Chambers Robert William
The Younger Set
She only shook her head, watching him unsmiling. But the pulse in her had become very quiet again.
"It's no end of fun in that canoe," he observed. "Gladys Orchil and I work it beautifully."
"I saw you did," she nodded.
"Oh! Where were you? Why didn't you come?"
"I don't know. Gladys called you. I was waiting for you—expecting you. Then Gladys called you."
"I didn't see you," he said.
"I didn't call you," she observed serenely. And, after a moment: "Do you see only those who hail you, Captain Selwyn?"
He laughed: "In this life's cruise a good sailor always answers a friendly hail."
"So do I," she said. "Please hail me after this—because I don't care to take the initiative. If you neglect to do it, don't count on my hailing you . . . any more."
The stain spread on the kerchief; once more she went to the water's edge, rinsed it, and returned with it.
"I think it has almost stopped bleeding," she remarked as he laid the cloth against his forehead. "You frightened me, Captain Selwyn. I am not easily frightened."
"I know it."
"Did you know I was frightened?"
"Of course I did."
"Oh," she said, vexed, "how could you know it? I didn't do anything silly, did I?"
"No; you very sensibly called me Philip. That's how I knew you were frightened."
A slow bright colour stained face and neck.
"So I was silly, after all," she said, biting at her under lip and trying to meet his humorous gray eyes with unconcern. But her face was burning now, and, aware of it, she turned her gaze resolutely on the sea. Also, to her further annoyance, her heart awoke, beating unwarrantably, absurdly, until the dreadful idea seized her that he could hear it. Disconcerted, she stood up—a straight youthful figure against the sea. The wind blowing her dishevelled hair across her cheeks and shoulders, fluttered her clinging skirts as she rested both hands on her hips and slowly walked toward the water's edge.
"Shall we swim?" he asked her.
She half turned and looked around and down at him.
"I'm all right; it's stopped bleeding. Shall we?" he inquired, looking up at her. "You've got to wash your hair again, anyhow."
She said, feeling suddenly stupid and childish, and knowing she was speaking stupidly: "Would you not rather join Gladys again? I thought that—that—"
"Thought what?"
"Nothing," she said, furious at herself; "I am going to the showers. Good-bye."
"Good-bye," he said, troubled—"unless we walk to the pavilion together—"
"But you are going in again; are you not?"
"Not unless you do."
"W-what have I to do with it, Captain Selwyn?"
"It's a big ocean—and rather lonely without you," he said so seriously that she looked around again and laughed.
"It's full of pretty girls just now. Plunge in, my melancholy friend. The whole ocean is a dream of fair women to-day."
"'If they be not fair to me, what care I how fair they be,'" he paraphrased, springing to his feet and keeping step beside her.
"Really, that won't do," she said; "much moonlight and Gladys and the Minster twins convict you. Do you remember that I told you one day in early summer—that Sheila and Dorothy and Gladys would mark you for their own? Oh, my inconstant courtier, they are yonder!—And I absolve you. Adieu!"
"Do you remember what I told you—one day in early summer?" he returned coolly.
Her heart began its absurd beating again—but now there was no trace of pain in it—nothing of apprehension in the echo of the pulse either.
"You protested so many things, Captain Selwyn—"
"Yes; and one thing in particular. You've forgotten it, I see." And he looked her in the eye.
"No," she said, "you are wrong. I have not forgotten."
"Nor I."
He halted, looking out over the shining breakers. "I'm glad you have not forgotten what I said; because, you see, I'm forbidden to repeat it. So I shall be quite helpless to aid you in case your memory fails."
"I don't think it will fail," she said, looking at the flashing sea. A curious tingling sensation of fright had seized her—something entirely unknown to her heretofore. She spoke again because frightened; the heavy, hard pulse in breast and throat played tricks with her voice and she swallowed and attempted to steady it: "I—if—if I ever forget, you will know it as soon as I do—"
Her throat seemed to close in a quick, unsteady breath; she halted, both small hands clinched:
"Don't talk this way!" she said, exasperated under a rush of sensations utterly incomprehensible—stinging, confused emotions that beat chaotic time to the clamour of her pulses. "Why d-do you speak of such things?" she repeated with a fierce little indrawn breath—"why do you?—when you know—when I said—explained everything?" She looked at him fearfully: "You are somehow spoiling our friendship," she said; "and I don't exactly know how you are doing it, but something of the comfort of it is being taken away from me—and don't! don't! don't do it!"
She covered her eyes with her clinched hands, stood a moment, motionless; then her arms dropped, and she turned sharply with a gesture which left him standing there and walked rapidly across the beach to the pavilion.
After a little while he followed, pursuing his way very leisurely to his own quarters. Half an hour later when she emerged with her maid, Selwyn was not waiting for her as usual; and, scarcely understanding that she was finding an excuse for lingering, she stood for ten minutes on the step of the Orchils' touring-car, talking to Gladys about the lantern fête and dance to be given that night at Hitherwood House.
Evidently Selwyn had already gone home. Gerald came lagging up with Sheila Minster; but his sister did not ask him whether Selwyn had gone. Yesterday she would have done so; but to-day had brought to her the strangest sensation of her young life—a sudden and overpowering fear of a friend; and yet, strangest of all, the very friend she feared she was waiting for—contriving to find excuses to wait for. Surely he could not have finished dressing and have gone. He had never before done that. Why did he not come? It was late; people were leaving the pavilion; victorias and beach-phaetons were trundling off loaded to the water-line with fat dowagers; gay groups passed, hailing her or waving adieux; Drina drove up in her village-cart, calling out: "Are you coming, Eileen, or are you going to walk over? Hurry up! I'm hungry."
"I'll go with you," she said, nodding adieu to Gladys; and she swung off the step and crossed the shell road.
"Jump in," urged the child; "I'm in a dreadful hurry, and Odin can't trot very fast."
"I'd prefer to drive slowly," said Miss Erroll in a colourless voice; and seated herself in the village-cart.
"Why must I drive slowly?" demanded the child. "I'm hungry; besides, I haven't seen Boots this morning. I don't want to drive slowly; must I?"
"Which are you most in a hurry for?" asked Eileen curiously; "luncheon or Boots?"
"Both—I don't know. What a silly question. Boots of course! But I'm starving, too."
"Boots? Of course?"
"Certainly. He always comes first—just like Captain Selwyn with you."
"Like Captain Selwyn with me," she repeated absently; "certainly; Captain Selwyn should be first, everything else second. But how did you find out that, Drina?"
"Why, anybody can see that," said the child contemptuously; "you are as fast friends with Uncle Philip as I am with Boots. And why you don't marry him I can't see—unless you're not old enough. Are you?"
"Yes. . . . I am old enough, dear."
"Then why don't you? If I was old enough to marry Boots I'd do it. Why don't you?"
"I don't know," said Miss Erroll, as though speaking to herself.
Drina glanced at her, then flourished her be-ribboned whip, which whistling threat had no perceptible effect on the fat, red, Norwegian pony.
"I'll tell you what," said the child, "if you don't ask Uncle Philip pretty soon somebody will ask him first, and you'll be too late. As soon as I saw Boots I knew that I wanted him for myself, and I told him so. He said he was very glad I had spoken, because he was expecting a proposal by wireless from the young Sultana-elect of Leyte. Now," added the child with satisfaction, "she can't have him. It's better to be in time, you see."
Eileen nodded: "Yes, it is better to be in plenty of time. You can't tell what Sultana may forestall you."
"So you'll tell him, won't you?" inquired Drina with business-like briskness.
Miss Erroll looked absently at her: "Tell who what?"
"Uncle Philip—that you're going to marry him when you're old enough."
"Yes—when I'm old enough—I'll tell him, Drina."
"Oh, no; I mean you'll marry him when you're old enough, but you'd better tell him right away."
"I see; I'd better speak immediately. Thank you, dear, for suggesting it."
"You're quite welcome," said the child seriously; "and I hope you'll be as happy as I am."
"I hope so," said Eileen as the pony-cart drew up by the veranda and a groom took the pony's head.
Luncheon being the children's hour, Miss Erroll's silence remained unnoticed in the jolly uproar; besides, Gerald and Boots were discussing the huge house-party, lantern fête, and dance which the Orchils were giving that night for the younger sets; and Selwyn, too, seemed to take unusual interest in the discussion, though Eileen's part in the conference was limited to an occasional nod or monosyllable.
Drina was wild to go and furious at not having been asked, but when Boots offered to stay home, she resolutely refused to accept the sacrifice.
"No," she said; "they are pigs not to ask girls of my age, but you may go, Boots, and I'll promise not to be unhappy." And she leaned over and added in a whisper to Eileen: "You see how sensible it is to make arrangements beforehand! Because somebody, grown-up, might take him away at this very party. That's the reason why it is best to speak promptly. Please pass me another peach, Eileen."
"What are you two children whispering about?" inquired Selwyn, glancing at Eileen.
"Oho!" exclaimed Drina; "you may know before long! May he not, Eileen? It's about you," she said; "something splendid that somebody is going to do to you! Isn't it, Eileen?"
Miss Erroll looked smilingly at Selwyn, a gay jest on her lips; but the sudden clamour of pulses in her throat closed her lips, cutting the phrase in two, and the same strange fright seized her—an utterly unreasoning fear of him.
At the same moment Mrs. Gerard gave the rising signal, and Selwyn was swept away in the rushing herd of children, out on to the veranda, where for a while he smoked and drew pictures for the younger Gerards. Later, some of the children were packed off for a nap; Billy with his assorted puppies went away with Drina and Boots, ever hopeful of a fox or rabbit; Nina Gerard curled herself up in a hammock, and Selwyn seated himself beside her, an uncut magazine on his knees. Eileen had disappeared.
For a while Nina swung there in silence, her pretty eyes fixed on her brother. He had nearly finished cutting the leaves of the magazine before she spoke, mentioning the fact of Rosamund Fane's arrival at the Minsters' house, Brookminster.
The slightest frown gathered and passed from her brother's sun-bronzed forehead, but he made no comment.
"Mr. Neergard is a guest, too," she observed.
"What?" exclaimed Selwyn, in disgust.
"Yes; he came ashore with the Fanes."
Selwyn flushed a little but went on cutting the pages of the magazine. When he had finished he flattened the pages between both covers, and said, without raising his eyes:
"I'm sorry that crowd is to be in evidence."
"They always are and always will be," smiled his sister.
He looked up at her: "Do you mean that anybody else is a guest at Brookminster?"
"Yes, Phil."
"Alixe?"
"Yes."
He looked down at the book on his knees and began to furrow the pages absently.
"Phil," she said, "have you heard anything this summer—lately—about the Ruthvens?"
"No."
"Nothing at all?"
"Not a word."
"You knew they were at Newport as usual."
"I took it for granted."
"And you have heard no rumours?—no gossip concerning them? Nothing about a yacht?"
"Where was I to hear it? What gossip? What yacht?"
His sister said very seriously: "Alixe has been very careless."
"Everybody is. What of it?"
"It is understood that she and Jack Ruthven have separated."
He looked up quickly: "Who told you that?"
"A woman wrote me from Newport. . . . And Alixe is here and Jack Ruthven is in New York. Several people have—I have heard about it from several sources. I'm afraid it's true, Phil."
They looked into each other's troubled eyes; and he said: "If she has done this it is the worse of two evils she has chosen. To live with him was bad enough, but this is the limit."
"I know it. She cannot afford to do such a thing again. . . . Phil, what is the matter with her? She simply cannot be sane and do such a thing—can she?"
"I don't know," he said.
"Well, I do. She is not sane. She has made herself horridly conspicuous among conspicuous people; she has been indiscreet to the outer edge of effrontery. Even that set won't stand it always—especially as their men folk are quite crazy about her, and she leads a train of them about wherever she goes—the little fool!
"And now, if it's true, that there's to be a separation—what on earth will become of her? I ask you, Phil, for I don't know. But men know what becomes eventually of women who slap the world across the face with over-ringed fingers.
"If—if there's any talk about it—if there's newspaper talk—if there's a divorce—who will ask her to their houses? Who will condone this thing? Who will tolerate it, or her? Men—and men only—the odious sort that fawn on her now and follow her about half-sneeringly. They'll tolerate it; but their wives won't; and the kind of women who will receive and tolerate her are not included in my personal experience. What a fool she has been!—good heavens, what a fool!"
A trifle paler than usual, he said: "There is no real harm in her. I know there is not."
"You are very generous, Phil—"
"No, I am trying to be truthful. And I say there is no harm in her. I have made up my mind on that score." He leaned nearer his sister and laid one hand on hers where it lay across the hammock's edge:
"Nina; no woman could have done what she has done, and continue to do what she does, and be mentally sound. This, at last, is my conclusion."
"It has long been my conclusion," she said under her breath.
He stared at the floor out of gray eyes grown dull and hopeless.
"Phil," whispered his sister, "suppose—suppose—what happened to her father—"
"I know."
She said again: "It was slow at first, a brilliant eccentricity—that gradually became—something else less pleasant. Oh, Phil! Phil!"
"It was softening of the brain," he said, "was it not?"
"Yes—he entertained a delusion of conspiracy against him—also a complacent conviction of the mental instability of others. Yet, at intervals he remained clever and witty and charming."
"And then?"
"Phil—he became violent at times."
"Yes. And the end?" he asked quietly.
"A little child again—quite happy and content—playing with toys—very gentle, very pitiable—" The hot tears filled her eyes. "Oh, Phil!" she sobbed and hid her face on his shoulder.
Over the soft, faintly fragrant hair he stared stupidly, lips apart, chin loose.
A little later, Nina sat up in the hammock, daintily effacing the traces of tears. Selwyn was saying: "If this is so, that Ruthven man has got to stand by her. Where could she go—if such trouble is to come upon her? To whom can she turn if not to him? He is responsible for her—doubly so, if her condition is to be—that! By every law of manhood he is bound to stand by her now; by every law of decency and humanity he cannot desert her now. If she does these—these indiscreet things—and if he knows she is not altogether mentally responsible—he cannot fail to stand by her! How can he, in God's name!"
"Phil," she said, "you speak like a man, but she has no man to stand loyally by her in the direst need a human soul may know. He is only a thing—no man at all—only a loathsome accident of animated decadence."
He looked up quickly, amazed at her sudden bitterness; and she looked back at him almost fiercely.
"I may as well tell you what I've heard," she said; "I was not going to, at first; but it will be all around town sooner or later. Rosamund told me. She learned—as she manages to learn everything a little before anybody else hears of it—that Jack Ruthven found out that Alixe was behaving very carelessly with some man—some silly, callow, and probably harmless youth. But there was a disgraceful scene on Mr. Neergard's yacht, the Niobrara. I don't know who the people were, but Ruthven acted abominably. . . . The Niobrara anchored in Widgeon Bay yesterday; and Alixe is aboard, and her husband is in New York, and Rosamund says he means to divorce her in one way or another! Ugh! the horrible little man with his rings and bangles!"
She shuddered: "Why, the mere bringing of such a suit means her social ruin no matter what verdict is brought in! Her only salvation has been in remaining inconspicuous; and a sane girl would have realised it. But"—and she made a gesture of despair—"you see what she has done. . . . And Phil—you know what she has done to you—what a mad risk she took in going to your rooms that night—"
"Who said she had ever been in my rooms?" he demanded, flushing darkly in his surprise.
"Did you suppose I didn't know it?" she asked quietly. "Oh, but I did; and it kept me awake nights, worrying. Yet I knew it must have been all right—knowing you as I do. But do you suppose other people would hold you as innocent as I do? Even Eileen—the sweetest, whitest, most loyal little soul in the world—was troubled when Rosamund hinted at some scandal touching you and Alixe. She told me—but she did not tell me what Rosamund had said—the mischief maker!"
His face had become quite colourless; he raised an unsteady hand to his mouth, touching his moustache; and his gray eyes narrowed menacingly.
"Rosamund—spoke of scandal to—Eileen?" he repeated. "Is that possible?"
"How long do you suppose a girl can live and not hear scandal of some sort?" said Nina. "It's bound to rain some time or other, but I prepared my little duck's back to shed some things."
"You say," insisted Selwyn, "that Rosamund spoke of me—in that way—to Eileen?"
"Yes. It only made the child angry, Phil; so don't worry."
"No; I won't worry. No, I—I won't. You are quite right, Nina. But the pity of it; that tight, hard-shelled woman of the world—to do such a thing—to a young girl."
"Rosamund is Rosamund," said Nina with a shrug; "the antidote to her species is obvious."
"Right, thank God!" said Selwyn between his teeth; "Mens sana in corpore sano! bless her little heart! I'm glad you told me this, Nina."
He rose and laughed a little—a curious sort of laugh; and Nina watched him, perplexed.
"Where are you going, Phil?" she asked.
"I don't know. I—where is Eileen?"
"She's lying down—a headache; probably too much sun and salt water. Shall I send for her?"
"No; I'll go up and inquire how she is. Susanne is there, isn't she?"
And he entered the house and ascended the stairs.
The little Alsatian maid was seated in a corner of the upper hall, sewing; and she informed Selwyn that mademoiselle "had bad in ze h'ead."
But at the sound of conversation in the corridor Eileen's gay voice came to them from her room, asking who it was; and she evidently knew, for there was a hint of laughter in her tone.
"It is I. Are you better?" said Selwyn.
"Yes. D-did you wish to see me?"
"I always do."
"Thank you. . . . I mean, do you wish to see me now? Because I'm very much occupied in trying to go to sleep."
"Yes, I wish to see you at once."
"Particularly?"
"Very particularly."
"Oh, if it's as serious as that, you alarm me. I'm afraid to come."
"I'm afraid to have you. But please come."
He heard her laugh to herself; then her clear, amused voice: "What are you going to say to me if I come out?"
"Something dreadful! Hurry!"
"Oh, if that's the case I'll hurry," she returned, and a moment later the door opened and she emerged in a breezy flutter of silvery ribbons and loosened ruddy hair.
She was dressed in some sort of delicate misty stuff that alternately clung and floated, outlining or clouding her glorious young figure as she moved with leisurely free-limbed grace across the hall to meet him.
The pretty greeting she always reserved for him, even if their separation had been for a few minutes only, she now offered, hand extended; a cool, fragrant hand which lay for a second in his, closed, and withdrew, leaving her eyes very friendly.
"Come out on the west veranda," she said; "I know what you wish to say to me. Besides, I have something to confide to you, too. And I'm very impatient to do it."
He followed her to the veranda; she seated herself in the broad swing, and moved so that her invitation to him was unmistakable. Then when he had taken the place beside her she turned toward him very frankly, and he looked up to encounter her beautiful direct gaze.
"What is disturbing our friendship?" she asked. "Do you know? I don't. I went to my room after luncheon and lay down on my bed and quietly deliberated. And do you know what conclusion I have reached?"
"What?" he asked.
"That there is nothing at all to disturb our friendship. And that what I said to you on the beach was foolish. I don't know why I said it; I'm not the sort of girl who says such stupid things—though I was apparently, for that one moment. And what I said about Gladys was childish; I am not jealous of her, Captain Selwyn. Don't think me silly or perverse or sentimental, will you?"
"No, I won't."
She smiled at him with a trifle less courage—a trifle more self-consciousness: "And—and as for what I called you—"
"You mean when you called me by my first name, and I teased you?"
"Y-es. I was silly to do it; sillier to be ashamed of doing it. There's a great deal of the callow schoolgirl in me yet, you see. The wise, amused smile of a man can sometimes stampede my self-possession and leave me blushing like any ninny in dire confusion. . . . It was very, very mean of you—for the blood across your face did shock me. . . . And, by myself, and in my very private thoughts, I do sometimes call you—by your first name. . . . And that explains it. . . . Now, what have you to say to me?"
"I wish to ask you something."
"With pleasure," she said; "go ahead." And she settled back, fearlessly expectant.
"Very well, then," he said, striving to speak coolly. "It is this: Will you marry me, Eileen?"
She turned perfectly white and stared at him, stunned. And he repeated his question, speaking slowly, but unsteadily.
"N-no," she said; "I cannot. Why—why, you know that, don't you?"
"Will you tell me why, Eileen?"
"I—I don't know why. I think—I suppose that it is because I do not love you—that way."
"Yes," he said, "that, of course, is the reason. I wonder—do you suppose that—in time—perhaps—you might care for me—that way?"
"I don't know." She glanced up at him fearfully, fascinated, yet repelled. "I don't know," she repeated pitifully. "Is it—can't you help thinking of me in that way? Can't you be as you were?"
"No, I can no longer help it. I don't want to help it, Eileen."
"But—I wish you to," she said in a low voice. "It is that which is coming between us. Oh, don't you see it is? Don't you feel it—feel what it is doing to us? Don't you understand how it is driving me back into myself? Whom am I to go to if not to you? What am I to do if your affection turns into this—this different attitude toward me? You were so perfectly sweet and reasonable—so good, so patient; and now—and now I am losing confidence in you—in myself—in our friendship. I'm no longer frank with you; I'm afraid at times—afraid and self-conscious—conscious of you, too—afraid of what seemed once the most natural of intimacies. I—I loved you so dearly—so fearlessly—"
Tears blinded her; she bent her head, and they fell on the soft delicate stuff of her gown, flashing downward in the sunlight.
"Dear," he said gently, "nothing is altered between us. I love you in that way, too."
"D-do you—really?" she stammered, shrinking away from him.
"Truly. Nothing is altered; nothing of the bond between us is weakened. On the contrary, it is strengthened. You cannot understand that now. But what you are to believe and always understand is that our friendship must endure. Will you believe it?"
"Y-yes—" She buried her face in her handkerchief and sat very still for a long time. He had risen and walked to the farther end of the veranda; and for a minute he stood there, his narrowed eyes following the sky flight of the white gulls off Wonder Head.
When at length he returned to her she was sitting low in the swing, both arms extended along the back of the seat. Evidently she had been waiting for him; and her face was very grave and sorrowful.
"I want to ask you something," she said—"merely to prove that you are a little bit illogical. May I?"
He nodded, smiling.
"Could you and I care for each other more than we now do, if we were married?"
"I think so," he said.
"Why?" she demanded, astonished. Evidently she had expected another answer.
He made no reply; and she lay back among the cushions considering what he had said, the flush of surprise still lingering in her cheeks.
"How can I marry you," she asked, "when I would—would not care to endure a—a caress from any man—even from you? It—such things—would spoil it all. I don't love you—that way. . . . Oh! Don't look at me that way! Have I hurt you?—dear Captain Selwyn? . . . I did not mean to. . . . Oh, what has become of our happiness! What has become of it!" And she turned, full length in the swing, and hid her face in the silken pillows.
For a long while she lay there, the western sun turning her crown of hair to fire above the white nape of her slender neck; and he saw her hands clasping, unclasping, or crushing the tiny handkerchief deep into one palm.
There was a chair near; he drew it toward her, and sat down, steadying the swing with one hand on the chain.
"Dearest," he said under his breath, "I am very selfish to have done this; but I—I thought—perhaps—you might have cared enough to—to venture—"
"I do care; you are very cruel to me." The voice was childishly broken and muffled. He looked down at her, slowly realising that it was a child he still was dealing with—a child with a child's innocence, repelled by the graver phase of love, unresponsive to the deeper emotions, bewildered by the glimpse of the mature rôle his attitude had compelled her to accept. That she already had reached that mile-stone and, for a moment, had turned involuntarily to look back and find her childhood already behind her, frightened her.
Thinking, perhaps, of his own years, and of what lay behind him, he sighed and looked out over the waste of moorland where the Atlantic was battering the sands of Surf Point. Then his patient gaze shifted to the east, and he saw the surface of Sky Pond, blue as the eyes of the girl who lay crouching in the cushioned corner of the swinging seat, small hands clinched over the handkerchief—a limp bit of stuff damp with her tears.
"There is one thing," he said, "that we mustn't do—cry about it—must we, Eileen?"
"No-o."
"Certainly not. Because there is nothing to make either of us unhappy; is there?"
"Oh-h, no."
"Exactly. So we're not going to be unhappy; not one bit. First because we love each other, anyway; don't we?"
"Y-yes."
"Of course we do. And now, just because I happen to love you in that way and also in a different sort of way, in addition to that way, why, it's nothing for anybody to cry about it; is it, Eileen?"
"No. . . . No, it is not. . . . But I c-can't help it."
"Oh, but you're going to help it, aren't you?"
"I—I hope so."
He was silent; and presently she said: "I—the reason of it—my crying—is b-b-because I don't wish you to be unhappy."
"But, dear, dear little girl, I am not!"
"Really?"
"No, indeed! Why should I be? You do love me; don't you?"
"You know I do."
"But not in that way."
"N-no; not in that way. . . . I w-wish I did."
A thrill passed through him; after a moment he relaxed and leaned forward, his chin resting on his clinched hands: "Then let us go back to the old footing, Eileen."
"Can we?"
"Yes, we can; and we will—back to the old footing—when nothing of deeper sentiment disturbed us. . . . It was my fault, little girl. Some day you will understand that it was not a wholly selfish fault—because I believed—perhaps only dreamed—that I could make you happier by loving you in—both ways. That is all; it is your happiness—our happiness that we must consider; and if it is to last and endure, we must be very, very careful that nothing really disturbs it again. And that means that the love, which is sometimes called friendship, must be recognised as sufficient. . . . You know how it is; a man who is locked up in Paradise is never satisfied until he can climb the wall and look over! Now I have climbed and looked; and now I climb back into the garden of your dear friendship, very glad to be there again with you—very, very thankful, dear. . . . Will you welcome me back?"
She lay quite still a minute, then sat up straight, stretching out both hands to him, her beautiful, fearless eyes brilliant as rain-washed stars.
"Don't go away," she said—"don't ever go away from our garden again."
"No, Eileen."
"Is it a promise . . . Philip?"
Her voice fell exquisitely low.
"Yes, a promise. Do you take me back, Eileen?"
"Yes; I take you. . . . Take me back, too, Philip." Her hands tightened in his; she looked up at him, faltered, waited; then in a fainter voice: "And—and be of g-good courage. . . . I—I am not very old yet."
She withdrew her hands and bent her head, sitting there, still as a white-browed novice, listlessly considering the lengthening shadows at her feet. But, as he rose and looked out across the waste with enchanted eyes that saw nothing, his heart suddenly leaped up quivering, as though his very soul had been drenched in immortal sunshine.
