " The only journey I 
 have thought of making is short enough to Constantinople. 
 I nearly started on it to-night." 
 
 " Why do you want to go to Constantinople? " 
 
 He was silent. 
 
 " What would you do there? " 
 
 " Ugly things, perhaps." 
 
 " Why didn't you go? What kept you? " 
 
 " I felt that I must ask you something." 
 
 He sat down beside her and took both her hands roughly. 
 They were dry and burning as if with fever. 
 
 " You trick Jimmy," he said. " You trick the Ingletons, 
 Vane, all the people here " 
 
 "Trick!" she interrupted coldly, almost disdainfully. 
 " What do you mean? " 
 
 " That you deceive them, take them in." 
 
 "What about?" 
 
 " You know quite well." 
 
 After a pause, which was perhaps he could not tell a 
 pause of astonishment, she said: 
 
 " Do you really expect me to go about telling every one 
 that I, a lonely woman, separated from my husband, unable to 
 marry again, have met a man whom I care for, and that I've
 
 460 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 been weak enough or wicked enough, if you like to let 
 him know it? " 
 
 Dion felt his cheeks burn in the darkness. Nevertheless, 
 something drove him on, forced him to push his way hardily 
 through a sort of quickset hedge of reluctance and shame. 
 
 " No, I don't expect absurdities. I am not such a fool. But 
 but you do it so well ! " 
 
 "Do what well?" 
 
 " Everything connected with deception. You are such a mis- 
 tress of it." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Isn't that rather strange? " 
 
 " Do you expect a woman like me, a woman who can't pre- 
 tend to stupidity, and who has lived for years in the diplomatic 
 world, to blunder in what she undertakes? " 
 
 " No, I don't. But you are too competent." 
 
 He spoke with hard determination, but his cheeks were still 
 burning. 
 
 " It's impossible to be too competent. If I make up my 
 mind that a thing must be done I resolve to do it thoroughly 
 and to do it well. I despise blunderers and women who are 
 afraid of what they do. I despise those who give themselves 
 and others away. I cared for you. I saw you needed me 
 and I gave myself to you. I am not sorry I did it, not a bit 
 sorry. I had counted the cost before I did it." 
 
 "Counted the cost? But what cost is there? Neither of 
 us loses anything." 
 
 " I risk losing almost everything a woman cares for. I don't 
 want to dwell upon it. I detest women who indulge in re- 
 proaches, or who try to make men value them by pointing out 
 how much they stand to lose by giving themselves. But you 
 are so strange to-night. You have attacked me. I don't know 
 why." 
 
 " I've been walking on the quay and thinking." 
 
 "What about?" 
 You!" 
 Go on." 
 
 " I've been thinking that, as you take in Jimmy and all the 
 people here so easily, there is no reason why you shouldn't be 
 taking me in too." 
 
 In the dark a feeling was steadily growing within him that 
 his companion was playing with him as he knew she had played 
 with others.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 461 
 
 " I'm forced to deceive the people here and my boy. My 
 relation with you obliges me to do that. But nothing forces 
 me to deceive you. I have been sincere with you. Ever since I 
 met you in the street in Pera I've been sincere, even blunt. I 
 should think you must have noticed it." 
 
 " I have. In some ways you are blunt, but in many you 
 aren't." 
 
 " What is it exactly that you wish to know? " 
 
 For a moment Dion was silent. In the darkness of the pa- 
 vilion he saw Dumeny's lips smiling faintly, Hadi Bey's vivid, 
 self-possessed eyes, the weak mouth of Brayfield and his own 
 double. Was he a member of an ugly brotherhood, or did he 
 stand alone ? He wanted to know, yet he felt that he could not 
 put such a hideous question to his companion. 
 
 " Tell me exactly what it is," she said. " Don't be afraid. 
 I wish to be quite sincere with you, though you think I don't. 
 It is no pleasure to me to deceive people. What I do in the 
 way of deception I do in self-defense. Circumstances often 
 push us into doing what we don't enjoy doing. But you and I 
 ought to be frank with one another." 
 
 Her hands tightened on his. 
 
 " Go on. Tell me." 
 
 " I've been wondering whether your husband ought to have 
 won his case," said Dion, in a low voice. 
 
 " Is that all? " she said, very simply and without any emo- 
 tion. 
 
 "All?" 
 
 " Yes. Do you suppose, when I gave myself to you, I 
 didn't realize that my doing it was certain to make you doubt 
 my virtue? Dion, you don't know how boyish you still are. 
 You will always be in some ways a boy. I knew you would 
 doubt me after all that had happened. But what is the good 
 of asking questions of a woman whom you doubt? If I am 
 what you suspect, of course I shall tell you lies. If I am not, 
 what is the good of my telling you the truth? What is to 
 make you believe it? " 
 
 He was silent. She moved slightly and he felt her thin 
 body against his side. What sort of weapon was she? That 
 was the great question for him. Since his struggle in the 
 forest of Defetgamm he had come to the resolve to strike fierce 
 and reiterated blows on that disabling and surely contemptible 
 love of his, that love which had confronted him like a specter 
 when he was in the pavilion with Jimmy. He was resolved
 
 462 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 at last upon assassination, and he wanted a weapon that could 
 slay, not a weapon that would bend, or perhaps break, in his 
 hand. 
 
 " I don't want to believe I am only one among many," he 
 said at last. 
 
 The sound of his voice gave her the cue to his inmost feeling. 
 She had been puzzled in the forest, she had been half afraid, 
 seeing that he had arrived at an acute emotional crisis and 
 not understanding what had brought him to it. She did not 
 understand that now, but she knew that he was asking from 
 her more than he had ever asked before. He had been cast 
 out and now he was knocking hard on her door. He was 
 knocking, but lingering remnants of the influence of the woman 
 who had colored his former life hung about him like torn rags, 
 and his hands instinctively felt for them, pulled at them, to 
 cover his nakedness. Still, while he knocked, he looked back 
 to the other life. Nevertheless she knew this with all there 
 was of woman in her he wanted from her all that the good 
 woman had never given to him, was incapable of giving to 
 him or to any one. He wanted from her, perhaps, powers of 
 the body which would suffice finally for the killing of those 
 powers of the soul by which he was now tormented ceaselessly. 
 The sound of his voice demanded from her something no other 
 man had ever demanded from her, the slaughter in him of 
 what he had lived by through all his years. Nevertheless he 
 was still looking back to all the old purities, was still trying to 
 hear all the old voices. He required of her, as it were, that 
 she should be good in her evil, gentle while she destroyed. 
 Well, she would even be that. A rare smile curved her thin 
 lips, but he did not see it. 
 
 " Suppose I told you that you were one of many? " she said. 
 " Would you give it all up? " 
 
 " I don't know. Ami?" 
 
 " No. Do you think, if you were, I should have kept my 
 women friends, Tippie Chetwinde, Delia Ingleton and all the 
 rest?" 
 
 " I suppose not," he said. 
 
 But he remembered tones in Mrs. Chetwinde's voice when 
 she had spoken of " Cynthia Clarke," and even tones in Lady 
 Ingleton's voice. 
 
 " They stuck to me because they believed in me. What 
 other reason could they have ? " 
 
 " Unless they were very devoted to you."
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 463 
 
 " Women aren't much given to that sort of thing," she said 
 dryly. 
 
 " I think you have an unusual power of making people do 
 what you wish. It is like an emanation," he said slowly. 
 " And it seems not to be interfered with by distance." 
 
 She leaned till her cheek touched his. 
 
 " Dion, I wish to make you forget. I know how it is with 
 you. You suffer abominably because you can't forget. I 
 haven't succeeded with you yet. But wait, only wait, till 
 Jimmy goes, till the summer is over and we can leave the 
 Bosporus. It's all too intimate the life here. We are all 
 too near together. But in Constantinople I know ways. I'll 
 stay there all the winter for you. Even the Christmas holi- 
 days I'll give them up for once. I want to show you that 
 I do care. For no one else on earth would I give up being 
 with Jimmy in his holidays. For no one else I'd risk what 
 I'm risking to-night." 
 
 " Jimmy was asleep when you came? " 
 
 " Yes, but he might wake. He never does, but he might 
 wake just to-night." 
 
 " Suppose he did ! Suppose he looked for you in your room 
 and didn't find you! Suppose he came up here! " 
 
 "He won't!"' 
 
 She spoke obstinately, almost as if her assertion of the 
 thing's impossibility must make it impossible. 
 
 " And yet there's the risk of it," said Dion " the great 
 risk." 
 
 " There are always risks in connection with the big things 
 in life. We are worth very little if we won't take them." 
 
 " If it wasn't for Jimmy would you come and live wittt 
 me? Would you drop all this deception? would you let 
 your husband divorce you? would you give up your place 
 in society for me? I am an outcast. Would you come and 
 be an outcast with me? " 
 
 " Yes, if it wasn't for Jimmy." 
 
 " And for Jimmy you'd give me up for ever in a moment, 
 wouldn't you? " 
 
 " Why do you ask these questions? " she said, almost fiercely. 
 
 " I want something for myself, something that's really mine. 
 Then perhaps " 
 
 He stopped. 
 
 " Perhaps what? " 
 
 "Perhaps I could forget sometimes."
 
 464 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " And yet when you knew Jimmy was coming here you 
 wanted to go away. You were afraid then. And even 
 to-day " 
 
 " I want one thing or the other! " he interrupted desperately. 
 " I'm sick of mixing up good and bad. I'm sick of prevarica- 
 tions and deceptions. They go against my whole nature. I 
 hate struggling in a net. It saps all my strength." 
 
 " I know. I understand." 
 
 She put, her arm round his neck. 
 
 " Perhaps I ought to give you up, let you go. I've thought 
 that. But I haven't had the courage. Dion, I'm lonely, I'm 
 lonely." 
 
 He felt moisture on his cheek. 
 
 " About you I'm absolutely selfish," she said, in a low, swift 
 voice. " Even if all this hypocrisy hurts you I can't give you 
 up. I've told you a lie even you." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 " I said to you on that night " 
 
 She waited. 
 
 " I know," he said. 
 
 " I said that I hadn't cared for you till I met you in Pera, 
 and saw what she had done to you. That was a lie. I cared 
 for you in England. Didn't you know it? " 
 
 " Once or twice I wondered, but I was never at all sure." 
 
 " It was because I cared that I wanted to make friends with 
 your wife. I had no evil reason. I knew you and she were 
 perfectly happy together. But I wanted just to see you some- 
 times. She guessed it. That was why she avoided me the 
 real reason. It wasn't only because I'd been involved in a 
 scandal, though I told you once it was. I've sometimes lied 
 to you because I didn't want to feel myself humiliated in your 
 eyes. But now I don't care. You can know all the truth if 
 you want to. You pushed me away oh, very gently be- 
 cause of her. Did you think I didn't understand? You were 
 afraid of me. Perhaps you thought I was a nuisance. When 
 I came back from Paris on purpose for Tippie Chetwinde's 
 party you were startled, almost horrified, when you saw me. 
 I saw it all so plainly. In the end, as you know, I gave it 
 up. Only when you went to the war I had to send that tele- 
 gram. I thought you might be killed, and I wanted you to 
 know I was remembering you, and admiring you for what you 
 had done. Then you came with poor Brayfield's letter " 
 
 She broke off, then added, with a long, quivering sigh:
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 465 
 
 " You've made me suffer, Dion." 
 
 "Have I?" 
 
 He turned till he was facing her in the darkness. 
 
 " Then at last you were overtaken by your tragedy, and 
 she showed you her cruelty and cast you out. From that 
 moment I was resolved some day to let you know how much 
 I cared. I wanted you in your misery. But I waited. I had 
 a conviction that you would come to me, drawn, without sus- 
 pecting it, by what I felt for you. Well, you came at last. 
 And now you ask me whether you are one of many." 
 
 " Forgive me! " he whispered. 
 
 " But of course I shall always forgive you for everything. 
 Women who care for men always do that. They can't help 
 themselves. And you will you forgive me for my lies ? " 
 
 He took her in his arms. 
 
 " Life's full of them. Only don't tell me any more, and 
 make me forget if you can. You've got so much will. Try to 
 have the power for that" 
 
 " Then help me. Give yourself wholly to me. You have 
 struggled against me furtively. You thought I didn't know 
 it, but I did. You look back to the old ways. And that is 
 madness. Turn a new page, Dion. Have the courage to 
 hope." 
 
 "To^ hope!" 
 
 Her hot hands closed on him fiercely. 
 
 " You shall hope. I'll make you. Cut out the cancer that 
 is in you, and cut away all that is round it. Then you'll have 
 health again. She never knew how to feel in the great human 
 way. She was too fond of God ever to care for a man." 
 
 He said no word in defense of Rosamund. Deliberately 
 he was traitor to her. At that moment he felt that if he 
 defended her the old habit of life would assert upon him again 
 its terrible, its devastating power. 
 
 " She was too fond of God ever to care for a man." 
 
 Let that be the epitaph over the tomb in which all his happi- 
 ness was buried. 
 
 In silence he made his decision, and Cynthia Clarke knew it 
 
 The darkness covered them. 
 
 Down below in the Villa Hafiz Jimmy was sleeping peace- 
 fully, tired by the long ride to and from the forest in the heat. 
 He had gone to bed very early, almost directly after dinner. 
 His mother had not advised this. Perhaps indeed, if she had
 
 466 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 not been secretly concentrated on herself and her own desires 
 that evening, she would have made Jimmy stay up till at least 
 half-past ten, even though he was " jolly sleepy." He had 
 slept for at least two hours in the forest. She ought to have 
 remembered that, but she had forgotten it, and when, at a quar- 
 ter to nine, on an enormous yawn, Jimmy had announced that 
 he thought he would " turn in and get between the sheets," she 
 had almost eagerly acquiesced. She wanted her boy asleep, 
 soundly asleep that night. When the clock had struck nine 
 he had already traveled beyond the land of dreams. 
 
 The night was intensely hot and airless. No breath of wind 
 came from the sea. Drops of perspiration stood on the boy's 
 forehead as he slept, with nothing over him but a sheet. He 
 lay on his side, with his face towards the open window and one 
 arm outside the sheet. 
 
 People easily fall into habits of sleeping. Jimmy was accus- 
 tomed to sleep for about eight hours " on end," as he put it. 
 When he had had his eight hours he generally woke up. If 
 he was not obliged to get up he often went to sleep again after 
 an interval of wakefulness, but he seldom slept for as much 
 as nine hours without waking. 
 
 On this night between two o'clock and three it seemed as 
 if a layer of sleep were gently lifted from him. He sighed, 
 stirred, turned over and began to dream. 
 
 He dreamed confusedly about Dion, and there were pain 
 and apprehension in his dream. In it Dion seemed to be 
 himself and yet not himself, to be near and at the same time 
 remote, to be Jimmy's friend and yet, in some strange and 
 horrible way, hostile to Jimmy. No doubt the boy was 
 haunted in his sleep by an obscure phantom bred of that pain- 
 ful impression of the morning, when his friend had suddenly 
 been changed in the pavilion, changed into a tragic figure from 
 which seemed to emanate impalpable things very black and 
 very cold. 
 
 In the dream Jimmy's mother did not appear as an active 
 figure; yet the dreamer seemed somehow to be aware of her, 
 to know faintly that she was involved in unhappy circum- 
 stances, that she was the victim of distresses he could not 
 fathom. And these distresses weighed upon him like a burden, 
 as things weigh upon us in dreams, softly and heavily, and 
 with a sort of cloudy awfulness. He wanted to strive against 
 them for his mother, but he was held back from action, and 
 Dion seemed to have something to do with this. It was as if
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 467 
 
 his friend and enemy, Dion Leith, did not wish his mother to 
 be released from unhappiness. 
 
 Jimmy moved, lay en his back and groaned. His eyelids 
 fluttered. Something from without, something from a distance, 
 was pulling at him, and the hands of sleep, too inert, perhaps, 
 for any conflict, relaxed their hold upon him. Thoughts from 
 two minds in a dark pavilion were stealing upon him, were 
 touching him here and there, were whispering to him. 
 
 Another layer of sleep was softly removed from him. 
 
 He clenched his large hands he had already the hands 
 and feet almost of the man he would some day grow into and 
 his eyes opened wide for a moment. But they closed again. 
 He was not awake yet. 
 
 At three o'clock he woke. He had slept for six hours in 
 the villa and for two hours in the forest. He lay still in the 
 dark for a few minutes. A faint memory of his dream hung 
 about him like a tattered mist. He felt anxious, almost appre- 
 hensive, and strained his ears expectant of some sound. But 
 the silence of the airless night was deep and large all about 
 him. He began to think of his mother. What had been the 
 matter with her? Who, or what, had persecuted her? He 
 realized now that he had been dreaming, said to himself, with 
 a boy's exaggeration, that he had had " a beastly nightmare! " 
 Nevertheless his mother still appeared to him as the victim 
 of distresses. He could not absolutely detach himself from the 
 impressions communicated to him in his dream. He was 
 obliged to think of his mother as unhappy and of Dion Leith 
 as not wholly friendly either to her or to himself. And it was 
 all quite beastly. 
 
 Presently, more fully awake, he began to wonder about the 
 time and to feel tremendously thirsty, as if he could " drink 
 the jug." 
 
 He stretched out a hand, found the matches and struck a 
 light. It went out with a sort of feeble determination. 
 
 " Damn ! " he muttered. 
 
 He struck another match and lit the candle. His silver 
 watch lay beside it, and marked five minutes past three. 
 Jimmy was almost angrily astonished. Only that! He now 
 felt painfully wide awake, as if his sleep were absolutely 
 finished. What was to be done? He remembered that he 
 had slept in the forest. He had had his eight hours. Perhaps 
 that was the reason of his present wakefulness. Anyhow, he 
 must have a drink. He thrust away the sheet, rolled out of
 
 468 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 bed, and went to the washhand-stand. There was plenty of 
 water in his bottle, but when he poured it into the tumbler 
 he found that it was quite warm. He was certain warm water 
 wouldn't quench his ardent thirst. Besides, he loathed it. 
 Any chap would! How beastly everything was! 
 
 He put down the tumbler without drinking, went to the 
 window and looked out. The still hot darkness which greeted 
 him made him feel again the obscure distress of his dream. 
 He was aware of apprehension. Dawn could not be so very 
 far off; yet he felt sunk to the lips in the heavy night. 
 
 If only he could have a good drink of something very cold! 
 This wish made him think again of his mother. He knew 
 she did not require much sleep, and sometimes read during 
 part of the night; he also knew that she kept some iced lemon- 
 ade on the table beside her bed. Now the thought of his 
 mother's lemonade enticed him. 
 
 He hesitated for a moment, then stuck his feet into a pair 
 of red Turkish slippers without heels, buttoned the jacket of 
 his pyjamas, which he had thrown open because of the heat, 
 took his candle in hand, and shuffled he always shuffled 
 when he had on the ridiculous slippers to the door. 
 
 There he paused. 
 
 The landing was fairly wide. It looked dreary and de- 
 serted in the darkness denned by the light from his candle. 
 He could see the head of the staircase, the shallow wooden steps 
 disappearing into the empty blackness in which the ground 
 floor of the house was shrouded; he could see the door of his 
 mother's bedroom. As he stared at it, considering whether his 
 thirst justified him in waking her up for, if she were asleep, 
 he felt pretty sure she would wake however softly he crept into 
 her room he saw that the door was partly open. Perhaps 
 his mother had found the heat too great, and had tried to create 
 a draught by opening her door. There was darkness in the 
 aperture. She wasn't reading, then. Probably she was asleep. 
 He was infernally thirsty; the door was open; the lemonade 
 was almost within reach; he resolved to risk it. Carefully 
 shading the candle with one hand he crept across the landing, 
 adroitly abandoned his slippers outside the door, and on naked 
 feet entered his mother's room. 
 
 His eyes immediately rested on the tall jug of lemonade, 
 which stood on a small table, with a glass and some books, 
 beside the big, low bed. He stole towards it, always shielding 
 the candle with his hand, and not looking at the bed lest his
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 469 
 
 glance might, perhaps, disturb the sleeper he supposed to be 
 in it. He reached the table, and was about to lay a desirous 
 hand upon the jug, when it occurred to him that, in doing this, 
 he would expose the candle ray. Better blow the candle out! 
 He located the jug, and was on the edge of action his lips 
 were pursed for the puff when the dead silence in the room 
 struck him. Could any one, even his remarkably quiet mother, 
 sleep without making even the tiniest sound? He shot a 
 glance at the bed. There was no one in it. He bent down. 
 It had not been slept in that night. 
 
 Jimmy stood, with his mouth open, staring at the large, 
 neat, unruffled bed. What the dickens could the mater be up 
 to? She must, of course, be sitting up in her small sitting- 
 room next door to the bedroom. Evidently the heat had made 
 her sleepless. 
 
 He took a pull at the lemonade, went to the sitting-room 
 door and softly opened it, at the same time exclaiming, " I say, 
 mater " 
 
 Darkness and emptiness confronted him. 
 
 He shut the door rather hurriedly, and again stood con- 
 sidering. Something cracked. He started, and the candle 
 rattled in his hand. A disagreeable sensation was stealing 
 upon him. He would not, of course, have acknowledged that 
 he felt in a bit of a funk, even to himself, but he was aware of 
 an unpleasant feeling of loneliness, almost of desertion. The 
 servants slept in a small wing of the villa, shut off from the 
 main part of the house by double doors. Mrs. Clarke de- 
 tested hearing the servants at night, and had taken good care 
 to make such hearing impossible. Jimmy began to feel isolated. 
 
 Where could the mater be? And what could she be doing? 
 
 For a moment he thought of returning to his room, shutting 
 himself in and waiting for the dawn, which would change 
 everything would make everything seem quite usual and 
 reasonable. But something in the depths of him, speaking in 
 a disagreeably distinct voice, remarked, "That's right! Be a 
 funk stick! " And his young cheeks flushed red, although 
 he was alone. Immediately he went out on to the landing, 
 thrust his feet again into the red slippers, and boldly started 
 down the stairs into the black depths below. Holding the 
 candle tightly, and trying to shuffle with manly decision, he 
 explored the sitting-rooms and the dining-room. All of them 
 were empty and dark. 
 
 Now Jimmy began to feel " rotten." Horrid fears for his
 
 470 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 mother bristled up in his mind. His young imagination got 
 to work and summoned up ugly things before him. He saw 
 his mother ravished away from him by unspeakable men 
 Turks, Armenians, Greeks, Albanians God knows whom 
 and carried off to some unknown and frightful fate; he saw 
 her dead, murdered; he saw her dead, stricken by some sudden 
 and horrible illness. His heart thumped. He could hear it. 
 It seemed to be beating in his ears. And then he began to 
 feel brave, to feel an intrepidity of desperation. He must act. 
 That was certain. It was his obvious business to jolly well 
 get to work and do something. His first thought was to rush 
 upstairs, to rouse the servants, to call up Sonia, his mother's 
 confidential maid, to the pavilion! 
 
 Suddenly he remembered the pavilion, and all the books 
 on its shelves. His mother might be there. She might have 
 been sleepless, might have felt sure she couldn't sleep, and 
 so have stayed up. She might be reading in the pavilion, or 
 perhaps sitting out in the garden in the darkness. She was 
 afraid of nothing. Darkness and solitude wouldn't hinder 
 her from wandering about if the fancy to wander took her. 
 She wouldn't, of course, go outside the gates, but he now 
 felt sure she was somewhere in the garden. 
 
 He looked round. He was standing by the grand piano in 
 the drawing-room, and he now noticed for the first time that 
 the French window which gave on to the rose garden was open. 
 That settled it. He put the candle down, hurried out into 
 the garden and called, "Mater! " 
 
 No voice replied except the fountain's voice. The purring 
 water rose in the darkness and fell among the lilies, rose and 
 fell, active and indifferent, like a living thing withdrawn from 
 him, wrapped in its own mystery. 
 
 "Mater! " he called again, in a louder, more resolute, voice. 
 "Mater! Mater!" 
 
 In an absolutely still night a voice can travel very far. 
 On the highest terrace of the garden in the blackness of the 
 pavilion Mrs. Clarke moved sharply. She sat straight up on 
 the divan, rigid, with her hands pressed palm downwards on 
 the cushions. Dion had heard nothing, and did not under- 
 stand the reason for her abrupt, almost violent, movement. 
 
 " Why ... ? " he began. 
 
 She caught his wrist and held it tightly, compressing her 
 fingers on it with a fierce force that amazed him.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 471 
 
 ."Mater!" 
 
 Had he really heard the word, or had he imagined it? 
 
 "Mater!" 
 
 He had heard it. 
 
 "It's Jimmy! " 
 
 She had her thin lips close to his ear. She still held his 
 wrist in a grip of iron. 
 
 " He's at the bottom of the garden. He'll come up here. 
 He won't wait. Go down and meet him." 
 
 "But " 
 
 "Go down! I'll hide among the trees. Let him come 
 up here, or bring him up. He must come. Be sure he comes 
 inside. While you go I'll light the lamp. I can do it in a 
 moment. You couldn't sleep. You came here to read. Of 
 course you know nothing about me. Keep him here for five 
 or ten minutes. You can come down then and help him to 
 look for me. Go at once." 
 
 She took away her hand. 
 
 "My whole future depends upon you!" 
 
 Dion got up and went out. As he went he heard her strike 
 a match. 
 
 Scarcely knowing for a moment what he was doing, acting 
 mechanically, in obedience to instinct, but always feeling a 
 sort of terrible driving force behind him, he traversed the 
 terrace on which the pavilion stood, passed the great plane 
 tree and the wooden seat, and began to descend. As he did so 
 he heard again Jimmy's voice crying: 
 
 "Mater!" 
 
 " Jimmy! " he called out, in a loud voice, hurrying on. 
 
 As the sound died away he knew it had been nonchalant 
 Surely she had made it so! 
 
 "Jimmy!" he called again. "What's up? What's the 
 matter?" 
 
 There was no immediate reply, but in the deep silence Dion 
 heard hurrying steps, and then: 
 
 "Mr. Leith!" 
 
 "Hallo!" 
 
 "Mr. Leith it is you, is it?" 
 
 "Yes. What on earth's the matter?" 
 
 "Stop a sec! I ' 
 
 The feet were bounding upward. Almost directly, in 
 pyjamas and the slippers, which somehow still remained with 
 him, Jimmy stood by Dion in the dark, breathing hard.
 
 472 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 "Jimmy, what's the matter? What has happened?" 
 
 " I say, why are you here? " 
 
 " I couldn't sleep. The night was so hot. I had nothing 
 to read in my rooms. Besides, they're stuck down right against 
 the quay. You know your mother's kind enough to let me have 
 a key of the garden gate. I thought I might get more air on 
 the top terrace. I was reading in the pavilion when I thought 
 I heard a call." 
 
 "Then the mater isn't there?" 
 
 " Your mother? " 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 " Of course not. Come on up! " 
 
 Dion took the boy by the arm with decision, and slowly led 
 him upwards. 
 
 "What's this about your mother? Do you mean she isn't 
 asleep? " 
 
 "Asleep? She isn't in her bedroom! She hasn't been 
 there!" 
 
 "Hasn't been there?" 
 
 "Hasn't been to bed at all! I've been to her sitting-room 
 you know, upstairs she isn't there. I've been in all the 
 rooms. She isn't anywhere. She must be somewhere about 
 here." 
 
 They had arrived in front of the pavilion backed by trees. 
 Looking in, Dion saw a lighted lamp. The slide of jeweled 
 glass had been removed from it. A white ray fell on an open 
 book laid on a table. 
 
 " I was reading here " he looked " a thing called ' The 
 Kasidah.' Sit down!" He pulled the boy down. "Now 
 what is all this? Your mother must be in the house." 
 
 " But I tell you she isn't! " 
 
 Dion had sat down between Jimmy and the opening on to 
 the terrace. It occurred to him that he ought to have induced 
 the boy to sit with his back to the terrace and his face turned 
 towards the room. It was too late to do that now. 
 
 " I tell you she isn't! " Jimmy repeated, with a sort of almost 
 fierce defiance. 
 
 He was staring hard at Dion. His hair was almost wildly 
 disordered, and his face looked pale and angry in the ray of 
 the lamp. Dion felt that there was suspicion in his eyes. 
 Surely those eyes were demanding of him the woman who was 
 hiding among the trees. 
 
 "Where have you looked?" he said.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 473 
 
 " I tell you I've looked everywhere," said Jimmy doggedly. 
 
 " Did your mother go up to bed when you did ? " 
 
 " No. I went very early. I was so infernally sleepy." 
 
 " Where did you leave her? " 
 
 " In the drawing-room. She was playing the piano. But 
 what's the good of that? What time did you come here? " 
 
 " I! Oh, not till very late indeed." 
 
 " Were there any lights showing when you came ? " 
 
 " Lights ? No ! But it was ever so much too late for 
 that." 
 
 "Did you go on to the terrace by the drawing-room? " 
 
 " No. I came straight up here. It never occurred to me 
 that any one would be up at such an hour. Besides, I didn't 
 want to disturb any one, especially your mother." 
 
 " Well, just now I found the drawing-room window wide 
 open, and mater's bed hasn't been touched. What do you 
 make of that? " 
 
 Before Dion could reply the boy abruptly started up. 
 
 " I heard something. I know I did." 
 
 As naturally as he could Dion got between Jimmy and the 
 opening on to the terrace, and, forestalling the boy, looked out. 
 He saw nothing; he could not have said with truth that any 
 definite sound reached his ears; but he felt that at that exact 
 moment Mrs. Clarke escaped from the terrace, and began to 
 glide down towards the house below. 
 
 "There's nothing! Come and see for yourself," he said 
 casually. 
 
 Jimmy pushed by him, then stood perfectly still, staring at 
 the darkness and listening intently. 
 
 " I don't hear it now! " he acknowledged gruffly. 
 
 " What did you think you heard ? " 
 
 " I did hear something. I couldn't tell you what it was." 
 
 "Have you looked all through the garden?" 
 
 " You know I haven't. You heard me calling down at the 
 bottom. You must have, because you answered me." 
 
 " We'd better have a good look now. Just wait one minute 
 while I put out the lamp. I'll put away the book I was read- 
 ing, too." 
 
 " Right you are! " said the boy, still gruffly. 
 
 He waited on the terrace while Dion went into the pavilion. 
 As Dion took up " The Kasidah " he glanced down at the 
 page at which Mrs. Clarke had chanced to set the book open, 
 and read:
 
 474 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Do what thy manhood bids thee do, from 
 None but self expect applause " 
 
 With a feeling of cold and abject soul-nausea he shut the 
 book, put it away on a bookshelf in which he saw a gap, and 
 went to turn out the lamp. As the flame flickered and died 
 out he heard Jimmy's foot shift on the terrace. 
 
 " Do what thy manhood bids thee do " 
 
 Dion stood for a moment in the dark. He was in a dark- 
 ness greater than any which reigned in the pavilion. His soul 
 seemed to him to be pressing against it, to be hemmed in by it 
 as by towering walls of iron. For an instant he shut his eyes. 
 And when he did that he saw, low down, a little boy's figure, 
 two small outstretched hands groping. 
 
 Robin ! 
 
 "Aren't you coming, Mr. Leith? What's the matter?" 
 
 " I was just seeing that the lamp was thoroughly out." 
 
 Well " 
 
 Dion came out. 
 
 " We'll look all over the garden. But if your mother had 
 been in it she must have heard you calling her. I did, although 
 I was inside there reading." 
 
 " I know. I thought of that too," returned Jimmy. 
 
 And Dion fancied that the boy's voice was very cold; Dion 
 fancied this but he was not sure. His conscience might be 
 tricking him. He hoped that it was tricking him. 
 
 " We'd better look among the trees," he said. " And then 
 we'll go to the terrace below." 
 
 " It's no use looking among the trees," Jimmy returned. 
 " If she was up here she must have heard us talking all this 
 time." 
 
 Abruptly he led the way to the steps near the plane tree. 
 Dion followed him slowly. Was it possible that Jimmy had 
 guessed? Was it possible that Jimmy had caught a glimpse 
 of his mother escaping? The boy's manner was surely almost 
 hostile. 
 
 They searched the garden in silence, and at length found 
 themselves by the fountain close to the French window of the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 " Your mother must be in the house," said Dion firmly. 
 
 " But I know she isn't! " Jimmy retorted, with a sort of dull 
 fixed obstinacy.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 475 
 
 "Did you rouse the servants?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Where do they sleep ? " 
 
 " Away from us, by themselves." 
 
 " You'd better go and look again. If you can't find your 
 mother perhaps you'd better wake the servants." 
 
 " I know," said Jimmy, in a voice that had suddenly 
 changed, become brighter, more eager " I'll go to Sonia." 
 
 " Your mother's maid ? That's it. She may know some- 
 thing. I'll wait down here at the window. Got a candle? " 
 
 " Yes. I left it in there by the piano." 
 
 He felt his way in and, almost immediately, struck a light. 
 The candle flickered across his face and his disordered hair as 
 he disappeared. 
 
 Dion waited by the fountain. 
 
 Where would Mrs. Clarke be ? How would she explain mat- 
 ters? Would she have had time to ? Oh yes! She 
 
 would have had time to be ready with some quite simple, yet 
 quite satisfactory, piece of deception. Jimmy would find her, 
 and she would convince him of all that it was necessary he 
 should be convinced of. 
 
 Dion's chin sank down and his head almost drooped. He 
 felt mortally tired as he waited here. Already a very faint 
 grayness of the coming dawn was beginning to filter in among 
 the darknesses. 
 
 Another day to face! How could he face it? He had, he 
 supposed, been what is called " true " to the woman who had 
 given herself to him, but how damnably false he had been to 
 himself that night! 
 
 Meanwhile Jimmy went upstairs, frowning and very pale. 
 He went again to his mother's bedroom and found it empty. 
 The big bed, turned down, had held no sleeper. Nothing had 
 been changed in the room since he had been away in the garden. 
 He did not trouble to look once more into the adjoining sitting- 
 room, but hurried towards the servants' quarters. The double 
 doors were shut. Softly he opened them and passed through 
 into a wooden corridor. At the far end of it were two rooms 
 sacred to Sonia, the Russian maid. The first room she slept 
 in; the second was a large airy chamber lined with cupboards. 
 In this she worked. She was a very clever needlewoman, 
 expert in the mysteries of dressmaking. 
 
 As Jimmy drew near to the door of Sonia's workroom he 
 heard a low murmur of voices coming from within. Evidently
 
 476 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 Sonia was there, talking to some one. He crept up and listened. 
 
 Very tranquil the voices sounded. They were talking in 
 French. One was his mother's, and he heard her say: 
 
 " Another five minutes, Sonia, and perhaps I shall be ready 
 for bed. At last I'm beginning to feel as if I might be able 
 to sleep. If only I were like Jimmy! He doesn't know any- 
 thing about the torments of insomnia." 
 
 "Poor Madame! " returned Sonia, in her rather thick, but 
 pleasantly soft, voice. " Your head a little back. That's 
 better! " 
 
 Jimmy was aware of an odd, very faint, sound. He couldn't 
 make out what it was. 
 
 "Mater!" he said. 
 
 And he tapped on the door. 
 
 " Who's that? " said Sonia's voice. 
 
 "It's Jimmy!" 
 
 The door was opened by the maid, and he saw his mother 
 in a long, very thin white dressing-gown, seated in an arm- 
 chair before a mirror. Her colorless hair flowed over the back 
 of the chair, against which her little head was leaning, sup- 
 ported by a silk cushion. Her face looked very white and 
 tired, and the lids drooped over her usually wide-open eyes, giv- 
 ing her a strange expression of languor, almost of drowsiness. 
 Sonia held a silver-backed brush in each hand. 
 
 "Monsieur Jimmy! " she said. 
 
 "Jimmy!" said Mrs. Clarke. "What's the matter?" 
 
 She lifted her head from the cushion, and sat straight up. 
 But she still looked languid. 
 
 "What is it? Are you ill?" 
 
 "No, mater! But I've been looking for you everywhere! " 
 
 There was a boyish reproach in his voice. 
 
 "Looking for me in the middle of the night! Why? " 
 
 Jimmy began to explain matters. 
 
 " At last I thought I'd look in the garden. I shouted out 
 for you, and who should answer but Mr. Leith? " he presently 
 said. 
 
 His mother he noticed it woke up fully at this point in 
 the narrative. 
 
 "Mr. Leith! " she said, with strong surprise. "How could 
 he answer you? " 
 
 " He was up in the pavilion reading a book." 
 
 Mrs. Clarke looked frankly astonished. Her eyes traveled 
 to Sonia, whose broad face was also full of amazement.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 477 
 
 "At this hour!" said Mrs. Clarke. 
 
 " He couldn't sleep either," said Jimmy, quite simply. 
 " He's waiting out there now to know whether I've found you." 
 
 Mrs. Clarke smiled faintly. 
 
 "What a to do!" she said, with just a touch of gentle 
 disdain. " And all because I suffer from insomnia. Run 
 down to him, Jimmy, and tell him that as I felt it was useless 
 to go to bed I sat by the fountain till I was weary, then read 
 in my sitting-room, and finally came to Sonia to be brushed 
 into sleep. Set his mind at rest about me if you can." 
 
 She smiled again. 
 
 Somehow that smile made Jimmy feel very small. 
 
 " And go back to bed, dear boy." 
 
 She put out one hand, drew him to her, and gave him a 
 gentle kiss with lips which felt very calm. 
 
 "I'm sorry you were worried about me." 
 
 "Oh, that's all right, mater!" said Jimmy, rather awk- 
 wardly. " I didn't know what to think. You see " 
 
 " Of course you couldn't guess I was having my hair brushed. 
 Now go straight to bed, after you've told Mr. Leith. I'm 
 coming too in a minute." 
 
 As Jimmy left the room Sonia was again at work with the 
 two hair-brushes. 
 
 A moment later Jimmy reappeared at the French window 
 of the drawing-room. Dion lifted his head, but did not move 
 from the place where he was standing close to the fountain. 
 
 " It's all right, Mr. Leith," said Jimmy. " I've found 
 mater." 
 
 " Where was she? " 
 
 " In Sonia's room having her hair brushed." 
 
 Dion stared towards him but said nothing. 
 
 " She told me I was to set your mind at rest." 
 
 "Did she?" 
 
 " Yes. I believe she thought us a couple of fools for kicking 
 up such a dust about her." 
 
 Dion said nothing. 
 
 " I don't know, but I've an idea girls and women often think 
 they can laugh at us," added Jimmy. " Anyhow, it'll be a 
 jolly long time before I put myself in a sweat about the mater 
 again. I thought I don't know what I thought, and all the 
 time she was half asleep and having her hair brushed. She 
 made me feel ass number one. Good night." 
 
 " Good night."
 
 478 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 The boy shut the window, bent down and bolted it on the 
 inside. 
 
 Dion looked at the gray coming of the new day. 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 LIVERPOOL has a capacity for looking black which is, 
 perhaps, only surpassed by Manchester's, and it looked 
 its blackest on a day at the end of March in the follow- 
 ing year, as the afternoon express from London roared into 
 the Lime Street Station. The rain was coming down; it was 
 small rain, and it descended with a sort of puny determination ; 
 it was sad rain without any dash, any boldness; it had 
 affinities with the mists which sweep over stretches of moor- 
 land, but its power of saturation was remarkable. It soaked 
 Liverpool. It issued out of blackness and seemed to carry a 
 blackness with it which descended into the very soul of the city 
 and lay coiled there like a snake. 
 
 Lady Ingleton was very sensitive to her surroundings, and 
 as she lifted the rug from her knees, and put away the book 
 she had been reading, she shivered. A deep melancholy floated 
 over her and enveloped her. She thought, " Why did I come 
 upon this adventure? What is it all to do with me? " But 
 then the face of a man rose up before her, lean, brown, wrinkled, 
 ravaged, with an expression upon it that for a long time had 
 haunted her, throwing a shadow upon her happiness. And 
 she felt that she had done right to come. Impulse, perhaps, 
 had driven her; sentiment rather than reason had been her 
 guide. Nevertheless, she did not regret her journey. Even if 
 nothing good came of it she would not regret it. She would 
 have tried for once at some small expense to herself to do a 
 worthy action. She would for once have put all selfishness 
 behind her. 
 
 A white-faced porter, looking anxious and damp, appeared 
 at the door of the corridor. Lady Ingleton's French maid 
 arrived from the second class with Turkish Jane on her arm. 
 
 " Oh, Miladi, how black it is here! " she exclaimed, twisting 
 her pointed little nose. " The black it reaches the heart." 
 
 That was exactly what Lady Ingleton was thinking, but she 
 said, in a voice less lazy than usual:
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 479 
 
 " There's a capital hotel, Annette. We shall be very 
 comfortable." 
 
 " Shall we stay here long, Miladi ? " 
 
 " No; but I don't know how long yet. Is Jane all right? " 
 
 " She has been looking out of the window, Miladi, the whole 
 way. She is in ecstasy. Dogs have no judgment, Miladi." 
 
 When Lady Ingleton was in her sitting-room at the Adelphi 
 Hotel, and had had the fire lighted and tea brought up, she 
 asked to see the manager for a moment. He came almost im- 
 mediately, a small man, very smart, very trim, self-possessed 
 as an attache. 
 
 " I hope you are quite comfortable, my lady," he said, in a 
 thin voice which held no note of doubt. " Can I do anything 
 for you?" 
 
 " I wanted to ask you if you knew the address of some one 
 I wish to send a note to Mr. Robertson. He's a clergyman 
 who " 
 
 " Do you mean Father Robertson, of Holy Cross, Manxby 
 Street, my lady? " 
 
 " Of Holy Cross; yes, that's it." 
 
 " He lives at " 
 
 " Wait a moment. I'll take it down." 
 
 She went to the writing-table and took up a pen. 
 
 " Now, please ! " 
 
 " The Rev. George Robertson, Holy Cross Rectory, Manxby 
 Street, my lady." 
 
 " Thank you very much." 
 
 " Can I do anything more for you, my lady? " 
 
 " Please send me up a messenger in twenty minutes. Mr. 
 Robertson is in Liverpool, I understand?" 
 
 " I believe so, my lady. He is generally here. Holidays 
 and pleasure are not much in his way. The messenger will be 
 up in twenty minutes." 
 
 He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece and went softly 
 out,- holding himself very erect. 
 
 Lady Ingleton sat down by the tea-table. Annette was 
 unpacking in the adjoining bedroom, and Turkish Jane was 
 reposing in an arm-chair near the hearth. 
 
 "What would Carey think of me, if he knew?" was her 
 thought, as she poured out the tea. 
 
 Sir Carey was at his post in Constantinople. She had left 
 him and come to England to see her mother, who had been very 
 ill, but who was now much better. When she had left Con-
 
 480 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 stantinople she had not known she was coming to Liverpool, 
 but she had known that something was intruding upon her 
 happiness, was worrying at her mind. Only when she found 
 herself once more in England did she understand that she 
 could not return to Turkey without making an effort to do a 
 good deed. She had very little hope that her effort would be 
 efficacious, but she knew that she had to make it. 
 
 It was quite a new role for her, the role of Good Samaritan. 
 She smiled faintly as she thought that. How would she play 
 it? 
 
 After tea she wrote this note: 
 
 " ADELPHI HOTEL, Tuesday 
 
 " DEAR MR. ROBERTSON, As you will not know who I am, 
 I must explain myself. My husband, Sir Carey Ingleton, is 
 Ambassador at Constantinople. Out there we have made 
 acquaintance with Mr. Dion Leith, who had the terrible mis- 
 fortune to kill his little boy nearly a year and a half ago. 
 I want very much to speak to you about him. I will explain 
 why when I see you if you have the time to spare me an inter- 
 view. I would gladly welcome you here, or I could come to 
 you. Which do you prefer? I am telling the messenger to 
 wait for an answer. To be frank, I have come to Liverpool 
 on purpose to see you. Yours sincercely, 
 
 " DELIA INGLETON " 
 
 The messenger came back without an answer. Father Rob- 
 ertson was out, but the note would be given to him as soon as 
 he came home. 
 
 That evening, just after nine o'clock, he arrived at the hotel, 
 and sent up his name to Lady Ingleton. 
 
 " Please ask him to come up," she said to the German waiter 
 who had mispronounced his name. 
 
 As she waited for her visitor she was conscious of a faint 
 creeping of shyness through her. It made her feel oddly 
 girlish. When had she last felt shy? She could not remem- 
 ber. It must have been centuries ago. 
 
 The German waiter opened the door and a white-haired 
 man walked in. Directly she saw him Lady Ingleton lost her 
 unusual feeling. As she greeted him, and made her little 
 apology for bothering him, and thanked him for coming out 
 at night to see a stranger, she felt glad that she had obeyed 
 her impulse and had been, for once, a victim to altruism.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 481 
 
 When she looked at his eyes she knew that she would not 
 mind saying to him all she wanted to say about Dion Leith. 
 They were eyes which shone with charity; and they were some- 
 thing else they were totally incurious eyes. Perhaps from 
 perversity Lady Ingleton had always rebelled against giving 
 to curious people the exact food they were in search of. 
 
 " He won't be greedy to know," she thought. " And so I 
 shan't mind telling him." 
 
 Unlike a woman, she came at once to the point. Although 
 she could be very evasive she could also be very direct. 
 
 " You know Mrs. Dion Leith," she said. " My friend 
 Tippie Chetwinde, Mrs. Willie Chetwinde, told me she was 
 living here. She came here soon after the death of her child, 
 I believe." 
 
 " Yes, she did, and she has been here ever since." 
 
 "Do you know Dion Leith, Mr. Robertson?" she asked, 
 leaning forward in her chair by the fire, and fixing her large 
 eyes, that looked like an Italian's, upon him. 
 
 " No, I have never seen him. I hoped to, but the tragedy 
 of the child occurred so soon after his return from South Africa 
 that I never had an opportunity." 
 
 " Forgive me for correcting you," she said, gently but very 
 firmly. " But it is not the tragedy of a child. It's the tragedy 
 of a man. I am going to talk very frankly to you. I make 
 no apology for doing so. I am what is called " she smiled 
 faintly " a woman of the world, and you, I think, are an 
 unworldly man. Because I am of the world, and you, in 
 spirit " she looked at him almost deprecatingly " are not 
 of it, I can say what I have come here to try to say. I couldn't 
 say it to a man of the world, because I could never give a 
 woman away to such a man. Tell me though, first, if you 
 don't mind do you care for Mrs. Dion Leith ? " 
 
 " Very much," said Father Robertson, simply and warmly. 
 
 " Do you care for her enough to tell her the truth ? " 
 
 " I never wish to tell her anything else." 
 
 Suddenly Lady Ingleton's face flushed, her dark eyes flashed 
 and then filled with tears, and she said in a voice that shook 
 with emotion: 
 
 " Dion Leith killed a body by accident, the body of his little 
 boy. She is murdering a soul deliberately, the soul of her 
 husband." 
 
 She did not know at all why she was so suddenly and so 
 violently moved. She had not expected this abrupt access of
 
 482 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 feeling. It had rushed upon her from she knew not where. 
 She was startled by it. 
 
 " I don't know why I should care," she commented, as if 
 half ashamed of herself. 
 
 Then she added, with a touch of almost shy defiance: 
 
 " But I do care, I do care. That's why I've come here." 
 
 " You are right to care if it is so," said Father Robertson. 
 
 " Such lots of women wouldn't," she continued, in a quite 
 different, almost cynical, voice. " But that man is an excep- 
 tional man not in intellect, but in heart. And I'm a very 
 happy woman. Perhaps you wonder what that has to do with 
 it. Well, sometimes I see things through my happiness, just 
 because of it; sometimes I see unhappiness through it." 
 
 Her voice had changed again, had become much softer. She 
 drew her chair a little nearer to the fire. 
 
 " Do you ever receive confessions, Mr. Robertson as a 
 priest, I mean? " she asked. 
 
 " Yes, very often." 
 
 " They are sacred, I know, even in your church." 
 
 " Yes," he said, without emphasis. 
 
 His lack of emphasis decided her. Till this moment she 
 had been undecided about a certain thing, although she herself 
 perhaps was not fully aware of her hesitation. 
 
 " I want to do a thing that I have never yet done," she 
 said. " I want to be treacherous to a friend, to give a friend 
 away. Will you promise to keep my treachery secret forever? 
 Will you promise to treat what I am going to tell you about 
 her as if I told it to you in the confessional? " 
 
 " If you tell it to me I will. But why must you tell it to 
 me? I don't like treachery. It's an ugly thing." 
 
 " I can't help that. I really came here just for that to 
 be treacherous." 
 
 She looked into the fire and sighed. 
 
 " I've covered a great sin with my garment," she murmured 
 slowly, " and I repent me ! " 
 
 Then, with a look of resolve, she turned to her white-haired 
 companion. 
 
 " I've got a friend," she said " a woman friend. Her 
 name is Cynthia Clarke. (I'm in the confessional now!) 
 You may have heard of her. She was in a cause celebre some 
 time ago. Her husband tried to divorce her, poor man, and 
 failed."
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 483 
 
 " No, I never heard her name before," said Father Robert- 
 son. 
 
 " You don't read causes celebres. You have better things 
 to do. Well, she's my friend. I don't exactly know why. 
 Her husband was Councillor in my husband's Embassy. But 
 I knew her before that. We always got on. She has peculiar 
 fascination a sort of strange beauty, a very intelligent mind, 
 and the strongest will I have ever known. She has virtues 
 of a kind. She never speaks against other women. If she 
 knew a secret of mine I am sure she would never tell it. She 
 is thoroughbred. I find her a very interesting woman. There 
 is absolutely no one like her. She's a woman one would miss. 
 That's on one side. On the other she's a cruel woman ; she's 
 a consummate hypocrite; she's absolutely corrupt. You wonder 
 why she's my friend ? " 
 
 " I did not say so." 
 
 " Nor look it. But you do. Well, I suppose I haven't 
 many scruples except about myself. And I have been trained 
 in the let-other-people-alone tradition. Besides, Cynthia 
 Clarke never told me anything. No one has told me. Being 
 a not stupid woman, I just know what she is. I'll put it 
 brutally, Mr. Robertson. She is a huntress of men. That is 
 what she lives for. But she deceives people into believing 
 that she is a purely mental woman. All the men whom she 
 doesn't hunt believe in her. Even women believe in her. She 
 has good friends among women. They stick to her. Why ? 
 Because she intends them to. She has a conquering will. 
 And she never tells a secret especially if it is her own. In 
 her last sin for it is a sin I have been a sort of accom- 
 plice. She meant me to be one and " Lady Ingleton slightly 
 shrugged her shoulders " I yielded to her will. I don't 
 know why. I never know why I do what Cynthia Clarke 
 wishes. There are people like that; they just get what they 
 want, because they want it with force, I suppose. Most of us 
 are rather weak, I think. Cynthia Clarke hunted Dion Leith 
 in his misery, and I helped her. Being an ambassadress I 
 have social influence on the Bosporus, and I used it for Cynthia. 
 I knew from the very first what she was about, what she 
 meant to do. Directly she mentioned Dion Leith to me and 
 asked me to invite him to the Embassy and be kind to him I 
 understood. But I didn't know Dion Leith then. If I had 
 thoroughly known him I should never have been a willing cat's-
 
 484 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 paw in a very ugly game. But once I had begun I took 
 them both for a yachting trip I did not know how to get 
 out of it all. On that yachting trip I realized how that man 
 was suffering and what he was. I have never before known a 
 man capable of suffering so intensely as Dion Leith suffers. 
 Does his wife know how he loves her? Can she know it? 
 Can she ever have known it? " 
 
 Father Robertson was silent. As she looked at his eyelids 
 his eyes no longer met hers with their luminous glowing sin- 
 cerity Lady Ingleton realized that he was the Confessor. 
 
 " Sometimes I have been on the verge of saying to him, 
 ' Go back to England, go to your wife. Tell her, show her 
 what she has done. Put up a big fight for the life of your 
 soul.' But I have never been able to do it. A grief like that 
 is holy ground, isn't it? One simply can't set foot upon it. 
 Besides, I scarcely ever see Dion Leith now. He's gone down, 
 I think, gone down very far." 
 
 "Where is he?" 
 
 " In Constantinople. I saw him by chance in Stamboul, 
 near Santa Sophia, just before I left for England. Oh, how 
 he has changed! Cynthia Clarke is destroying him. I know 
 it. Once she told me he had been an athlete with ideals. 
 But now now ! " 
 
 Again the tears started into her eyes. Father Robertson 
 looked up and saw them. 
 
 " Poor, poor fellow ! " she said. " I can't bear to see him 
 destroyed. Some men well, they seem almost entirely body. 
 But he's so different! " 
 
 She got up and stood by the fire. 
 
 " I have seen Mrs. Leith," she said. " I once heard her 
 sing in London. She is extraordinarily beautiful. At that 
 time she looked radiant. What did you say? " 
 
 " Please go on," Father Robertson said, very quietly. 
 
 " And she had a wonderful expression of joyous goodness 
 which marked her out from other women. You have a regard 
 for her, and you are good. But you care for truth, and so 
 I'm going to tell you the truth. Mrs. Leith behaved wickedly 
 in casting her husband out of her life. She may be a good 
 woman, but she has done a wicked action. Can't you make 
 her see it? Or shall I try to? " 
 
 " You wish to see her? " 
 
 " I am ready to see her." 
 
 Father Robertson again looked down. He seemed to be
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 485 
 
 thinking deeply, to be genuinely lost in thought. Lady Ingle- 
 ton noticed this and did not disturb him. For some minutes 
 he sat without moving. At last he looked up and put a ques- 
 tion to Lady Ingleton which surprised her. He said: 
 
 " Are you absolutely certain that your friend Mrs. Clarke 
 and Dion Leith have been what people choose to call lovers ? " 
 
 " Have been and are absolutely certain. I could not 
 prove it, but I know it. He lives on in Constantinople only 
 for her." 
 
 " And you think he has deteriorated? " 
 
 " Terribly. I know it. The other day he looked almost 
 degraded; as men look when they let physical things get abso- 
 lute domination over them. It's an ugly subject, but you 
 and I know of these things." 
 
 In her voice there was a sound of delicate apology. It was 
 her tribute to the serene purity of which she was aware in 
 this man. 
 
 Again he seemed lost in thought. She trusted in his power 
 of thought. He was a man she was certain of it who 
 would find the one path which led out of the maze. His 
 unself-conscious intentness was beautiful in its unconventional 
 simplicity, and was a tribute to her sincerity which she was 
 subtle enough to understand, and good woman enough to ap- 
 preciate. He was concentrated not upon her but upon the 
 problem which was troubling her. 
 
 " I am glad you have come to Liverpool," he said at length. 
 " Very glad." 
 
 He smiled, and she, without exactly knowing why, smiled 
 back at him. And as she did so she felt extraordinarily simple, 
 almost like a child. 
 
 " How long are you going to stay? " 
 
 " Till I know whether I can do any good," she said, " till 
 I have done it, if that is possible." 
 
 " Without mentioning any names, may I, if I think it wise, 
 tell Mrs. Leith of the change in her husband? " 
 
 " Oh, but would it be wise to say exactly what the nature 
 of the change is? I've always heard that she is a woman 
 with ideals, an exceptionally pure-natured woman. She might 
 be disgusted, even revolted, perhaps, if " 
 
 " Forgive me! " Father Robertson interrupted, rather 
 abruptly. "What was your intention then? What did you 
 mean to tell Mrs. Leith if you saw her? " 
 
 " Of his great wretchedness, of his broken life I suppose
 
 4 86 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 I I should have trusted to my instinct what to do when I 
 saw her." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 " But I can leave it to you," she said, but still with a faint 
 note of hesitation, of doubt. " You know her." 
 
 " Yes, I know her." 
 
 He paused. Then, with an almost obstinate firmness, a 
 sort of pressure, he added, " Have I your permission I may 
 not do it to tell Mrs. Leith that her husband has been 
 unfaithful to her with some one in Constantinople?" 
 
 Lady Ingleton slightly reddened; she looked down and 
 hesitated. 
 
 " It may be necessary if your purpose in coming here is to 
 be achieved," said Father Robertson, still with pressure. 
 
 " You may do whatever you think best," she said, with a 
 sigh. 
 
 He got up to go. 
 
 " Would you mind very much staying on here for two or 
 three days, even for a week, if necessary ? " 
 
 " No, no." 
 
 He smiled. 
 
 " A whole week of Liverpool! " he said. 
 
 " How many years have you been here ? " 
 
 " A good many. I'm almost losing count." 
 
 When he was gone Lady Ingleton sat for a long while before 
 the fire. 
 
 The sad influence of the blackness of rainy Liverpool had 
 lifted from her. Her impulse had received a welcome which 
 had warmed her. 
 
 " I love that man," she thought. " Carey would love him 
 too." 
 
 He had said very little, and how loyal he had been in his 
 silence, how loyal to the woman she had attacked. In words 
 he had not defended her, but somehow he had conveyed to 
 Lady Ingleton a sense of his protective love and immense pity 
 for the woman who had been bereft of her child. How he 
 had conveyed this she could not have said. But as she sat 
 there before the fire she was aware that, since Father Robert- 
 son's visit, she felt differently about Dion Leith's wife. Mys- 
 teriously she began to feel the sorrow of the woman as well as, 
 and side by side with, the sorrow of the man. 
 
 " If it had been my child? " she thought. " If my husband 
 had done it?"
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 487 
 
 She slept badly that night. Nevertheless the strong and 
 gentle influence of Father Robertson had not left her. It com- 
 panioned her, prevented her from feeling homeless, quite deso- 
 late in this unfamiliar city which held no friends of hers. 
 
 The following day passed, and no message came to her from 
 Father Robertson. She was expectant, then a little anxious, 
 then depressed, and finally bored. She looked on at herself 
 as the Good Samaritan and she began to smile at herself. The 
 spectacle of herself waiting about in a Liverpool hotel was 
 really rather absurd. Annette was frankly amazed and could 
 not make out what they were doing in this rainy place where 
 nobody bothered about them. Even Turkish Jane drifted into 
 ennui. Her ecstasy had already died out. 
 
 It was all very tiresome. 
 
 In the afternoon of the second day a note came from Father 
 Robertson. It was very brief. He begged Lady Ingleton not 
 to leave Liverpool. He did not explain why he wished her 
 to stay; he did not mention Mrs. Dion Leith, or hint at any 
 activity on his part connected in any way with her. Yet Lady 
 Ingleton immediately felt reconciled to her situation. She did 
 not know what was happening, but she felt positive that the 
 white-haired man, who had paid her the compliment of think- 
 ing about her unselfish anxiety instead of about her personality 
 as a woman, was fighting her battle. 
 
 He was in fact striving for two souls. And Rosamund's, 
 in religion, needed rescuing no less than Dion's in the per- 
 versity and vice which emanated like a miasma from the woman 
 whom Sir Carey had thought of strangely for a moment as the 
 Goddess of Death. 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 WHEN he left Lady Ingleton, Father Robertson went 
 home in the rainy blackness to the plain little house 
 in an ugly street where he had dwelt for many 
 years, shut himself in, knelt down before a wooden crucifix 
 in his bedroom and prayed. Afterwards for a long time he 
 meditated upon his knees. 
 
 In his meditation he considered the stubborn quality of the 
 human soul which often seems forced by some inherent power 
 to resist emancipation.
 
 4 88 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 Rosamund Leith had a stubborn soul. He knew it. She 
 was stubborn in love and stubborn in resisting love. She had 
 power to dominate, but she was often dominated by powers 
 within herself. The very strength of her character often seemed 
 to hold her in bondage. 
 
 Although he loved her Father Robertson secretly condemned 
 her as Lady Ingleton condemned her. For he had no moral 
 blindness. His sense of justice was one of the keenest weapons 
 in his armory. The pity that was in him, the mercy which 
 drew people to him, never blunted that weapon. He never 
 loved men and women as they were not, but always as they 
 were. And he would give a right verdict even if it were against 
 the one he loved best. 
 
 Lady Ingleton was right. Rosamund's grief had made her 
 unjust, cruel, even destructive. She was a good woman who 
 had done an evil thing. She honestly believed that she had 
 given herself to God, but, in doing so if she had done it 
 she had been false to a promise made before God. And she 
 was seeking God apart from the man to whom God had joined 
 her. 
 
 Was not that a quest in the dark? 
 
 But there was the great difficulty of the human feeling. 
 
 Father Robertson had had a wide experience of men and 
 women, and he knew the uselessness of trying to force feeling. 
 Rosamund's terrible grief had revealed to him the extent of 
 her love for Robin. It was a love of the very entrails of a 
 woman. It was compounded of the animal and of the spir- 
 itual. It had its roots in the roots of her. As much as a man 
 can understand such a love Father Robertson understood it. 
 But what had been Rosamund's feeling towards her husband 
 in the days before Robin? Such a woman must surely have 
 loved the man she married. And yet, if she had loved him, 
 how could she have punished him so fearfully for a tragic ac- 
 cident? But when he came to that question Father Robertson 
 was always assailed by the sense of his limitations as a man. 
 With all his sympathy, with all his imagination, he was doubt- 
 Jess wholly unable to conceive what the typical mother-woman 
 feels about her only child. He did not possess the key which 
 alone, perhaps, could open the door of Rosamund's inner sanc- 
 tuary. And that was why he was perhaps impotent to save 
 Rosamund from the evil thing which persistently marred her 
 goodness, and which, he believed, added to her misery the se- 
 cret torture of a sick conscience. 

 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 489 
 
 Since the death of Robin and Rosamund's arrival in Liver- 
 pool, Father Robertson had made acquaintance with her sis- 
 ter and with the mother of Dion. And both these women had 
 condemned Rosamund for what she had done, and had begged 
 him to try to bring about a change in her heart Both of 
 them, too, had dwelt upon the exceptional quality of Dion's 
 love for his wife. Mrs. Leith had been unable to conceal the 
 bitterness of her feeling against Rosamund. The mother in 
 her was outraged, as the mother in Rosamund, in a different 
 way, was outraged. Beatrice Daventry had shown no bitter- 
 ness. She loved and understood her sister too well to rage 
 against her for anything that she did or left undone. But this 
 very love of her sister, so clearly shown, had made her con- 
 demnation of Rosamund's action the more impressive. And 
 her pity for Dion was supreme. Through Beatrice Father Rob- 
 ertson had gained an insight into Dion's love, and into another 
 love, too; but of that he scarcely allowed himself even to think. 
 There are purities so intense that, like fire, they burn those who 
 would handle them, however tenderly. About Beatrice Father 
 Robertson felt that he knew something he dared not know. In- 
 deed, he was hardly sincere about that matter with himself. 
 Perhaps this was his only insincerity. 
 
 With his friend, Canon Wilton, too, he had spoken of Rosa- 
 mund, and had found himself in the presence of a sort of noble 
 anger. Now, in his little room, as he knelt in meditation, he 
 remembered a saying of the Canon's, spoken in the paneled 
 library at Welsley: "Leith has a great heart. When will his 
 wife understand its greatness? " 
 
 Father Robertson pressed his thin hands upon his closed 
 eyes. He longed for guidance and he felt almost distressed. 
 Rosamund had submitted herself to him, had given herself into 
 his hands, but tacitly she had kept something back. She had 
 never permitted him to direct her in regard to her relation with 
 her husband. It was in regard to her relation with God that 
 she had submitted herself to him. 
 
 How grotesque that was! 
 
 Father Robertson's face burned. 
 
 Before Rosamund had come to him she had closed the book 
 of her married life with a frantic hand. And Father Robert- 
 son had left the book closed. He saw his delicacy now as 
 cowardice. In his religious relation with Rosamund he had 
 been too much of a gentleman! When Mrs. Leith, Beatrice, 
 Canon Wilton had appealed to him, he had said that he would
 
 490 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 do what he could some day, but that he felt time must be given 
 to Rosamund, a long time, to recover from the tremendous 
 shock she had undergone. He had waited. Something im- 
 perative had kept him back from ever going fully with Rosa- 
 mund into the question of her separation from her husband. 
 He had certainly spoken of it, but he had never discussed it, 
 had never got to the bottom of it, although he had felt that 
 some day he must be quite frank with her about it. 
 
 Some day! No doubt he had been waiting for a propitious 
 moment, that moment which never comes. Or had his in- 
 stinct told him that anything he could say upon that subject 
 to Rosamund would be utterly impotent, that there was a 
 threshold his influence could not cross? Perhaps really his 
 instinct had told him to wait, and he was not a moral coward. 
 For to strive against a woman's deep feeling is surely to beat 
 against the wind. When men do certain things all women look 
 upon them with an inevitable disdain, as children being foolish 
 in the dark. 
 
 Had he secretly feared to seem foolish in Rosamund's eyes ? 
 
 He wondered, genuinely wondered. 
 
 On the following morning he wrote to Rosamund and asked 
 her to come to the vicarage at any hour when she was free. He 
 had something important to say to her. She answered, fixing 
 three-thirty. Exactly at that time she arrived in Manxby Street 
 and was shown into Father Robertson's study. 
 
 Rosamund was changed, greatly changed, but in a subtle 
 rather than a fiercely definite way. She had not aged as many 
 women age when overtaken by sorrow. Her pale yellow hair 
 was still bright. There was no gray in it and it grew vigorously 
 upon her classical head as if intensely alive. She still looked 
 physically strong. She was still a young and beautiful woman. 
 But all the radiance had gone out from her. She had been full 
 of it; now she was empty of it. 
 
 In the walled garden at Welsley, as she paced the narrow 
 walks and listened to the distant murmur of the organ, and 
 the faint sound of the Dresden Amen, in her joy she had 
 looked sometimes almost like a nun. She had looked as if 
 she had the " vocation " for religion. Now, in her " sister's " 
 dress, she had not that inner look of calm, of the spirit lying 
 still in Almighty arms, which so often marks out those who 
 have definitely abandoned the ordinary life of the world for 
 the dedicated life. Rosamund had taken no perpetual vows; 
 she was free at any moment to withdraw from the Sisterhood
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 491 
 
 in which she was living with many devoted women who la- 
 bored among the poor, and who prayed, as some people work, 
 with an ardor which physically tired them. But neverthe- 
 less she had definitely retired from all that means life to the 
 average woman of her type and class, with no intention of ever 
 going back to it. She had taken a step towards the mystery 
 which many people think of casually on appointed days, and 
 which many people ignore, or try to ignore. Yet now she did 
 not look as if she had the vocation. When she had lived in 
 the world she had seemed, in spite of all her joie de vivre, 
 of all her animation and vitality, somehow apart from it. 
 Xow she seemed, somehow, apart from the world of religion, 
 from the calm and laborious world in which she had chosen 
 to dwell. She looked indeed almost strangely pure, but there 
 was in her face an expression of acute restlessness, perpetually 
 seen among those who are grasping at passing pleasures, scarcely 
 ever seen among those who have deliberately resigned them. 
 
 This was surely a woman who had sought and who had not 
 found, who was uneasy in self-sacrifice, who had striven, who 
 was striving still, to draw near to the gates of heaven, but who 
 had not come upon the path which led up the mountain-side 
 to them. Sorrow was stamped on the face, and something else, 
 too the seal of that corrosive disease of the soul, dissatisfac- 
 tion with self. 
 
 This was not Rosamund ; this was a woman with Rosamund's 
 figure, face, hair, eyes, voice, gestures, movements one who 
 would be Rosamund but for some terrible flaw. 
 
 She was alone in the little study for a few minutes before 
 Father Robertson came. She did not sit down, but moved 
 about, looking now at this thing, now at that. In her white 
 forehead there were two vertical lines which were never smoothed 
 out. An irreligious person, looking at her just then, might 
 have felt moved to say, with a horrible irony, " And can God do 
 no more than that for the woman who dedicates her life to 
 His service? " 
 
 The truth of the whole matter lay in this : that whereas once 
 God had seemed to stand between Rosamund and Dion, now 
 Dion seemed to stand between Rosamund and God. 
 
 But even Father Robertson did not know this. 
 
 Presently the door opened and the Father came in. 
 
 Instantly Rosamund noticed that he locked slightly ill at 
 ease, almost, indeed, embarrassed. He shook hands with her in 
 his gentle way and made a few ordinary remarks about little
 
 492 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 matters in which they were mutually interested. Then he asked 
 her to sit down, sat down near her and was silent. 
 
 "What is it? " she said, at last. 
 
 He looked at her, and there was something almost piercing 
 in his eyes which she had never noticed in them before. 
 
 " Last night," he said, " when I came home I found here a 
 note from a stranger, asking me to visit her at the Adelphi 
 Hotel where she was staying. She wrote that she had come 
 to Liverpool on purpose to see me. I went to the hotel and had 
 an interview with her. This interview concerned you." 
 
 " Concerned me? " said Rosamund. 
 
 Her voice did not sound as if she were actively surprised. 
 There was a lack of tone in it. It sounded, indeed, almost 
 dry. 
 
 " Yes. Did you ever hear of Lady Ingleton? " 
 
 After an instant of consideration Rosamund said : 
 
 " Yes. I believe I met her somewhere once. Isn't she mar- 
 ried to an ambassador? " 
 
 " To our Ambassador at Constantinople." 
 
 " I think I sang once at some house where she was, in the 
 days when I used to sing." 
 
 " She has heard you sing." 
 
 " That was it then. But what can she want with me? " 
 
 " Your husband is in Constantinople. She knows him 
 there." 
 
 Rosamund flushed to the roots of her yellow hair. When he 
 saw that painful wave of red go over her face Father Robertson 
 looked away. All the delicacy in him felt the agony of her out- 
 raged reserve. Her body had stiffened. 
 
 " I must speak about this," he said. " Forgive me if you 
 can. But even if you cannot, I must speak." 
 
 She looked down. Her face was still burning. 
 
 " You have let me know a great deal about yourself," he 
 went on. " That fact doesn't give me any right to be curious. 
 On the contrary! But I think, perhaps, your confidence has 
 given me a right to try to help you spiritually even at the cost 
 of giving you great mental pain. For a long time I have felt 
 that perhaps in my relation to you I have been morally a cow- 
 ard." 
 
 Rosamund looked up. 
 
 " You could never be a coward," she said. 
 
 " You don't know that. Nobody knows that, perhaps, ex- 
 cept myself. However that may be, I must not play the coward
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 493 
 
 now. Lady Ingleton met your husband in Turkey. She brings 
 very painful news of him." 
 
 Rosamund clasped her hands together and let them lie on 
 her knees. She was looking steadily at Father Robertson. 
 
 " His his misery has made such an impression upon her 
 that she felt obliged to come here. She sent for me. But her 
 real object in coming was to see you, if possible. Will you see 
 her?" 
 
 " No, no; I can't do that. I don't know her." 
 
 " I think I ought to tell you what she said. She asked me 
 if you had ever understood how much your husband loves you. 
 Her exact words were, ' Does his wife know how he loves her? 
 Can she know it ? Can she ever have known it ? ' ! 
 
 All the red had died away from Rosamund's face. She had 
 become very pale. Her eyes were steady. She sat without 
 moving, and seemed to be listening with fixed, even with 
 strained, attention. 
 
 " And then she went on to tell me something which might 
 seem to a great many people to be quite contradictory of what 
 she had just said and she said it with the most profound con- 
 viction. She told me that your husband has fallen very low." 
 
 " Fallen ? " Rosamund said, in a dim voice. 
 
 " Just before she left Constantinople she saw him in Stam- 
 boul by chance. She said he had the dreadful appearance that 
 men have when they are entirely dominated by physical things." 
 
 " Dion ! " she said. 
 
 And there was sheer amazement in her voice now. 
 
 After an instant she added: 
 
 " I don't believe it. It wasn't Dion." 
 
 " I must tell you something more," said Father Robertson 
 painfully. " Lady Ingleton knows that your husband has been 
 unfaithful to you; she knows the woman with whom he has 
 been unfaithful. That unfaithfulness continues. So she af- 
 firms. And in spite of that, she asks me whether you can know 
 how much your husband loves you." 
 
 While he had been speaking he had been looking down. 
 Now he heard a movement, a rustling. He looked up quickly. 
 Rosamund was going towards the door. 
 
 " Please don't don't ! " she whispered, turning her face 
 away. 
 
 And she went out. 
 
 Father Robertson did not follow her. 
 
 Early in the following morning he received this note :
 
 494 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " ST. MARY'S SISTERHOOD, LIVERPOOL, 
 
 Thursday 
 
 " DEAR FATHER ROBERTSON, I don't think I can see Lady 
 Ingleton. I am almost sure I can't. Perhaps she has gone al- 
 ready. If not, how long does she intend to stay here ? 
 
 "R. L." 
 
 The Father communicated with Lady Ingleton, and that eve- 
 ning let Rosamund know that Lady Ingleton would be in Liver- 
 pool for a few more days. 
 
 When Rosamund read his letter she wished, or believed that 
 she wished, that Lady Ingleton had gone. Then this matter 
 which tormented her would be settled, finished with. There 
 would be nothing to be done, and she could take up her mo- 
 notonous life again and forget this strange intrusion from the 
 outside world, forget this voice from the near East which had 
 told such ugly tidings. Till now she had not even known 
 where Dion was. She knew he had given up his business in 
 London and had left England; but that was all. She had re- 
 fused to have news of him. She had made it plainly under- 
 stood long ago, when the wound was fresh in her soul, that 
 Dion's name was never to be mentioned in letters to her. She 
 had tried by every means to blot his memory out of her mind 
 as she had blotted his presence out of her life. In this effort 
 she had totally failed. Dion had never left her since he had 
 killed Robin. In the flesh he had pursued her in the walled 
 garden at Welsley on that black night of November when for 
 her the whole world had changed. In another intangible, 
 mysterious guise he had attended her ever since. He had been 
 about her path and about her bed. Even when she knelt at 
 the altar in the Supreme Service he had been there. She had 
 felt his presence as she touched the wafer, as she lifted the cup. 
 Through all these months she had learnt to know that there 
 are those whom, once we have taken them in, we cannot cast out 
 of our lives. 
 
 Since the death of Robin, in absence Dion had assumed a 
 place in her life which he had never occupied in the days of 
 their happiness. Sometimes she had bitterly resented this; 
 sometimes she had tried to ignore it ; sometimes, like a cross, she 
 had taken it up and tried to bear it with patience or with brav- 
 ery. She had even prayed against it. 
 
 Never were prayers more vain than those which she put up 
 against this strange and terrible possession of herself by the
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 495 
 
 man she had tried to cast out of her life. Sometimes even it 
 seemed to her that when she prayed thus Dion's power to af- 
 fect her increased. It was as if mysteriously he drew nearer 
 to her, as if he enveloped her with an influence from which 
 she could not extricate herself. There were hours in the night 
 when she felt afraid of him. She knew that wherever he was, 
 however far off, his mind was concentrated upon her. She 
 grew to realize, as she had never realized before, what mental 
 power is. She had separated her body from Dion's, but his 
 mind would not leave her alone. Often she was conscious of 
 hostility. When she strove to give herself absolutely and en- 
 tirely to the life of religion and of charity she was aware of a 
 force holding her back. This force so it seemed to her 
 would not permit her to enter into the calm and the peace of 
 the dedicated life. She was like some one looking in at a 
 doorway, desirous of entering a room. She saw the room 
 clearly; she saw others enjoying its warmth and its shelter and 
 its serene and guarded tranquillity; but she was unable to cross 
 the threshold. 
 
 That warm and sheltered room was not for her. And it 
 was Dion's force which held her back from entering it and from 
 dwelling in it. 
 
 She could not give herself wholly to God because of Dion. 
 Of her struggle, of her frustration, of her mental torment 
 in this connexion she had never spoken to Father Robertson. 
 Even in confession she had been silent. He knew of her 
 mother-agony; he did not know of the stranger, more subtle 
 agony beneath it. He did not know that whereas the one agony 
 with the lapse of time was not passing away it would never 
 do that but was becoming more tender, more full of tears 
 and of sweet recollections, the other agony grew harsher, more 
 menacing. 
 
 Rosamund had gradually come to feel that Robin had been 
 taken out of her arms for some great, though hidden, reason. 
 And because of this feeling she was learning to endure his 
 loss with a sort of resignation. She often thought that per- 
 haps she had been allowed to have this consolation because she 
 had made an immense effort. When Robin died she had driven 
 Dion, who had killed her child, out of her life, but she had 
 succeeded in saying to God, " Thy will be done ! " She had 
 said it at first as a mere formula, had repeated it obstinately 
 again and again, without meaning it at all, but trying to mean 
 it, meaning to mean it. She had made a prodigious, a truly
 
 496 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 heroic effort to conquer her powerfully rebellious nature, and, 
 in this effort, she had been helped by Father Robertson. He 
 knew of the anger which had overwhelmed her when her mother 
 had died, of how she had wished to hurt God. He knew that, 
 with bloody sweat, she had destroyed that enemy within her. 
 She had wished to submit to the will of God when Robin had 
 been snatched from her, and at last she had actually sub- 
 mitted. It was a great triumph of the spirit. But perhaps it 
 had left her exhausted. At any rate she had never been able 
 to forgive God's instrument, her husband. And so she had 
 never been able to know the peace of God which many of these 
 women by whom she was surrounded knew. In her misery she 
 contemplated their calm. To labor and to pray that seemed 
 enough to many of them, to most of them. She had known 
 calm in the garden at Welsley; in the Sisterhood she knew it 
 not. 
 
 The man who was always with her assassinated calm. She 
 felt strangely from a distance the turmoil of his spirit. She 
 knew of his misery occultly. She did not deduce it from her 
 former knowledge of what he was. And his suffering made her 
 suffer in a terrible way. He was her victim and she was his. 
 
 Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder. 
 
 In the Sisterhood Rosamund had learnt, always against her 
 will and despite the utmost effort of her obstinacy, the useless- 
 ness of that command; she had learnt that those whom God 
 hath really joined together cannot be put asunder by man or 
 by woman. Dion had killed her child, but she had not been 
 able to kill what she was to Dion and what Dion was to her. 
 Through the mingling of their two beings there had been born 
 a mystery which was, perhaps, eternal, like the sound of the 
 murmur in the pine trees above the Valley of Olympia. 
 
 She could not trample it into nothingness. 
 
 At first, after the tragedy of which Robin had been the 
 victim, Rosamund had felt a horror of Dion which was partly 
 animal. She had fled from him because she had been physi- 
 cally afraid of him. He had been changed for her from the 
 man who loved her, and whom she loved in her different way, 
 into the slayer of her child. She knew, of course, quite well 
 that Dion was not a murderer, but nevertheless she thought of 
 him as one thinks of a murderer. The blood of her child was 
 upon his hands. She trembled at the thought of being near 
 him. Nevertheless, because she was not mad, in time reason 
 asserted itself within her. Dion disappeared out of her life.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 497 
 
 He did not put up the big fight for the big thing of which Lady 
 Ingleton had once spoken to her husband. His type of love 
 was far too sensitive to struggle and fight on its own behalf. 
 When he had heard the key of his house door turned against 
 him, when, later, Mr. Darlington with infinite precautions had 
 very delicately explained to him why it had been done, Rosa- 
 mund had attained her freedom. He had waited on for a 
 time in England, but he had somehow never been able really to 
 hope for any change in his wife. His effort to make her see 
 the tragedy in its true light had exhausted itself in the garden 
 at Welsley. Her frantic evasion of him had brought it to an 
 end. He could not renew it. Even if he had been ready to 
 renew it those about Rosamund would have dissuaded him from 
 doing so. Every one who was near her saw plainly that " for 
 the present " as they put it Dion must keep out of her 
 life. 
 
 And gradually Rosamund had lost that half-animal fear of 
 him, gradually she had come to realize something of the trag- 
 edy of his situation. A change had come about in her almost 
 in despite of herself. And yet she had never been able to for- 
 give him for what he had done. Her reason knew that she had 
 nothing to forgive; her religious sense, her conception of God, 
 obliged her to believe that Dion had been God's instrument when 
 he had killed his child; but something within her refused him 
 pardon. Perhaps she felt that pardon could only mean one 
 thing reconciliation. And now had come Lady Ingleton's 
 revelation. Instinctively as Rosamund left Father Robertson's 
 little room she had tried to hide her face. She had received a 
 blow, and the pain of it frightened her. She was startled by 
 her own suffering. What did it mean? What did it portend? 
 She had no right to feel as she did. Long ago she had aban- 
 doned the right to such a feeling. 
 
 The information Lady Ingleton had brought outraged Rosa- 
 mund. Anger and a sort of corrosive shame struggled for the 
 mastery within her. 
 
 She felt humiliated to the dust. She felt dirty, soiled. 
 
 Dion had been unfaithful to her. 
 
 With whom? 
 
 The white face of Mrs. Clarke came before Rosamund in the 
 murky street, two wide-open distressed and intent eyes stared 
 into hers. 
 
 The woman was Mrs. Clarke. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke and Dion. Mrs. Clarke had succeeded in do
 
 498 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 ing what long ago she had designed to do. She had succeeded 
 in taking possession of Dion. 
 
 " Because I threw him away! Because I threw him away! " 
 
 Rosamund found herself repeating those words again and 
 again. 
 
 " I threw him away, I threw him away. Otherwise " 
 
 She reached the Sisterhood and went to her little room. How 
 she got through the remaining duties of that day she never 
 remembered afterwards. The calmness of routine flagellated 
 her nerves. She felt undressed and feared the eyes of the 
 sisters. After the evening service in the little chapel at- 
 tached to the Sisterhood she was unable either to meditate, to 
 praise, or to pray. During the long pause for silent prayer she 
 felt like one on a galloping horse. In the intense silence her 
 ears seemed to hear the beating of hoofs on an iron road. 
 And the furious horse was bearing her away into some region of 
 darkness and terror. 
 
 There was a rustling movement. The sisters slowly rose 
 from their knees. Again Rosamund was conscious of feeling 
 soiled, dirty, in the midst of them. As they filed out, she with 
 them, a burning hatred came to her. She hated the woman who 
 was the cause of her feeling dirty. She wanted to use her 
 hands, to tear something away from her body the dirt, the 
 foulness. For she felt it actually on her body. Her physical 
 purity was desecrated by she wouldn't think of it. 
 
 When she was alone in her little sleeping-room, the door shut, 
 one candle burning, her eyes went to the wooden crucifix be- 
 neath which every night before getting into her narrow bed she 
 knelt in prayer, and she began to cry. She sat down on the 
 bed and cried and cried. All her flesh seemed melting into 
 tears. 
 
 " My poor life! My poor life ! " 
 
 That was the interior cry of her being, again and again re- 
 peated " My poor life stricken, soiled, crushed down in the 
 ooze of a nameless filth." 
 
 Childless and now betrayed! How terrible had been her 
 happiness on the edge of the pit ! The days in Greece Robin 
 Dion's return from the war! And she had wished to live 
 rightly; she had loved the noble things; she had had ideals and 
 she had tried to follow them. Purity before all she had 
 
 She sickened; her crying became violent. Afraid lest some 
 of the sisters should hear her, she pressed her hands over her 
 face and sank down on the bed.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 499 
 
 Presently she saw Mrs. Clarke before her, the woman whom 
 she had thought to keep out of her life the fringe of her life 
 and who had found the way into the sacred places. 
 
 She cried for a long while, lying there on the bed, with her 
 face pressed against her hands, and her hands pressed against 
 the pillow; but at last she ceased from crying. She had poured 
 out all the tears of her body. 
 
 She sat up. It was long past midnight. The house was 
 silent. Slowly she began to undress, hating her body all the 
 time. She bathed her face and hands in cold water, and, 
 when she felt the water, shivered at the thought of the stain. 
 When she was ready for bed she looked again at the crucifix. 
 She ought to pray, she must pray. She went to the crucifix 
 and stood in front of it, but her knees refused to bend. Her 
 pride of woman had received a terrific blow that day, and just 
 because of that she felt she could not humble herself. 
 
 " I cannot pray I won't pray," she whispered. 
 
 And she turned away, put out the light and got into bed. 
 
 That Dion should have done that, should have been able to 
 do that! 
 
 And she remembered what it was she had first loved in 
 Dion, the thing which had made him different from other men; 
 she remembered the days and the nights in Greece. She saw 
 two lovers in a morning land descending the path from the hill 
 of Drouva, going down into the green recesses of quiet Elis. 
 She saw Hermes and the child. 
 
 All that night she lay awake. In the morning she sent the 
 note to Father Robertson. ' 
 
 She could not see Lady Ingleton and yet she dreaded her de- 
 parture. She wanted to know more, much more. A gnawing 
 hunger of curiosity assailed her. This woman had been with 
 Dion since. This woman knew of his infidelity; yet she af- 
 firmed his love for his wife. But the one knowledge surely gave 
 the lie to the other. 
 
 Why did she care ? Why did she care so much ? Rosamund 
 asked herself the question almost with terror. 
 
 She found no answer. 
 
 But she could not pray. Whenever she tried to pray Mrs. 
 Clarke came before her, and a man could it be Dion ? 
 stamped with the hideous imprint of physical lust. 
 
 Father Robertson was startled by the change in Rosamund's 
 appearance when she visited him two days after she had sent
 
 500 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 him the note. She looked physically ill. Her color had gone. 
 Her eyes were feverish and sunken, and the skin beneath them 
 was stained with that darkness which betokens nights with- 
 out sleep. Her lips and hands twitched with a nervousness that 
 was painful. But that which distressed him more than any 
 other thing was the expression in her face the look of shame 
 and of self-consciousness which altered her almost horribly. 
 Even in her most frantic moments of grief for Robin there had 
 always been something of directness, of fearlessness, in her 
 beauty. Now something furtive literally disfigured her, and she 
 seemed trying to cover it with a dogged obstinacy which sug- 
 gested a will stretched to the uttermost, vibrating like a string 
 in danger of snapping. 
 
 "Has Lady Ingleto^ gone? " she asked, directly she was in- 
 side the room. 
 
 " No, not yet. You remember I wrote to you that she would 
 stay on for a few days." 
 
 " But she might have gone unexpectedly." 
 
 " She is still here." 
 
 " I believe I shall have to see her," Rosamund said, with a 
 sort of hard abruptness and determination. 
 
 "Go to see her," said Father Robertson firmly. " Perhaps 
 she was sent here." 
 
 "Sent here?" said Rosamund, with a sharpness of sudden 
 suspicion. 
 
 " Oh, my child," he put his hand on her arm, and made 
 her sit down, " not by a human being." 
 
 Rosamund looked down and was silent. 
 
 " Before you go, if you are going," Father Robertson con- 
 tinued, sitting down by the deal table on which he wrote his 
 letters, " I must do what I ought to have done long ago; I must 
 speak to you about your husband." 
 
 Rosamund did not look up, but he saw her frown, and he 
 saw a movement of her lips; they trembled and then set to- 
 gether in a hard line. 
 
 " I know what he was, not from you but from others; from 
 his mother, from your sister, and from Canon Wilton. I'm go- 
 ing to tell you something Wilton said to me about you and him 
 after you had separated from him." 
 
 Father Robertson stopped, and fidgeted for a moment with 
 the papers lying in disorder on his table. He hated the task 
 he had set himself to do. All the tenderness in him revolted 
 against it. He knew what this woman whom he cared for very
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 501 
 
 much had suffered; he divined what she was suffering now. 
 And he was going to add to her accumulated misery by striking 
 a tremendous blow at that most sacred thing, her pride of 
 woman. Would she be his enemy after he had spoken? It 
 was possible. Yet he must speak. 
 
 " He said to me ' Leith has a great heart. When will his 
 
 wife understand its greatness? ' ' 
 
 There was a long silence. Then, without changing her posi- 
 tion or lifting her head, Rosamund said in a hard, level 
 voice : 
 
 " Canon Wilton was right about my husband." 
 
 " He loved you. That's a great deal. But he loved you in 
 a very beautiful way. And that's much more." 
 
 " Who told you about the way he loved me? " 
 
 " Your sister, Beatrice." 
 
 " Beattie! Yes, she knew she understood." 
 
 She bent her head a little lower, then added: 
 
 " Beattie is worth more than I am." 
 
 " You are worth a great deal, but but I want to see you 
 rise to the heights of your nature. I want to see you accom- 
 plish the greatest task of all." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " Conquer the last citadel of your egoism. Ego dormio et 
 cor meum vigilat Send the insistent I to sleep. I said it 
 to you long ago before I knew you. I say it to you now when 
 I do know you, when I know the deep waters you have passed 
 through, and the darkness that has beset you. Fetter your ego- 
 ism. Release your heart and your spirit in one great action. 
 Don't let him go down forever because of you. I believe your 
 misery has been as nothing in comparison with his. If he has 
 fallen such a man why is it ? " 
 
 " I know why," she almost whispered. 
 
 "You can never mount up while you are driving a soul 
 downwards. Do you remember those words in the Bible: 
 ' Where thou goest I will go ' ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Perhaps they might be changed in respect of you and the 
 man who loved you so much and in such a beautiful way. You 
 were linked; can the link ever be broken? You have tried to 
 break it, but have you succeeded? And if not, wouldn't it 
 be true, drastically true, if you said Where thou goest I 
 must go? If he goes down because of you I think you'll go 
 down with him."
 
 502 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 Rosamund sat absolutely still. When Father Robertson 
 paused again there was not a sound in the little room. 
 
 " And one thing more," he said, not looking towards her. 
 " There's the child, your child and his. Is it well with the 
 child?" 
 
 Rosamund moved and looked up. Then she got up from 
 her chair. 
 
 " But but Robin's " 
 
 She stopped. Her eyes were fixed on Father Robertson. 
 He looked up and met her eyes, and she saw plainly the mystic 
 in him. 
 
 "What do we know?" he said. "What do we know of 
 the effects of our actions? Can we be certain that they are 
 limited to this earth? Is it well with the child? I say we 
 don't know. We dare not affirm that we know. He loved 
 his father, didn't he? " 
 
 Rosamund looked stricken. He let her go. He could not 
 say any more to her. 
 
 That evening Lady Ingleton called in Manxby Street and 
 asked for Father Robertson. He happened to be in and re- 
 ceived her at once. 
 
 " I've had a note from Mrs. Leith," she said. 
 
 " I am not surprised," said Father Robertson. " Indeed 
 I expected it." 
 
 " She wishes to see me to-morrow. She writes that she will 
 come to the hotel. How have you persuaded her to come? " 
 
 " I don't think I have persuaded her though I wish her to 
 see you. But I have told her of her husband's infidelity." 
 
 "You have told her !" 
 
 Lady Ingleton stopped short. She looked unusually dis- 
 composed, even nervous and agitated. 
 
 " I said you might," she murmured. 
 
 " It was essential." 
 
 " If Cynthia knew! " said Lady Ingleton. 
 
 " I mentioned no name." 
 
 " She must have guessed. It's odd, when I told you I didn't 
 feel treacherous not really! but now I feel a brute. I've 
 never done anything like this before. It's against all my code. 
 I've come here, done all this, and now I dread meeting Mrs. 
 Leith. I wish you could be there when she comes." 
 
 She sent him a soft glance out of her Italian eyes. 
 
 " You make me feel so safe," she added.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 503 
 
 "You and she must be alone. Remember this! Mrs. Leith 
 must go out to Constantinople." 
 
 "Leave the Sisterhood! Will she ever do that?" 
 
 " You came here with the hope of persuading her, didn't 
 you?" 
 
 "A hope was it? A forlorn hope, perhaps." 
 
 " Bring it to fruition." 
 
 " But Cynthia 1 If she ever knows ! " 
 
 Suddenly Father Robertson looked stern. 
 
 "If what you told me is true " 
 
 " It is true." 
 
 " Then she is doing the devil's work. Put away your fears. 
 They aren't worthy of you." 
 
 As she took his hand in the saying of good-by she said: 
 
 " Your code is so different from ours. We think the only 
 possible thing to do where a friend is concerned is to shut 
 the eyes and the lips, and to pretend, and to keep on always 
 pretending. We call that being honorable." 
 
 " Poor things ! " said Father Robertson. 
 
 But he pressed her hand as he said it, and there was an 
 almost tender smile on his lips. 
 
 " But your love of truth isn't quite dead yet," he added, 
 on the threshold of the door, as he let her out into the rain. 
 " You haven't been able to kill it. It's an indomitable thing, 
 thank God." 
 
 " I wish I why do you live always in Liverpool ? " she 
 murmured. 
 
 She put up her little silk umbrella and was gone. 
 
 There was a fire in her sitting-room on the following morning. 
 The day was windy and cold, for March was going out resent- 
 fully. Before the fire lay Turkish Jane on a cushion, blinking 
 placidly at the flames. Already she had become reconciled 
 to her new life in this unknown city. Her ecstasy of the 
 journey had not returned, but the surprise which had succeeded 
 to it was now merged in a stagnant calm, and she felt no objec- 
 tion to passing the remainder of her life in the Adelphi Hotel. 
 She supposed that she was comfortably settled for the day when 
 she heard her mistress call for Annette and give a most objec- 
 tionable order. 
 
 " Please take Jane away, Annette," said Lady Ingleton. 
 
 " Miladi ! " 
 
 " I don't want her here this morning. I'm expecting a vis
 
 504 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 itor, and Jane might bark. I don't wish to have a noise in 
 the room." 
 
 Annette, who looked decidedly sulky, approached the cushion, 
 bent down, and rather abruptly snatched the amazed doyenne 
 of the Pekinese from her voluptuous reveries. 
 
 " We shall probably leave here to-morrow," Lady Ingleton 
 added. 
 
 Annette's expression changed. 
 
 " We are going back to London, Miladi ? " 
 
 " I think so. I'll tell you this afternoon." 
 
 She glanced at her watch. 
 
 " I don't wish to be disturbed for an hour. Don't leave 
 Jane in my bedroom. Take her away to yours." 
 
 " Very well, Miladi." 
 
 Annette went out looking inquisitive, with Turkish Jane on 
 her arm. 
 
 When she was gone Lady Ingleton took up " The Liverpool 
 Mercury " and tried to read the news of the day. The March 
 wind roared outside and made the windows rattle. She 
 listened to it and forgot the chronicle of the passing hour. She 
 was a woman who cared to know the big things that were hap- 
 pening in the big world. She had always lived among men 
 who were helping to make history, and she was intelligent 
 enough to understand their efforts and to join in their dis- 
 cussions. Her husband had often consulted her when he was 
 in a tight place, and sometimes he had told her she had the 
 brain of a man. But she had the nerves and the heart of a 
 woman, and at this moment public affairs and the news of the 
 day did not interest her at all. She was concentrated on 
 woman's business. Into her hands she had taken a tangled 
 love skein. And she was almost frightened at what she had 
 ventured to do. Could she hope to be of any use, of any help, 
 in getting it into order? Was there any chance for the man 
 she had last seen in Stamboul near Santa Sophia? She almost 
 dreaded Rosamund Leith's arrival. She felt nervous, strung 
 up. The roar of the wind added to her uneasiness. It sug- 
 gested turmoil, driven things, the angry passions of nature. 
 Beyond the Mersey the sea was raging. She had a stupid 
 feeling that nature and man were always in a ferment, that 
 it was utterly useless to wish for peace, or to try to bring about 
 peace, that destinies could only be worked out to their appointed 
 ends in darkness and in fury. She even forgot her own years 
 of happiness for a little while and saw herself as a woman
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 505 
 
 always anxious, doubtful, and envisaging untoward things. 
 When a knock came on the door she started and got up quickly 
 from her chair. Her heart was beating fast. How ridiculous ! 
 
 " Come in! " she said. 
 
 A waiter opened the? door and showed in Rosamund. 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 LADY INGLETON looked swiftly at the woman coming 
 in at the doorway clad in the severe, voluminous, black 
 gown and cloak, and black and white headgear, which 
 marked out the members of the Sisterhood of St. Mary's. Her 
 first thought was " What a cold face ! " It was succeeded 
 immediately by the thought, " But beautiful even in its cold- 
 ness." She met Rosamund near the door, took her hand, and 
 said: 
 
 " I am glad you were able to come. I wanted very much 
 to meet you. I came here really in the faint hope of seeing 
 you. Let me take your umbrella. What a day it is! Did 
 you walk ? " 
 
 " I came most of the way by tram. Thank you," said Rosa- 
 mund, in a contralto voice which sounded inflexible. 
 
 Lady Ingleton went to " stand " the umbrella in a corner. 
 In doing this she turned away from her visitor for a moment. 
 She felt more embarrassed, more " at a loss " than she had 
 ever felt before; she even felt guilty, though she had done 
 no wrong and was anxious only to do right. Her sense of 
 guilt, she believed, was caused by the fact that in her heart 
 she condemned her visitor, and by the additional, more un- 
 pleasant fact that she knew Rosamund was aware of her 
 condemnation. 
 
 " It's hateful so much knowledge between two women who 
 are strangers to each other! " she thought, as she turned round. 
 
 " Do sit down by the fire," she said to Rosamund, who was 
 standing near the writing-table immediately under a large 
 engraving of " Wedded." 
 
 She wished ardently that Rosamund wore the ordinary clothes 
 of a well-dressed woman of the world. The religious panoply 
 of the " sister's " attire, with its suggestion of a community
 
 506 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 apart, got on her nerves, and seemed to make things more 
 difficult. 
 
 Rosamund went to a chair and sat down. She still looked 
 very cold, but she succeeded in looking serene, and her eyes, 
 unworldly and pure, did not fall before Lady Ingleton's. 
 
 Lady Ingleton sat down near her and immediately realized 
 that she had placed herself exactly opposite to " Wedded." 
 She turned her eyes away from the large nude arms of the 
 bending man and met Rosamund's gaze fixed steadily upon 
 her. That gaze told her not to delay, but to go straight to the 
 tragic business which had brought her to Liverpool. 
 
 " You know of course that my husband is Ambassador at 
 Constantinople," she began. 
 
 " Yes," said Rosamund. 
 
 " You and I met at least we were in the same room once 
 at Tippie Chetwinde's," said Lady Ingleton, almost pleading 
 with her visitor. " I heard you sing." 
 
 " Yes, I remember. I told Father Robertson so." 
 
 " I dare say you think it very strange my coming here in 
 this way." 
 
 In spite of the strong effort of her will Lady Ingleton was 
 feeling with every moment more painfully embarrassed. All 
 her code was absolutely against mixing in the private concerns 
 of others uninvited. She had a sort of delicate hatred of 
 curiosity. She longed to prove to the woman by the fire that 
 she was wholly incurious now, wholly free from the taint of 
 sordid vulgarity that clings to the social busybody. 
 
 " I've done it solely because I'm very sorry for some one," 
 she continued; "because I'm very sorry for your husband." 
 
 She looked away from Rosamund, and again her eyes rested 
 on the engraving of " Wedded." The large bare arms of the 
 man, his bending, amorous head, almost hypnotized her. She 
 disliked the picture of which this was a reproduction. Far too 
 many people had liked it; their affection seemed to her to 
 have been destructive, to have destroyed any value it had 
 formerly had. Yet now, as she looked almost in despite of 
 herself, suddenly she saw through the engraving, through the 
 symbol, to something beyond; to the prompting conception in 
 the painter's mind which had led to the picture, to die great 
 mystery of the pathetic attempt of human beings who love, or 
 who think they love, to unite themselves to each other, to 
 mingle body with body and soul with soul. She saw a woman 
 in the dress of a " sister," the woman who was with her; she
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 507 
 
 saw a man in an Eastern city; and abruptly courage came to 
 her on the wings of a genuine emotion. 
 
 " I don't know how to tell you what I feel about him, Mrs. 
 Leith," she said. " But I want to try to. Will you let me? " 
 
 " Yes. Please tell me," said Rosamund, in a level, ex- 
 pressionless voice. 
 
 " Remember this; I never saw him till I saw him in Turkey, 
 nor did my husband. We were not able to draw any com- 
 parison between the unhappy man and the happy man. We 
 were unprejudiced." 
 
 " I quite understand that; thank you." 
 
 " It was in the summer. We were living at Therapia on 
 the Bosporus. He came to stay in a hotel not far off. My 
 husband met him in a valley which the Turks call Kesstane 
 Dereh. He your husband was sitting there alone by a 
 stream. They talked. My husband asked him to call at our 
 summer villa. He came the next day. Of course I I knew 
 something of his story " she hurried on " and I was pre- 
 pared to meet a man who was unhappy. (Forgive me for say- 
 ing all this.)" 
 
 " But, please, I have come to hear," said Rosamund, coldly 
 and steadily. 
 
 " Your husband I was alone with him during his first 
 visit made an extraordinary impression upon me. I scarcely 
 know how to describe it." She paused for a moment. " There 
 was something intensely bitter in his personality. Bitterness 
 is an active principle. And yet somehow he conveyed to me 
 an impression of emptiness too. I remember he said to me, 
 ' I don't quite know what I am going to do. I'm a free agent. 
 I have no ties.' I shall never forget his look when he said 
 those words. I never knew anything about loneliness any- 
 thing really till that moment. And after that moment I 
 knew everything. I asked him to come on the yacht to Bru^a, 
 or rather to Mudania; from there one goes to Brusa. He 
 came. You may think, perhaps, that he was eager for society, 
 for pleasure, distraction. It wasn't that. He was making a 
 tremendous, a terrible effort to lay hold on life again, to interest 
 himself in things. He was pushed to it." 
 
 " Pushed to it ! " said Rosamund, still in the hard level 
 voice. "Who pushed him?" 
 
 " I can only tell you it was as I say," said Lady Ingleton, 
 quickly and with embarrassment. " We were very few on the 
 yacht. Of course I saw a great deal of your husband. He
 
 508 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 was absolutely reserved with me. He always has been. You 
 mustn't think he has ever given me the least bit of his con- 
 fidence. He never has. I am quite sure he never would. 
 We are only acquaintances. But I want to be a friend to him 
 now. He hasn't a friend, not one, out there. My husband, 
 I think, feels rather as I do about him, in so far as a man can 
 feel in our sort of way. He would gladly be more intimate 
 with your husband. But your husband doesn't make friends. 
 He's beyond anything of that kind. He tried, on the yacht 
 and at Brusa. He did his utmost. But he was held back 
 by his misery. I must tell you (it's very uninteresting) " 
 her voice softened here, and her face slightly changed, became 
 gentler, more intensely feminine " that my husband and I 
 are very happy together. We always have been; we always 
 shall be; we can't help it. Being with us your husband had 
 to to contemplate our happiness. It I suppose it re-i 
 minded him " 
 
 She stopped; she could not bring herself to say it. Again 
 her eyes rested upon " Wedded," and, in spite of her long 
 conviction of its essential banality she classed it with "The 
 Soul's Awakening," " Harmony," and all the things she was 
 farthest away from she felt what it stood for painfully, 
 almost mysteriously. 
 
 " One day," she resumed, speaking more slowly, and trying 
 to banish emotion from her voice, " I went out from the hotel 
 where we stayed at Brusa, quite alone. There's a mosque at 
 Brusa called Jeshil Jami, the Green Mosque. It stands above 
 the valley. It is one of the most beautiful things I know, and 
 quite the most beautiful Osmanli building. I like to go there 
 alone. Very often there is no one in the mosque. Well, I 
 went there that day. When I went in the guardian was 
 on the terrace; he knows me and that I'm the British Am- 
 bassadress, and never bothers me I thought at first the 
 mosque was quite em; .y. I sat down close to the door. After 
 I had been there two or three minutes I felt there was some 
 one else in the mosque. I looked round. Before the Mihrab 
 there was a man. It was your husband. He was kneeling on 
 the matting, but but he wasn't praying. When I knew, when 
 I heard what he was doing, I went away at once. I couldn't 
 I felt that " 
 
 Again she paused. In the pause she heard the gale tearing 
 at the windows. She looked at the woman in the sister's dress. 
 Rosamund was sitting motionless, and was now looking down.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 509 
 
 Lady Ingleton positively hated the sister's dress at that moment. 
 She thought of it as a sort of armor in which her visitor was 
 encased, an armor which rendered her invulnerable. What 
 shaft could penetrate that smooth black and white, that flowing 
 panoply, and reach the heart Lady Ingleton desired to pierce? 
 Suddenly Lady Ingleton felt cruel. She longed to tear away 
 from Rosamund all the religion which seemed to be protecting 
 her; she longed to see her naked as Dion Leith was naked. 
 
 " I didn't care to look upon a man in hell," she said, in a 
 voice which had become almost brutal, a voice which Sir Carey 
 would scarcely have recognized if he had heard it. 
 
 Rosamund said nothing, and, after a moment, Lady Ingleton 
 continued : 
 
 " With us on the yacht was one of my husband's secretaries 
 of Embassy, Cyril Vane, who had just become engaged to be 
 married. He is married now. In his cabin on the yacht he 
 had a photograph of the girl. One night he was walking up 
 and down on deck with your husband, and your husband 
 I'd just told him about Vane's engagement congratulated 
 him. Vane invited Mr. Leith into the cabin and showed him 
 the photograph. Vane told me afterwards that he should never 
 forget the look on your husband's face as he took the photo- 
 graph and gazed at it. When he put it down he said to Vane, 
 ' I hope you may be happy. She looks very kind, and very 
 good, too; but there's no cruelty on earth like the cruelty of 
 a good woman.'' 1 (Did the sister's dress rustle faintly?) 
 " Vane he's only a boy was very angry for a moment, 
 though he's usually imperturbable. I don't know exactly what 
 he said, but I believe he made a rather strong protest about 
 knowing his fiancee's character au fond. Anyhow, your hus- 
 band took hold of his arm and said to him, ' Don't love very 
 much and you may be happy. That's the only chance for a 
 man not to love the woman very much.' Vane came to me 
 and told me. I remember it was late at night and my husband 
 was there. When Vane was leaving us Carey said to him, 
 ' Forget the advice that poor fellow gave you. Love her as 
 much as you can, my boy. Dion Leith speaks out of the bitter- 
 ness that is destroying him. But very few men can love as 
 he can, and very few men have been punished by their love 
 as he has been punished by his. His sorrow is altogether ex- 
 ceptional, and has made him lose the power of moral vision. 
 His soul has been poisoned at the source.' My husband was 
 right."
 
 510 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 "You came here to tell me that?" said Rosamund, lifting 
 her head and speaking coldly and very clearly. 
 
 " I didn't know what I was going to tell you. At the time 
 I am speaking of I had no thought of ever trying to see you. 
 That thought came to me long afterwards." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " I'm a happy woman. In my happiness I've learnt to 
 respect love very much, and I've learnt to recognize it at a 
 glance. Your husband is the victim of a great love, Mrs. 
 Leith. I feel as if I couldn't stand by and see him utterly 
 destroyed by it." 
 
 "Father Robertson tells me " said Rosamund. 
 
 And then she was silent. All this time she was struggling 
 almost furiously against pride and an intense reserve which 
 seemed trying to suffocate every good impulse within her. 
 She held on to the thought of Father Robertson (she was unable 
 to hold on to the thought of God) ; she strove not to hate the 
 woman who was treading in her sanctuary, and whose steps 
 echoed harshly and discordantly to its farthest, its holiest 
 recesses; but she felt herself to be hardening against her will, 
 to be congealing, turning to ice. Nevertheless she was resolute 
 not to leave the room in which she was without learning all 
 that this woman had to tell her. 
 
 "Yes?" said Lady Ingleton. 
 
 And the thought went through her mind: 
 
 " Oh, how she is hating me! " 
 
 " Father Robertson told me there was something else." 
 
 " Yes, there is. Otherwise I might never have come here. 
 I'm partly to blame. But I but I can't possibly go into 
 details. You mustn't ask me for any details, please. Try to 
 accept the little I can say as truth, though I'm not able to give 
 you any proof. You must know that women who are intelli- 
 gent, and have lived long in the well, in the sort of world 
 I've lived in, are never mistaken about certain things. They 
 don't need what are called proofs. They know certain things 
 are happening, or not happening, without holding any proofs 
 for or against. Your husband has got into the wrong 
 hands." 
 
 "What do you mean by that?" said Rosamund steadily, 
 even obstinately. 
 
 " In his misery and absolute loneliness he has allowed him- 
 self to be taken possession of by a woman. She is doing him 
 a great deal of harm. In fact she is ruining him." 
 
 She stopped. Perhaps she suspected that Rosamund, in
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 511 
 
 defiance of her own denial of proofs, would begin asking for 
 them; but Rosamund said nothing. 
 
 " He is going down," Lady Ingleton resumed. " He has 
 already deteriorated terribly. I saw him recently by chance 
 in Stamboul (he never comes to us now), and I was shocked 
 at his appearance. When I first met him, in spite of his bitter- 
 ness and intense misery I knew at once that I was with a man 
 of fine nature. There was something unmistakable, the rare 
 imprint; that's fading from him now. You know Father Rob- 
 ertson very well. I don't. But the very first time I was 
 with him I knew he was a man who was seeking the heights. 
 Your husband now is seeking the depths, as if he wanted to 
 hide himself and his misery in them. Perhaps he hasn't found 
 the lowest yet. I believe there is only one human being who 
 can prevent him from finding it. I'm quite sure there is only 
 one human being. That's why I came here." 
 
 She was silent. Then she added: 
 
 " I've told you now what I wished to tell you, all I can tell 
 you." 
 
 In thinking beforehand of. what this interview would prob- 
 ably be like Lady Ingleton had expected it to be more intense, 
 charged with greater surface emotion than was the case. Now 
 she felt a strange coldness in the room. The dry rattling of 
 the window under the assault of the gale was an interpolated 
 sound that was in place. 
 
 " Your husband has never mentioned your name to me," 
 she said, influenced by an afterthought. " And yet I've come 
 here, because I know that the only hope of salvation for him 
 is here." 
 
 Again her eyes went to " Wedded," and then to the sister's 
 dress and close-fitting headgear which disguised Rosamund. 
 And suddenly the impulsiveness which was her inheritance 
 from her Celtic and Latin ancestors took complete possession 
 of her. She got up swiftly and went to Rosamund. 
 
 " You hate me for having come here, for having told you all 
 this. You will always hate me, I think. I've intruded upon 
 your peaceful life in religion your peaceful, comfortable, 
 sheltered life." 
 
 Her great dark eyes fixed themselves upon the cross which 
 lay on Rosamund's breast. She lifted her hand and pointed 
 to it. 
 
 " You've nailed him on a cross," she said, with almost fierce 
 intensity. " How can you be happy in that dress, worshiping 
 God with a lot of holy women? "
 
 512 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Did I tell you I was happy? " said Rosamund. 
 
 She got up and stood facing Lady Ingleton. Her face still 
 preserved something of its coldness, but the color had deepened 
 in the cheeks, and the expression in the eyes had changed. 
 They looked now much less like the eyes of a " sister " than 
 they had looked when she came into the room. 
 
 " Take off that dress and go to Constantinople! " said Lady 
 Ingleton. 
 
 Rosamund flushed deeply, painfully; her mouth trembled, 
 and tears came into her eyes, but she spoke resolutely. 
 
 " Thank you for telling me," she said. " You were right 
 to come here and to tell me. If I hate you, as you say, that's 
 my fault, not yours." 
 
 She paused. It was evident that she was making a tre- 
 mendous effort to conquer something; she even shut her eyes 
 for a brief instant. Then she .added in a very low voice : 
 
 "Thank you!" 
 
 And she put out her hand. 
 
 Tears started into Lady Ingleton's eyes as she took the hand. 
 Rosamund turned and went quickly out of the room. 
 
 Some minutes after she had gone Lady Ingleton heard rain 
 beating upon the window. The sound reminded her of the 
 umbrella she had " stood " in the corner of the room when 
 Rosamund came in. It was still there. Impulsively she went 
 to the corner and took it up; then, realizing that Rosamund 
 must already be on her way, she laid it down on the table. 
 She stood for a moment looking from " Wedded " to the damp 
 umbrella. 
 
 Then she sat down on the sofa and cried impetuously. 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 IT was the month of May. Already there had been several 
 unusually hot days in Constantinople, and Mrs. Clarke 
 was beginning to think about the villa at Buyukderer. 
 She was getting very tired of Pera. She had fulfilled her 
 promise to Dion Leith. She had given up going to England 
 for Jimmy's Christmas holidays and had spent the whole winter 
 in Constantinople. But now she had had enough of it for 
 the present, indeed more than enough of it. 
 
 She was feeling weary of the everlasting diplomatic society,
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 513 
 
 of the potins political and social, of the love affairs and in- 
 trigues of her acquaintances which she knew of or divined, of 
 the familiar voices and faces. She wanted something new; 
 she wanted to break away. The restlessness that was always 
 in her, concealed beneath her pale aspect of calm, was persecut- 
 ing her as the spring with its ferment drew near to the torrid 
 summer. 
 
 The spring had got into her veins and had made her long 
 for novelty. 
 
 One morning when Sonia came into Mrs. Clarke's bedroom 
 with the coffee she brought a piece of news. 
 
 " Miladi Ingleton arrived at the Embassy from England 
 yesterday," said Sonia, in her thick, soft voice. 
 
 The apparent recovery of Lady Ingleton's mother had been 
 a deception. She had had a relapse almost immediately after 
 Lady Ingleton's return from Liverpool to London; an operation 
 had been necessary, and Lady Ingleton had been obliged to 
 stay on in England for several weeks. During this time Mrs. 
 Clarke had had no news from her. Till Sonia's announce- 
 ment she had not known the date fixed for her friend's return. 
 She received the information with her usual inflexibility, and 
 merely said: 
 
 " I'll go to see her this afternoon." 
 
 Then she took up a newspaper which Sonia had brought 
 in with her and began to sip the coffee. 
 
 As soon as she was dressed she sent a note to the British 
 Embassy to ask if her friend would be in at tea-time. 
 
 Lady Ingleton drew her brows together when she read it. 
 She was delighted to be again in Constantinople, for she had 
 missed Carey quite terribly, but she wished that Cynthia Clarke 
 was anywhere else. Ever since her visit to Liverpool she had 
 been dreading the inevitable meeting with the friend whose 
 secret she had betrayed. Yet the meeting must take place. 
 She would be obliged some day to look once more into Cynthia 
 Clarke's earnest and distressed eyes. When that happened 
 would she hate herself very much for what she had done? 
 She had often wondered. She wondered now, as she read the 
 note written in her friend's large upright hand, as she wrote a 
 brief answer to say she would be in after five o'clock that day. 
 
 She was troubled by the fact that her visit to Liverpool had 
 not yielded the result she had hoped for. Rosamund Leith 
 had not sought her husband. But she had taken off the sister's 
 dress and had given up living in the north.
 
 514 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 Lady Ingleton knew this from Father Robertson, with whom 
 she corresponded. She had never seen Rosamund or heard 
 from her since the interview in the Adelphi Hotel. And she 
 was troubled, although she had recently received from Father 
 Robertson a letter ending with these words: 
 
 " Pressure would be useless. I have found by experience 
 that one cannot hurry the human soul. It must move at its 
 own pace. You have done your part. Try to leave the rest 
 with confidence in other hands. Through you she knows 
 the truth of her husband's condition. She has given up the 
 Sisterhood. Surely that means that she has taken the first 
 step on the road that leads to Constantinople." 
 
 But now May was here with its heat, and its sunshine, and 
 its dust, and Lady Ingleton must soon meet the eyes of Cynthia 
 Clarke, and the man she had striven to redeem was unredeemed. 
 
 She sighed as she got up from her writing-table. Perhaps 
 perversely she felt that she would mind meeting Cynthia Clarke 
 less if her treachery had been rewarded by the accomplishment 
 of her purpose. A useless treachery seemed to her peculiarly 
 unpardonable. She hated having done a wrong without secur- 
 ing a quid pro quo. Even if Father Robertson were right, 
 and Rosamund Leith's departure from the Sisterhood were the 
 first step on the road to Constantinople, she might arrive too 
 late. 
 
 Although she was once more with Carey, Lady Ingleton felt 
 unusually depressed. 
 
 Soon after five the door of her boudoir was opened by a 
 footman, and Mrs. Clarke walked slowly in, looking, Lady 
 Ingleton thought, even thinner, even more haggard and grave 
 than usual. She was perfectly dressed in a gown that was 
 a marvel of subtle simplicity, and wore a hat that drew just 
 enough attention to the lovely shape of her small head. 
 
 " Certainly she has the most delicious head I ever saw," 
 was Lady Ingleton's first (preposterous) thought. " And the 
 strongest will I ever encountered," was the following thought, 
 as she looked into her friend's large eyes. 
 
 After they had talked London and Paris for a few minutes 
 Lady Ingleton changed the subject, and with" a sort of languid 
 zest, which was intended to conceal a purpose she desired 
 to keep secret, began to speak of Pera and of the happenings 
 there while she had been away. Various acquaintances were
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 515 
 
 discussed, and presently Lady Ingleton arrived, strolling, at 
 Dion Leith. 
 
 "Mr. Leith is still here, isn't he?" she asked. "Carey 
 hasn't seen him lately but thinks he is about." 
 
 " Oh yes, he is still here," said Mrs. Clarke's husky voice. 
 
 " What does he do? How does he pass his time? " 
 
 " I often wonder," replied Mrs. Clarke, squeezing a lemon 
 into her cup, which was full of clear China tea. 
 
 She put the lemon, thoroughly squeezed, down on its plate, 
 looking steadily at her friend, and continued: 
 
 " You remember last summer when I asked you to be kind 
 to him, and told you why I was interested in him, poor fellow? " 
 
 " Oh yes." 
 
 " I really thought at that time it would be possible to assist 
 him to get back into life, what we understand by life. You 
 helped me like a true friend." 
 
 "Oh, I really did nothing!" 
 
 " You enabled me to continue my acquaintance with him 
 here," said Mrs. Clarke inflexibly. 
 
 Lady Ingleton was silent, and Mrs. Clarke continued: 
 
 " You know what I did, my efforts to interest him in all 
 sorts of things. I even got Jimmy out because I knew Mr. 
 Leith was fond of him, threw them together, even tried to turn 
 Mr. Leith into a sort of holiday tutor. Anything to take him 
 out of himself. Later on, when Jimmy went back to England, 
 I thought I would try hard to wake up Dion Leith's mind." 
 
 " Did you? " said Lady Ingleton, in her most languid voice. 
 
 " I took him about in Stamboul. I showed him all the inter- 
 esting things that travelers as a rule know nothing about. I 
 tried to make him feel Stamboul. I even spent the winter 
 here chiefly because of him, though, of course, nobody must 
 know that but you." 
 
 " Entendu, ma chere ! " 
 
 " But I've made a complete failure of it all." 
 
 " You mean that Mr. Leith can't take up life again? " 
 
 " He simply doesn't care for the things of the mind. He 
 has very few mental resources. I imagined that there was 
 very much more in him to work upon than there is. If his 
 heart receives a hard blow, an intellectual man can always 
 turn for consolation to the innumerable things of art, philosophy, 
 literature, that are food for the mind. But Mr. Leith un- 
 fortunately isn't an intellectual man. And another thing " 
 
 She had been speaking very quietly; now she paused.
 
 516 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Yes ? " said Lady Ingleton. 
 
 " Jimmy came out for the Easter holidays. It was absurd, 
 because they're so short, but I had to see him, and I couldn't 
 very well go to England. Well, Jimmy's taken a violent dis- 
 like to Mr. Leith." 
 
 " I thought Jimmy was very fond of him." 
 
 " He was devoted to him, but now he can't bear him. In 
 fact, Jimmy won't have anything to do with Dion Leith. I 
 suppose boys of that age are often very sharp I suppose he 
 sees the deterioration in Mr. Leith and it disgusts him." 
 
 "Deterioration! " said Lady Ingleton, leaning forward, and 
 speaking more impulsively than before. 
 
 " Yes. It is heart-rending." 
 
 "Really!" 
 
 " And it makes things difficult for me." 
 
 " I'm sorry for that." 
 
 There was a moment of silence; then, as Mrs. Clarke did 
 not speak, but sat still wrapped in a haggard immobility, Lady 
 Ingleton said: 
 
 ' When do you go to Buyukderer ? " 
 
 ' I shall probably go next week. I'm very tired of Pera." 
 
 ' You look tired." 
 
 ' I didn't mean physically. I'm never physically tired." 
 
 ' Extraordinary woman! " said Lady Ingleton, with a faint, 
 unhumorous smile. " Come and see some Sevres I picked up 
 at Christie's. Carey is delighted with it, although, of course, 
 horrified at the price I paid for it." 
 
 She got up and went with Mrs. Clarke into one of the 
 drawing-rooms. Dion Leith was not mentioned again. 
 
 That evening the Ingletons dined alone. Sir Carey said 
 he must insist on a short honeymoon even though they were 
 obliged to spend it in an Embassy. They had dinner in 
 Bohemian fashion on a small round table in Lady Ingleton's 
 boudoir, and were waited upon by Sir Carey's valet, a middle- 
 aged Italian who had been for many years in his service and 
 who had succeeded, in the way of Italian servants, in becoming 
 one of the family. The Pekinese lay around solaced by the 
 arrival of their mistress and of their doyenne. 
 
 When dinner was over and Sir Carey had lit his cigar, he 
 breathed a sigh of contentment. 
 
 " At last I'm happy once more after all those months of 
 solitude! " 
 
 He looked across at his wife, and added:
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 517 
 
 " But are you happy at being with me again? " 
 
 She smiled. 
 
 " Yes," he said. " I know, of course." 
 
 "Then why do you ask? " 
 
 " Well, I'm a trained observer, like every competent diplo- 
 matist, and there's something. I see in the lute of your 
 happiness a tiny rift. It's scarcely visible, but I see it." 
 
 " I'm not quite happy to-night." 
 
 " And you won't tell me why, on our honeymoon ? " 
 
 " I want to tell you but I can't. I have no right to tell 
 you." 
 
 " You only can judge of that." 
 
 " I've done something that even you might think abomin- 
 able, something treacherous. I had a great reason but 
 still! " She sighed. " I shall never be able to tell you what 
 it is, because to do that would increase my sin. To-night I'm 
 realizing that I'm not at all sorry for what I have done. And 
 that not being sorry as well as something else makes me 
 unhappy in a new way. It's all very complicated." 
 
 "Like Balkan politics! Shall we" he looked round the 
 room meditatively " shall we set the dogs at it? " 
 
 She smiled. 
 
 " Even they couldn't drive my tristesse quite away. You 
 have more power with me than many dogs. Read me some- 
 thing. Read me ' Rabbi ben Ezra.' " 
 
 Sir Carey went to fetch the exorcizer. 
 
 The truth was that Lady Ingleton's interview with Cynthia 
 Clarke had made her realize two things: that since she had 
 come to know Father Robertson, and had betrayed to him the 
 secret of her friend's life, any genuine feeling of liking she 
 had had for Cynthia Clarke had died; and that Cynthia Clarke 
 was tired of Dion Leith. 
 
 That day Mrs. Clarke's hypocrisy had, perhaps for the first 
 time, absolutely disgusted, and even almost horrified, Lady 
 Ingleton. For years Lady Ingleton had known of it, but for 
 years she had almost admired it. The cleverness, the subtlety, 
 the competence of it had entertained her mind. She had re- 
 spected, too, the courage which never failed Mrs. Clarke. But 
 she was beginning to see her with new eyes. Perhaps Father 
 Robertson had given his impulsive visitor a new moral vision. 
 
 During the conversation that afternoon at certain moments 
 Lady Ingleton had almost hated Cynthia Clarke when 
 Cynthia had spoken of trying to wake up Dion Leith's mind,
 
 518 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 of his not being an intellectual man, of Jimmy Clarke's shrink- 
 ing from him because of his deterioration. And when Cynthia 
 had said that deterioration was " heart-rending " Lady Ingleton 
 had quite definitely detested her. This feeling of detestation 
 had persisted while, in the drawing-room, Cynthia was lovingly 
 appreciating the new acquisition of Sevres. Lady Ingleton 
 sickened now when she thought of the lovely hands sensitively 
 touching, feeling, the thin china. There really was something 
 appalling in the delicate mentality, in the subtle taste, of a 
 woman in whom raged such devastating physical passions. 
 
 Lady Ingleton shuddered as she remembered her conversa- 
 tion with her " friend." But it had brought about something. 
 It had driven away any lingering regret of hers for having 
 spoken frankly to Father Robertson. Cynthia was certainly 
 tired of Dion Leith. Was she about to sacrifice him as she 
 had sacrificed others? Lady Ingleton dreaded the future. For 
 during the interview at the Adelphi Hotel she had realized 
 Rosamund's innate and fastidious purity. To forgive even one 
 infidelity would be a tremendous moral triumph in such a 
 woman as Rosamund. But if Cynthia Clarke threw Dion Leith 
 away, and he fell into promiscuous degradation, then surely 
 Rosamund's nature would rise up in inevitable revolt. Even 
 if she came to Constantinople then it would surely be too late. 
 
 Lady Ingleton had seen clearly enough into the mind of 
 Cynthia Clarke, but there was hidden from her the greater 
 part of a human drama not yet complete. 
 
 Combined with the ugly passion which governed her life, 
 Mrs. Clarke had an almost wild love of personal freedom. As 
 much as she loved to fetter she hated to be fettered. This 
 hatred had led her into many difficulties during the course of 
 her varied life, difficulties which had always occurred at mo- 
 ments when she wanted to get rid of people. Ever since she 
 had grown up there had been recurring epochs when she had 
 been tormented by the violent desire to rid herself of some 
 one whom she had formerly longed for, whom she had striven 
 to bind to her. Until now she had always eventually succeeded 
 in breaking away from those who were beginning to involve 
 her in weariness or to disgust her. There had sometimes been 
 perilous moments, painful scenes, bitter recriminations. But 
 by the exercise of her indomitable power of will, helped by 
 her exceptional lack of scruple, she had always managed to 
 accomplish her purpose. She had always found hitherto that 
 she was more pitiless, and therefore more efficient, than any
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 519 
 
 one opposed to her in a severe struggle of wills. But Dion 
 Leith was beginning to cause her serious uneasiness. She had 
 known from the beginning of their acquaintance that he was 
 an exceptional man; since his tragedy she had realized that 
 the exceptional circumstances of his life had accentuated his 
 individuality. In sorrow, in deterioration, he had broken loose 
 from restraint. She had helped to make him what he had 
 now become, the most difficult man she had ever had to deal 
 with. When he had crossed the river to her he had burnt all 
 the boats behind him. If he had sometimes been weak in 
 goodness, in those former days long past, in what he considered 
 as evil Mrs. Clarke did not see things in white and black 
 he had developed a peculiar persistence and determination 
 which were very like strength. 
 
 Looking back, Mrs. Clarke realized that the definite change 
 in Dion, which marked the beginning of a new development, 
 dated from the night in the garden at Buyukderer when Jimmy 
 had so nearly learnt the truth. On that night she had forced 
 Dion to save her reputation with her child by lying and playing 
 the hypocrite to a boy who looked up to him and trusted in 
 him. Dion had not forgotten his obedience. Perhaps he hated 
 her because of it in some secret place of his soul. She was 
 sure that he intended to make her pay for it. He had obeyed 
 her in what she considered as a very trifling matter. (For 
 of course Jimmy had to be deceived.) But since then he had 
 often shown a bitter, even sometimes a brutal, disposition to 
 make her obey him. She could not fully understand the meas- 
 ure of his resentment because she had none of his sense of 
 honor and did not share his instinctive love of truth. But she 
 knew he had suffered acutely in tricking and lying to Jimmy. 
 
 On that night, then, he had burnt his boats. She herself 
 had told him to do it when she had said to him, " Give your- 
 self wholly to me." She was beginning to regret that she had 
 ever said that. 
 
 At first, in her perversity, she had curiously enjoyed Dion's 
 misery. It had wrapped him in a garment that was novel. 
 It had thrown about him a certain romance. But now she 
 was becoming weary of it. She had had enough of it and 
 enough of him. That horrible process, which she knew so 
 well, had repeated itself once more: she had wanted a thing; 
 she had striven for it; she had obtained it; she had enjoyed 
 it (for she knew well how to enjoy and never thought that 
 the game was not worth the candle). And then, by slow,
 
 520 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 almost imperceptible degrees, her power of enjoyment had 
 begun to lessen. Day by day it had lost in strength. She 
 had tried to stimulate it, to deceive herself about its decay, but 
 the time had come, as it had come to her many times in the 
 past, when she had been forced to acknowledge to herself that 
 it was no longer living but a corpse. Dion Leith had played 
 his part in her life. She wished now to put him outside of 
 her door. She had made sacrifices for him; for him she had 
 run risks. All that was very well so long as he had had the 
 power to reward her. But now she was beginning to brood 
 over those risks, those sacrifices, with resentment, to magnify 
 them in her mind; she was beginning to be angry as she dwelt 
 upon that which distortedly she thought of as her unselfishness. 
 
 After Jimmy had left Turkey to go back to Eton, and the 
 summer had died, Mrs. Clarke had fulfilled her promise to 
 Dion. She had settled at Pera for the winter, and she had 
 arranged his life for him. From the moment of Jimmy's de- 
 parture Dion had given himself entirely to her. He had even 
 given himself with a sort of desperation. She had been aware 
 of his fierce concentration, and she had tasted it with a keen- 
 ness of pleasure, she had savored it deliberately and fully in 
 the way of an epicure. The force of his resolution towards 
 evil it was just that had acted upon her abominably sen- 
 sitive temperament as a strong tonic. That period had been 
 the time when, to her, the game was worth the candle, was 
 worth a whole blaze of candles. 
 
 Already, then, Dion had begun to show the new difficult 
 man whom she, working hand in hand with sorrow, had helped 
 to create within him; but she had at first enjoyed his crudities 
 of temper, his occasional outbursts of brutality, his almost fierce 
 roughness and the hardness which alternated with his moments 
 of passion. 
 
 She had understood that he was flinging away with furious 
 hands all the baggage of virtue he had clung to in the past, 
 that he was readjusting his life, was reversing all the habits 
 which had been familiar and natural to him in the existence 
 with Rosamund. So much the better, she had thought. The 
 fact that he was doing this proved to her her power over him. 
 She had smiled, in her unsmiling way, upon his efforts to do 
 what she had told him to do, to cut away the cancer that wa? 
 in him and to cut away all that was round it. Away with the 
 old moralities, the old hatred of lies and deceptions, the old 
 love of sanity and purity of life.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 521 
 
 But away, too, with the old reverence for, and worship of, 
 the woman possessed. 
 
 Dion had taken to heart a maxim once uttered to him by 
 Mrs. Clarke in the garden at Buyukderer. Mention had been 
 made of the very foolish and undignified conduct of a certain 
 woman in Pera society who had been badly treated by a young 
 diplomat. In discussing the matter Dion had chanced to 
 say: 
 
 " But if she does such things how can any man respect her? " 
 
 Mrs. Clarke's reply, spoken with withering sarcasm, had 
 been: 
 
 " Women don't want to be respected by men." 
 
 Dion had not forgotten that saying. It had sunk deep into 
 his heart. He had come to believe it. Even when he thought 
 of Rosamund still he believed it. He had respected her, and 
 had shown his respect in the most chivalrous way at his com- 
 mand, and she had never really loved him. Evidently women 
 were not what he had thought they were. Mrs. Clarke knew 
 what they were and a thousand things that he did not know. 
 He grasped at her cynicism, and he often applied it, translated 
 through his personality, to herself. He even went farther in 
 cynicism than she had ever gone, behaving like a convert to a 
 religion which had the charm of novelty. He praised her for 
 her capacities as a liar, a hypocrite, a subtle trickster, a thrower 
 of dust in the eyes of her world. One of his favorite names 
 for her was " dust- thrower." Sometimes he abused her. She 
 believed that at moments he detested her. But he clung to her 
 and he did not mean to give her up. And she knew that. 
 
 After that horrible night when Jimmy had waked up she 
 had succeeded in making Dion believe that he was deeply loved 
 by her. She had really had an ugly passion for him, and she 
 had contrived easily enough to dress it up and present it as 
 love. And he clung to that semblance of love, because it was 
 all that he had, because it "./as a weapon in his hand, and 
 because he had made for it a sacrifice. He had sacrificed the 
 truth that was in him, and he had received in part payment 
 the mysterious dislike of the boy who had formerly looked up 
 to him. 
 
 Jimmy had never been friendly with Dion since the night 
 of their search for his mother in the garden. 
 
 His manner towards his mother had changed but little. He 
 was slightly more reserved with her than he had been. Her 
 faint air of sarcasm when, in Sonia's room, he had shown her
 
 3-- 
 
 IX THE WILDERNESS 
 
 his boyish agitation, had made a considerable impression upon 
 him. He was unable to forget it. And he was a little more 
 formal with his mother; showed her, perhaps, more respect than 
 before. But the change was trifling. His respect for Dion, 
 however, was obviously dead. Indeed he had begun to show 
 a scarcely veiled hostility towards Dion in the summer holi- 
 days, and in the recent Easter holidays, spent by him in Pera, 
 he had avoided Dion as much as possible. 
 
 "That fellow still here!" he had said, with boyish gruff- 
 ness, when his mother had first mentioned Dion's name imme- 
 diately after his arrival. And when he had seen Dion he had 
 said straight out to his mother that he couldn't " stand Leith 
 at any price now." She had asked him why, fixing her eyes 
 upon him, but the only reply she had succeeded in getting had 
 been that he didn't trust the fellow, that he hadn't trusted Leith 
 for a long time. 
 
 " Since when? " she had said. 
 
 " Can't remember," had been the non-committal answer. 
 
 It seemed as if Jimmy had seen through Dion's insincerity 
 in the garden at Buyukderer. Yet there was nothing to show 
 that he had not accepted his mother's insincerity in Sonia's 
 room at its face value. Even Mrs. Clarke had not been able 
 to understand exactly what was in her boy's mind. But 
 Jimmy's hostility to Dion had troubled her obscurely, and 
 had added to her growing weariness of this intrigue something 
 more vital. Her intelligence divined, rather than actually per- 
 ceived, the coming into her life of a definite menace to her 
 happiness, if happiness it could be called. She felt as if 
 Jimmy were on the track of her secret, and she was certain that 
 Dion was the cause of the boy's unpleasant new alertness. In 
 the past she had taken risks for Dion. But she had had the 
 great reason of what she chose to call passion. That reason was 
 gone now. She was resolved not to take the greatest of all 
 risks for a man whom she wanted to get rid of. 
 
 She was resolved; but she encountered now in Dion a resolve 
 which she had not suspected he was capable of, and which 
 began to render her seriously uneasy. 
 
 Lady Ingleton's remark, " You look tired," had struck un- 
 pleasantly on Mrs. Clarke's ears, and she came away from the 
 Embassy that day with them in her mind. She was on foot. 
 As she came out through the great gateway of the Embassy 
 she remembered that she had been coming from it on that day 
 in June when she had seen Dion Leith for the first time in
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 523 
 
 Pera. A sharp thrill had gone through her that day. He had 
 come. He had obeyed the persistent call of her will. What 
 she had desired for so long would be. And she had been 
 fiercely glad for two reasons: one an ordinary reason, the other 
 less ordinary, a mysterious reason of the mind. If her will 
 had played her false for once, had proved inadequate, she 
 would have suffered strangely. When she knew it had not she 
 had triumphed. But now, as she walked onward slowly, she 
 wished she had never seen Dion Leith in Pera, she wished that 
 her will had played her false. It would have been better so, 
 for she was in a difficult situation, and she foresaw that it was 
 going to become more difficult. She was assailed by that re- 
 curring desire which is the scourge of the sensualist, the desire 
 to rid herself violently, abruptly and forever of the possession 
 she had schemed and made long efforts to obtain. Her torch 
 was burnt out. She wished to stamp out the flame of another 
 torch which still glowed with a baleful fire. 
 
 "And Delia has noticed something! " she thought. 
 
 The thought was scarcely out of her mind when she came 
 face to face with Dion Leith. He stopped before her. 
 
 " Have you been to the Embassy? " he said. 
 
 " Yes. Delia Ingleton came back yesterday. You aren't 
 going to call there? " 
 
 " Of course not. I happened to see you walking in that 
 direction, so I thought I would wait for you." 
 
 With the manner of a man exercising a right he turned to 
 walk back with her. A flame of irritation scorched her, but 
 she did not show any emotion. She only said quietly: 
 
 " You know I am not particularly fond of being seen with 
 men in the Grande Rue." 
 
 " Very well. If you like, I'll come to your flat by a round- 
 about way. I'll be there five minutes after you are." 
 
 Before she had time to say anything he was gone, striding 
 through the crowd. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke walked on and came into the Grande Rue. 
 
 She lived in a flat in a street which turned out of the Grande 
 Rue on the left not very far from the Taxim Garden. As she 
 walked on slowly she was trying to make up her mind to force 
 a break with Dion. She had great courage and was naturally 
 ruthless, yet for once she was beset by indecision. She did 
 not any longer feel sure that she could dominate this man. She 
 had bent him to her will when she took him; but could she do 
 so when she wished to get rid of him?
 
 524 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 When she reached the house, on the second floor of which 
 was her flat, she found him there waiting for her. 
 
 " You must have walked very quickly, Dion," she said. 
 
 " No, I didn't," he replied bruskly. " You walked very 
 slowly." 
 
 " I feel tired to-day." 
 
 " I thought you were never tired." 
 
 " Every woman is tired sometimes." 
 
 They began to ascend the staircase. There was no lift. 
 
 "Are you going out to-night?" she heard him say behind 
 her. 
 
 " No. I shall go to bed early." 
 
 " I'll stay till then." 
 
 " You know you can't stay very late here." 
 
 She heard him laugh. 
 
 "When you've just said you are going to bed early! " 
 
 She said nothing more till they reached the flat. He fol- 
 lowed her in and put his hat down. 
 
 "Will you have tea? " 
 
 "No, thanks; nothing." 
 
 " Go into the drawing-room. I'll come in a moment." 
 
 She left him and went into her bedroom. 
 
 He waited for her in the drawing-room. At first he sat 
 down. The room was full of the scent of flowers, and he 
 remembered the strong flowery scent which had greeted him 
 when he visited the villa at Buyukderer for the first time. 
 How long ago that seemed aeons ago! A few minutes 
 passed, registered by the ticking of a little clock of exquisite 
 bronze work on the mantelpiece. She did not come. He felt 
 restless. He always felt restless in Constantinople. Now he 
 got up and walked about the room, turning sharply from time 
 to time, pausing when he turned, then resuming his walk. 
 Once, as he turned, he found himself exactly opposite to a 
 mirror. He stared into it and saw a man still young, but lined, 
 with sunken eyes, a mouth drooping and bitter, a head on 
 which the dark hair was no longer thick and springy. His 
 hair had retreated from the temples, and this fact had changed 
 his appearance, had lessened his good looks, and at the same 
 time had given to his face an odd suggestion of added intellec- 
 tuality which was at war with the plain stamp of dissipation 
 imprinted upon it. Even in repose his face was almost hor- 
 ribly expressive. 
 
 As he stared into the glass he thought:
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 525 
 
 " If I cut off my mustache I should look like a tragic actor 
 who was a thorough bad lot." 
 
 He turned away, frowning, and resumed his walk. Presently 
 he stood still and looked about the room. He was getting im- 
 patient. Irritability crept through him. He almost hated Mrs. 
 Clarke for keeping him waiting so long. 
 
 " Why the devil doesn't she come? " he thought. 
 
 He stood trying to control his nervous anger, clenching his 
 muscular hands, and looking from one piece of furniture to 
 another, from one ornament to another ornament, with quickly 
 shifting eyes. 
 
 His attention was attracted by something unusual in the 
 room which he had not noticed till now. On a writing-table 
 of ebony near one of the windows he saw a large photograph 
 in a curious frame of ruddy arbutus wood. He had never 
 before seen a photograph in any room lived in by Mrs. Clarke, 
 and he had heard her say that photographs killed a room, and 
 might easily kill, too, with their staring impotence, any affec- 
 tion one felt for the friends they represented. Whose photo- 
 graph could this be which triumphed over such a dislike? He 
 walked to the table, bent down and saw a standing boy in 
 flannels, bare-headed, with thick, disordered hair and bare arms, 
 holding in his large hands a cricket bat. It was Jimmy, and 
 his eyes looked straight into Dion's. 
 
 A door clicked. There was a faint rustling. Mrs. Clarke 
 walked into the room. 
 
 Dion turned round. 
 
 " What's this photograph doing here ? " he asked roughly. 
 
 "Doing?" 
 
 " Yes. You hate photographs. I've heard you say so." 
 
 " Jimmy gave it to me on my birthday just before he left 
 for England. It's quite a good one." 
 
 " You are going to keep it here? " 
 
 " Yes, I am going to keep it here. Come and sit down." 
 
 He did not move. 
 
 " Jimmy loathes me," he said. 
 
 " Nonsense." 
 
 " He does. Through you he has come to loathe me, and 
 you keep his photograph here " 
 
 " I don't allow any one to criticize what I do in my own 
 drawing-room," she interrupted. " You are really childish 
 to-day." 
 
 His intense irritability had communicated itself to her. She
 
 526 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 felt an almost reckless desire to get rid of him. His look of 
 embittered wretchedness tormented her nerves. She wondered 
 how it had ever been able to interest her, even to lure her. 
 She was amazed at her own perversity. 
 
 " I cannot allow you to come here if you are going to try 
 to interfere with my arrangements," she added, with a sort of 
 fierce coldness. 
 
 " I have a right to come here." 
 
 " You have not. You have no rights over me, none at all. 
 I have made a great many sacrifices for you, far too many, but 
 I shall never sacrifice my complete independence for you or 
 for any one." 
 
 " Sacrifices for me! " he exclaimed. 
 
 He snatched up the photograph, held it with both his hands, 
 exerted his strength, smashed the glass, broke the frame, tore 
 the photograph in half, and threw it, the fragments of red wood 
 and the bits of glass on the table. 
 
 " You've made your boy hate me, and you shan't have him 
 there," he said savagely. 
 
 " How dare you! " she exclaimed, in a low, hoarse voice. 
 
 She flung out her hands. In snatching at the ruined photo- 
 graph she picked up with it a fragment of glass. It cut her 
 hand slightly, and a thin thread of blood ran down over her 
 white skin. 
 
 "Oh, your hand!" exclaimed Dion, in a changed voice. 
 "It's bleeding! " 
 
 He pulled out his handkerchief. 
 
 "Leave it alone! I forbid you to touch it! " 
 
 She put the fragments of the photograph inside her dress, 
 gently, tenderly even. Then she turned and faced him. 
 
 " To-morrow I shall telegraph to England for another photo- 
 graph to be sent out, and it will stand here," she said, pointing 
 with her bleeding hand at the writing-table. " It will always 
 stand on my table here and in the Villa Hafiz." 
 
 Then she bound her own handkerchief about her hand and 
 Jang the bell. Sonia came. 
 
 " I've stupidly cut my hand, Sonia. Come and tie it up. 
 Mr. Leith is going in a moment, and then you shall bathe 
 it." 
 
 Sonia looked at Dion, and, without a word, adjusted the 
 handkerchief deftly, and pinned it in place with a safety-pin 
 which she drew out of her dress. Then she left the room with 
 her flat-footed walk. As she shut the door Dion said doggedly :
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 527 
 
 " You'd better let her bathe it now, because I'm not going 
 in a moment" 
 
 " When I ask you to go you will go." 
 
 " Sit down. I must speak to you." 
 
 He pointed to a large sofa. She went very deliberately to 
 a chair and sat down. 
 
 " Why don't you sit on the sofa? " 
 
 " I prefer this." 
 
 He sat on the sofa. 
 
 " I must speak to you about Jimmy." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " What's the matter with him? What have you been up to 
 with him ? " 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " Then why should he turn against me and not against you? " 
 
 " I don't understand what you mean." 
 
 " You do. It's since that night in the garden when you 
 made me lie to him. Ever since that night he's been absolutely 
 different with me. You know it." 
 
 " I can't help it." 
 
 " He believed your lies to him, apparently. Why doesn't he 
 believe mine? " 
 
 "Of course he believed what you told him." 
 
 " He didn't, or he wouldn't have changed. He hates your 
 having anything to do with me. He's told you so. I'm sure 
 of it" 
 
 " Jimmy would never dare to do that." 
 
 " Anyhow, you know he does." 
 
 She did not deny it. 
 
 " Remember this," Dion said, looking straight at her, " I'm 
 not going to be sacrificed a second time on account of a child." 
 
 After a long pause, during which Mrs. Clarke sat without 
 moving, her lovely head leaning against a cushion which was 
 fastened near the top of the back of the chair, she said: 
 
 " What do you mean exactly by being sacrificed, Dion? " 
 
 Her manner had changed. The hostility had gone out of it. 
 Her husky voice sounded gentle almost, and she looked at him 
 earnestly. 
 
 " I mean just this: my life with the woman I once cared for 
 was smashed to pieces by a child, my own dead child. I'm 
 not going to allow my life with you to be smashed to pieces 
 by Jimmy. Isn't a man more than a child? Can't he feel 
 more than a child feels, give more than a child can give ? Isn't
 
 528 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 a thing full grown as valuable, as worth having as a thing 
 that's immature?" 
 
 He spoke with almost passionate resentment. 
 
 " D'you mean to tell me that a man's love always means less 
 to a woman than a child's love means? " 
 
 Silently, while he spoke, she compared the passion she had 
 had for Dion Leith with the love she would always have for 
 Jimmy. The one was dead; the other could not die. That 
 was the difference between such things. 
 
 " The two are so different that it is useless to compare them," 
 she replied. " Surely you could not be jealous of a child." 
 
 " I could be jealous of anything that threatened me in my 
 life with you. It's all I've got now, and I won't have it inter- 
 fered with." 
 
 "But neither must you attempt to interfere with my life with 
 my child," she said, very calmly. 
 
 " You dragged me into your life with Jimmy. You have al- 
 ways used Jimmy as a means. It began long ago in London 
 when you were at Claridges." 
 
 " There is no need " 
 
 " There is need to make you see clearly why I have every 
 right to take a stand now against against " 
 
 "Against what?" 
 
 " I feel you're changing. I don't trust you. You are not to 
 be trusted. Since Jimmy has been here again I feel that you 
 are different." 
 
 " I am obliged to be specially careful now the boy is begin- 
 ning to grow up. He notices things now he wouldn't have no- 
 ticed a year or two ago. And it will get worse from year to 
 year. That isn't my fault." 
 
 His sunken eyes looked fixedly at her from the midst of the 
 network of wrinkles which disfigured his face. 
 
 " Now what are you trying to lead up to? " he said. 
 
 " It's very foolish of you to be always suspicious. Only 
 stupid people are always suspecting others of sharp practise." 
 
 " I'm stupid compared with you, but I'm not so stupid that 
 I haven't learnt to know you better than other people know you, 
 better, probably, than any one else on earth knows you. It is 
 entirely through you that Jimmy has got to hate me. I'm not 
 going to let you use his hatred of me as a weapon against me. 
 I've been wanting to tell you this, but I thought I'd wait till he 
 had gone." 
 
 " Why should I want to use a weapon against you ? "
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 529 
 
 " I don't know. It isn't always easy to know why you want 
 things. You're such an inveterate liar, and so tricky that you'd 
 puzzle the devil himself." 
 
 " Do you realize that all you are saying to-day implies some- 
 thing? It implies that in your opinion I am not a free agent, 
 that you consider you have a right to govern my actions. But 
 I deny that." 
 
 She spoke firmly, but without any heat. 
 
 " Do you mean to say that what we are to each other gives 
 me no more rights over you than mere acquaintances have? " 
 
 " It gives you no more rights over me than mere acquaintances 
 have." 
 
 He sat looking at her for a minute. Then he said : 
 
 " Cynthia, come and sit here, please, beside me." 
 
 " Why should I?" 
 
 " Please come." 
 
 " Very well." 
 
 She got up, came to the sofa with a sort of listless decision, 
 and sat down beside him. He took her uninjured hand. His 
 hand was burning with heat. He closed and unclosed his fin- 
 gers as he went on speaking. 
 
 " What is there in such a relation as ours if it carries no 
 rights? You have altered my whole life. Is that nothing? 
 I live out here only because of you. I have nothing out here 
 but you. All these months, ever since we left Buyukderer, I've 
 lived just as you wished. I went into society at Buyukderer 
 because you wanted me to. When you didn't care any more 
 about my doing that I lived in the shade in Galata. I've fallen 
 in with every deception you thought necessary, I've told every 
 lie you wished me to tell. Ever since you made me lie to 
 Jimmy I haven't cared much. But you'll never know, because 
 you can't understand such things, what the loss of Jimmy's con- 
 fidence and respect has meant to me. However, that's all past. 
 I'm as much of a hypocrite as you are; I'm as false as you 
 are; I'm as rotten as you are with other people. But don't, 
 for God's sake, let's be rotten with each other. That would be 
 too foul, like thieves falling out." 
 
 " I've always been perfectly straight with you," she said 
 coldly. " I have nothing to reproach myself with." 
 
 The closing of his fingers on her hand, and their unclosing, 
 irritated her whole body. To-day she disliked his touch in- 
 tensely, so intensely that she could scarcely believe she had ever 
 liked it, longed for it, schemed for it.
 
 530 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Please keep your hand still! " she said. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " It makes me nervous your doing that. Either hold my hand 
 or don't hold it." 
 
 " I don't understand. What was I doing? " 
 
 " Oh, never mind. I've always been straight with you. I 
 don't know why you are attacking me." 
 
 " I feel you are changing towards me. So I thought I'd tell 
 you that I don't intend to be driven out a second time by a 
 child. It's better you should know that. Then you won't at- 
 tempt the impossible." 
 
 She looked into his sunken eyes. 
 
 " Jimmy has got to dislike you," she said. " It's unfortu- 
 nate, but it can't be helped. I don't know exactly why it is 
 so. It may be because he's older, just at the age when boys 
 begin to understand about men and women. You're not al- 
 ways quite so careful before him as you might be. I don't 
 mean in what you say, but in your manner. I think Jimmy 
 fancies you like me in a certain way. I think he probably took 
 it into his head that you were hanging about the garden that 
 night because perhaps you hoped to meet me there. A very 
 little more and he might begin to suspect me. You have been 
 frank with me to-day. I'll be frank with you. I want you 
 to understand that if there ever was a question of my losing 
 Jimmy's love and respect I should fight to keep them, sacrifice 
 anything to keep them. Jimmy comes first with me, and al- 
 ways will. It couldn't be otherwise. I prefer that you should 
 know it." 
 
 He shot a glance at her that was almost cunning. She had 
 been prepared for a perhaps violent outburst, but he only said : 
 
 " Jimmy won't be here again for some time, so we needn't 
 bother about him." 
 
 She was genuinely surprised, but she did not show it. 
 
 " It was you who brought up the question," she said. 
 
 " Never mind. Don't worry about it. If Jimmy comes out 
 for the summer holidays " 
 
 " He will, of course." 
 
 " Then I can go away from Buyukderer just for thone few 
 weeks." 
 
 " I " She paused; then she went on: "I must tell you 
 
 that you mustn't come to Buyukderer again this summer." 
 
 " Then you won't go there? "
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 531, 
 
 " Of course I must go. I have the villa. I am going there 
 next week." 
 
 " If you go, then I shall go. But I'll leave when Jimmy 
 comes, as you are so fussed about him." 
 
 She could scarcely believe that it was Dion who was speak- 
 ing to her. Often she had heard him speak violently, irritably, 
 even cruelly and rudely. But there was a sort of ghastly soft- 
 ness in his voice. His hand still held hers, but its grasp had 
 relaxed. In his touch, as in his voice, there was a softness 
 which disquieted her. 
 
 " I'm sorry, but I can't let you come to Buyukderer this sum- 
 mer," she said. " Once did not matter. But if you came 
 again my reputation would suffer." 
 
 " Then I'll stay at some other place on the Bosporus and 
 come over." 
 
 " That would be just as bad." 
 
 " Do you seriously mean that we are to be entirely separated 
 during the whole of this summer? " 
 
 " I must be careful of my reputation now Jimmy's growing 
 up. The Bosporus is the home of malicious gossip." 
 
 " Do answer my question. Do you mean that we are to be 
 separated during the summer? " 
 
 " I don't see how it can be helped." 
 
 " It can be helped very easily. Don't go to Buyukderer." 
 
 " I must. I have the villa." 
 
 " Let it." 
 
 " I couldn't possibly stand Constantinople in the summer." 
 
 " There's no need to do that There are other places besides 
 Constantinople and Buyukderer. You might go to one of them. 
 Or you might travel." 
 
 She sat for a moment looking down. 
 
 " Do you mean that I might travel with you? " she said, at 
 last. 
 
 " Not with me. But I could happen to be where you are." 
 
 " That's not possible. Some one would get to know of it." 
 
 " How absurdly ingenue you have become all of a sudden ! " 
 he said, with soft, but scathing, irony. 
 
 And he laughed, let out a long, low, and apparently spon- 
 taneous, laugh, as if he were genuinely amused. 
 
 " Really one would hardly imagine that you were the heroine 
 of the famous divorce case which interested all London not 
 so very long ago. When I remember the life you acknowl-
 
 532 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 edged you had lived, the life you were quite defiant about, I 
 can't help being amused by this sudden access of conventional 
 Puritanism. You declared then that you didn't choose to live 
 a dull, orthodox life. One would suppose that the leopard could 
 change his spots after all." 
 
 While he was speaking she lifted her head and looked fixedly 
 at him. 
 
 " It's just that very divorce case which has made me alter 
 my way of living," she said. " Any one who knew anything 
 of the world, any one but a fool, could see that." 
 
 " Ah, but I am a fool," he returned doggedly. " I was a 
 fool when I ran straight, and it seems I'm a fool when I run 
 crooked. You've got to make the best of me as I am. Take 
 your choice. Go to Buyukderer if you like. If you do I shall 
 stay on the Bosporus. Or travel if you like, and I'll happen 
 to be where you are. It's quite easy. It's done every day. 
 But you know that as well as I do. I can't give you points in 
 the game of throwing dust in the eyes of the public." 
 
 " It's too late now to let the villa, even if I cared to. And 
 I can't afford to shut it up and leave it standing empty while 
 I wander about in hotels. I shall go to Buyukderer next 
 week." 
 
 " All right. I'll go back to the rooms I had last year, and 
 we can live as we did then. Give me the key of the garden 
 gate and I can use the pavilion as my sitting-room again. It's 
 all quite simple." 
 
 A frown altered her white face. His mention of the pa- 
 vilion had suddenly recalled to her exactly what she had felt 
 for him last year. She compared it with what she felt for him 
 now. With an impulsive movement she pulled her hand away 
 from his. 
 
 " I shall not give you the key. I can't have you there. I 
 will not. People have begun to talk." 
 
 " I don't believe it. They never see us together here. You 
 have taken good care of that in the last few months. Why, 
 we've met like thieves in the night." 
 
 " Here, yes. In a great town one can manage, but not in a 
 place like Buyukderer." 
 
 He leaned forward and said, with dogged resolution: 
 
 " One thing is certain I will not be separated from you 
 during the summer. Do whatever you like, but remember that. 
 Make your own plans. I will fall in with them. But I shall 
 pass the summer where you pass it"
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 533 
 
 "I really I didn't know you cared so much about me," she 
 murmured, with a faint smile. 
 
 "Care for you! " 
 
 He stared into her face and the twinkles twitched about his 
 eyes. 
 
 " How should I not care for you? " 
 
 He gripped her hand again. 
 
 "Haven't you taught me how to live in the dust? Haven't 
 you shown me the folly of being honorable and the fun of de- 
 ceiving others? Haven't you led me into the dark and made 
 me able to see in it? And there's such a lot to see in the dark! 
 Why, good God, Cynthia, you've remade me, and then you won- 
 der at my caring for you! You make a man in your own 
 image and then you're surprised at his worshipping you. 
 Where's your cleverness ? " 
 
 " I often believe you detest me." 
 
 " Oh, as for that, a woman such as you are can be loved and 
 hated almost at the same time. But she can't be given up. 
 No!" 
 
 As she looked at him she saw the red gleam of the torch he 
 carried. Hers had long ago died out into blackness. 
 
 " Is it possible that you really wish to ruin my reputation ? " 
 
 " Not a bit of it! You're so clever that you can always guard 
 against that." 
 
 " Yes, I can when I'm dealing with gentlemen," she said, with 
 sudden, vicious sharpness. " But you are behaving like a cad. 
 Of all the men I " 
 
 She stopped. A sort of nervous fury possessed her. It had 
 nearly driven her to make a false step. And yet would 
 it be a false step? As she paused, looking at Dion, marking 
 the hard obstinacy in his eyes, feeling the hard, hot grip of 
 his hand, it occurred to her that perhaps she had blundered 
 upon the one way out, the way of escape. Amid the wreckage 
 of his beliefs she knew that Dion still held to one belief, which 
 had been shaken once, but which her cool adroitness had saved 
 and made firm in a critical moment. If she destroyed it now 
 would he let her go? Just how low had he fallen through her? 
 She wished she knew. But she did not know, and she waited, 
 looking at him. 
 
 " Go on ! " he said. " Of all the men you what? " 
 
 " How low down is he ? How low down ? " she asked her- 
 self. 
 
 " Can you go on? " he said brutally.
 
 534 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Of all the men who have cared for me you are the only 
 man who has ever dared to interfere with my freedom," she 
 said. 
 
 Her voice had become almost raucous, and a faint dull red 
 strangely discolored and altered her face. 
 
 " I will not permit it. I shall go to Buyukderer, and I for- 
 bid you to follow me there. Now it's getting late and I'm tired. 
 Please go away." 
 
 " Men who have cared for you ! " 
 
 " Yes. Yes." 
 
 "What d'you mean by that? D'you mean Brayfield? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Have there been many others who have cared as Brayfield 
 did?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Hadi Bey was one of them, I suppose? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And Dumeny was another? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Poor fellows!" 
 
 His lips were smiling, but his eyes looked dreadfully intent 
 and searching. 
 
 " You made them suffer and gave them no reward. I can 
 see you doing it and enjoying it." 
 
 " That's untrue." 
 
 "What is untrue?" 
 
 " To say that I gave them no reward." 
 
 At this moment there was a tap on the door. 
 
 " Come in ! " said Mrs. Clarke, in her ordinary voice. 
 
 Sonia opened the door and came in. 
 
 " Excuse me, Madame," she said, " but you told me I was 
 to bathe your hand. If it is not bathed it will look horrible 
 to-morrow. I have the warm water all ready." 
 
 She stood in front of her mistress, broad, awkward and yet 
 capable. Dion felt certain this woman meant to get rid of 
 him because she was aware that her mistress wanted him to 
 go. He had always realized that Sonia knew Mrs. Clarke bet- 
 ter than any other woman did. As for himself she had never 
 shown any feeling towards him. He did not know whether she 
 liked him or disliked him. But now he knew that he disliked 
 her. 
 
 He looked almost menacingly at her. 
 
 " Your mistress can't go at present," he said. " Her hand is 
 all right. It was only a scratch."
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 535 
 
 Sonia looked at her mistress. 
 
 " Sonia is quite right," said Mrs. Clarke, getting up. " And 
 as the water is warm I will go. Good-by." 
 
 " I will stay here till you have finished," he said, still look- 
 ing at Sonia. 
 
 " It's getting very late. We might finish our talk to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 " I will stay." 
 
 After a slight pause Mrs. Clarke, whose face was still discol- 
 ored with red, turned to the maid and said: 
 
 " Go away, Sonia." 
 
 Sonia went away very slowly. At the door she stopped for a 
 moment and looked round. Then she disappeared, and the door 
 closed slowly and as if reluctantly behind her. 
 
 " Xow what did you mean? " Dion said. ,, 
 
 He got up. 
 
 "What did you mean?" 
 
 " Simply this, that my husband ought to have won his 
 case." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 He stood with his hands hanging at his sides, looking im- 
 passive, with his head bent and the lids drooping over his eyes. 
 She waited for her freedom. She did not mind the dis- 
 gust which she felt like an emanation in the darkening room, if 
 only it would carry him far enough in hatred of her. Would 
 it do that? 
 
 There was a very long silence between them. During it he 
 remained motionless. With his hanging hands and his droop- 
 ing head he looked, she thought, almost as much like a puppet 
 as like a man. His whole body had a strange aspect of list- 
 lessness, almost of feebleness. Yet she knew how muscular 
 and powerful he still was, although he had long ago ceased 
 from taking care of his body. The silence lasted so long, and 
 he stood so absolutely still, that she began to feel uneasy, 
 even faintly afraid. The nerves in her body were tingling. 
 They could have braced themselves to encounter violence, but 
 this immobility and dumbness tormented them. She wanted to 
 speak, to move, but she felt obliged to wait for him. At last 
 he looked up. He came to her, lifted his hands and laid them 
 heavily on her emaciated shoulders. 
 
 " So that's what you are! " 
 
 He stared into her haggard face. She met his eyes reso- 
 lutely. 
 
 "That's what you are!"
 
 536 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Why have you told me this to-day ? " 
 
 " Of course you knew it long ago." 
 
 " Answer me. Why have you told me to-day? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " I do. You have told me to-day because you have had 
 enough of me. You meant to use Jimmy to get rid of me as 
 you once used him to get to know me more intimately. When 
 you found that wouldn't serve your turn, you made up your mind 
 to speak a word or two of truth. You thought you would dis- 
 gust me into leaving you." 
 
 " Of course you knew it long ago," she repeated in a dull 
 voice. 
 
 " I didn't know it. I might have suspected it. In fact, 
 once I did, and I told you so. But you drove out my suspicion. 
 I don't know exactly how. And since then after you got 
 your verdict in London I saw Dumeny smile at you as he went 
 out of the Court. I have never been able to forget that smile. 
 Now I understand it. One by one you've managed to get rid 
 of them all. And now at last you've arrived at me, and you've 
 said to yourself, ' It's his turn to be kicked out now.' Haven't 
 you?" 
 
 " Nothing can last forever," she murmured huskily. 
 
 " No. But this time you're not going to scrawl ' finis ' ex- 
 actly when you want to." 
 
 " It's getting dark, and I'm tired. My hand is hurting me." 
 
 He gripped her shoulders more firmly. 
 
 " If you meant some day to get rid of me, to kick me out as 
 you've kicked out the others," he said grimly, " you shouldn't 
 have made me come to you that night when Jimmy was at 
 Buyukderer. That was a mistake on your part." 
 
 " Why? " she asked, almost in a whisper. 
 
 "Because that night through you I lost something; I lost 
 the last shred of my self-respect. Till that night I was still 
 clinging on to it. You struck my hands away and made me let 
 go. Now I don't care. And that's why I'm not going to let 
 you treat me as you've treated the others. I'm not going to 
 let you make the sign of the cross over me and dismiss me into 
 hell. Your list closes with me, Cynthia. I'm not going to 
 give you up." 
 
 She shook slightly under his hands. 
 
 "Why are you trembling? " 
 
 " I'm not trembling; but I'm tired; let me alone."
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 537 
 
 " You can go to Sonia now if you like, and have your hand 
 bathed." 
 
 He lifted his hands from her shoulders, but she did not move. 
 ' What are you going to do? " she asked. 
 ' I shall wait for you here." 
 'Wait for me?" 
 
 ' Yes. We'll dine together to-night." 
 'Where?" she said helplessly. 
 ' Here, if you like." 
 
 ' There's scarcely anything to eat. I didn't intend " 
 
 ' I'll take you out somewhere. It's going to be a dark night. 
 We'll manage so that no one sees us. We'll dine together and, 
 
 after dinner " 
 
 " I must come home early. I'm very tired." 
 " After dinner we'll go to those rooms you found so cleverly 
 near the Persian Khan." 
 She shuddered. 
 
 " Now go and bathe your hand, and I'll wait here. Only 
 don't be too long or I shall come and fetch you. And don't send 
 Sonia to make excuses, for it will be no use." 
 He sat down on the sofa. 
 
 She stood for a moment without moving. She put her ban- 
 daged hand up to her discolored face. Then she went slowly 
 out of the room. 
 
 He sat waiting for her to come back, with his elbows on his 
 knees and his face hidden in his hands. 
 
 He felt like a man sunk in mire. He felt the mire creeping 
 up to his throat. 
 
 Almost at that same hour beside a platform at Victoria Sta- 
 tion in London a long train with " Dover " placarded on it 
 was drawn up. Before the door of a first-class carriage two 
 women in plain traveling dresses were standing with a white- 
 haired clergyman. Presently the shorter of the two women said 
 to the other: 
 
 " I think I'll get in now, and leave you to last words." 
 
 She held out her hand to the clergyman. 
 
 " Good-by, Father Robertson." 
 
 He grasped her hand warmly, and looked at her with a great 
 tenderness shining in his eyes. 
 
 " Take good care of her. But you will, I know," he said. 
 
 Beatrice Daventry got into the carriage, and stood for a 
 moment at the door. There were tears in her eyes as she
 
 538 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 looked at the two figures now pacing slowly up and down on 
 the platform; she wiped them away quickly, and sat down. 
 She was bound on a long journey. And what would be the 
 end? In her frail body Beatrice had a strong soul, but to-night 
 she was stricken with a painful anxiety. She said to herself 
 that she cared about something too much. If the object of this 
 journey were not attained she felt it would break her heart. She 
 shut her eyes, and she conjured up a child whom she had loved 
 very much and who was dead. 
 
 " Come with us, Robin! " she whispered. " Come with us to 
 your father." 
 
 And the whisper was like a prayer. 
 
 "Beattie!" 
 
 Rosamund's voice was speaking. 
 
 " We are just off." 
 
 "Are we?" 
 
 " Take your seats, please ! " shouted a loud bass voice. 
 
 There was a sound of the banging of doors. 
 
 Rosamund leaned out of the window. 
 
 "Good-by, Father!" 
 
 The train began to move. 
 
 " Good-by. Cor meum vigilat." 
 
 Rosamund pulled down her veil quickly over her face. 
 
 She was weary of rebellion. Yet she knew that deep down 
 within her dwelt one who was still a rebel. She was starting 
 on a great journey but she could not foresee what would hap- 
 pen at its end. For she no longer knew what she was capa- 
 ble of doing, and what would be too great a task for her poor 
 powers. She was trying; she would try; that was all she knew. 
 
 As the train pushed on through the fading light she said to 
 herself again and again: 
 
 " La divina volontate! La divina volontate! " 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 A WEEK had passed, and the Villa Hafiz had not yet 
 opened its door to receive its mistress. The servants, 
 with the exception of Sonia, had arrived. The Greek 
 butler had everything in order downstairs. Above stairs the 
 big, low bed was made, and there were flowers in the vases 
 dotted about here and there in the blue-and-green sitting-room.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 539 
 
 Osman, the gardener, had trimmed the rose-bushes, had care 
 fully cleaned the garden seats, and had swept straying leaves 
 from the winding paths. The fountain sang its under-song 
 above the lilies. On the highest terrace, beyond the climbing 
 garden, the pavilion waited for the woman and man who had 
 hidden themselves in it to go down into the darkness. But 
 no one slept in the big, low bed, or sat in the blue-and-green 
 room; the garden was deserted; by night no feet trod softly to 
 the pavilion. 
 
 For the first time in her life Cynthia Clarke was in the toils. 
 She who loved her personal freedom almost wildly no longer 
 felt free. She dared not go to Buyukderer. 
 
 She looked back to that night when she had told Dion Leith 
 the truth, and it stood out among all the nights of her life, 
 more black and fatal than any of them, because on it she had 
 been false to herself, had been weak. She had not followed up 
 her strength in words by strength in action! She had allowed 
 Dion Leith to dominate her that night, to make of her against 
 her will his creature. In doing that she had taken a step down 
 a step away from the path in which hitherto she had always 
 walked. And that departure from inflexible selfishness seemed 
 strangely to have weakened her will. 
 
 She was afraid of Dion because she felt that he was ungov- 
 ernable by her, that her will no longer meant anything to him. 
 He did not brace himself to defy it; simply, he did not bother 
 about it. He seemed to have passed into a region where such a 
 trifle as a woman's will faded away from his perception. 
 
 His serpent had swallowed up hers. 
 
 She ought to have defied him that night, to have risked a 
 violent scene, to have risked everything. Instead, she had come 
 back to the drawing-room, had gone out into the night with 
 him, had even gone to the rooms near the Persian Khan. She 
 had put off, had said to herself "To-morrow"; she had tried 
 to believe that Dion's desperate mood would pass, that he needed 
 gentle handling for the moment, and that, if treated with su- 
 preme tact, he would eventually be " managed " into letting her 
 have her will. 
 
 But now she had no illusions. Her distressed eyes saw quite 
 clearly, and she knew that she had made a fatal mistake in be- 
 ing obedient to Dion that night. She felt like one at the begin- 
 ning of an inclined plane that was slippery as ice. She had 
 stepped upon it, and she could not step back. She could only 
 go forward and downward.
 
 540 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 Dion was reckless. Appeals to reason, to chivalry, to pity, 
 had no effect upon him. He only laughed at them, took them 
 as part of her game of hypocrisy. In her genuine and grow- 
 ing fear and distress she had become almost horribly sincere, 
 but he would not believe in, or heed, her sincerity. She knew 
 her increasing hatred of him was matched by his secret detes- 
 tation of her. Yes, he detested her with all that was most 
 characteristic in him, with all those inherent qualities of which, 
 do what he would, he was unable to rid himself. And yet 
 there was a link which bound them together the link of a 
 common degradation of body. She longed to smash that link 
 which she had so carefully and sedulously labored to forge. 
 But he wished to make it stronger. By her violent will she 
 had turned him to perversity, and now he was actually more 
 perverse than she was. She saw herself outdistanced on the 
 course towards the ultimate blackness, saw herself forced to 
 follow where he led. 
 
 She dared not go to Buyukderer. She could not, she knew, 
 keep him away from there. He would follow her from Con- 
 stantinople, would resume his life of last summer, would per- 
 haps deliberately accentuate his intimacy with her instead of 
 being careful to throw over it a veil. In his hatred and reck- 
 lessness he might be capable even of that, the last outrage which 
 a man can inflict upon a woman, to whose safety and happi- 
 ness his chivalrous secrecy is essential. His clinging to her 
 in hatred was terrible to her. She began to think that perhaps 
 he had in his mind abominable plans for the destruction of her 
 happiness. 
 
 One day he told her that if she went to Buyukderer he would 
 not only follow her there, but he would remain there when 
 Jimmy came out for the summer holidays. 
 
 " Jimmy must learn to like me again," he said. " That is 
 necessary." 
 
 She shuddered when she realized the tendency of Dion's 
 mind. Fear made her clairvoyante. There were moments 
 when she seemed to look into that mind as into a room through 
 an open window, to see the thoughts as living things going about 
 their business. There was something appalling in this man's 
 brooding desire to strike her in the heart combined with his de- 
 termination to continue to be her lover. It affected her as 
 she had never been affected before. By torturing her imagina- 
 tion it made havoc of her will-power. Her situation rendered 
 her almost desperate, and she could not find an outlet from it.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 541 
 
 What was she to do? If she went to Buyukderer she felt 
 certain there would be a scandal. Even if there were not, she 
 could not now dare to risk having Jimmy out for his holidays. 
 Jimmy and Dion must not meet again. She might travel in 
 the summer, as Dion had suggested, but if she did that she 
 would be forced to endure a solitude a deux with him untem- 
 pered by any social distractions. She could not endure that 
 To be alone with his bitterness, his misery, and his monopoliz- 
 ing hatred of her would be unbearable. And the problem of 
 Jimmy's holidays would not be solved by travel. Unless she 
 traveled to England! 
 
 A gleam of hope came to her as she thought of England. 
 Dion had fled from England. \Yould he dare to go back there, 
 to the land which had seen his tragedy, and where the woman 
 lived who had cast him out? Mrs. Clarke wondered, turning 
 the thought of England over and over in her mind. 
 
 The longer she thought on that matter the more convinced 
 she became that she had hit upon a final test, by means of which 
 it would be possible for her to ascertain Dion's exact mental con- 
 dition. If he was ready to follow her even to England, to show 
 himself there as her intimate friend, if not as her lover, then 
 the man whom she had known in London was dead indeed be- 
 yond hope of resurrection. 
 
 She resolved to find out what Dion's feeling about England 
 was. 
 
 Since the evening when she had told him the truth she had 
 seen him he had obliged her to see him even' day, but he 
 had not come again to her flat. They had met in secret, as they 
 had been meeting for many months. For the days when they 
 had wandered about Stamboul together, when she had tried to 
 play to him the part Dumeny had once played to her, were long 
 ago over. 
 
 On the day when the thought of England occurred to Mrs. 
 Clarke as a possible place of refuge she had promised to meet 
 Dion late in the evening at their rooms near the Persian Khan. 
 She loathed going to those rooms. They reminded her pain- 
 fully of all she had felt for Dion and felt no longer. They 
 spoke to her of the secrecy of a passion that was dead. She 
 was afraid of them. But she was still more afraid of seeing 
 Dion in her flat. Nevertheless, now the gleam of hope which 
 had come to her suddenly woke up in her something of her 
 old recklessness. Since the servants had gone to the Villa 
 Hafiz she had been living in the flat with Sonia, who was an
 
 542 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 excellent cook as well as a capital maid. She resolved to ask 
 Dion to dinner that night, and to try her fortune once more with 
 him. England must be horrible to him. Then she would go 
 to England. And if he followed her there he would at least be 
 punished for his persecution of her. 
 
 Already she called his determination not to break their in- 
 trigue persecution. She had a short memory. 
 
 After a talk with Sonia she summoned a messenger and sent 
 Dion a note, asking him to dinner that night. He replied that 
 he would come. His answer ended with the words: "We can 
 go to the rooms later." 
 
 As Mrs. Clarke read them her fingers closed on the paper 
 viciously, and she said to herself: 
 
 " I'll not go. I'll never go to them again." 
 
 She told Sonia about the dinner. Then she dressed and 
 went out. 
 
 It was a warm and languid day. She took a carriage and 
 
 told the coachman to drive to Stamboul to drive on till she 
 
 gave him the direction where to go in Stamboul. She had no 
 special object in view. But she longed to be out in the air, to 
 drive, to see people about her, the waterway, the forest of ship- 
 ping, the domes and the minarets, the cypresses, the glades 
 stretching towards Seraglio Point, the long, low hills of Asia. 
 She longed, too, to hear voices, hurrying feet, the innumerable 
 sounds of life. She hoped by seeing and hearing to fortify 
 her will. The spirit of adventure was the spirit that held her, 
 was the most vital thing within her, and such a spirit needed 
 freedom to breathe in. She was fettered. She had been a 
 coward, or almost a coward, false, perhaps, to her fortunate 
 star. Hitherto she had always followed Nietzsche's advice and 
 had lived perilously. Was she now to be governed by fear? 
 Even to keep Jimmy's respect and affection could she endure 
 such dominion? As the sun touched her with his fingers of 
 gold, and the air, full of a strangely languid vitality, whis- 
 pered about her, as she heard the cries from the sea, and saw 
 human beings, vividly egoistic, going by on their pilgrimage, she 
 said to herself, "Not even for Jimmy! " The clamorous city, 
 with its fierce openness and its sinister suggestions of hidden 
 things, woke up in her the huntress, and, for the moment, lulled 
 the mother to sleep. 
 
 " Not even for Jimmy ! " she thought. " I must be myself. 
 I cannot be otherwise. I must live perilously. To live in any 
 other way for me would be death."
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 543 
 
 And the line in " The Kasidah " which Dion had pondered 
 over came to her, and she thought of the " death that walks in 
 form of life." 
 
 As the carriage went upon the bridge she looked across to 
 Stamboul, and was faced by the Mosque of the Valideh. So 
 familiar to her was the sight of its facade, of its cupolas and 
 minarets, that she seldom now even thought of it when she 
 crossed the bridge; but to-day, perhaps because she was unusu- 
 ally strung up, was restive and almost horribly alert, she gazed 
 at it and was intensely conscious of it. She had once said to 
 Dion that Stamboul was the City of the Unknown God, and now 
 suddenly she felt that she was nearing His altars. A strange, 
 perverse desire to pray came to her; to go up into one of the 
 mosques of this mysterious city which she loved, and to pray for 
 her release from Dion Leith. 
 
 She smiled faintly as this idea came into her mind. The Un- 
 known God had surely made her as she was, had made her a 
 huntress. Well, then, surely she had the right to pray to Him 
 to give her a free course for her temperament. 
 
 " Santa Sophia! " she called to the coachman. 
 
 He cracked his whip and drove furiously on to Stamboul. In 
 less than a quarter of an hour he pulled up his horses before 
 the vast Church of Santa Sophia. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke sat still in the carriage for a moment looking 
 up at the ugly towering walls, covered with red and white 
 stripes. Her face was haggard in the sunshine, and her pale 
 lips were set together in a hard line. A beggar with twisted 
 stumps instead of arms whined a petition to her, but she neither 
 saw him nor heard him. As she stared at the walls on which 
 the sun blazed she was wondering about her future. The love 
 of life was desperately strong within her that day. The long- 
 ing for new experiences tormented her physically. She felt as 
 if she could not wait, could not be patient any more. If Dion 
 to-night refused again to give her her freedom she must do some- 
 thing desperate. She must get away secretly and hide herself 
 from him, take a boat to Greece or Rumania, or slip into the 
 Orient express and vanish over the tracks of Europe. 
 
 But first she must go into the church and pray to the Un- 
 known God. 
 
 She got out of the carriage. The beggar thrust one of his 
 diseased stumps in front of her face. She turned on him with 
 a malignant look, and the whining petition died on his lips. 
 Then she made her way to the Porta Basilica and passed into
 
 544 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 the church. But as its great spaces opened out before her a 
 thought, childishly superstitious, came to her, and she turned 
 abruptly, went out, made her way to the beggar who had wor- 
 ried her, gave him a coin and said something kind to him. 
 His almost soprano voice, raised in clamorous benediction, fol- 
 lowed her as she returned to the church, moving slowly with 
 horrible loose slippers protecting its floor from her Christian 
 feet. She always laughed in her mind when she wore those 
 slippers and thought of what she was. This sanctuary of the 
 Unknown God must, it seemed, be protected from her because 
 she was a Christian! 
 
 There were a good many people in the church, but it looked 
 almost empty because of its immense size. She knew it very 
 well, better perhaps than she knew any other sacred building, 
 and she cared for it very much. She was fond of mosques, 
 delighting in their airy simplicity, in thir casual holiness which 
 seemed to say to her, " Worship in me if you will. If you will 
 not, never mind; dream in me with open eyes, or, if you pre- 
 fer it, go to sleep in a corner of me. When you wake you can 
 mutter a prayer, or not, just as you please." 
 
 Santa Sophia did not, perhaps, say that, though it had now 
 for long years been in use as a mosque, and always seemed to 
 Mrs. Clarke more like a mosque than like a church. It was 
 richly adorned, and something of Christianity still lingered 
 within it. In it there seemed, even to Mrs. Clarke, to be some- 
 thing impelling which asked of each one who entered it more 
 than mere dreams, more than those long meditations which are 
 like prayers of the mind separated from the prayers of the 
 heart and soul. But it possessed the air of freedom which is 
 characteristic of mosques, did not seize those who entered it in a 
 clutch of tenacious sanctity; but seemed to let them alone, and 
 to influence them by just being wonderful, beautiful, unself- 
 consciously sacred. 
 
 At first Mrs. Clarke wandered slowly about the church, with- 
 out any purpose other than that of gathering to herself some 
 of its atmosphere. During the last few days she had been feel- 
 ing really tormented. Dion had once said she looked pun- 
 ished. Now he had made her feel punished. And she sought 
 a moment of peace. It could not come to her from mysticism, 
 but it might come to her from great art, which suggests to its 
 votaries mystery, the something beyond, untroubled and shin- 
 ingly serene. 
 
 Presently Mrs. Clarke felt the peace of Santa Sophia, and
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 545 
 
 she felt it in a new way, because she had recently suffered, in- 
 deed was suffering still in a new way; she felt it as something 
 desirable, which might be of value to her, if she were able to 
 take it to herselt and to fold it about her own life. Had she 
 made a mistake in living perilously through many years? 
 Her mind went to the woman who had abandoned Dion and 
 entered a Sisterhood to lead a religious life. She seldom 
 thought about Rosamund except in relation to Dion. She had 
 scarcely known her, and since her first few interviews with Dion 
 in this land of the cypress he had seldom mentioned his wife. 
 She neither liked, nor actively disliked, Rosamund, whose tacit 
 rejection of her acquaintance had not stirred in her any 
 womanly hatred; for though she was a ruthless woman she was 
 not venomous towards other women. She did not bother about 
 them enough for that. But now she considered that other 
 woman with whom she had shared Dion Leith, or rather who, 
 not knowing it doubtless, had shared Dion Leith with her. And 
 she wondered whether Rosamund, in her Sisterhood, was hap- 
 pier than she was in the world. In the Sisterhood there must 
 surely be peace monotony, drudgery, perhaps, but peace. 
 
 Santa Sophia, with its vast spaces, its airy dome, its great 
 arches and galleries, its walls of variegated marble, its glitter- 
 ing mosaics and columns of porphyry, to-day made her realize 
 that in her life of adventure and passion she was driven, as if 
 by a demon with a whip, and that her horrible situation with 
 Dion was but the culmination of a series of horrible situations. 
 She had escaped from them only after devastating battles, in 
 which she had had to use all her nervous energy and all her 
 force of will. Was it worth while? Was the game she was 
 always playing worth the candles she was always burning? 
 Would it not be wiser to seek peace and ensue it? As she 
 drove to Santa Sophia she had longed fiercely to be free so that 
 she might begin again; might again have adventures, might 
 again explore the depths of human personalities, and satisfy her 
 abnormal curiosities and desires. Now she was full of unusual 
 hesitation. Suppose she did succeed in getting rid of Dion by 
 
 going to England, suppose her prayer she had not offered 
 
 it up yet, but she was going to offer it up in a moment to 
 the Unknown God received a favorable answer, might it not be 
 well for her future happiness if she retired from the passionate 
 life, with its perpetual secrecies, and intrigues, and lies, and 
 violent efforts, into the life of the ideal mother, solely devoted to 
 her only child ?
 
 546 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 She felt that the struggle with Dion, the horrible scenes she had 
 had with him, the force of her hatred of him and his hatred 
 of her, the necessity of yielding to him in hatred that which 
 should never be given save with desire, had tried her as noth- 
 ing else had ever tried her. She felt that her vitality was low, 
 and she supposed that out of that lowered vitality had come 
 her uncharacteristic desire for peace. She had almost envied 
 for a moment the woman whom she had replaced in the life of 
 Dion. Even now she sighed ; a great weariness possessed 
 her. Was she going to be subject to a weakness which she had 
 always despised, the weakness of regret? 
 
 She paused beside a column not very far from the raised 
 tribune on the left of the dome which is set apart for the use 
 of the Sultan, and is called the Sultan's seat. Her large eyes 
 stared at it, but at first she did not see it. She was looking in- 
 ward upon herself. Then, in some distant part of the mosque, 
 a boy's voice began to sing, loudly, almost fiercely. It sounded 
 fanatical and defiant, but tremendously believing, proud in the 
 faith which it proclaimed to faithful and unfaithful alike. It 
 echoed about the mosque, raising a clamor which nobody seemed 
 to heed; for the few ulemas who were visible continued read- 
 ing the Koran aloud on the low railed-in platforms which they 
 frequent; a Dervish in a pointed hat slept peacefully on, 
 stretched out in a corner; before the prayer carpet of the Prophet, 
 not far from the Mihrab, a half-naked Bedouin, with a sheep- 
 skin slung over his bronzed shoulders, preserved his wild at- 
 titude of savage adoration; and here and there, in the distance, 
 under the low hanging myriads of lamps, the figures of Turk- 
 ish soldiers, of street children, of travelers, moved noiselessly to 
 and fro. 
 
 The voice of this boy, heedless and very powerful, indeed 
 almost impudent, stirred Mrs. Clarke. It brought her back 
 to her worship of force. One must worship something, and she 
 chose force force of will, of temperament, of body, of brain. 
 Now she saw the Sultan's tribune, and it made her think of 
 an opera box and of the worldly life. The boy sang on, catch- 
 ing at her mind, pulling her towards the East. The curious 
 peace of any religious life was certainly not for her, yet to-day 
 she felt weary of the life in her world. And she wished she 
 could have in her existence peace of some kind; she wished 
 that she were not a perpetual wanderer. She remembered some 
 of those with whom, from time to time, she had linked her- 
 self her husband, Hadi Bey, Dumeny, Brayfield, Dion Leith.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 547 
 
 Now she was struggling, and so far in vain, to thrust Dion 
 out of her life. If she succeeded what then? Where was 
 stability in her existence? Her love for Jimmy was the only 
 thing that lasted, and that often made her afraid now. She was 
 seized by an almost sentimental desire to lose herself in a love 
 for a man that would last as her love for Jimmy had lasted, to 
 know the peace of an enduring and satisfied desire. 
 
 The voice of the boy died away. She turned in the direction 
 of the Mihrab to offer up her prayer to the Unknown God, as 
 the pious Mussulman turns in the direction of the Sacred City 
 when he puts up his prayer to Allah. 
 
 Her eyes fell upon the Bedouin. 
 
 As she looked at him, this man of the desert come up into 
 the City, with the fires of the dunes in his veins, the vast spaces 
 mirrored in his eyes, the passion for wandering in his soul, she 
 felt that in a mysterious and remote way she was akin to him, 
 despite all her culture, her subtle mentality, the difference of her 
 life from his. For she had her wildness of nature, dominant 
 and unceasing, as he had his. He was forever traveling in 
 body and she in mind. He sought fresh, and ever fresh, camp- 
 ing-places, and so did she. The black ashes of burnt-out fires 
 marked his progress and hers. She looked at him as she ut- 
 tered her prayer to the Unknown God. 
 
 And she prayed for a master, that she might meet a man who 
 would be able to dominate her, to hold her fast in the grip 
 of his nature. At this moment Dion dominated her in an ugly 
 way, and she knew it too well. But she needed some one 
 whom she would willingly obey, whom she would lust to obey, 
 because of love. The restlessness in her life had been caused by 
 a lack; she had never yet found the man who could be not her 
 tyrant for a time, but her master while she lived. Now she 
 prayed for that, the only peace that she really wanted. 
 
 While she prayed she was conscious always of the attitude 
 of the Bedouin, which suggested the fierce yielding of one who 
 could never be afraid of the God he worshiped. Nor could she 
 be afraid. For she was not ashamed of what she was, though 
 she hid what she was from motives of worldly prudence and 
 for the sake of her motherhood. She believed that she was 
 born into the world not in order to be severely educated, but in 
 order that she might live to the uttermost, according to the dic- 
 tates of her temperament. Now at last she knew what that tem- 
 perament needed, what it had been seeking, why it had never 
 been able to cease from its journeying. Santa Sophia had told her.
 
 548 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 Her knowledge roused in her a sort of fury of longing for 
 release from Dion Leith. She saw the Bedouin riding across 
 the sands in the freedom he had captured, and she ached to be 
 free that she might seek her master. Somewhere there must 
 be the one man who had the power to fasten the yoke on her 
 neck. 
 
 " Let me find him ! " she prayed, almost angrily, and using 
 her will. 
 
 She had forgotten Jimmy. Her whole nature was concen- 
 trated in the desire for immediate release from Dion Leith in 
 order that she might be free to pursue consciously the search 
 which till this moment she had pursued unconsciously. 
 
 The Bedouin did not move. His black, bird-like eyes vrere 
 wide open, but he seemed plunged in a dream as he gazed at 
 the Sacred Carpet. He was absolutely unaware of his sur- 
 roundings and of Mrs. Clarke's consideration of him. There 
 was something animal and something royal in his appearance 
 and his supreme unconsciousness of others. He looked as if 
 he were a law unto himself, even while he was adoring. How 
 different he was from Dion Leith. 
 
 She shut her eyes as she prayed that Dion might be removed 
 from her life, somehow, anyhow, by death if need be. In the 
 dark she created for herself she saw the minarets pointing to 
 the sky as she and Dion had seen them together from the hill 
 of Eyub as they sat under the giant cypress. Then she had 
 wanted Dion; now she prayed: 
 
 " Take him away! Let me be free from him! Let me never 
 see him again! " 
 
 And she felt as if the Unknown God were listening to her 
 somewhere far off, knew all that was in her mind. 
 
 A stealthy movement quite near to her made her open her 
 eyes. The Bedouin had risen to his feet and was approaching 
 her, moving with a little step over the matting on his way out 
 of the church. As he passed Mrs. Clarke he enveloped her for 
 a moment in an indifferent glance of fire. He burnt her with 
 his animal disdain of her observation of him, a disdain which 
 seemed to her impregnated with flame. She felt the sands as 
 he passed. When he was gone a sensation of loneliness, even of 
 desolation, oppressed her. 
 
 She hesitated for a moment; then she turned and followed 
 him slowly. He went before her, wrapped in his supreme in- 
 difference, through the Porta Basilica, and came out into the 
 blaze of the sunshine. As she emerged, she saw him standing
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 549 
 
 quite still. He seemed she was just behind him to be 
 staring at a very fair woman who, accompanied by a guide, was 
 coming towards the church. Mrs. Clarke, intent on the Bedouin, 
 was aware of this woman's approach, but felt no sort of inter- 
 est in her until she was quite close; then something, some dag- 
 ger-thrust of the mind, coming from the woman, pierced Mrs. 
 Clarke's indifference. 
 
 She looked up and met the sad, pure eyes of Rosamund 
 Leith. 
 
 For a moment she stood perfectly still gazing into those eyes. 
 
 Rosamund had stopped, but she made no gesture of recog- 
 nition and did not open her lips. She only looked at Mrs. 
 Clarke, and as she looked a deep flush slowly spread over her 
 face and down to her throat. 
 
 The Greek guide said something to her; she moved, lowered 
 her eyes and went on into the church without looking back. 
 
 The Bedouin strode slowly away into the blaze of the sun- 
 shine. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke remained where she was, motionless. For the 
 first time perhaps in her life she was utterly amazed by an 
 event. Rosamund Leith here in Constantinople! What did 
 that mean? 
 
 Mrs. Clarke knew the arrival of Rosamund meant some- 
 thing that might be tremendously important to herself. As she 
 stood there before the church she was groping to find this some- 
 thing; but her mental faculties seemed to be paralyzed, and 
 she could not find it. Rosamund Leith's eyes had told Mrs. 
 Clarke something, that Rosamund knew of Dion's unfaithful- 
 ness and who the woman was. What did the fact of Rosa- 
 mund's coming to Constantinople in possession of that knowl- 
 edge mean? 
 
 From the minaret above her head the muezzin in a pierc- 
 ing and nasal voice began the call to prayer. His cry seemed 
 to tear its way through Mrs. Clarke's mental inertia. Abruptly 
 she was in full possession of her faculties. That Eastern man 
 up there, nearer to the blue than she was, cried, " Come to 
 prayer! " But she had already uttered her prayer, and surely 
 Rosamund Leith was the answer. 
 
 As she drove away towards the Golden Horn she passed the 
 Bedouin striding along in the sun. 
 
 She looked at him, but he took no notice of her; the indiffer- 
 ence of the desert was about him.
 
 550 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 MRS. CLARKE was in her bedroom with the door open 
 that evening when she heard a bell sound in the flat. 
 She had fixed eight for the dinner hour. It was now 
 only half-past six. Nevertheless she felt sure that it was Dion 
 who had just rung. She went swiftly across the room and 
 shut the bedroom door. Two or three minutes later Sonia 
 came in. 
 
 " Mr. Leith has come already, Madame," she said, looking 
 straight at her mistress. 
 
 " I expected him early, Sonia. You can tell him I will come 
 almost directly." 
 
 " Yes, Madame." 
 
 " Sonia, wait a minute! How am I looking this evening? " 
 
 " How ? " said Sonia, with rather heavy emphasis. 
 
 " Yes. I feel feel as if I were looking unlike my usual 
 self." 
 
 Sonia stared hard at Mrs. Clarke. Then she said : 
 
 ' So you are, Madame." 
 
 ' In what way ? " 
 
 ' You look almost excited and younger than usual." 
 
 ' Younger! " 
 
 ' Yes, as if you were expecting something, almost as a girl 
 expects. I never saw you just like this before." 
 
 Mrs. Clarke looked at herself in a mirror earnestly, and for 
 a long time. 
 
 " That's all, Sonia," she said, turning round. " You can tell 
 Mr. Leith." 
 
 Sonia went out. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke followed her ten minutes later. When she came 
 into the little hall she saw lying on a table beside Dion's hat 
 several letters. She stopped by the table and looked down at 
 them. They lay there in a pile held together by an elastic 
 band, and she could only see the writing on the envelope which 
 was at the top. It was addressed to Dion and had been through 
 the post. She wondered whether among those letters there was 
 one from Rosamund. Had she written to the husband whom 
 she had cast out to tell him of the great change which had led 
 her to give up the religious life, to come out to the land of the 
 cypress ? 
 
 Mrs. Clarke glanced round; then she bent down noiselessly,
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 551 
 
 picked up the packet, slipped off the elastic band and exam- 
 ined the letters one by one. She had never chanced to see Rosa- 
 mund's handwriting, but she felt sure she would know at once 
 if she held in her hand the letter which might mean her own 
 release. She did not find it; but on two envelopes she saw 
 Beatrice's delicate handwriting, which she knew very well. She 
 longed to know what Beatrice had written. With a sigh she 
 slipped the elastic band back into its place, put the packet down 
 and went into the drawing-room. 
 
 Directly she saw Dion she was certain that he knew nothing 
 of the change in Rosamund's life. There was no excitement in 
 his thin and wrinkled brown face; no expectation lit up his 
 sunken eyes making them youthful. He looked hard, wretched 
 and strangely old, but ruthless and forceful in a kind of shat- 
 tered and ravaged way. She thought of a ruined house with a 
 cold strong light in the window. He was sitting when she came 
 in, leaning forward, with his hands hanging down between his 
 knees. When he saw her he got up slowly. 
 
 " I was near here and had nothing to do, so I came early," he 
 said, not apologetically, but carelessly. 
 
 He looked at her and added: 
 
 " What's happened to you to-day? " 
 
 " Nothing. What an extraordinary question ! " 
 
 " Is it ? You look different. There's a change." 
 
 A suspicious expression made his face ugly. 
 
 " Have you met any one? " 
 
 " Of course. How can one go out in Constantinople without 
 meeting people? " 
 
 " Any one new, I meant." 
 
 " No." 
 
 " You look just as if you had." 
 
 "Do I?" she said, with indifference. 
 
 " Yes. You look I don't know " 
 
 He paused. 
 
 " I think it's younger," he added. " You never are tired or 
 ill, but you generally look both. To-day you don't." 
 
 " Please don't blame me for looking moderately well for once 
 in my life." 
 
 " Why did you ask me to dinner here? " 
 
 The sound of his voice was as suspicious as the expression 
 on his face. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. Once in a way it doesn't matter. And 
 all the servants have gone away to Buyukderer."
 
 552 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 "Then you are going there? " 
 
 " I'm not sure if I shall be able to stay there for more than 
 a few days if I do go." 
 
 " Why not? " he said sharply. 
 
 " It's just possible I may have to go over to England on busi- 
 ness. Something's gone wrong with my money matters, not the 
 money my husband allows me, but my own money. I had a 
 letter from my lawyer." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 " To-day." 
 
 He stood before her in silence. 
 
 " By the way," she added, " I saw all those letters for you 
 on the hall table. Why don't you read them? " 
 
 " Going to England, are you ? " he said, frowning. 
 
 " I may have to." 
 
 " Surely you must know from your lawyer's letter whether it 
 will be necessary or not." 
 
 " I expect it will be necessary." 
 
 He turned slowly away from her and went to the window, 
 where he stood for a moment, apparently looking out. She sat 
 down on the sofa and glanced at the clock. How were they 
 to get through a long evening together? She wished she could 
 bring about a crisis in their relations abruptly. Dion turned 
 round. He had his hands in his pockets. 
 
 " I wish you'd let me look at that lawyer's letter," he said. 
 
 " It wouldn't interest you." 
 
 " If it's about money matters I might be able to help you. 
 You know they used to be my job. Even now anything to do 
 with investments " 
 
 " Oh, I won't bother you," she said coolly. " I always do 
 business through some one I can pay." 
 
 " Well, you can pay me." 
 
 " No, I can't." 
 
 " But I say you can." 
 
 "How?" she said. 
 
 And instantly she regretted having asked the question. 
 
 He looked at her in silence for a minute, then he said: 
 
 " By sticking always to me, by proving yourself loyal." 
 
 Her mouth twitched. The intense irony in the last word 
 made her feel inclined to laugh hysterically. 
 
 " But you don't always behave in such a way as to make me 
 feel loyal," she said, controlling herself.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 553 
 
 " I'm going to try to be more clever with you in the future." 
 
 She got up abruptly. 
 
 " I didn't expect you quite so early, and I've got a letter to 
 write to Jimmy " 
 
 " And a letter to your lawyer! " he interrupted. 
 
 " No, that can wait till to-morrow. I must think things over. 
 But I must write to Jimmy now." 
 
 " Give him a kind message from me." 
 
 " What will you do while I am writing? " 
 
 " I'll sit here." 
 
 " But do something! Why not read your letters? " 
 
 " Yes, I may as well look at them. There was quite a col- 
 lection waiting for me at the British Post Office. I haven't been 
 there for months." 
 
 " Why don't you go more regularly? " 
 
 " Because I've done with the past! " he exclaimed, with sud- 
 den savagery. " And letters from home only rake it up." 
 
 She looked at him narrowly. 
 
 " But have we ever done with the past? " she said, with her 
 eyes upon him. " If we think so isn't that a stupidity on our 
 part?" 
 
 " You're talking like a parson ! " 
 
 " Even a parson may hit upon a truth now and then." 
 
 " It depends upon oneself. I say I have done with the past." 
 
 " And yet you're afraid to read letters from England." 
 
 " I'm not." 
 
 " And you never go to England." 
 
 " There's nothing to prevent me from going to England." 
 
 " Except your own feelings about things." 
 
 " One gets over feelings with the help of Time. I'm not such 
 a sensitive fool as I used to be. Life has knocked all that sort 
 of rot out of me." 
 
 She sat down at the writing-table from which Jimmy's photo- 
 graph had vanished. 
 
 " Read your letters, or read a book," she said. 
 
 And she picked up a pen. 
 
 She did not look at him again, and she tried hard to detach 
 her mind from him. She took a sheet of writing-paper, and 
 began to write to Jimmy, but she was painfully aware of Dion's 
 presence in the room, of every slightest movement that he made. 
 She heard him sit down and move something on a table, then 
 sigh; complete silence followed. She felt as if her whole body
 
 554 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 were flushing with irritation. Why didn't he get his letters? 
 She was positive Beatrice had written to tell him that Rosamund 
 had left the Sisterhood, and she was longing to know what 
 effect that news would have upon him. 
 
 Presently he moved ag. in and got up, and she heard him go 
 over to the window. She strove, with a bitter effort, to con- 
 centrate her thoughts on Jimmy, but now the Bedouin came 
 between her and the paper; she saw him striding indifferently 
 through the blaze of sunshine. 
 
 " About the summer holidays this year I am not quite 
 sure yet what my plans will be " she wrote slowly. 
 
 Dion was moving again. He came away from the window, 
 crossed the room behind her, and opened the door. He was 
 going to fetch his letters. She wrote hurriedly on. He went 
 out into the little hall and returned. 
 
 " I'm going to have a look at my letters," he said, behind 
 her. 
 
 She glanced round. 
 
 " What did you say? Oh your letters." 
 
 " They look pretty old," he said, turning them over. 
 
 She saw Beatrice's handwriting. 
 
 " Here's one from Beatrice Daventry," he added, in a hard 
 voice. 
 
 " Does she often write to you? " 
 
 " She hasn't written for a long time." 
 
 He thrust a finger under the envelope. Mrs. Clarke turned 
 and again bent over her letter to Jimmy. 
 
 " Dinner is ready, Madame! " 
 
 Mrs. Clarke looked up from the writing-table at Sonia stand- 
 ing squarely in the doorway, then at the clock. 
 
 "Dinner! But it's only a quarter-past seven." 
 
 " I thought you ordered it for a quarter-past seven, Madame," 
 replied Sonia, with quiet firmness. 
 
 "Oh, did I? I'd forgotten." 
 
 She pushed away the writing-paper and got up. 
 
 " D'you mind dining so early? " she asked Dion, looking at 
 him for the first time since he had read his letters. 
 
 " No," he replied, in a voice which had no color at all. His 
 face was set like a mask. 
 
 " Do you want to wash your hands? If so, Sonia will bring 
 you some hot water to the spare room."
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 555 
 
 " Thanks, I'll go; but I prefer cold water." 
 
 He went out of the room carrying the opened letters with 
 him. After a moment Sonia came back. 
 
 " I hope I didn't do wrong about dinner, Madame," she said. 
 " I thought as Monsieur Leith came so early Madame would 
 wish dinner earlier." 
 
 Mrs. Clarke put her hand on her servant's substantial arm. 
 
 " You always understand things, Sonia," she said. " I'm 
 tired. I mean to go to bed very early to-night." 
 
 "But will he " 
 
 She raised her heavy eyebrows. 
 
 " I must rest to-night," said Mrs. Clarke. " I must, I 
 must." 
 
 " Let me tell him, then, if he " 
 
 " No, no." 
 
 Mrs. Clarke put one hand to her lips. She heard Dion in 
 the hall. When he came in she saw at once that he had been 
 dashing cold water on his face. His eyes fell before hers. She 
 could not divine what he had found in his letters or what was 
 passing in his mind. 
 
 " Come to dinner," she said. 
 
 And they went at once to the dining-room. 
 
 During the meal they talked because Mrs. Clarke exerted 
 herself. She was helped, perhaps, by her concealed excite- 
 ment. She had never before felt so excited, so almost fever- 
 ishly alert in body and mind as she felt that night, except at 
 the climax of her divorce case. And she was waiting now for 
 condemnation or acquittal as she had waited then. It was 
 horrible. She was painfully conscious of a desperate strength 
 in Dion. It was as if he had grown abruptly, and she had as 
 abruptly diminished. His savage assertion about the past had 
 impressed her disagreeably. It might be true. He might really 
 have succeeded in slaying his love for his wife. If so, what 
 chance had the woman who had taken him of regaining her 
 freedom of action? She was afraid to play her last card. 
 
 \Yhen dinner was over Dion said : 
 
 " Shall we be off? " 
 
 She did not ask where they were going; she had no need to 
 ask. After a moment's hesitation she said: 
 
 " Not just yet. Come into the drawing-room. You can 
 smoke, and if you like I'll play you something." 
 
 " All right." 
 
 They went into the drawing-room. It was dimly lighted.
 
 556 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 Blinds and curtains were drawn. Dion sank down heavily in 
 a chair. 
 
 "The cigarettes are there! " 
 
 " Yes, I see. Thanks." 
 
 A strange preoccupation seemed to be descending upon him 
 and to be covering him up. Sonia came in with coffee. Dion 
 put his cup, full, down beside him on a table. He did not 
 sip the coffee, nor did he light a cigarette. While Mrs. Clarke 
 was drinking her coffee he sat without uttering a word. 
 
 She went to the piano. She played really well. Otherwise 
 she would not have played to him, or to any one. She was 
 specially at home in the music of Chopin, and had studied 
 minutely many of the " Etudes." Now she began to play the 
 Etude in E flat. As she played she felt that the intense nervous 
 irritation which had possessed her was diminishing slightly, 
 was becoming more bearable. She played several of the Etudes, 
 and presently began the one in Thirds and Sixths which she had 
 once found abominably difficult. She remembered what a strug- 
 gle she had had with it before she had conquered it. She had 
 been quite a girl then, but already she had been a worshipper 
 of will-power, and had resolved to cultivate and to increase her 
 own will. And she had used this Etude as a means of testing 
 herself. Over and over again, when she had almost despaired 
 of ever overcoming its difficulties, she had said to herself, 
 "Vouloir c'est pouvoir; " and at last she had succeeded in play- 
 ing the excessively difficult music as if it were quite easy to her. 
 That had been the first stepping upwards towards power. 
 
 She remembered that now and she set her teeth. " Vouloir 
 c'est pouvoir." She had proved the saying true again and 
 again; she must prove it true to-night. She willed her re- 
 lease; she would somehow obtain it. 
 
 Directly she had finished the Etude she got up from the 
 piano. 
 
 " You play that wonderfully well," Dion said, with a sort 
 of hard recognition of her merit, but with no enthusiasm. 
 " Do you know that there's something damnably competent in 
 you?" 
 
 She stood looking down on him. 
 
 " I'm very glad there is. I don't care to bungle what I under- 
 take." 
 
 " I believe I knew that the first time I saw you, standing 
 by Echo. You held my hand that day. Do you remember ? " 
 
 He laughed faintly.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 557 
 
 " No; I don't remember." 
 
 " The hand of Stamboul was upon me then. By God, we 
 are under the yoke. It was fated then that you should de- 
 stroy me." 
 
 "Destroy you?" 
 
 " Yes. What's the good of lies between us? You've de- 
 stroyed me. That's why you want to get rid of me. Your 
 instinct tells you the work is done, and you're right. But you 
 must stick to the wreckage. After all, it's your wreckage." 
 
 " No. A man can only destroy himself," she said, with 
 cold defiance. 
 
 "Don't let's argue about it. The thing's done done! " 
 
 In his voice there was a sound of almost wild despair, but 
 his face preserved its hard, mask-like look. 
 
 " And there's no returning from destruction," he added. 
 " Those who try to fancy there is are just fools." 
 
 He looked up at her as she stood before him, and seemed 
 suddenly struck by the expression on her face. 
 
 "Who's to be the one to destroy you?" he said. " D'you 
 think the Unknown God has singled me out for the job? Or 
 do you really expect to escape scot-free after making the sign 
 of the cross over so many lost souls? " 
 
 "The sign of the cross?" 
 
 " Yes. Don't you remember when I told you of Brayfield's 
 death? You've never given him a thought since, I suppose. 
 But I'll make you keep on thinking about me." 
 
 "What has happened to-night?" she asked sharply. 
 
 "Happened?" 
 
 " To make you talk like this? " 
 
 " Nothing has happened." 
 
 " That's not true. Since you came into the house you've 
 quite changed." 
 
 " Merely because I've been reckoning things up, taking stock 
 of the amount of damage that's been done. It'll have to be 
 paid for, I suppose. Everything's paid for in the end, isn't 
 it ? When are you going to England ? " 
 
 " I didn't say it was absolutely decided." 
 
 " No; but it is. I want to know the date, so that I may 
 pack up to accompany you. It will be jolly to see Jimmy again. 
 I shall run down to Eton and take him out." 
 
 " I am not going to allow you to do me any harm. Because 
 lately I've given in to you sometimes, you mustn't think you can 
 make a slave of me."
 
 558 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " And you mustn't think you'll get rid of me in one way 
 if you can't in another. This English project is nothing but 
 an attempt to give me the slip. You thought I couldn't face 
 England, so you chose England as the place you would travel 
 to. You've never had a letter from your lawyer, and there's 
 no reason why you should go to England on business. But I 
 can face England. I've never done anything there that I'm 
 ashamed of. My record there is a clean one." 
 
 Suddenly he thrust his hand into his jacket and pulled out 
 the letters he had brought from the British Post Office. 
 
 " And apart from that, you made a mistake in reckoning on 
 my sensitiveness." 
 
 " Honestly, I don't know what you mean by that," she said, 
 with frigid calm. 
 
 " Yes, you do. You thought I wouldn't follow you to Eng- 
 land because I should shrink from facing my mother, perhaps, 
 and my wife's relatives, and all the people who know what 
 I've done. I don't shrink from meeting any one, and I'll prove 
 it to you." 
 
 He pulled a letter out of its envelope. 
 
 " This is from Beatrice Daventry. In it she tells me a 
 piece of news." (He glanced quickly over the sheets.) "My 
 wife has got tired of leading a religious life and has left the 
 Sisterhood in which she was, and gone to live in London. 
 Here it is: ' Rosamund is living once more in Great Cumber- 
 land Place with my guardian. She never goes into society, but 
 otherwise she is leading an ordinary life. I am quite sure 
 she will never go back to Liverpool.' So, if I go to London I 
 may run across my wife any day. Why not? " 
 
 "Your wife has left the Sisterhood!" said Mrs. Clarke 
 slowly, forcing a sound of surprise into her husky voice. 
 
 " I've just told you so. You and I may meet her in London. 
 If we do, I should think she'll be hard put to it to recognize 
 me. Now put on your things and we'll be off." 
 
 " I shall not go out to-night. I intend " 
 
 She paused. 
 
 "What do you intend?" 
 
 " I don't mean ever to go to those rooms again." 
 
 " Indeed. Why not? " he asked, with cold irony. 
 
 " I loathe them." 
 
 " You found them. You chose the furniture for them. 
 Your perfect taste made them what they are." 
 
 " I tell you I loathe them! " she repeated violently.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 559 
 
 " We'll change them, then. We can easily find some others 
 that will do just as well." 
 
 " Don't you understand that I loathe them because I meet you 
 in them?"' 
 
 " I understood that a good while ago." 
 
 " And yet you " 
 
 "My dear!" he interrupted her. "Didn't I tell you you 
 had destroyed me ? The man I was might have bothered about 
 trifles of that kind, the man I am simply doesn't recognize 
 them. Jimmy hates me too, but I haven't done with Jimmy 
 yet, nevertheless." 
 
 " You shall never meet Jimmy again. I shall prevent it." 
 
 " How can you? " 
 
 " You're not fit to be with him." 
 
 " But you have molded me into what I am. He must get 
 accustomed to his own mother's handiwork." 
 
 " Jimmy can't bear you. He told me so when he was last 
 here. He detests you." 
 
 " Ah! " said Dion, with sudden savagery, springing up from 
 his chair. " So you and he have talked me over ! I was sure 
 of it. And no doubt you told Jimmy he was right in hating 
 me." 
 
 " I never discussed the matter with him at all. I couldn't 
 prevent his telling me what he felt about you." 
 
 Dion had become very pale. He stood for a moment with- 
 out speaking, clenching his hands and looking at her with 
 blazing eyes. For a moment she thought that perhaps he was 
 going to strike her. He seemed to be struggling desperately 
 with himself, to be striving to conquer something within him. 
 At last he turned away from her. She heard him twice mut- 
 ter the name of her boy, "Jimmy! Jimmy! " Then he went 
 away from her to the far end of the room, where the piano was, 
 and stood by it. She saw his broad shoulders heaving. He 
 held on to the edge of the piano with both hands, leaning for- 
 ward. She stayed where she was, staring at him. She realized 
 that to-night he might be dangerous to her. She had set out to 
 defy him. But she was not sure now whether, perhaps, gentle- 
 ness and an air of great sincerity might not be the only effective 
 weapons against him in his present abnormal condition. Pos- 
 sibly even now it was not too late to use them. She crossed the 
 room and came to him swiftly. 
 
 " Dion ! " she said. 
 
 He did not move.
 
 560 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 "Dion!" she repeated, putting her hand on his shoulder. 
 
 He turned round. His pale face was distorted. She scarcely 
 recognized him. 
 
 " Dion, let us look things in the face." 
 
 " Oh, God that is what I'm doing," he said. 
 
 His lips twisted, his face was convulsed. She looked at 
 him in silence, wondering what was going to happen. For a 
 moment she was almost physically afraid. Something in him 
 to-night struck hard upon her imagination and she felt as if 
 it were trembling. 
 
 " Come and sit down," he said, at last. 
 
 And she saw that for the moment he had succeeded in re- 
 gaining self-control. 
 
 " Very well." 
 
 She went to sit down; he sat opposite her. 
 
 " You hate me, don't you? " he said. 
 
 She hesitated. 
 
 "Don't you?" he repeated. 
 
 " We needn't use ugly words," she said at last. 
 
 " For ugly things ? I believe it's best. You hate me and 
 I hate you. D'you know why I hate you? Not because you 
 deliberately made me care for you with my body, in the beastly, 
 wholly physical way, but because you wouldn't let the other 
 thing alone." 
 
 "The other thing?" 
 
 " Haven't we got something else as well as the body? Look 
 here before I ever knew you I was always trying to build. 
 At first I tried to build for a possible future which might never 
 come. Well, it did come, and I was glad I'd stuck to my 
 building sometimes when it was difficult. Then I tried to 
 build for for my wife and then my child came and I tried 
 to build for him, too. So it went on. I was always building, 
 or trying to. In South Africa I was doing it, and I came back 
 feeling as if I'd got something to show, not much, but something, 
 for my work. Then the crash came, and I thought I knew 
 sorrow and horror down to the bones. But I didn't. I've 
 only got to know them to the bones here. You've made me 
 know them. If you'd loved me I should never have complained, 
 have attacked you, been brutal to you; but when I think that 
 you've never cared a rap about me, never cared for anything 
 
 but my body, and that that " his voice broke for a 
 
 moment; then he recovered himself and went on, more harshly, 
 "and that merely from desire, or whatever you choose to
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 561 
 
 call it, you've sent the last stones of my building to dust, I 
 sometimes feel as if I could murder you. If you meant to kick 
 me out and be free of me when you had had enough of me, you 
 should never have brought Jimmy into the matter; for in a 
 way you could never understand Jimmy was linked up with 
 my boy, with Robin. When you made me earn Jimmy's hatred 
 by being utterly false to all I really was, you separated me from 
 my boy. I killed him, but till then I was sometimes near him. 
 Ever since that night of lying and dirty pretence he's he's 
 I've lost him. You've taken my boy from me. Why should 1 
 leave you yours? " 
 
 " But you're mad when my boy's alive and " 
 
 " And so's mine ! " 
 
 She stared at him in silence. 
 
 " You can't give him back to me. Jimmy shrinks from me 
 not because of what I've done, but because of what I've become, 
 and my boy feels as Jimmy does. He he " 
 
 Mrs. Clarke pushed back her chair bruskly. She was now 
 feeling really afraid. She longed to call in Sonia. She wished 
 the other servants were in the flat instead of at Buyukderer. 
 
 " Your boy's dead," she said, dully, obstinately. " Jimmy 
 has nothing to do with him never had anything to do with 
 him. And as for me, I have never interfered between you and 
 your child." 
 
 She got up. So did he. 
 
 "Never, never! " she repeated. " But your mind is warped 
 and you don't know what you're saying." 
 
 " I do. But we won't argue about it. You're a materialist 
 and you can't understand the real things." 
 
 His own words seemed suddenly to strike upon him like a 
 great blow. 
 
 " The real things ! " he exclaimed. " I've lost them all for 
 ever. But I'll keep what I've got. I'll keep what I've got. 
 You hate me and I hate you, but we belong to each other and 
 we'll stick together, and Jimmy must make up his mind to 
 it. Once you said that if he was twenty-one you'd tell him all 
 about it. If you're going to England I'll go there too, and we 
 can enlighten Jimmy a little sooner. Now let us be off to 
 the rooms. As you've taken a dislike to them we'll give them 
 up. But we must pay a last visit to them, a visit of good-by." 
 
 She shuddered. The thought of being shut up alone with 
 him horrified her imagination. She waited a moment; then she 
 said :
 
 562 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 " Very well. I'll go and put on my things." 
 
 And she went out of the room. She wanted to gain time, 
 to be quite alone for a moment. 
 
 When she was in her bedroom she did not summon Sonia, 
 who was in the kitchen washing up. Slowly she went to get 
 out a wrap and a hat. Standing before the glass she adjusted 
 the hat on her head carefully, adroitly; then she drew the 
 wrap around her shoulders and picked up a pair of long gloves. 
 After an instant of hesitation she began to pull them on. The 
 process took several minutes. She was careful to smooth out 
 every wrinkle. While she did so she was thinking of Rosa- 
 mund Leith. 
 
 All through the evening she had been on the verge of telling 
 Dion that his wife was in Constantinople, but something had 
 held her back. And even now she could not make up her 
 mind whether to tell him or not. She was afraid to risk the 
 revelation because she did not know at all how he would take 
 it. When he knew she might be free. There was the possi- 
 bility of that. He must realize, he would surely be obliged to 
 realize, that his wife could have but one purpose in deliberately 
 traveling out to the place where he was living. She must be 
 seeking a reconciliation, in spite of the knowledge which Mrs. 
 Clarke had read in her eyes that day. But would Dion face 
 those eyes with the hard defiance of one irreparably aloof from 
 his former life? If he were really ready and determined to 
 show himself in London as the lover of another woman would 
 he not be ready to do the same thing here in Constantinople? 
 
 To tell him seemed to Mrs. Clarke the one chance of escape 
 for her now, but she was afraid to tell him because she was 
 afraid to know that what seemed the only possible avenue to 
 freedom was barred against her. She had said to herself at the 
 piano " Vouloir c'est pouvoir," and she had determined to be 
 free, but again Dion's will of a desperate man had towered 
 up over hers. It was the fact that he was desperate which 
 gave to him his power. 
 
 At last the gloves lay absolutely smooth on her hands and 
 arms, and she went back to the drawing-room. Till she opened 
 the door of it she did not know what she was going to do. 
 
 ".So you're dressed! " Dion said as she came in. "That's 
 right. Let's be off." 
 
 " What is the good of going ? You have said we hate each 
 other. How can this sort of thing go on in hatred? Dion, 
 let us give it all up."
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 563, 
 
 " Why have you put on your things? " 
 
 " I don't know. Let us say good-by to-night, and not in 
 anger. We were not suited to be together for long. We are too- 
 different." 
 
 " How many men have you said all this to already ? Come 
 along!" 
 
 He took her firmly by the wrist. 
 
 "Wait, Dion!" 
 
 " Why should we wait? " 
 
 " There's something I must tell you before we go." 
 
 He kept his hand on her wrist. 
 
 "Well? What is it?" 
 
 " I went to Santa Sophia to-day." 
 
 As she spoke the Bedouin came before her again. She saw 
 his bronze-colored arms and his bird-like eyes. 
 
 "Santa Sophia! Did you go to pray?" 
 
 She stared at him. His lips were curled in a smile. 
 
 " No," she said. " But I like to go there sometimes. As I 
 was coming away I met some one." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Some one you know a woman." 
 
 "A woman? Lady Ingleton? " 
 
 " No; your wife." 
 
 The fingers which held her wrist became suddenly cold, but 
 they still pressed firmly upon her flesh. 
 
 "That's a lie! " he said hoarsely. 
 
 "It isn't!" 
 
 " How dare you tell me such a lie? " 
 
 He bent and gazed into her eyes. 
 
 "Liar! Liar!" 
 
 But though his lips made the assertion, his eyes, in 
 agony, seemed to be asking a question. He seized her other 
 wrist. 
 
 " What's your object in telling me such a lie ? What are 
 you trying to gain by it? Do you think you'll get rid of me 
 for to-night, and that to-morrow, by some trick, you'll escape 
 from me forever? D'you think that?" 
 
 " I met your wife to-day just outside Santa Sophia," she 
 said steadily. " When she saw me she stopped. We looked 
 at each other for a minute. Neither of us spoke a word. But 
 she told me something." 
 
 " Told you ... ? " 
 
 " With her eyes. She knows about you and me."
 
 564 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 His hands fell from her wrists. By the look in his eyes 
 she saw that he was beginning to believe her. 
 
 " She knows," Mrs. Ckrke repeated. " And yet she has 
 come here. What does that mean? " 
 
 " What does that mean ? " he repeated, in a muttering voice. 
 
 " Do you believe what I say? " 
 
 After a long look at her he said : 
 
 " Yes; she is here." 
 
 A fierce wave of red went over his face. For a moment his 
 eyes shone. Then a look of despair and horror made him fright- 
 ful, and stirred even in her a sensation of pity. 
 
 He began to tremble. 
 
 " Don't! Don't! " she said, putting out her hands and mov- 
 ing away. 
 
 " She can't know! " he said, trembling more violently. 
 
 " She does know." 
 
 " She wouldn't have come. She doesn't know. She doesn't 
 know." 
 
 " She does know. Now I'm ready, if you want to go to 
 the rooms." 
 
 Dion went white to the lips. He came towards her. His 
 eyes were so menacing that she felt sure he was going to do 
 her some dreadful injury; but when he was close to her he con- 
 trolled himself and stood still. For what seemed to her a 
 very long time he stood there, looking at her as a man looks 
 at the heap of his sins when the sword has cloven a way into 
 the depths of his spirit. Then he said: 
 
 " You're free." 
 
 He went out of the room, leaving the door open. A moment 
 later Mrs. Clarke heard the front door shut, and his footsteps 
 on the stone stairs outside. They died away. 
 
 Then she began to sob. She felt shaken and frightened 
 almost like a child. But presently her sobs ceased. She took 
 off her hat and wrap and her gloves, lay down on the sofa, 
 put her hands behind her small head, and, motionless, gazed 
 at the pale gray wall of the room. It seemed to fade away 
 after she had gazed at it for two or three minutes; a world 
 opened out before her, and she saw a barrier, like a long deep 
 trench, stretching into a far distance. On one side of this 
 trench stood a boy with densely thick hair and large hands 
 and frank, observant eyes; on the other stood a Bedouin of the 
 desert.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 565 
 
 Then she shuddered. Dion had told her she was free. But 
 was she free ? Could she ever be free now ? 
 
 Suddenly she broke into a passion of tears. She was inun- 
 dated with self-pity. She had prayed to the Unknown God. 
 He had answered her prayer, but nevertheless, he had surely 
 cursed her. For love and lust were at merciless war within 
 her. She was tormented. 
 
 That night she knew she had run up a debt which she would 
 be forced to pay; she knew that her punishment was beginning. 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 WHEN Dion came out into the street he stood still on 
 the pavement. It was between ten and eleven o'clock. 
 Stamboul, the mysterious city, was plunged in dark- 
 ness, but Pera was lit up and astir, was full of blatant and 
 furtive activities. He listened to its voices as he stood under 
 the stars, and presently from them the voice of a woman de- 
 tached itself, and said clearly and with a sort of beautifully 
 wondering slowness," I can see the Pleiades." 
 
 Tears started into his eyes. He was afraid of that voice 
 and yet his whole being longed desperately to hear it again. 
 The knowledge that Rosamund was here in Constantinople, 
 very near to him how it had changed the whole city for him ! 
 Every light that gleamed, every sound that rose up, seemed to 
 hold for him a terrible vital meaning. And he knew that all 
 the time he had been living in Constantinople it had been to 
 him a horrible city of roaring emptiness, and he knew that now, 
 in a moment, it had become the true center of the world. He 
 was amazed and he was horrified by the power and intensity of 
 the love within him. In this moment he knew it for an undying 
 thing. Nothing could kill it, no act of Rosamund's, no act of 
 his. Even lust had not suffocated the purity of it, even satiety 
 of the flesh had not lessened the yearning of it, or availed to 
 deprive it of its ardent simplicity, of its ideal character. In it 
 there was still the child with his wonder, the boy with his 
 stirring aspirations towards life, the man with his full-grown 
 passion. He had sought to kill it and he had not even touched
 
 566 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 it. He knew that now and was shaken by the knowledge. 
 Where did it dwell then, this thing that governed him and 
 that he could not break? He longed to get at it, to seize it, hold 
 it to some fierce light, examine it. And then? Would he 
 wish to cast it away? 
 
 " I can see the Pleiades." 
 
 For a moment the peace of Olympia was about him, and 
 he heard the voices of Eternity whispering among the pine 
 trees. Then the irreparable blotted out that green beauty, that 
 message from the beyond; reality rushed upon him. He turned 
 and looked at the building he had just left. It towered above 
 him, white, bare, with its rows of windows. He knew that he 
 would never go into it again, that he had done forever with 
 the woman in there who hated him. Yes, he had done with 
 her insomuch as a man can finish with any one who has been 
 closely, intimately, for good or for evil, in his life. As he 
 watched her windows for a moment his mind reviewed swiftly 
 his connection with her, from the moment when she had held 
 his hand indifferently, yet with intention, in Mrs. Chetwinde's 
 drawing-room, till the moment, just past, when he had said 
 to her, " You are free." And he knew that from the first 
 moment when she had seen him she had made up her mind that 
 some day he should be her lover. He hated her, and yet he 
 knew now that in some strange and obscure way he almost 
 respected her, for her determination, her unscrupulous courage, 
 her will to live as she chose to live. She at any rate possessed 
 a kind of evil strength. And he ? 
 
 Slowly he turned away from that house. He did not know 
 where Rosamund was staying, but he thought she was probably 
 at the Hotel de Byzance, and he walked almost mechanically 
 towards it. He was burning with excitement, and yet there 
 was within him something cold, capable and relentless, which 
 considered him almost as a judge considers a criminal, which 
 seemed to be probing into the rotten part of his nature, de- 
 termined to know once and for all just how rotten it was. Rosa- 
 mund surely was strong in her goodness as Mrs. Clarke was 
 strong in her evil. He had known the cruelty of both those 
 strengths. And why? Surely because he himself had never 
 been really strong. Intensity of feeling had constantly betrayed 
 him into weakness. And even now was it not weakness in 
 him, this inability to leave off loving Rosamund after all that 
 had happened ? Perhaps the power of feeling intensely was the 
 great betrayer of a man.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 567 
 
 He descended the Grande Rue, moving in the midst of a 
 press of humanity, but strongly conscious only of Rosamund's 
 nearness to him, until at last he was in front of the Hotel de 
 Byzance. He stood on the opposite side of the way, looking 
 at the lighted windows, at the doorway through which people 
 came and went. Was she in there, close to him? Why had 
 she come to Constantinople? 
 
 She must have come there because of him. There could not 
 surely be any other reason for her traveling so far to the city 
 where she knew he was living. But then she must have re- 
 pented of her cruelty after the death of Robin, have thought 
 seriously of resuming her married life. It must be so. Inex- 
 orably Dion's reason led him to that conclusion. Having 
 reached it he looked at himself, and again his own weakness 
 confronted him like a specter which would not leave him, which 
 dogged him relentlessly down all the ways of his life. 
 Prompted, governed by that weakness, which he had actually 
 mistaken madly for strength, for an assertion of his manhood, 
 he had raised up between Rosamund and himself perhaps the 
 only barrier which could never be broken down, the barrier of 
 a great betrayal. What she had most cared for in him he had 
 trampled into the dirt; he had slain the purity which had drawn 
 her to him. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke had said that Rosamund knew of their connex- 
 ion. He believed her. He could not help trusting her hor- 
 rible capacity to read such a truth in another woman's eyes. 
 It must be so. Rosamund surely could only have learned in 
 Constantinople the horrible truth which would forever divide 
 them. She must have traveled out with the intention of see- 
 ing him again, of telling him that she repented of what she had 
 done, and then in the city which had seen his degradation she 
 must have found out what he was. 
 
 He saw her outraged, bitterly ashamed of having made the 
 long journey to seek a man who had betrayed her; he saw her 
 wounded in the soul. She had wounded him in the soul, but 
 at this moment he scarcely thought of that. The knowledge 
 that she was near to him seemed to have suddenly renewed the 
 pure springs of his youth. When Cynthia Clarke had said, 
 " Now I'm ready if you want to go to the rooms," she had re- 
 ceived her freedom from the Dion who had won Rosamund, 
 not from the withered and embittered man upon whom she had 
 perversely seized in his misery and desolation. 
 
 That Rosamund should travel to him and then know him for
 
 568 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 what he was! All his intense bitterness against her was swept 
 away by the flood of his hatred of himself. 
 
 Suddenly the lights of the city seemed to fade before his 
 eyes and the voices of the city seemed to lose their chattering 
 gaiety. Darkness and horrible mutterings were about him. He 
 heard the last door closing against him. He accounted himself 
 from henceforth among the damned. Lifting his head he stared 
 for a moment at the Hotel de Byzance. Now he felt sure that 
 she was there. He knew she was there, and he bade her an 
 eternal farewell. Not she as for so long he had thought 
 but he had broken their marriage. She had sinned in the soul. 
 But to-night he did not see her sin. He saw only his black 
 sin of the body, the irreparable sin he had committed against 
 her shining purity to which he had been united. 
 
 How could he have committed that sin? 
 
 He turned away from the hotel, and went down towards his 
 lodgings in Galata; he felt as he walked, like one treading a 
 descent which led down into eternal darkness. 
 
 How had he come to do what he had done? 
 
 Already he saw Cynthia Clarke as something far away, an al- 
 most meaningless phantom. He wondered why he had felt 
 power in her; he wondered what it was that had led him to 
 her, had kept him beside her, had bound him to her. She was 
 nothing. She had never really been anything to him. And 
 yet she had ruined his life. He saw her pale and haggard 
 face, her haunted cheeks and temples, the lovely shape of her 
 head with its cloud of unshining hair, her small tenacious hands. 
 He saw her distinctly. But she was far away, utterly remote 
 from him. She had meant nothing to him, and yet she had 
 ruined him. Let her go. Her work was done. 
 
 It was near midnight when he went at last to his lodgings, 
 which were in a high house not far from the Tophane landing. 
 From his windows he could see the Golden Horn, and the 
 minarets and domes of Stamboul. His two rooms, though 
 clean, were shabbily furnished and unattractive. He had a 
 Greek servant who came in every day to do what was necessary. 
 He never received any visitors in these rooms, which he had 
 taken when he gave up going into the society of the diplomats 
 and others, to whom he had been introduced at Buyukderer. 
 
 His feet echoed on the dirty staircase as he mounted slowly 
 up till he stood in front of his own door. Slowly, like one 
 making an effort that was almost painful to him he searched 
 for his key and drew it out. His hand shook as he inserted the
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 569 
 
 key into the keyhole. He tried to steady his hand, but he 
 could not control its furtive and perpetual movement. When 
 the door was open he struck a match, and lit a candle that stood 
 on a chair in the dingy and narrow lobby. Then he turned 
 round wearily to shut the door. He was possessed by a great 
 fatigue, and wondered whether, if he fell on his bed in the 
 blackness, he would be able to sleep. As he turned, he saw, 
 lying on the matting at his feet, a square white envelope. It 
 was lying upside down. Some one must have pushed it under 
 the door while he was out. 
 
 He stood looking at it for a minute. Then he shut the 
 door, bent down, picked up the envelope, turned it over and 
 held it near to the candle flame. He read his name and the 
 handwriting was Rosamund's. 
 
 After a long pause he took the candle and carried the letter 
 into his sitting-room. He set the candle down on the table on 
 which lay " The Kasidah " and a few other books, laid the 
 letter beside it, with trembling hands drew up a chair and sat 
 down. 
 
 Rosamund had written to him. When? Before she had 
 learnt the truth or afterwards? 
 
 For a long time he sat there, leaning over the table, staring 
 at the address which her hand had written. And he saw her 
 hand, so different from Mrs. Clarke's, and he remembered its 
 touch upon his, absolutely unlike the touch of any other hand 
 ever felt by him. Something quivered in his flesh. The agony 
 of the body rushed upon him and mingled with the agony of the 
 soul. He bent down, laid his hot forehead against the letter, 
 and shut his eyes. 
 
 A clock struck presently. He opened his eyes, lifted his 
 head, took up the envelope, quickly tore it, and unfolded the 
 paper within. 
 
 " HOTEL DE BYZANCE, CONSTANTINOPLE, 
 
 Wednesday evening 
 
 " I am here. I want to see you. Shall I come to you to- 
 morrow? I can come at any time, or I can meet you at any 
 place you choose. Only tell me the hour and how to go if it is 
 difficult. ROSAMUND " 
 
 Wednesday evening! It was now the night of Wednesday. 
 Then Rosamund had written to him after she had been to 
 Santa Sophia and had met Mrs. Clarke. She knew, and yet
 
 570 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 she wrote to him; she asked to see him; she even offered to 
 come to his rooms. The thing was incomprehensible. 
 
 He read the note again. He pored over every word in it al- 
 most like a child. Then he held it in his hand, sat back in 
 his chair and wondered. 
 
 What did Rosamund mean? Why did she wish to see him? 
 What could she intend to do? His intimate knowledge of what 
 Rosamund was companioned him at this moment that knowl- 
 edge which no separation, which no hatred even, could ever 
 destroy. She was fastidiously pure. She could never be any- 
 thing else. He could not conceive of her ever drawing near 
 to, and associating herself deliberately with, bodily degradation. 
 He thought of her as he had known her, with her relations, her 
 friends, with himself, with Robin. Always in every relation 
 of life a radiant purity had been about her like an atmosphere; 
 always she had walked in rays of the sun. Until Robin had 
 died ! And then she had withdrawn into the austere purity of the 
 religious life. He felt it to be absolutely impossible that she 
 should seek him, even seek but one interview with him, if she 
 knew what his life had been during the last few months. And, 
 feeling that, he was now forced to the conclusion that Mrs. 
 Clarke's intuition had gone for once astray. If Rosamund knew 
 she would never have written that note. Again he looked at it, 
 read it. It must have been written in complete ignorance. Mrs. 
 Clarke had made a mistake. Perhaps she had teen betrayed 
 into error by her own knowledge of guilt. And yet such a 
 lapse was very uncharacteristic of her. He compared his 
 knowledge of her with his knowledge of Rosamund. It was 
 absolutely impossible that Rosamund had written that letter to 
 him with full understanding of his situation in Constantinople. 
 But she might have heard rumors. She might have resolved 
 to clear them up. Having traveled out with the intention of 
 seeking a reconciliation she might have thought it due to him 
 to accept evil tidings of him only from his own lips. Always, 
 he knew, she had absolutely trusted in his loyalty and faithful- 
 ness to her. Perhaps then, even though she had put him out 
 of her life, she was unable to believe that he had tried to for- 
 get her in unfaithfulness. Perhaps that was the true explana- 
 tion of her conduct. 
 
 Could he then save himself from destruction by a great lie? 
 
 He sat pondering that problem, oblivious of time. Could he 
 lie to Rosamund? All his long bitterness against her for the 
 moment was gone, driven out by his self-condemnation. A great
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 571 
 
 love must forgive. It cannot help itself. It carries within it, 
 as a child is carried in the womb, the sweet burden of divinity, 
 and shares in the attributes of God. So it was with Dion on 
 that night as he sat in his dingy room. And presently his 
 soul rejected the lie he had abominably thought of. He knew 
 he could not tell Rosamund a lie. Then what was he to 
 do? 
 
 He drew out of a drawer a piece of letter paper, dipped a 
 pen in ink. He had a mind to write the horrible truth which 
 he could surely never speak. 
 
 " I have received your letter," he wrote, in a blurred and un- 
 steady handwriting. Then he stopped. He stared at the paper, 
 pushed it away from him, and got up. He could not write the 
 truth. He went to the window and looked out into the dark' 
 night. Here and there he saw faint lights. But Stamboul was 
 almost hidden in the gloom, a city rather suggested by its 
 shadow than actually visible. The Golden Horn was a tangled 
 mystery. There were some withdrawn stars. 
 
 Should he not reply to Rosamund's letter? If she had heard 
 rumors about his life would not his silence convey to her the 
 fact that they were true? He had perhaps only to do nothing 
 and Rosamund would understand and would leave Constan- 
 tinople. 
 
 The blackness which shrouded Stamboul suddenly seemed 
 to him to become more solid, impregnable. He felt that his 
 own life would be drowned in blackness if Rosamund went 
 away. And abruptly he knew that he must see her. Whatever 
 the cost, whatever the shame and bitterness, he must see her at 
 once. He would tell her, or try to tell her, what he had been 
 through, what he had suffered, why he had done what he had 
 done. Possibly she would be able to understand. If only 
 he could find the words that would give her the inner truth 
 perhaps they might reach her heart. Something intense told 
 him that he must try to make her understand how he had loved 
 her, through all his hideous attempts to slay his love of her. 
 Could a woman understand such a thing? Desperately he 
 wondered. Might not his terrible sincerity perhaps overwhelm 
 her doubts? 
 
 He left the window, sat down again at the table, and wrote 
 quickly. 
 
 " I have had your letter. Will you meet me to-morrow at 
 Eyub, in the cemetery on the hill? I will be near the Tekkeh
 
 572 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 of the dancing Dervishes. I will be there before noon, and will 
 wait all day. DION " 
 
 When he began to write he knew that he could not make 
 his confession to Rosamund within the four walls of his sordid 
 and dingy room. Her power to understand would surely be 
 taken from her there. Might it not be released under the 
 sky of morning, within sight of those minarets which he had 
 sometimes feared, but which he had always secretly, in some 
 obscure way, loved even in the most abominable moments of 
 his abominable life, as he had always secretly, beneath all the 
 hard bitterness of his stricken heart, loved Rosamund? From 
 them came the voice which would not be gainsaid, the voice 
 which whispered, " In the East thou shalt find me if thou hast 
 not found me in the West." Might not that voice help him 
 when he spoke to Rosamund, help her to understand him, help 
 her perhaps even to 
 
 But there he stopped. He dared not contemplate the possi- 
 bility of her being able to accept the man he had become as 
 her companion. And yet now he felt himself somehow closely 
 akin to the former Dion, flesh of that man's flesh, bone of his 
 bone. It was as if his sin fell from him when he so utterly 
 repented of it 
 
 Slowly he put the note he had written into an envelope, sealed 
 it, and wrote the address " Mrs. Dion Leith, Hotel de 
 Byzance." He blotted it. Then he fetched his hat and stick. 
 He meant to take the note himself to the Hotel de Byzance. 
 The night might be made for sleep, but he knew he could not 
 sleep till he had seen Rosamund. When he was out in the 
 air, and was walking uphill towards Pera, he realized that 
 within him, in spite of all, something of hope still lingered. 
 Rosamund's letter to him had wrought already a wonderful 
 change in his tortured life. The knowledge that he would 
 see her again, be with her alone, even if only for an hour, even 
 if only that he might tell her what would alienate her from 
 him forever, thrilled through him, seemed even to shed a fierce 
 strength and alertness through his body. Now that he was 
 going to see her once more he knew what the long separation 
 from her had meant to him. He had known the living death. 
 Within a few hours he would have at least some moments of 
 life. They would be terrible moments, shameful but they 
 would take him back into life. Fiercely, passionately, he looked 
 forward to them.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 573 
 
 He left his letter at the hotel, giving it into the hands of a 
 weary Albanian night porter. Then he returned to his rooms, 
 undressed, washed in cold water, and lay down on his bed. 
 And presently he was praying in the dark, instinctively almost 
 as a child prays. He was praying for the impossible. For he 
 believed that it was absolutely impossible that Rosamund could 
 ever forgive him for what he had done, and yet he prayed that 
 she might forgive him. And he felt as if he were praying with 
 all his body as well as with all his soul. 
 
 In the dawn he was tired. But he did not sleep at all. 
 
 About ten o'clock he went out to take the boat to Eyub. 
 
 AT a few minutes past eleven Dion was in the vast ceme- 
 tery on the hill. It was a gray morning, still and hot. 
 Languor was in the air. The grayness, the silence, the 
 oily waters, suggested a brooding resignation. The place of the 
 dead was almost deserted. He wandered through it, and met 
 only two or three Turks, who returned his glance impassively. 
 After the sleepless night he had come out feeling painfully 
 excited and scarcely master of himself. In Galata and on the 
 boat he had not dared to look into the eyes of those who thronged 
 about him. He had felt transparent, as if all his thoughts and 
 his tumultuous feelings must be visible to any one who regarded 
 him with attention. But now he was encompassed by a sen- 
 sation of almost dull calmness. He looked at the grayness and 
 at the innumerable graves, he was conscious of the stagnant 
 heat, he seemed to draw into himself the wide silence, and the 
 excitement faded out of him, was replaced by a curious inertia. 
 Both his mind and his body felt tired and resigned. The 
 gravestones suggested death, the end of the earthly hopes, as- 
 pirations, yearnings and despairs of men. A few bones and a 
 headstone to that he was traveling. And yet all through the 
 night he had been on fire with longing, and with a fear that 
 had seemed almost red hot. Now he thought he per- 
 haps understood the fatalism of the Turk. Whatever must be 
 must be. All was written surely from the beginning. It was 
 written that to-day he should be alone in the cemetery of Eyub,
 
 574 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 and it was written that Rosamund should come to him there, 
 or not come to him. 
 
 If she did not come? 
 
 He remembered the exact wording of his letter to her, and 
 he realized for the first time that in her letter she had asked him 
 to tell her how to go to their meeting-place "if it is difficult," 
 and that he had not told her what she had to do in order to come 
 to Eyub. 
 
 But of course she had a dragoman, and he would bring her. 
 She could not possibly come alone. 
 
 Perhaps, however, she would not come. 
 
 Long ago she had opened and read his letter and had taken 
 her decision. If she were coming, probably she was already on 
 the way. He forced himself to imagine the whole day passed 
 by him alone in the cemetery, the light failing as the evening 
 drew on, the darkness of night swallowing up Stamboul, the 
 knowledge forced upon him that Rosamund had abandoned the 
 idea of seeing him again. He imagined himself returning to 
 Constantinople in the night, going to the Hotel de Byzance and 
 learning that she had left by the Orient express of that day for 
 England. 
 
 What would he feel? 
 
 A handful of bones and a headstone! Whatever happened to- 
 day, and in the future, he was on his way to just that. Then 
 why agonize, why allow himself to be riven and tormented by 
 longings and fears that seemed born out of something eternal? 
 Perhaps, indeed, there was nothing at all after this short life 
 was ended, nothing but the blank grayness of eternal uncon- 
 sciousness. If so, how little even his love for Rosamund meant. 
 It must be just some bodily attraction, some imperious call to 
 his flesh which he had mistaken for a far greater thing. Men, 
 perhaps, are merely tricked by those longings of theirs which 
 seem defiant of time, by those passionate tendernesses in which 
 eternity seems breathing. All that they think they live by may 
 be illusion. 
 
 Mechanically, as the minutes drew on towards noon, he 
 walked towards the Tekkeh of the Dervishes. Once he had 
 come here to meet Cynthia Clarke, and now he had deliberately 
 chosen the same place for the terrible interview with his wife. It 
 could only be terrible. He did not know what he was going 
 to do and say when she came (if she did come), but he did 
 know that somehow he would tell her the whole truth about 
 himself, without, of course, mentioning the name of a woman.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 575 
 
 He would lay bare his soul. It was fitting that he should con- 
 fess his sin in the place of its beginnings. He had begun to 
 sin against the woman whom he could never unlove here in 
 this wilderness of the dead, when he had spoken against her to 
 the woman who had long ago resolved some day to make him 
 sin. (He told himself now that he had definitely spoken 
 against Rosamund.) In this sad place of disordered peace, 
 under the gray, and within sight of the minarets lifted to the 
 Unknown God, he had opened the book of evil things; in this 
 place he would close it forever if Rosamund came. He felt 
 now that there was something within him which, despite all his 
 perversity, all that he had given himself to in the fury of the 
 flesh, was irrevocably dedicated to that which was sane, clean 
 and healthy. By this he was resolved to live henceforth, not 
 because of any religious feeling, not because of any love of 
 that Unknown God who so he supposed had flung him into 
 the furnace of suffering as refuse may be flung into a fire, but 
 because he now began to understand that this dedicated some- 
 thing was really Him, was of the core of his being, not to be 
 rooted out. He had left Cynthia Clarke. In a short time 
 before the gray faded over the minarets of Stamboul Rosa- 
 mund would have done with him forever. He faced complete 
 solitude, the wilderness without any human soul, good or bad, 
 to keep him company; but he faced it with a sort of hard and 
 final resignation. By nightfall he would have done with it all. 
 And then the living Death ? Yes, no doubt that would be 
 his portion. He smiled faintly as he thought of his furious 
 struggle against just that. 
 
 " It was written," he thought. " Everything is written. 
 But we are tricked into a semblance of vigorous life and energy 
 by our great delusion that we possess free will." 
 
 He sat down beneath a cypress and remained quite still, 
 looking downward towards the water, downward along the path 
 by which, if Rosamund came, she would ascend the hill 
 towards him. 
 
 It was nearly noon when he saw below him on this path the 
 figure of a woman walking slowly. She was followed by a man. 
 
 Dion got up. He could not really see who this woman was, 
 but he knew who she was. Instantly he knew. And instantly 
 all the calm, all the fatalism of which for a moment he had 
 believed himself possessed, all the brooding resignation of the 
 man who says to his soul, " It is written! " was swept away. 
 He stood there, bare of his pretenses, and he knew himself for
 
 576 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 what he was, just a man who was the prisoner of a great 
 love, a man shaken by the tempest of his feeling, a man who 
 would, who must, fight against that living Death which, only 
 a moment before, he had been contemplating even with a smile. 
 
 She had come, and with her life. 
 
 He put one arm against the seamed trunk of the cypress. 
 Mechanically, and unaware what he was doing, he had taken 
 off his hat. He held it in his hand. All the change which 
 sorrow and excess had wrought upon him was exposed for Rosa- 
 mund to see. She had last seen him plainly as he drove away 
 with little Robin from the Green Court of Welsley on that morn- 
 ing of fate. Now at last she was to see him again as she had 
 remade him. 
 
 She came on slowly. Presently she turned to her Greek 
 dragoman. 
 
 " Where's the Tekkeh? Is it much farther? " 
 
 " No, Madame." 
 
 He pointed. As he did so Rosamund saw Dion's figure 
 standing against the cypress. She stood still. Her face was 
 white and drawn, but full of an almost flaming resolution. The 
 mysticism which at moments Dion had detected in her ex- 
 pression, in her eyes, during the years passed with her, a 
 mysticism then almost evasive, subtly withdrawn, shone now, 
 like a dominating quality which scorned to hide itself, or per- 
 haps could not hide itself. She looked like a woman under the 
 influence of a fixed purpose, fascinated, drawn onward, almost 
 in ecstasy, and yet somehow, somewhere, tormented. 
 
 " Please go back to the foot of the hill," she said to the 
 Greek who was with her. 
 
 " But, Madame, I dare not leave you alone here." 
 
 " I shall not be alone." 
 
 The Greek looked surprised. 
 
 " Some one is waiting for me, up there, by that cypress 
 a a friend." 
 
 " Oh I see, Madame." 
 
 With a look of intense comprehension he turned to go. 
 
 " At the foot of the hill, please! " said Rosamund. 
 
 " Certainly, Madame." 
 
 The dragoman was smiling as he walked away. Rosamund 
 stood still watching him till he was out of sight. Then she 
 turned. The figure of a man was still standing motionless 
 under the old cypress tree among the graves. She set her lips 
 together and went towards it. Now that she saw Dion, even
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 577 
 
 though he was in the distance, she felt again intensely, as if in 
 her flesh, the bodily wrong he had done to her. She strove not 
 to feel this. She told herself that, after her sin against him, 
 she had no right to feel it. In her heart she knew that she was 
 the greater sinner. She realized now exactly the meaning of 
 what she had done. She had no more illusions about herself, 
 about her conduct. She condemned herself utterly. She had 
 come to that place of the dead absolutely resolved to ask for- 
 giveness of Dion. And yet now that she saw his body the 
 sense of personal outrage woke in her, gripped her. She grew 
 hot, she tingled. A fierce jealousy of the flesh tormented her. 
 And suddenly she was afraid of herself. Was her body then 
 more powerful than her soul ? Was she, who had always cared 
 for the things of the soul hopelessly physical? It seemed to 
 her that even now she might succumb to what she supposed was 
 an overwhelming personal pride, that even now she might be 
 unable to do what she had come all the long way from England 
 to do. But she forced herself to go onward up the path. She 
 looked down; she would not see that body of a man which had 
 belonged to her and to which she had belonged; but she made 
 herself go towards it. 
 
 Presently she felt that she was drawing near to it; then 
 that she was close to it. Then she stopped. Standing still for 
 a moment she prayed. She prayed that she might be able in 
 this supreme crisis of her life to govern the baser part of her- 
 self, that she might be allowed, might be helped, to rise to 
 those heights of which Father Robertson had spoken to her, 
 that she might at last realize the finest possibilities of her 
 nature, that she might be able to do the most difficult thing, 
 to be humble, to forget any injury which had been inflicted 
 upon herself, and to remember only the tremendous injury she 
 had inflicted upon another. When her prayer was finished 
 she did not know whether it had been heard, whether, if it had 
 been heard, it had been accepted and would be granted. She 
 did not know at all what she would be able to do. But she 
 looked up and saw Dion. He was close to her, was standing 
 just in front of her, with one arm holding the cypress trunk, 
 trembling slightly and gazing at her, gazing at her with eyes 
 that were terrible because they revealed so much of agony, of 
 love and of terror. She looked into those eyes, she looked at 
 the frightful change written on the face that had once been 
 so familiar to her, and suddenly an immense pity inundated 
 her. It seemed to her that she endured in that moment all the
 
 578 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 suffering which Dion had endured since the tragedy at Welsley 
 added to her own suffering. She stood there for a moment 
 looking at him. Then she said only: 
 
 " Forgive me, oh, forgive me! " 
 
 Tears rushed into her eyes. She had been able to say it. It 
 had not been difficult to say. She could not have said anything 
 else. And her soul had said it as well as her lips. 
 
 "Forgive me! Forgive me!" she repeated. 
 
 She went up to Dion, took his poor tortured temples, from 
 which the hair, once so thick, had retreated, in her hands, and 
 whispered again in the midst of her tears: 
 
 " Forgive me! " 
 
 " I've been false to you," he said huskily. " I've broken 
 my vow to you. I've lived with another woman for months. 
 I've been a beast. I've wallowed. I've gone right down. 
 Everything horrible I've I've done it. Only last night 
 I meant to to I only broke away from it all last night. I 
 heard you were here and then I I " 
 
 " Forgive me." 
 
 She felt as if God were speaking in her, through her. She 
 felt as if in that moment God had taken complete possession 
 of her, as if for the first time in her life she was just an instru- 
 ment, formed for the carrying out of His tremendous purposes, 
 able -to carry them out. Awe was upon her. But she felt a 
 strange joy, and even a wonderful sense of peace. 
 
 " But you don't hear what I tell you. I have been false 
 to you. I have sinned against you for months and months." 
 
 "Hush! It was my sin." 
 
 " Yours? Oh, Rosamund! " 
 
 She was still holding his temples. He put his hands on 
 her shoulders. 
 
 " Yes, it was my sin. I understand now how you love me. 
 I never understood till to-day." 
 
 " Yes, I love you." 
 
 " Then," she said, very simply. " I know you will be able 
 to forgive me. Don't tell me any more ever about what you 
 have done. It's blotted out. Just forgive me and let us 
 begin again." 
 
 She took away her hands from his temples. He did not kiss 
 her, but he took one of her hands, and they stood side by side 
 looking towards Stamboul, towards the City of the Unknown 
 God. His eyes and hers were on the minarets, those minarets
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 579 
 
 which seem to say to those who have come to them from afar, 
 and whose souls are restless: 
 
 " In the East thou shalt find me if thou hast not found me 
 in the West." 
 
 After a long silence Rosamund pressed Dion's hand, and 
 it seemed to him that never, in the former days of their union 
 not even in Greece had she pressed it with such tender- 
 ness, with such pulse-stirring intimacy and trust in him. 
 Then, still with her eyes upon the minarets, she said in a low 
 voice : 
 
 " I think Robin knows." 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 NOT many days later, when the green valley of Olympia 
 was wrapped in the peace of a sunlit afternoon, and 
 a faint breeze drew from the pine trees on the hills of 
 Kronos a murmur as of distant voices whispering the message 
 of Eternity, the keeper of the house of the Hermes was dis- 
 turbed in a profound reverie by the sound of slow footfalls not 
 far from his dwelling. He stirred, lifted his head and stared 
 vaguely about him. No travelers had come of late to the shrine 
 he guarded. Hermes had been alone with the child upon his 
 arm, dreaming of its unclouded future with the serenity of one 
 who had trodden the paths where the gods walk, and who 
 could rise at will above the shadowed ways along which men 
 creep in anxiety, dreading false steps and the lurking dangers of 
 their fates. Hermes had been alone with his happy burden, 
 forgotten surely by the world which his delicate majesty ig- 
 nored without disdain. But now pilgrims, perhaps from a 
 distant land, were drawing near to look upon him, to spend 
 a little while in the atmosphere of his shining calm, perhaps to 
 learn something of the message he had to give to those who were 
 capable of receiving it. 
 
 A man and a woman, moving slowly side by side, came into 
 the patch of strong sunshine which made a glory before the 
 house, paused there and stood still. 
 
 From the shadow in which he was sitting the guardian 
 examined them with the keen eyes of one who had looked
 
 580 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 upon travelers of many nations. He knew at once that the 
 woman was English. As for the man yes, probably he was 
 English too. Dark, lean, wrinkled, he was no doubt an Eng- 
 lishman who had been much away from his own country, which 
 the guardian conceived of as wrapped in perpetual fogs and 
 washed by everlasting rains. 
 
 The guardian stared hard at this man, then turned his 
 bright eyes again upon the woman. As he looked at her some 
 recollection began to stir in his mind. 
 
 Not many travelers came twice to the green recesses of Elis. 
 He was accustomed to brief acquaintanceships, closed by small 
 gifts of money, and succeeded by farewells which troubled his 
 spirit not at all. But this woman seemed familiar to him; 
 and even the man 
 
 He got up from his seat and went towards them. 
 
 As he came into the sunlight the woman saw him and 
 smiled. And, when she smiled, he knew he had seen her 
 before. The deep gravity of her face as she approached had 
 nearly tricked his memory, but now he remembered all about 
 her. She was the beautiful fair Englishwoman who had 
 camped on the hill of Drouva not so many years ago, who had 
 gone out shooting with that young rascal, Dirmikis, and who 
 had spent solitary hours wrapt in contemplation of the statue 
 whose fame doubtless had brought her to Elis. 
 
 Not so many years ago! But was this man the husband 
 who had been with her then, and who had evidently been deeply 
 in love with her? 
 
 It seemed to the guardian that there was some puzzling 
 
 change in the beautiful woman. As to the man Still 
 
 wondering, the guardian took off his cap politely and uttered 
 a smiling welcome in Greek. Then the man smiled too, faintly, 
 and still preserving an under-look of deep gravity, and the 
 guardian knew him. It was indeed the husband, but grown to 
 look very much older, and different in some almost mysterious 
 way. 
 
 The woman made a gesture towards the museum. The 
 guardian bowed, turned and moved to lead the way through 
 the vestibule into the great room of the Vicicry. But the woman 
 spoke behind him and he paused. He did not understand 
 what she said, but the sound of her voice seemed to plead with 
 him or to command him. He looked at her and understood. 
 
 She was gazing at him steadily, and her eyes told him not 
 to go before her, told him to stay where he was.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 581 
 
 He nodded his head, slightly pursing his small mouth. She 
 knew the way of course. How should she not know it ? 
 
 Gently she came up to him and just touched his coat sleeve 
 to thank him. Then she went on slowly with her compan- 
 ion, traversed the room of the Victory, looking neither to right 
 nor left, crossed the threshold of the smaller chamber beyond it 
 and disappeared. 
 
 For a moment the guardian stood at gaze. Then he went 
 back to his seat, sat down and sighed. A faint sense of awe 
 had come upon him. He did not understand it, and he sighed 
 again. Then, pulling himself together, he felt for a cigarette, 
 v lit it and began to smoke, staring at the patch of sunlight out- 
 side, and at the olive tree which grew close to the doorway. 
 
 Within the chamber of the Hermes for a long time there 
 was silence. Rosamund was sitting before the statue. Dion 
 stood near to her, but not close to her. The eyes of both of 
 them were fixed upon Hermes and the child. Once again they 
 were greeted by the strange and exquisite hush which seems, 
 like a divine sentinel, to wait at the threshold of that shrine in 
 Elis; once again the silence seemed to come out of the marble 
 and to press softly against their two hearts. But they were 
 changed, and so the great peace of the Hermes seemed to them 
 subtly changed. They knew now the full meaning of torment 
 torment of the body and of the soul. They knew the black- 
 ness of rebellion. But they knew also, or at least were begin- 
 ning to know, the true essence of peace. And this beginning of 
 knowledge drew them nearer to the Hermes than they had been 
 in the bygone years, than they had ever been before the coming 
 of little Robin into their lives, and before Robin had left them, 
 obedient to the call from the beyond. 
 
 The olive branch was gone from the doorway. Something 
 beautiful was missing from the picture of Elis which had re- 
 minded Rosamund of the glimpse of distant country in 
 Raphael's " Marriage of the Virgin." And they longed to have 
 it there, that little olive branch ah, how they longed ! There 
 was pain in their hearts. But there was no longer the cruel 
 fierceness of rebellion. They were able to gaze at the child on 
 whom Hermes was gazing, if not with his celestial serenity yet 
 with a resignation that was even subtly mingled with something 
 akin to gratitude. 
 
 " Shall we reach that goal and take a child with us ? "
 
 582 IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 Long ago that had been Dion's thought in Elis. And long 
 ago Rosamund had broken the silence within that room by the 
 words : 
 
 " I'm trying to learn something here, how to bring him up 
 if he ever comes." 
 
 And now God had given them a child, and God had taken 
 him from them. Robin had gone from all that was not in- 
 tended, but that, for some inscrutable reason, had come to be. 
 Robin was in the released world. 
 
 As the twilight began to fall another twilight came back flood- 
 ing with its green dimness the memories of them both. And at 
 last Rosamund spoke. 
 
 "Dion!" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Come a little nearer to me." 
 
 He came close to her and stood beside her. 
 
 " Do you remember something you said to me here? It was 
 in the twilight " 
 
 She paused. Tears had come into her eyes and her voice 
 had trembled. 
 
 " It was in the twilight. You said that it seemed to you as 
 if Hermes were taking the child away, partly because of us." 
 
 Her voice broke. 
 
 "I I disliked your saying that. I told you I couldn't feel 
 that." 
 
 " I remember." 
 
 " And then you explained exactly what you meant. And we 
 spoke of the human fear that comes to those who look at a 
 child they love and think, ' what is life going to do to the 
 child? ' This evening I want to tell you that in a strange way 
 I am able to be glad that Robin has gone, glad with some part 
 of me that is more mother than anything else in me, I think. 
 Robin is is so safe now." 
 
 The tears came thickly and fell upon her face. She put out 
 a hand to Dion. He clasped it closely. 
 
 " God took him away, and perhaps because of us. I think 
 it may have been to teach us, you and me. Perhaps we needed 
 a great sorrow. Perhaps nothing else could have taught us 
 something we had to learn." 
 
 " It may be so," he almost whispered. 
 
 She got up and leaned against his shoulder. 
 
 " Whatever happens to me in the future," she said, " I don't 
 think I shall ever distrust God again."
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD 583 
 
 He put his arm round her and, for the first time since their 
 reunion, he kissed her, and she returned his kiss. 
 
 Over Elis the twilight was falling, a green twilight, sylvan 
 and very ethereal, tremulous in its delicate beauty. It stole 
 through the green doors, and down through the murmuring pine 
 trees. The sheep-bells were ringing softly; the flocks were go- 
 ing homeward from pasture; and the chime of their little bells 
 mingled with the wide whispering of the eternities among the 
 summits of the pine trees. Music of earth mingled with the 
 music from a distance that knew what the twilight knew. 
 
 Presently the two marble figures in the chamber of the Hermes 
 began to fade away gradually, as if deliberately withdrawing 
 themselves from the gaze of men. At last only their outlines 
 were visible to Rosamund and to Dion. But even these told of 
 the Golden Age, of the age of the long peace. 
 
 "Xaipe!" 
 
 Some one had said it within that chamber, and a second 
 voice had echoed it. 
 
 As the guardian of the Hermes watched the two pilgrims 
 walking slowly away down the valley he noticed that the man's 
 right arm clasped the woman's waist. And, so, they passed 
 from his sight and were taken by the green twilight of Elis. 
 
 TfLE END
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
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