Part 9 (2/2)

But on another day, soon after, he had a fright that left him trembling also for an hour. He had seized the cord to darken the window over the seat in which he had found the harp-bag, and was standing with his back well protected in the embrasure, when he thought he saw the tail of a black-and-white check skirt disappear round the corner of the house. He could not be sure--had he run to the window of the other wall, which was blinded, the skirt must have been already past--but he was _almost_ sure that it was Elsie. He listened in an agony of suspense for her tread on the stairs....

But no tread came, and after three or four minutes he drew a long breath of relief.

”By Jove, but that would have compromised me horribly!” he muttered....

And he continued to mutter from time to time, ”Horribly compromising ... _no_ woman would stand that ... not _any_ kind of woman ... oh, compromising in the extreme!”

Yet he was not happy. He could not have a.s.signed the cause of the fits of quiet weeping which took him sometimes; they came and went, like the fitful illumination of the clouds that travelled over the square; and perhaps, after all, if he was not happy, he was not unhappy. Before he could be unhappy something must have been withdrawn, and nothing had yet been withdrawn from him, for nothing had been granted. He was waiting for that granting, in that flower-laden, frightfully enticing apartment of his, with the pith-white walls tinged and subdued by the crimson blinds to a blood-like gloom.

He paid no heed to it that his stock of money was running perilously low, nor that he had ceased to work. Ceased to work? He had not ceased to work. They knew very little about it who supposed that Oleron had ceased to work! He was in truth only now beginning to work. He was preparing such a work ... such a work ... such a Mistress was a-making in the gestation of his Art ... let him but get this period of probation and poignant waiting over and men should see.... How _should_ men know her, this Fair One of Oleron's, until Oleron himself knew her? Lovely radiant creations are not thrown off like How-d'ye-do's. The men to whom it is committed to father them must weep wretched tears, as Oleron did, must swell with vain presumptuous hopes, as Oleron did, must pursue, as Oleron pursued, the capricious, fair, mocking, slippery, eager Spirit that, ever eluding, ever sees to it that the chase does not slacken. Let Oleron but hunt this Huntress a little longer... he would have her sparkling and panting in his arms yet.... Oh no: they were very far from the truth who supposed that Oleron had ceased to work!

And if all else was falling away from Oleron, gladly he was letting it go. So do we all when our Fair Ones beckon. Quite at the beginning we wink, and promise ourselves that we will put Her Ladys.h.i.+p through her paces, neglect her for a day, turn her own jealous wiles against her, flout and ignore her when she comes wheedling; perhaps there lurks within us all the time a heartless sprite who is never fooled; but in the end all falls away. She beckons, beckons, and all goes....

And so Oleron kept his strategic post within the frame of his bedroom door, and watched, and waited, and smiled, with his finger on his lips.... It was his duteous service, his wors.h.i.+p, his troth-plighting, all that he had ever known of Love. And when he found himself, as he now and then did, hating the dead man Madley, and wis.h.i.+ng that he had never lived, he felt that that, too, was an acceptable service....

But, as he thus prepared himself, as it were, for a Marriage, and moped and chafed more and more that the Bride made no sign, he made a discovery that he ought to have made weeks before.

It was through a thought of the dead Madley that he made it. Since that night when he had thought in his greenness that a little studied neglect would bring the lovely Beckoner to her knees, and had made use of her own jealousy to banish her, he had not set eyes on those fifteen discarded chapters of _Romilly_. He had thrown them back into the window-seat, forgotten their very existence. But his own jealousy of Madley put him in mind of hers of her jilted rival of flesh and blood, and he remembered them.... Fool that he had been! Had he, then, expected his Desire to manifest herself while there still existed the evidence of his divided allegiance? What, and she with a pa.s.sion so fierce and centred that it had not hesitated at the destruction, twice attempted, of her rival? Fool that he had been!...

But if _that_ was all the pledge and sacrifice she required she should have it--ah, yes, and quickly!

He took the ma.n.u.script from the window-seat, and brought it to the fire.

He kept his fire always burning now; the warmth brought out the last vestige of odour of the flowers with which his room was banked. He did not know what time it was; long since he had allowed his clock to run down--it had seemed a foolish measurer of time in regard to the stupendous things that were happening to Oleron; but he knew it was late.

He took the _Romilly_ ma.n.u.script and knelt before the fire.

But he had not finished removing the fastening that held the sheets together before he suddenly gave a start, turned his head over his shoulder, and listened intently. The sound he had heard had not been loud--it had been, indeed, no more than a tap, twice or thrice repeated--but it had filled Oleron with alarm. His face grew dark as it came again.

He heard a voice outside on his landing.

”Paul!... Paul!...”

It was Elsie's voice.

”Paul!... I know you're in... I want to see you....”

He cursed her under his breath, but kept perfectly still. He did not intend to admit her.

”Paul!... You're in trouble.... I believe you're in danger... at least come to the door!...”

Oleron smothered a low laugh. It somehow amused him that she, in such danger herself, should talk to him of _his_ danger!... Well, if she was, serve her right; she knew, or said she knew, all about it....

”Paul!... Paul!...”

”_Paul!... Paul!_...” He mimicked her under his breath.

”Oh, Paul, it's _horrible_!...”

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