SALLY BISHOP 
 
 E ' TEMPLE THURSTON 
 
OLiN 
 Co 2^} 
 
 l^'llH.pr:., 
 
 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR6039.H96S161910 
 
 Sally Bishop; a romance, by E. Temple Thur 
 
 3 1924 012 543 033 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924012543033 
 
Br E. TEMPLE THURSTON 
 
 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 MIRAGE 
 
 TRAFFIC 
 
 THE REALIST 
 
 THE EVOLUTION OF KATHERINE 
 
Sally Bishop 
 
 A Romance 
 
 BY 
 
 E. TEMPLE THURSTON 
 
 NEW YORK 
 MITCHELL KENNERLEY 
 
Copyright^ igo8 
 by E. 1'emple Thurston 
 
 Copyright, igio 
 hy Mitchell Kennerley 
 
To Gerald du Maurier 
 
 MY DEAR GERALD, 
 
 Amongst the many things which I anticipate 
 in the reception of this hook is the shrug-shoulder smile 
 of critics at my sub-title — a Romance. There are 
 canons and rubrics to he observed, it would seem, in 
 the slightest action that a man attempts in this Great 
 World's Fair of Conventionality, whose every side-show 
 is hedged around with the red-tape of the Law. Witness 
 even that delusive proverb — there is honour amongst 
 thieves. So is there an unwritten canon in literature 
 and the making of hooks, that a Romance must end 
 with a phrase to convey another illusion, namely, the 
 happiness that is ever after. 
 
 And so, in this respect, I throw canons to the winds 
 —if sounds a herculean feat — wash out the printed red 
 of the rubric, and call, perhaps the saddest story I shall 
 write, a Romance. 
 
 Yet I profess to have a reason beyond mere contrari- 
 ness. The world of Romance must he at all times an 
 elusive star — never capable of being put in the exact 
 same place on any one's calendar. And to me it conveys 
 no fixed beginning, nv fixed end, so long as it possesses 
 that quality of dreaming imagination in the mind of 
 
DEDICATION 
 
 the character with whom the circumstances are first conr 
 cerned. All that we know certainly of life is reality, 
 and of all those myriad things which combine to make 
 up the one great scheme, of which we know nothing, 
 there is the quality of Romance — free to any one who 
 cares to let his mind drift upon the sea of conjecture. 
 
 In that this was the case with Sally; in that she 
 made her dream out of Reality itself— rl have called it 
 a Romance. The Romance that remains a Romance 
 until the end is not as yet within the reach of my pen. 
 If it ever should be — then I promise you that book 
 as well. 
 
 On all my other anticipations — the attitude of the 
 critical mind towards Chapter IV. in Book I., the 
 sensitiveness of the delicate mind when it closes its 
 eyes on Chapter VI. of Book II. — I zeill keep silent. 
 As I have said, I anticipate many things, hut I only 
 hope for your approval. 
 
 Yours always, 
 
 E. TEMPLE THURSTON. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 FAGB 
 
 BOOK I. THE CONSCRIPT 1 
 
 BOOK II. THE DESERTER 231 
 
 BOOK III. DERELICT 334 
 
 BOOK IV. THE EMPTY HORIZON . . . . 3T1 
 
Sally Bishop 
 
 BOOK I 
 THE CONSCRIPT 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 It was an evening late in November, The fog that 
 during the afternoon had been lying like a crouching 
 beast between the closely built houses had now risen. 
 It was as though it had waited till nightfall for its 
 prey, and then departed, leaving a sense of sulkiness 
 in the atmosphere that weighed persistently on the 
 spirits. A slight drizzling rain was wetting the pave- 
 ments. It clung in a mist to the glass panes of the 
 street lamps, dimming the glow of the light within. 
 
 In the windows of all the houses the electric lights 
 were burning. You could see clerks, male and female, 
 bent up over their desks beneath them. Some worked 
 steadily, never looking up from their occupations; 
 others gazed with expressionless faces out into the 
 street. Occasionally the figure of a man would move 
 out of the apparent darkness of the room beyond. The 
 light would fall in patches on his face. You could see 
 his lips moving as he spoke to the occupant of the desk ; 
 you might even trace the faint animation as it crept 
 into the face of the person thus addressed. But it 
 would only last for a few moments. The man would 
 
2 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 move away and the look of tired apathy settle itself 
 once more upon the clerk's features as soon as he or 
 she were left alone. 
 
 As it grew later, there might be seen men with hats 
 on their heads, moving about — ^in the light one moment, 
 lost in the darkness the next. Some of them were pull- 
 ing gloves on to their hands, or lighting cigarettes, 
 others would be pinning a bunch of violets into their 
 button-holes, or brushing the shoulders of their coats. 
 These were the ones who had finished for the day. It 
 could always be known when they had taken their de- 
 parture. The heads of the clerks would twist towards 
 the interior of the room. You could almost imagine 
 the wistful expression on their faces from the bare out- 
 lines of their attitudes as they turned in their chairs. 
 Then, a minute later, the main door of the house would 
 open, the figure of a man emerge; for a moment he 
 would turn his face up to the sky, then the umbrella 
 would go up and he would walk away into the darkness 
 of the street, for one brief moment an individual with 
 an identity ; the next, a mere unit in the great herd of 
 human beings. 
 
 There were many departures such as these before, 
 at last, the clerks rose from their chairs. When finally 
 they did move, it was with a lethargy that almost con- 
 cealed the relief which the cessation of work had 
 brought them. One might have expected to see the 
 slamming of books and the rushing for hats like cliil- 
 dren released from school. But there was no such 
 energy of delight as that. Ledgers were closed wearily, 
 as though they were weighted with leaden covers; pa- 
 pers were put in tidy heaps as if they were a pile of 
 death-warrants. Typewriters were covered with such 
 slowness and such care that one might think they were 
 
SALLY BISHOP S 
 
 delicate instruments of music with silver strings, in- 
 stead of treadmills for tired hands. 
 
 Some reason must explain why these young men and 
 girls, when their superiors took their departure, showed 
 so plainly the envy that they felt and now are appar- 
 ently unmoved by the prospect of their own freedom. 
 It is simply this. VitaHty is an exhaustible quality. It 
 may last up to a certain moment, then it burns out like 
 the hungry wick of a candle that has no more grease to 
 feed it. You can incarcerate a man for such a length of 
 time that when at last you do give him his liberty he has 
 no love left for it. It is much the same with these crea- 
 tures who are imprisoned in the barred cells of London 
 offices. By the time their day's work is ended their vi- 
 tality for enjoyment has been exhausted. They take 
 their liberty much as a man takes the sentence of penal 
 servitude when he had expected to be hanged. 
 
 Stand for a moment in this street that runs out from 
 the Covent Garden Market and watch the office windows 
 before the lights are extinguished. Is there one atti- 
 tude, one moment, one gesture that betrays the joy of 
 freedom now that the day's work is over ? Scarcely one. 
 That boy with the long dark hair drooping on his fore- 
 head, contrasting so vividly against his sallow skin — 
 you might imagine from the hstlessness of his actions 
 that the day's work was just beginning. At lunch time, 
 when the vitality was yet in store, he might have been 
 seen, running out from the building in the gleeful an- 
 ticipation of an hour's rest. But now, when all the 
 hours of the night are before him, his nervous energy 
 has been sapped away. You get no spirit in a tired 
 horse. It shies at nothing, but drags one foot wearily 
 after another until the stable door is reached. 
 
 This is the actual condition of things that the young 
 
4 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 men and women find when they have burnt their boats, 
 have left the country for the illusory joys of the town. 
 There may be greater possibilities of enjoyment; but 
 this huge, carnivorous plant — ^this gigantic city of Lon- 
 don — ^has only displayed its attractions in order to gain 
 its prey. They are drawn by the colours of the petals, 
 they come to the honeyed perfume of its scent ; but once 
 caught in the prison of its embrace, there is only the 
 slow poison of forced labour that eats its deadly way 
 into the very heart of their vitality. 
 
 In one of these offices off Covent Garden, under a 
 green-shaded lamp that cast its metallic rays on to the 
 typewriting machine before her, sat one of the yoimg 
 lady clerks in the establishment of Bonsfield & Co., a 
 firm of book-buyers. They carried on a promiscuous 
 trade with America and the colonies, and managed, by 
 the straining of ends, to meet their expenses and show a 
 small margin of profit. You undertake the labour of a 
 slave in Egypt, and run the risk of a forlorn hope when 
 you try to make a living wage in London as your own 
 master. The price of freedom in a free country is be- 
 yond the reach of most pockets. 
 
 The hour of six had rung out from the neighbouring 
 clocks, yet this girl showed no signs of finishing her 
 work. From down in the street you could see her bent 
 over the machine, her fingers poimding the keys — hu- 
 man hammers monotonously striving to beat out a 
 pattern upon metal, a pattern that would never come. 
 The light from the green-shaded lamp above her, fell 
 obliquely on her head. It lit up her pale, golden hair 
 like a sun-ray; it drew out the round, gentle curve of 
 her face and threw it up against the darkness of the 
 room beyond. So well as it could, with its harsh meth- 
 ods, it made a picture. One instinctively paused to look 
 
SALLY BISHOP S 
 
 at it. A man coming out of tHe shadows of tHe Covent 
 Garden Market stopped as He passed down King Street 
 and gazed up at the window. 
 
 For five minutes he stood and watched her, assum- 
 ing, by looking up and down the street when anybody 
 passed him by, the attitude of a person who is waiting 
 for some one. 
 
 It is impossible to say whether it is really the woman 
 herself, or a combination of the woman and the mo- 
 ment, which seizes and drags a man's attention towards 
 her. In this case it may have been the combined re- 
 sult of the two. The girl was pretty. In the ray of 
 that electric light, the soft, childish outline of her face 
 and the pale, sensuous strands of her hair were prob- 
 ably lent a glamour such as that given by the foot- 
 lights. The man, too, was on his way back to com- 
 panionless chambers. The lower end of Regent Street 
 may be a far from lonely spot in which to take up 
 one's abode ; but there is nothing so empty as an empty 
 room, no matter on to what crowded thoroughfare it 
 may look. Say, then, it was a combination of impulses, 
 the woman and the moment — ^the girl pretty and the 
 man oppressed by a sense of loneliness. Whatever it 
 was, he stood there, without any apparent intention of 
 moving, and watched her. 
 
 She was the last, amongst all those workers who 
 could be seen within the lighted apertures of the win- 
 dows, to leave her post. One by one they performed 
 their weary play of actions, the shutting up of ledgers, 
 the putting away of papers — out went the lights, and 
 a moment later dim figures stole out of the darkened 
 doorways into the drizzhng rain, and hurried away 
 into the shadows of the streets. But she still remained, 
 and the man, with a certain amount of dogged per- 
 
6 SALLY BISHOP, 
 
 sistence, continued to watch her movements. Once he 
 itook out his watch, as his impatience became more 
 insistent. Then, with the continual watching of her, 
 the continual sight of her hands dancing laboriously 
 on those keys, the noise of the typewriter at last 
 reached the ears of his imagination. He could hear, 
 above the sounds of the street, that everlasting metallic 
 tapping. 
 
 "God! What a life!" he exclaimed to himself. 
 
 If there is anything in telepathy; if thoughts, by 
 reason of their concentration, can be borne from one 
 mind to another utterly unconscious of them, then 
 what followed his exclamation might well have been 
 an example of it. For a moment the girl buried her 
 face in her hands. He could see her pressing her fin- 
 gers into the sockets of her eyes. Then, sitting up- 
 right, she stretched her arms above her head. Every 
 action was expressive of her exhaustion. The glanc- 
 ing at her watch, the critical inspection of the bundle 
 of papers, yet untyped, that lay beside her on the 
 desk; all these various movements were like the ges- 
 tures of a dumb show. Was she going to give in? 
 From the size of the bundle of papers which she had' 
 looked at, there was apparently stiU a great deal of 
 work left for her to do. 
 
 The thought passed across his mind that he would 
 give her until he had counted twenty; if she showed 
 no signs of moving by that time, he decided to wait 
 no longer. 
 
 One — two — three — four — she stood up from the 
 desk. He still watched her until he had seen her place 
 the wooden cover over the machine; then he crossed to 
 the other side of the road and began walking up and 
 (Jowp the paveijientj passing the door of Bonsfield & 
 
SALLY BISHOP 1 
 
 Co. About every twenty yards or so, he turned and 
 passed it again. 
 
 Five minutes elapsed. At last he heard the door of 
 the premises close — ^the noise of it rattled in the street ; 
 then he turned and faced her as she came towards him. 
 
 Her head was down; her feet were moving quickly, 
 tapping on the pavement. He prepared himself to 
 speak to her, his hand getting ready to lift his hat. 
 If she had given him half the encouragement that he 
 imagined he required, he would have found courage; 
 but without lifting her head, as though she were utterly 
 unconscious of his presence, she hurried by in the di- 
 rection of Bedford Street and the West. 
 
 Was that to be the end of it.'' Had he waited that 
 full quarter of an hour in the drizzling rain for noth- 
 ing.'' The man of fixed intent is hardly beaten so easily 
 as that. There was no definite evil purpose in his mind. 
 He was caught in that mood when a man must talk to 
 some one, and a woman for preference. The waiting 
 of fifteen minutes in that sluggish atmosphere had only 
 intensified it. The fact that in the first moment of op- 
 portunity his courage had failed had had no power to 
 move him from his purpose, or to change the prompt- 
 ing of his mood. 
 
 As soon as she had passed him on the pavement, he 
 turned resolutely and followed her. 
 
CHAPTER n 
 
 Ail life is an adventure, even the most monotonous 
 moments of it. It is impossible to walk the streets of 
 London without being conscious of that spirit of the 
 possibility of happenings which makes Uf e tolerable. It 
 was not to feast their eyes upon unknown worlds, or 
 drench their hands in a stream of gold, that the old 
 marauders of England set forth upon the high seas. 
 Assuredly it must have been, in the hearts of them, that 
 love of adventure, that desire for the happenings of 
 strange things which spurred them on to face God in 
 the wind, to dare Him in the tempest, to brave Him 
 even into the unknown. 
 
 Some of that instinct, but in its various and lesser 
 degrees, is left in us now. For one moment it rose in 
 the mind of Sally Bishop, as she turned into Bedford 
 Street and directed her course towards Piccadilly Circus. 
 It had crossed her mind in suspicion — ^the uprush of an 
 idea, as a bubble struggles to the surface — that the 
 man whom she had found waiting outside the premises 
 of Bonsfield & Co. had had the intention in his mind 
 to speak to her as she passed. Now, as she looked side- 
 ways when she turned the corner, and found that he 
 had altered his direction — ^was following her — the sus- 
 picion became a conviction. She knew. 
 
 In the first realization, the thought of adventure 
 thrilled her. A life, quiet and uneventful such as hers, 
 looks of necessity for its happiness to the Uttle thrills, 
 
SALLY BISHOP 9 
 
 the little emotions that combine to make one day less 
 monotonous than another. But when, having reached 
 Garrick Street and, looking hurriedly over her shoulder, 
 she found that not only was he still following, but that 
 he had perceptibly lessened the distance between them, 
 the spirit of interest sank — died out, like a candle 
 snuffed in a gale. In that moment she became afraid. 
 
 It is nameless, that terror in the mind of a woman 
 [pursued. Yet without it one of the first of her 
 abstract attractions would be gone. Undoubtedly it is 
 the joy of the pursuer that the quarry should take to 
 flight. Would there be any chase without? But long 
 years of study amongst the more advanced of us have 
 made the fact of rather common knowledge. The woman 
 has learnt that to be caught there must be flight, and, 
 in assuming it, she has acquired for herself the instincts 
 of the pursuer. So an army, resorting to the strategy 
 of retreat, is still the pursuer in the more subtle sense 
 of the word. It is this strategy that is cunningly 
 taught in the modern, genteel education of the sex. 
 The virtue of chastity it is called, but over the length 
 of time it has come to be a forced growth ; it has altered 
 intrinsically in its composition. Education has learnt 
 to make use of chastity, rather than to acquire it for 
 itself. And, after all, what is it in itself, when the gilt 
 of its glamour is stripped, Hke tinsel, from the fairy's 
 pantomimic wand? 
 
 There is, when everything has been said, oidy one 
 value in chastity in its ideal sense, so long as we iare tied 
 to these conditions of human instinct, and that is in the 
 value that it brings to women. Without it, a woman 
 may be the essence of fascination; she may be the com- 
 pleteness of attraction, but for the need of the race she 
 is undesirable. Without chastity, a woman may be most 
 
10 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 things to a man, but she cannot be a mother to his 
 child. 
 
 Amongst those girls, then, whose desire in life it is 
 to marry, conforming in all ways to the authority of 
 convention, chastity has been taught from the cradle — 
 taught as a means to an end. It is mostly, if not 
 altogether, in the lower middle classes that you will find 
 chastity to be an end in itself. The destructive philos- 
 ophy of education has not swept out the gentler virtues 
 from them. As yet they have not come under the keen 
 edge of its influence. For their chastity, then, they are 
 interesting; whereas the manufactured virtue of the 
 upper middle class is like the hothouse strawberry — 
 forced in May — a tempting fruit to lay upon a dish, 
 but tasteless, as is wool, between the teeth. 
 
 It is this virtue — ^this real quality, breeding self- 
 respect — that you will find in the mind of Sally Bishop. 
 Here is no strategy of movement, no well-considered 
 campaign. She quickens her steps, and her heart 
 thumps within her, because that virtue, which is her 
 priceless possession, is in danger of being assailed. In 
 the very soul of her is the desire to escape. There are 
 thousands of women whom education has nursed who 
 set the pace as well, whenever a man starts in pursuit; 
 but the course of their flight leads straight to the altar 
 and they run neither too fast, nor too slow, lest by any 
 chance the hunter should weary of the chase. But here 
 you have none of this. The woman is obeying instincts 
 that Nature gave her with her soul. Sally Bishop is 
 pure — ^the chaste woman. Where men most look for 
 her, she is hard to find. 
 
 This journey from King Street to Piccadilly Circus 
 was performed every evening. In Piccadilly she found 
 the 'bus that took her to Hammersmith. It was a 
 
BALLY BISHOP 11 
 
 pleasurable little journey; she looked forward to it. It 
 amused her to dally on the way, stopping to look in the 
 shop windows. The bright lights lifted her spirits. 
 After a time she had become acquainted with the prints 
 that hung in the print-seller's windows in Garrick Street ; 
 they always stayed there long enough to grow familiar. 
 There was also a jeweller's shop in Coventry Street; it 
 sold second-hand silver — old Sheffield-plated candle- 
 sticks, cream ewers and sugar bowls; George III. 
 silver tea-services, and quaint-shaped wine strainers — 
 they stood there in the window in profusion. In them- 
 selves, for the daintiness of their design, or the value of 
 their antiquity, they did not interest her. She liked 
 the look of them glittering there ; they conveyed a sense 
 of the embarrassment of riches which touched her ideas 
 of romance. It was the tray of old-fashioned ornaments, 
 brooches in the design of flimsy baskets of flowers, each 
 flower represented by a different coloured stone — old 
 signet rings, old seals, quaint little figures of men and 
 beasts in silver, sometimes in gold ; these were the things 
 that caught her fancy ; she pored over them, choosing, 
 every time she passed, some fresh trinket that she would 
 like to possess. 
 
 But on this evening in November she did not stop. 
 At the print-seller's in Garrick Street, she hesitated, 
 but one glance over her shoulder sped her onwards. 
 The apprehension most prominent in her mind was that 
 if she continually looked behind her, the man might 
 fancy she was encouraging him. Once having con- 
 sciously decided that, she turned no more until she had 
 reached the protection of the fountain in the middle 
 of the Circus. There she stopped and glanced back. 
 He was gone. In all the hundreds of human beings 
 who mingled and churned like a swarm of ants upon_ 
 
12 SALLY BISHOE 
 
 an anthill, he was nowhere to be seen. With a genuine 
 sigh of relief, she crossed over to the Piccadilly side and 
 walked beside a Hammersmith 'bus, as it slowed gradu- 
 ally down to the regulated place where the conditions 
 of trafSc permit vehicles to collect their passengers. 
 
 A little crowd of people, like flies upon fallen fruit, 
 clung about the steps of the 'bus as it moved towards 
 its resting-place. She joined in with them, jostled 
 along the pavement by their efforts to secure an advan- 
 tageous position by the steps. When finally it did 
 come to a standstill and she had reached the conductor's 
 platform, the announcement, "Outside only," met her 
 attempt to force a passage within. 
 
 It was still raining — that persistent mist of rain that 
 steals a way through any clothing. Should she wait.'' 
 She had no umbrella. But she had known what it was 
 to wait on such occasions before. The next 'bus would 
 probably be full up inside, and the next, and the next. 
 Twenty minutes might well be wasted before she could 
 start on her way home, and you have little energy left 
 within you to care about a wetting, when from nine 
 o'clock in the morning until six, when it is dark, you 
 have been beating the keys of a typewriter. Your mind 
 demands but little then, so long as you can secure a 
 peaceful oblivion. 
 
 So, in the face of others who turned back, she 
 mounted the stairway on to the roof of the 'bus. There 
 she was alone, and, pulling the tarpaulin covering 
 around her, she seated herself on the little bench far- 
 thest from the driver. The little bell tinkled twice, 
 viciously — all drivers and conductors are made vicious 
 by a steady rain — and they moved out into the swim 
 of the traffic, as a steamer puts out from its pier. 
 
 On bright evenings it was the most enjoyable part 
 
SALLY BISHOP 1^ 
 
 of the -journey home, this ride from Piccadilly Circus 
 to Hammersmith. From there onwards in the tram to 
 Kew Bridge, it became uninteresting. The shops were 
 not so bright ; the people not so well dressed. It always 
 gave her a certain amount of quaint amusement to envy 
 the ladies in their carriages and motor-cars. The envy 
 was not malicious. You would have found no socialistic 
 tendencies in her. In her mind, utterly untutored in 
 the sense of logic, she found birth to be a full and suf- 
 ficient reason for possession. But there was always alive 
 in her consciousness the orderly desire to also be a pos- 
 sessor herself. It never led her actually into a definite 
 discontent with her own conditions of life, irksome, 
 wearying, exhausting though she found them to be. 
 But sub-consciously within her was the feeling that she 
 was not really meant to be denied the joy of luxuries. 
 That instinct showed itself in many little ways. She 
 was sometimes extravagant — bought a silk petticoat 
 when a cotton one would have done just as well — ^but, 
 oh heavens ! it was cheap ! You would scarcely have 
 thought it possible to buy silk petticoats at the price. 
 And no doubt the appearance of the silk was only super- 
 ficial. But it gave her a great deal of pleasure. When 
 any lady stepped down from her carriage to go into 
 one of those West End shops, Sally always noticed the 
 petticoat that she Wore. Women will — ^men too, perhaps. 
 But on this dismal evening, when whenever she lifted 
 her head the fine rain sprayed upon her face, there was 
 no pleasure to be found in watching the people in the 
 streets below. Carriages were huddled up in line upon 
 the stands and the coachmen shivered miserably on their 
 seats, the rain dripping in steady drops from the brims 
 of their hats into the laps of their mackintoshes. So 
 she kept her head down, and when she heard footsteps 
 
^14 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 mounting the stairway, approaching her, she held out 
 the three coppers for her fare without looking up. 
 When her mind, anticipating the answering ring of the 
 conductor's ticket-puncher, realized the mistake, she 
 raised her head, then twisted back, electrically, as 
 though some current had been passed through her body. 
 Seated on the bench at the other side of the passage- 
 way, was the man whom she had found in King Street 
 outside the premises of Bonsfield & Co. 
 
 Her jfirst thought was to get oflF the 'bus. She made 
 a preparatory movement, leaning forward with her 
 hand upon the back of the seat in front of her. Pos- 
 sibly the man saw it and had no desire to be foiled a 
 second time. Whatever may have been his purpose, he 
 moved nearer to her and held out the umbrella with 
 which he was sheltering himself. 
 
 "You'd better let me lend you an umbrella — 
 hadn't you? " he said. 
 
 There is a quality of voice that commands. It neither 
 considers nor admits of refusal. He had it. Women 
 of strong personality it irritates; women with no per- 
 sonality it affrights; but the women who are women 
 obey — ^with reluctance probably, struggling against it, 
 but in the end they obey. There is, again, a quality of 
 voice that hall-marks the man of birth. Long years of 
 careful preservation of the breed have refined it down. 
 It may cloak a mind that is vicious to a thought; but 
 there is a ring in it — a ring of true metal, well tried in 
 the furnace. He had that also. From him, dressed none 
 too carefully, it sounded almost misplaced and therefore 
 was the more noticeable. The effect of it upon her was 
 obvious. Instead of taking his suggestion as an insult, 
 which undoubtedly she would have done had the offer 
 been made in any other type of voice, Sally checked the 
 
SALLY BISHOP IS 
 
 offended toss of her head, restrained the contemptuous 
 flash of eye, and merely said, "No, thank you." She 
 said it coldly. There was no warmth of encouragement, 
 either in her tone of voice or the unrecognizing eye which 
 she turned upon him without trace of sympathy. 
 
 "Isn't that rather foolish?" he suggested. "You'll 
 get wet through. How far are you going?" 
 
 "Hammersmith." 
 
 He had asked the question with such apparent in- 
 consequence that the thought of denying him the infor- 
 mation had not occurred to her. Undoubtedly it was 
 foolish to refuse his offer. She would get wet through 
 before she reached Hammersmith. The tarpaulin only 
 covered her skirt, and in the lap that it made was al- 
 ready a pool of water swilling backwards and forwards 
 with the rocking of the 'bus. Through her mind raced 
 a swift calculation, estimating the benefits she would 
 gain by keeping dry. They were not many in number, 
 but they entered the balance, dragged down the scales 
 of her decision. The hat she was wearing — it was not 
 a best hat — ^but some few evenings before, she had re- 
 trimmed it; there was matter for consideration in that. 
 The frame was a good one. It could be trimmed again 
 and again, so long as it met with those requirements 
 which in Sally's mind were governed by a vogue of 
 fashion that she followed reverently, though always, 
 perhaps, some few paces in the rear. A severe wetting 
 might so alter the shape of that frame as to make it 
 for ever imwearable. Her coat was serge — short, end- 
 ing at the waist ; the feather boa that clung round her 
 neck, they would inevitably suffer without protection. 
 For the moment she felt angry with herself. She hoped 
 almost, since he was there, that he would make his 
 offer again. It is these little things — the saving of a 
 
16 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 feather boa, the destruction of a flimsy hat frame — ^that 
 are the seed of big issues. Every book, as Is this, is in 
 its way a study in the evolution of a crisis, the germ of 
 tiny incident which through a thousand stages grows 
 in strength and magnitude until it takes upon itself the 
 stature of some giant event. 
 
 The thought of her clothes that had entered Sally's 
 mind brought her one step further, prepared her for 
 the silent permission she gave him, when he took the 
 vacant seat beside her and shared the innbreUa between 
 them. 
 
 "By the time you reached Hammersmith," he said, 
 "you know you'd be soaked." 
 
 "It wouldn't be the first time," she replied. 
 
 "Probably not — ^but it might be the last." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "Influenza — ^pneumonia — congestion of the lungs — 
 of such are the kingdom of heaven." 
 
 She looked at him quickly — that sudden look of one 
 who for a moment sees into another and a new mind, 
 as passing some strange house, you look with curious 
 surprise through the unexpectedly opened door into an- 
 other's life. The glance was as quick, as little compre- 
 hensive. Just as within that strange house you see 
 schemes of colour that you would never have thought 
 of, furniture and pictures that are not of your taste 
 at all, so Sally saw for one brief moment the glimpse 
 of a mind that could casually make a jest of death and 
 holy-written things. A great deal of that servile obedi- 
 ence to the religion in which she had been brought up 
 had been driven out of her by hard work. You might 
 not get the priesthood to admit it, but religion is a lux- 
 ury which few of the hard-workers in this world can 
 afford. But she still maintained that sense of conven- 
 
SALLY BISHOP 17 
 
 tional awe which strict religious training drives deep 
 into a receptive mind. 
 
 "Do you think it amusing to speak like that?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "Like what?" 
 
 "What you said — the sentence that you quoted?" 
 
 "Of such are the kingdom of heaven?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "WeU — I don't think it's the best joke I've ever 
 made — but it was meant to be amusing." 
 
 At this, she laughed — ^laughed in spite of herself. 
 His absolute inconsequence was in itself humorous. She 
 snatched a swift glance at him under cover of a pre- 
 tence to look behind her. As her eyes returned, she 
 was conscious that she was interested. 
 
 He was clean shaven. The lines were hard about his 
 mouth, cutting character — ^the chin was strong, the jaw 
 well-moulded. It was not a type of face that belonged 
 to the class in which she moved. These men were of 
 the unreliable type — some definite weakness somewhere 
 in every face. So far as she could see in that one sud- 
 den glance, this man had none. His face dominated, 
 his voice too. The hardness of his features carried with 
 it a sense of cruelty; but a woman is seldom thwarted 
 by that. 
 
 Then returned again the spirit of adventure. By 
 the peculiar inconsequence of his conversation, he had 
 succeeded in driving timidity from her. No man whom 
 she knew would, in the first moments of acquaintance, 
 have spoken as he did. The fact of that alone was an 
 interest in itself. This was an adventure. Again she 
 thrilled to it. The unexpectedness of the whole affair, 
 this riding homewards on the top of a 'bus with a man 
 who had come out of nowhere into her life — even if it 
 
18 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 were only for a few moments. Would not many another 
 girl in her position be delighted with the experience? 
 That thought warmed her to a greater appreciation of 
 the situation. 
 
 But why had he been waiting outside the door of the 
 office? Why had he followed her? How had he known 
 that she was employed in the exacting services of Bons- 
 field & Co.? AU these questions gyrated wildly in her 
 mind, swept about, confused at finding no plausible 
 answers to their importunate demands. 
 
 Then, lastly, who was he? There are men who sug- 
 gest to you that they must be somebody; there is an 
 air of distinction about them that glosses the cheapest 
 coat and creases the poorest pair of trousers. If they 
 are poorly dressed, then it must be that they are mas- 
 querading; if their clothes are well-fitting, then it is 
 only what you would have expected. It makes for no 
 definite confirmation of your opinion. 
 
 Sally was made conscious of this impression, and, in 
 its way, that thrilled her too. You have little chance 
 with a woman in this world if you are a nonentity. 
 Personality inevitably wins its way, and, in that she 
 was susceptible to the personality of the man beside 
 her, Sally forgot the circumstances of their acquaint- 
 ance, forgot to review them with that same impartial 
 judgment which she would have exercised had the 
 man conveyed to her mind a more commonplace im- 
 pression. 
 
 Stung then with curiosity to know how he had heard 
 of her, how he had come to be waiting in King Street 
 until she should leave off her work, or whether, as she 
 suspected, it were only that he had been attracted to 
 her as she passed by, she gave herself away with un- 
 conscious ingenuousness. 
 
SALLY BISHOP 19 
 
 "Why were you waiting in King Street?" she asked 
 suddenly. 
 
 The words hurried, tumbling in a confusion of self- 
 consciousness from her lips. 
 
 "Oh — ^you saw me there.'"' said he. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You saw me when you passed?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Did you know I was walking behind you all the way 
 to Piccadilly Circus?" 
 
 "N— no— how should I?" 
 
 "You looked back once or twice." 
 
 "Did I?" 
 
 "Why do you want to know why I was waiting in 
 King Street?" 
 
 "I don't want to know particularly." 
 
 "ShaU I tell you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I had seen you through the window — ^working at 
 that ghastly typewriter — stood there for more than a 
 quarter of an hour — down in the street — ^waiting till 
 you got sick of it. Then I was going to ask you to 
 come and have tea with me — dinner if you'd liked. 1 
 wanted some one to talk to; I was going back to my 
 rooms. When they're empty, a man's rooms can be the 
 most godless " 
 
 She stood up abruptly, striking her hat against the 
 roof of the umbrella. 
 
 "Will you let me out, please?" 
 
 "But you told me you were going to Hammersmith. 
 This is only Knightsbridge." 
 
 "I'm getting down here." 
 
 He stood up. "I've offended you," he said quietly. 
 
 "Did you Imagine you would not?" 
 
20 SiCLLY BISHOP 
 
 "No — ^I suppose I didn't — ^but I wasn't going to let 
 that stop me from making your acquaintance. There's 
 nothing to be sorry about. You were sick of things — 
 I covdd see that through the window — so was I. Mayn't 
 two human beings, who are sick of things, find something 
 in common? You're really going?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She curled her lip with contempt ; but it had a smile 
 behind it which he could not see. 
 
 "Shan't we see each other again?" 
 
 "Certainly not!" 
 
 She stood at the top of the steps waiting for the 'bus 
 to stop. He looked up into her face and held her eyes. 
 
 "Then I apologize," he said willingly. "And 3on't 
 be offended at what I'm going to say now." 
 
 She put her foot down on to the first step. "What 
 is it?" 
 
 "I'll bet you ten pounds we don't. That is to say you 
 win ten pounds if we do." 
 
 She laughed contemptuously in a breath and hurried 
 down the steps. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 It is all very well to say that there have been move- 
 ments towards the enfranchisement of women since be- 
 fore the Roman era; it is all very well to point out 
 that these movements are periodical, almost as inevi- 
 table as the volcanic eruptions that belch out their 
 volumes of rimning fire and die down again into peace- 
 ful submission: but when the whole vital cause is 
 altered, when the intrinsic motive in the entrails of 
 that vast crater is changed, it is no wise policy to say, 
 "It will pass over — ^another two or three years and 
 women will find, as they have always foimd before, 
 that it is better to sit still and let others do the work." 
 
 It is the problem of population that is being worked 
 out now, not the mere spontaneous and ephemeral 
 struggle of a few dominating personalities. 
 
 It is well-nigh ludicrous to think that Sally Bishop 
 — quiet, virtuous, chaste Sally Bishop, the very op- 
 posite of a revolutionary — is one in the ranks of a 
 great army who are marching, they scarcely know 
 whither, to a command they have scarcely heard, 
 strained to a mighty endurance in a cause they 
 scarcely understand. She seems too young to be of 
 service, too frail to bear the hardships of the way. 
 How can she stand out against the forced marches, the 
 weary, sleepless camping at night? 
 
 There are going to be many in this great campaign 
 who will drop exhausted from the ranks — ^many who, 
 linder cover pf night, wjieu the sentinel is drowsy at 
 
22 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 his post, will slip out into the darkness, weary of the 
 fatigue, regardless of the consequences — a deserter 
 from the cause that is so ill-understood. There are 
 going to be many who, through a passing village 
 where all is peace and contentment, will hear the tempt- 
 ing whisper of mutiny. What is the good of it all — to 
 what does it lead, this endless forced march towards a 
 vague encounter with the enemy who are never to be 
 seen? If only they might pitch tents there and then 
 — ^there and then dig trenches, make positions, occupy 
 heights — ^put the rifle to the shoulder and fire — into 
 hell if need be. But no — this endless, toilsome march- 
 ing, marching — always onward, yet never at the jour- 
 ney's end. 
 
 Who blames them If they fall by the way? Even 
 the sergeant of the division, passing their crumpled 
 bodies by the roadside, becomes a hypocrite if he kicks 
 them into an obedience of their orders. In his heart 
 he might well wish to drop out as they have done. 
 Who blames them, too, if they slink off, hiding behind 
 any cover that will conceal their trembling bodies until 
 the whole army has gone by? — ^who blames them if 
 they sham illness, lameness, anything that may be put 
 forward as an excuse to set them free? — who blames 
 them if a wayside cottage offers them shelter and, tak- 
 ing it, they leave the other poor wretches to go on? 
 Who blames them then? No one — ^no one with a heart 
 could do so. The great tragedy lies in the fact that 
 they are left to blame themselves. 
 
 And this — this Is the way that Nature wages war 
 • — a civil war, that Is the worst, the most harrowing 
 of all. She fights her own kith and kin; she gives 
 battle to the very conditions which she herself has 
 made. There is yerj seldom a hand-to-hand en- 
 
SALLY BISHOP 23 
 
 counter. Only your French Revolutions and your 
 Russian Massacres mark the spots where the two 
 armies have met, where blood has flowed like wine from 
 the broken goblets of some thousands of lives. But 
 usually it is the forced marches, with the enemy ever 
 retreating over its own ground. And in this position 
 of women, it is the army of Nature that has begun to 
 move. Not the mere rising of a rebellious faction, but 
 the entire unconquerable force of humanity whose 
 whole existence is threatened by the invading power 
 of population. 
 
 And SaUy Bishop — frail, tender-hearted, sensitive 
 Sally Bishop — has donned the bandolier and the 
 haversack and is off with the rest, just one unit in the 
 rank and file, one slender individual in Nature's army 
 that is out on a campaign to effect the inevitable 
 change in the social conditions of the sex. It makes 
 no matter that she will never reap the benefit ; it counts 
 not at all that she will never touch the spoil. The lines 
 must be filled up. When she falls, there must be others 
 to take her place. The bugle has sounded in the hearts 
 of thousands of women of her type, and they have had 
 to obey its thrilling call. 
 
 Stand for half an hour in the morning at any of 
 the main termini of London's traffic-ways, and you will 
 see them in their thousands. They little know the law 
 they are obeying; they little realize the cause for which 
 they are working, or the effect it will produce. In an- 
 other book from this pen it has been declared that the 
 words of Maeterlinck — "the spirit of the hive" — are 
 an inspired phrase. Here, in these conditions, with no 
 need to don the protecting gauze, you may see its vivid 
 illustration, as only the great draughtsmanship of life 
 can illustrate the wondrous schemes of Nature. 
 
a SALLY BISHOP 
 
 For two years Sally Bishop had been one amongst 
 them. For two years she had caught her tram at Kew 
 Bridge in the morning and her tram again at Ham- 
 mersmith at night. Only her Sundays and her Satur- 
 day afternoons were free, except for those two won- 
 derful weeks in the summer and the yawning gaps in 
 the side of the year which are known as National holi- 
 days. 
 
 When — ^where did the bugle sound that called Sally 
 to her conscription? What press-gang of circum- 
 stances waylaid her, in what peaceful wandering of 
 life, and bore her off to the service of her sex? 
 
 There is a little story attached to it — one of those 
 slight, slender threads of incident that go to form a 
 shadow here or a light there in the broad tapestry of 
 the whole. 
 
 The Rev. Samuel Bishop was rector of the parish 
 church in the little town of Cailsham, in Kent. This 
 was Sally's father. There never was a meeker man; 
 there never was a man more truly fitted with those 
 characteristics of piety which are essentially and only 
 Christian. With charity he was filled, though he had 
 but little to bestow — his whole intellect was subordi- 
 nated to his faith — and with the light of hope his little 
 eyes glittered so long as one straw lay floating on the 
 tide. 
 
 This is the man whom Christianity demands, and this 
 the very man whom Christianity crushes like a slug 
 under the heel. He is bound to be a failure — ^bound 
 to hope too much, be blind with faith, and give, out of 
 charity, with the witless hand that knows not where to 
 bestow. 
 
 For ten years he had held the parish of Cailsham, 
 fulfilling all his duties by that rulp of thumb which is 
 
SALLY BISHOP «S 
 
 the refuge to all those lacking in initiative. Not one 
 of the parishioners could find any fault with him, yet 
 none bore him respect. They blinked through his ser- 
 vices. During his deliberate intoning of the lessons, 
 they thought of all their worldly affairs, and while he 
 preached, they slept. 
 
 Hundreds of parishes are served with men like the 
 Rev. Samuel Bishop. It Is half the decay of Chris- 
 tianity that the prospect of a fat living will induce 
 men to adopt the profession of the Church. This Is 
 the irony of life in all religions, that to be kept going, 
 to increase and multiply, they must be financially 
 sound ; yet as soon as that financial security Is reached, 
 you have men pouring into their offices who seek no 
 more than a comfortable living. 
 
 There is only one true religion, the ministry of the 
 head to the devotion of the heart. You need no priest- 
 hood here, but the priesthood of conscience; you need 
 no costly erection of churches, but the open world of 
 God's house of worship. There Is no necessity for the 
 training of voices, when the choir of Nature can sing 
 in harmony as no voice ever sang. There is no call 
 now for the two or three to gather together. The 
 group system has had its day, has done Its work. The 
 two or three who gather together now, do so, not In a 
 communion of mind, but in criticism and fear. Each 
 knows quite well what the other is thinking of. Where 
 Is the necessity for one common prayer to bring their 
 souls together.'' Their souls are already tearing at 
 each other's throats. 
 
 You would not have found the Rev. Samuel Bishop 
 agreeing to this. How could any man consent to give 
 up his livelihood, even for the truth.'' This gentleman 
 would have stayed on in his parish, happy in his hope- 
 
26 'SALLY BISHOP 
 
 less incompetence, until his parishioners might have 
 sent in a third request for his retirement, had not the 
 irony of circumstances broken him upon its unyielding 
 anvil. 
 
 For ten years, as has been said, he had held the rec- 
 torship of the parish of Cailsham. Sally was then 
 fourteen years of age. Her mother, one of those hard 
 yet well-featured women upon whom the struggle of 
 life wears with but little ill-effect, had endeavoured to 
 bring her up in the first belief of social importance 
 consistent, to an illogical mind, with the teachings of 
 her husband's calling. But she had failed. It was 
 grained in the nature of Sally to let the morrow take 
 thought for the things of itself. The other three 
 children, the boy up at Oxford, the two girls, one older, 
 the other younger than Sally, were different. With 
 them she succeeded. Into their minds she instilled the 
 knowledge that, of all professions, the Church takes 
 the highest rank in the social scale, and though in the 
 world itself they might have found that hard to believe, 
 yet in the little town of Cailsham Mrs. Bishop had dis- 
 covered her capacity for draining from her husband's 
 parishioners a certain social deference and respect. 
 
 By persuading the Rev. Samuel to utilize his priestly 
 influence upon the declining years of an old lady of 
 title in the neighbourhood, Mrs. Bishop had stolen her 
 way into the very best society which Cailsham had to 
 offer. And Sally was the only one of her children who 
 did not thoroughly appreciate it. 
 
 With what deftness she had induced her husband to 
 make his spiritual ministrations indispensable to the 
 tottering vitality of Lady Bray; with what cunning 
 she herself had persuaded the old woman to be present 
 at her garden parties over the last five years, though 
 
SALLY BISHOP 27 
 
 the poor creature was nothing but the head of death 
 and the bones of decay, barely kept together by the 
 common support of her clothes, it would be almost im- 
 possible to imagine. But to entertain Lady Bray; to 
 be even a friend of her ladyship was, in Cailsham in 
 those days, a key to the secret chamber of social suc- 
 cess. And Mrs. Bishop held it. 
 
 The Rev. Samuel himself gave her ladyship a copy 
 of the Holy Bible, bound in the best Russian leather, 
 with various texts marked, which had never failed to 
 bring her comfort when intoned in the meek monotony 
 of his gentle voice. On the fly-leaf, he had inscribed 
 her name — ^Lady Bray, from her devoted friend and 
 rector, Samuel Bishop. 
 
 On Sundays it was quite a feature of the Communion 
 Service to see the state and ceremony with which the 
 Holy Eucharist was carried down the aisle to the 
 Brays' family pew, where the old lady sat, huddled and 
 alone in one of the corners, like a dead body covered 
 clumsily with a black pall. One of the parishioners, 
 who had not that good fortune of being personally 
 acquainted with Lady Bray, declared that she really 
 almost objected to this invariable interruption of the 
 service. 
 
 "I assure you," she said, "it — It practically amounts 
 to a procession like they have in the Roman Catholic 
 Church." 
 
 It was this lady who — whenever the occasion de- 
 manded, which was not often — ^bracketed in a breath 
 Roman Catholics and unfortunate women of the street, 
 and alluded to them jointly as — poor creatures. 
 
 To be able to say this, and feel that one is daring 
 convention by one's breadth of mind, js IIQ UliCOBlinou 
 
 standard of Christian intelligence. 
 
28 SALLY BISHOP. 
 
 But all this i3utiful attention to Lady Bray availed 
 the Rev. Samuel nothing. On the anvil of circum- 
 stances he was broken, as in the smithy the red-hot 
 metal is bent and severed as though it were but clay. 
 
 After ten years' faithful, if somewhat incompetent 
 service, in the parish of Cailsham, the Rev. Samuel 
 Bishop was requested to accept the chaplaincy at some 
 distant Union. It was in this manner that his down- 
 fall came about. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 It was Easter Sunday. The vicar of the little parish 
 of Steynton, just outside Maidstone, was away for his 
 holidays, and the Rev. Samuel Bishop had taken his 
 place as locum tenens. 
 
 In the small church where the parishioners met every 
 Sunday, it had been the custom for some time past for 
 an earnest and well-known member of the congregation, 
 who had an appreciation for the sound of his own voice, 
 to read the lessons at Matins and at Evensong. This 
 duty, combined with that of warden, was fulfilled by 
 Mr. Windle, an ardent church-goer, a staunch, if some- 
 what narrow-visioned Christian and a man, rigid in his 
 adherence to the cause of total abstinence. 
 
 Before morning service on this Easter Sunday, he 
 met the Rev. Samuel Bishop in the vestry. The or- 
 ganist had already gone to his seat behind the chancel. 
 The first preliminary notes of the voluntary — ^weak 
 and uncertain, because the organ-blower had come late 
 and as yet there was not sufficient wind in the bellows 
 — were beginning to sound through the building. The 
 two men were alone. 
 
 "I should like to know," Sally's father was saying, 
 in his quiet, apologetic voice, "how many people you 
 generally expect to communicate on Easter Sunday. 
 The wine, you know. I want to know how much wine 
 to pour out." 
 
 His face twitched as he waited for the answer. It 
 seemed as if some unseen fingers were alternately pinch- 
 
30 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 ing the flabby flesh of his cheeks, then as swiftly letting 
 it go. 
 
 Mr. WIndle made a mental calculation, delivering 
 his estimation of the number with a voice confident of 
 his accuracy. 
 
 "Sixty," he said. "Not less — possibly more." 
 
 "That will take a lot of wine." 
 
 "There's plenty in that cupboard," said Mr. Windle. 
 
 The gentle rector reverently opened the cupboard 
 and examined it. 
 
 "Oh yes; there is enough," he said. He held up a 
 black bottle to the light, and blinked at it short- 
 sightedly. "I — I only wanted to make sure," he 
 added; "it is apt to make one somewhat apprehen- 
 sive, when one is officiating in a strange church — ap- 
 prehensive, if you understand what I mean, of any 
 hitch in the service." 
 
 "Quite so," said Mr. Windle, sympathetically. He 
 extracted a small, white, potash throat lozenge from 
 the pocket of his waistcoat, and placed it on his tongue. 
 In another twenty-five minutes from that moment he 
 would be reading the lessons. The lozenge would be 
 dissolved and swallowed by that time, and the bene- 
 ficial effect upon his throat complete when he was ready 
 to begin. 
 
 "The bishop is holding early Communion in Maid- 
 stone this morning," he said, when the lozenge had 
 settled into its customary place in his mouth. 
 
 "So I heard," said Mr. Bishop. "What a charm- 
 ing man his lordship is." 
 
 "You know him?" asked Mr. Windle in surprise. 
 
 "WeU— slightly." 
 
 "He is doing us the honour of dining with us to-day 
 after morning service. We always dine in the middle 
 
SALLY BISHOP 31 
 
 of the day on Sundays — only Sundays, of course." 
 "Indeed?" said the Rev. Samuel, in reference to the 
 first part of Mr. Windle's sentence. 
 
 "My wife and I will be pleased if you will come." 
 Mr. Bishop's face twitched with pleasure. He saw 
 the opportunity of becoming better acquainted with his 
 lordship ; of mentioning one or two little alterations in 
 his own parish which he had conceived and approved 
 of, entirely on his own initiative. 
 
 "I shall be delighted," he replied— "delighted. Sixty 
 I think you said?" he added, as he commenced to pour 
 the wine into the silver altar jug. 
 
 "If not more," replied the other, departing to take 
 his place in the Windle family pew. 
 
 Mr. Bishop was left in the vestry, apportioning out 
 sixty separate quantities of wine — quantities, which he 
 deemed would be sufficient to seem appreciable to the 
 palates, spiritual and physical, of those for whom they 
 were intended. You can see him, tilting up the neck 
 of the black bottle sixty consecutive times, with no 
 sense of the ludicrous. Sixty — when meted out, it did 
 not seem quite so much as he had expected. The silver 
 wine-ewer was only a little more than half full. Sup- 
 posing there were not enough. He would have to go 
 over the consecration part of the service again. That 
 would make them very late. The bishop might be an- 
 noyed if he were kept waiting for his dinner. His 
 lordship was a rigid Churchman, inclined to be some- 
 what High Church in his ideas. It was certain that 
 food would not have passed his lips since the previous 
 night. It would be a pity to find the Bishop annoyed, 
 just when he had the opportunity of speaking to him 
 about those little alterations of his own invention, which 
 he felt sure would raise him in his lordship's estimation. 
 
82 sally; bishop, 
 
 FerHaps it would be wiser to add a Kttle more wine. 
 It was Easter Sunday. Many members of the congre- 
 gation were farmers and farm labourers. He had vivid 
 remembrances in his mind of having forcibly to take 
 the cup from the lips of such as these. They meant no 
 irreverence by it, of course. He imagined it to be habit 
 in great part with them, and a smUe flickered over his 
 face as the thought crossed his mind. 
 
 Yes — certainly, he had better add a little more wine 
 — ^just a little. If there were some over, why, naturally, 
 it would have to be consumed. Wine once consecrated 
 must not be kept. There is that fear that it might be- 
 come an object of worship, than which no other thought 
 can seem more fearsome to the Anglican mind. He 
 mttght have to drink it ; but there would only be a little 
 in any case; yet, not being accustomed, with the poor 
 stipend which he received, to the taste of such luxuries, 
 it might perhaps — ^it might — well, so little as there 
 would be, could scarcely lift his spirits. And if it did, 
 could that really be considered a harmful result? On 
 mature consideration, he thought it better to add a 
 little more wine. It would save them from the contin- 
 gency of a longer service than was already necessary. 
 He poured in the little more, and the silver jug was 
 now a little more than three parts full. 
 
 Mr. Windle's lozenge was well dissolved and swal- 
 lowed before the anthem was finished, and the service 
 went through without a break. The Rev. Samuel 
 preached one of the sermons which he had written in 
 his younger days for the season of Easter. He bade 
 his congregation raise their heads and begin life again 
 with new vigour, new hope in their hearts, for this was 
 the third day, the day their Lord had risen for their 
 salvation. It was, he said, both the day of promise and 
 
SALLY BISHOP 33 
 
 the day of fulfilment. The anticipation of meeting the 
 bishop Hashed across his mind as he said it. He felt 
 sure that his lordship would approve of his little al- 
 terations. 
 
 When the last voluntary had been played, the rev- 
 erend gentleman sat in his chair by the altar and 
 watched the congregation filing out of the church. A 
 great many seemed to be departing, but it was impossible 
 to tell as yet the number that remained. Mr. Windle 
 had been so very definite, so confident in his assertion 
 of the number of communicants. He looked at his 
 watch. The service had taken longer than usual. He 
 stood up before they had all gone and poured out the 
 wine into the chalices. From where he had been sitting 
 it was impossible to see those sides of the church that 
 formed the cross upon which the foundations had been 
 laid, and so, though only a few people remained in the 
 centre aisle, he felt no cause for uneasiness. Mr. 
 Windle had been well assured, and he ought to know. 
 
 It was when he stood waiting for the communicants 
 to approach the altar and saw all the church empty 
 itself into the chancel like a stream which has been 
 dammed and is set free, that he realized his mistake. 
 
 There were not more than twenty people, and with 
 his own willing and ready hands he had consecrated 
 all the wine which he had poured out into the vessel in 
 the vestry. What was the meaning of it? Why had 
 Mr. Windle told him sixty, or more, when scarcely 
 twenty attended? 
 
 He stood waiting in the vestry afterwards with the 
 well-filled chalice in his hand, tremulously anticipating 
 Mr. Windle's arrival. His face was twitching spas- 
 modically. The unseen fingers were busy. They never 
 left him alone. 
 
S4 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 "It shall not be carried out of the church, but the 
 priest and such others of the communicants as he shall 
 call unto him shall, immediately after the blessing, rev- 
 erently eat and drink the same." 
 
 So it alluded in the rubric of the Book of Common 
 Prayer to the leaving over of consecrated wine. In the 
 mind of the Rev. Samuel, Mr, Windle was that other 
 communicant. 
 
 "What shall I do.^"' he began, directly the devout 
 warden entered. 
 
 Mr. Windle was beaming with good nature. He had 
 just been talking to a lady — the last to leave the church 
 — who had told him that he had read the lessons with 
 great feeling; and, while he despised all emotion as 
 sacrilegious in the precincts of God's house of worship, 
 he liked to be thought capable of it. 
 
 Seeing the cup in Mr. Bishop's hand and the dis- 
 mayed expression on that gentleman's countenance, he 
 smiled. 
 
 "This has to be — ^be finished," said the distraught 
 clergyman. 
 
 "Ah, I'm sorry about that," replied Mr. Windle, 
 easily. " Under ordinary circumstances, there would 
 have been as many as I said; but I understand that a 
 lot of people attended early Communion at the bishop's 
 service in Maidstone. You see, it is not often that he 
 comes, and they like to have his lordship." 
 
 "But this is consecrated wine." 
 
 "Ah — ^well — there's not much, I suppose. Is 
 there?" 
 
 Mr, Windle looked casually into the chalice. "Oh, 
 there is a good deal. What are you going to do.'"' 
 
 " I shall have to call upon you for your assistance." 
 
 "Mine."" 
 
SALLY BISHOP 35 
 
 "Yes; 1 couldn't drink all this myself. I'm not ac- 
 customed to taking wine. As much as this would — I 
 am afraid — go to my head." His face was now twitch- 
 ing convulsively. "Especially on a — a somewhat — 
 empty stomach." 
 
 "But it's no good asking me," said Mr. Windle. 
 
 "Why not? You have just been a communicant.'' 
 Under extraordinary circumstances like this, I am ex- 
 pected to call upon some one who has communicated, 
 reverently, to assist me." 
 
 "Ah, yes; that is all very well — so long as you do 
 not enforce any one whom you may choose to break 
 their own most rigid principles. I'm a total abstainer, 
 you see. Even — er — at the altar — I — I — only permit 
 the wine to touch my tongue, as I hold every commu- 
 nicant should do. But you want me actually to drink 
 this. As much liquid as, I assure you, I should take 
 with a meal. Again, I have taken the pledge " 
 
 "But, my dear Mr. Windle, in such an exceptional 
 circumstance as this " 
 
 "I have openly taken the pledge," Mr. Windle re- 
 peated conclusively — "I'm very sorry. I'm afraid, too, 
 that the sacristan has gone. But I think the organ 
 blower was there when I came in ; I fancy I heard him." 
 
 "Ah, yes ; but he was not at Communion." 
 
 "Of course not — then I'm sorry. I shall be sure to 
 see some one who was, and I'll send them along. We 
 shall see you up at the house soon. Don't be long — 
 you'll forgive my going on ahead, but I'm afraid his 
 lordship may have arrived already. I'll send you any 
 one if I see them. And I'm bound to meet somebody. 
 They haven't been gone very long." 
 
 He had gone. The Rev. Samuel was left alone with 
 the half-filled goblet of noxious wine in his hand. For 
 
36 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 some moments he continued to stand in the same posi- 
 tion, looking down into the crimson depth of liquid 
 that lay, scintillating lazily, in the silver bowl. 
 
 At last he raised it to his lips and sipped it — once, 
 twice, three times. Then he waited. "Wine to make 
 glad the heart of man." The words came to his mind. 
 Wine was a terrible power, a fascinating evil. He 
 thanked God that he had never fallen a prey to its fas- 
 cinations. This wine was very sweet. He liked sweet 
 things. Once he had tasted champagne when dining 
 at the house of Lady Bray. He had thought that dis- 
 agreeable, though at the moment he had murmured 
 that it was excellent wine; but he had been unable to 
 understand how any man could take of that more than 
 was good for him. This wine, of course, that they 
 used in the church was infinitely more palatable. But 
 how could he possibly drink all this ? It was out of the 
 question. He prayed devoutly that Mr. Windle would 
 soon find him relief and send some one. 
 
 He took another sip and waited, noticing that al- 
 ready there were slight signs pf diminution in the con- 
 tents of the chalice. Then he thought of the bishop. 
 It was possible that his lordship might notice the scent 
 of it in his breath if he took It all. They would be 
 sure to be talking together about his little altera- 
 tions; and If the bishop were to notice it, it would 
 be disastrous. He looked at his watch. It was al- 
 ready almost the time that they were supposed to sit 
 down to dinner. Oh! why did not Mr. Windle find 
 some one and bring him release from this torture of 
 mind? 
 
 He walked to the cupboard where the bottle of wine 
 was kept. Perhaps It would be better to pour It back 
 ■'—really better in the end. They would be waiting 
 
SALLY BISHOP 37 
 
 Sinner for him. He knew that the bishop would be 
 annoyed. It might be better to pour it back. 
 
 Then all the force of dogma rose before him like a 
 phoenix from the ashes of his lower nature. This was 
 consecrated wine ! He had consecrated it with his own 
 hands at the altar of God, for one purpose and one 
 purpose only — to be consumed by those who believed 
 in the body and blood of Christ. To pour it back 
 again into the bottle of unconsecrated wine — that 
 would be sacrilege ! Why had Mr. Windle been so nar- 
 row-minded about his foolish pledge of total absti- 
 nence? How foolish some good people were! How 
 bigoted ! He felt assured that Mr. Windle was a good 
 man; but again, there was no doubt about his being 
 narrow-minded. Ah, why did he not send some one! 
 
 Mr. Bishop walked to the door of the vestry that 
 opened on to the little country lane. He looked out. 
 There was no trace of the devout warden. Only a 
 man, carefully dressed, with black leather leggings en- 
 casing his legs from knees to the boot-tops — seem- 
 ingly the type of clerk in a country town — was coming 
 up the lane. A thought flew into the clergyman's head. 
 He beckoned to him. The man quickened his steps and 
 came up to the door. 
 
 In the space of two minutes, with nervous, hurried 
 voice, the Rev. Samuel had told him of his predicament. 
 The man looked on amazed, but said nothing. 
 
 "Now, have you just come from Communion?" he 
 asked at the conclusion of his explanation. 
 
 "Me?" said the man. "No." 
 
 "Then I must entreat you to let me read that part 
 of the service to you — ^I assure you it won't take long 
 — ^that is necessitated by the taking of the wine. You 
 see I must institute you as a communicant. You are 
 
S8 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 of course a — a protestant?" he added in sudden after- 
 thought. 
 
 "Me?" said the man. "No." 
 
 Mr. Bishop stood up dismayed. 
 
 "Not a protestant?" he exclaimed in wonder. 
 
 "No, why should I be? Nor anything else. Don't 
 believe in it, 'specially if it can put gentlemen in such 
 a position as you're in now. I'll drink the wine for 
 you if you like. I see no harm in that. I'll drink it 
 reverently too — I don't want to hurt your feelings. 
 But you can't expect me to take it for granted that 
 it ain't nothin' else but what it is — just the juice out 
 of the grape, don't yer know. You see, I know what 
 I'm talking about. I'm a chauffeur now, but I used to 
 be in a brewery — see?" 
 
 "Thank you," said Mr. Bishop bitterly, sarcastic- 
 ally ; "but you can be of no service to me." He retired, 
 closing the door and saying "Thank you" again, in 
 the same tone of voice. 
 
 When he found himself alone once more in the vestry 
 he took another sip of wine. The sentiments which 
 that man had expressed were half rankling in his mind. 
 They made him feel careless, reckless. He did not 
 really think of what he was doing. He took another 
 sip — it was most palatable — and another — it was cer- 
 tainly very good to the taste. With the little food that 
 he had taken that day, he felt it warm within him. It 
 was considerably more than half-finished now. He 
 waited again, and really he felt no bad effects. 
 
 Once more he looked at his watch. They were actu- 
 ally sitting down to dinner now. He walked down the 
 floor of the vestry and back again, and his steps were 
 quite steady ; so he took anotiier sip. Then he breathed 
 into hi§ open hand held up against his face — as he bad 
 
SALLY BISHOP 39 
 
 once seen an undergraduate do at Oxford — ^but he 
 could detect no perfume of the wine in his breath. Pos- 
 sibly it would be aU right. And he was looking for- 
 ward so intensely to meeting the bishop. He felt that 
 he would be able to convince him of the need for his 
 little alterations. 
 
 Once again he looked into the cup. Then he finished 
 the wine at a draught — elbow tilted at an angle on a 
 level with his head — and hurriedly put the chalice away. 
 
 It was done now. And he felt quite all right. He 
 began to take off his surplice, and when he trod on the 
 end of it and stumbled a httle, it seemed quite a natural 
 accident. He smiled — laughed even, but very gently 
 — at the fears he had entertained. Evidently he must 
 have a very good head to be able to take so much wine. 
 His hat dropped from his hand as he was raising it to 
 his head; but that was nothing. It was quite a simple 
 thing to stoop and pick it up again. If a man were 
 intoxicated he could not do that. He would probably 
 fall. Mr. Bishop only knocked his elbow against the 
 vestry table as he stood upright. 
 
 He looked round the room. Was everything put 
 away.'' What a delightful service that was at morn- 
 ing prayer on Easter day. It was quite true what he 
 had said in his sermon — this was a day of promise, of 
 good hope. He felt that within himself. 
 
 Ah! the cupboard that contained the bottle of wine 
 had not been locked. He walked across to it, quite 
 steadily, perhaps a little slowly. The bottle was there 
 all right. How much had they used of it? He re- 
 membered that it had been full to the base of the neck. 
 Now? He took it out and looked at it. It was more 
 than half empty! He had practically consumed half 
 a bottle of strongly intoxicating wine! How could he 
 
40 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 be sober? He laughed. He heard the laugh within 
 himself, as though he were standing by, a spectator to 
 his own actions. Then he knew he was drunk. He said 
 so — ^to himself — ^aloud. 
 
 "I'm drunk." 
 
 At that instant the door of the vestry opened, and 
 in walked Mr. Windle, followed by the bishop. They 
 saw him there, standing with gently swaying move- 
 ments by the cupboard, with the black bottle of wine 
 in his hands. 
 
 "Mr. Bishop," said the warden, "I have brought his 
 lordship to your assistance. I could find no one on my 
 way home." 
 
 The Rev. Samuel put down the bottle and bowed un- 
 certainly. 
 
 "I'm afraid it's too late," he said humbly. 
 
 The two men looked at him with growing suspicion, 
 then his lordship said in austere tones, "So I should 
 imagine, Mr. Bishop." He turned to his companion. 
 "Shall we get back to dinner, Mr. Windle.?" 
 
 They moved to the vestry door. 
 
 "Mr. Bishop," he said, turning round as they de- 
 parted, "I would advise you to go back quietly to the 
 vicarage." 
 
 Then the door closed and the little man sat down 
 upon the nearest form. The bishop would never hear 
 of his little alterations now; he would never think well 
 of them, even if he did. 
 
 He burst into tears, and for some moments sat there 
 with his head buried in his hands. Then he looked up, 
 saw the bread which also had been kept over from the 
 service, and, reaching forward, began pathetically to 
 put the little squares one by one into his mouth. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 That incident in itself is sufficient. There is no need 
 to lead a way down the steps that brought the Rev. 
 Samuel Bishop to his final degradation and ultimate 
 death. The generous offer of the chaplaincy of a small 
 union, the withdrawal of his son from Oxford, the dis- 
 missal of the tutelary services of the lady who had 
 charge of his daughter's education, the replacing of a 
 better man in the rectory at Cailsham — aU these stages 
 of the little tragedy have no intimate importance in 
 themselves, except that they formed the first evolution- 
 ary periods of the development of Sally's life. These 
 were the press-gang of circumstances that forced her 
 into the service of her sex; these, the shrilling calls of 
 the bugle that bid her strap the haversack to her slender 
 shoulders and march out to war against the sea of 
 trouble. 
 
 In a living and moving institution such as the Chris- 
 tian Church, you cannot afi'ord to be lenient to incom- 
 petency. And the Rev. Samuel was incompetent. There 
 is no doubt about that. 
 
 In such circumstances as these, assuming them up 
 to the point where the obliging chaufi'eur had found 
 the door closed in his face, a competent man would have 
 lifted reason above his faith. Calmly, he would have 
 told himself, as did the chauffeur, "This is the juice of 
 the grape ; it is in no wise altered in composition because 
 these hands of mine — ^which have done many things — 
 have been laid upon it. It is better to mix it again 
 
42 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 witH unconsecrated wine, than pour it idown the sacri- 
 legious throat of an unbelieving chauflFeur; I will put 
 it back in the bottle." 
 
 So a competent man would have acted, presuming 
 that he had ever allowed himself to be so far caught 
 in such a predicament. But the Rev. Samuel was too 
 fully possessed of that first characteristic of faith, 
 which the Christian Church demands. It only argues 
 that you must take no man absolutely at his word, even 
 when he presumes to speak inspired with the voice of 
 God. Nothing has yet been written, nothing has yet 
 been said, which can be made to apply without deviation 
 to the law of change, and also indiscriminately of 
 persons. 
 
 And so, for this unswerving faith of the Rev. Samuel, 
 Sally Bishop is made to suffer. Very shortly after the 
 removal from Cailsham, she made her declaration of 
 independence. 
 
 "Mother," she said, one morning at breakfast, "I'm 
 going to earn my own living." The baby lines of her 
 mouth set tight, and her chin puckered. 
 
 Mrs. Bishop laid down her piece of toast. "I wish 
 you wouldn't talk nonsense, Sally," she said. 
 
 The young man down from Oxford ejaculated — 
 
 "Rot!" 
 
 "It's not rot — ^it's not nonsense!" 
 
 Her voice was petulant; there were tears in It. It 
 was not a decision of strength. Here the press-gang 
 was at work driving the unwilling conscript. She was 
 going ; there was no doubt about her going ; but it was 
 a hard struggle to feel resigned. 
 
 "But it is nonsense," said Mrs. Bishop. 
 
 "How do you think you could earn your living?" 
 said the young man. He knew something about the 
 
SALLY BISHOP 43 
 
 matter ; he was trying to find employment himself — ^he, 
 a 'Varsity man — and as yet nothing had offered itself. 
 "If I can't get anything to do," he added sententiously, 
 "how on earth do you think you're going to ?" 
 
 "She doesn't mean it," said Sally's eldest sister. "She 
 only thinks it sounds self-sacrificing." 
 
 " Is that the kindest thing you can think of.-"' asked 
 SaUy. "I do mean it. I've written to London and I've 
 got the prospectus here of one of the schools for teach- 
 ing shorthand and typewriting. For eight pounds they 
 guarantee to make any one proficient in both — suitable 
 to take a secretaryship. Doesn't matter how long you'U 
 stay; they agree for that sum to make you proficient, 
 and they also half promise to get you a situation." 
 
 "And where are you going to get the eight pounds 
 from?" said her little sister. 
 
 "And where are you going to get the cost of your 
 living up in Town?" asked the wise young man, who 
 knew how London could dissolve the money in one's 
 pocket. 
 
 "Oh, she's all right there," said the eldest sister bit- 
 terly. "I know what she's thinking about. She's going 
 to draw that money that grandmama left her — that 
 fifty pounds. I guessed she'd spend that on herself 
 one of these days." 
 
 "And who else was it left to?" asked Sally. 
 
 "Yes, my dear child," said her mother; "we know it 
 was left to you, of course ; but since we came away from 
 Cailsham" — ^her mouth pursed; she admirably conveyed 
 the effort of controlling her emotions — the lump in the 
 throat, the hasty swallowing and the blinking eyes — 
 "since we left Cailsham, I'd sometimes hoped " 
 
 "Of course you had, mater," said the young man 
 sympathetically. 
 
44 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 "But I'm going to reKeve you of all responsibility," 
 said Sally. "I'm no longer going to be an expense to 
 you, and I'm going to do it with my own money — ^the 
 money I was given and the money I make. I can't see 
 what right you have to think me selfish — all of you — 
 as I know you do. I'm no more selfish than you who 
 expect me to spend the money on you ; in fact, I'm less 
 selfish. It's my money." 
 
 This, in a word, is the spirit, the attitude of mind 
 that is entering into the mental composition of women. 
 They are becoming conscious of their personality. 
 That phrase may be cryptic; without consideration it 
 may convey but little; yet it sums up the whole move- 
 ment, is the very moon itself to the turning tide. The 
 woman who once becomes conscious of her own person- 
 ality is in a fair way towards her own enfranchisement. 
 Away go the fettering conventions of home life, the 
 chains of social hypocrisy are flung aside. She rides 
 out into the open air like the bird from the shattered 
 cage, and if man, the marksman, does not bring her to 
 earth before her fluttering wings are fully spread, then 
 she is off — ^up into the deep, blue zenith of liberty! 
 
 "I'm no more selfish than you who expect me to spend 
 the money on you; in fact, I'm less selfish. It's my 
 money." 
 
 In that definite assertion, Sally first expressed the 
 realization of her own personality. The girl of twenty 
 years ago would have sacrificed her little dowry upon 
 the family altar without a word; she would, without 
 complaint, have allowed it to be spent upon her brother's 
 education. But now we are dealing with modernity, 
 and out of the quiet country lanes, from the sacred 
 hearth of the peaceful home-circles, this army of women 
 are rising. Who ba§ taught them? No one knows, 
 
SALLY BISHOP 45 
 
 Who has inspired them with the vitality of action? No 
 one can say. The spirit of the hive is at work within 
 them; already they are swarming in obedience to the 
 silent command. Pick out a hundred girls as they go 
 to work in the city, and ask them why they are toiling 
 from one day to another. They wiU all — or ninety-nine 
 of them — give you the same answer — 
 
 "I didn't want to stay at home. I prefer to be inde- 
 pendent." 
 
 There lies the heart of it, the realization of the ego 
 in the personality. 
 
 Sally had her own way. In the face of abuse, in the 
 face of reproach, she packed her leather trunk. All 
 those little idols of sentiment, the clock that ticked on 
 her mantelshelf, the pictures that hung on the walls; 
 the books she had collected, even the copy of Browning 
 that she did not Understand — ^they all were stowed away 
 into the leather trunk. She went out of the house, she 
 went out of the home as a moth flies out of a darkened 
 room, and you know tliat unless you kindle a light to 
 lure it back, it will never return. They knew they coujd 
 never kindle the light. They knew she would never 
 come back. What love had they to offer as an induce- 
 ment.? And no love of her relations is an inducement 
 to the woman who is seeking her own. 
 
 Only the Rev. Samuel shed tears over her. She came 
 into his study one morning after breakfast to say good- 
 bye. He was writing a new sermon for the season of 
 Easter, and his mind was raking up the past as a man 
 unearths some buried thing that the mould has rotted. 
 
 The sunlight was pouring in through the window as 
 he sat bent over his desk nursing thoughts that were 
 vermin in his brain. 
 
 "You're going, Sally?" he said. 
 
46 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 "Yes, father." 
 
 He stood up from his chair and looked at her — 
 looked her up and down as though he wished the sight 
 of her to last in his memory for the rest of his life. 
 
 "What time do you get to London?" 
 
 "Half-past one." 
 
 "And you've arranged about where you're going to 
 stay.?" 
 
 "Yes, I'm going to share rooms with Miss Hal- 
 lard " 
 
 "The girl who's going to be an artist.'"' 
 
 "Yes ; she has lodgings near Kew." 
 
 " Ah, Kew. Yes, Kew. I remember walking from 
 Kew to Richmond, along by the gardens, when I was 
 quite a young man. So you're going there, Sally?" 
 His eyes stiU roamed over her. 
 
 "Yes, father. What are you doing? Are you writ- 
 ing a sermon ?" 
 
 That little interest in his own affairs awakened him. 
 Animation crept into his eyes. It was the slight, subtle 
 touch that a woman knows how to bestow. 
 
 "Yes, I'm writing a sermon, Sally, for next Sunday 
 
 — Easter Sunday — listen to this " In the pride of 
 
 composition, having none but her who would appreciate 
 his efforts, he took up one of the papers with almost 
 trembling hands. 
 
 "There can be no hope without promise, and in the 
 rising of our Lord from the dead, we have the promise 
 of everlasting life. For just as He, on that Sabbath 
 morning, defied the prison walls of the sepulchre, and 
 was lifted beyond earthly things to those things that 
 are spiritual, so shall we, if we defy the things of this 
 world — its pomps and its vanities and all the sinful lusts 
 of the flesh — so shall we win to the things that are 
 
SALLY BISHOP 47 
 
 eternal rather than those which are temporal and void." 
 
 He looked up at her, waiting eagerly for the words 
 of her approval to convince him of what he was scarcely 
 convinced himself. Before she could utter them, Mrs. 
 Bishop entered the room. 
 
 "Samuel," she said, "I've written my letter to Lady 
 Bray. I've asked her to come on the seventeenth. You'd 
 better write yours and enclose it with mine. You know 
 what to say. I mean you know what sort of thing she 
 likes from you. I've also written and asked the CoUes's 
 to come to dinner on the eighteenth to meet her. 
 They're sure to accept if they know they're going to 
 meet her, and I think they ought to be useful. Write 
 your letter now, will you?" 
 
 The Rev. Samuel nodded assent. "I will," he added. 
 
 Then he turned to his daughter. "Good-bye, Sally." 
 
 She put her hands on his shoulders — ^knowing all his 
 frailty — and kissed him. Then she walked out of the 
 room. 
 
 When she had closed the door, the clergyman sat 
 down again to his desk and i;ead again through the 
 sentences he had read to Sally. 
 
 " I suppose she didn't think it very true," he said 
 to himself, "but it is — ^it is true — ^its pomps and its 
 vanities, ah " 
 
 Then he took out a sheet of note-paper, and picking 
 up his pen, he began — 
 
 "My dear Lady Bray " 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 When Sally stepped off the 'bus at Knightsbridge 
 on that November evening, her mind was seething with 
 indignation. 
 
 To lay a wager! It was an insult! Did he think 
 her acquaintance was to be bought for a sum of money? 
 It would not be long before he found out his mistake. 
 And what a sum! Ten pounds! It was ridiculous! 
 What man would spend all that money simply upon 
 the mere making of an acquaintance? Of course she 
 knew that if ever she did speak to him again, he would 
 never pay it. It was quite safe to boast like that — it 
 was a boast. Ten pounds! Why with ten pounds she 
 could buy a real silk petticoat, a new frock, a new hat, 
 another feather boa — all of the most expensive too, and 
 still have money in her pocket. 
 
 AH the amiable and interested impressions that she 
 had obtained of him went when he made that bet. It 
 was so easy to boast — so cheap. But if he thought 
 that the sound of that sum of money had impressed 
 her, he would learn his mistake. 
 
 She caught another 'bus on to Hammersmith and 
 tried vainly to forget all about it. 
 
 Miss Hallard was home from the School of Art be- 
 fore her. In the bedroom which they shared in a house 
 on Strand-on-Green, she was combing out her short hair, 
 her blouse discarded, her thin arms bent at acute angles, 
 and between her lips a Virginian cigarette. 
 
SALLY BISHOP 49 
 
 "Wet?" she said laconically, without turning round. 
 
 "Dripping." Sally threw her hat on the bed. 
 
 "If you bought umbrellas instead of cheap silk petti- 
 coats " 
 
 "I knew you'd say that," said Sally. 
 
 "Was it raining when you walked from the tram?" 
 
 "No. It's stopped now. But it was up in town, and 
 all the 'buses were full up inside." 
 
 "Cheerful," said Miss Hallard. 
 
 She twisted her hair into some sort of shape and 
 secured it indiscriminately with pins. 
 
 This girl is the revolutionary. Hers is the type that 
 has been the revolutionary through all ages. It will be 
 revolutionary to the end, no matter what force may be 
 in power. She has little or nothing to do with the class 
 to which Sally Bishop belongs. Her temperament is 
 the corrective which Nature always uses for the natural 
 functions of her own handiwork — Sally Bishop is Na- 
 ture herself, enlisted into this civil warfare because she 
 must. In her revolutionary ideas. Miss Hallard follows 
 the temperament of her inclinations. Whatever posi- 
 tion women might hold, she would have disagreed with 
 it. She is one of those of whom — ^like some strange 
 animal that one sees, following instincts which seem the 
 very reverse to Nature's needs — one wonders what her 
 place in the scheme of things can be. 
 
 Of this type are those whom the straining of a vo- 
 cabulary has called — Suffragette. They are merely 
 Nature's correctives. Of definite change in the position 
 of women they will effect nothing. They are not 
 regulars in the great army; only the wandering adven- 
 turers who take up arms for any cause, that they may 
 be in the noise of the battle. It is the paid army — the 
 regular troops — ^who finally place the standard upon 
 
60 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 the enemy's heights; for it is only the forces of Life 
 itself that, in this life, are unconquerable. 
 
 This, then, is Miss Hallard — adventuress in a great 
 philosophy. Her thin lips, her shifting, disconcerting 
 eyes, set deep beneath the brows; the long and narrow 
 face, the high forehead on which the hair hangs heavily ; 
 that thin, reedy body, that ill-formed, unnatural breast 
 which never was meant to suckle a child or nurse the 
 drooping of a man's head — all these are the signs of her 
 calling. A woman — ^by the irony of a fate that has 
 thwarted the original design of Nature. 
 
 Sally Bishop is a woman before everything. Miss 
 Hallard is a woman last of all. How these two, in their 
 blatant contrasts, were brought together, is an example 
 of one of those mysterious forces in the great machinery 
 of life which we are unable to comprehend. It is like 
 the harnessing of electricity to the needs of civilization. 
 iWe can make it do what we wiU ; but of what it is, we 
 know nothing. So we are just as ignorant of that law 
 which governs the contact of personalities. It cannot be 
 luck; it cannot be chance. There is too much method 
 in the mad tumble of it all, too much plot and counter- 
 plot, too much cunning intent — ^which even we can ap- 
 preciate — for us to think that it has no meaning. Why, 
 the very wind that blows has its assured direction and 
 carries the pollen of this flower to the heart of that. 
 
 But there is no need to understand it. The thing 
 happens — that is all. Miss Janet Hallard and Sally 
 are intimates; that is really suiBcient. 
 
 Yet they were not really intimate enough as yet for 
 Sally to sit down on the bed directly she came into the 
 room and break into an excited description of her ad- 
 venture. She knew the cold look of inquiry in Janet's 
 eyes. She could foresee the disconcerting questions that 
 
SALLY BISHOP 61 
 
 would be asked. Janet's questions, coming dryly — all 
 on one note — from those thin lips of hers, drove some- 
 times to a point that was almost too deep for Sally's 
 comprehension. And Sally is a woman of sex, not of 
 intellect. 
 
 " You can have the glass now if you want it," said 
 Janet, moving away to her bed. 
 
 Sally rose wearily and began to take off her things. 
 
 "I am fagged!" she exclaimed. 
 
 Janet said nothing. The blue lines under Sally's 
 eyes, that indescribable drawing of the flesh of those 
 round cheeks, had told her that long ago. 
 
 Sally gazed at herself in the glass. "Look at my 
 eyes!" she exclaimed. 
 
 "I know." 
 
 "Awful, aren't they?" 
 
 "Pretty bad. Can't think why you don't stick out 
 for more money when they work you overtime." 
 
 "It's no good — ^they'd get somebody else." 
 
 "Let 'em." 
 
 "Well then, what should I do.?" 
 
 "Go on the stage." 
 
 Sally looked critically at herself again in the little 
 mahogany-framed glass that stood on the dressing-table. 
 With an effort she tried to forget the lines under the 
 eyes, tried to efface the look of weariness. The thought 
 of being an actress did not enter her thoughts. It was 
 her appearance she considered. 
 
 "Do you think I look well enough?" she asked. 
 
 "Fifty per cent, of them are a good deal worse in 
 those musical comedies." 
 
 "How much should I get?" 
 
 "Two pounds a week." 
 
 "That's as much as you." 
 
52 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 "Yes ; but you'd have to work for it. I Son't." 
 
 "Oh yes; but what sort of work? Nothing to type- 
 writing." 
 
 "Perhaps not. But they'd probably expect more than 
 work out of you." 
 
 "What do you mean.'"' 
 
 "Well, when a stage manager gives an unknown girl 
 a walk on In the chorus of a musical comedy, he looks 
 upon it in the light of a favour. I suppose it is too. 
 He puts her in the way of knowing a lot of well-to-do 
 young men, and he pays her two pounds a week for 
 doing nothing but look pretty under the most advan- 
 tageous circumstances. There are women who would 
 pay to get a job like that." 
 
 Sally's face puckered with disgust. "I think life's 
 beastly," she said. 
 
 Janet smiled. "That's not life," she said; "that's 
 musical comedy." 
 
 Then she lit another cigarette and sat there, watch- 
 ing Sally take oif her wet clothes ; smiled at her, catch- 
 ing the garments with the tips of her fingers, and 
 shuddering when they touched her skin. 
 
 " You're too sensitive for this business, Sally," she 
 said at last. " You're too romantic. Why don't you 
 get married.-"' 
 
 "I wish I could," said Sally. 
 
 "Well, you don't take your chances." 
 
 "What chances?" 
 
 "Mr. Arthur " 
 
 They both laughed. Mr. Arthur Montagu was a 
 bank clerk, lodging in the same house on Strand-on- 
 Green. He had had the same room for over three years 
 and had, through various stages of acquaintanceship, 
 come to be addressed by the landlady as Mr. Arthur. 
 
SALLY BISHOP 63 
 
 For tHe first few weeks after the arrival of Sally and 
 Janet, he had chosen to take his meals in the kitchen 
 — ^where all meals were served — after they had finished. 
 His was a bed-sitting-room, the only one the house con- 
 tained, and, in social status, the possession of it lifted 
 him in rank above any of the other lodgers who shared 
 the general sitting-room with the landlady, Mrs. Hew- 
 son, and her husband. 
 
 But one evening, Sally and he had returned together 
 from Hammersmith on the tram. They had walked to- 
 gether from the bridge along that river way, with its 
 tail houses and its little houses, its narrow alleys and 
 its low-roofed inns, which is perhaps the most pictur- 
 esque part of the river that the shattering march of 
 time has left. He had made intellectual remarks about 
 the efl^ects of the sunlight in the water. He had drawn 
 her attention to the beauty of the broad stretch of 
 stream as it bent away towards Chiswick out of sight. 
 He felt that he had made an impression of mentality 
 upon the little typewriting girl. And, after that, he 
 had suggested to Mrs. Hewson that it might seem churl- 
 ish on his part not to have his meals with the rest. 
 
 Janet Hallard he did not like. When he talked about 
 art her eyes hung upon him and, waiting until he had 
 finished, she then talked about the Stock Exchange. 
 
 "Oh! I hate talking shop," he said one day. 
 
 "But you do it so well," she replied quietly. "It 
 seems so much more interesting than art when you talk 
 about it. After all, art is only some one person's idea 
 about something they generally don't understand." 
 
 There is no wonder that the man hated her. But for 
 Sally, he formed a deep attachment that was only kept 
 in check and controlled by the remembrance of the supe- 
 riority of bis position. Class bias is universal, and is 
 
B4 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 based almost entirely upon possession. The school-boy 
 who has more pocket-money, the lodger who has the 
 only bed-sitting-room in the house, and the man who 
 has the largest rent-roll, are always socially above those 
 in their immediate surroundings. Possession being nine 
 points of the law is also nine points of class superiority. 
 That Mr. Arthur should have stepped down from his 
 high estate and condescended to have his meals with 
 them, was proof enough that the man was in earnest. 
 But his interest in her was not reciprocated. 
 
 "I couldn't marry Mr. Arthur," she said; "not even 
 if he was the manager of his old bank." 
 
 "But why not?" 
 
 "Because I could never love him; not even respect 
 him." 
 
 "That's what fetters women." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "That idea that they've got to marry the man they 
 love. They've grown to think — ^unconsciously almost 
 — that to give him love, blinded, is a fair exchange for 
 his provision of a home. They'll never win their inde- 
 pendence that way." 
 
 "I don't want my independence," said Sally. 
 
 "Then why do you work for it?" asked Janet. 
 
 "Because I didn't want to be a clog on my own 
 people — ^because I wanted to be free to answer to 
 myself." 
 
 "Then why don't you carry that idea further? Why 
 make yourself free, simply to tie yourself up again at 
 the first chance you get?" 
 
 "I don't call it tying myself up to marry a man I'm 
 in love with and who loves me. That's happiness. I 
 know I shall be perfectly happy." 
 
 Janet lifted her head and in a thoroughly profes- 
 
SALLY BISHOP 65 
 
 sional manner blew a long, thin stream of smoke from 
 between her lips. 
 
 "How long do you think that happiness is going to 
 last?" she asked. 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "You chance it?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And then when the end comes you have not even 
 got yourself to fall back upon. You're done for — 
 sucked dry. You fall to pieces because you've sold 
 your independence." 
 
 Sally left the dressing-table and crossed to Janet's 
 bed. Sitting there, she put her bare arms on Janet's 
 shoulders. 
 
 "It's no good your talking like that," she said gently. 
 "You think that way, and right or wrong I think the 
 other. If I loved a man and he loved me, I'd willingly 
 sell my independence, willingly do anything for him." 
 
 "Supposing he wasn't going to marry you?" said 
 Janet, imperturbably. 
 
 "Then he wouldn't love me." 
 
 "Oh yes ; he might." 
 
 "Then I don't know what you mean." 
 
 Janet stood up from the bed. " I can smell 
 bloaters for supper," she said ; "if you don't hurry up, 
 Mr. Hewson '11 get the best one. I can see Mrs. Hewson 
 picking it out for him. Come on. Put a blouse on. 
 There's a woman who's sold her independence. She 
 doesn't get much for it, as far as I can see. Come on. 
 I'm going to talk to Mr. Arthur about art to-night." 
 
CHAPTER yil 
 
 It is one thing to say you could never marry a man, 
 and it is another thing to refuse him when he asks you. 
 
 That very afternoon Mr. Arthur had received the 
 intimation at his bank that he was shortly to be made 
 a cashier. He glowed with the prospect. His conver- 
 sation that evening was of the brightest. The poisoned 
 shafts of Miss Hallard's satire met the armoured re- 
 sistance of his high spirits. They fell — ^pointless and 
 unavailing — from his unbounded faith in himself. A 
 man who, after a comparatively few years' service in a 
 bank, is deemed fitted for the responsible duties of a 
 cashier, is qualified to express an opinion, even on art. 
 Mr. Arthur expressed many. 
 
 i "Don't see how you can say a thing's artistic if you 
 don't like it," he declared. 
 
 "I think you're quite right, Mr. Arthur," said Mrs. 
 Hewson. "If I like a thing — like that picture in one 
 of the Christmas Annuals — ^I always say, 'Now I call 
 that artistic,' don't I, Em?" 
 
 Her husband nodded with his mouth full of the best 
 bloater. 
 
 "Well, you couldn't call that thing artistic, Mrs. 
 Hewson, if you mean the thing that's over the piano 
 in the sitting-room?" 
 
 "Why not?" asked Janet; "don't you like it?" 
 
 "No," said Mr. Arthur emphatically, "nor any one 
 else either, I should think. I bet you a shilling they 
 iwouldn't," 
 
SALLY BISHOP 67 
 
 "But Mrs. Hewson does," Janet replied quietly. 
 "Doesn't that satisfy you that it must be artistic, since 
 some one likes it?" 
 
 Mrs. Hewson, finding herself suddenly the object of 
 the conversation, picked her teeth in hurried confusion. 
 Her husband surveyed the company over the rim of his 
 cup and then returned to his reading of the evening 
 paper. 
 
 During the weighted silence that followed Janet's 
 last remark, he laid down his paper. 
 
 "I see," he said, "as 'ow there are some people up 
 in the north of England 'aving what they call Pente- 
 costal visitations." 
 
 Mrs. Hewson laughed tentatively, the uncertain 
 giggle that scarcely dares to come between the teeth. 
 She knew her husband's leaning towards the arid hu- 
 mour of an obscure joke. 
 
 "What's that, Ern?" 
 
 "Well, 'cording to the paper, they get taken with 
 it sudden. They can't stand up. They fall down in 
 the middle of the service and roll about, just as if they'd 
 'ad too much to drink." 
 
 Mrs. Hewson's laugh became genuine and unafraid, 
 a hysterical clattering of sounds that timibled from 
 her mouth. 
 
 "SiUy fools," she said ; "the way people go on. Read 
 it — what is it? Read it." 
 
 Mr. Hewson picked some bones out of the bloater 
 with a dirty hand, placed the filleted morsel in his 
 mouth, washed it down with a mouthful of tea, and 
 then cleared his throat and began to read. 
 
 Mr. Arthur seized this opportunity. "It's quite fine 
 again now," he said in an undertone to Sally. 
 
 She expressed mild surprise — the lifting of her eye- 
 
B8 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 brows, the casual "Really." Then it seemed to her that 
 he did not exactly deserve to be treated like that and 
 she told him how she had got wet through coming 
 home. 
 
 "Changed your clothes, I hope," he whispered. 
 
 "Oh yes." 
 
 "You might get pneumonia, you know," he said. 
 
 She smiled at that. " And of such are the Kingdom 
 of Heaven." 
 
 He gazed at her in surprise. "Why should you say 
 that?" he asked. 
 
 "Don't know— why shouldn't I?" 
 
 He looked down at his empty plate. There was 
 something he wanted to say to her. He kept looking 
 round the table for inspiration. At last, with Mrs. 
 Hewson's burst of laughter at the paper's description 
 of the Pentecostal visitations, he took the plunge — 
 head down — ^the words spluttering in whispers out of 
 his lips. 
 
 "Would you care to come for a little walk down the 
 Strand-on-Green.'"' he asked. "It's a lovely night now." 
 
 In the half breath of a second, Sally's eyes sought 
 Janet's face across the table. Janet had heard and, 
 with her eyes, she urged Sally to accept. This all passed 
 unknown to Mr. Arthur. He thought Sally was hesi- 
 tating — the moments thumped in his heart. 
 
 "I don't mind for a little while," she said. 
 
 He rose from the table, conscious of victory. "I'll 
 just go and get on my boots," he said, and he slipped 
 away. 
 
 Sally mounted to her room, followed by Janet. 
 
 "He's going to propose," said Miss Hallard. 
 
 "He's not," retorted Sally. 
 
 "I'm perfectly certain he is. He's been excited about 
 
SALLY BISHOP 69 
 
 something all the evening. He's come into some money 
 or something. He talked to-night as if he could buy 
 up all the art treasures in the kingdom." 
 
 "You think he's going to buy me up?" 
 
 "He's going to make his offer. What'll you do?" 
 
 "Well — ^what can I do? Would you marry him?" 
 
 "That's not the question. There's no chance of his 
 asking me. You can't speculate on whether you'll marry 
 a man until he asks you — ^your mind is biassed before 
 then." 
 
 "I don't believe you'd marry any one," said Sally. 
 
 "It's quite probable," she replied laconically. 
 
 Sally began to take off her hat again. "I'm not going 
 out with him," she said. "I shall hate it." 
 
 "Don't be foolish — put on that hat, and see what it's 
 like to be proposed to by an earnest young gentleman 
 on the banks of a river, at nine o'clock in the evening. 
 Go on — don't be foolish, Sally. It does a woman good 
 to be proposed to — teaches her manners — go on. You 
 may like him — ^you don't know." 
 
 Sally obeyed reluctantly. In the heart of her was 
 a dread of it; in her mind, the tardy admission that 
 she was doing her duty, sacrificing at the altar upon 
 which every woman at some time or other is compelled 
 to make her offering. 
 
 In the little linoleum'd passage, known as the hall, 
 Mr. Arthur was waiting for her. He had exchanged 
 his felt slippers for a pair of boots; round his neck 
 he had wrapped an ugly muflBer and a cap was perched 
 jauntily on his head. The impression that he gave 
 Sally, of being confident of his success, stung her for 
 a moment to resentment. She determined to refuse him. 
 But that mood was only momentary. When the door 
 had closed behind them and they had begun to walk 
 
60 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 along the paved river path, the impression and its ac- 
 companying decision vanished. 
 
 Sally was a romantic — that cannot be denied. She 
 could talk reverently about love in the abstract. In 
 her mind, it was not a condition into which one fell, as 
 the unwary traveller falls into the ditch by the roadside, 
 picking himself out as quickly as may be, or, in his 
 weariness, choosing at least to sleep the night there and 
 go on with his journey next morning. In the heart of 
 Sally, whether it were a pitfall or not, love was an end 
 in itself. She directed all her steps towards that des- 
 tination, and any light of romance allured her. 
 
 That evening, walking up towards Kew Bridge, the 
 lights of the barges lying in the stream, looking them- 
 selves like huddled reptiles seeking the warmth of each 
 other's bodies, the lights of the little buildings on the 
 eyot, and the lamps of the bridge itself, all dancing 
 quaint measures in the black water, brought to the sus- 
 ceptibility of Sally's mind a sense of romance. For the 
 moment, until he spoke, she forgot the actual presence 
 of Mr. Arthur. The vague knowledge that some one 
 was with her, stood for the indefinite, the unknown quan- 
 tity, whose existence was essential to the completion of 
 the whole. 
 
 As they passed by the City Barge — ^that little old- 
 fashioned inn which faces the water on the river path 
 — she looked in through the windows. There were 
 bargemen, working men who lived near by, and others 
 whose faces she had often seen as she had walked to 
 her tram in the morning, all talking, laughing good- 
 naturedly, some with the pewter pots pressed to their 
 lips, head throwing slowly back, others enforcing a point 
 with an empty mug on the bar counter. And outside, 
 ahead of them, the lean, gaunt willows, around whose 
 
SALLY BISHOP W 
 
 very trunks the hard paving had been laid, shot up into 
 the black sky like witches' brooms that the wind was 
 combing out. 
 
 Bright, cheerful lights glowed in every cottage win- 
 dow. In some it was only the light of a fire that leaped 
 a ruddy dance on the whitewashed walls, and caught 
 reflections in the lintels of the windows. In others it 
 was a candle, in others a small oil lamp ; but in all, look- 
 ing through the windows as she passed, Sally saw some 
 old man or woman seated over a fire. There is romance, 
 even in content. Sally was half conscious of it, until 
 Mr. Arthur spoke; then it whipped out, vanished — a 
 wisp of smoke that the air scatters. 
 
 "Let's lean over that raUing and watch the boats," 
 he suggested. 
 
 There were scarcely any boats moving, to be seen. 
 He spoke at random, as if the river swarmed with 
 them; but only a little tug now and then scurried like 
 a water-rat out of the shadows of the bridge, and sped 
 down along towards Chlswick. In its wake, spreading 
 out in ever-broadening lines, it left a row of curling 
 waves that came lapping to the steps below them. 
 These sounds and the occasional noise of voices across 
 on the Kew side, were the only interruptions to the si- 
 Iraice. For some moments they stood there, leaning on 
 the railing, saying nothing, watching some dull, dark 
 figures of men who were moving about on the little island 
 that belongs to the Thames Conservancy. 
 
 "I — I've got something I want to tell you. Miss 
 Bishop," Mr. Arthur said at length with sudden resolve. 
 
 Sally caught her breath. If it were only somebody 
 she could love! What a moment it would be then — 
 what a moment! Her lips felt suddenly dry. She 
 sucked them into her mouth and moistened them. 
 
62 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 "What is it?" she asked. 
 
 Mr. Arthur coughed, pulled out a handkerchief and 
 blew his nose loudly. The sound, intensified there in 
 that still place, jarred through Sally's senses. She 
 roughly told herself that she was a fool. 
 
 "You know I'm in a bank?" he began. 
 
 "Yes ; of course." 
 
 "It's a private bank." 
 
 "Really?" 
 
 "Yes; what I mean is, they pay better than most 
 banks usually do." 
 
 "ReaUy?" ' 
 
 "And they're going to make me a cashier." 
 
 "Oh, is that good?" 
 
 "Well, there's hardly a fellow of my age in any bank 
 that's got to a responsible position like that, in the 
 time I have. I bet you a shilling there isn't." 
 
 "Well, I can't afford to bet a shilling on it." 
 
 "No, of course not; I didn't mean that! What I 
 mean " 
 
 "I understand what you mean," said Sally. A sense 
 of humour might have gone far to save him at that 
 moment. She accredited it against him that he had 
 none. "You might just as well have bet ten pounds," 
 she added with a smile, "and I should have known what 
 you meant. Ten pounds always sounds better than a 
 shilling — even in that sort of — of — ^transaction." 
 
 "Ah, you're only joking," said he. 
 
 "No, I'm not," she rephed. "I'm quite serious. I 
 like the sound of ten pounds better. There's a nice 
 ring of bravado about it. A shilling seems so mean." 
 
 For a few moments he was silenced by the weight 
 of her incomprehensibleness. Such a moment comes at 
 all times to every man, whatever his dealings with a 
 
SALLY BISHOP 63 
 
 woman may be. Mr. Arthur stood leaning on the rail- 
 ing, looking out at the black water and thinking how 
 little she understood of the seriousness of his position, 
 or the meaning that such an uplifting of his financial 
 status conveyed to a man. She did not even know 
 what he was about to propose. It would steady her 
 considerably when she heard that ; she would be less flip- 
 pant then. Out of the corners of his eyes, he watched 
 her face — the little, round, childish face almost perfect 
 in outline — the gentle force, petulance almost, in the 
 shapely chin, and the lips — tantalizing — ^they looked so 
 innocent. In another few moments he would be kissing 
 those lips ; in another few moments he would be f eehng 
 the warmth of that hand that lay idly over the railing. 
 He wondered if he were really wise. Was he being car- 
 ried away by the first flush of triumph which his suc- 
 cess had brought him.'' There was time to draw back 
 
 yet. 
 
 "Well," she said, "was that what you were going 
 to tell me?" 
 
 He turned round and met her look ; his eyes wandered 
 over her face. Those lips — ^they were indescribably al- 
 luring. It seemed impossible to give up the delight' 
 of kissing them; yet, of course, that was foolish, that 
 was weak. He was not going to let the whole of his 
 life hang upon a momentary desire like that. If she did 
 not appeal to him in other ways, if he did not find ad- 
 miration for her character, respect for her numerous 
 good qualities, he would certainly not be so wanting 
 in control as to let a passing inclination sway him to 
 a momentous decision. He recounted those good quali- 
 ties to himself reassuringly. Her innocence, her gentle- 
 ness, her apparent willingness to be led by any one 
 stronger than herself. Mr. Arthur dwelt long on that. 
 
64 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 That was a distinctly promising characteristic. He 
 would consider that essential in any woman whom he 
 thought to make his wife. Then she was demonstrative. 
 He had often seen her show signs of deep affection to 
 Miss Hallard. At the moment, that seemed a very neces- 
 sary quality too. He felt just then that a little demon- 
 stration of affection on her part — if she put her hand 
 in his, or leant her head up against his shoulder — ^would 
 make him intensely happy. And those lips! He half 
 closed his eyes and his hand shook. 
 
 "No; that wasn't all," he said emotionally. "That 
 was only preliminary to what I'm going to say." 
 
 Sally kept her eyes away from him. She did not 
 want to watch his face. She knew he was very good, 
 very honourable, very conscientious in his work; she 
 knew that he would make a reasonably good husband, 
 that he was about to offer her a position in life which 
 it was incumbent upon any girl in her circumstances to 
 consider well before refusing. But she could not look 
 at his face while these things were weighing out their 
 balance in her mind. It seemed hard enough to be com- 
 pelled to listen to the sound of his voice; the weak, un- 
 certain quality that it possessed, that faint suggestion 
 of commonness which did not exactly admit of dropped 
 aitches, but rang jarringly in her ears. 
 
 "I'm listening," she said rigidly. Her eyes were fixed 
 without motion on the quiet water. 
 
 "Well, I want you to marry me," he exclaimed im- 
 pulsively. 
 
 She said nothing. She waited. 
 
 "After next month, I shall have two hundred pounds 
 a year. We could be very comfortable on that — couldn't 
 we?" 
 
 "Do you think so?" she asked. 
 
SALLY BISHOP 65 
 
 "Well, I bet you a shilling there are a good many 
 men in London — ^married — who are comfortable enough 
 on less. Besides, next year it'll be two hundred and 
 twenty." 
 
 "And you want me to marry you?" 
 
 "Yes. I'm offering you a comfortable home of your 
 own. No more pigging it like this in lodgings. You'll 
 have your own house to look after — ^your own drawing- 
 room. I don't want to boast about it, but don't 
 you think it's a good thing for you?" He felt 
 himself it was a big thing he was offering — and so 
 it was — the biggest he had. "What I mean to 
 say," he continued, "I'm a gentleman, you're earn- 
 ing your own living. I'm going to make you your 
 own mistress " ' 
 
 " But I don't love you," she said quietly, overlooking 
 with generosity his insinuations about the position she 
 held. 
 
 He gazed at her in amazement. "Why not?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Why not? Oh, why should you ask me a hard ques- 
 tion like that?" 
 
 "'Cause I want to know. What's the matter with 
 me? I bet you " 
 
 "Oh, don't !" she begged. "I don't love you ; that's 
 all. I can't say any more." 
 
 "Then why did you come out with me this evening?" 
 
 "I don't know. Of course, I ought not to — ^I suppose 
 I ought not to." 
 
 "But you haven't said you won't marry me." 
 
 "No. But haven't I said enough?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "You'd marry me, knowing that I didn't love you?" 
 
 She turned her eyes to his. The pathos of that 
 
66 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 touched her. His senses swam when she looked at him. 
 
 " Yes," he said thickly. "You might not love me 
 now — ^you would." 
 
 There, he spoilt it all again. She was so certain of 
 its impossibility; he wks so confident of his success. 
 With the sentiment of his humility, the unselfishness 
 of his devotion, he might have won her even then. The 
 pity in a woman is often minister to her heart. But 
 pity left her when he made so sure. 
 
 "Oh, it's no good talking like this," she said gently; 
 "I know I shouldn't." 
 
 He leant nearer to her, peering Into her face. "Well, 
 will you think about it — ^will you think it over?" He 
 felt certain that when she thought of that home of her 
 own, she would be bound to relent — any woman would. 
 "Let me know some other time." 
 
 "If you like. I don't know why you should be so 
 good to me." 
 
 Passionately he seized her arm with his hand. "Be- 
 cause I love you — don't you see.?" 
 
 "Yes; I see. I shouldn't think there's much to love 
 in me though." 
 
 "Wouldn't you.? My God — I do! Will you give 
 me a kiss ?" 
 
 One would think he might have known that that was 
 the last thing he should have asked for. One would 
 think he might have realized that passion was the last 
 thing he should have shown her at such a moment as 
 that. But he fancied that any woman might want to 
 be kissed under the circumstances. He had a vague idea 
 that his passion might awaken emotion in her ; that with 
 the touch of his lips, she might drop her arms about his 
 neck and swoon into submission. He did not know the 
 fiddle string upon which he was playing ; he did not know 
 
SALLY BISHOP 67 
 
 the fine edge upon which all her thoughts were bal- 
 ancing. 
 
 She drew quickly away from him; freed her arm 
 and turned towards the house with lips tight pressed 
 together. 
 
 "I'm going in," she said. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 BtTT she had promised to think it over. He kept her 
 to that. Again it was the hunter, the quarry, and the 
 inevitable flight. The thought of her possible escape 
 quickened his pulses. He became infinitely more de- 
 termined to make her his own. The recollection of her 
 saying that she did not love him was humiliating, but 
 it stirred him to deeper feelings of desire. When he 
 thought of her — as at first — readily accepting him and 
 his prospects, he had not formed so high an opinion of 
 her as now, being at her mercy. 
 
 She stood before his eyes that night as he lay in bed. 
 One vague dream after another filled his sleep, and 
 Sally took part in them all — ^kissing him, scorning him. 
 His mental vision was obsessed with the sight of her. 
 
 With Sally herself, sleep came late — ^reluctantly — 
 like a tired man, dragging himself to his journey's end. 
 
 Janet was seated up in bed, reading and smoking, 
 when she returned. While she was taking off her 
 clothes, Sally told her all about it — ^word for word — 
 everything that had passed between them. This is a 
 way of women. They have a marvellous memory for 
 the recounting in detail of such incidents as these. 
 
 "Thinking it over means nothing," she said when 
 Sally had finished — "thinking it over'U only fix your 
 mind on refusing him all the more. His one chance 
 was this evening. You know that yourself — don't 
 you? You'll never accept him now." 
 
SALLY BISHOP 69 
 
 Sally crept wearily into bed and pulled the clothes 
 about her. 
 
 "Will you?" Janet repeated. 
 
 Sally muttered a smothered negative into the pillow, 
 and stared out before her at the discoloured wall-paper. 
 
 "Sally" — Janet shut up her book, and threw the end 
 of her cigarette with accurate precision into the tiny 
 fireplace— "Sally " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Is there anybody else? Some man up in Town — 
 some man who comes into the office — some man im the 
 office — is there?" 
 
 Sally turned her pillow over. "No," she replied. 
 She kept her eyes away from Janet's, but her answer 
 was firm and decided. 
 
 For a few moments. Miss Hallard sat upright in the 
 bed and watched her. Her mind was keyed with intui- 
 tion. She was conscious of the presence of some influ- 
 ence in Sally's mind — ^probably more conscious of it 
 than Sally was herself. You could not have shaken her 
 in that belief. Even a woman cannot act to a woman', 
 and that decided "No" from Sally had only served the 
 more to convince her. When one woman deals in sub- 
 tleties with another, fine hairs and the splitting of them 
 are merely clumsy operations to perform. 
 
 . "Are you tired?" asked Janet presently — "or only 
 pretending to be?" 
 
 "Why should I pretend? I am tired — frightfully 
 tired." 
 
 "You want to go to sleep, then?" 
 
 "Well, I don't feel like talking to-night; do you?" 
 
 They talked every night, regularly — talked about 
 dresses, about religion, about other people's love af- 
 fairs, and other women's indiscretions. Sally de- 
 
70 SALLY BISHOP, 
 
 scribed hats she had seen on rich women shopping at 
 BJiightsbridge ; Janet told questionable stories about 
 the lives of models and art students, Sally listening 
 with wondering eyes, needing sometimes to have them 
 explained to her more graphically in order really to 
 understand. So they would continue, in the dark, till 
 one or the other asked a question and, receiving no an- 
 swer, would turn over on her side, and the next moment 
 be oblivious of everything. 
 
 "What's particularly the matter to-night?" per- 
 sisted Janet. "Sorry you told Mr. Arthur you didn't 
 love him?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "I beheve you are." 
 
 There was no such belief in her mind, ^e knew it 
 would draw the truth. She used it. 
 
 "No, I'm not," said Sally, decidedly. "I'm not 
 sorry." 
 
 "Then what are you so depressed about?" 
 
 "Am I depressed?" She sat up again and turned 
 her pillow. "Oh, I haven't said my prayers yet." 
 She began to throw off the bed-clothes. 
 
 "Well, you're not going to get out of bed, are you?" , 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She slid off the bed on to the floor, shuddering as 
 her feet touched the cold linoleum carpet. Habit was 
 strong in her still. She believed in no fixed and cer- 
 tain dogma, but she had never broken the custom of 
 saying her prayers ; never even been able to rid herself 
 of the belief that except upon the knees on the hard 
 floor prayers were of little intrinsic value. That she 
 had always been taught; and though the greater les- 
 sons — the untangling of the entangled Trinity, the 
 mystery pf the W??id and wine — ^had lost their mean- 
 
SALLY BISHOP 71 
 
 ing in her mind, ever since her father's predicament, 
 yet she still held fondly to the simple habits of her 
 childhood. 
 
 When Janet saw her finally huddled on her knees, 
 her head, with its masses of gold hair, buried in the 
 arms flung out appealingly before her, she turned and 
 blew out the candle. Sally never answered questions 
 when she was saying her prayers, though Janet fre- 
 quently addressed them to her, and took the answers 
 for granted. 
 
 There she knelt in the darkness, while Janet dug the 
 accustomed groove in her pillow and went to sleep. 
 
 What does a woman pray for — ^what does any one 
 pray for — whom do they pray to, when the composi- 
 tion of their mental attitude towards the Highest is a 
 plethora of doubts? Yet they pray. 
 
 Instinctively at night, by the side of their beds, their 
 knees bent — or there is some genuflexion in their heart 
 which answers just as well — ^they drop into the atti- 
 tude of prayer. And they all begin in the same way — 
 
 O God And not one of them has the faintest notion 
 
 of whom or what or why that God is. 
 
 Whoever, whatever, wherever He is. His power must 
 be supreme to make itself felt through the thick veU of 
 doubt and despair that hangs so heavily about His 
 identity. 
 
 Sally Bishop, who could not say the Apostles' Creed 
 with unswerving conscience — to whom the story of the 
 Resurrection was fogged, blurred with a thousand in- 
 consistencies — even she could not dispense with that 
 moment in each day, that moment of abandonment — 
 the flinging of one's burden of questions at the feet of 
 a deity whose identity it would be impossible to define. 
 
 For many minutes she stayed there on her knees, her 
 
72 SALLY BISHOP, 
 
 arms wound round about Her head, her shoulders rising 
 wearily with each breath that she took. 
 
 Long after Janet had fallen asleep, and when the 
 cold was numbing in her limbs, she stayed there, pour- 
 ing forth her importunate questions — ^the woman beg- 
 ging guidance, when she knows full well what course 
 she is going to adopt. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 The life of the Bohemian in London Is no brilliantly 
 coloured affair. The most that can be said for it is 
 that it has its moments. The first flush of a full purse 
 and the last despair of an empty pocket are always 
 sensations that are worth while. With the one you can 
 gauge the shallow depth of pleasure and find the world 
 full of friends ; With the other you can learn how super- 
 fluous are the things you called necessities and you may 
 count upon the fingers of your hand the number of 
 friends whom really you possess. In their way, these 
 moments are true values — both of them. 
 
 But the life of the Bohemian, wherever It may be, 
 has one advantage that no other life possesses. It is a 
 series of contrasts. With his last sovereign, he may 
 have supper at the Savoy, rubbing shoulders with the 
 best and with the worst; the next night, he may be 
 dining off a maquereau grille In a Greek Street restau- 
 rant, jogging elbows with the worst and with the best. 
 It is only the steady possession of wealth that makes a 
 groove; but steady possession is an unknown condition 
 in the life of the Bohemian. And so, drifting In this 
 sporadic way through the wild journeys of existence, he 
 comes truly to learn the definite, certain uncertainty of 
 human things. This he learns ; but it is no sure guar- 
 antee that he will follow the teaching of the lesson. 
 
 For in the heart of human nature is a common need 
 of bondage. To this, no matter what movement may 
 be afoot, a woman still yields herself willingly. To 
 
74 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 this, in deep reluctance, with dragging steps, but none 
 the less inevitably, man yields as well. The desire for 
 companionship, the desire to give, albeit there may be 
 no giving in return, the shuddering sense of the empty 
 room and the silent night come to all of us, however 
 much we may wish for the former conditions of solitude 
 when once they are ours. 
 
 It was this common need of bondage, this hatred of 
 the silent emptiness of life that caught the mind of 
 Jack Traill, arrested and held it in the interest of Sally 
 Bishop. 
 
 You are never really to know why a man, passing 
 through life, meeting this woman, meeting that, some 
 intimately, some in the vapid chance of acquaintance- 
 ship, will in one moment be held by the sight of a cer- 
 tain face. The table of aflSnities is the only attempt 
 at regulating the matter, and in these changing times 
 one cannot look even upon that with confidence. 
 
 There is a law, however, whatever it may be, and in 
 unconscious obedience to it, Traill kept the face of 
 Sally Bishop persistently before him. After she had 
 left him at Knightsbridge, he too descended from the 
 'bus and walked slowly back to Piccadilly Circus. 
 
 Casting his eyes round the circle of houses with 
 their brilliant illuminations, he decided, with no antici- 
 pation of entertainment, where to dine. A meal is a 
 ceremony of boredom when it has no pleasurable pros- 
 pect. Indeed, the gratification of any appetite becomes 
 a sordid affair when the mind is stagnant and the body 
 merely asking for its food. But in the last three years, 
 Traill had gone through this same performance a thou- 
 sand times ; a thousand times he had looked out of the 
 little circular window on the top floor of the house in 
 Lower Regent Street where he lived ; a thousand times 
 
SALLY BISHOP 75 
 
 he had taken a coin out of his pocket and let the head 
 or the tail decide between the two restaurants which he 
 most usually frequented. 
 
 On this night there was no tossing of a coin. He 
 had not even so much interest in the meal as that. 
 Making his way across the Circus, he entered a restau- 
 rant in Shaftesbury Avenue, and passed down the stairs 
 to the griU-room. 
 
 The music, the lights, the haze of smoke and the 
 scent of food were depressing. The whole atmosphere 
 rolled forward to meet him as he came through the 
 doors. He had no subtle temperament. It did not 
 offend his imagination, but it sickened his senses, even 
 though he knew that in five minutes he would be eating 
 with the rest and the atmosphere would have taken 
 upon itself a false semblance of normality. 
 
 All the tables had one occupant or another. He was 
 forced to seat himself at the same table with some man 
 and a girl, who were already half through their meal. 
 He did so with apologies, quite aware of the annoy- 
 ance he was causing. But he was not sensitive. He 
 had the right to a seat at the table. The rules of the 
 restaurant offered no restrictions. With it all, he was 
 British. 
 
 "Hope you'll excuse my intrusion," he said shortly. 
 
 The man, a clerk, with slavery written legibly across 
 his face, offered some mumbled acceptance of the in- 
 evitable. Traill himself would not have borne with any 
 such intrusion. He would have called the manager — 
 insisted upon having the table to himself; but he in- 
 truded his presence with only a momentary conscious- 
 ness of being in the way. 
 
 His manner with waiters was peremptory. He gave 
 them the recognition of the position which they occu- 
 
16 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 pied, but beyond that, scarcely looked upon them as 
 human. 
 
 "Look here," he began, "I want so and so^ " he 
 
 named a dish that was unknown to the companion of 
 the young clerk. She felt a certain respect of him for 
 that. Her friend had ordered the most ordinary of 
 food and had tried to do it in a lordly manner. There 
 was no lordliness about Traill. He wasted no time 
 with a waiter; he had never met a German waiter who 
 was worth it. All this gave the impression of brusque- 
 ness. The girl liked it. She looked at her friend and 
 wished she was dining with TraiU. But Traill took no 
 notice of her. Except an occasional glance, he ignored 
 them both. As soon as he could, he ordered an evening 
 paper and sat concealed behind it — truly British in 
 every outline. The music in the place was good, but 
 no music appealed to him. It came as a confused 
 wreckage of sounds to his ears as he read through the 
 news of the evening; and when the girl rattled her 
 spoon on her coffee cup and the young man clapped his 
 hands vigorously at the conclusion of a selection, he 
 looked over the top of his paper with annoyance. What 
 music had ever penetrated his understanding of the 
 art, had come in the form of chants of psalms and old 
 hymn tunes, which a constant attendance at church in 
 his youth had dinned into him — the driving of soft 
 iron nails into the stern oak. He sang these laboriously 
 with numberless crescendos as he dressed in the morn- 
 ings. 
 
 He finished dinner as quickly as he could. The young 
 people opposite him were insufferably dull. Appar- 
 ently they had never met each other before and were at 
 a loss to make conversation to suit the occasion. Ac- 
 cordingly, they listened intently to the string band 
 
SALLY BISHOP 77 
 
 while the young man smoked a long cigar, and in the 
 natural course of things, they applauded after each 
 piece to show that they, had heard it. Traill bolted his 
 meal, glad to leave them. 
 
 He came out of the restaurant and thanked God — 
 filling his lungs with it — for the clean air. Then he 
 stood on the pavement contemplating the next move. 
 Should he go back to his rooms, read — smoke — fall 
 asleep? Should he turn into a music-hall? When you 
 live alone, the greatest issues of life sometimes resolve 
 themselves into such questions as these. 
 
 Finally, scarcely conscious of arriving at any definite 
 decision, he Walked slowly back across the Circus in the 
 direction of Lower Regent Street. 
 
 Over by the Criterion he heard the sound of foot- 
 steps behind him, hurrying; then his Christian name in 
 a woman's voice. He turned. 
 
 "I was up nearly at the Prince of Wales's," she said 
 out of breath, "when I saw you crossing the Circus. 
 My — I ran !" 
 
 "What for.-"' he asked laconically. 
 
 "Why to talk to you, of course — what else? Where 
 are you going?" 
 
 He looked at her coloured lips, at the tired eyes 
 with their blackened lashes, at the flush of rouge that 
 adorned her cheeks. Involuntarily, he remembered 
 when she was charming, pretty — a time when she re- 
 quired none of these things. 
 
 "Where are you going anyway?" she repeated. 
 "You haven't been to see me these months. Where 
 are you going now?" 
 
 "I'm going back to my rooms." 
 
 A look of resigned disappointment passed like a 
 shadow across her face. The first realization in a 
 
78 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 woman of her failure to attract is the beginning of 
 every woman's tragedy. 
 
 "Never seen my rooms, have you?" he added. 
 
 "No; never expected to." 
 
 "Come in and see them now and have a talk." 
 
 " You don't mean that?" Eagerness dragged it out 
 of her. 
 
 "Come along," he said ; " they're just down here- 
 in Regent Street." 
 
 She followed him silently — silently, but in that mo- 
 ment her spirits had lifted. There was a wider swing 
 in her walk. But he took no notice of that ; he was not 
 observant. 
 
 She hummed a tune with a rather pretty voice as she 
 walked up the flights of stairs behind him. 
 
 "Gosh! it's dark," she exclaimed. 
 
 "Oh, it's none of your bachelor flats with lifts and 
 attendants and electric lights," he replied. 
 
 On the third landing she stopped — out of breath 
 again. 
 
 "Tired?" he said. 
 
 "There " she laid a hand on her chest and 
 
 breathed heavily. Then she moved a step nearer to 
 him. 
 
 "Give us a kiss, dearie," she whispered. 
 
 He retreated a step. "My dear child — ^I didn't 
 want you for that. Come up to the next floor when 
 you've got your breath. I'll go on and light the 
 candles." 
 
 He left her there in the semi-darkness, the thin light 
 from the landing window just breaking up the heavy 
 shadows. When she heard him open the door upstairs, 
 she moved close to the window, took a small mirror 
 from her little reticule bag and gazed for a moment 
 
SALLY BISHOP 79 
 
 at her face in its reflection. Then from some pocket of 
 the bag, she produced a powder-puif and a box of pow- 
 dered rouge, applying them with mechanical precision. 
 
 "S'pose he thought I looked tired," she muttered to 
 herself as she mounted the remaining flight of stairs. 
 
 The room was a bachelor's, but it showed discrimina- 
 tion. Everything was in good taste — taste that was 
 beyond her comprehension. She stood there in the door- 
 way and stared about her before she entered. She 
 thought the rush matting that covered the floor was 
 cold; she thought the oak furniture sombre. Without 
 realizing the need for tact, she said so. 
 
 "You want a woman in here," she said, thinking that 
 she was paving the way for herself — ^"to warm things 
 up a bit — you know what I mean — ^make things more 
 cosy." 
 
 He put a chair out for her by the fire. It had a rush- 
 bottomed seat to it, and for the first few moments she 
 worried about in it, trying vainly to make herself com- 
 fortable. 
 
 "What would you do?" he asked quietly, filling a 
 well-burnt pipe from a tobacco-jar. 
 
 She took this as encouragement — jumped to it, as an 
 animal to the food above it. 
 
 "Do ? Well, first of aU I'd have a nice thick carpet." 
 There was no need to force the note of interest into her 
 voice. She was already absorbed with it. She confi- 
 dently thought that she could impress him with the 
 comfort that she could bring into his life. Her eyes, 
 quick to grasp certain facts, had shown her that he 
 lived alone. Long study of men from certain stand- 
 points had made that easy for her to appreciate. This 
 moment to her was as the gap in the wall of riders be- 
 fore him is to the jockey; in that moment she saw clear 
 
80 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 down the straight to the winning-post. She took it. 
 Ten minutes before she had not known where to turn. 
 The race had seemed impossible. Two or three times 
 she had opened her reticule bag and counted the four 
 coppers that jingled within the pocket. She had had 
 no dinner. No music hall was possible to her with such 
 capital. You know something of life when you have 
 only fourpence in the world and vice is the only trade 
 for which your hand has acquired any deftness. 
 
 "I pray God no man'll offer me ten bob to-night," 
 she had said to another woman. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Why? Gosh! I'd take it." 
 
 Here then, out of nowhere, in the dull impenetrable 
 wall was torn the gap through which she saw the 
 chance, such a chance as she had never been offered by 
 the generosity of circumstance before. She seized it — 
 no hesitation — no lack of inspiring confidence. It did 
 not even cross her mind that she looked tired. She was 
 in no way thwarted by the knowledge that she was not 
 so young, not so pretty as when first she had known 
 him. The opportunity was too great for that. It had 
 fallen so obviously at her feet, that she felt it was meant 
 for her. 
 
 She shufiled her feet on the cold clean matting and 
 said again, "I'd have a nice thick carpet " 
 
 "What colour?" 
 
 She looked up to the ceiling to think — ^not at the 
 room around her. 
 
 "I don't know — Turkey red, I think — ^that's warmest. 
 You know my carpet — ^well, it used to be nice. It's 
 worn a bit now and there's not so much colour in it as 
 when it was new. That was Turkey red." 
 
 "And what else?" He sat on the corner of an old 
 
SALLY BISHOP 81 
 
 table and smoked his pipe — swinging his legs and look- 
 ing at her. 
 
 "Well, I'd have electric lights instead of these candles 
 • — ^you can't expect a woman to see with candles; — 
 'lectric light's twice as cheap and it's much brighter. 
 And they make lovely new fittings now — quite inex- 
 pensive — oxidized copper, I think they call it; I like 
 brass best myself." 
 
 "You think brass is better?" 
 
 "Yes; don't you? Those brass candlesticks that 
 you've got are all right, only they're so plain." 
 
 " You like things more ornate?" 
 
 " More what?" 
 
 "More ornate — more highly finished — ^more elabo- 
 rate?" 
 
 "Yes; don't you?" 
 
 He took no notice of that question. "What else 
 would you do?" he asked. The smoke curled up in 
 clouds from the bowl of his pipe as he sat listening to 
 her. 
 
 She looked round the room contemplatively. 
 
 "Oh — ^lots of things," she said. "I'd have a sofa — 
 one of those settee sort of things " 
 
 "Upholstered in red?" 
 
 "Yes — to go with the carpet. And a comfortable 
 armchair — really comfortable, I mean — something that 
 you could chuck your legs about it — less like a strait- 
 jacket than this thing I'm sitting in." 
 
 "Upholstered in red?" he repeated. 
 
 "Um — of course." 
 
 "Then how about this wall-paper?" he questioned. 
 "It's green — do you think that would go with all the 
 red?" 
 
 She looked round the walls, then tried to blur her 
 
82 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 eyes in an effort to give scope to her imagination. She 
 put her whole heart into it. This was the chance of 
 her life. Thrilling through her, like some warm cur- 
 rent that forces its way through cold water, was the 
 consciousness that she was making him seriously con- 
 sider the benefits of having a woman to live with him, 
 to look after his needs, attend to his comforts, as she 
 pictured herself so well able to do. After due delibera- 
 tion, she delivered her opinion. 
 
 "I don't think the green would go so badly as 
 you'd think," she said slowly — "I suppose it would 
 be expensive to change. But red would look better of 
 course." 
 
 He took his pipe out of his mouth and blew a long 
 scroll of smoke from between his lips as he looked at 
 her. 
 
 "In fact," he said at last — "you'd like to make this 
 little room of mine look like hell." 
 
 It was a brutal thing to have said. Yet he knew her 
 mind no more than she knew his. He knew but httle 
 of women. Her knowledge of men was limited to one 
 point of view. When her flat had been newly decorated, 
 newly furnished for her, she had boasted of its com- 
 forts to every man she met. Nearly all of them had 
 said that they liked it. It was clean then, and all they 
 had appreciated was the cleanliness. But she had not 
 known. that. She thought they had approved of her 
 taste. So, with this narrow knowledge of the sex, she 
 had made her bid for security and failed. 
 
 And he, when he saw the drop in her face, when he 
 saw features and expression fall from the lofty height 
 of anticipation as a pile of cards topple in a mass upon 
 the table, he was sorry. Her mouth opened — gaped. 
 She looked as if a flat hand had struck her. 
 
SALLY BISHOP 83 
 
 "I don't mean that unkindly," he said — "but it would 
 be hell — red hell — ^to me." 
 
 She sat and stared at him. "Can't understand you," 
 she said at last. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "What did you let me go on talking for?" 
 
 "It was rather amusing to compare your taste with 
 mine." 
 
 "Amusing? God!" 
 
 She lifted herself to her feet and went across to the 
 mantelpiece, leaning her elbows on it, her head in her 
 hands. All her exhaustion had returned. She felt a 
 thousand times more tired in that moment than when she 
 had rested oi^ the landing. All that afternoon she had 
 been walking the streets — all that evening too. From 
 Regent Street to Oxford Street, from Oxford Street 
 to Bond Street, from Bond Street through the Bur- 
 lington Arcade into Piccadilly, then over the whole 
 course again, smiling cheerfully at this man, looking 
 knowingly at that — all a forced effort, all a spurious 
 energy; and pain throbbed in her limbs — a dominant 
 note of pain. She could feel a pulse in her brain that 
 kept time to it. These are the ecstatic pleasures of 
 vice — the charms, the allurements of the gay life. 
 
 At last she turned round and faced him. "I don't 
 want any of those damned red carpets and things," 
 she said — "if you'll let me come and live with you — 
 look after you." 
 
 She crossed the room and laid her hands heavily on 
 his shoulders ; bent towards him to kiss his lips. 
 
 "We should be sick to death of each other in a week," 
 he said, meeting her eyes. 
 
 "No, we shouldn't." 
 
 He gazed steadily at her for a moment. "What 
 
84 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 makes you think I want any one to live here with me?" 
 he asked curiously. 
 
 "I don't know^ — ^you do. I saw it the first second I 
 entered the room. I felt it the first moment you asked 
 me to come up here. You know you do yourself. 
 You're sick of this — aren't you?" 
 
 "You're right there." 
 
 She nodded her head sententiously — ^proud of her 
 perceptive ability. She wanted to go on saying other 
 things that were just as true, showing how well she 
 understood him ; but she could think of nothing. Then 
 she made the fatal mistake. She threw a guess at a 
 hazard. 
 
 "And you thought when you saw me that I was just 
 the girl you wanted. I saw that in your face when you 
 turned round." 
 
 He smiled. "You've lost the scent," he said, draw- 
 ing away from her hands. "Lost it utterly. And why 
 do you want to come and live here? You're not fond 
 of me. You don't care a rap for me. Are you hard 
 up?" 
 
 Pride — self-respect — ^they are lost qualities in a lost 
 woman. You must not even look for them. For the 
 moment, she was silent, saying nothing; but there was 
 no moaning of wounded vanity in the heart of her. 
 Two questions were weighing out the issue. If she 
 said she were hard-up, then all opportunity of gaining 
 the chance would be lost. He would give her money — 
 tell her to go. That would be all. If she refused to 
 admit it, the opportunity — sHght as it had become — 
 would still be there. Which to do — ^which course to 
 take? For a perceptible passing of time she rocked — 
 a weary pendulum of doubt — ^between the two. Then 
 she gave it. 
 
SALLY BISHOP 85 
 
 "I'm dead broke," she said thickly. 
 
 She saw the last hope vanish with that — ^looked after 
 it with a curl of bravado on her lip. Lifting her eyes 
 to his, she knew it was gone. There, in the place of it, 
 was the calculation of what he could spare — ^what he 
 should give. 
 
 "How much do you want.'"' he asked. 
 
 The question was ludicrous to her. She wanted all 
 she could get. Now that she had thrown away her 
 chances of the future, her whole mind concentrated 
 with uncontrolled desire upon the present. 
 
 "What's the good of asking me that?" she exclaimed 
 bitterly. "I'll take what I can get. Reminds me of a 
 girl — a friend of mine. She's an illegitimate child. 
 Her father's pretty well off. She was down to the bot- 
 tom of the bag the other day, so she went to her father 
 and asked him for some money. 'My dear child,' he 
 said — 'I can't spare you a cent — I've just spent seven 
 hundred and fifty pounds on a motor car — ^is a sov- 
 ereign any good to you?' " 
 
 There was a bitter sense of humour in the story. 
 She laughed at it — ^loud, uncontrolled laughter that 
 rang as empty and as hollow as an echo. 
 
 "Give me what you can," she added. "Anything 
 above a shilling's better than fourpence." 
 
 "Is that what you're down to?" 
 
 "Um " 
 
 He took three sovereigns out of his pocket, and gave 
 them to her. She let them lie out flat in the palm of 
 her hand — the three of them, all in a row. They glit- 
 tered — even in the candle-light. They were her own. 
 
 "When are you coming to see me?" 
 
 She still looked at them, ' 
 
 "I'm not coming." 
 
86 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 Her head shot up ; her eyes filled with questions. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 He opened his hands expressively. If there were 
 any answer to that question, she learnt that she was 
 not going to get it. 
 
 "Are you going to be married?" she asked slowly. 
 
 He shook his head — ^laughing. Then understanding 
 shot into her eyes, and a flash of jealousy came with it. 
 
 "I know," she exclaimed between thin lips. 
 
 "What do you know?" 
 
 " You're going to keep some woman here — some girl 
 you're fond of." 
 
 It was the moment of intuition. She had struck 
 deeper into his mind than even he was aware of himself. 
 
 "What makes you think that?" 
 
 "What you said." 
 
 "What did I say?" 
 
 "You admitted that you were sick of being here 
 alone." 
 
 "Well ?" 
 
 She burst out laughing. "Well ?" She turned 
 
 to the door. "Good Lord! Isn't every blooming man 
 the same!" 
 
 She opened her bag and dropped the three gold 
 pieces into a pocket — one after another. You heard 
 the dull sound of the first as it fell, then the clinking 
 of the other two, when the metal touched metal. She 
 shut the bag — ^the catch snapped sharp! Then she 
 went. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 YoTT SOW an idea — ^you sow a seed. It grows upwards 
 through a soil of subliminal unconsciousness until it 
 lifts its head into the clear air of realization. There 
 is no limitation of time, no need for watchful dependence 
 upon the season. Only the moment and the husbandry 
 of circumstances are essential. With these, perhaps a 
 single hour is all that may be required for the seed to 
 open, the shoots to sprout, the plant itself to bear the 
 fruit of action in the fierce light of reality. 
 
 In Traill's mind the idea was sown when he stood 
 outside the olBce of Bonsfield & Co. In King Street. 
 The soil was ready then — ^hungry for the seed. It fell 
 lightly — ^unnoticed — into the subconscious strata of his 
 mind. He had not even been aware of its existence. 
 Then, with the woman who had accompanied him to his 
 rooms, came the husbandry of circumstance. She fed 
 the seed. She watered it. Before her foot had finished 
 tapping on the wooden staircase, before the street and 
 the thousand lights had swallowed her up again, his 
 mind had grasped the knowledge of the need that was 
 within him. 
 
 On Monday morning he went down to the chambers 
 in the Temple where his name as a practising barrister 
 was painted upon the lintel of the door. This was a 
 matter of formality. Numberless barristers do it every 
 day; numberless ones of them find the same as he did 
 — nothing to be done. He had long since overcome the 
 depression which such an announcement had used to 
 
88 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 bring with it. There should be no disappointment in 
 the expected which invariably happens. The sanguine 
 mind is a weak mind that suffers it, Traill turned away 
 from the Temple, whistling a hymn tune as if it were 
 a popular favourite. 
 
 From there he made his way down into the hub of 
 journalism. The descent into hell is easy. He rode 
 there with a free lance — ^known by all the editors — 
 capable in his way — a man to be relied upon for any- 
 thing but imagination. From one office to another, he 
 trudged; climbing numberless stairs, filling in number- 
 less slips of paper with his name, saying nothing about 
 his business. They knew his business — ^the ability to 
 do anything that was going. He had written leaders 
 on the advance of Socialism — criticized a play, reviewed 
 a book. It says little beyond the fact that one is ready 
 and willing to do these things. 
 
 So, until the nearing hour of lunch time, he went 
 about — a scavenger of jobs — sweeping up the refuse 
 of the papers' needs, as the boys in Covent Garden 
 search through the barrows of sawdust for the stray, 
 green grapes that have been thrown out with the brush- 
 ings of the stalls. 
 
 If one knew how half the men in London find the 
 way to Hve, one would stand amazed. Life is not the 
 dreadful thing; it is the living of it. Life in the 
 abstract is a gay pageant, the passing of a show, capar- 
 isoned in armour, in ermine, in motley, in what you will. 
 But see that man without his armour, this woman with- 
 out her ermine, these in the crowd without their motley 
 and the merry, merry jangling of the bells, and you 
 will find how slender are the muscles that the armour 
 lays bare, how shrivelled the breast that the ermine 
 strips, how dragged and weary is that pitiable, naked 
 
SALLY BISHOP 89 
 
 figure which a few moments before was dancing fan- 
 tastically, grimacing with its ape. 
 
 Train took it as it came; the man forced to a crude 
 philosophy, as Life, if we get enough of it, will force 
 every soul of us. You must have a philosophy if you 
 are going to accept Life. Even if you refuse it, you 
 must have a philosophy, call it pessimistic, what you 
 wish, it is still a point of view. The " temporary in- 
 sanity " of the coroner's court is most times a vile hy- 
 pocrisy, invented to soothe a Christian conscience. 
 
 So long as he found enough work to do, his spirits 
 were light. He had a normal contempt for the tem- 
 perament that is known as artistic, dfespised the vari- 
 ability of mood, ridiculed its April uncertainty. This 
 is the man who hews his way through Life, making no 
 wide passage perhaps, no definite pathway for the thou- 
 sands who are looking for the broad and simple track ; 
 but cuts down, lops off, with the sheer strength of 
 dogged determination, the himdred obstacles that beset 
 his progress. 
 
 When the clock at the Law Courts was striking the 
 half -hour after twelve, he came up out of that depth of 
 journalism which lies like a hidden world below the level 
 of Fleet Street and made his way along towards the 
 Strand. There was a definite intention in his move- 
 ments. He walked quickly; turned up without hesita- 
 tion into Southampton Street, and again into King 
 Street. There the speed of his steps lessened and, 
 walking past the premises of Bonsfield & Co., he kept 
 his eyes in the direction of the window at which he had 
 first seen Sally Bishop at work. 
 
 She was there, her fingers more lively now than when 
 he had seen them before, in their eternal dance upon the 
 untiring keys. In the lingering glance he took at her 
 
so SALLY BISHOP 
 
 as he walked slowly by, there was much that was curios- 
 ity, but a greater interest. Thoughts had swept 
 through his mind since the previous Saturday night. 
 He saw her now from a different point of view. He 
 still found her attractive — compellingly so. There was 
 something exquisitely naive about her, an innocence that 
 was precious. In all the sordid side of hfe that he had 
 seen — ^that was his daily portion to see, for the jour- 
 nalism of a free lance can be sordid indeed — ^he found 
 her fresh. That had been the swift impression which 
 he had formed in the few moments that he had seen her, 
 spoken to her, on the top of the 'bus from Piccadilly 
 Circus. At this second sight of her, he was not dis- 
 illusioned. Even there, in the midst of oiBces, chained 
 to the machine at which she worked, she seemed cut out 
 from her surroundings — ^a personality apart. 
 
 He walked past the book shop, down the street, until 
 he came within sight of the clock in the post-ofBce in 
 Bedford Street. It was ten minutes to one. He turned 
 back again. It was a practical certainty that she would 
 be going out to lunch at one. The only question that 
 arose as a difficulty in his mind was the possibility of 
 her being accompanied by some other member of Bons- 
 field's staff. He knew that it would be inconsiderate to 
 approach her then. 
 
 Finally he decided to await her coming in one of the 
 arches of Covent Garden market, from whence he could 
 survey the entire length of the street. He had scarcely 
 taken up his position when she came out into view. She 
 walked in his direction. She was alone. 
 
 Traill felt a sensation in his blood. It was not im- 
 accountable, but it was unexpected. A combination of 
 eagerness and timidity, that he would have ridiculed In 
 any one else, had mastered him for the moment. Years 
 
SALLY BISHOP 91 
 
 ago, he would have understood it, expected it. Now 
 he was thirty-six. A man who has lived to his age, 
 lived the years moreover in his way, does not look to 
 be moved to school-boy timidity by the sight of a 
 woman. He pulled a cigarette-case out of his pocket, 
 extracted a cigarette and lit it before he was really 
 conscious of this action. 
 
 She passed down Southampton Street into the 
 Strand without noticing him. Then for the second time 
 he followed. It was an easy matter to keep the blue 
 feather in her hat in sight in the crowds of people all 
 hurrying to get the most of the hour for their mid-day 
 meal. He let her keep some yards ahead. Then she 
 vanished into a restaurant at the corner of Wellington 
 Street. He smiled. The matter was as good as done 
 now. In another three minutes he would be ten pounds 
 in her debt. 
 
 He allowed a couple of minutes to go by before he 
 entered the restaurant; then he pushed open the doors 
 and his eyes took in the room with a swift scrutiny. 
 
 Everything was in his favour. She was seated at 
 a table in the corner of the room, herself the only 
 occupant of it. He walked across to her without hesi- 
 tation — no timidity now. That had vanished with the 
 need for a show of determination. Here he must 
 dominate the situation or fail utterly. 
 
 "There's no need to move to another table," he said 
 as he pulled out a chair for himself and sat down oppo- 
 site to her. " If you really strongly object to my hav- 
 ing my lunch opposite to you, I'U move away." 
 
 "I do object," she replied. 
 
 "But why.?" 
 
 "I don't know you, I don't know who you are." 
 
 "That's not a great diflBculty," he said, smiling. 
 
M SALLY BISHOP 
 
 «I think it is." 
 
 He laughed lightly. "Not a bit of it. It can easily 
 be overcome. My name's Traill. I'm a barriHter — 
 briefless — the type of barrister that populates the Tem- 
 ple and all those places. One of these days I may cumc 
 into my own; I may be conducting the leading cases 
 at the criminal bar; I may be — but it's not even one 
 of my castles in the air." 
 
 She smiled at his inconsequence. " You seem to take 
 it very lightly," she remarked. 
 
 "Why not? Do you imagine I sit in chambers all 
 day long, pining for the impossible which no alchemy 
 of fate can apparently ever alter? I'm also a jour- 
 nalist. That's why I've come to see you." He spoke 
 utterly at random. 
 
 "To see me? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The waitress was standing impatiently by the table, 
 tapping her tray with her fingers. 
 
 "What are you going to have?" he asked. 
 
 Sally snatched a swift glance at him. Was he con- 
 scious that he was overruling her objections? She saw 
 no sign of it. He looked up at her questioningly, wait- 
 ing for her answer. 
 
 "I don't mind at all," she replied. She felt too timid 
 to say what she would really like, too ashamed perhaps 
 to say what she usually had for her lunch. The best 
 course was to let him choose. " I'll have whatever you 
 do," she said agreeably. 
 
 He gave the order, a meal for which she could never 
 have afforded to pay. Then he turned back with a 
 humorous smile to her. 
 
 "The objection, the difficulty's overcome, then," he 
 
SALLY BISHOP 98 
 
 Sally allowed herself to smile, eyes in a swift moment 
 raised to his. 
 
 "I never said so." 
 
 "No, no; but surely this is tacit admission. How- 
 ever, the point is not the saying of it." He saw the 
 look of doubtfulness beginning to show itself in her 
 eyes. "What's the good of talking about it? We're 
 here for the purpose of eating, not discussing social 
 conventions. You know who I am, I shall know who 
 you are in another two or three minutes if you'll be kind 
 enough to tell me. Why, good heavens! life's short 
 enough, without surrounding everything we want with 
 social restrictions. I'm a barrister, I told you that 
 before. In some sort of legal directory you'll find out 
 exactly when I left Oxford and was called to the bar. 
 In Who's Who? you'll find out exactly where I live, 
 
 though I can tell you that myself " he mentioned 
 
 the number of his chambers in Regent Street. "They'll 
 tell you in Who's Who? that my sports are riding, fish- 
 ing, and shooting — ^that describes a man in England; 
 it doesn't describe me. I don't ride; I don't fish or 
 shoot ; I used to ; that's another matter. I only ride an 
 occasional hobby now — fish for work on the papers, and 
 shoot Lord knows what I shoot ! Nothing, I sup- 
 pose. I belong to the National Liberal Club for the 
 Library, to the Savage where you pass along an editor 
 as you would a christening mug, and to the National 
 Sporting, because there's a beast in every man, thank 
 God!" 
 
 He had won her. The rattle of that conversation 
 had driven all thoughts of doubt out of her mind. She 
 would not have denied herself of his company now for 
 any foolish pretext of convention. In that hurried 
 summary of himself and his affairs, proving himself by 
 
94 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 it, without any pride and conceit, to be a man of very; 
 diiFerent stamp and interest to Mr. Arthur Montagu, 
 he had marked her in her flight for liberty. Nothing 
 was binding her — ^no interest in life but to be loved. 
 Had there been any such bond — ^Ihe prospect of an 
 engagement which was not distasteful to her — ^he would 
 have found it no easy matter to win her to interest then. 
 But she was free, in the midst of her flight, and he had 
 marked her. She looked into his eyes as the sighted bird 
 blinks before the glittering barrel of the gun, and she 
 knew that he could win her if he chose. 
 
 "Well," he said, "I've got nothing more to tell you. 
 How about you?" 
 
 She took a little handkerchief out from the folds in 
 her coat, then put it back again, apparently with no 
 purpose. 
 
 "I thought you had something to tell me?" 
 
 "I?" 
 
 "Yes; you said when you came up to the table that 
 you had." 
 
 "That? Oh yes, that's business. We'll talk about 
 that later. I want to hear something about yourself 
 first. You're engaged to be married." 
 
 He rushed blindly at that — ^knew nothing about it. 
 A ring on her finger had suggested the thought, but 
 whether it were on the proper finger or not was beyond 
 his knowledge of such little details. 
 
 "What makes you think that?" she asked. 
 
 "The ring on the finger." 
 
 "But that's not the right finger." 
 
 "Isn't it?" 
 
 "No. My grandmother gave me that." 
 
 He held her eyes — forced her to see the comprehen- 
 sion in his. 
 
SALLY BISHOP 96 
 
 "THen you won't help me?" he said. 
 
 "Help you? How?" 
 
 "You don't want to tell me about yourself?" 
 
 "But I have nothing to tell. I'm a very uninteresting 
 person, I'm afraid." 
 
 This was shyness, this dropping into conventional 
 phrases. He led her deftly through them to a greater 
 confidence in his interest, as you steer a boat through 
 shallow, rapid-running water. He wanted to get to the 
 woman beneath it all, knowing that the woman was 
 there. So he made for deep water, guiding her through 
 the shoals. Before they had finished their second course, 
 she was telling him about Mr. Arthur. 
 
 "And you don't love him?" he said. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Respect him?" 
 
 She paused. The pause answered him. The tension 
 of the moment lifted. 
 
 "Yes. I respect him. I know he's honourable. He 
 must be reliable. After all he's offering me every- 
 thing." 
 
 You would have thought, to hear her, that the mat- 
 ter was yet in the balance, swaying uncertainly before 
 it recorded the weight. There is the instinct of the 
 woman in that. She felt the shadow of his apprehen- 
 sion ; knew that she raised her value in his eyes by the 
 seeming presence of debate. Yet none realized better 
 than she, that Mr. Arthur had been stripped of all pos- 
 sibility now. The fateful comparison had been made 
 — the comparison which most women make in the deci- 
 sion of such momentous issues — one man against an- 
 other. Their emotions are the agate upon which the 
 scales must swing. In favour of the man before her, 
 they swung with ponderous obviousness. 
 
96 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 "Then you'll marry him?" said Traill. 
 
 She looked at him questioningly — raised eyebrows—^ 
 the look of mute appeal. You might have read any- 
 thing behind her eyes — ^you might have read nothing. 
 Traill studied them wonderingly. 
 
 "You'U marry him — of course," he repeated. He 
 was taking the risk. He might be forcing her to say 
 yes. He prepared himself for it. To take that risk, 
 knowing one way or another, rather than blindly grop- 
 ing to the end, this was typical of him. But he could 
 not force her to the answer that he sought for. 
 
 "Do you think I ought to.?" she asked. 
 
 He drummed his fingers on the table and looked 
 through her. 
 
 "Why do you ask me?" 
 
 "I'm sorry." She returned sensitively to the food 
 that was before her — "I thought you had seemed inter- 
 ested. I'm sorry — ^I took too much for granted." 
 
 He knew the danger of aU this — so did she. But 
 danger of what? That dancing upon the edge of the 
 precipice of emotion is in the normal heart of every 
 woman — and he? He sought it out; to the edge he 
 had brought her, knowing the way — every step of it. 
 She had only followed blindly where he had led. Once 
 there, she knew well the chasm on whose edge she was 
 balancing. Natural instinct alone would have told her 
 that. The height was dizzy. She had known well that 
 if ever she gazed down, it would be that. Her head swam 
 with the giddiness of it. She kept her eyes fixed rigidly 
 on the plate before her, not daring to look up, or meet 
 his glance. 
 
 "Suppose you haven't taken too much for granted," 
 he suggested quietly. 
 
 "Well?" she raised her head — ^tried to look with un- 
 
SALLY BISHOP 97 
 
 concern into his eyes — failed. Then her head dropped 
 again. 
 
 "I should say — don't marry him — ^not yet — ^wait. 
 The harm that is done by waiting is measurable by 
 inches. Wait. How old are you? Is that rude.'' No 
 — of course it isn't. It's only rude when a woman's got 
 to answer you with a lie. How old are you? Twenty?" 
 
 "Twenty-one." 
 
 "Twenty-one! I was fifteen when you first woke up 
 and yelled." 
 
 She threw back her head and laughed. 
 
 "Why do you laugh?" 
 
 "You say such funny things sometimes." 
 
 "I remember the first joke I made you thought was 
 bad taste." 
 
 She looked at him. There was excitement in her eyes. 
 The rush of the stream had taken her; an impulse for 
 the moment carried her away. 
 
 "I repeated that joke afterwards," she said quickly, 
 "the same evening to shock Mr. Arthur." 
 
 The moment she had said it, came regret. It was 
 showing him too plainly the impression that he had 
 left upon her. But he seemed not to notice it. 
 
 "Was he shocked?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes— terribly." 
 
 She looked at her watch. That moment's regret had 
 brought her to her senses. The blood came quickly to 
 her face, as she thought how intimately they had talked 
 within so short a time. Reviewing it — as with a search- 
 light that strides across the sky — she scarcely believed 
 that it was true. In just an hour, she had told him 
 as much — more than she had told Miss Hallard. Had 
 she changed? Was the freedom of the life she lived 
 altering her? She had known Mr. Arthur for a year 
 
98 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 and a half before he had thought of speaking with any 
 intimacy to her. The thought that she was deteriorat- 
 ing — ^becoming as other women — ^passed across her mind 
 with a sensation of nausea. She rose to her feet. 
 
 "I must get back," she said. 
 
 "But it's only just two," he replied. 
 
 "I know, but then I came out five minutes early." 
 
 "Are they so fierce as that.''" 
 
 "Yes, I daren't be late. Mr. Bonsfield gives me his 
 letters directly after lunch, I think he'd tell me I might 
 go, if I was late. You see it's very easy for them to 
 get a secretary, the work's not difficult though there's 
 a lot of it; and there are hundreds of girls who'd be 
 ready to fill my place in a moment." 
 
 He watched her considerately. "Thank God, my lance 
 is free," he said. "Well — I suppose you must — if you 
 must. I've enjoyed the talk." 
 
 Her eyes lighted, smiling. "So have I — immensely 
 — ^it is very good of you. Good-bye." She held out 
 her hand. 
 
 "Do you think you get off so lightly?" he asked. 
 
 "How do you mean?" 
 
 "I mean — do you think I'm going to let you go with- 
 out some chance of seeing you again?" 
 
 "But " 
 
 He checked that. He could not guess what had been 
 passing through her mind, yet the note in her voice 
 on that one word was discouraging. 
 
 "You are going to come to dinner with me one even- 
 ing." 
 
 She was full of indecision. He gave her no time to 
 think. It was not his intention to do so, 
 
 "But how can I?" she began. 
 
 "By coming dressed — ^just as you are. No need to 
 
SALLY BISHOP 99 
 
 go home and change. I'll be ready to meet you outside 
 the office at six o'clock. You don't get out tiU a quarter 
 past.'' Then a quarter past. We go to dinner — we go 
 to a theatre; music hall if you like — then I drive you 
 down to Waterloo, put you in the last train to Kew 
 Bridge — and that is all." 
 
 She laughed in spite of herself. 
 
 "I'll write to Strand-on-Green, and let you know 
 what evening. Miss Bishop — what initial?" 
 
 "S." 
 
 "What's S. for?" 
 
 "Sally." 
 
 "Miss Sally Bishop, 73 Strand-on-Green, Kew 
 Bridge. And I owe you ten pounds." 
 
 For a moment she smiled — ^then her expression 
 changed. 
 
 "That's perfectly ridiculous," she said. 
 
 *'I wouldn't have you think it anything else," he said ; 
 "but> nevertheless, that's a legally contracted debt." 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 Before she left the office that evening, Sally picked 
 up the volume of Who's Who? kept there mainly be- 
 cause Mr. Bonsfield had a brother whose name figured 
 with some credit upon one of its pages. She turned 
 quickly over the leaves, until the name of Traill leapt 
 out from the print to hold her eye. 
 
 "John Hewitt Traill" — she read it with self-con- 
 scious interest — ^"barrister-at-law and journalist. 
 Born 1871; son of late Sir William Hewitt Traill, 
 C.B., of Apsley Manor, near High Wycombe, Bucks. 
 Address: Regent Street. Clubs: National Liberal, 
 and Savage. Recreations: riding, shooting, fishing." 
 
 That was all — the registration of a nonentity, it 
 might have seemed — in a wilderness of names. But 
 it meant more than that to her. Each word vibrated 
 in her consciousness. Reading that — slight, uncom- 
 municative as it was — ^had made her feel a pride in 
 their acquaintance. Her imagination was stirred by 
 the name of the house where his father had lived, 
 where he had probably been brought up. Apsley 
 Manor; she said it half aloud, and the picture was 
 thrust into her mind. She could see red gables, old 
 tUed roofs, latticed windows, overlooking sloping 
 lawns, herbaceous borders with the shadows of yew 
 trees lying lazily across them. She could smell the 
 scent of stocks. The colours of sweet-peas and climb- 
 ing roses filled her eyes. In that moment, she had 
 fallen into the morass of romance, and through it all, 
 
SALLY BISHOP 101 
 
 like a gift of God, permeated the sense that it he- 
 longed to this man who had dropped like a meteor 
 upon the cold, uncoloured world of her existence. 
 
 This is the beginning, the opening of the bud, whose 
 petals wrapped round the heart of Sally Bishop. Ro- 
 mance is the gate through which almost every woman 
 enters into the garden of life. Her first glimpse is the 
 path of flowers that stretches on under the ivied arch- 
 ways, and there for a moment she stands, drugged with 
 delight. 
 
 After supper that evening, Mr. Arthur followed her 
 into the sitting-room. 
 
 "Can you spare me a few minutes i"' he asked. 
 
 His method of putting the question reminded her 
 of Mr. Bonsfield's chief clerk — the son of a pawn- 
 broker in Camberwell. He assumed the same attitude 
 of body. Certainly Mr. Arthur did not fold his hands 
 together before him — ^he did not sniif through his 
 nostrils ; but her imagination supplied these deficiencies 
 in the likeness. 
 
 She agreed quite willingly. The prospect of what 
 she knew was coming, held no terrors for her. The 
 only real terror is that of doubt. She knew the course 
 sh? was about to take. There was no hesitation in 
 her mind. The fate of Mr. Arthur in moulding the 
 destiny of Sally's life was weighed out, appor- 
 tioned, sealed. It had only to be delivered into his 
 hands. 
 
 If this is a short time for so much to have hap- 
 pened, it can only be said that Romance is a fairy tale 
 where seven-leagued boots and magic carpets are es- 
 sential properties of the mind. In a fairy tale you 
 are here and you are there by the simple turning of 
 a ring. Matter — the body — ^is a thing of nought. It 
 
102 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 is the same with Romance; but there you deal with 
 magical translations of the mind. From the grim 
 depths of the valley of despair, you are transported 
 on to the summit of the great mountain of delight; 
 from the tangled forest of doubt, in one moment of 
 time you may be swept on the wings of the genie of 
 love into the sun-lit country of content. 
 
 Happening upon this fairy tale — as every woman 
 must — had come Sally Bishop. It would seem a 
 foolish thing to think that Apsley Manor, in the 
 county of Buckinghamshire, should play a part In so 
 great a change in the life of any human being; it 
 would seem strange to believe that out of a two hours' 
 acquaintance could arise the beginning of a whole life's 
 desire; yet in the fairy story of romance, all such 
 things are possible; nay, they are even circumstances 
 that one expects. 
 
 When she walked out along the river-side that even- 
 ing with Mr. Arthur, there was an unreasoning con- 
 tent in her mind. The lights from the bridge danced 
 for her in the black water, reflecting the lightness of 
 her heart. She was In that pleasant attitude of mind 
 — poised — ^Kke a diver on a summer day, before he 
 plunges Into the glittering green water. A few more 
 days, another meeting, and she knew that she would 
 be immersed — deeply in love. Now she toyed with It, 
 held the moment at arm's length, and let her eyes feast 
 on the seeming voluptuous certainty of It. And when 
 Mr. Arthur began the long preface to the point to- 
 wards which his mind was set, it sounded distant, aloof, 
 as the monotonous voice of a priest, chanting dull 
 prayers in an empty church, must sound in the ears 
 of one whose whole soul is struggling to lift to a com- 
 munion with God Himself. 
 
SALLY BISHOP 105 
 
 "1 only want to know if you have made up your 
 mind?" he said, when he had finished his preamble. 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Arthur, I have." 
 
 "You can't.?" 
 
 He took the note in her voice. It rang there in an- 
 swer to the apprehension that was already in his 
 mind. 
 
 "No, I can't." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "The same reason I gave you before." 
 
 "You don't love me?" 
 
 "No ; I'm sorry, but I don't." 
 
 "That'll come," he tried to say with confidence. 
 
 She thought he was really sure of it ; but instead of 
 being angry, she felt sorry for him. He hoped for 
 that — he had every right to hope — ^but oh, he little 
 realized how impossible it was — ^how utterly, absolutely 
 impossible it was now. There is no rate of exchange 
 for Romance in the heart of a woman; she gives her 
 whole soul for it, and nothing but Romance will she 
 take in return. 
 
 "It's no good saying that," she replied; "things 
 don't come when you expect them to. It surely can't 
 be right for people to marry when they are only hop- 
 ing that one of them may love the other." 
 
 "But you seem to forget the position I'm offering 
 you," he said. "Is that no inducement?" 
 
 "No; I'm not forgetting it. But do you think po- 
 sition is everything to a woman?" 
 
 "No ; but she likes a home." 
 
 "Then why do you think I gave up mine?" 
 
 "I didn't know you had given it up. I thought you 
 had been compelled to earn your living." 
 
 "No; not at all. My father was a clergyman down 
 
104 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 in Kent. He only died last year. My mother still 
 lives there and my two sisters. I could have a home 
 there if I wished to go back to it." 
 
 He looked at her in a Uttle amazement. "I suppose 
 I don't understand women," he said genuinely. 
 
 She looked up into his uninteresting face — the weak, 
 protruding lower lip, the drooping moustache that 
 hung on to it — then she smiled. 
 
 "I suppose, really, you don't," she agreed. "I think 
 we'll go back ; I'm getting cold." 
 
 They walked back silently together, all the night 
 sounds of the river soothing to her cars, jarring to 
 his. A train rushed by, thundering over the bridge 
 from Gunnersbury way; he looked at it, frowning, 
 waiting for the noise to cease; she watched it con- 
 tentedly, thinking that it had come from the Temple 
 where Traill was a barrister-at-law. 
 
 "Then I suppose it's no good my saying any more," 
 said Mr. Arthur as he stood at the door with his latch- 
 key ready in the lock. He waited for her answer be- 
 fore he turned it. 
 
 "No, no good," she replied gently; "I'm so sorry, 
 but it isn't. I hope it won't be the cause of any un- 
 friendliness ; you have been very good to me, and I do 
 really appreciate the honour of it." The same phrases, 
 with but little variation, that every woman uses. It is 
 an understood thing amongst them that a man is con- 
 scious of paying them honour when he asks them in 
 marriage, and that it is better to show him that they 
 are sensitive to it. He thinks of nothing of the kind 
 — certainly not at the time. That last appreciation 
 of the honour is the final application of a caustic to 
 the wound that smarts the most of all — though in the 
 end it may heal. 
 
SALLY BISHOP 105 
 
 Mr. Arthur turned the key viciously in the lock, 
 and pushed the door open. 
 
 "I suppose you have to say that," he exclaimed, 
 "but of course there's no honour about it to you. If 
 your father was a clergyman, you probably look down 
 on me. My father was in the grocery business. He 
 got me into the bank because he had an account there." 
 
 He stood by to let her pass him into the hall. 
 
 "You're really quite wrong," she began, then she 
 saw that he was not following her. "I thought you 
 were coming in," she said. 
 
 "No; I'm not coming in yet. Good night." 
 
 He closed the door behind him, and left her ab- 
 ruptly in the darkness of the hall. 
 
 She stood there for a moment, listening to the de- 
 parture of his footsteps as he slouched aimlessly away. 
 He was nobody — nobody in her life — ^but she felt sorry 
 for him. On the verge of love — ^in love itself — is a 
 boundless capacity for sympathy. She turned to go 
 upstairs, still feeling pity for him in the pain she had 
 unavoidably caused him. She did not realize that this 
 was simply a reflection, the first shadowing of her love 
 for Traill, that sought any outlet in which to find ex- 
 pression. 
 
 In the bedroom, Janet was making a strange cos- 
 tume for a students' fancy dress ball. She did not 
 look up when Sally entered. With her inexperienced 
 needle, the work occupied her whole attention. SaUy 
 stood and watched her laborious efforts with a smile of 
 gentle amusement. 
 
 "Let me do it for you," she said at last — ^"those 
 stitches '11 never hold." 
 
 In her mood she was willing — anxious to do any- 
 thing for any one. She felt no fatigue from her day's 
 
106 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 work. In the everlasting routine, it is the mind that 
 makes the body tired. Her mind was lifted above the 
 ordinary susceptibility to exhaustion. 
 
 Janet stuck her needle into the material on her knee, 
 and looked up searchingly. 
 
 "What's the matter with you to-night?" she asked. 
 
 "Nothing's the matter. Why?" 
 
 "You're so officiously agreeable." 
 
 Sally laughed. 
 
 "You wanted to help Mrs. Hewson to make that 
 mincemeat," Janet continued; "now you want to help 
 me; and you were the soul of good-nature to Mr. Ar- 
 thur. I'm sure he thinks you're going to accept him." 
 
 "No, he doesn't." 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 "I told him after supper. He asked me to come out 
 with him. I told him I couldn't marry him." 
 
 Janet looked at her with curiosity, her eyes nar- 
 rowed, judging the tone of the words rather than 
 the words themselves, as if they were subjects for her 
 brush. 
 
 "How did he take it?'' she asked, gaining time for 
 the maturity of her judgment. 
 
 "I feel awfully sorry for him. He went out again 
 when I came in." 
 
 "Takes it badly, then?" 
 
 "I'm afraid so." 
 
 "You're sorry for him?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Why? You haven't thrown him over. He's taken 
 his chance — he'll get over it. You're very soft- 
 hearted. It's all in the game. You'll have to take 
 your chance as well, and no one'U be sorry for you if 
 you come worst out of it." 
 
SALLY BISHOP 107 
 
 Sally looked at her tHoughtfuUy. "I don't believe 
 you've got a heart, Janet," she said. 
 
 "Don't you?" 
 
 "Well, have you?" 
 
 "It's not a weakness I care to confess to." 
 
 "That's as good as admitting it." 
 
 Janet was slowly driving to the point. In another 
 moment, she knew that she would have the truth. 
 
 "If having a heart means wasting one's sorrow on 
 men like Mr. Arthur, I'm glad I haven't." Janet 
 threw her work over the end of her bed, and looked up 
 at Sally. 
 
 "Who is he, Sally?" she asked abruptly. "What's 
 his name? Where does he live?" 
 
 "Who?" She tried to lift her eyebrows in surprise, 
 but the blood rushed to her cheeks and burnt them red. 
 "Who?" she repeated. 
 
 "The man you're in love with. I asked you before 
 if there was some one in the office; it's silly going on 
 denying it. You'd never have told Mr. Arthur so 
 soon. You'd have hung it on and hung it on for 
 heaven knows how long. No, something's happened, 
 happened to-day. Do you think I can't see? You're 
 bubbling over with it, longing to tell me, and afraid 
 I'll laugh at you." She rose to her feet and struck her 
 needle into the pincushion, then she put her arm round 
 Sally's waist, and hugged her gently. "Poor, ridicu- 
 lous, little Sally," she said, the first soft note that had 
 entered her voice. "I wouldn't laugh at you. Don't 
 you know you're made to be loved — ^not like me. Men 
 hate thin, bony faces and scraggy hair; they want 
 something they can pinch and pet. Lord! imagine a 
 man pinching my cheeks — it 'ud be like picking up a 
 threepenny bit off a glass counter. Who is he, Sally?" 
 
108 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 Sally lifted up her face and kissed the thin cheek. 
 
 " Let's get into bed," she whispered. 
 
 They undressed in silence. Once, when Sally was 
 not looking, Janet stole a glance at her soft round 
 arms; then gazed contemplatively at her own. They 
 were thin, like the rest of her body — ^the elbows thick, 
 out of proportion to the arm itself. She bent it, and 
 felt the sharp bone tentatively with her hand. Sally 
 looked up, and she converted the motion of feeling 
 into that of scratching, as though the place had irri- 
 tated. Then she continued with her undressing. 
 
 When once they were in bed and the light was out, 
 Sally told her everything. Janet made no comments. 
 She listened with her eyes glaring out into the dark- 
 ness, sometimes moistening her lips as they became 
 dry. The unconscious note in Sally's voice thrilled 
 her; it was like that of a lark thanking God for the 
 morning. She felt in it the pulse of the great force 
 of sex — ^nature rising like a trembling god of power 
 out of the drab realities of every-day existence. 
 
 It wakened a sleeping animal in her. She felt as 
 though its stertorous breaths were fanning across her 
 cheeks and she lay there parched under them. 
 
 "What's that?" exclaimed Sally under her breath 
 when she had finished her relation. 
 
 "What's what?" 
 
 "That noise." 
 
 They both listened, breaths held waiting between 
 their lips, their heads raised strainingly from their 
 pillows. 
 
 On the other side of the wall Was Mr. Arthur's 
 room, and from their beds they heard muffled sounds 
 as of a person speaking. They waited to hear the 
 other voice IR reply, IThere was none. He must be 
 
SALLY BISHOP 109 
 
 speaking to himself. Sometimes the voice would stop. 
 Then came one single sound like a groan, only that it 
 was more exclamatory. For a few moments there was 
 silence ; then again a clattering noise. That was recog- 
 nizable — a boot being thrown on to the floor. It came 
 again — the second boot. Then another single sound 
 of the voice, a sudden violent creaking of springs as 
 a heavy body was thrown on to the bed; then silence. 
 "That's Mr. Arthur," said Janet. "He's drunk." 
 And whereas Janet found sympathy for him, Sally 
 lost that which she had. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 The dinner was fixed some few days later for seven 
 o'clock in a little restaurant in Soho. 
 
 "Don't think because I chose this place," concluded 
 Traill's letter, "that I am considering the fact that we 
 are not dressing, and that, therefore, it ought not to 
 be some ultra-fashionable place. You shall come to 
 those another time if you wish. This particular even- 
 ing I want to be quiet, and this is the quietest place I 
 know. I leave the theatre to your choosing. Any- 
 thing will suit me, I have seen them all." 
 
 Janet watched her across the breakfast-table as she 
 folded the letter and crumpled it into her pocket. 
 Their eyes met and they smiled. 
 
 "I shan't be in to dinner this evening, Mrs. Hew- 
 son," Sally said presently. 
 
 Mrs. Hewson looked up from a plate of shrimps 
 which had been left over from the last evening's sup- 
 per. Her sharp little eyes criticized Sally. Janet 
 often stayed out for the evening; that was by no 
 means an uncommon occurrence. Art students are 
 convivial souls; they love the unconventionality of the 
 evenings in each other's company. Sometimes Sally 
 went with her to a small impromptu dance or a musical 
 at-home in the purlieus of Chelsea. But never before 
 had she announced that she was going out by herself. 
 Mrs. Hewson did not profess to have any control over 
 the morals of her lodgers, so long as they did not re- 
 flect in any way upon her own respectability; but she 
 
SALLY BISHOP 111 
 
 could not refrain from that British desire for inter- 
 ference in other people's aifairs in the cause of mo- 
 rality itself. 
 
 Morality itself, not as any means to an end, but 
 just its bare superficial display of conventional morals, 
 is treasure in heaven to the average English mind. 
 And their morality itself is a poor business — cheap at 
 the best. To be respectable, to do what others expect 
 of you, is the backbone of all their virtue. It has 
 been said, we are a nation of shopkeepers. If that is 
 true, then all the shops are in one street, packed tight, 
 the one against the other. For we are a nation of 
 neighbours too, prone to do what is being done next 
 door, and a lax king upon the throne of England 
 could turn our morals upside down. AH things are 
 fashions — even moralities — they take longer to come 
 and longer to go, but they change with the rest of 
 things nevertheless, and we follow, doing what is at 
 the moment the thing to do. 
 
 In Mrs. Hewson's eyes, as she looked up at Sally, 
 was a considerate inquiry blent with curiosity, touched 
 with suspicion which she tried in vain to conceal. 
 
 "Going out to dinner. Miss Bishop.?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Oh— that's nice for you— isn't it.?" 
 
 "Very." 
 
 Though Janet had finished her breakfast, she waited 
 on with amusement concealed behind an expressionless 
 exterior. 
 
 "Of course, Mr. Arthur can afford it," Mrs. Hew- 
 son went on. Sally made no reply. Mrs. Hewson 
 simpered affectedly. "Of course, I'm only supposin' 
 it's Mr. Arthur. P'raps I may be quite wrong." 
 Sally still resorted to silence. "Are you going to a 
 
112 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 theayter with him?" She shot the last bolt — ^went as 
 far as decency in such matters and such surroundings 
 would permit,, and it succeeded — it forced Sally to re- 
 tort. 
 
 "It's not Mr. Arthur, Mrs. Hewson — there is no 
 need to worry yourself." She snapped the words — 
 broke them crisp and sharp with pardonable irritation 
 and spirit. 
 
 "Oh — ^indeed — I'm not worrying meself. I'm sorry 
 to have made you so oiTended like — ^it's no affair of 
 mine. I'm quite aware of that — 'only that I thought, 
 seeing you've being here nigh on two years and never 
 gone out by yourself before like — I was only just 
 making — ^whatcher might call — friendly inquiry about 
 it— see?" 
 
 She brushed the heads of the shrimps into the slop- 
 basin with her hand and stood up, evidently offended, 
 from the table. 
 
 "Of course, it's no business of mine, and I have no 
 cause to complain of anything you do; you give no 
 offence to me, I must say that. I never had better 
 be'aved lodgers than I've got at present." 
 
 "But you felt curious.'"' suggested Janet. 
 
 "Me.? Curious.? Well, I think that's the last thing 
 you could accuse me of. I've got enough affairs of 
 me own without worrying about other people's. Me? 
 Curious?" She laughed at the impossibility of such a 
 thing, and began to clear away the breakfast things 
 with more noise than was actually necessary. 
 
 "Well, there's nothing to be excited about, then," 
 said Janet. 
 
 Mrs. Hewson laid a cup and saucer with such gen- 
 tleness upon a pile of plates that the absence of noise 
 was oppressive. 
 
SALLY BISHOP 113 
 
 "I'm not excited," she said with crimson cheeks. 
 
 "Sorry," said Janet, laconically; "thought you 
 were. If there's a thing more hateful than another, 
 I think it's the vexation of a person who can't satisfy 
 their curiosity about some other body's business. 
 Don't you think so, Mrs. Hewson.!"' 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know. Those abstruse matters 
 don't worry me." 
 
 "No? Well, that Is so, and it's about the commonest 
 weakness of humanity. If I thought you worried 
 about our affairs — of course, I know you don't, you're 
 most reasonable — I wouldn't stay here another min- 
 ute." 
 
 The colour In Mrs. Hewson's cheeks went from red 
 to white. 
 
 "But you said I was curious," she said in a reserved 
 voice. 
 
 "Oh yes, that was only fun ! Hadn't you better get 
 a key, Sally, if you're going to be late. Can you 
 spare Miss Bishop a key, Mrs. Hewson?" 
 
 "Certainly ; of course ; I'U go and get It." 
 
 They both laughed when she had gone out. Sally 
 told Janet that she was wonderful. 
 
 "She'll never meddle again," she said. "I couldn't 
 have done It like you did." 
 
 "Of course you couldn't." 
 
 "But why not.'' I wouldn't be afraid to, but simply 
 I shouldn't think of things; and why shouldn't I?" 
 
 "Because you're not meant to fight, you have to be 
 fought for, like Mr. Arthur fought for you In his own 
 particular way, like this man you're going to meet to- 
 night Is fighting for you too." 
 
 Sally's eyes looked wonderingly before her. "Do 
 you think things are really like that.?" she asked. 
 
114 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 'Tm sure of it." 
 r "But why? — why, for instance, are you meant to 
 fight?" 
 
 "Do you want me to answer the riddle of the Uni- 
 yerse?" 
 
 "I don't see why it should be such a riddle." 
 
 "Well, it is. I don't know who arranged these 
 things, no more than any one else, though a good 
 many make a comfortable income by telling you that 
 they do. But it's pretty obvious that it is so; that's 
 enough for me." 
 
 "I don't see why it's obvious," Sally persisted. 
 
 Janet stood away from the table and held out her 
 arms — the thin, fleshless arms — straight, no deviation 
 to the ungainly shoulders. There was unconscious 
 drama in it. Yet she was the last person in the world 
 to act. 
 
 "Well, loolc at me," she said. 
 
 Sally only looked at her eyes, and her lips twitched 
 compassionately. 
 
 "You may be all wrong," she said. "I may have 
 to fight as well — ^you don't know — and somebody, you 
 can never tell, may fight for you." 
 
 Janet took the round, warm cheeks in her hands and 
 caressed them with the long, sensitive fingers. 
 
 "That'll never be," she said quietly — "never — never. 
 I know it right away in here." She laid her hand upon 
 her chest. 
 
 "But why?" Sally repeated petulantly, as though 
 wishing it, could alter the truth. 
 
 "Because I suppose I really want to do the fight- 
 ing, however much I may think differently, when I see 
 you and hear you talk, when your heart's going and 
 there's all the meaning of it in your eyes. I've got to 
 
SALLY BISHOP 116 
 
 fight, and away inside me I want to. I suppose that's 
 the compensation." 
 
 Then Mrs. Hewson brought the key, saying words 
 over it — an incantation of half-hearted rebuke — and 
 following Sally with her eyes as she walked out of the 
 kitchen. 
 
CHAPTER Xni 
 
 Theue is Bohemlanism still— there will always be 
 Bohemianism. But the present will never wear the 
 same air of fantasy as the past. It is the same with 
 all things. Every circumstance takes its colour from 
 the immediate surroundings, and you cannot expect to 
 get the same light-hearted Bohemianism in the midst 
 of an orderly, church-going, police-conducted district. 
 What hope is there for a troubadour nowadays with 
 the latest regulations upon street noises? We must 
 dispense with troubadours and get our Romance else- 
 where. So everything has to suit itself to its own time 
 — ^Bohemianism with the rest. 
 
 One essential quality there is, however, in this Vie 
 de Boheme that will never alter. It demands that 
 those who live it, shall be careless of the morrow; it 
 expects an absolute liberty of soul, let manners and 
 conditions be what they may. You will still find that; 
 you will always find it. Certain souls must be free 
 and they always seek out the spots of the earth where 
 social restrictions, social exigencies, are least of all in 
 force. They live where life is freest; they eat their 
 meals where it is not compulsory for them to be on 
 their best behaviour. You cannot expect the Bohe- 
 mian to be a slave, and to customs least of all. The 
 only well-ruled line that he can follow is the custom- 
 ary prompting of his own instinct. 
 
 Such a spot — an ideal comer of all unconvention- 
 ality — ^is Soho. They say that Greek Street is the 
 
SALLY BISHOP IM 
 
 worst street in London. You must say something is 
 the worst, to show how bad and good things are. Then 
 why not Greek Street? But for no definite reason. It 
 is really no worse than many another and, with a few 
 more lamps to light its darkened pathways, it might 
 earn that reputation for respectability which would 
 endear it to the most exacting of British matrons. All 
 the doubtful deeds are only done in dark streets. Light 
 is the sole remedy ; you will see crime retreating before 
 it like some crawling vermin that dares not show its 
 face. Therefore, why blame Greek Street and those 
 who live there? The county council are to blame that 
 they do not cleanse the place with light. 
 
 Bad or good, though — whatever it may be — ^it is 
 part of Soho; the refuge of Bohemianism to which 
 district Traill brought Sally Bishop on that Thursday 
 evening. 
 
 Outside the restaurant in Old Compton Street with 
 its latticed windows, and its almost spotless white 
 lintels and the low-roofed doorway, a barrel-organ 
 was twirling tunes to which two or three girls danced 
 a clumsy step. In the doorway itself, at the top of 
 the precipitous flight of stairs that led immediately to 
 the room below, stood Madame, the proprietor's wife 
 — ready to welcome aU who came. Her round, French, 
 good-natured face beamed when she saw Traill, and 
 her little brown eyes gleamed with genuine approval 
 as they swept over Sally. 
 
 "Bon soir, Monsieur; bon soir, Madame." 
 
 Every lady is Madame, however many during the 
 week Monsieur may choose to bring, and she makes a 
 romance of every single one of them. Her own days 
 are memories, but, being French, she still lives in the 
 romance of others. 
 
118 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 "Good evening," said Traill; "how's tlie business — 
 good?" 
 
 "Mais, oui, Monsieur; les affaires vont assez bien." 
 
 They climbed down the narrow little staircase, made 
 narrower and almost impassable by the pots of ever- 
 greens placed for decoration upon some of the steps. 
 There, in the flood of light, the little room papered in 
 gold, hung with pictures advertising the place, all done 
 by needy customers — ^mostly French — who had given 
 them to the establishment for a few francs, or out of 
 the fullness of their hearts, they were greeted in wel- 
 come again by Berthe, the little waitress. 
 
 "Bon soir. Monsieur; bon soir, Madame." 
 
 It was like the cuckoo hopping from the clock to 
 sing his note at every quarter. 
 
 There were little tables in every comer, all covered 
 with virgin-white cloths and, in the centre of each, a 
 vase full of chrysanthemums. It was all in order — 
 all spick and span — ^French, every touch of it. 
 
 "Ou voulez-vous vous asseoir. Monsieur? Sous 
 I'escalier?" 
 
 Under the staircase by which they had just de- 
 scended, two tiny tables had been placed — ^babies, 
 thrust into the corner, looking plaintively for com- 
 pany. An Englishman would probably have made a 
 cupboard of the place for odds and ends. 
 
 Traill consulted Sally. She did not mind. Any- 
 thing in her mood would have pleased her. The atmos- 
 phere of all that was foreign in everything around 
 her had lifted her above ordinary considerations. 
 Under the stairs, then, they sat, Traill's head almost 
 touching the sloping roof above him. 
 
 "Well, what do you think you'd like to have?" he 
 asked. And Berthe stood by, patiently waiting, con- 
 
I SALLY BISHOP /119 
 
 tent to study the little details that made up Madame's 
 costume; her eyes were lit with the same romantic in- 
 terest which the proprietress had shown on their ar- 
 rival. 
 
 "I don't mind." 
 
 "Well, will you have escargots?" 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "Snails." 
 
 Sally shook her head with a grimace and smiled. 
 Berthe tittered with laughter. 
 
 "Monsieur is funning, he would not eat escargots 
 himself." She smiled at Sally, the smile that opens 
 confidence and invites you within; no grudging of it 
 between the teeth, ill-favoured and starved, as we do 
 the thing in this country. 
 
 "However did you find this lovely little place.?" 
 asked Sally, when the girl had gone with Traill's order. 
 
 "Deux consommes, deux!" shouted Berthe through 
 a door at the end of the room. "Deux consommes, 
 deux!" came the distant echo from the kitchen. 
 
 Traill leant his elbow on the table and looked at her 
 — let his eyes rest on every feature, last of all her eyes, 
 and held them. 
 
 "By not looking for it," he said. "By passing it 
 one evening at about the time for dinner, seeing the 
 new-old bottle-panes in the leaded windows, looking 
 down these stairs and getting a rough-drawn impres- 
 sion that the place was cosy, a rough-drawn impres- 
 sion in which the bottle-panes suggested that they had 
 some sort of ideas in their heads, these people — and 
 the little pots of evergreen down the stairs with the 
 ugly red frilled paper round them that made you 
 think that they had known the country — ^lived in it. 
 All that blurred together in a mazy idea that it was 
 
120 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 sure to be cosj. Then I came downstairs, saw all 
 these little tables with their vases of flowers, the spot- 
 less serviettes sticking up hke white horns out of the 
 wine-glasses, saw the beaming face of Berthe over 
 there; was greeted with, 'Bon soir. Monsieur;' and so 
 I dined. That's a year and a half ago. I've had my 
 dinner, on an average, three times a week here ever 
 since." 
 
 "It must be nice to be a man," said Sally. 
 ' "Why?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know; to dine where you like, find out 
 these quaint little places, never to have to think of the 
 impression you give by what you do." 
 
 He leaned back in his chair, and smiled at her. 
 "We have to think just as much as you do, in most of 
 the things we really want to do. I didn't want par- 
 ticularly to dine in such a place as this, that evening 
 I came here. It seemed no liberty to me. There are 
 things I might give the world to be able to do, yet 
 haven't the liberty. What do you want with liberty — 
 the liberty to come and go wherever you please?" He 
 smiled at her again. "What good would it do you?" 
 
 Sally wondered what Miss Hallard would say if she 
 were to hear this. She wondered what she would have 
 said herself, had the expression of such ideas come 
 from Mr. Arthur. There was no doubt that she would 
 have repudiated them with vehement denial. With 
 TraiU she said nothing — felt that he was right. Why 
 was that? She could not tell. It was beyond her 
 power to analyze the situation as closely as it required. 
 It was beyond her ability to realize that a man may 
 say he is the son of God, if it be that he has behind 
 the words the power of the personality of a Jesus 
 Christ. Traill had the personality — ^the dominance be- 
 
SALLY BISHOP 121 
 
 hind him in what he said — ^that was all. He might 
 have told her that women were only the chattels of 
 men, born to slavery, the property of their masters, 
 and she would not have denied it to him. 
 
 "What in the name of God are women?" he had said 
 more than once in his hfe — "Is one of them ever worth 
 all the while?" And he thought he had meant it. To 
 a great extent, he acted up to it as well. These are 
 the questions that men of the type put to themselves 
 over and over again — ^but there are Cleopatras to mate 
 with Antonys, Helens of Troy and .Lady Hamiltons 
 who can snap their fingers in the face of such odds 
 and win. But Sally was not of this blood. She is the 
 lamb that goes willing to the slaughter, the woman 
 whom a man like TraiU, when once he holds the 
 trembling threads of her affection, can drive to the 
 uttermost. 
 
 "Then you give no liberty to a woman?" she said. 
 
 "No — ^not the liberty she talks about. Not the idea 
 of liberty that she gets from these suffragist pam- 
 phleteers." 
 
 "I'd like you to meet my friend, Miss Hallard," said 
 Sally. 
 
 "Why? Who's Miss Hallard? What is she?" 
 
 "She's an artist — I share rooms with her." 
 
 "Why would you like me to meet her?" 
 
 "I'd like to hear you two argue. She thinks just 
 the opposite. She thinks " 
 
 "I never argue with a woman," Traill interrupted. 
 
 "You think so poorly of us?" She tried to say it 
 with spirit — struck the flint in her eyes, contracted her 
 lips to the hard, thin line. 
 
 "As women? No — the very best." Her looks did 
 not worry him. Water pouring over marble runs off as 
 
122 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 smoothly. "You want to be judged as men — ^you never 
 will be till you can cut your hair short and dress the 
 part. Clothes have the deuce of a lot to do with it. I 
 can love a woman, but, my God, I can't argue with 
 her." 
 
 He leant back to let Berthe put the plates of soup 
 before them, and SaUy watched his face. It was very 
 hard — ^high cheek-bones from which the flesh drooped 
 in hollows to the jaws, the grey eyes well set, neither 
 deep nor prominent, but flinching at nothing. There 
 was no great show of intellectuality in the forehead — 
 it was broad, smooth, but not high; yet none of the 
 features were small. The jaw was square, the upper 
 Up long. At one end the mouth seemed to bend up- 
 wards in a twist of irony, rather than humour, and the 
 lips themselves were thin — lips that could cut each 
 word to a point if they chose, before they uttered it, 
 a mouth by no means sensitive to the hard things it 
 could speak. 
 
 To Sally it both feared and fascinated. Whenever 
 he was not looking, she could not take her eyes away. 
 In the pictures in her mind, it showed itself most often 
 in ironic rage; yet he could look at her with an ex- 
 pression that wooed the softest of thoughts in her 
 heart. Then she felt a slave, and would have given 
 him the world, held in her fingers, the gift would have 
 seemed so small. 
 
 He looked up quickly from his plate — all motions 
 of his head were alert. "Why don't you begin your 
 soup?" he asked. 
 
 She laughed quietly, and commenced at once with 
 child-like obedience. 
 
 "Has Mr. Arthur said anything to you since?" he 
 inquired presently. 
 
SALLY BISHOP 123 
 
 For a short moment she hesitated — ^then she ad- 
 mitted it. 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "Monday evening." 
 
 "Oh — the day you had lunch with me." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What did he say.?" 
 
 Again she hesitated. 
 
 "What right have I to ask — eh?" he interrupted be- 
 fore she could frame the words to reply. "Isn't that 
 what you're sticking over.? Of course I've no right 
 but interest. You brought me the interest, you know 
 — but I apologize for it all the same. Berthe!" 
 
 "Oui — Monsieur." 
 
 "Maquereaux grilles; and I want something to 
 drink." 
 
 Berthe went to the bottom of the stairs, leaning on 
 the third step with her hand and calling up to the 
 room above. 
 
 "Alexandre !" 
 
 "Why does she do that?" inquired Sally. 
 
 "She's calling for Alexandre, the waiter who runs 
 out across the street — obediently but slowly — ^with 
 your pennies to buy your wine. They don't have a 
 license here." 
 
 Alexandre made his appearance with a big red card- 
 board cover in his hand, which looked as if it held a 
 copy of a weekly paper. This was the wine list. Traill 
 gripped it from him, giving the number almost at the 
 same moment. 
 
 Alexandre waited patiently for a moment, then def- 
 erentially suggested that he should be given the money, 
 having received which, the little staircase swallowed up 
 his tall, thin body again. It was all like playing at 
 
124 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 keeping restaurant, only everything worked without a 
 hitch, which would never have happened If It had really 
 been only a game. 
 
 "I apologize," Traill repeated, when Alexandre had 
 disappeared. 
 
 "But there's no need to," said Sally, quickly. "I 
 think it's very kind of you to take the interest that 
 you do. And I suppose" — ^her eyes roamed plaintively 
 round the room, rather than at that moment meet his ; 
 "I suppose I should have told you without your ask- 
 ing." 
 
 "Why?" he leaned a little forward. 
 
 "I don't know. Because I wanted to, I expect." 
 
 Her eyes fell to the table. She made tiny pellets of 
 bread between her fingers and placed them one by one 
 in a row, knowing that his eyes were searching through 
 her. In that little moment, the silence vibrated with 
 the current of their thoughts. Traill pulled himself 
 together — laying hand upon anything that came within 
 his reach. 
 
 "Look at this knife," he said In a dry voice, pick- 
 ing up the nearest to him. "Ever seen such a handle? 
 it's shrunk In the wash." The bone handle of it was 
 bent round, twisted like a ram's horn. "I generally 
 get this about once a week. It's an old friend by this 
 time." 
 
 She looked at it, scarcely seeing, and forced a smile 
 that could not quite remove the furrow of silent inten- 
 sity from her brows. Traill saw that. He could not 
 take his eyes from her face. Her almost childish pas- 
 sivity was like a slow and heavy poison in his blood. 
 It crept gradually and gradually through the veins, 
 leaving fire wherever It touched. 
 
 Alexandre came back with the wine, and broke the 
 
SALLY BISHOP US 
 
 spell of it. He spread the change out on the table, and 
 the sound of it then, at that moment, was like the break- 
 ing of a thousand little pieces of glass, over which his 
 presence walked with clumsy feet. 
 
 "Well, what did Mr. Arthur say?" Traill asked 
 when Alexandre had disappeared again and Berthe 
 had brought them their second course. 
 
 Sally looked up and smiled at his encouragement, a 
 smile that lit through him. He could feel it dancing in 
 his eyes. 
 
 "He asked me if I had made up my mind," she re- 
 plied. 
 
 "Made up your mind to marry him?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The pause was heavy, it seemed to swing against 
 them. 
 
 "And you? What did you say?" 
 
 He tried to conceal the burning of his interest to 
 know. His voice was steady — each note of each word 
 quiet, true, subdued; but when the brain is tautened, 
 vibrating as was his, it gives out of itself uncon- 
 sciously. She felt the strain in her mind as well, just 
 as though a wire, drawn out, were stretched between 
 them. She heard the note, half-dominant in his speech. 
 However quiet his voice, he could not dull her ears to 
 that. 
 
 "Oh, I told him I couldn't; it was impossible. I 
 don't love him, I never should love him. How could 
 one take a step like that on no other basis than want- 
 ing a home ? What a home it would be ! I should be 
 miserable." 
 
 These were her beliefs. She placed love before 
 everything — lifted it to the altar as you raise a saint 
 and worshipped with bent knees and silently moving 
 
126 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 lips. To understand the great-hearted love of a 
 greatly loving woman, you must know the joy of 
 greatly giving. She loves to give; she gives to love. 
 Out of her breast, out of her heart, with arms laden 
 to the breaking — dragged down by the weight of her 
 gifts, she will give, and give, and give, holding noth- 
 ing back, grudging nothing, forgetting all she has 
 ever given in the blind joy of what is left to be be- 
 stowed. This, when it comes to a woman, is what she 
 means by love as she kneels down in the silent chapel 
 of her own heart and worships. This was the passion 
 as Sally understood it. Her whole desire was to give, 
 and to Mr. Arthur she could have given nothing. 
 
 "What did he say?" asked Traill, quietly. A man 
 always speaks somewhat in awe, somewhat in deference, 
 of another whose hopes have been flung to the ground ; 
 speaks of him as if he were a prisoner in a condemned 
 cell — fool enough no doubt, but made a man again by 
 the meeting of his fate. "What did he say?" he re- 
 peated. 
 
 Across Sally's mind pictures were rushing in kalei- 
 doscope. The remembrance of Mr. Arthur as he had 
 left her at the door and turned away, shuffling his 
 steps along the pathway-^the sight of Janet and her- 
 self, with heads raised from the pillow, listening to the 
 muffled, disordered sounds in the next room — ^the recol- 
 lection of Mr. Arthur's face the next morning as she 
 had passed him in the hall, the eyes dull — steam, as it 
 were, upon a window-pane — and the unhealthy shad- 
 ows beneath. He had grudged her a good morning, 
 but that was all, and she had scarcely seen him since 
 then. He had been out every evening. 
 
 "He said very little," she replied, "but I know he 
 felt it very much." 
 
SALLY BISHOP 127 
 
 *'How do you Know?" 
 
 "Well, that night when he came in " the words 
 
 refused utterance. She looked up quaintly, appealing 
 to him, desiring to be xmderstood without further ex- 
 planation. 
 
 "Drunk?" said Traill. 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "Poor devil!" 
 
 A thousand apprehensions fled — darkening — across 
 her face. So pass a flight of starlings with a thou- 
 sand whirring wings that sweep out light of the sun. 
 
 "You think I treated him badly?" 
 
 "No, I didn't say so." 
 
 "But you think it?" She begged eagerly, impor- 
 tunately. 
 
 "No, no, my dear child; no. What else could you 
 do?" 
 
 "But you felt sorry for him?" 
 
 "Do you forbid it? I was putting myself in his 
 shoes, feeling for the moment what he must have felt. 
 Sift it down and you'll find at the bottom that I really 
 said poor devil for myself." He laughed as he looked 
 at her. "Well, now," he went on, "we're getting more 
 than halfway through dinner and we haven't decided 
 where we're going to yet. What's it to be?" 
 
 "Really, I don't mind a little bit." 
 
 "Oh, you never give any help at all." 
 
 She laughed light-heartedly. "I find I get along 
 quite all right if I let you choose." 
 
 "You're satisfied?" 
 
 "Absolutely." 
 
 "Well, then; I'm not going to oifer Inviolable judg- 
 ment. I'm only going to make a suggestion," 
 
 "What js it?" 
 
128 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 "My rooms are in Regent Street- 
 
 'I know; I looked up the number the other day in 
 the Who's Who? after we'd had lunch." 
 
 "Was that to know if I'd told the truth?" He held 
 her eyes for the answer as you put your metal in the 
 vise. 
 
 "No, of course not ! How could you think I'd dream 
 of such a thing?" 
 
 "Many women might." 
 
 "I certainly shouldn't," 
 
 A look of tenderness as it passed across his face 
 freed her. She turned her eyes away. He was finding 
 her so absolutely a child, and on the moment paused. 
 There is a moment when a pause holds possibility laden 
 full in its two hands. He let it slip by — it rode off 
 like a feather on the wind. He lost sight of it. 
 
 "Well, what's your suggestion?" she asked. 
 
 "That we should come back to Regent Street, sit 
 and talk ; we'll have our coffee there ; I'll show you how 
 to make it." 
 
 He tried to run the whole sentence through. Set it 
 on its feet, and pushed It to the conclusion that it 
 might seem natural, unpremeditated. She saw noth- 
 ing forced ; but his ears burnt to the stumbling sounds. 
 The breath caught in his' nostrils as he waited for her 
 definite refusal. 
 
 "I think that would be lovely," she said with genuine 
 interest. 
 
 He let the breath slowly free, checked, curbed, the 
 bearing rein upon it all the way. He imagined he had 
 fotind country innocence in London, and for the mo- 
 ment stood aghast at it; could not see that it was her 
 trust in him, blindly, implicitly placed, against all 
 knowledge of the world. He stood for a gentleman in 
 
SALLY BISHOP 129 
 
 her eyes — ^that Apsley Manor, the late Sir William 
 Hewitt Traill, C.B., they all helped to conjure the 
 vision in her mind. She knew the world well enough in 
 her gentle way; but this man was a gentleman. 
 
 Yet he saw little of this and, in a broadness of heart, 
 warned her. 
 
 "I say nothing for or against myself," he said, "and 
 this has not been put to you as a test; I want you to 
 come, I really hope you'll come. But you'd be fooHsh 
 beyond words if you indiscriminately accepted such an 
 invitation from any man." 
 
 "I know that," she replied firmly. 
 
 "And you'll come?" 
 
 "Yes ; I've said I would." 
 
 "Why do you make the exception?" 
 
 "Because I know you're a gentleman. I trust you 
 implicitly." 
 
 That went to the heart of him — drove home — the 
 words quivering where they struck. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 There was much ceremony wHen they departed — 
 much French poUtesse, and many charming little at- 
 tentions were paid. Marie assisted Monsieur on with 
 his coat, which, being British, he strongly objected to. 
 Berthe brought Madame a beautiful chrysanthemum 
 from the vase on one of the vacant tables and, when 
 Sally proposed wearing it, insisted upon pinning it in 
 herself, her eyes dancing with delight as she stood back 
 to admire its effect. 
 
 Berthe and Marie stood at the bottom of the stairs 
 as they ascended. 
 
 "Au'voir, Monsieur — ^merci — au'voir, Madame." 
 
 Now it was like a duet of little cuckoo clocks, both 
 in unison, both in time, both with that fascinating 
 touch of the nasal Parisienne voice. Sally was en- 
 chanted with it all. 
 
 Last of all there was Madame — ^Madame smiling— 
 Madame rubbing her fat, homely hands together — 
 Madame's twinkling brown eyes dancing upon the two 
 of them. 
 
 "You had a good dinner, Monsieur?" 
 
 "Excellent, thank you, Madame." 
 
 "Oh, Monsieur;" she caught Traill's arm and de- 
 tained him as Sally went out in front. "Oh — monsieur 
 elle est charmante!" Her eyes lifted and her hands 
 carried the words upwards — to heaven, if need be. 
 
 Traill threw back his head and laughed. "Madame 
 — vous etes trop romanesque pour ce monde," 
 
SALLY BISHOP 131 
 
 "AH, non, Monsieur — ^je suis ce que je suis. Je suis 
 trop grosse peut-etre, mais pas trop romanesque. 
 Au'voir, Monsieur — ^merci — ^prenez garde d'elle, Mon- 
 sieur." She held up a fat warning finger. "Au'voir, 
 Madame. A bientot." 
 
 They left her bowing there against the background 
 of the old bottle glass, lit yellow by the light within, 
 her smiles following theta down the street. 
 
 "Well — there you are," said Traill, as they walked 
 away. "That's the terrible, shameless Bohemian life 
 in anarchist quarters. What a thing it is to be thank- 
 ful for, that only the English manners are manners, 
 and couldo't afford to show their face in Soho." 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 Thet walked in silence through the little by-streets 
 of Soho, and followed their way down Shaftesbury 
 Avenue. At the crossings, he lightly took her arm, 
 protecting her from the traffic, freeing it directly they 
 reached the pavement. Inwardly she thrilled, even at 
 the slight touch of his hand on her elbow. She had 
 never been quite so happy before. Nothing needed ex- 
 planation. She defined no sensation to herself. When 
 the sun first bursts in April after the leaden winter 
 skies, you bask in it, drench yourself in the fluid of its 
 light, and ask no questions. It is only the smallest na- 
 tures that are not content with the moment that is ab- 
 solute. 
 
 But in the mind of Traill, there swung a ponderous 
 balance that could not find its equilibrium. She had 
 called him a gentleman; was he going to act as one? 
 Into her side of the scale, with both her little hands, she 
 had thrown in her implicit confidence. Was there any 
 weight on his side which he could put in to equalize? 
 He hunted through his intentions as the goldsmith 
 hunts amongst his drachms and his counterpoises; but 
 he found nothing that could balance the massive quality 
 of her faith — nothing ! 
 
 In his most emotional dreams of women, he had never 
 conceived himself in the drab light of the married man. 
 Possibly because he had never moved amongst that class 
 of women with whom intimacy is obtained only through 
 the sanction of a binding sacrament. His contempt of 
 
SALLY BISHOP 133 
 
 tlie society to which his birth gave him right of en- 
 trance, had always kept him apart from them. But he 
 scarcely saw the matter in that breadth of light. In- 
 timacy with the women he had known had always been 
 possible — possible in its various degrees, some more dif- 
 ficult to arrive at than others, but always possible. 
 And, until that moment, when Sally had told him that 
 she knew he was a gentleman, he had placed her no dif- 
 ferently to the rest. Cheap, sordid seduction, there 
 had been none of that in his mind; but he had tacitly 
 admitted within himself that if their acquaintance were 
 to drift — she willing, he content — into that condition of 
 intimacy, then what harm would be done? She was a 
 little type-writer; he, a man, amongst other men. A 
 thousand women pass through the fire that way and 
 come out little the worse. 
 
 So had he assessed her, until that moment when she 
 had unthinkingly, unhesitatingly accepted his invita- 
 tion to come and see him in his rooms. He had thought 
 it innocence, he had imagined it a purity of mind that, 
 in a city such as this, was almost unthinkable. It was 
 his better nature then that had prompted the warning, 
 the opening of a kitten's eyes before it is to be drowned. 
 
 Then the last position of all, the position that made 
 the whole thing impossible. She was not innocent ! She 
 was not ignorant of the world! She did know the pit- 
 falls in life — ^knew the luring dangers that lie concealed 
 in the hedges of every woman's highway! No, it was 
 not that. She knew everything — ^but she knew him to 
 be a gentleman. 
 
 There is no more disarming passe in the everlasting 
 duel between a man and a woman than this appeal — 
 whether it be made intentionally or not — the appeal to 
 his honour as a gentleman. Uj) flies tjie glittering ra- 
 
1S4 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 pier from his hand, he is weaponless — and at her mercy. 
 For every man, even more especially when he is not one, 
 would be thought a gentleman. 
 
 Traill, disarmed, defenceless, weighing every possi- 
 bility, every intention, was still faced with the unequal 
 balance, her gentle faith in the best of him dragging 
 down the scale. By the time they had reached the stair- 
 way to his rooms, he had forced his mind to its deci- 
 sion. This once he would let her come to his rooms — 
 this once, but never again. He knew his instincts and 
 refused to trust them. If she thought him a gentle- 
 man, she should find him one. That was owed to her. 
 We give the world its own valuation of us. This is hu- 
 manity. It is therefore wisest to think well of a man. 
 Those who think badly will find themselves surrounded 
 by the impersonation of their own minds. It is wisest 
 to think well, for even thinking has its unconscious ef- 
 fects. But say evil of a man, tell him to his face, with- 
 out thought of punishment, merely in candid criticism 
 that you find him ill and, besides giving him a bad name, 
 you will make a dog of him. 
 
 She had said he was a gentleman — ^bless her heart ! 
 
 "This staircase is confoundedly dark," he said ; "I'll 
 strike a match." 
 
 She waited, heart beating, listening to the scratching 
 of the match-head against the woodwork. When it 
 flared, he raised it above his head and strode on before 
 her, grim shadows falling around him, following him 
 like noiseless ghosts. Sally kept close behind. 
 
 "I used to live on the top floor," he said, "until the 
 day before yesterday; I've moved down now to the 
 first. There's not so much difference in the rooms, but 
 those four flights of stairs in this sort of light were a 
 bit too much." He thought of the last woman who had 
 
SALLY BISHOP. 135 
 
 climbed the stairs with him. All she had said that 
 evening, the first day he had met Sally, trooped through 
 his mind in slow and vivid procession. He compared 
 her life with that of Sally's, the ghastly hoUowness of 
 it in contrast with this child's simplicity of faith. The 
 picture was an ugly one. He shuddered before the first, 
 no less than before the second ; for whereas one repelled, 
 the other drew him to itself with all its subtle fascina- 
 tions. 
 
 "Now," he said, forcing a smile and turning round to 
 face her with his hand upon the handle of the door, 
 "these are only bachelor's quarters, remember; no soft 
 cushions, no mirrors — ^nothing. And if you'll stay 
 there one second, I'll light a couple of candles. You'd 
 far better have the room chucked at you all at once, 
 than let it grow slowly to your eyes as I stalk round 
 with a match. Do you mind?" 
 
 "I? Not a bit!" She laughed and turned with her 
 back to the door, looking down the staircase which they 
 had just ascended. Her heart was still beating, throb- 
 bing with unwonted excitement and anticipation. She 
 knew she could trust, but there was a spring — a vibra- 
 tion in the thought that they played with fire. Yet 
 what a harmless fire! No stake in the market-place at 
 which the soul, the honour, the life of the victim is 
 burnt ! No ! Nothing like that. Only that fire which, 
 when once it is lit, soothes, warms, nurses the hearts of 
 men and women into love, and when once it is glowing 
 white in heat, moulds them, forges them into the God- 
 sent cohesion of unity. What need had she to fear in 
 playing with so tenderly fierce a fire as that? None, 
 and there was no trace of fear in the heart of her ; but 
 her pulses hammered ; she felt them even in her throat. 
 
 "Now — ^you can come in now!" Traill called, and he 
 
 «<•» 
 
136 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 came to the door, opening it wide for her to pass 
 through. Sally entered — ^two or three steps; then she 
 stood there looking round her. The old oak chests, 
 carved some of them, worm-eaten here and there; the 
 clean, pale, straw-coloured matting, no rugs of any de- 
 scription: the dark green walls and the rough, heavy 
 brass candle sconces that gUttered against them, reflect- 
 ing the candle flames in every polished surface: it was 
 almost barbaric, more Hke a reception room of a pres- 
 bytery than a living room ; but a presbytery decorated 
 to convey the best of a strong and self-reliant mind, 
 rather than to pander with a taste ornate to the futile 
 conception' of a God. 
 
 Except for two rush-seated armchairs, there was no 
 suggestion of providing any recognized forms of com- 
 fort. The chair at the open bureau, with its case of 
 books above it, had a wooden seat; all the rest of the 
 smaller wooden chairs were wooden seated as well. 
 There was no visible and obvious sign of any desire for 
 luxury; yet luxurious it all seemed to Sally, every cor- 
 ner of it, as she gazed around her. It was a luxury 
 conveyed by the intrinsic value of every article of fur- 
 niture he possessed; a luxury far more lasting, far 
 more complete, than any to be found in down cushions 
 and gently shaded lights. 
 
 Austerity was the note through It all, austerity even 
 in the pictures upon the walls. They were prints, old 
 prints, coloured or plain, representing boxers of the old 
 school, stripped to the waist, the ugly muscles flexed 
 and bulging as they raised their lithe arms in the atti- 
 tude of defence. There were no other pictures but 
 these ; nothing to show that he had a heart above box- 
 ing. There was one thing. In their journey around 
 the walls, Sally's eyes fell on a little coloured miniature 
 
SALLY BISHOP 137 
 
 In a plain gold frame that hung by the side of the bu- 
 reau. At that distance, she could distinguish that it 
 was a girl, a girl with fair hair that clustered on her 
 shoulders. The beating of her heart dropped to a whis- 
 per when she saw it, all the pulses stopped, and she felt 
 a cool, damp air blowing across her face. 
 
 "Well," said Traill, with a smile, "I suppose you 
 think it is confoundedly uncomfortable?" 
 
 She turned, faced him, forcing strength to master 
 her sudden apprehension. 
 
 "I think it's absolutely lovely," she said, with sim- 
 plicity. "I've never seen a room like it before." 
 
 "And you don't find the want of soft things, cushions 
 and all that sort of business ?" 
 
 "No, oh no ! they'd spoil it. One doesn't want cush- 
 ions to be comfortable, one wants surroundings. These 
 are perfect." 
 
 He looked at her with appreciation; then, as a 
 thought swept over him, it altered to an expression of 
 tenderness. He put his heel on that, churned it round, 
 and strode over to the fireplace. 
 
 "Here, come and sit down here and get warm while I 
 make the coifee," he said. "It's frightfully cold out- 
 side, you know. I shouldn't wonder if it isn't freezing." 
 
 She followed obediently, and took the chair he had 
 drawn out for her. Then he hurried about, opening 
 cupboards and drawers, producing a saucepan here, a 
 coffee-pot and a milk-can there, until all the things were 
 laid on the table. And all this time, while she made sure 
 that she was not being observed, Sally's eyes wandered 
 backwards and forwards to the little miniature. She 
 was nearer to it now and could more clearly distinguish 
 the features. They reminded her somewhat of herself. 
 There were the same round cheeks, the same small child- 
 
138 SALLY BISHOE 
 
 ishness of lips and nose and chin, the same pale com- 
 plexion tinged with fragile pink, the same big, blue 
 eyes. Had he taken an interest in her because she was 
 like this girl, this girl whose miniature he had allowed 
 to be the only breaking note in the whole symphony of 
 his scheme of decoration? They were like each other, 
 a likeness sufficiently apparent to suggest the thought 
 to her mind. The miniature was painted in a fashion 
 common to all such works of art a hundred and fifty 
 years ago. She could not tell from its style when it had 
 been done. But the fact that it hung there alone, the 
 one gentle spot in otherwise austere and hard surround- 
 ings, was sufficient for her to give it the highest promi- 
 nence in her mind. 
 
 It must be that, it must be what she had thought. 
 He was lonely. He had said as much to her on that 
 first evening when they had driven on the 'bus together 
 as far as Knightsbridge. The girl was far away, in an- 
 other country perhaps, and he had seen her, Sally, had 
 seen the likeness, been reminded of her in some slight 
 way, and had sought to ease his own solitude with the 
 half-satisfying pretence that she was with him. 
 
 There was no thought of blame in Sally's mind. He 
 meant no evil by her; but it was hard. The bitterness 
 of it struck at her heart. After all, there was no fire 
 to be playing with. The coldness of being absolutely 
 alone again chilled through her whole body, and she 
 shivered. 
 
 "Now," said Traill — everything was ready at his 
 hand. "The making of coffee's the simplest thing in 
 the whole world; that's why everybody finds it so 
 deucedly difficult. We'll put this kettle on first." He 
 thrust the kettle on the flame, pressing the coals down 
 beneath it to give it surer hold. 
 
SALLY BISHOP 139 
 
 "I'm awfully glad you like my room," he said, look- 
 ing up from his crouching attitude by the fire. "I 
 should have been sorry if you hadn't." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. If you hadn't liked my room, 
 you wouldn't have liked me. My friend and his dog, I 
 suppose." 
 
 She tried to smile. "Well, I like It Immensely. I 
 think it's so awfully uncommon. I suppose you could 
 never get a piano that would go with the rest of the 
 things!"' 
 
 For the moment his expression hardened. A piano! 
 He hated the sight of them. 
 
 "No, never," he said. 
 
 "P'raps you're not fond of music?" 
 
 "No, not a bit. Are you?" 
 
 "Oh yes ; I love it." 
 
 His eyes lost their steel again to the tone of her voice 
 when she said that. 
 
 "Well, that's as it ought to be," he remarked. "Re- 
 ligion and music are two things a woman can't do with- 
 out. Are you very religious?" 
 
 "I don't know exactly what you mean by that. I'm 
 afraid I hardly ever go to church, and in that sense, I 
 suppose, I'm not religious. But I always say my pray- 
 ers every night and morning." 
 
 Traill smiled at her gently. "That's all right," he 
 said ; "churches are nothing, only monuments that fulfil 
 the double purpose of reminding the more forgetful of 
 us that there are a class of people who believe in things 
 they can't prove, and that also provide employment for 
 those who have to look after them. I don't pray my- 
 self, but I should think it's the nearest thing you can 
 get to in a combination of religion and common sense. 
 
140 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 Is that kettle boiling, do you think? Looks like it. 
 Oh, of course, I ought to have known you were reli- 
 gious." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Do you remember the way you took that impover- 
 ished joke of mine about the occup&nts of the kingdom 
 of heaven?"' 
 
 She laughed lightly at the recollection. But it was 
 the lightness only of a moment. Her head turned, and 
 she found again the eyes of that miniature looking into 
 hers. Questions then rushed to her lips — a chorus of 
 children fretting with intense desire. She could not 
 hold them back — ^they would speak. Each one held her 
 heart in its hands. 
 
 "Why do you have that miniature — amongst all the 
 other pictures ?" 
 
 "That?" He turned round, following her eyes, the 
 boiling kettle steaming in his hands. "Pretty, isn't it?" 
 
 They both looked at it — ^he, without distraction — she, 
 with eyes wandering covertly backwards and forwards 
 to his face. Of course, she admitted its charm. Could 
 she do otherwise? 
 
 He poured the hot water into the strainer over the 
 cofFee-pot ; then, shutting the lid, he laid the kettle back 
 in the grate and walked across to the miniature, look- 
 ing long and closely into it. Sally watched him, nos- 
 trils slightly distended, lips tightly pressed. In that 
 moment an unwarranted jealousy almost charred her 
 softer feeling with its burning breath. 
 
 "There are a good many points in it, you know," he 
 said, turning round, "that bear a strong resemblance to 
 you." 
 
 "Oh, but she's very pretty," said Sally. 
 
 "And you're not?" He came back to the fireplace; 
 
SALLY BISHOP 141 
 
 stood there, taking regard of every one of her features 
 with no attempt to conceal the direction of his eyes. 
 "And you're not, I suppose?" he repeated. 
 
 She smiled with an effort. "If I were, it 'ud scarcely 
 be for me to say. But I don't think I am. I suppose 
 I'm not ugly. When I'm in good spirits, I sometimes 
 go so far as to think I'm not actually plain. But she's 
 pretty — really pretty," Her eyes pointed the direction 
 of her last remark. 
 
 Traill leant forward, facing her, putting both hands 
 on the arms of the chair in which she was sitting. "So 
 are you," he said quietly, "really pretty." 
 
 She was locked in, his hands on the arms of her chair 
 and his body making the bars, against which, even had 
 she wished it, escape were impossible. She tried to take 
 it with a little smile, the ordinary compliment in the or- 
 dinary way. But the note in his voice refused to har- 
 monize with that. Her smile was forced, her expres- 
 sion unnatural. And there she was caged, locked in by 
 his eyes and, like a bird in the first moments of its cap- 
 tivity, her heart beat wildly against her breast. It was 
 not because she was afraid — the trust in her mind never 
 failed her for an Instant — ^but she knew that she was 
 captive. Whoever the other woman might be, if his 
 honour, his heart, his whole soul were plighted to 
 her, yet Sally knew that she must love him. There 
 was all the giving, aU the yielding, aU the passive 
 abandonment in her eyes ; and when he saw that, Traill 
 shot upright, forcing his hands to anything they 
 might do. 
 
 "That's my sister," he said hurriedly, breaking into 
 conversation — the man pursued and seeking sanctuary. 
 He could not trust himself to look closely at her again. 
 The boiling of the milk was an action of refuge; he 
 
142 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 crushed the saucepan down on to the glowing coals. 
 She had said he was a gentleman. 
 
 "Your sister?" Sally whispered. He did not turn; 
 he did not see her lips twitching ia the reaction of re- 
 lief. He had known nothing of the whirlwind that had 
 been sweeping through her mind. All that play he had 
 lost and yet was no loser. Had he seen the jealous 
 hunger in her heart, it would have pointed the rowels 
 of the spur that was already drawing its blood. 
 
 "Yes; she lives down in Buckinghamshire. My fa- 
 ther left her the place. She's married. That was done 
 of her when she was twenty." 
 
 "Apsley Manor?" 
 
 "Yes," he twisted round. "How did you know the 
 name of the place.''" 
 
 "I saw it in Who's Who?" 
 
 "Oh " He laughed — ^laughed hard. "Of course, 
 
 you told me. Yes, Apsley Manor. It's a fine old place." 
 
 "I'm sure it is. I've often — ^tried — to picture it." 
 
 "I'll take you there one day to see it." 
 
 It was out ! Ripped from him on the impulse. How 
 could he take her to see it, if they were not going to 
 meet again after this? But he had never determined 
 that they were not to meet again; only that he would 
 not bring her to his rooms. It amounted to the same 
 thing. He was not the man to let his inclinations fool 
 him. If they met, what was there to keep him from 
 bringing her here? Nothing! He knew he would do it. 
 He hoped then that she would take no notice of his re- 
 mark ; but he hoped in vain. She leapt to it, eyes glint- 
 ing with delight. To her that offer conveyed every- 
 thing. She saw herself down there in the country with 
 him, the spring just lifting its promise of life, like a 
 child, out of the cradle of the earth. She heard him 
 
SALLY bishop; 143 
 
 lelling lier tKat Ke loved Her. She felt Kerself pleHging 
 the very soul that God had given her into the open 
 hollow of his hands. Take no notice of his remark? 
 Her whole instinct lifted to it. 
 
 "I don't believe there's anything else I should like so 
 ,well," she exclaimed intensely. 
 
 He inwardly cursed his impulsiveness. "Oh, well, 
 that'll be splendid," he said soberly. "Only it's no good 
 going down at this time of the year. The country 
 now's a grave, a sort of God's acre where only dead 
 things are buried. I can't stand the country at this 
 time of the year." 
 
 "No, of course not. It's much too cold now; but in 
 the spring " 
 
 "Yes," he jumped at that — "in the spring. That's 
 the time." 
 
 Then he thought so too. Perhaps the same fancies 
 were shaping in his mind as well. She threw back her 
 head, resting it on the chair behind. There was com- 
 plete happiness in the heart of her. Every breath she 
 took was an unspoken gratitude. 
 
 "Do you see your sister often?" she asked, as he 
 handed her her cup of coffee. 
 
 "Often? No, once a month perhaps." His lips shut 
 tight, as though the question had been a plea that he 
 should see her more frequently and he were determined 
 to refuse. 
 
 "But why is that?" she asked sympathetically. 
 "Doesn't she often come to Town?" 
 
 "Oh yes — most part of the year. They've got a 
 small house in Sloane Street, and live there all the 
 winter." 
 
 Sally looked at him with troubled eyes — troubled in 
 sympathy because, with the quick wit of a woman in 
 
144 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 love, she had felt here the need of it. His sister lived in 
 Sloane Street — ^lived there for the most part of the 
 winter, and he saw but little of her; yet he kept her 
 miniature lovingly in his room. If there is but one 
 woman pictured on his walls, you may be sure a man 
 rates her high. Sally knew all this — ^knew there was 
 more behind it, yet hesitated to intrude. Another 
 gentle question was rising to her lips, when he volun- 
 teered it all. 
 
 "My sister and I differ in our points of view," he said 
 without sentiment. "We look at life from hopelessly 
 opposite quarters. That's why I live here. The house, 
 the grounds, they were aU left to me when my father 
 died. She was given her legacy in a round sum — ^not 
 very round either. He wasn't particularly well off. 
 Whatever it was, at any rate, it meant little or nothing 
 to her. The house — the property — ^they were the only 
 things worth having. I was the eldest son — ^I got 'em. 
 P'raps this bores you.'"' 
 
 She shook her head firmly — an emphatic negative. 
 "How could you possibly think that.""' 
 
 "Well, anyhow," he continued, "she was disappointed. 
 She's become — since she married — ^a woman to whom 
 social power is a jewelled sceptre. Before then, she 
 was what you see in that miniature — a little bit of a 
 child with a pretty face that wanted kissing — and got 
 it. Got it from me as well as others. I was fond of 
 her, even after she married this man — a soldier ; he's in 
 the Guards, and after dinner sometimes thinks he has 
 an eye to the situation in politics. Even after t}iat, 
 when she began to lift her head so that you couldn't 
 kiss her and wouldn't have wanted to if you could, I 
 was fond of her. But I hate society — ^I wouldn't come 
 to her crushes — ^I wouldn't go to her dinners. These 
 
SALLY BISHOP 145 
 
 things sicken me. They're as empty as an echo. We 
 fell out a bit over that; but I was living down at the 
 Manor then, and so it didn't actually come to a split. 
 But when the governor died and she found that I'd been 
 left the house which was worth no end to her — socially 
 — and she'd been left the money which really wasn't 
 worth a damn — sorry — ^that slipped out" — Sally smiled 
 — "she came back to me, arms round the neck — ^head 
 quite low enough to be kissed then — and did her best 
 to patch the business up. I suppose that rattled me. 
 I could see the value of it. It was just as empty as all 
 the rest of her social schemes. I took her at the valu- 
 ation, told her she could have the house and I'd take the 
 money, and behaved generally like a young fool. I was 
 only — what? Only twenty-six then. And sham seemed 
 to me the most detestable thing on earth. So Apsley 
 Manor went over to her and I came up to live in Lon- 
 don. I don't know really that I regret it so very much. 
 This life suits me in a way, though sometimes it's a bit 
 lonely. That's, at any rate, the gist of the whole busi- 
 ness. We see each other sometimes ; but her continual 
 efforts to get me to don the uncomfortable garments of 
 social respectability make the meetings as uninviting 
 as when you go to be fitted at a tailor's. I suppose 
 that's a sort of thing you like — ^you're a woman — ^but 
 I'm hanged if I do. I'd buy all my clothes ready made 
 if I could be sure that nobody else had worn 'em before. 
 Anyhow, I won't be fitted for social respectability any 
 more often than I can help. By Jove! What's that? 
 Do you hear that noise? It's at the back!" 
 
 They strained their ears, lips half parted on which 
 the breath waited, to listen. The sounds, mufiled, were 
 broken at moments by a subdued chorus of men's voices. 
 
 Traill crossed the room to the door that opened into 
 
146 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 his bedroom, unlatched it, held it wide. Sally watched 
 his face with half -expectant eyes. 
 
 "There's a yard at the back," he said; "my bedroom 
 looks on to it. Excuse me a second." He disappeared. 
 She heard him throw up the window, when the sounds 
 increased in volume. Now she could distinguish in- 
 dividual voices — voices taut, strained to a pitch of ex- 
 citement. Then Traill's voice, with a strange, stirring 
 note of vitality keyed in it. 
 
 "Sally— here!" 
 
 It was not thinkingly said. That there had been no 
 thought, no premeditation, was the fact that stirred 
 her inost. In his mind she had been Sally, and in a mo- 
 ment of tensity he had let it shape on his lips. She felt 
 the blood racing through her like a mill-dam loosed. 
 She thought when first she rose to her feet — and it was 
 as though some strong hand had lifted her — ^that her 
 limbs would refuse obedience. A moment of emotion, 
 that was passivity itself, obsessed her. Then she hur- 
 ried through into the other room, across to the open 
 window where he stood expectant. There was no 
 thought that it was his bedroom in which they stood — 
 no consideration in her mind of the observance of any 
 narrow laws of propriety. He had asked her. She 
 came. 
 
 "This is the cleanest bit of luck," he said, with scarce 
 controlled excitement. 
 
 "What is it.'"' She pressed nearer to the window. 
 
 He explained. "This yard at the back belongs to 
 some railway company and two of their men are going 
 to settle a difference of opinion — ^that's putting it 
 mildly — as far as I can make out they mean business." 
 
 "What are they going to do ?" 
 
 He answered her question by putting another. "You 
 
SALLY BISHOP 147 
 
 know I told you I belonged to the National Sporting?" 
 
 "Are they going to fight?" She caught her breath, 
 forcing back the sense of nausea. 
 
 "Yes; bare fists with a definite end in view. Why 
 
 look here " He took her arm and gently pulled 
 
 her to the window where he was standing. "Look here, 
 you see they've even got assistants — those two chaps 
 with towels over their arms. The men are over in that 
 shed — stripping, I suppose. By Jove, if I thought of 
 an entertainment, I couldn't have got anything more 
 exciting than this for you. Ever seen a fight ?" 
 
 "No." The word struggled through cold lips. 
 
 "P'raps you'd rather not look at this? Don't you 
 hesitate to say so if you think it'll be disgusting." 
 
 She caught the note of disappointment. There was 
 no mistaking it. In this moment of excitement, he had 
 become a child — ^scarce content with seeing the passing 
 show himself, but must drag others with him to share 
 his delight and thereby intensify it. 
 
 "I can easily go away if I don't like it," she said. 
 
 "Yes — of course you can — of course you can. But 
 you ought just to see the beginning, you ought to 
 really. They'll be as quaint as two waltzing Japanese 
 mice. All these preparations wiU put them right off at 
 first. They'll be funked utterly and look as if they 
 were trying to break bubbles, then they'll warm up a 
 bit. You should see the novices at the National Sport- 
 ing on Thursday afternoons. They make the whole 
 house roar with laughter. Talk about Don Quixote 
 and the windmills! You must just see the beginning!" 
 
 How could she disappoint or refuse him, though the 
 prospect was a moving horror in her mind? She could 
 close her eyes. He had called her. He wanted her to 
 see it with him. How could she refuse, lessen herself 
 
148 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 perhaps in his opinion? She leant out upon the win- 
 dow-sill and looked bravely below. Their shoulders were 
 touching — she found even consolation and assistance in 
 that. 
 
 "Do you think it'll be long?" she asked in a low voice. 
 
 "Don't know ; it all depends. I hope it won't be too 
 short. Sure you don't mind?" 
 
 She was possessed of that same motive which induces 
 a woman to make light, to make nothing of her pain 
 and her suffering to the man she loves. In such mo- 
 ments — Gloving deeply — she looks upon it, speaks of it, 
 as a visitation of which she is ashamed. Begs him to 
 forgive her that she suffers. It is an entire abnegation 
 of self. It was so in this matter with Sally. 
 
 "I'm quite sure," she replied, as she held, with tight- 
 ening hands and knuckles white, upon the window-sill. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 The two men emerged from the shed where they had 
 put away their coats. They were stripped to the waist. 
 The couple of lamps that the yard provided, lit up their 
 skin — sickly yeUow — and the surrounding houses flung 
 shadows in confusion. 
 
 "They'll have a job to hit straight," said Traill, 
 tensely. His eyes were riveted before him. He did not 
 look at her, did not see her white, drawn face. She 
 raised her head, gazing at the black, leaden patch of 
 sky that was to be seen through the muddle of roofs 
 and walls. A wondering crossed her mind of all the 
 horrible sights and scenes that were being enacted under 
 that same impenetrable curtain of darkness which hung 
 over everything. She rubbed her hand across her eyes, 
 but could not wipe it out. 
 
 When she looked back again, the men were sur- 
 rounded by their little groups of supporters — ^not more 
 than half a dozen in each party. All but the two com- 
 batants were talking in excited undertones — ^giving ad- 
 vice — saying what they would do — standing on tiptoe 
 and talking over each other's shoulders — ^pushing those 
 away who came between them and the expression of 
 their own opinions. And in the centre of each of these 
 groups stood the two who were about to be at each 
 other's throats. Except for their bared shoulders, 
 dazzling patches of light against the dark clothes of 
 the men surrounding them — they looked the least ag;- 
 
150 SALLY bishop: 
 
 gressive in the crowd. They said nothing. Their 
 heads bent forward listening to the medley of voices 
 that hummed unintelligibly in their ears, and their 
 eyes roamed from one face to another, or through the 
 clustering of heads to the other crowd beyond. 
 
 "Told you they'd be funked by all this ceremony," 
 said Traill. "They're beginning to wish it was over, 
 I should think. Hang it, why don't they begin? 
 They'll get so cold it'll be like beating frozen meat." 
 
 Sally looked at him in amazement. All the hardness, 
 all the cruelty, she saw then. But it did not succeed 
 in turning her from him. She stood wondering at her 
 own passive consent, yet could not bring herself to risk 
 his offence by declaring that she would not stay. Of 
 his selfishness, she saw nothing. Had his attitude in 
 the affair been pointed out to her as frankly inconsid- 
 erate, she would have denied it with fervour. Incon- 
 siderate? It was only her weakness of spirit. Why 
 should he be blamed for that? If she loathed the sight 
 of what was taking place before her, then just as surely 
 he revelled in it. Why should he be expected to give 
 way to her? She would give way to him — ^willingly — 
 freely — ^without question or doubt. 
 
 Now, as she looked again, a man had stepped out of 
 the crowd holding a watch in his hand. There was a 
 tone of command in his voice. It was evidently he who 
 was the master of ceremonies. 
 
 "I've seen that chap at the National Sporting," said 
 Traill, quickly. "I guessed there must be some system 
 about this. You see, he's going to act as time-keeper 
 and referee." 
 
 "Come on," exclaimed the man referred to. "I ain't 
 goin' to wait 'ere the 'ole bloomin' night. Get a move 
 on for Gawd's sake. If you ^ffl't made all yer bets, 
 
SALLY] BISHOE 151 
 
 yer'U 'ave ter do it after the show's begun. Come on 
 an' bloody-well shake 'ands and start." 
 
 Even when that word was uttered, loathsome enough 
 in itself for a woman's ears, yet indicative of many 
 worse that were to come, Traill did not think of Sally. 
 She glanced at him when she had heard it, remembering 
 what he had once said to her — "I belong to the Na- 
 tional Sporting — ^because there's a beast in every man 
 —thank God!" 
 
 The two combatants sifted their way out of the little 
 crowds. They came slowly towards each other, rubbing 
 their bare arms to encourage the circulation. Neither 
 the one nor the other seemed anxious for what was to 
 come. Sally looked tremblingly at their faces and 
 shuddered. One of them was clean-shaven, the other 
 wore a moustache. Both had the deep blue shadows of 
 the day's growth of beard upon the chin and, in that 
 morbid yellow lamplight, their eyes were sunk in hol- 
 lows dull and black as charcoal. 
 
 "Now, who's attending to Morrison ?" said the master 
 of ceremonies. 
 
 Two men stepped forward out of the crowd. 
 
 "Well — get over there at that side. Got yer towels? 
 And the men for Tucker.? Come on ! Come on !" 
 
 He relegated them to their positions, and the little 
 group of men fell away, leaving the two antagonists 
 alone in an open space. 
 
 "Now shake 'ands, gentlemen, please," said the 
 master. "'Urry up for Gawd's sake — I'm getting stiff, 
 I am." 
 
 They made no motion of obedience, and he looked 
 from one to the other. Even from their window, they 
 could see in his face the clouds of the storm that was 
 about to burst. 
 
162 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 "Oh, I can understand now," exclaimed Traill, in an 
 undertone. He addressed the remark to Sally, but his 
 face scarcely turned in her direction. "You see, these 
 chaps have a quarrel and they're going to fight it out 
 under rules and regulations. They've got this fellow 
 who knows something about boxing — at least I pre- 
 sume he does — to come and manage the affair. Prob- 
 ably he knows nothing of the quarrel. He expects 
 them to shake hands, but I'm hanged if they're going 
 to. By Jove ! There'll be a mess here if the pohce get 
 to hear anything." 
 
 "But why should they shake hands if they're going 
 to fight?" asked Sally, forcing spurious interest. So 
 she bled herself — sapping vitality to give him pleasure. 
 And he took it — as a man will — unconscious of receiv- 
 ing anything. 
 
 "Why? Oh — ^It's the rules of boxing. The whole 
 thing is supposed to be done in a friendly spirit. These 
 chaps down here would probably cut each other's throats 
 for a song. What's the good of their shaking hands ?" 
 
 The combatants were still standing reluctant. It 
 seemed for the moment as if the whole afi'air were about 
 to topple over Into a state of confusion. 
 
 "Go on, Jim," urged one man in the ring; "shake 
 'ands wiv 'im. Damn 'is eyes — ^"e's a gen'leman — ain't 
 'e? Go 'arn, shake 'ands." 
 
 "Look 'ere," said the master, "if there's any of yer 
 blasted bunkum about this, yer can damn well see to it 
 yourselves. I won't touch yer bloody money." 
 
 The words shuddered through Sally's ears. 
 
 "Go *am, Jim, shake 'ands. Can't yer see *e'll drop 
 the 'ole bloomin' show if yer don't, an' damn it, I've got 
 a couple o' bob on yer. Shake 'ands, can't yer !" 
 
 Jim came reluctantly forward into the centre of the 
 
SALLY BISHOP 163 
 
 ring with a knotted hand held grudgingly before him. 
 The other took it and dropped it as if it were filth. 
 
 "That's right," said the master, "now, come on. 
 Two minutes a round — minute wait. Not more 'n ten 
 rounds. And God save us if the coppers don't 'ave us 
 by then. Come up — ^up with yer flippers ! Time !" He 
 tipped a leering wink to the crowd. 
 ^The two men edged together, their arms bent in the 
 defensive, one clenched fist held menacingly before them. 
 Sally tried to take her eyes away, but a morbid fasci- 
 nation held them. The anticipation of that first blow 
 dragged her as the butcher drags his sheep to the 
 shambles. Every glance she stole in their direction 
 was reluctant; but all power of volition seemed to have 
 left her. The sight of those two half-stripped bodies, 
 gleaming in the gas-light, had concentrated in her 
 eyes. At that moment they filled, obsessed her vision. 
 
 "There's not much style about them," muttered 
 Train. He was leaning far out now, his elbows on the 
 window-sill, his hands supporting his face — the atti- 
 tude of concentrated interest. "You'll see, they'll go 
 on dancing round each other like this for the whole of 
 the first round. Just what I said — Japanese dancing 
 mice." 
 
 So they sidled, ridiculous to see, had it not been in 
 such vivid earnest. Now one feinted a blow, then the 
 next. At each lurching attempt Sally caught the 
 breath in her throat. It freed itself automatically with 
 the lack of tension. 
 
 At last in a moment of over-balance — a blow from 
 one of them that struck air and pitched the striker for- 
 ward — ^they rushed together, each grunting like swine 
 as the breath was driven out of them. Sally clutched 
 the curtain at her side. Her fingers tore at the fabric. 
 
154 SALLY BISHOP, 
 
 "Break away, break away!" called the master; and 
 when neither of them loosed his hold for fear the other 
 would strike, he took him whom they called Jim by the 
 shoulder and pushed him bodily backwards. The other 
 followed him with a blow like the arm of a windmill in 
 a gale. Traill chuckled with delight between his hands. 
 
 "Time !" called the master, and, Jim striking a futile 
 blow that glanced harmlessly off the shoulder of his op- 
 ponent, at which the little ring sent up its titter of 
 laughter, they returned to their attendants. 
 
 Traill looked round. "What I said, you see," he re- 
 marked; "not one blow went home in the first round. 
 Yet they're fanning them with towels — ridiculous — isn't 
 it?" In the excitement of his interest, he spoke to her 
 as though she were as well acquainted with the manners 
 of the ring as he. 
 
 Once more they were called into the open. Once 
 more they slouched forward with the advice that their 
 backers had poured into their ears stiU gyrating in a 
 wild confusion in their minds. That one minute had 
 seemed interminable to Sally ; yet she realized how small 
 a speck of time it must have appeared to them. 
 
 "Do you think they'll hit each other this time?" she 
 whispered. 
 
 "Well, let's hope so," said Traill. "It's pretty dull 
 as it is. There isn't much sport in this sort of thing if 
 you can't hit straight. Oh, one of them'U land a blow 
 presently. They want warming, that's all." 
 
 His words sounded far away but absolutely distinct. 
 She scarcely recognized in them the man whom she had 
 been talking to but half an hour before. His whole ex- 
 pression of speech was different. The lust of this spirit 
 of animalism was uppermost. He was a different being ; 
 yet still she clung to him. "There's a beast in every 
 
SALLY BISHOP. 155 
 
 man, tHanK God !" Just those few words chased in cir- 
 cles through her brain. They had meant nothing to 
 her ; she had barely understood them before. Now they 
 lived with reality, and so deeply had his influence pene- 
 trated into the very heart of her desire, that she knew 
 she would not have had him different. 
 
 Then her eyes dragged back to the scene below her. 
 The men were still sparring; waiting — as Traill had 
 said — ^for the first falling blow to heat their blood to 
 boiling. At last it fell. Jim Morrison, in a false mo- 
 ment of vantage, rushed in, head down, arms drawn back 
 like the crank shafts of some unresisting engine, ready 
 to deal the crushing body blows. Sally's eyes were wide 
 in a gaping stare. She expected to see the other fall, 
 waited to hear the grunt of the breath as it crushed out 
 of him. But it did not come. She did not try to think 
 how it happened; she only saw Morrison's head shoot 
 upwards from a blow that seemed to rise from the earth. 
 For a moment he poised before his man, head hfted, 
 eyes on the second dazed with the concussion. And then 
 fell Tucker's second blow— the heavy lunge of the body, 
 the thump of the right foot as it came down upon the 
 stroke, and the lightning flash of that bare left arm as 
 it shot through the ugly shadows and found its mark. 
 Sally heard the thud, the void, hollow sound as when 
 the butcher wields his chopper on the naked bone. She 
 saw one glimpse of the bloody face as it fell out of 
 the circle of light into the shadows that hung about 
 the ground, and the little cry that drove its way be- 
 tween her teeth was drowned by Traill's exclamatory 
 delight. 
 
 "Good left!" he called out excitedly; "follow it up, 
 man ! Follow it up ! Don't let him forget it !" 
 
 Through the fogged haze of sensation, in which for. 
 
156 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 the moment she was almost lost, Sally heard the sudden 
 cessation of voices below. She heard the scurrying of 
 feet and Traill's low chuckle of ironical laughter. 
 
 "It's all right !" he called to them. "Go on as far as 
 I'm concerned. I'm nothing to do with the police. You 
 know your own job better than I do. I don't want to 
 interfere with it. Go on." 
 
 The voices commenced their chattering again, 
 through which excitement, like a wandering bee, 
 hummed a moving note. 
 
 "You won't make any fuss, will yer, mister?" the 
 master's voice could be heard saying. 
 
 "I? Make a fuss? No; why the devil should I? 
 Goon!" 
 
 "Third round !" said the master. 
 
 Then for a moment Sally's eyes opened. In one of 
 the corners sat Morrison on the knee of an attendant, 
 who was sponging the blood from his face, whilst an- 
 other flapped a towel before him. She took a deep 
 breath as he rose slowly to his feet and came forward 
 to meet his man. Directly the shuffling sound of feet 
 began again, she closed her eyes once more, holding 
 with fingers numbed and cold to the fringe of the cur- 
 tain beside her. All the sounds then trooped in pic- 
 tures before her mind. When she heard the stamp of 
 the foot, the dull slapping thud of the heavy blow, and 
 the moaning rush of breath, she saw that bleeding face 
 falling out of the sickly lamplight into the sooty shad- 
 ows. 
 
 At last she could bear it no longer. Her imagina- 
 tion was gloating in her mind over the horrors that it 
 drew. She forced her eyes to look. It was better to 
 see the worst than conjure still worse terrors in her 
 mind. She let her sight rush to those two half -naked 
 
SALLY BISHOP 157 
 
 bodies; it sped unerringly to the spot like a iSling of 
 iron to the magnet's teeth. 
 
 Now Tucker had regained the advantage which that 
 momentary interruption of Traill's had lost him. His 
 man was swaying before him as a sack of sawdust 
 swings inert to the vibrating motion of speed. His 
 blows were falling short and fast. No great force was 
 behind them. He had no time to give them force. But 
 they were bewildering — the stones of hail upon the 
 naked eyes. Morrison dropped slowly and slowly back- 
 wards, one staggering step at a time; his defenceless 
 arms held feebly like broken straws before his face. 
 From nose to chin, from chin to neck, and from the 
 neck in a spreading stream across his chest, the blood 
 — ^black in that light — trickled like molten glue. In 
 his eyes, she could see that questioning glare, the stupid 
 senseless gaze of a man drunk with exhaustion. And 
 still the blows fell to the murmuring accompaniment of 
 that gloating crowd — fell steadily, shortly, tappingly, 
 like the beating of a stick upon dead meat. 
 
 "He's got him now, by Jove ! he's got him now," she 
 just heard Traill muttering, and then the yellow lamp- 
 light slowly went out into the shadows ; the deep, black 
 curtain of the sky slowly descended over the whole 
 scene; she felt a cold wind fuU of moisture fanning 
 gently upon her forehead and her lips; she heard the 
 muffled sounds going further and further away as 
 though some great hand were spreading a black velvet 
 cloth over it all; then Traill heard her uncomplaining 
 moan, and felt the dead weight of her senseless body as 
 it lurched against his own. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 There are men of a certain type in this world whose 
 judgment is exceedingly sound when their instincts are 
 not in play, but who, in certain channels, when the 
 senses are at riot, become puerile; the good ship, rud- 
 derless, which only rights itself when the storm has 
 passed. They are men without the necessary leaven of 
 introspection. Of themselves, in fact, they know noth- 
 ing, learn nothing even in the remorse when the deed 
 is done. For first of all, they are men of strength — 
 men who can over-ride, with determination, rough-shod, 
 the hampering results of their follies. Fate and circum- 
 stance have no power over them. They make their own. 
 destiny ; cutting, if necessary, the knots they have tied, 
 with a knife-like edge of will that needs but the one 
 clear sweep to set them free. 
 
 Of this type — a vivid example — is Traill. The lust 
 of animalism and the determination to possess the 
 woman he once desired, were the two channels, swept 
 into which, he became ungovernable. AH clear judg- 
 ment which he displayed in the management of his work, 
 all foresight which he possessed to a degree in the ar- 
 rangement of common, mundane affairs, were in such a 
 moment cast out of him. Brute instinct hugged him in 
 its embrace. He lost all sense of honour, who could in 
 other matters be most honourable of all. All sense of 
 pity he left, to become the animal that scents its prey, 
 and stretches limbs, strains heart to reach it. In those 
 
SALLY BISHOP 159 
 
 moments wKen the hunger held him, he took the cruelty] 
 of the beast into his heart, and drove all else out be- 
 fore it. 
 
 When Sally's inert body fell, crushing him against 
 the window recess, he looked down at her white face in 
 the first realization of what he had done. Then he 
 came readily to action ; picked her up bodily — a tender, 
 listless weight. In the bend of his arms, he carried her 
 into the other room. An uncushioned settle, no springs, 
 the seat of plain wood, was where he laid her, propping 
 her head, because he knew no better, with a pillow 
 which he brought from the inner room. The sounds 
 from the yard at the back still reached his ears. He 
 strode through to the window and closed it; brought 
 back with him a glass of water, and stood beside the 
 settle, looking down at the slowly disappearing pallor 
 of her face. Her hat was crushed against the pillow 
 as she lay ; he sought with blind and clumsy fingers for 
 the hat pins, extracting them gently, with infinite slow- 
 ness, as though they were fastened in the flesh. When 
 it was free, he took the hat away and laid it on the 
 table. Then he stood again and watched her. She 
 looked asleep. The loosened hair clustered over her 
 ears-^ — soft silk of gold ; his hands touched it. Where a 
 few curls fell out, and the candle-light struck through 
 them, the hair was pale yellow — champagne held up to 
 the sun. 
 
 Presently, he picked up her hand, the arm hanging a 
 dead weight from her shoulder, the knuckles touching 
 the floor. His fingers closed over the pulse to find it 
 faintly beating. He had been a fool to let her stand 
 there and watch the fight. He might have known. The 
 thought thrust itself into his mind that he would like 
 to meet the woman who could watch the whole thing out, 
 
160 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 take the lust of it as he did. She might be worth while. 
 But this child- — she was nothing more than a child — 
 who fainted at the sight of blood; he felt a tenderness 
 for her. Looking down at her as she lay on the settle 
 before him, he could not conceive himself actually doing 
 her harm. She had called him a gentleman. It seemed 
 as if that stray phrase of hers had taken away all the 
 sting of the desire. She expected him to act as a gentle- 
 man; then her expectations should be fulfilled to the 
 letter. The woman who moved him to the deepest force 
 of his nature, was she who knew the brute, not the gen- 
 tleman in him, and bowed herself in supine submission. 
 And as he stood and watched her there, slowly creeping 
 back through the faintest tinges of colour to conscious- 
 ness, he little imagined that Sally was the very woman 
 who would so yield herself rather than lose him from 
 her life. 
 
 At last she opened her eyes, the dazed, wondering 
 stare that comes after the period of forced uncon- 
 sciousness. 
 
 "Where — ^where am I.'"' she whispered. 
 
 "Here — my rooms — ^you fainted." 
 
 "Fainted? Why.?" 
 
 "I don't know ;" he knelt down beside her, all tender- 
 ness and apology. "The fight, I suppose ; we were look- 
 ing on at that fight outside, at the back. I never 
 thought — I was a brute — it never entered my head for 
 a moment. Here, take a sip of this water, while I go 
 and get you some brandy." 
 
 He put the glass in her hand, laced her cold fingers 
 round it, and hurried across to a cupboard in one of 
 the oak cabinets. She was sipping the water bravely 
 when he returned. He took the glass from her, emptied 
 nearly all its contents away into the coal-scuttle — the 
 
SALLY BISHOP 161 
 
 first receptacle that came to his hand — and poured in 
 the neat spirit. 
 
 "Now drink a few sips of this," he said. 
 
 She put it to her lips, then lowered her hand 
 again. 
 
 "You're reaUy very kind to me," she said in grati- 
 tude. 
 
 "Kind! Not a bit. Go on— drink it." 
 
 She drank a little, obediently, and the points of light 
 came back again into her eyes, the colour burnt once 
 more with a little fevered glow in her cheeks. Then she 
 sat up suddenly with the glass gripped tightly in her 
 hand. 
 
 "Oh, what a fool you must think I am," she ex- 
 claimed bitterly, "to make a scene like this, the very 
 first evening that you bring me to your rooms. I am 
 so sorry, so awfully sorry." 
 
 He looked at her in wonder. "Great heavens!" he 
 said. "There's nothing to be sorry about. If any one 
 should be sorry, it ought to be myself. I let you in 
 for it. I suppose it is a filthy sight, when you're not 
 accustomed to it." 
 
 "Yes, but you must think me so weak. And I'm not 
 weak really ; I'm very strong." 
 
 He saw part of the pathos of this, but not all of it. 
 He did not realize that she was pleading for herself 
 with all the earnestness of her soul. He had no sub- 
 tlety of mind, and the fact was too subtle for him to 
 grasp that the whole scene which had taken place with 
 that other woman in his rooms upstairs was being re- 
 enacted, but with a different motive. That woman had 
 fought for his money, his protection for her future. 
 Sally was warring against the frailty of her body for 
 his love. Of his selfishness, she had seen nothing. His 
 
162 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 cruelty, that she had seen ; the beast in the every-man, 
 that she had realized as well. 
 
 But in the components of a woman there may al- 
 ways be found that unswerving subjection to the lower 
 nature of the man. It is a passive submission — for 
 which we have much to be thankful — ^taking upon it- 
 self in its most extreme form, no more definite expres- 
 sion than the parted lips, eyes glazed with passion, 
 and the body inert in its total abandonment. 
 
 It is foolish, therefore, to say that man, in that 
 lower animalism of his nature, is alone in the supposed 
 God-creation of his likeness to the divinity. The very 
 instinct itself would die out were there not in woman 
 the passive echo to answer its call. Divine he 
 may be; in every man there is the possibility, the 
 nucleus, of divinity; but it has not yet shaken oflF the 
 beast of the fields which blindly, obstinately, with- 
 out intelligence, hinders the onward path of its prog- 
 ress. 
 
 It was this part of her nature, then, in Sally that 
 answered to the display of the lower instincts in TraiU. 
 By reason of that part of her, she understood it; by 
 reason of it also, and because she loved him, she was 
 neither thwarted nor dismayed in her desire to win him 
 to herself. 
 
 "I do hate myself for doing that!" she exclaimed 
 afresh, when she had finished the brandy he had poured 
 out for her. "Did I say anything foolish, silly — did 
 I? Oh, I hope I didn't. What happened?" 
 
 Trail laughed good-naturedly at her apprehension. 
 
 "You didn't say a word; you just moaned and tum- 
 bled off. Pitched against me. If I hadn't been there, 
 you'd have fallen clean on to the floor and perhaps hurt 
 yourself," 
 
SALLY, BISHOF 163 
 
 She sat up, then rose unsteadily to her feet. "I am 
 much better now !" she declared eagerly. 
 
 He watched her incomprehensively as she walked 
 across the floor, her knees loose to bear her weight, her 
 lips twitching, and her hands doing odd little things 
 with no meaning in them. It was forced upon him then, 
 the wondering why she was trying so hard to hide her 
 weakness. He would have imagined that a woman 
 would like to be made a fuss of, petted, looked after; 
 to be allowed to lie prone upon a couch, emitting little 
 moans of discomfort to attract sympathy. And he, 
 himself, would have been quite willing to give it. But 
 now, he came to the conclusion more than ever that 
 she was not a woman who cared for the closest rela- 
 tionship. Such a moment as this had been an excellent 
 opportunity for a woman to have forced sentiment into 
 the position, and dragged it on from there to intimacy, 
 to have put out her hand to touch him, seemingly for 
 comfort, but in reality with an hysterical desire for 
 some demonstration of affection. Sally had done 
 none of these things. With a giant effort she had 
 struggled against her inertia. There she was before 
 him, walking up and down the room, talking any- 
 thing that came into her head with forced courage, 
 feigning a strength which any fool could see she did not 
 possess. 
 
 At last his wonder dragged the question from him. 
 "Why are you going on like this?" he asked suddenly. 
 
 She stopped abruptly in her walking, turned and 
 faced him with lips trembling and fingers picking at 
 the braid upon her dress. 
 
 "Like what?" 
 
 "Like this. Walking up and down the room. Try- 
 ing to talk all sorts of courageous nonsense and show- 
 
164 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 ing how utterly unnerved you are in everything you 
 say." 
 
 "I'm not unnerved!" Her hand wandered blindly to 
 the table near which she was standing. She leant on it 
 imperceptibly for support. "I'm not unnerved," she 
 repeated. 
 
 "But you are, my dear child. And why should you 
 want to hide that from me.'"' 
 
 She stood there, swaying slightly, takiag deep 
 breaths to aid her in her effort. 
 
 "Well, I assure you I feel absolutely all right now. 
 I'm not a bit weak now! I know I was ridiculously 
 foolish " 
 
 "Yes, that's the point I want to get at," he inter- 
 rupted; "that's just the point I want to get hold of." 
 He did not even appreciate his want of consideration 
 then in pressing her to answer. "Why do you caU. it 
 foolish? It was I who was foolish; I, entirely, who am 
 to blame. I ought to have known that that was not a 
 fit sight for any woman not accustomed to look on such 
 things. And because you can't stand it, you call your- 
 self foolish." 
 
 Sally walked with an effort across to the armchair 
 with the rushed seat and sank quietly into it. 
 
 "I only mean it was foolish," she explained, "be- 
 cause it was a silly thing to do, the first time that I 
 come to your rooms, for me to faint Hke that. Do you 
 think you'll feel inchned to ask me again? Isn't it 
 natural that a man should hate a scene of that kind? 
 I only hope that you won't think I easily faint; I 
 don't ; I've never " 
 
 Traill leant forward on his knees. Understanding 
 was dawning in him, it burnt a light in his eyes. 
 
 "Do you want to come again, then?" he asked. 
 
SALLY BISHOP 165 
 
 So keen was he upon getting his answer, that he 
 could not see the climax of hysteria towards which he 
 was bringing her. But against that she was fighting, 
 most fiercely of all. Like the rising water in a gauge, 
 it was leaping in sudden bounds within her. But to 
 break into tears, to murmur incoherently between 
 laughter and sobbing that it could not be helped, but 
 she loved him, wildly, passionately, would give every 
 shred of her body into his hands if he would but take 
 it — against this, in the sweating of her whole strength, 
 she was battling lest he should guess her secret. 
 
 "Do you want to come again, then.?" he repeated, 
 when she continued to look at him with frightened eyes, 
 saying nothing. 
 
 "Yes, of course; of course I do." 
 
 "But why — ^why.?" he insisted. 
 
 This reached the summit of his cruelty — blind cruelty 
 it may have been — but it dragged her also to the climax 
 of her^mood. Like the falling of the Tower of Babel, 
 with its crumbling of dust and its confusion of tongues, 
 she tumbled headlong from her pinnacle of strength. 
 
 "Oh, don't, please!" she moaned, and then in tor- 
 rents came the tears; in an incoherent toppling of 
 sound, the little cries of her weeping rushed from her ; 
 and Traill, hurled from the sling of impulse, was kneel- 
 ing at her feet. 
 
 "I'm awfully sorry," he kept on saying; "I'm aw- 
 fully sorry." 
 
 Even then he but vaguely understood, had not rightly 
 guessed the verge upon which she was treading. It 
 was not that she feared he might guess the secret in 
 her heart. If, as she half believed, he loved her too, 
 what real harm could be done by that? It was the fear 
 that, in thi§ jinsexing moment of hysteria, she might 
 
166 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 lose all control, pitch all reserve and modesty into the 
 flood-tide of her emotions, and lose him for ever in the 
 unnatural whirlwind of her passion. Against that she 
 fought, needing only the release from the tension of 
 his questions. When he began, in his futile efforts to 
 make amends, to ply them again, she rose hurriedly to 
 her feet. 
 
 "Can I go into the other room for a moment?" she 
 asked; "or will you go and leave me here alone — ^just 
 for a minute or two?" 
 
 He stood up. "I'll do anything you like," he said. 
 
 "Then, go — ^just for a moment." 
 
 The door had scarcely closed behind him before she 
 sank back again into the chair, shaking with the pas- 
 sion of tears. When they ran dry, she rose and crossed 
 the room to the window, throwing it open. The cold 
 air blew refreshingly on to her face. She pressed back 
 the hair from her temples to let it reach her forehead. 
 It was like ice-water on the burning pulses of her 
 nerves. She took deep breaths of it, thankful from her 
 heart for the release. When, at last, Traill knocked 
 upon the door, she could turn with brave assurance and 
 bid him enter. He came in with questioning eyes that 
 lost their querulousness the moment they had found 
 her face. 
 
 "You're better?" he said at once. 
 
 "Yes." She smiled reassuringly. "I'm absolutely 
 all right now." 
 
 He looked at her eyes, red with weeping. He knew 
 she had been crying — had heard her sobs from the other 
 room. Part of her secret then, at least, he had realized. 
 She was fond of him. How fond, it would be more or 
 less impossible to divine ; but it must be nipped there — 
 strangled utterly— if he were to fulfil her expectations 
 
iSALLY, BISHOP. 167 
 
 of him. WHat it was that pressed him to the sacrifice, 
 he could not actually say; unless it were that it ap- 
 pealed to his better nature as a thing of shame to do 
 otherwise. She would marry him, he felt sure of that. 
 But marriage, with all its accompanying conventions 
 and indissoluble bonds — indissoluble, except through 
 the loathsome medium of the divorce court — was a con- 
 dition of life that his whole nature shrank from. He 
 refused it utterly. This girl — ^this little child — ^per- 
 haps saw no other termination to their acquaintance 
 than that of marriage, and either this thought had be- 
 come a break upon his desire, or he wished, in the hon- 
 esty of his heart, to treat her well; whatever it was, 
 there was not that in his mind which made him deter- 
 mine to be the one to teach her otherwise. 
 
 "Well, now sit down, don't stand about," he said 
 kindly. "You can't be really as strong as you think 
 yet, and I've got something I want to say to you. 
 Take this chair, it's about the most comfortable there 
 is here, and I'll get that pillow for your back." 
 
 His voice was soft — gentle even — in the considera- 
 tion that he showed. To himself, he was striving to 
 make amends ; to her, he was that tenderness which she 
 knew lay beneath the iron crust of his harder nature. 
 
 When she was seated, when he had placed the pillow 
 at her back, he took a well-burnt pipe — the well-burnt 
 pipe that he had smoked before under other circum- 
 stances than these — and filled it slowly from a tobacco 
 jar. 
 
 Sally watched all his movements patiently, until she 
 could wait for his words no longer. 
 
 "What have you to say ?" she asked. 
 
 He lit the pipe before replying; drew it till the to- 
 bacco glowed like a little smelting furnace in the bowl. 
 
168 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 and the smoke lifted in blue clouds, then he rammed his 
 finger on to the burning mass with cool intent, as 
 though the fire of it could not pain him. 
 
 From that apparently engrossing occupation, he 
 looked up with a sudden jerk of his head. 
 
 "You mustn't come here again," he said, without 
 force, without feeling of any sort. 
 
 She leant back against the pillow, holding a breath 
 in her throat, and her eyes wandered like a child that 
 is frightened around the room, passing his face and 
 passing it again, yet fearing to rest upon it for any 
 appreciable moment of time. 
 
 When she found that he was going to say no more, 
 she asked him why. Just the one word, breathed rather 
 than spoken, no complaint, no rebellion, the pitiable 
 simplicity of the question that the man puts to his Fate, 
 the woman to her Maker. 
 
 "Why.?" 
 
 He at least was holding himself in harness that she 
 knew nothing of — the curb and snaffle, with the reins 
 held tightly across fingers of iron. 
 
 "Why.''" he repeated. "If you don't know human 
 nature, would it be wise, do you think, for me to spell 
 it out to you?" 
 
 She knit her brows trying to see, trying to think, 
 but finding nothing save the blank and gaping ques- 
 tion. Through her mind it swept, that her fainting 
 was some cause of it. She could not really believe that 
 that could have brought so much abhorrence to his 
 mind; yet she tried it. To say anything, to propose 
 any cause, she struggled for that in order to know the 
 why. 
 
 "It was because I fainted?" she said quickly. "You 
 hate a woman to be weak ; I know I was weak ; you hate 
 
SALLY BISHOP 169 
 
 scenes of that sort. Do you think I can't understand 
 it?" She worked herself into the belief that this was 
 the reason, and her spirit of defence rose with it. "Of 
 course I can understand. If I were a man, I should 
 hate it too! But you're quite wrong if you think I 
 shall get unnerved again, as I did this " 
 
 "It's not that at all !" he said firmly. "Do you think 
 I'm such a fool, do you even think I'm such a brute as 
 to blame you, to think poorly, inconsiderately of you 
 for something that was entirely my own fault? I 
 shouldn't have let myself be carried away by the excite- 
 ment of that fight. There are many things I shouldn't 
 have done beside that. I shouldn't have stopped as I 
 passed along King Street that night. When I saw that 
 little gold head of yours in the window, I should have 
 gone on, taken no notice. I shouldn't have followed, I 
 shouldn't have spoken to you as I did." 
 
 "But why?" she entreated. 
 
 He gripped the bowl of his pipe in his fingers. "For 
 the very reason you gave me yourself, on the 'bus that 
 day, and afterwards when we were having lunch to- 
 gether." 
 
 "What was that?" 
 
 " That I didn't know you." 
 
 She looked her bewilderment. "I don't understand," 
 she said simply. 
 
 "Then I can explain no further. We must leave it 
 at that." 
 
 "Oh! but why can't you explain?" She had nearly 
 added, "When it means so much to me," but shut her 
 teeth, drew in her breath on the words, inducing the 
 physical act to aid her in preventing their utterance. 
 
 "I think you would be — ^perhaps sorry — ^perhaps 
 hurt— if I did." 
 
170 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 "I'm sure I wouldn't — and I'd sooner know." 
 
 He looked at her fixedly as the pendulum of decision 
 swung in his mind. To tell her would be to crush it, 
 kill it utterly, the blow of the sword of Damocles fall- 
 ing at last — falling inevitably. He knew how she 
 would take it; just as she had taken his advances to 
 her on the 'bus that night. Did he think that of her! 
 Was that all the depth of their acquaintance ! Oh, she 
 loathed him! Therefore, why let it end that way? 
 Why not with this little mystery in her mind, which 
 would not prevent their sometimes meeting again, even 
 if she never came to his rooms? 
 
 He stood up from the table, crossed the room to 
 where her hat was lying, and picked it up. 
 
 "It's nearly eleven," he said quietly. "You'd better 
 think of getting home." 
 
 She took the hat from him, then the pins. He 
 watched her silently as she secured it to her head, not 
 even appealing to him if it were straight. Slowly she 
 drew on her gloves, shivering as her fingers fitted into 
 the cold skin. 
 
 "I'm ready," she said, when all these things were 
 done. 
 
 Traill went the round of the candles, blowing 
 them out one by one, until the scent of the smoking 
 wick was pungent in the air. Before the last, he 
 stopped. 
 
 "You get to the door," he said. 
 
 Instead of obeying him, Sally walked firmly across 
 to his side. 
 
 "We're not to meet again?" she asked. 
 
 "I didn't say that." 
 
 "But you will never bring me up to your rooms here 
 again? As far as that goes, it finishes here?" She did 
 
SALLY BISHOP 171 
 
 not even stop to wonder at herself. The fears of losing 
 him were spurs in her side. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then if you have any respect for me, you'll teU 
 me why?" 
 
 "It's because I have respect for you, I suppose, that 
 I don't tell you." 
 
 She stepped back from him. "Is it anything about 
 me?" she asked, "or — or about yourself that you can- 
 not tell me?" Then it was that she feared he had dis- 
 covered her love for him and loathed her for the dis- 
 closing of her secret. 
 
 In this persistent determination of Sally's, Janet 
 would scarcely have recognized her. But she was 
 driven, the hounds of despair were at her heels. In 
 such a moment as this, any woman drops the cloak and 
 stands out, hmbs free, to win her own. 
 
 "Is it about yourself?" she repeated. 
 
 Another suspicion now that he was married — en- 
 gaged — ^bound in some way from which there was no 
 escape — ^was throbbing, like the flickering shadow that 
 a candle casts, in a deeply-hidden corner of her mind. 
 She dared not let it advance, dared not let it become a 
 palpable fear, yet there it was. And all this time, 
 Traill was looking at her with steady eyes, behind 
 which the pendulum was once more set a-swinging. 
 
 Should he tell her, should he not? Should he rip 
 out the knife that would cut this knot which circum- 
 stances seemed to be tying? 
 
 "You want to know exactly what it is," he said sud- 
 denly. "Then it's this. I'm not the type of man who 
 marries. I've seen marriage with other men and I've 
 seen quite enough of it. My sister's married ; marriage 
 has the making of women as a rule, it gives them place, 
 
172 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 power, they want that — so much the better for them. 
 With marriage, they get it. My sister has often tried 
 to persuade me to marry, drop my life, adopt the social 
 entity, and worship the god of respectability. I'd 
 sooner put a rope round my neck and swing from the 
 nearest lamp-post. And so, you see, I'm no fit com- 
 pany for you. I don't live the sort of life you'd choose 
 a man to live. I'm not really the sort of man you take 
 me for in the least. At dinner, this evening, you called 
 me a gentleman. I'm not even the sort of gentleman 
 as you understand him ; though I've been trying to live 
 up to my idea of the genus, ever since you said it. My 
 dear Sally" — he took her hand — she let him hold it — 
 "you don't know anything about the world, and I don't 
 want to teach you the lesson that I suppose some man 
 or circumstances will bring you to learn one day. Take 
 my advice and have no truck with me." 
 
 He blew out the last remaining candle, took her arm 
 and led her to the door. They walked down the one 
 flight of stairs together, their footsteps echoing up 
 through the empty house; out on the pavement he 
 called a hansom, held his arm across the wheel as she 
 stepped in ; turned to the cabby, gave him his fare, told 
 him Waterloo Station; then he leant across the step of 
 the cab and held out his hand. 
 
 "Good-bye, Sally," he said. 
 
 She tried to answer him, but her words were dry and 
 clung in her throat. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 The hour of twelve was tolling out across the water 
 from the little church on Kew Green, when Sally fitted 
 her borrowed latch-key into the door. She had per- 
 formed the journey back to Kew Bridge in a stupor of 
 mind that could hold no single thought, review no 
 single event with any clearness of vision. It was as if 
 not one evening, but three days, had passed by since 
 she had left the oiEce of Bonsfield & Co. — the day they 
 had dined together — the day on which they had watched 
 that terrible fight — the day, the last of all, when she 
 had awakened from unconsciousness, had struggled 
 through a cruel agony of mind, and had finally said 
 good-bye to him for ever. How was it possible, with 
 the length, breadth and depth of three days all crushed 
 into the microscopic space of five hours — a dizzy whirl- 
 ing acceleration of time — how was it possible for her to 
 think logically, consecutively, to even think at all? She 
 could not think. She had lain back in the carriage, her 
 head lax against the cushions, and simply permitted the 
 whole procession of events, like some retreating army 
 with death at its heels, to stagger across her brain. 
 Down the old river-path to the Hewsons' house, she had 
 walked as if asleep, the glazed eyes of the somnambu- 
 list, staring in front, but seeing nothing. Up to her 
 bedroom she had climbed with but one thought in her 
 mind, the fear of waking any one. She had struck a 
 match outside the door, lest the scratching of it in the 
 room should rouse Janet. Such considerations as these 
 
174 SALLT BISHOP, 
 
 her mind could grasp. It needed a night of sleep to 
 nurse her comprehension back to all that she had been 
 through. As yet, she was unable to realize it. , 
 
 One by one, she took off her clothes, in the same me- 
 chanical way as she would have done if she had re- 
 turned exhausted from working overtime at the office. 
 When she put on her night-dress, she knelt down un- 
 premeditatedly upon the floor, held her hands together, 
 and looked up to the ceiling, watching a fly that was 
 braving the cold of winter, as it crept in a sluggish, 
 hibernated way across the white plaster. When she 
 rose to her feet and blew out the candle, she was under 
 the vague Impression that she had said her prayers. 
 Then she climbed into bed, pulled the clothes about her, 
 and, as her hand touched the pillow, its softness, the 
 remembrance of the many nights when in loneliness she 
 had wept herself to sleep, all rushed back with their 
 thousand associations, and the dam against her soul 
 broke. The flood of tears poured through, and she 
 sobbed convulsively. 
 
 Suddenly then, with a gasp of the breath, she 
 stopped, though the tears still toppled down. She had 
 heard her name. 
 
 "Sally " 
 
 It was Janet. Before she could resist, before she 
 could explain, two thin arms were clasped round her 
 breast and a close, warm body was next to hers. 
 
 "What is It, Sally— little Sally? tell Janet— tell 
 Janet — ^whisper " 
 
 The passionate sobbing, which had begun again im- 
 mediately Sally knew it was Janet, commenced now to 
 break Into uneven, uncontrolled breaths, that by de- 
 grees became quieter and quieter as Janet whispered 
 the fond, meaningless things into her ear. Meaning- 
 
SALLY BISHOP 175 
 
 less ? They would have had no meaning to any one who 
 might have overheard; but in Sally's heart, as it was 
 meant they should be, they were charged to the full — 
 a cup beneath an ever-flowing fountain that brims over 
 — with such kindness and sympathy, as only a woman 
 of Janet's nature knows how to bestow to another and 
 more gentle of her sex. 
 
 "Are you unhappy, Sally?" she asked, when, from 
 the sounds of her weeping, she had become more ra- 
 tional. 
 
 There was no answer. 
 
 "Are you, Sally?" 
 
 " Yes, frightfully— frightfully ! Oh, I wish I hadn't 
 got to go on." It was rent from her heart, torn from 
 her. All the spirit in her was broken — crushed. 
 
 "But why, my darling? Why?" The thin arras 
 held her tighter, warm lips kissed her neck and shoul- 
 ders. "Did he treat you badly — did he ?" 
 
 "No !" 
 
 Janet gleaned much in the directness of that answer. 
 
 "Doesn't he care for you?" 
 
 She knew then that Sally cared for him. 
 
 "I don't know. How could I know?" 
 
 "He hasn't told you so, one way or the other?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "But you think he doesn't?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know." 
 
 "Then what makes you so frightfully unhappy?" 
 
 "Because I'm never going to see him again." 
 
 The words were thick, choked almost in her throat. 
 
 "Oh, then he doesn't care," said Janet, softly. 
 
 "Yes, he does!" retorted Sally, wildly. "He does 
 care, only — only " 
 
 "Only what?" 
 
176 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 "Only, he thinks too little of himself and — and too 
 much of me. He says he's not the sort of man I ought 
 to have anything to do with" — the words were rushing 
 from her now — the torrent of earth that a landslip sets 
 free. "He never wants to marry, he hates the conven- 
 tionalities and the bonds of marriage like you say you 
 do. And he asked me to forgive him for thinking I was 
 different — different — ^to what he had expected. He said 
 he ought never to have spoken to me in the first instance, 
 that it was his fault, and he blamed himself entirely for 
 what had happened. Then he took me downstairs and 
 put me in a hansom and said good-bye. And — I'm not 
 to see him — any more." 
 
 It was a pitiable little story, pitiably told; punctu- 
 ated with tears and choking breaths, with no heed for 
 effect, no attempt to make it dramatic or sadder than 
 it already was. 
 
 When she had finished, she lay there, crying quietly 
 in Janet's arms, all courage gone, all vitality sapped 
 from her. 
 
 For a long time Janet waited, thinking it all through. 
 Then she whispered in Sally's ears. 
 
 "And you love him, Sally?" 
 
 The heavy sigh, so deep drawn that it seemed to 
 strain down to her heart — that was answer enough. 
 What further answer need she give.? Sighs, tears, the 
 catch in the breath, the look in the eyes, the look from 
 the eyes — ^those are the language in which a woman 
 really speaks. Words, she uses to hide them. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 If you look into life, you will find that the key-note 
 of every woman's existence is love — the broad, the great, 
 the grand passion. She may take up a million causes, 
 champion a thousand aims ; but the end that she reaches 
 — is love. To fail in such an end — to lose the grasp of 
 it when once it might have been hers — this is the most 
 bitter of aloes; gall that eats into her blood and cor- 
 rodes her clearest vision. A man, forging destinies, is 
 a king, to be mated only with a woman who loves. 
 
 There are exceptions; but these are not needed to 
 prove the rule ; for there hangs even some doubt, like a 
 fly in the amber, in the history of Jeanne D'Arc, the 
 most patent an example of them aU. Yet whether, as 
 some chronicles would say, she was never burnt as a 
 witch, but smuggled into the country, and there mated 
 in love — and it would seem a shame unpardonable to 
 rob history of a great martyr and the Church of Rome 
 of a saint — it makes no odds in the counting. Great 
 women have loved greatly — ^lesser women have loved less 
 — ^but all who are of the sex have made the heart their 
 master, and obeyed it whenever it has truly called. 
 
 So it had come to Sally. Beyond all doubt, she 
 loved; beyond all question, she was prepared to obey 
 the faintest call that her heart prompted. Janet, ten- 
 der to her that night, fondling her and caressing her, 
 answering to her with the very heart that she had tried 
 to stifle within herself, was Janet herself again the 
 next morning. But SaUy was unchanged. 
 
 She dressed herself silently before the mirror, look- 
 
178 iSALLY; BISHOP 
 
 ing out thirougH the window at the grey river-fog that 
 fell gloomily across the water and Janet lay in bed, 
 her hands crossed behind her head, a cigarette hanging 
 between her lips and the smoke curling up past her 
 eyes. The school of Art did not open until eleven 
 o'clock that morning. Sally had to be at the of&ce 
 at nine. 
 
 "There'll be a fog up in Town," said Janet. She 
 did not take the cigarette out of her mouth. It jerked 
 up and down with the words. 
 
 "Sure to be," Sally replied. 
 
 "Suppose Mr. Traill will come and take you out to 
 lunch?" 
 
 Sally turned quickly. "I told you last night," she 
 said bitterly. "We shan't see each " 
 
 "Oh yes, I know that. But do you think he means 
 it?" 
 
 "I'm sure he does." 
 I "I'm not." 
 
 Sally unpinned a coil of her hair and re-arranged 
 it more carefully, unconscious that she did it because 
 Janet had suggested the vague hope in her mind that 
 he might come. 
 
 "Why are you so different this morning?" she asked. 
 
 Janet brushed away a piece of glowing ash that had 
 fallen like a cloud of dust into one of the hollows below 
 her neck. 
 
 "Didn't know I was very different." 
 i "You are." 
 
 "Well, I've been thinking " She threw the end 
 
 of her cigarette away and jumped out of bed, walking 
 on her heels over the cold, linoleumed floor to the wash- 
 stand. "I've been thinking," she repeated as she 
 poured out the cold water into the basin — ^"and as far 
 
SALLY BISHOP, 179 
 
 as I can see" — she dippe'd Her face witK a rusK into the 
 icy water, and her words became a gurgle of speeding 
 bubbles — "there was really no need for all your crying 
 and misery — ^heavens! this water'd nip a tenderer bud 
 than I am. Ain't I a bud, Sally?" She laughed and 
 shivered her shoulders as she struggled to work the 
 soap into a lather. 
 
 "I never can understand you when you talk hke 
 that," said Sally. "I never know whether you really 
 mean what you say." 
 
 "Well, I mean every word of it. It's the only time 
 I do mean things, when I talk like that. Where'd you 
 put the towel? We want a clean towel, Sally. I sopped 
 up some tea I spilt with this last night. No — ^but can't 
 you see, there's no need for you to be so miserable as 
 you think. Men only make a sacrifice when they really 
 love a woman. He'll come back to you, like a duck to 
 the water. You know he will. Do you think if he'd 
 cared for you at all, he'd have given tuppence whether 
 he taught you what most men teach most women? The 
 only woman a man thinks he has no real claim to, Is the 
 woman he loves ; he believes he has a proprietary right 
 to nearly every other blessed one he meets, and has only 
 got to assert it." 
 
 "How do you know these things, Janet? What 
 makes you say them?" 
 
 "You mean who's taught me them — eh? What man 
 has ever taken a sufficient Interest In me to show me so 
 much of his sex? Isn't that what you mean?" 
 
 "No !" 
 
 "Oh, I know I'm ugly enough. That glass has a 
 habit of reminding me of it every morning. I could 
 smash that glass sometimes with the back of a hair- 
 brush, only It might break the hair-brush." 
 
180 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 "Janet, you're cruel sometimes! Things like that 
 never enter my dreams!" Sally exclaimed passion- 
 ately. 
 
 "Bless your heart," said Janet, "facts never do. 
 You take facts as they come; you act on them in- 
 stinctively, but you don't realize them. I am ugly. 
 There's no doubt about it. You don't think I'm ugly, 
 but you see I am. That prompts your question without 
 knowing it. But men have made fools of themselves — 
 even over me. There was one man at the school last 
 year — took a fancy to me, I believe because I was so 
 ugly. Just like James II. and the ugly maids-of -hon- 
 our. I was going to live with him. Can you believe 
 that? And one night at one of the dances, we were 
 kicking up a row a bit — dancing about as if we were 
 lunatics — and my hair fell down — there's not much for 
 a pin to stick into at the best of times. I remember 
 laughing and looking across the room at him. Well, 
 I saw an expression in- his eyes that settled it. He 
 looked as if he could see me — just like I know I am — 
 in the mornings when I first wake up — all frowsy and 
 fuddled, with this little bit of a mat I've got, sticking 
 out in tails, about as long as your hand, on the pillow. 
 It takes a bit of courage for a man to even go and live 
 with a woman after he's seen her like that. I assure 
 you it didn't take me much courage to tell him I'd 
 changed my mind." 
 
 Sally watched her and the pain that she felt as she 
 listened furrowed her brow into frowns. She knew that 
 there was more than this, more than the bare statement 
 behind this little story. That was Janet's way of put- 
 ting it, the way Janet made herself look on at life, the 
 apparently heartless aspect in which she viewed every- 
 thing. To sympathize would only sting her to still 
 
SALLY BISHOP 181 
 
 more bitter sarcasm. Sally said nothing, the pity was 
 in her 'eyes. 
 
 "I've never told you that before, have I?" said Janet. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "And I suppose you're terribly shocked because I 
 even ever thought of living with a man?" 
 
 "No, I'm not. If you loved him and — and he 
 couldn't marry you." 
 
 Out of the corner of her eyes Janet watched her, 
 rubbing her face vigorously with the towel to conceal 
 her observation. In that moment then, she saw the end 
 of Sally, drew the matter out in her mind, as, with 
 hurried strokes, she might have sketched a passing face 
 upon the slip of paper. 
 
 "Well, you run on down to breakfast," she said. 
 "You'll be late; it's five minutes to eight." 
 
 A whole week passed by, and Sally heard no more 
 of Traill. Every day, when she went out to lunch, or 
 left the office after work was over, she looked up and 
 down King Street in the hope, almost the expectation, 
 of seeing him waiting for her to come. Then the ex- 
 pectation died away ; the hope grew fainter and fainter, 
 like a shadow that the sun casts upon the sundial until, 
 at an hour before setting, it is scarcely discernible. 
 
 Another week sped its days through. It was as the 
 unwinding of a reel of silk, each day a round, each 
 round and the body of the reel grew thinner and thin- 
 ner, and the coils of silk lay wasted — entangled on the 
 floor. 
 
 Deep shadows settled under Sally's eyes. The dis- 
 ease of love-sickness has its common symptoms, the 
 whole world knows them; the hungry self-interest that 
 wears itself out into a hypochondriacal morbidity; the 
 perverted power of vision, the hopeless want of philos- 
 
182 sally; BISHOP; 
 
 ophy ; not to mention the hundred ailments of the body 
 that beset every single one who suffers from the com- 
 plaint. 
 
 Janet watched Sally closely through it all until, as 
 the time passed by, even she began to think that her 
 calculations had been at fault. 
 
 At last, one morning, there lay on the breakfast- 
 table in the kitchen, a little brown-paper parcel ad- 
 dressed to SaUy. She picked it up eagerly and the 
 flame flickered up into her cheeks as she laid it down 
 again, unopened, in her lap. Janet smiled across at 
 her, but said nothing. When breakfast was over, she 
 let Sally go away by herself up to her bedroom, while 
 she remained behind and talked to Mrs. Hewson. Ten 
 minutes, she gave her; then she mounted the stairs as 
 well. She did not knock. She walked straight into 
 the bedroom and there she found Sally, seated near the 
 window, the tears coursing down her cheeks, while she 
 held out her wrist and stared at a woven gold bangle 
 that bore on it her name in diamond letters. By the 
 side of the empty box was a letter, weU-folded, so that 
 it could fit within, and on the floor lay the string and 
 the brown paper, just as it had been torn off. 
 
 Janet stood in front of her, hands on hips, warmed 
 with the sense of being a prophet in her own country. 
 
 "Are you satisfied now?" she asked. 
 
 Sally looked up; the pride of the woman in the 
 bauble blent in her eyes with the disappointment of the 
 woman in love. 
 
 "Isn't it lovely?" she said pathetically. "Oh, it is 
 lovely. I've never had anything so beautiful before. 
 But I can't keep it. How can I keep it?" 
 
 "Can't keep it!" exclaimed Janet. "What are you 
 talking about?. Do you think it was jgiven to you to 
 
SALLY BISHOP 183 
 
 look at and then return? Why shouldn't you keep It? 
 It's got your name on. He can't give it to anybody 
 else, unless there's more than one Sally down his alley, 
 which I should think is very doubtful. What do you 
 mean — ^you can't keep it? You make me feel like Job's 
 wife." 
 
 Sally unclasped the bangle and laid it back in the 
 little velvet box with lingering fingers. Then she 
 picked up the letter. 
 
 "Read that," she said. 
 
 Janet swept her eyes to it. To her, as she read, it 
 seemed to be the condensation of more than one letter 
 that had been written before. A man, she argued, who 
 gives such a present, is more than probably in love; 
 and a man who is in love, cannot write so directly to 
 the point in his first kttempt. 
 
 This was the letter : — 
 
 "Dear Miss Bishop " 
 
 (To call her "Sally" in diamonds and "Miss Bishop" 
 in ink, was ridiculous. Ink was infinitely cheaper; and 
 if he could afi'ord the one, then why not the other?) 
 
 "I make it a habit to discharge debts. With this to 
 you, I wipe out my debit sheet and stand clear. You 
 remember my bet on the Hammersmith 'bus. I hope you 
 were none the worse for my foolishness of our last 
 evening. I have regretted my thoughtlessness many 
 times since. 
 
 "Yours sincerely, 
 
 "J. Hewitt Teaill." 
 
 "What foolishness?" asked Janet, looking up 
 quickly at the end. "What did he do?" 
 
 Of the fight and her fainting, Sally had told her 
 
184 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 nothing. She told her nothing now. The fear that 
 Traill might be thought selfish — a thought which love 
 refused to give entrance to in her own mind — ^had led 
 her to defend him with silence. Now she told the de- 
 liberate lie, unblushingly, unfearingly. 
 
 "He did nothing," she replied; "that's only a joke 
 of his. But you see, I can't keep the bangle," she went 
 on quickly, covering the lie with words, as Eugene 
 Aram hid the body of his victim with dead leaves. "I 
 must send it back to him. I never knew he really meant 
 it when he made that bet. I never even thought he 
 meant it when he reminded me of it that day after 
 lunch." 
 
 "No more he did mean it," said Janet, sharply. "If 
 he'd seen you again and again — he'd never have paid 
 it — not as he's pretending to pay it now." 
 
 "Pretending?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Sally took up the bangle in her fingers. 
 
 "You don't call this pretence, do you.-"' she asked. 
 "Why, it's worth even more than he said in his bet. 
 He paid more than ten pounds for this." 
 
 "Exactly," said Janet, shrewdly; "doesn't that 
 prove it.? If he was only paying his bet, you can 
 make pretty sure that he'd have sent the money and 
 not a penny more than he owed." 
 
 "Yes; but do you think he'd do a thing like that.?" 
 said Sally, with pride. "He'd know I wouldn't accept 
 it that way." 
 
 "Well, perhaps not," Janet agreed; "but then he 
 wouldn't have bought a thing that cost a penny more 
 than ten pounds, if so much. You don't know men 
 when they're parting with money that they've had to 
 whip some one else to get. You say he's not so very 
 
SALLY BISHOP 185 
 
 well off. At any rate, he wouldn't have given you a 
 thing that cost fifteen or twenty pounds — those dia- 
 monds aren't so small — when he only owed you ten." 
 
 "But he didn't owe it to me!" Sally interrupted. 
 
 "Very well, he didn't. Then why do you think he's 
 sent you this?" 
 
 "Because he thinks he does." 
 
 "Very well, again; then why does he send you some- 
 thing that's worth so much more?" 
 
 Janet folded her arms in a triumph of silence. For 
 a long time Sally could frame no reply. It had seemed, 
 only an hour before, that she would have been so will- 
 ing to seize any straw which the tide of affairs should 
 bring her, and now that the solid branch had floated 
 to her reach, she could not find the confidence to throw 
 her whole weight upon it. It was the letter that 
 thwarted her; the letter that warned her from too 
 great a hope. 
 
 "But read the letter," she said at last. "Read the 
 letter again. Would he ever have written as abruptly 
 as that if — if what you suggest is right? He might 
 have asked me to — to think sometimes when I wore 
 it " 
 
 "Why? Is he a sentimentalist?" 
 
 "My goodness! No!" 
 
 "Well, then, he wouldn't. That's a stock phrase of 
 the sentimentalist. The sentimentalist is always think- 
 ing, that's all he does, and he breaks his heart over it 
 if other people don't act what he thinks." 
 
 "Well, he's not a sentimentalist, certainly." 
 
 She even smiled when she thought of his exclama- 
 tions during the fight. 
 
 "What are you smiling at?" asked Janet, quickly. 
 "Something he said?" 
 
186 SALLY BISHOP. 
 
 «Yes.*» 
 
 "That wasn't sentimental?" 
 j "Yes." 
 
 "Well, he certainly wouldn't have told you to think 
 about him when you wore it. I imagine I can guess 
 exactly what sort he is." 
 
 "How can you guess?" 
 
 "WeU, because I know what sort you are, and I 
 fancy I know just the type of man whom you'd fall 
 in love with as rapidly as you've fallen in love with 
 this Mr. Traill. He's hard — ^he can bend you — ^he can 
 break you — ^he can crush you to dust, and there'll still 
 be some wind or other that 'ud blow your ashes to his 
 feet. He's all man — man that's got the brute in him, 
 too — and you're all woman, woman that's got the mat- 
 ing instinct in her, and will go like the lioness across 
 th^ miles of desert, without food and without water, 
 when once she hears the song of sex in the hungry 
 throat of her mate. Oh, it's a pretty little story, too 
 strong for a drawing-room; but Darwin'U tell it you, 
 Huxley'll tell it you. But you'll never read Darwin, 
 and you'U never read Huxley — except in a man's eyes. 
 Oh, I know you think I'm a beast, I know you think 
 I've got no sense of refinement at all, that I might 
 have been a man just as well as a woman. Lord! how 
 your friend Traill would hate me, 'cause he's got all 
 I've got and more — ^in himself. But I don't care 
 what you say about that letter — the letter's noth- 
 ing! It's the gift that's the thing. That's the song 
 of sex if you like; and whether you return it, or 
 whether you don't, you'll answer it, as he meant you 
 to. You'll go creeping across the desert, and you 
 won't touch water, and you won't touch food, till you'v» 
 reached him." 
 
SALLY BISHOP 187 
 
 She stood there, shaking the words out of her, the 
 revolutionary in her eyes and God's truth fearlessly in 
 her breath. Then she lit a Virginian cigarette and 
 walked out of the room. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 Theke were occasions, as he had said, when Traill 
 met his sister. They were infrequent, as infrequent 
 as he could make them. And they were seldom, if ever, 
 at her house in Sloane Street. 
 
 One evening, some three weeks or less after his part- 
 ing with Sally, he took her out to dinner. He donned 
 evening dress, loudly cursing the formality, and 
 brought her to a fashionable restaurant, where he 
 gently cursed the abject civility of the waiters beneath 
 his breath. 
 
 "They're not men," he said to his sister; "they're 
 worms of the underworld, waiting for the corpse to be 
 lowered its regulation six feet." ^ 
 
 Mrs. Durlacher shuddered. "You make use of hor- 
 rible similes sometimes. Jack," she said. 
 
 "I see some horrible things," said Traill. "Look at 
 that waiter, hovering like a vulture, while the fat old 
 gentleman from Aberdeen goes through the items of 
 the bill. He might just as well shut one eye and stand 
 on one leg to make the picture complete. That's 
 rather a pretty girl, too, at the same table." 
 
 His sister looked in the direction. "Why, he's not 
 from Aberdeen," she said, daintily. "That's Sir 
 Standish Roe; he sits on boards in the city." 
 
 "A vigorous exercise like that ought to reduce his 
 bulk," said Traill. "Do you know them, then?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Who's the girl?" 
 
SALLY BISHOP 189 
 
 "That's his daughter. I'll introduce you after din- 
 ner if they're not hurrying oflF to a theatre." 
 
 "No you don't," said Traill; "baited traps don't 
 catch me, however alluring they are." 
 
 So they talked, all through dinner, criticizing in idle 
 good-humour the various people about them. When- 
 ever he was in his sister's company Traill sharpened 
 his wits. Putting on the social gloss, he called it, 
 whenever she laughed at his remarks and told him he 
 would be a God-send at some of her dinners. 
 
 "Is it quite hopeless?" she asked him that evening. 
 
 "Quite! As far removed from possibility as I am 
 from a seat in the Cabinet." 
 
 "But you might if you took up politics." 
 
 "Exactly, the point of absolute certainty being that 
 I never shall." 
 
 She waited a while, letting the conversation drift as 
 it liked; then she dipped her oar again. 
 
 "Do you ever hunt or shoot now.''" 
 
 "Hunt, yes, for jobs. I've made that feeble joke 
 before to somebody else. No — neither." 
 
 "We had some rather good days with the pheasants 
 this year down at Apsley." 
 
 "Did you.?'.' 
 
 "Yes, Harold got sixty-seven birds one day." 
 
 "Lucky dog! Have you finished? Well, look here, 
 we'U come along to my rooms — I'm on the first floor 
 now; I hate talking in these places. You won't have 
 to climb up all those stairs this time, and I'll give you 
 some more of that coffee." 
 
 She needed no second persuasion. In the drift of 
 her mind, she fancied she saw impressions floating by, 
 first one and then another, impressions that he was 
 more tractable this evening, more hkely to be won a 
 
190 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 little to her side ; for social though she was — the blood 
 in her veins to the finger tips — she still cared for this 
 bohemian brother of hers; considered it trouble well 
 spent to bring him to her way of thinking. We are 
 all of us apt to think thus generously of those whom 
 we hold dear. 
 
 "There aren't many women who come up these stairs 
 in evening dress, I can assure you," he said, as they 
 mounted the flight together. 
 
 She laughed. "And I suppose the ones who do are 
 on their way to see you." 
 
 "DoUy, I'm ashamed of you," he replied. 
 
 "Well, you've made yourself the reputation; don't 
 grumble at it or shirk it." 
 
 "Shirk it.? Why should I.?" He stood aside to let 
 her pass in. "I've nothing to be ashamed of. I don't 
 wear the garment of respectability, but then I'm not 
 stark naked. Every man clothes himself in some ar- 
 ticle of faith, virtue if you like." The name of Sally 
 and Sally's face swept across his mind. There was one 
 virtue at least which he could put on. "You people, 
 the set you want me to join, the hunting set, the 
 country house set — all you wear — I don't mean you 
 particularly. God! If you were like that!" He was 
 too intent upon what he was saying to notice the smile 
 of ice that twisted her pretty lips. "All you wear is 
 the big, comprehensive cloak of respectability, and 
 sometimes you're not particular whether that's tied up 
 properly." 
 
 Dolly broke into low laughter. "If you'd come 
 down to Apsley," she said, "one week end, I'd get a 
 certain number of people down there, and when they 
 are all congregated in the drawing-room after dinner, 
 you could stand with your back to the fire, command 
 
SALLY BISHOP 191 
 
 the whole room and, at a signal from me, make that 
 speech. You'd be the lion of the evening," 
 
 "What does being the lion of the evening mean?" he 
 asked, with the ironical turn of the lip. "That your 
 bedroom door is liable to open, I suppose, and admit 
 whatever lady is most hampered in the way of debts." 
 
 "Jack !" She sat upright in the chair she had taken, 
 eyes well lit with a forced blaze, breath cunningly 
 driven through the nostrils. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "How dare you talk to me like that?" 
 
 "Don't know," he replied imperturbably. "It is dar- 
 ing, I suppose, seeing that I'm not one of you. You'd 
 listen to that on the hunting field from a man whom 
 you'd met once before. But it was daring of me; I'm 
 only your brother, and not in the crew at that." 
 
 Her eyes glittered more vividly, the breath came 
 quicker still. Then it all blew away like sea-froth, and 
 she shook with charming laughter. 
 
 "You talk like a Jesuit," she said. "Do you really 
 feel those things as keenly as that?" 
 
 "Me?" He laughed with her and went for his pipe. 
 "I don't feel them at all. What's there to feel about 
 in them? I only want to show you that I'm not totally 
 ignorant of what your set is like, the set you want me 
 to become a lion-of-the-evening in. Lion-of-the-even- 
 ing, beautiful lion, eh? Have a cigarette?" 
 
 "Thanks. Then why are you so hard on us?" 
 
 "Hard! I'm not hard." He lit a match for her, 
 watched by the light of it her lineless face, deftly 
 made up with its powder and its dust of rouge, the 
 eyebrows cunningly pencilled, the lashes touched with 
 black. None of it was obvious. It was only by the 
 match's glare, held close to her face, that he could see 
 
192 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 the art tHat, in any less vivid art illumination, con- 
 cealed the art. He smiled at it all, and her eyes, lift- 
 ing, as the cigarette glowed, found the smile and sen- 
 sitively questioned it. 
 
 "Why the smile?" she said quickly. 
 
 "Why? Oh, I don't know. A comparison. I sup- 
 pose you people reaUy are artists. Mind you, I don't 
 mean you. I'm not talking about you. If it were you 
 — ^well, I shouldn't talk about it." 
 
 For the first moment in all their conversation of that 
 evening, she looked ill-at-ease. A cloud passed over 
 the sun of her self-assurance. It seemed, on the in- 
 stant, to turn her eyes from blue to grey. 
 
 "What do you mean by — a comparison?" she in- 
 quired, "and saying we're artists? Artists at what? 
 I believe you like to talk in riddles. That's another 
 thing too that 'ud be in your favour. People 'ud think 
 you so awfully clever. But what do you mean by a 
 comparison?" 
 
 He blew through his pipe, set it burning comfort- 
 ably — ^took his favourite seat on the table with his legs 
 swinging like a schoolboy's. 
 
 "A comparison — ^I mean a comparison between the 
 women of your set, and the women who toil at the same 
 job in the streets of London." 
 
 "Yes, but you said that when you looked at me, when 
 you smiled while I was lighting the cigarette." The 
 words hurried out of her lips, dropping metallically, 
 with a hard sound on his ears. 
 
 "I know, but I told you I didn't refer to you. Good 
 God!" He gripped the table. "Do you think I could 
 think about you like that? Look here, it's no good 
 having this nonsense ; I won't say another word if you 
 think I am." 
 
SALLY BISHOP 193 
 
 "Very well ; all right. But tell me, at any rate, why 
 you said it when you looked at me." 
 
 "Because you're made-up — made-up to perfection. 
 I should never have seen it if I hadn't held the match 
 up to your face. And there's the difference — there's 
 the comparison. The women in your set are artists. 
 There's all the difference in a Sargent and a man with 
 half a dozen coloured chalks on the pavement, between 
 them and the women you'll find in Piccadilly at night. 
 But they're both workers in the same dignified pro- 
 fession. When you think of the way those poor 
 wretches shove on their rouge — ^a little silk bag turned 
 inside out with eider-down on it and rouge powder on 
 that, then the whole thing jammed on to the face be- 
 fore a mirror in one of Swan & Edgar's shop windows ; 
 any night you can see 'em doing it — and then look at 
 a society woman done up, with a maid in attendance 
 and a mirror lighted up, as if it were an actor's dress- 
 ing-table — ^my heavens, you're liable to make a com- 
 parison then." 
 
 Dolly shuddered at the picture. "I think you've got 
 a loathsome mind. Jack," she said with conviction. 
 
 "Of course you do, and you're quite right. It is a 
 loathsome idea to think that a man of the type of 
 Sargent is of the same noble profession as the pave- 
 ment artist. You can only disinfect its loathsomeness 
 in a degree by assuring people that they don't work 
 in the same street. But it always is loathsome in this 
 country to see facts as they really are, and when you 
 know of society women who send nude portraits of 
 themselves " 
 
 "Jack!" 
 
 " — ^Up to wealthy men whom they have not had the 
 pleasure of meeting, it's naturally a beastly conception. 
 
194 iSALLY BISHOP 
 
 of life to compare them with those unfortunate women 
 whose existence of course we all know about, but would 
 much rather not discuss. I really quite agree with you, 
 I have a loathsome mind." 
 
 Dolly rose with perfect dignity to her feet. "Do 
 you think you ought to talk about things like that to 
 me, Jack.'"' 
 
 "I don't know. I suppose it is questionable whether 
 one ought to treat one's sister as a simple innocent, or 
 talk to her as undoubtedly you do talk in society to 
 other men's wives and other men's daughters. I think 
 myself that it doesn't really matter. You're not think- 
 ing of the impropriety of it. That doesn't worry you 
 in the least. Many a man has talked to you sympa- 
 thetically on similar subjects before. You've listened 
 to them. The fault in me is the gentle vein of irony. 
 Irony's an insidious thing when you grind it out of 
 the truth. Sit down, Dolly ; I won't talk about it any 
 more. I'll pour the sweetest nothings you ever heard 
 into your ears. Come on — sit down. It's not much 
 after nine. I only wanted to show you why I don't 
 appreciate society. I wouldn't mind it, if it admitted 
 its vices and called them by their names ; I think I'd 
 permit myself to be dragged into it by a woman who 
 was clean right through ; but as it is, and as it describes 
 itself, I prefer the pavement artist with his little sack of 
 coloured chalks. There's not much reality, I admit, in 
 his portrait of Lord Roberts or his beautiful pink and 
 blue mackerel with its high light, that never shone on 
 land or sea, except on the scales of that fish ; there's not 
 much reality in them, when they're finished, but there's 
 a hell of a lot of it in the doing of them." 
 
 He sat and puffed at his pipe, while she remained 
 standing, looking down into the fire. 
 
SALLY BISHOP US 
 
 The silence was long, then it was broken abruptly. 
 A knock rattled gently on the door. It was soft, timid, 
 but it rushed violently through their silence. Traill 
 slid to his feet. His sister stood erect. Her eyes 
 fastened to his face, and she watched him calculating 
 the possibilities, as if he were counting them on his 
 fingers, of whom it might be. 
 
 Then it came again. 
 
 "Who do you think it is?" she whispered. She was 
 beginning already to shrink at the thought that some 
 woman had come to see him. He heard that in her 
 voice and casually smiled. 
 
 "It's all right," he said quietly. "I shan't let any 
 one in who'd offend your sense of propriety. However 
 I talk, we're related. Stay there." 
 
 She watched him cross to the door; turned, so that 
 she could still observe him and yet with one twist of the 
 head, if any one entered, seem to have been untouched 
 by any curiosity. 
 
 He opened the door. It cut off his face from view; 
 but she heard his sudden exclamation of surprise, and 
 allowed a thousand speculations to travel through her 
 brain. 
 
 "You!" he said. 
 
 "Yes," a woman's voice replied in a nervous under- 
 tone. "I came to see you, to see if you were in. I — I 
 wanted to see you." The words were stilted with nerv- 
 ous repetitions. 
 
 "Of course, of course; come in; let me introduce 
 you to my sister. Oh — ^you must — come in — please; 
 we've been dining together and came on here — for 
 coffee " 
 
 He threw the door wide open, and Sally walked ap- 
 prehensively into the room. 
 
CHAPTER XXI ' 
 
 SuPEEFiciALiiY, training is everything. THe heaven- 
 born genius comes once In a century of decades to re- 
 mind us, as It were, that there is such a thing as crea- 
 tion; but beyond the heaven-born genius, training, on 
 a day of superficialities, must win. 
 
 This moment, when Sally stood but a few paces 
 within TralU's room, and looked — ^half-appealing, half- 
 guardedly — at Mrs. Durlacher, the perfect woman of 
 society — perfectly robed, perfectly mannered, perfectly 
 painted, was a moment as superficial as one, so charged 
 with possibilities, could be. And through that mo- 
 ment, over It, almost as If It were an occurrence of her 
 daily life, Mrs. Durlacher rode as a swallow rides on 
 an upland wind — ^pinions stretched stra,Ightly out — 
 the consummate absence of effort; all the training of 
 numberless years and numberless birds of the air in Its 
 wings. 
 
 "Dolly — this Is Miss Bishop — ^my sister, Mrs. Dur- 
 lacher." Traill stamped through the ceremony, like a 
 man through a ploughed field. 
 
 In the minute fraction of time that followed — so 
 short that no one In reason could call It a pause — Mrs. 
 Durlacher had moulded a swift Impression of Sally. 
 Two facts — guide-ropes across a swinging bridge — she 
 held to for support In her sudden calculation. Firstly, 
 Sally's appearance — the quiet, Inexpensive display of a 
 gentle taste. The blouse, showing through the little 
 short-walsted coat — ^home-made — that, seen at a glance. 
 
SALLY BISHOP 197 
 
 The hat, with its quite artistic and unobtrusive colours 
 — self-trimmed — ^the frame-work a year behind the 
 fashion. The gloves, no holes in them, but well-worn. 
 The skirt — ^not badly cut, but obviously a cheap ma- 
 terial. The person, herself — ^more than probably a 
 milliner's assistant. Secondly, the fact that she was 
 in her brother's rooms. She knew Jack's dealings 
 with women — did not even close her eyes to them — ad- 
 mitted them to be human and natural so long as he 
 refrained from tying himself up with any one of them 
 and thereby irretrievably separating himself from her 
 and her set. With these two facts, then, she made her 
 ultimate deduction of Sally's identity — a milliner's as- 
 sistant, with a pardonable freedom of thought in the 
 matter of propriety — and on that deduction, she 
 acted accordingly. Ah, but it was acting that was 
 finished and superb! 
 
 Her manner was gracious — she was compelled to ac- 
 cept her brother at his word, that he would let no one 
 in who could offend her sense of propriety — yet it was 
 graciousness which you saw through a polished glass, 
 but could not touch. When Sally half-ventured for- 
 ward with hand tentatively lifting, she bowed first — ■ 
 made it plain to Sally that in such a manner intro- 
 ductions were taken — then generously offered her hand, 
 palpably to ease Sally's confusion. 
 
 Dressed as she was, looking as she did, in compari- 
 son with Sally, she held aU the weapons. She could 
 play them, wield them, just as she wished. Well- 
 frocked, looking her best, a woman is a dangerous 
 animal; but throw her in contact with another of her 
 sex who is but poorly clad, socially beneath her, and 
 in training her inferior, and you may behold all the 
 grace, all the symmetry of the cobra as it unwinds its 
 
198 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 beautiful, sinuous body before the eyes of its panic- 
 stricken prey. 
 
 The fact that her brother had admitted Sally to the 
 room, made Mrs. Durlacher realize that he held her in 
 especial regard. Notwithstanding that Miss Bishop 
 called upon him at his own rooms at half-past nine at 
 night, when all young ladies who valued their reputa- 
 tions would be either playing incompetent bridge in 
 the suburban home, or going respectably with rela- 
 jtions to a harmless piece at the theatre, she took the 
 other fact well into consideration — gave it full weight 
 — and all in that brief moment of a pause, realized 
 that as yet there was no intimacy between these two. 
 
 She did not look upon women as a class — ^the class 
 he mixed with — as dangerous to her brother's ultimate 
 salvation; but coming across the individual in Sally, 
 quiet, unobtrusive — the type that valued its own pos- 
 sessions, and would certainly expect substantial settle- 
 ment, if not marriage itself — she felt called into action 
 and answered the call, as only such women with her 
 training know how. 
 
 When she had shaken hands, she leant back again 
 with one graceful elbow, bared, upon the mantelpiece 
 — the pose of absolute ease. Sally, who, except for 
 the students' balls, to which Janet had sometimes taken 
 her, had not been in the presence of people in evening 
 dress since she left home, stood, hiding her nervous- 
 ness, but not hiding the fact that it was concealed. 
 Traill's heart warmed to her. He knew his sister 
 through and through — guessed every thought that was 
 taking shape in her mind. But Sally — even her pres- 
 ence there alone — was more or less of an enigma and, 
 seeing her almost pathetic perturbation of manner, h^ 
 jiaid alj tji§ attentipsg J)§ rougliJy knew to her, 
 
SALLY BISHOP 199 
 
 "Here — you must sit down," he said easily. "We're 
 not going to let you rush away before you've come." 
 
 For that plural of the pronoun, Sally thanked him 
 generously in her heart; for that also, Mrs. Durlacher 
 smiled inwardly and saw visions of the power by which 
 Jack would eventually win his way. 
 
 "Will you have some coffee?" he added, when she 
 had accepted the chair he proffered. "We've just had 
 some. Good — ^wasn't it, Dolly?" 
 
 "Excellent." 
 
 "Will you have some?" he repeated. 
 
 "No, thank you — well — ^yes, — ^yes, I think I will." 
 
 Even to take coffee is action — action that it is an 
 aid to conceal. 
 
 "Some milk?" 
 
 "No, thank you — ^black, please." 
 
 She trusted that he would not remember that she 
 had taken it with milk before. She always did take it 
 with milk, but the eyes of that woman by the mantel-* 
 piece were on her, and she knew well enough how coffee 
 ought to be taken. 
 
 AU that Traill had told her of his sister, was racing 
 wildly through her thoughts. She knew she was being 
 criticized, knew that her position there was being 
 looked upon in the least charitable light of all. She 
 should never have come into the room. The fact that 
 her voice had been heard, would have made no differ- 
 ence. But who thinks of such things when the mo- 
 ment is a goad, pricking mercilessly? Now she was 
 there, her position could scarcely be worse. She would 
 have given her life almost, in those first few moments, 
 to sink into obscurity, no matter what peals of ironical 
 laughter might ring in her ears as she vanished. But 
 the thing was done now, and for every little attention 
 
200 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 he paid her, she thanked Traill with a full heart. 
 
 "What on earth have you got in that parcel?" he 
 asked her, as he crushed down the saucepan of cofiFee 
 to heat upon the fire. 
 
 Her cheeks reddened — ^flamed. It felt to her as if 
 the eyes of his sister were lenses concentrating a burn- 
 ing sun upon her face. 
 
 "Oh, it's nothing," she said, mastering confusion; 
 "only something that I was taking home." 
 
 His eyes questioned her, noting the flaming cheeks 
 while his sister studied the muscular development and 
 forbidding features of James Brownrigg — ^heavy- 
 weight champion in the fifties, whose portrait hung 
 over the mantelpiece. 
 
 "Isn't this the type of man you'd call a bruiser?" 
 she asked, with a pretty trace of doubtful confidence 
 in her technical knowledge on the last word. 
 
 "That chap — ^Brownrigg? No. I should call him 
 a gentleman. I'd have given a good deal to see him 
 fight. He always allowed his man to have his chance, 
 though there wasn't one in England he couldn't have 
 knocked out in the first round. He used to keep that 
 glorious left of his tucked up, as quiet as a pet spaniel 
 under a lady's arm, till he'd given his man time to 
 show what he was worth. Then he'd shake his shoul- 
 ders, grin a bit with that ugly mouth — ^never with his 
 eyes — and plant his blow, the kick of a mule, and his 
 man curled up like a caterpillar on a hot brick. That 
 stroke got to be known as James Brownrigg's Wait- 
 ing Left. I've met him. He kept a public house up 
 in Islington. Died about four years ago, with both 
 fists clenched and his left still waiting. It's quite pos- 
 sible he kept it waiting till he got to the gates of 
 heaven." 
 
SALLY BISHOP 201 
 
 Mrs. Durlacher looked up at the portrait again and 
 then half -shuddered her graceful shoulders. 
 
 "I suppose a man can be a gentleman and look like 
 that," she said. "But some one ought to have told 
 him to grow his hair a little longer. As it is, it has a 
 fatal suggestion of three years' imprisonment for as- 
 sault and battery." 
 
 "Or the army," suggested Traill, with a laugh. 
 
 She took that well and laughed with him. "Yes, 
 quite so; or the army; but they don't look so much 
 like convicts as they used to. What do you think, Miss 
 Bishop.'* Would you say, to look at him, that James 
 Brownrigg was a gentleman?" 
 
 This, in a period of ten minutes, was the first remark 
 that she had addressed to Sally. Coming, as it did, 
 after that space of time, pitched on the casual note, the 
 eyebrows gently hf ted, there was a whip in it that stung 
 across Sally's sensitive cheeks. The words in them- 
 selves, of course, were nothing. Traill, in fact, 
 thought that this icicle of a sister of his was begin- 
 ning to thaw, and looked towards Sally for her answer 
 in encouraging expectancy. 
 
 Sally rose to her feet and crossed to the mantelpiece. 
 The spirit in her prompted her to considered lethargy, 
 as though the remark were as inconsequent to her as it 
 had been to the maker ; but the gentleness of her nature 
 made it impossible for her to give insult for insult. 
 Her steps were not slow — they were almost eager — 
 and her lips smiled. She gave the very impression that 
 she would have died rather than create — ^the apparent 
 sense of pleasure which she felt in being addressed at 
 all. 
 
 For a moment she stood looking into the impassive, 
 brutal face of James Brownrigg. Her expression was 
 
202 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 one of studiousness and consideration; jet the face of 
 James Brownrigg was completely blurred in her vision. 
 She had to force her eyes to see, and spur her mind to 
 think. Then she turned, facing Mrs. Durlacher. 
 
 "I think if you're going to judge everybody by 
 their outward appearance," she said, "you certainly 
 might feel inclined to say that he wasn't a gentleman. 
 But outward appearances always seem to me so ter- 
 ribly deceptive. I should never let myself be led away 
 by them." 
 
 This was a declaration! Even Sally, in her own 
 gentle way, could declare war. The perfect curve of 
 her upper lip grew thin as she said it, like a bow that 
 straightens itself after the arrow has sped. Traill 
 cast a swift glance at her, comprehending that there 
 lay some meaning behind her words, yet knowing noth- 
 ing of the duel that was being fought luider his very 
 eyes. 
 
 Mrs. Durlacher smiled. She took the thrust as 
 gracefully as she had given her own. 
 
 To the trained hand and to the practised eyes, these 
 things can not only be done with dexterity, they can 
 be done with ease and with style. There are many 
 who imagine that the days of romance are over be- 
 cause gentlemen do no longer saunter through the 
 salons of the rich with pointed rapiers tapping at 
 their heels. But romance did not go out with the duel. 
 The duel itself has never gone out. Words, looks — 
 these are the weapons of romance now. They are 
 sheathed in their scabbards of velvet politesse, but just 
 as easy of drawing, just as light to flash out and 
 tingle in the air as ever were the dainty little Toledo 
 blades of some odd two hundred years ago. 
 
 "Jack," said Mrs. Durlacher, "you've introduced 
 
SALLY BISHOP, 203 
 
 me to a diplomatist. She says what she means with- 
 out telling you what she says." 
 
 Traill thought that it all alluded to the portrait of 
 James Brownrigg — imagined that Sally agreed with 
 him, yet did not like to contradict his sister, and he 
 laughed with amusement at the smartness of her re- 
 tort. But Sally returned to her seat, conscious that 
 she had made an enemy. She could think of no reply 
 that had not a lash of bitterness in it and, clinging 
 to the dignity of silence, rather than the vigour of 
 attack, she said nothing. 
 
 When Traill had handed her her coffee, his sister 
 moved slowly across the room to the settle where her 
 fur coat, scarf and gloves were lying. 
 
 "You're not going?" he asked, looking up. 
 
 "Yes, I must, my dear boy. It's getting on for ten. 
 Harold's got some people coming in after the theatre, 
 and I believe we've got a supper. Do you think you 
 could get me a taxi.*"' 
 
 "There's not a stand here. But you can get any 
 amount of hansoms." 
 
 "Yes, but I want to get home. You're sure to find 
 heaps of empty ones in Piccadilly Circus just at this 
 time. Run and see — do. I'll be putting on my coat." 
 
 Traill went — obedient. They heard him taking the 
 stairs two at a time in the darkness. Then the door 
 slammed. 
 
 "One of these days he'll break his neck down those 
 stairs," said Mrs. Durlacher. "Do you live in Town, 
 Miss Bishop?" 
 
 She ran one sentence into the other inconsequently, 
 as if they had connection. 
 
 "Well— not exactly," said Sally. "I live in Kew." 
 
 "Oh ^es — ^Kew — it's a very prettj[ place. There are 
 
204 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 some delightful old houses on the Green — ^the gardens 
 side — I believe they're King's property, aren't they?" 
 
 "I know the ones you mean," said Sally; "they are 
 very nice, but I don't live there." She added that with 
 a smile — a generous admission that she made no pre- 
 tension to what she was not. Upon Mrs. Durlacher it 
 was wasted, as was all generosity. She had not the 
 quality herself; understood it as little as she pos- 
 sessed it. 
 
 "Oh, I wasn't supposing that," she replied easily. 
 "I was thinking that that was the only part of Kew I 
 had noticed. I think I've only been there once or twice 
 at the most. Have you known my brother long?" 
 
 Sally's fingers gripped tight about her little parcel. 
 "Oh no, not so very long." 
 
 "He's a quaint, int'resting sort of person. Don't 
 you find him so P" 
 
 To Sally, this description sounded ludicrous. The 
 fashionable way of putting things was utterly un- 
 known to her. To think of Traill as quaint, in the 
 sense of the word as she understood it, seemed pre- 
 posterous. She could not realize that the Society idea 
 of quaintness is anything which does not passably imi- 
 tate or become one of itself. 
 
 "Interesting — ^yes, I certainly think he is. This 
 room alone would show that, wouldn't it?" 
 
 "Oh, well, I don't know so much about that. He'd 
 have this sort of room anywhere, wherever he lived. 
 It's the fact that he chooses to live here and slave and 
 work that I think's uncommon — so quaint. But he'U 
 give it up — he's bound to give it up after a time. You 
 can't wash out what's in the blood. Do you think you 
 can? He'll drop the bohemian one day — it's merely a 
 phase. I'm only just waiting, you know, to give the 
 
SALLY BISHOP m& 
 
 dinner on his coming out." She drew on her long 
 gloves and smiled in her anticipation of the event. 
 
 None of the value of this did Sally lose — ^none of 
 the intent that lay behind it. She perfectly realized 
 that it was meant to convey a candid warning to her; 
 that if she had pretensions, she might as well light 
 their funeral pyre immediately, bum aU her hopes and 
 ambitions, a sacrifice before the altar of renunciation. 
 But ambitions, she had none. With her nature, she 
 would willingly have consented to their burning at 
 such a command as this. What hopes she possessed, 
 certainly, were shattered; but the flame of her passion, 
 that was only kindled the more. Now that she realized 
 how utterly he was beyond her reach, how immeasur- 
 ably he was above her, she made silent concessions to 
 the crying demands of her heart which she would not 
 have dreamed of admitting to herself before. 
 
 Irretrievably he was gone now. All Janet had said, 
 strong in truth as it may have seemed at the time, had 
 only been based upon her extraordinary view of life in 
 general. Some cases, perhaps, it might have applied 
 to ; it did not apply to this. Janet was utterly wrong ; 
 she was not winning him. In this chance meeting with 
 his sister, brief though it may have been, she knew that 
 she had lost him; arriving at which conclusion, she 
 probably reached the most dangerous phase in the 
 whole existence of a woman's temptations. 
 
 When Traill returned, he found them both in prepa- 
 ration for departure. Sally had replaced the little 
 feather boa about her neck and one of her gloves, 
 which she had taken off when he gave her the coffee, 
 she was buttoning at the wrist. 
 
 "You're not going, are you?" he exclaimed. 
 
 "Yes ; I must." 
 
SOe SALLY BISHOP. 
 
 "But you haven't told me what you wanted to see 
 me about yet." 
 
 "No, I know I haven't; but that must wait. I can 
 easily write to you." 
 
 Mrs. Durlacher picked up her skirts, the silk rust- 
 ling like leaves in an autumn wind. As she lowered 
 her head in the movement, the dilation of her nostrils 
 repressed a smile of satisfaction. "You mustn't let 
 my going force you away," she said graciously. 
 
 "Oh, but I must go," said Sally. 
 
 Traill shrugged his shoulders. Let her have her way. 
 When women are doing things for apparently no rea- 
 son, they are the most obstinate. But at the door of 
 the room as his sister passed out first, he caught Sally's 
 elbow in a tense grip and for the instant held her back. 
 
 "I shall wait here for you for half an hour," he 
 whispered. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 "Is there anywhere that I can take you, Miss 
 Bishop?" Mrs. Durlacher offered, as they stood by the 
 side of the shivering taxi. "I'm going out to Sloane 
 Street." 
 
 "Oh no, thank you; it's very good of you. I'm 
 going to catch a train at Waterloo." She shook 
 hands, then held out her hand quietly to Traill. 
 
 "Good-bye, Mr. Traill." 
 
 He took her hand and held it with meaning. "Good- 
 bye." 
 
 She turned away and walked down Waterloo Place, 
 her head erect, her steps firm, but the tears rolling 
 from her eyes, and her breast lifting with every sob 
 that she stifled in her throat. 
 
 Mrs. Durlacher looked after her; then her eyes 
 swept up to her brother's face. 
 
 "Is she going to walk all the way to Waterloo Sta- 
 tion.'"' she asked incredulously. 
 
 "Expect so." 
 
 Mrs. Durlacher looked above her in a perfect simu- 
 lation of amazement. Then she stepped into the cab. 
 
 "Jack," she said, when she was seated. 
 
 "What.?" 
 
 She prefaced her words with a little laugh. "I 
 wouldn't be a little milliner at your mercy for all I 
 could see." 
 
 Traill snorted contemptuously. "She's not a little 
 milliner," he said, cutting each word clean with irony. 
 
208 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 "Neither in your sense, nor in reality. Fortune has 
 cursed her with being a lady and withheld the neces- 
 sary increment that would make such things obvious 
 to you. Good night." 
 
 He stood away, and told the chauffeur the address 
 in Sloane Street. They did not look at each other 
 again, and the little vehicle pulled away from the kerb- 
 stone without the final nod of the head or shaking of 
 the hand which usually terminated their meetings. 
 
 The last sight she had of him, was as he stood look- 
 ing down Waterloo Place, his eyes picking out the 
 people one by one, as the miner sifts the dross from 
 the dust of gold. Then she leant back in the cab and 
 a low, sententious laugh lazily parted her lips. 
 
 For a moment. Trail stood there; but Sally was out 
 of sight. It crossed his mind to run down into Pall 
 Mall- — coatless, hatless, as he was — ^in the hope of 
 finding her; but an inner consciousness convinced him 
 that she would return, and he walked back into the 
 house, upstairs to his room to wait for her. 
 
 When the mind has been made up to a critical sac- 
 rifice, it hates to be thwarted. The more difficult the 
 sacrifice may be, the more the mind is revolted by the 
 hampering of circumstances. Having brought herself 
 through a thousand temptings to the determination 
 that she must not keep the bangle which Traill had 
 given her, Sally felt incensed with circumstances, in- 
 censed with everything, that she had been hindered in 
 the carrying out of her design. All that Janet had 
 said about her ultimate going back to him, she had 
 wiped out with a rough and unrelenting hand during 
 that hour when she had been in his sister's presence. 
 But the sting of the other remained, while she firmly 
 believed that her desire to see him once more, herself <xa 
 
SALLY BISHOP 209 
 
 the frail attitude of hope, had vanished — was dead, 
 buried, almost forgotten. 
 
 The working of the mind is so like that of the body, 
 that comparisons can be drawn at every point. When 
 the body needs nourishment, or exercise, or rest, and is 
 denied all of these things, it circumvents its own master 
 and steals its needs with cunning. So is it precisely 
 with the mind. When the mind craves a certain ex- 
 pression of itself, needs a certain relief, and is denied 
 its craving, then it, too, circumvents its own master, 
 and, by the crafty displacement of ideas, hoodwink- 
 ing the very power that governs it, it attains its end. 
 
 SaUy, yearning in her heart for one more sight of 
 Traill, the putting to the touch of her last hope, and 
 then crushing out the desire into an apparent oblivion, 
 was trapped, deceived, outwitted by such subtle sug- 
 gestions as that she had been thwarted in her determi- 
 nation of Sacrifice. 
 
 At the bottom of Waterloo Place, she hesitated. He 
 had said he would wait half an hour. She would be 
 back almost immediately if she returned at once. Her 
 steps took her onwards down Pall Mall, but they were 
 slower and more measured than before. At the Carl- 
 ton Restaurant, she stopped again. She wanted to 
 give him back the bangle herself; to tell him herself 
 how utterly she knew it was at an end. She could 
 write, certainly; she could send the little box by post. 
 She had said she would. But a romance, the only ro- 
 mance she had ever had in her life, to end through the 
 tepid medium of the post — the letter dropped in 
 through the black and gaping slit — ^just the one mo- 
 ment's thrill that now he must get it! Then, nothing; 
 then, emptiness and the end. She wanted more than 
 that. She would cry, perhaps, break down when she 
 
210 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 saw him put it aside where she could never touch it 
 again. But what were tears? They were better than 
 nothing; better than the hollowness of such an end as 
 the writing of a letter would bring. 
 
 With half-formed decision, she turned up Hay- 
 market instead of crossing towards Trafalgar Square 
 and so, slowly, by indecisive steps, she found herself, 
 some ten minutes later, once more knocking gently upon 
 Traill's door. 
 
 The sound from Within as he jumped to his feet, set 
 her heart beating through the blood, and though she 
 steadied herself, her lips were trembling as he opened 
 and made way for her to enter. 
 
 She walked straight into the room, did not turn until 
 she heard him close the door ; even then, she refused to 
 let her eyes meet his in a direct gaze. This was not 
 easy for, having once shut the door, he stood with his 
 back to it, looking intently at her as if, securing her 
 at last, he would not willingly let her free. 
 
 "What made you come?" he asked slowly — ^"and, 
 having come — then, why on earth did you go 
 away? In the last few minutes before you arrived, I 
 almost began to think that you weren't coming back 
 again." 
 
 She tried to hide her nervousness by taking off her 
 gloves, but her fingers fumbled at the buttons, and in 
 her awkwardness the seam of one of the jBngers slit 
 from top to bottom. She looked at it ruefully; was 
 about to make use of the incident to lessen the tension 
 of the moment when he came across to her. Standing 
 in front of her, he looked down at the broken glove, 
 and her white skin laid bare by the rent stitching. 
 
 "You'U let me get you a new pair," he said under his 
 breath. In that instant he wanted to give her the 
 
SALLY BISHOP 211 
 
 world. The proiFer of the gloves tried to express the 
 sensation. 
 
 She looked up into his face with a very small smile — 
 half refusal, half gratitude. When her eyes met his, 
 she realized that her senses were swimming. She was 
 standing on a giddy height, to throw herself from 
 which, became an almost imperative inclination. She 
 felt that she was losing her balance and in another mo- 
 ment would be pitching forward into his arms. She 
 wanted to tell him to kiss her, and words of violent 
 strength, which she had never dreamed of before, 
 shouted suggestions through her — even to her lips. He 
 seemed to be waiting for her to do all this, but made 
 no move to accelerate it; then she swung backwards — 
 turned blindly to the table, laying down her gloves and 
 the little brown-paper parcel. 
 
 "You're going to take off your hat now," he said; 
 "this room's too hot for accessories." 
 
 She showed hesitation, was about to refuse, when he 
 made it plain to her that he would not have it otherwise. 
 
 "I've taken it off before, you know," he said with a 
 smile. "I'm by no means a novice at the art. You 
 can't call me an amateur." 
 
 "When ?" she began; "oh, of course, I remem- 
 ber." 
 
 She did not consider her refusal now; she obeyed. 
 He took the hat from her and her feather boa. Then 
 he insisted on the removal of the little short-waisted 
 coat. She demurred again, and again was obedient. 
 He laid them all down on the settle, then sat for a mo- 
 ment and watched her while she poked her fingers into 
 her hair and pulled it lightly out wheye the hat had 
 rested. 
 
 "Now you look as if you'd come to see me," he said. 
 
812 SALLY bishop; 
 
 "What did I look like before?" 
 
 "I don't know. As if you had been and were going 
 away. But what did you come for? What have you 
 got to tell me? I assure ^ou, when I opened that door 
 and found you standing there " 
 
 "Yes, I'm sure you must have been surprised," she 
 joined in. 
 
 "I was — considerably. What do you think of 
 Dofly?" 
 
 "Your sister?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I know she doesn't like me," she answered evasively. 
 
 "What makes you think that? I don't think you're 
 correct. She hasn't got you right — ^that's alL" 
 
 "No, she hasn't got me right. I know she thought I 
 was quite a different person to what I really am." 
 
 "But how do you know that? She didn't tell you 
 so when I'd gone out to get that taxi, did she? What 
 did she say to you then?" 
 
 "Oh no, she didn't tell me what she thought. Under 
 the circtunstances, I'm sure she really treated me very 
 weU," 
 
 "I don't know about that," said Traill. "You must 
 admit she was a bit icy at first. That's her social way 
 — ^the way of the whole set when they meet strangers. 
 One ought to bring a blast furnace when one goes call- 
 ing at their houses, instead of a visiting card. My 
 God, I've been to them myself, and I'd sooner under- 
 take a job as look-out on a ship bound for the north 
 pole. They'd freeze the very marrow in your bones." 
 
 Sally smiled — ^pleased — at his violent antipathy. 
 "Don't you think you'll ever become one of them, 
 then?" she asked. "I expect you will." 
 
 "No, not in fifty lifetimes. Did she say I would?" 
 
SALLY BISHOP 213 
 
 ''She said she expected it." 
 
 "Did she? Well, I wouldn't give a brass farthing 
 for her expectations. Just like her to say that. I 
 wonder what her game was. I wonder did she think 
 you could persuade me to it." 
 
 He looked up at her; but Sally said nothing. She 
 could have told him — told him to the letter what he 
 wanted to know — ^but she said nothing. Then he asked 
 her again why she had come that evening to see him. 
 
 "Is it anything to do with that parcel?" he asked 
 suspiciously. 
 
 Her eyes turned to the little box in its wrapping of 
 brown paper. She reached out her hand and took it 
 from the table. 
 
 "Yes," she replied. 
 
 "Oh, the bracelet?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Her fingers attacked the knots on the string with 
 half-hearted enthusiasm. 
 
 "Doesn't it fit?" he questioned* 
 
 "Oh yes ; it isn't that." 
 
 "Then what is it? You don't like it? Here—" he 
 was growing impatient of her fingers' futile attempts; 
 "cut the string. You'U never untie those knots. 
 Here's a knife." He handed her one from his pocket. 
 "You don't like it, eh?" he repeated. 
 
 She looked straightly at him, eyes unmoved by the 
 steady gaze in his. 
 
 "Do you really think that?" she asked. "That I'm 
 bringing it back because I don't like it?" 
 
 "I don't know, I'm sure. But if not that, then 
 why?" 
 
 There was irritation in his voice; he made little at- 
 tempt to conceal it. It was his imagination that he 
 
214 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 had come to dealings with the type of feather-brained 
 woman who knows least of all what she wants when she 
 gets it. It may be seen from this that his knowledge 
 of Sally was supremely slight. He had a broad judg- 
 ment for all women, a pigeon-hole in his mind into 
 which he threw them without discrimination. When, 
 therefore, he came across the exception in Sally, he did 
 not recognize her, flung her in with the rest, folded 
 more carefully perhaps, tied even with a little distin- 
 guishing piece of ribbon. But into that same recep- 
 tacle in his mind she went, nevertheless. Yet Traill 
 was not without shrewdness in his wide judgment of 
 the sex. He could read his sister as you read a book 
 in which the pages only need cutting, and the glossary 
 sometimes referred to. 
 
 On this evening, certainly, he had failed to see the 
 point towards which she drove; but in her dealings 
 with another of her sex, a woman is most inexplicable 
 of all to a man. For this edition de luxe, he needs ref- 
 erence, dictionary, and magnifying glass, with a steady 
 finger always to keep his place on the line should his 
 eyes for one moment lift or wander from the print. 
 
 Sally, as yet, he had classified broadly. In the very 
 next moment he was to learn more of her, to take her 
 down from that indiscriminating file in his mind, and 
 scrutinize her afresh. 
 
 She took the bangle out of its velvet case and clasped 
 it — with pride even then — upon her wrist. 
 
 "You see it fits — ^perfectly," she said, looking up 
 pathetically. 
 
 "Then — Good Lord! why do you bring it back.?" 
 
 She unclasped it, letting it lie in the palm of her 
 hand, half stretched out towards him. 
 
 "Because I mustn't accegt it — I can't, Ifj after the 
 
SALLY BISHOP 215 
 
 last time I was here, when you said good-bye, you'd 
 said to me you were going to buy it, I should have told 
 you that I would not take it." 
 
 He paid no attention to her outstretched hand. At 
 her eyes he looked. 
 
 "Why not? Why particularly after I'd said good- 
 bye?" 
 
 "Because you have no right to give it to me, and I 
 have less right to accept it." 
 
 He half-laughed. "Isn't that rather childish?" 
 
 "I don't think so." 
 
 "But do you like it? Isn't it a sort of thing you'd 
 like?" 
 
 "A sort of thing? I think it's beautiful. I've never 
 had a present hke it in my life — ^never had anything 
 that was so valuable." 
 
 "And you're going to refuse it?" 
 
 "I must." 
 
 He still made no oflFer to take it from her, but looked 
 persistently at her eyes. 
 
 "If I asked you quite straight," he said, "would you 
 teU me quite straight — ^why ?" 
 
 Now it must be the truth or the lie. No silence, no 
 half-measures could answer here. She knew that he 
 was at the very door of her heart, when it must either 
 be slammed, bolted, locked in his face with a lie or 
 flung, with the truth, wide open for him to enter if 
 he chose. 
 
 She hesitated, it is true; but it was not the hesita- 
 tion of indecision. When, only a few moments before, 
 her senses have been giddily balancing upon a precipice, 
 saved from the hopeless downfall only because the man 
 put out no hand to pull her over, a woman is not likely 
 to delay in doubt when at last he offers his hands, his 
 
2lfi SALLY BISHOP 
 
 eyes and his voice to drag her into the ultimate abyss 
 of ecstasy. 
 
 Sally delayed, only with the natural instinct of re- 
 serve. Eventually, she knew she must tell him; if not 
 in words, then by actions, looks — even by silence itself. 
 
 "I never thought you meant that bet," she began in 
 timid procrastination. 
 
 "No — ^probably you didn't — ^but I did. And that's 
 not the reason why you're returning it now. Suppos- 
 ing we sponge out the debt and I tell you to look upon 
 it as a gift — ^would you keep it then?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Well — it's the wherefore of that I want to know. 
 Why wouldn't you?" 
 
 "Because you have no right, no cause, to make me 
 presents. You practically told me so yourself — ^you 
 said good-bye." 
 
 "But don't you take all you can get?" he asked, al- 
 most with brutality. So the passion was stirring in 
 him. All that came to his lips found utterance. 
 
 At any time, she would have resented that. Now she 
 knew instinctively what the brutality in it expressed. 
 
 "No," she replied under her breath — ^"you might 
 know I don't." 
 
 "And so you're returning this because I said good- 
 bye — ^you're returning this because I said I was not the 
 type of man who hugs the idea of matrimony. How 
 could you take a gift from such a man — eh? I sup- 
 pose to you it savours almost of an insult. Yet, have 
 you any conception what your returning it seems to 
 me?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "It hurts. Do you think you'd feel inclined to be- 
 lieve that? You'd scarcely think I was capable of a 
 
SALLY BISHOP 217 
 
 ■wound to sentiment, would you? I am in this case. I 
 gave you that, because I couldn't give you other things. 
 That bangle was a sort of consolation to my thwarted 
 wish to give. I'm quite aware that a woman gives most 
 in a bargain ; but a man likes to do a little bit of it as 
 well. Half the jewellers' shops in London 'ud have to 
 close if he didn't. Some of 'em 'ud keep open I know 
 for the women who are bought and prefer the bargain 
 to be settled in kind rather than in cash. And jewel- 
 lery pretty nearly always realizes its own value. But 
 this was a gift — a substitute for other things that I 
 would rather have given you." 
 
 He paused and looked steadily at her, her head droop- 
 ing, her fingers idly, nervously bending the woven gold. 
 
 "Have you any idea what those other things were?" 
 he asked suddenly. 
 
 "No," she said — ^but she did not offer her eyes to 
 convince him of her reply. 
 
 "They were the alteration of all your circumstances. 
 The smashing of the chains that gyve you to that 
 damned treadmill of a typewriter — the unlocking of the 
 door that keeps you mewed-up in that little lodging- 
 house in Kew — rubbing shoulders with bank-clerks, 
 being compelled to listen to their proposals of sub- 
 urban marriage, with the prospect of feeding your hus- 
 band as the stable-boy feeds the horse when it comes 
 back to the manger. Those were the things I wanted 
 to free you from, and in their place, give you every- 
 thing you could ask, so far as my limited income per- 
 mits. I only wanted to give you the things you ought 
 to have — the things you should have by right — ^the 
 things you were born to. Your father was a clergy- 
 man — a rector. Why, down at Apsley, the rector 
 comes and dines — for the sake of God — and respect- 
 
S18 SALLY BlSttOP 
 
 ability — and brings his daughters, dressed in their 
 Sunday best — ^with low-necked frocks that make no 
 pretence to be puritanical. And you slave, day after 
 day, because your father, through no fault of yours, 
 happened to come down in the world, while they sit in 
 a comfortable rectory accepting the invitations of the 
 county. I wanted to give you things that 'ud make 
 your life brighter — wanted to give them — ^would have 
 found intense pleasure in seeing you take them from 
 me." 
 
 Sally rose with a choking of breath to her feet. She 
 could bear the strain no longer. It was like an inces- 
 sant hammer beating upon her strength, shattering her 
 resolve, until only the desire and the sense were left. 
 She crossed with unsteady steps to the mantelpiece. 
 He rose as well, and followed her. 
 
 "Oh — don't!" she moaned. But he took no notice. 
 The impetus he had gained, carried him on. She could 
 not stop him now. 
 
 "They were not much, certainly," he went on; "not 
 much compared with what I wanted in return. What 
 I wanted in return, was what no gentleman has the 
 right to expect from any woman who is straight unless 
 she willingly offers it — and you had called me a gentle- 
 man. Do you remember that? I don't suppose you 
 really knew when you said it, how much you were sav- 
 ing yourself from me. I wouldn't suggest that credit 
 were due to me for a moment — it isn't. It was just the 
 same as telling a man to do a brave act, when only the 
 doing of it could save his life. I did it because I had 
 to. To be a gentleman is often one chance in a lifetime, 
 and the man who doesn't take it is not fit for hanging. 
 Birth has nothing to do with it. You offered me my 
 chance — I took it — that's all. But now you want to 
 
SALLY BISHOP 219 
 
 deprive me of my one consolation. You want to refuse 
 that bangle. I refuse to take it back." 
 
 Sally turned and faced him. Her lips were set — ^her 
 eyes had strange lights in them. She looked — as she 
 felt — upon the scaffold of indecision, with the noose of 
 fate about her neck. 
 
 "Oh, it is so hard! Why is it so hard?" she wWs- 
 pered. 
 
 "Why is what so hard?" 
 
 "This— all this." 
 
 He laughed ironically. Either he would not see, or 
 he could not see. Men may not be so dense as they ap- 
 pear. Sometimes it is a subconscious cunning that aids 
 them in forcing half the initiative into the hands of the 
 woman. 
 
 "Surely, it cannot be so difficult a job to just snap 
 the catch of that bracelet on your wrist, and forget all 
 about whether I ought to have given it you or not." 
 
 "Oh, I don't mean that," she exclaimed, "you must 
 know I don't mean that." 
 
 "Then what?" His whole manner changed. Now 
 she had told him definitely. Now he knew without a 
 shadow of doubt. She cared. It was even swaying in 
 her mind whether she could bear to lose him, notwith- 
 standing all he had said. It did not seem to him that 
 he had worked her up to it. In that moment, he ex- 
 onerated himself of all blame. He had danced gentle- 
 man to the clapping of her hands and the stamping of 
 her foot ; and if it came to this, that she cared for him 
 more than convention, more than any principle, then it 
 was not in his nature to force a part upon himself and 
 play it, night after night, to an empty gallery. His 
 hands caught her shoulders, the fingers gripping with 
 passion to her flesh. "Then what?" he repeated. "Do 
 
220 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 you mean you care for me? Do you mean that it's so 
 hard to go — hard to say good-bye because of that? Is 
 that what you mean?" 
 
 She could not answer yet. Even then the rope was 
 not drawn and she could still faintly feel the scaffold 
 boards beneath her feet. 
 
 "If I've made a rotten mistake," he went on, content 
 on the moment in her silence to misdoubt his own judg- 
 ment. "If I've gone and jumped to this conclusion out 
 of sheer conceit — misreading all I see in your eyes — 
 translating all wrongly what I hear in your silence — 
 you'll have to forgive me. I'm not trying to rush you 
 into any expression of what you feel." He conscien- 
 tiously thought he was not. "In fact, to tell you the 
 honest truth, to me it seems that you — ^bringing back 
 this bangle — holding from me your reason in doing so ; 
 you, stumbling over everything you say, and looking 
 at me as you have done in the last few moments — that 
 it's you who have dragged these things out of me. All 
 my attitude has been in trying to avoid them, because 
 of what I thought you expected me to be. And now I 
 think differently. Am I right? Am I?" He turned 
 her face to meet his eyes. "Am I?" 
 
 She raised her eyes once — ^let his take them — ^hold 
 them — ^keep them. Then the boards of the scaffold 
 slipped away from under her feet — one instant the sen- 
 sation of dropping — dropping; then oblivion — the 
 noose of Fate drawn tight — the account reckoned. She 
 swayed into his arms and he held her — ^kissing her hair, 
 kissing her shoulders, her cheeks, her eyes — then, gently 
 putting his hand beneath her chin, he lifted her face up- 
 wards, and crushed her lips against her teeth with kisses. 
 
BOOK n 
 THE DESERTER 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Apslet Manoe was one of those residences to be 
 found scattered over the country, which are vaguely 
 described as Tudor — memorials to the cultured taste in 
 England, before the restoration with its sponge of Puri- 
 tanical Piety wiped out the last traces of that refinement 
 which Normandy had lent. Britain was destined to be 
 great in commerce, and not even the inoculation of half 
 the blood of France could ever make her people great in 
 art as well. 
 
 It would be difficult to say the exact date when Apsley 
 Manor was built. Certain it was that Elizabeth, in one 
 of her progresses — the resort of a clever woman to fill 
 a needy purse — ^had stayed there on her way to Oxford. 
 The room, the bed even in which she was supposed to 
 have slept, still remain there. Each owner, as he parted 
 with the property, exacted a heavy premium upon that 
 doubtful relic of history. None of them wished to re- 
 move it from the room where it had so many romantic 
 associations ; but they one and all had used it as a lever 
 to raise the price of the property — if only a hundred 
 pounds — ^beyond that which they had, in the first case, 
 paid for it themselves. Once, in fact, the hangings had 
 been taken down and the bed itself lifted from the 
 ground before the very eyes of the intended purchaser; 
 
222 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 but that had been too much for him. He had given in. 
 There is England's greatness! Can it be wondered — 
 much as we pose to despise them — ^that we are the only 
 nation in Europe which has given shelter to the tribes 
 of Israel? 
 
 In spring-time, the Manor looked wonderful — the 
 lawns cut for the first time since the winter, the hedges 
 of blackthorn splashed thick with snow-blossom, and 
 daffodils, as If sackfuls of new-minted gold were emptied 
 underneath the trees and elves had scattered pieces here 
 and there from out the mass. Birds were building In 
 all the thickets, and the young leaves — virgin green — 
 shyly hid their love-making. Everything alive was pos- 
 sessed with a new-found energy. The sparrows — most 
 ostentatious of any bird there Is — ^flew about, tralKng 
 long threads of hay, with an air as if they carried the 
 Golden Fleece in their beaks each time they returned to 
 the apple trees. But other creatures were as busy as 
 they. Strange little brown birds — ^whitethroats and lin- 
 nets perhaps, if the eye could only have followed them — 
 flew in and out of the blackthorn hedges all day long. 
 Thrushes and blackbirds hopped pompously about the 
 lawns, and the starlings chattered like old women on the 
 roofs of the red gables. 
 
 The house itself was modelled as are nearly all such 
 residences of the Tudor period, the gables at either end 
 making, with the hall, the formation of the letter E so 
 characteristic of the architecture of that time. Only two 
 additions had been made, oriel windows to enlarge the 
 rooms at each end of the gables ; but they had been exe- 
 cuted, some seventy years before Sir William Hewitt 
 Traill's occupation of the place, by a man who had re- 
 spect for the days of King Harry and they had long 
 since toned into the atmosphere. A great tree of wis- 
 
SALLY BISHOP 223 
 
 teria Kfteid itself above one of the windows, and on the 
 other a clematis clung with its wiry, brittle shoots. 
 
 The huge cedars, holding out their black-green fans 
 of foliage like Eastern canopies — ^the high yew-trees, to 
 whom only age could bring such lofty dimensions, all 
 surrounded the old, red building and wrapped it in a 
 velvet cloak of warm security. Tulips in long beds — 
 brilliant mosaics in a floor of green marble — were let 
 into the lawn that stretched down the drive. Away on 
 the horizon, the rising ground about Wycombe showed 
 blue through the soft spring atmosphere, and in the 
 middle distance, the ploughed fields — freshly turned — 
 glowed with the rich, red blood of the earth's fulness. 
 So it presented itself to the eyes of Mrs. Durlacher, 
 when, one morning late in April, she drove up in her 
 motor to the old iron-barred oak-door which opened into 
 the panelled hall of her country residence. 
 
 She was alone. Her maid and another servant had 
 come down by rail to High Wycombe and were being 
 driven over in one of the house conveyances from the 
 station, a distance of five miles. The chauffeur descended 
 from the seat, opened the door of the car, and when she 
 had passed into the house, beckoned to a gardener who 
 was at work on one of the tulip beds, to help him in 
 with some of the luggage which Mrs. Durlacher had 
 brought with her. 
 
 "She's coming to stay, then?" said the gardener. 
 
 "S'pose so," replied the chauffeur. "I'd understood 
 yesterday as she was going to the openin' of a bazaar 
 this afternoon-7-openin' by royalty; but I got my 
 orders this morning to fill up the tank and come along 
 at once, 'cos she was going out into the country. 'Ow's 
 that ferret of mine going on.""' 
 
 "First class," said the gardener. 
 
224 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 "Well then, as soon as I get the car cleaned this after- 
 noon, I'm going to have some rattin*. Here^-put 'em 
 in the 'all — ^here." 
 
 The gardener struggled obediently. The chauiFeur 
 did most of the looking on and practically all the 
 talking. 
 
 From the mouths of babes and sucklings and from the 
 lips of hired servants one gets wisdom in the one case 
 and information in the other. AU that the chauffeur 
 had stated was quite true. Some five days before — and 
 we have now three years behind us since that night when 
 Sally Bishop tottered into Traill's arms^-Mrs. Dur- 
 lacher had received a letter from her brother, of whom 
 she had seen nothing for almost six months, saying that 
 he thought of going down to Apsley for the day. "But 
 I make sure first," his letter concluded, "that the field is 
 cleared. Down there, as you know, I prefer to be the 
 only starter." 
 
 She had written in reply that she had only been down 
 to Apsley once that year herself and, furthermore, on 
 the day he mentioned, the place would be as deserted 
 of human beings as London is in the heart of July — 
 meaning thereby that any place is a wilderness which is 
 empty of one's self and one's associates. That she had 
 written by return of post; then, two days later, her 
 mind had caught an impression — a wandering insect 
 that the flimsy web of a spider clutches by chance. He 
 had gone down4;o Apsley before this, many a time. She 
 knew that he had a lingering fondness for the place 
 which no amount of gluttony of bohemianism could ever 
 wipe out. But he had never taken these precautions be- 
 fore. He had chanced his luck ; if he had found people 
 there, then he had forced a retreat as soon as possible. 
 But now he was going out of his way — ^writing a letter, 
 
SALLY BISHOP 226 
 
 an action foreign to the whole of his nature — ^to ensure 
 that he should be alone. 
 
 The circumstance — for circumstance there must be, 
 just as there is the pufF of wind that drifts the wander- 
 ing insect to the spider's web — ^that brought the impres- 
 sion to her mind, was the brief report of a cross-exami- 
 nation in the divorce courts, conducted by J. H. Traill. 
 She knew that in the last two years he had, in a desul- 
 tory way, Been gleaning briefs from the great fields 
 where others reaped. That had stood for little in her 
 mind; for though she had always realized that in tem- 
 perament and intellect he would make an excellent bar- 
 rister, she had never believed that he would throw aside 
 the bohemian side of his nature sufficiently to gain am- 
 bition. Now, in this stray report, she beheld between 
 the lines the successful man. His cross-examination had 
 won the case, for his side. Its ability was undoubted, 
 even to her untutored mind, and from this, in that in- 
 direct method — ^taking no heed of the straight line — by 
 which women come leaping to their admirable conclu- 
 sions, she received the ittipression that when Traill came 
 down to Apsley, he would not come alone. 
 
 It is scarcely possible to see how this is arrived at; 
 yet, to the mind of a woman, it is simple enough. Her 
 brother had, after all these years, breasted his way out 
 of the slow-moving tide of mental indifference, into the 
 rapid current of ambition. When a man does that, her 
 intuition prompted her to know that it is more than 
 likely that he brings a woman with him. It is always 
 possible for a woman to recognize — apart from her own 
 identity — that her sex is an encumbrance to most men 
 which they cannot easily shake off. Witness the gen- 
 erous criticism of a woman upon any husband but her 
 own. Combine with this intuitive knowledge the fact — 
 
226 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 hitherto unrecorded, even by Traill to Sally — ^that when 
 he handed over Apsley Manor to his sister and took her 
 ready money in exchange, Traill had made her sign a 
 document granting him the right to repurchase posses- 
 sion with the same amount at any time that it might 
 please him, and you have the apprehension of the woman 
 who knows that possession constitutes but few points of 
 the law when there is ink and parchment to nullify the 
 whole transaction. 
 
 Jack, with a woman at his heels ; a woman, moreover, 
 whom he had probably brought with him out of that 
 dark abyss of the past ; might quite easily be a crushing 
 blow to all her social power. Five thousand pounds per- 
 haps would be a difficult sum for him to raise — certainly 
 to raise immediately — but she had the proof before her 
 that he was striding into eminence and, as has been men- 
 tioned before in this chapter, England is the only coun- 
 try in Europe which is a safe harbour for the Jews. 
 
 So then she leapt to the conclusion. He was bringing 
 a woman with him to see the place. She pictured the 
 creature vividly in her mind — a woman with a large hat, 
 red lips, a woman with a bold figure who knew how to 
 dress it brazenly, with eyes that danced to the whip of 
 his remarks ; a woman who, as mistress of Apsley, would 
 make it impossible for her ever to go near the place 
 again. There was only one way to meet the situation 
 — a situation it had definitely become in the sudden work- 
 ings of her mind — and that was face to face, at Apsley, 
 in possession, with the servants at her command and the 
 most gracious of speeches on her lips. Tramping 
 through the house alone, that woman would be assigning 
 rooms to their different owners, as if she were already 
 in possession; but with Mrs. Durlacher, the perfect 
 artist, as Jack had called her — she laughed unfeelingly 
 
SALLY BISHOP 227 
 
 when that phrase came back to her mind — with herself 
 at the woman's heels, telling her what they did with this 
 room and how in the hunting season they used that, 
 there would be little scope for an exhibition of the pro- 
 prietary sentiment and, whoever the person might be, 
 Mrs. Durlacher guaranteed she should not shine on that 
 occasion before her brother. 
 
 For that day, then, she had cancelled all her engage- 
 ments. The opening of the bazaar, a function at which 
 she had felt it her duty to be present, she crossed out 
 of her book. From the dinner, to which she and her 
 husband had been asked on the evening previous to 
 Traill's visit to Apsley, she wrote and excused herself, 
 saying she had been called out of Town; and on the 
 next morning she had ordered the car to be round at 
 the house in Sloane Street punctually at a quarter to 
 ten. 
 
 "Can't see why you have to give up the dinner and 
 drive me out of it as well because you have to go down 
 to Apsley to-morrow," her husband had said when she 
 had written to her hostess excusing their presence at 
 dinner. 
 
 "The reason's obvious," she replied equably. "I 
 haven't had a good night's rest for a week — I can't 
 sleep after eight o'clock in the morning hke you do, and 
 I've got a woman to deal with to-morrow. You don't 
 want to lose the shooting and the hunting down at 
 Apsley, do you?" 
 
 "No — ^rather not — of course I don't." 
 
 "Then let me get a good night's rest." 
 
 One admires the woman who sees her plan of action 
 and takes it like a sword in the hand. Certainly, there 
 was a possibility that she might be wrong. There well 
 might be no woman. But in her mind, she was conJSdent, 
 
228 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 and this was the only method of defence. She did not 
 hesitate to accept it, difficult though it were. The 
 woman might be any one — a creature whose touch would 
 be contamination. She placed no trust in her brother 
 where women were concerned. He would not actually 
 disgrace her ; she could be certain of that. A calculation 
 on the presence of Mrs. Butterick, the housekeeper, who 
 was always left in charge of the Manor, would be bound 
 to act as a certain restraint. But what he expected to 
 present a quotient of respectability to Mrs. Butterick 
 and the gardener if he happened to be about the grounds, 
 might well represent sordid vulgarity to her. He had 
 certainly taken every precaution to be alone. Yet hav- 
 ing drawn all these facts into consideration, she was un- 
 daunted. The whole way down to Apsley, sitting com- 
 fortably in the comer of the car, her eyes unseeingly 
 fixed upon the back of the chaulFeur's neck, she rehearsed 
 one scene after another with a precision of imagination 
 that was worthy of a greater cause. Yet what cause 
 could be greater to her? With the loss of Apsley, she 
 fell irremediably in social power. Five thousand pounds 
 would purchase another residence in the country. But 
 what sort of a residence? She shuddered and, in the 
 moment of relaxation, became aware that the chauffeur 
 was in need of a clean collar. 
 
 The moment she arrived, she sent for Mrs. Butterick 
 and went upstairs to her bedroom. The good, fat, little 
 woman — ^her face a full harvest moon, to which the fea- 
 tures adhered with regularity but no expression — soon 
 followed her. She stood at the door of the long, lofty 
 room with its three big, latticed windows and beamed 
 upon her mistress. She loved the quality — ^the quality, 
 she always called them. When the season of week-ends 
 came round each year, she was the proudest of women 
 
SALLY BISHOP 229 
 
 in the country-side. At that very moment, she was wear- 
 ing a silk petticoat, worth its weight in gold, five guineas 
 at the utmost for it seemed like froth in the hand — ^which 
 a French lady's maid had given her in exchange for si- 
 lence over a little incident that scarcely calls for men- 
 tion. The first return of her mistress to Apsley, then, 
 was a sign of the nearing season — ^the lonely swallow 
 that is seen scudding through the first break in the year 
 by some enthusiastic ornithologist and recorded in the 
 next morning's edition of the Times. She kept a diary, 
 in fact, did Mrs. Butterick, and in about the middle 
 of April of every year, might be noticed the comment, 
 
 "Madame arrived — ^first time this year " and then, 
 
 more than probably the addition, "House-party on the 
 
 " and thereafter the date, whatever it may have 
 
 been. 
 
 Now, on this occasion, as she always did, she beamed 
 in silence and waited. 
 
 "Good morning, Mrs. Butterick. You got my 
 letter.'" 
 
 "Yes, madam." 
 
 "These sheets are aired.'" 
 
 "Dry as a bone, madam. I felt 'em myself." 
 
 "I shall only be staying the night," Mrs. Durlacher 
 continued ; "I go back to Town to-morrow morning." 
 
 Mrs. Butterick made no reply. If her features could 
 have fallen into an expression of disappointment, they 
 would willingly have done so; but nature had taken no 
 trouble with them. They were an after-thought. It 
 seemed as if they had been placed there at the last mo- 
 ment of birth, with no inner mechanism to answer to 
 sensation. She just said nothing. 
 
 "To-morrow morning," Mrs. Durlacher repeated. 
 
 *'Yes, inadaRi." 
 
230 SALLY, BISHOP. 
 
 "And now jou can take the chintz covers off every- 
 thing in this room and the drawing-room as well. 
 There's rather a snap in the air; I think perhaps you 
 might have the fire lighted in the dining-room. And tell 
 one of the gardeners to pick me plenty of daffodils — not 
 common ones — not those ordinary double ones, but the 
 best he's got. White petals with the yellow trumpets — 
 you know the ones I mean. Also some narcissi and a few 
 tulips — pink ones for the drawing-room. They must 
 all be on the dining-room table when I come down- 
 stairs. I'll arrange them myself. And get my trunks 
 sent up to me at once — I want to change my dress. 
 Taylor and Mason are coming down by train; they'll 
 be here any minute now. The trap went for them — 
 didn't it.?" 
 
 "Yes, madam — ^at half -past ten." 
 
 "Well, then, that's all, Mrs. Butterick. What time 
 is it?" 
 
 The housekeeper extracted a silver watch with its 
 flowery, ornamental dial from the recesses of an ample 
 bosom. She drew it out by the chain and, once free, it 
 swung violently to and fro till she caught it. 
 
 "A quarter past eleven, madam." 
 
 "Very well, there's not too much time. I expect my 
 brother and probably a lady down here to-day. Oh yes, 
 and by the way — ^when they come — well — I'll tell that 
 to Taylor. You go and see about the flowers and the 
 chintz covers at once — and my trunks — immediately. 
 You'd better come up yourself and unpack for me until 
 Mason arrives." 
 
 When once she heard the crunching wheels of the trap 
 upon the drive, she rang her bell. Mason entered almost 
 immediately. 
 
 "Tell Taylor I want her here at once," said Mrs. 
 
SALLY BISHOP 231 
 
 Durlacher, "and come and help me dress before you 
 change your things." 
 
 The moment she had closed the door, her mistress 
 called her back. 
 
 "And send Mrs. Butterick as well." 
 
 "Yes, madam." 
 
 Mason went downstairs with the report that some- 
 thing was in the air. She had a feeling, she said. 
 
 The interview with Taylor was shorter — ^more to the 
 point. 
 
 "I'm expecting my brother — Mr. Traill, and prob- 
 ably a lady," she said. She laid no stress on the last 
 word, much as the temptation assailed her. "It's quite 
 likely they may be down to lunch. When they come, 
 there is no need to say that I'm here, unless, of course, 
 Mr. Traill asks you. You'd better go and change your 
 dress at once." 
 
 Then she turned to Mrs. Butterick. 
 
 "You've taken off the chintz covers.'"' she said. 
 
 "Yes, madam." 
 
 "Ordered the flowers.?" 
 
 "Yes, madam." 
 
 "Well, now, what have you got in for lunch?" 
 
 "There's some lamb, madam." 
 
 "Well — ^that's no good — I'd better tell you what I 
 want. A heavy lunch like that is impossible. I want 
 all dainty little dishes — something out of the common, 
 I leave it entirely to you. Four courses will be enough. 
 And Sauteme and Burgundy. Tell Taylor we'll have 
 coffee in the dining-room. Now my hair, Mason." 
 
 So she marshalled forces, occupied positions and con- 
 centrated artillery in preparation for the siege. The 
 generalship of a woman is never so keen, so instinct 
 with strategy, as when she gives battle against another 
 
gSi SALLY BISHOP 
 
 of her sex. Her campaign against men, when once she 
 takes up arms, is mimic warfare — a sham fight — com- 
 pared to this. Against a man, she needs but a company 
 of fascinations, and in one attack his squares — ^the stem 
 veterans of determination — are driven to flight. But 
 with a woman, whole regiments of cunning, whole bat- 
 talions of craft, with all the well-trained scouts of intiii- 
 tion and all the dashing cavalries of charm, are needed 
 to rout her absolutely from the field. 
 
 Within an hour Mrs. Durlacher descended to the 
 dining-room. The gown she wore would not have 
 pleased a man to infatuation ; but a woman would have 
 reahzed its beauty, known its value. With deft fingers, 
 she arranged the flowers. In a chair by the fire, hiding 
 herself from view to any one outside the window, she sat 
 and watched the table being laid, giving orders how the 
 vases were to be placed on the old oak table. 
 
 "Lay two places — ^that's all," she said. 
 
 Taylor looked up. "I thought you said there would 
 be a lady with Mr. Traill, madam." 
 
 "I said — ^probably. You can lay another place if she 
 comes." A vision crossed her mind of making so small 
 a point as that, a moment of embarrassment for her 
 unwelcome guest. 
 
 Then a sound reached her ears. Her eyes were ar- 
 rested, fixed unseeingly to a point before her as she 
 listened. 
 
 "Is that a motor, Taylor. J"" 
 
 Taylor looked out of the window. "It's a taxi-cab, 
 madam." 
 
 "Can you see who's inside.?" 
 
 "I suppose it's Mr. Traill, madam. Yes — ^it is." 
 
 "Any one with him?" 
 
 "Yes, madam — ^a lady." 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 CiEctTMSTANCES will almost make a character in a 
 day; in three years, a character can be moulded, bent, 
 twisted or straightened, in the furnace of events; just 
 as the potter, idling with the passive clay, will shape it, 
 heedlessly almost, as the fancy nerves his fingers. But 
 before he is aware, the time slips by, the clay gets set 
 and there, in front of his eyes, is the figure as his fancy 
 made it — ^brittle, easily broken into dust, but impossible 
 of being moulded afresh until it shall again go back 
 into the water of oblivion and become the shapeless mass 
 that once it was. 
 
 So, in the three years that had passed since she had 
 yielded body and soul into the keeping of Jack Traill, 
 had Sally's character become set in the moulding of his 
 influence. Happiness she had — that to the full. He 
 cared for her the more when once he had her gentle 
 nature under his touch ; showed her all those little atten- 
 tions of which such a mind as his is capable of conceiving 
 — teased her, petted her, laughed like a schoolboy at her 
 feminine whims and fancies. 
 
 For the first month of their relationship, they went 
 abroad. He gave her money, more money than she had 
 ever had in absolute possession before, wherewith to fit 
 herself for the journey. She tried to refuse half of it — 
 told him the sum wa^ preposterous, that less than half 
 of what he was giving would provide her with the most 
 expensive of frocks for the rest of her life. 
 
234 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 "Sixty pounds ?" he said. "My sister spends that in 
 half an hour at a dressmaker's in Dover Street." 
 
 "Ah, yes, but that's your sister," she had objected 
 pathetically. 
 , "And you?" 
 
 "But thirty pounds will really be more than enough." 
 
 It lay deep in her mind, never offering to rise to the 
 surface, to^remind him that she was not his wife. But 
 he would not give way. He had said sixty pounds — 
 sixty pounds it had to be. So he mastered her, without 
 effort, at every turn. 
 
 She went then with Janet to the shops — she, and her 
 sixty pounds, gripped tight in brittle ten-pound notes 
 in her purse. At that time she was still staying on 
 at Kew, still attending her office in King Street ; but at 
 both places she had given notice to leave, and in a week's 
 time would be free. 
 
 Her first intimation to Janet of all that had occurred 
 and all that was to follow, was made, as usual, one night, 
 when the darkness hid her face, and she could only tell 
 by the sound of Janet's breathing what effect her story 
 might have. 
 
 When she had finished, Janet made use of that remark 
 — ^justified in her case — which every prophet, false or 
 true, utters at one time or another — 
 
 "Didn't I tell you so?" 
 
 But then she went on, and they had talked far into 
 the night ; and at every moment, when doubt or regret 
 seized and shook Sally with a quivering remorse, Janet 
 laughed at her fears. 
 
 "You've got the best bargain in the world," she ex- 
 claimed. "You want a man's love — ^you've got it — 
 haven't you? And yet you're free — as free as air. If 
 you should tire " 
 
SALLY BISHOP 236 
 
 Sally laughed bitterly. 
 
 "Very weU, then, if he should tire, you're your own 
 mistress. All this caging of wild birds seems to me to 
 be futile. Morals.? Oh, morals be hanged! Are you 
 going to caU yourself immoral because the man has no 
 great respect for matrimony?" 
 
 "Yes; but I have." 
 
 "You have! That's only because you were dragged 
 up in a rectory, just outside the church door. I can't 
 understand you. You've shaken off your belief in lots 
 of things — you don't believe in the actual divinity of 
 Christ — ^yet you cling to an antiquated sacrament that 
 dates back long before the time of a man whose state- 
 ment that he was the actual Son of God you're prepared 
 to doubt. It's only because you labour under the mis- 
 apprehension — as nearly everybody does — ^that mar- 
 riage is a convenience to a woman. It's the convenience 
 of the thing that makes the morality or the immorality 
 in your mind. You're only a conventionalist like every- 
 body else — you're not a moralist." 
 
 Yet, notwithstanding all these arguments of Janet's, 
 there were dark moments during that week before she 
 left Kew, when all the force of dogma, aU the waves of 
 conventionality, beat against her breast ; but it was her 
 faith in love that held her to the end; just as his faith 
 in the dogma itself, had held the Rev. Samuel Bishop 
 to the teachings of his Church. Love, she made the high 
 altar of her worship ; to that, unconsciously, she offered 
 all prayers, made all sacrifice. These dark moments 
 hung heavy in her heart so long as they were present; 
 but one meeting with Traill was sufficient to drive them 
 in a body from her mind — gloomy phantoms of imagina- 
 tion which, in the night, have vivid reality, and with the 
 first welcome break of morning are gtricken wt gf sight. 
 
236 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 When forty-five of the sixty pounds had been spent 
 and she had bought every conceivable thing that she 
 required, purchasing from habit where things were 
 cheapest, she had brought the remainder back to Traill, 
 
 He held her face, crumpling it, in his hands. 
 
 "What on earth sort of a child are you?" he asked. 
 
 "How do you mean?" 
 
 "Why — ^I give you a certain amount of money to 
 spend on clothes and you bring me back fifteen pounds 
 like the little girl coming back with change from the 
 grocer's." 
 
 "But I've got everything I want," she replied, 
 laughing. 
 
 "Have you got an opera cloak?" 
 
 "No, I don't want that." 
 
 "Have you got an umbrella?" 
 
 She laughed again — ^head thrown back, like a child 
 at its father's knee. 
 
 "No, I have one of my own already." 
 
 "Did you get a — get a — oh, I don't know — did you 
 get boots for tramping through the country with — 
 boots for show, boots for wear, boots for comfort? How 
 many pairs of boots did you get?" 
 
 "Two." 
 
 "Well — go and get some more and an opera cloak — 
 to-morrow evening, we're going to sit in the Comedie 
 Fran9ais and not understand a word that's said." 
 
 Then they had gone abroad, and life — ^wonderful — 
 had passed from day to day like a pageant before Sally's 
 eyes. The dark moments came with less frequency. 
 After a time, they passed away altogether. She saw no 
 end to it; she saw no sin in it. What sin could there 
 be? Janet's arguments had penetrated more, deeply 
 into hej: ffliod than ?b? Jiad ever imagined. When, on 
 
SALLY BISHOP, 231 
 
 rare occasions, she was alone in the hotel where they 
 happened to be staying — and it was then that doubt, 
 while there was any, oppressed her — she hugged Janet's 
 sayings to her mind, forced them to support her. 
 " You're only a conventionalist, like everybody else — 
 you're not a moralist." 
 
 Now she was a morahst, or nothing. She had cut the 
 last link with convention and, at a moment such as that, 
 the realization that there was no returning, no getting 
 back, obsessed her with a shuddering fear. She did not 
 understand that she was conventionahst still at heart; 
 she did not divine that she was not the great woman, 
 loving greatly — only the lesser woman, loving, it is true, 
 with all the utmost of her personality, but loving less. 
 
 There is no conventionality in greatness. Great na- 
 tures make laws for lesser natures to obey; and, far 
 though she had gone from the broad path where the 
 little people huddle on their way, the blood of the little 
 people was in her veins and conventionality still held its 
 claim upon her. She liked to think that she was mar- 
 ried. It was beyond the strength of her mind to look 
 upon herself as the mistress of the man she loved. 
 
 "It cannot end — it can never end," she told herself. 
 "He loves me too much and I love him better still. It's 
 as good— quite as good, as being married. The Church 
 makes no difference." She thought of her father, re- 
 membering how, through the very precepts of that very 
 Church, he had found retribution. So people, who mar- 
 ried with the Church's sanction, found retribution too. 
 Some lives were miserable ; she had known them. What 
 good had the blessing of the Church been to them.'' 
 None! 
 
 Then Traill would return to her and doubts would 
 vanish like shadows that a light disperses. They were 
 
2S8 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 happy. She had never conceived of such happiness be- 
 fore. Her mood was one of continual gratitude. She 
 thanked him for everything — ^if not with lips, then with 
 eyes. 
 
 "You remind me of a little starved gutter-arab, when- 
 ever I give you anything," he once said, when he had 
 brought her back from a theatre in Rome and given 
 her supper in the restaurant of the Quirinale. 
 
 "Not very complimentary," she replied without 
 objection. 
 
 "Well — ^you look at me that way — as if I were giving 
 you God's earth for God's sake. Have you never been 
 happy before in your life.'"' 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "I don't mean particularly like this. Like this, I 
 know you haven't. But any other way.?" 
 
 "No, I don't think I ever have. I went away from 
 home when I was eighteen — I wasn't happy there. Then 
 I had to work too hard." 
 
 "Then you are a little starved gutter-arab." He 
 took her gently in his arms. "And what do I seem to 
 you — eh? Sort of fairy prince, I suppose, in gold 
 armour." 
 
 "You seem like God, sometimes," she whispered. 
 
 He put her away with a stab of conscience — .seated 
 her on a chair and looked down at her. 
 
 "It's silly to talk like that," he said evenly. "If there 
 is a God-*— and I suppose there is — ^the world spends a 
 heap of money in fostering the idea — then He's certainly 
 more consistent in His being than I am — ^though con- 
 sistency always seems to me His weak point. But you've 
 not got to idealize me, you know. You remember what 
 I once said to you — don't you?" 
 
 "What was that?" 
 
SALLY BISHOP 239 
 
 "There's a beast in every man, thank God !" 
 
 "Yes — I don't think I shall ever forget that." 
 
 "Well— don't," he added. 
 
 But even this did not harbour in her mind. She wrote 
 long, impulsive letters to Janet, pouring out a flood of 
 description of all the places which they visited, opening 
 her heart of its perfect happiness. 
 
 "You said he was hard once," she wrote from Flor- 
 ence. "You said you knew he was hard. He's never said 
 a hard thing to me the whole time we've been away. He 
 may be hard to other people. I've seen him awfully bit- 
 ter sometimes, but never to me. We are in love, you see. 
 We shall always be in love. Dear, dear old Janet, I wish 
 you could be with us." 
 
 Janet took a deep breath when she had finished the 
 reading of that letter, and when Mrs. Hewson pushed 
 some shrimps on to her plate, she pulled the shells from 
 them with impatient energy. 
 
 And so — slowly, even in that month — some little of 
 the change in her character was wrought. Her nature 
 began to set in the mould of luxury in which he placed 
 her. Not for one moment was she spoilt by it; not for 
 one moment made selfish. Whenever he gave her money 
 for a definite object, she still made her purchases as 
 cheaply as possible, still brought what was left over in 
 the flat of an empty palm to him. But the enfranchising 
 influence of those two years of hard work began to lose 
 its effect. She lost independence at every turn and, by 
 the time they returned to London, was beginning to lean 
 on Traill, rely on him, submit subserviently to every wish 
 he uttered. 
 
 Such "had been her desertion from the cause, a con- 
 script in which, she had so ill-understood. The falling 
 back into luxury, the acceptance of those things which 
 
240 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 in her tentative, unrevolutionary way she had always 
 imagined to come into her right of possession, had been 
 very easy — ^very gentle — ^the drifting of a feather on 
 an idle summer wind. She had let herself be borne 
 on it, using it, not as an advantage, not as a .step 
 to lift her to a greater freedom and a wider indepen- 
 dence, but as a fit setting, a worthy environment to 
 this love which consumed the whole of her being and 
 rode, the master, with an unslacking rein, over all her 
 actions. 
 
 If she had taken the situation as it was, faced the 
 meaning of it with firm lips and a steady eye, there 
 would have been hope — ^more, there would have been 
 salvation for her. But frail, sensitive, tender-hearted, 
 little Sally Bishop was not of that blood, that breeding 
 was not in her bone. She took the threads, coloured 
 them one and aU with that deceptive dye of the imagi- 
 nation, and wove a romance out of the materials of a 
 stern reahty. 
 
 To every intent, to every purpose in her mind, she 
 was a married woman. The constant use of his name 
 in the hotels where they stayed abroad had fostered the 
 delusion in her mind. That, in reality, she was stiU 
 Sally Bishop was a fact, obvious epough, patent enough, 
 and one which she was not so foolish as to try and force 
 herself to forget ; but she was Sally Bishop only in name. 
 So, in contrary comparison, other women were wives 
 only in name, yet had no husbands. 
 
 The true, logical state of the case never made its 
 appeal to her. She was too much of a romantic, living, 
 as many women do, in a cloudland of hallucination, until 
 a lightning circumstance tears its rent in the vaporous 
 fabric and experience thunders in their ears. Had she 
 consented to the reasoning that she had but left the 
 
SALLY BISHOP 241 
 
 plying of one trade in exchange for anotHer; had she 
 admitted the fact that she had but abandoned one master 
 for the service of another, there would have been every 
 chance that, if the end should come, she would be able 
 to take up the threads where they had broken off and 
 wring profit from the ultimate position. But no such 
 thought entered her mind. Emancipation was no goal 
 for her ambitions. She sought for chains to gyve about 
 her soul and, in her relationship with Traill, she fondly 
 dreamed that she had found them. If the real aspect 
 of the case had forcibly made its way into her considera- 
 tion, she would never have accepted the situation, never 
 have laid seal to the compact. 
 
 All this delirium of reasoning, she showed in the first 
 few moments to Janet when she had returned to London. 
 Down at Kew she spent an evening, delighted, with a 
 justifiable pride, to be seen in one of the dainty frocks 
 that Traill had bought her. 
 
 "So you're married now, I 'ear," said Mrs. Hewson. 
 
 "Yes." Sally beamed with her reply, and Janet 
 watched her with questioning eyes. 
 
 "I hope you're happy." 
 
 " I couldn't be happier," Sally answered ; then she 
 dragged Janet upstairs to the room they had shared 
 together for two years, and throwing her parcels — 
 presents that she had brought from abroad — on to the 
 bed, she twined her arms round Janet's slender neck and 
 covered the thin, drawn face with kisses. 
 
 One knows the endearments that such an occasion ex- 
 acts. They come out of a full heart and bear no repeti- 
 tion, for only a full heart can understand them. They 
 swept over Janet, for the moment blinding her in her 
 fondness for this child, full of swift impulse in her grati- 
 tude, and drugged with romance in her mind- But once 
 
242 SALLY BISHOP. 
 
 these endearments had been spoken, when once the pres- 
 ents had been divested of their paper wrappings — ^porce- 
 lain representations of the Bambinos from Florence — ^a 
 marble statue of the Venus de Milo from Pisa — an orna- 
 ment in mosaic from Rome — ^when once they had been 
 set up, admired, paid for in kisses of gratitude, then 
 Janet gave words to the questions that had been look- 
 ing from her eyes. 
 
 "What sort of a settlement has he made on you?" 
 she asked. 
 
 The inquiry, notwithstanding the fact that it had 
 been spoken with a gentle voice, tuned to consideration 
 for her feelings, struck the sensitiveness of Sally's mind, 
 whipped the blood to her cheeks. 
 
 "There is no settlement. Why should there be?" 
 
 "Why ? Well, for every reason in the world, I should 
 think." 
 
 "There is none, then." 
 
 "You haven't even suggested it?" 
 
 "No!" 
 
 She rose, turning away from the bed where she had 
 been sitting, with the tears smarting in her eyes. Janet 
 looked after her, an expression of contemplation pursing 
 her features, wrinkling her forehead. 
 
 "I think I'll go and see Mr. Traill," she said slowly. 
 
 Sally wheeled round, her heel a pivot to the motion. 
 
 "What for?" she asked. 
 
 "I think he'd better be told that he can't play indis- 
 criminately with women like you." 
 
 "He's not playing," Sally retorted violently. "You're 
 cruel, Janet. If you do go to him, I'll never speak to 
 you again." 
 
 "That's quite possible; I should expect that," Janet 
 replied imperturbably. "Whenever one tries to arrange 
 
SALLY BISHOP 24S 
 
 the affairs of people who cannot arrange them them- 
 selves, one must anticipate that sort of treatment." 
 
 "Ah, but you don't understand," Sally pleaded pit- 
 eously. "He would hate any interference of that sort. 
 He would hate me through it. We don't look at the 
 thing in the same light that you do. You make a busi- 
 ness of it. Do you think if I had ever seen it in that 
 light, I could have done what I have done? You know 
 I couldn't. I should loathe myself too. I tell you, we 
 love each other. There can be no question of settlement 
 in such a case as that." 
 
 Janet looked at her with pity. It was hard for her 
 to say all that she intended; but the mind of the revo- 
 lutionary, however wasted its cause, has kindred with 
 the mind of God. Justice and truth before all things 
 is the cry of it, and let suffering be a means rather 
 than a hindrance to the end. 
 
 "Never drown sorrow," Janet had once said from her 
 pinnacle of enthusiasm, "the dripping ghost of it'll 
 haunt you. Don't drown it — save it, learn of it." 
 
 Now, with a steady hand, she carried that precept 
 into practice. It might make a rent in Sally's heart; 
 it might bring separation between them; but she did 
 not hesitate at that. The cause of justice and the de- 
 sire for truth have no need of sentiment. 
 
 "And how long do you think that love is going to 
 last?" she asked. 
 
 "Always; why not?" 
 
 "With you, perhaps ; but with him?" 
 
 Sally looked out of the window across the river. The 
 night that Mr. Arthur had proposed to her — offering 
 her marriage — danced flauntingly across her memory. 
 He had been ready to bind himself to her for the rest 
 of his life. She let the memory go on, with its mincing 
 
244 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 steps, back into the dreary darkness of the river from 
 whence it had come; but she said nothing. 
 
 "You can't answer for him?" suggested Janet. 
 
 "Yes, I can," she replied impetuously. "Why not 
 always with him.'' He'll never marry. He's always 
 said so." 
 
 "Yes, but you didn't answer at once. Sally " 
 
 Janet put a hand on her shoulder, "I believe you think 
 you're as good as married. The way you answered Mrs. 
 Thing-um-i-bob downstairs — ^Mrs. Hewson — ^when she 
 asked you, what we'd both agreed to tell her — ^that made 
 me begin to wonder. But you're not married, Sally. 
 He's only your master — that's all, and if I were you, I'd 
 see that I got my settlement. He might want to leave 
 you any day." 
 
 Sally moved herself free of the detaining hand and 
 laughed, with a bitter absence of merriment. 
 
 "That shows how little you understand," she said. 
 "He's told me over and over again that he never thought 
 he would find any one who fitted in so perfectly to his 
 life as I do." 
 
 "Most any pretty woman fits into a man's life when 
 he wants, and so long as he wants her," Janet remarked. 
 "It's only women like myself — ugly httle devils hke me 
 — ^who have to meet the difficulty of finding a niche 
 that'll hold them for more than the latter part of an 
 afternoon before the lights are turned up. You fit into 
 his life — of course you do. I'm not suggesting that 
 you don't. I'm only questioning how long you're going 
 to do it — only trying to remind you that it won't be 
 for always. Why will you insist on being so romantic? 
 Why can't you look at life through a plain sheet of 
 glass — ^if you must look at it through something — in- 
 stead of choosing the red and the yellow and the purples 
 
SALLY BISHOP 245 
 
 — anything but the plain, the untinted reality. Go an3 
 get your settlement. Make him put it in black and 
 white, and shove his name down at the bottom. Then 
 you can look at it any way you like — forget about it 
 • — sit and nurse your romance all day long if you want 
 to ; but make sure of the reaHty first. He'll think twice 
 as much of you if you do." 
 
 "You think that," said Sally. "You believe he'd 
 think twice as much of me if I came to him in a mer- 
 cenary spirit like that.-' And I thought you knew some- 
 thing about men." 
 
 "Mercenary!" Janet threw her head back and 
 laughed. "You'd have to ask for a good deal more 
 than that to seem mercenary, my dear child. You! 
 Why, you've worked two years and you never knew 
 your own value all that time. I've seen your finger- 
 nails worn square on that old typewriter you used to 
 pound; but you never dreamed of thinking that you 
 were worth more than your twenty-five or your twenty- 
 seven shillings a week, however much they made you 
 stay at that ofiice overtime. Mercenary's about the last 
 word that could be applied to you. I don't want to 
 worry the life out of you, or make you miserable, but 
 when I see you rushing along — giving, giving, always 
 giving, with both hands " 
 
 "I'm not only giving," Sally exclaimed. "Do you 
 think I get nothing in return? I've never been made 
 so happy in my life before — never! Is that receiving 
 nothing for what I give?" 
 
 Janet looked at her, steadying her eyes. 
 
 " You don't understand the proportion of things," 
 she said slowly. "You don't realize the comparative 
 ratio of one thing to another. Any man can give hap- 
 piness to a yromm who 1oy§§ him— but that'g no betr- 
 
246 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 gain! He merely gives her happiness by taking his 
 own. Do you call that a fair exchange? To you, drunk 
 with romance, perhaps it is. But in reality it's robbery. 
 Hd has to pay higher for his pleasures than that. Why, 
 even the women in the streets, he pays and takes all 
 risks inclusive. Then what do you think he owes a 
 woman like you? Why, in the name of God, can't you 
 sweep all this mist away, that's in front of your eyes, 
 and see it as a transaction? Sign it, seal it, make a 
 deed of it, and then forget it if you hke ; but insure your- 
 self against the worst if it should ever come." 
 
 To suppose that this reasoning would appeal to Sally, 
 to expect that she would assimilate Janet's point of view, 
 adopt Janet's attitude of mind, is beyond all imagina- 
 tion. The whole aspect that Janet had revealed, de- 
 pressed her, weighed — a heavy drag — ^upon her spirits. 
 But she was not convinced. 
 
 To call things by their names — albeit that language 
 has been evolved these many thousands of years, and 
 \ during all that time human beings have sat in the dust 
 and worked and played with its cunning symbols — ^is no 
 easy matter. For the evolution of language has achieved 
 two ends, and the perfection of it has accomplished the 
 one as thoroughly as it has the other. With language 
 we^ give expression of our feelings ; but also with lan- 
 guage we have learnt to hide feelings, cloak thoughts, 
 and dissemble before the very eyes that know us best. 
 Jan^t, demanding the truth in all things, seeking in 
 wordte the very highest aim of the words themselves, was 
 a far higher type than Sally. 
 
 To Sally, the only means by which she could follow 
 the tr^e bent of her inclinations, was by wrapping up 
 the matter in a cunning tissue of words. Herein she is 
 no great woman, loving greatly. She could not bring 
 
SALLY BISHOP Zit 
 
 herself to think of her position as that of a mistress. 
 To still love and do that, was beyond her. And so she 
 persisted in regarding herself as a woman who has faced- 
 out conventionaHty, dared the opinion of the world, and 
 chosen to live with a man as his wife without the con- 
 descending sanction of the Church. 
 
 It is pardonable, all this. It is an occurrence as com- 
 mon in big cities as are the lofty chimneys and besmirch- 
 ing haze which, on the horizon, herald the approach 
 of a place where men and women are gathered closely 
 together. But it is a position which, with the present 
 conditions of tortured conventionaHty, is impossible, un- 
 tenable. Either a woman is the wife of a man, or his 
 mistress ; and if the latter then, as Janet had said, she 
 had better see to her settlement first and build her ro- 
 mance, if so she chose, upon its foundations. A man 
 may keep closed the gates of matrimony until the last 
 moment, but when he finds that only through them can 
 he gain the woman he loves, then no amount of principle 
 and no desire of freedom will hinder him from swinging 
 them wide and following her through. On the other 
 hand also, he will make but little attempt to unlock those 
 very gates, so long as there is a shadow of the prospect 
 within his mind that she will meet him outside. 
 
 To Sally, such reasoning as this would have robbed 
 her of all romance — the shattering siege gun that thun- 
 ders through a town, and tumbles the images from their 
 altars in the little church. 
 
 Two ways there were in which to view the matter 
 truly. If she were the great woman, she would have 
 loved for the love of love itself — let it end where it might. 
 If she were the revolutionary seeking truth, demanding 
 freedom, then she would have loved the transaction for 
 the transaction's sake — ^let it end to-morrow if it willed. 
 
248 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 But Sally was neither. She took a middle course. She 
 neither loved wholly for the sake of love, nor could she 
 make her transaction and be proud of it. Like thou- 
 sands of other women, she liked to think that she was 
 loved in return and that it would never end. Like thou- 
 sands of other women, she believed that what the man 
 had taken, that he would keep, because in the eyes of 
 God and all the other phrases of romantic sentimental- 
 ism, they were one. 
 
 But this is conventionality, and conventionality has 
 to be thanked for it. So women have been brought up ; 
 and until that army, of which Sally now is a deserter, 
 has forced its marches and driven its enemy from the 
 field, women will so continue to think, so continue to act, 
 so continue to be broken into dust, the grains of which 
 any wind may carry into the west where the sun sets in 
 deep crimson. 
 
 That night when Sally returned from Kew, Traill 
 had noticed her depression. 
 
 "What's Miss Hallard been saying to you?" he asked. 
 "Telling you that you're leading a terrible life, I sup- 
 pose." 
 
 "No, why should she? Do you think I am. Jack?" 
 
 "Me? I should hope not, since I'm the cause of it. 
 Do you feel you're doing anything very terrible? Here 
 — put your arms round my neck — ^kiss me — God bless 
 your Httle heart — ^you couldn't do anything terrible. 
 Now, are we going to sit and mope, or shall we go out 
 to supper?" 
 
 That meant that they were going to supper, and In 
 half an hour she was as happy again as a child. 
 
 For the first of the three years they passed through 
 an incessant round of amusements, going abroad every 
 few months, once bicycling all through France from 
 
SALLY BISHOP, 249 
 
 North to South and then returning by train, spending 
 a week in Paris. Their method of living was frugal, 
 and Sally's demands amounted practically to nothing. 
 For the whole of that year, Traill had sunned himself 
 in the warm delight of her simplicity. The years when 
 he was alone had brought with them a certain amount 
 of cynicism, a definite trace of bitterness. But with 
 Sally, he forgot all that — threw from his shoulders the 
 years that solitude had added to his age and became the 
 man of thirty-six who stiU looks youth in the eyes with- 
 out question. 
 
 Then he had shaken himself and awakened to the 
 broad responsibilities of life. A small case was oflfered 
 him in the courts. Such cases he had refused before; 
 now Sally urged him to accept it and he obeyed, looking 
 rather to the future than her immediate prompting. So 
 began the seriousness of his career as a barrister. The 
 second year only brought one other small brief with it ; 
 but both cases were won. Then he began to specialize 
 in divorce and finally, contact with a well-known solicitor 
 which had come through the medium of journalism, 
 brought him his first brief in the probate and divorce 
 division. The case was rather a big one and he was not 
 the leading counsel, but the assistance he gave was 
 deemed of such value, that the next brief from the solici- 
 tor was given entirely to him. 
 
 Sally came down to the courts and listened to his 
 cross-examination of the woman who against a thousand 
 incriminating circumstances was fighting, with white 
 lips and piteously hunted eyes, to keep her name from 
 the mud into which Traill was striving to drag it. 
 
 There she saw the cruelty in him again. It was im- 
 possible for her, listening with every sense taut to the 
 uttermost, to obliterate the personal element, to think 
 
250 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 that he was merely a machine grinding, in the course 
 of his duty, as the implacable mills crush the yielding 
 grain into the listless powder of flour. 
 
 "Didn't it strike you at all?" he asked the trembling 
 woman, his voice barren of all feeling and edged with 
 biting incredulity. "Didn't it strike you at all, when 
 you kissed the co-respondent, that you were betraying 
 your husband's confidence in you.-"' 
 
 "No, not when I kissed him. We — we cared for each 
 other — I admit to that; but — ^but kissing did not seem 
 wrong." 
 
 "You didn't consider kissing wrong.!"' 
 
 "No." 
 
 "At what point then in your intimate relations with 
 a man — ^with the co-respondent in particular — ^would you 
 have considered that wrong began and right ended?" 
 
 The wretched woman had looked pitiably at the judge. 
 The judge looked unseeingly before him into the well 
 of the court. 
 
 "At what point?" Traill had insisted. 
 
 "I don't know how to say it," she pleaded feebly. 
 
 "Then can I assist you? Would you have considered 
 it wrong — having kissed you — for him to put his arms 
 round you?" 
 
 "Yes, I think so." 
 
 "There is all the difference then, in your mind between 
 a man's kissing you and putting his arms round you. 
 All the difference between right and wrong?" 
 
 "No, I suppose there isn't." 
 
 "Then you would not have considered that wrong?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Would you have considered it wrong to sit on his 
 knee?" 
 
 Seeing how her case was weakening^realizing how 
 
SALLY BISHOP 251 
 
 he was belittling her scruples — she had a3mitte3 that 
 she would not think it wrong, hoping that the ready ad- 
 mission of that would remedy the effect of her previous 
 indecision. 
 
 "Then am I to understand " asked Traill with 
 
 a voice stirred in well-simulated anger, "am I to under- 
 stand that because you loved the co-respondent, you 
 kissed him, thinking no wrong in it and yet, thinking 
 no wrong in sitting on his knee or having his arms about 
 you, you yet — loving him — refused these things in which 
 you saw no harm? Is that what you wish his lordship, 
 and the jury to understand?" 
 
 "I — I — may have let him put his arms round me— 
 perhaps I did sit on his knee — once or twice." ; 
 
 "Then why," shouted Traill, "when the last witness 
 affirmed that she had seen you sitting in the drawing- 
 room with the co-respondent's arm round your neck, did 
 you so vehemently deny it ?" 
 
 Into the trap she had fallen — into the trap whicK 
 with his cold cunning he had laid for her — and from 
 that moment, rigidly denying her misconduct on her 
 oath before God, the wretched creature was brought on 
 the rack of his questioning to almost every admission 
 but that of adultery. At last Sally had left the court. 
 She could bear the strain of it no longer. 
 
 The thoughts which that incident had given rise to 
 in her mind, had thrown their shadows upon all her light- 
 ness of heart for many days afterwards. There she had 
 seen the keen acid of implacable justice separating, with 
 undeviating precision, the dross from the gold. She 
 had beheld the naked fact of adultery — stripped of all 
 the silk of glamour, all the velvet of romance which once 
 it had worn — ^held in its cringing shame before the un- 
 sympathetic eyes of twelve men in a public court of law. 
 
252 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 And he who had done it, he who had wrenched away the 
 silken garments, torn off the folds of velvet and flung 
 the naked deed before their eyes, was the man into whose 
 keeping she had given her whole existence. 
 
 "You, who admittedly can play with passion at the 
 fringe of adultery," she heard him crying out as she 
 stole from the court, "do you expect a jury of men, 
 who know the world, to believe that a mere scruple has 
 withheld you from giving yourself to the importunate 
 desires of this man — the co-respondent?" 
 
 Was that what he thought of her — ^was that what he 
 thought she had done to her shame with him? Sally 
 had cried out these questions to herself, as he had cried 
 them to the woman; but when that evening, he asked 
 her in a quiet voice what she had thought of the case, 
 she had evaded any expression that would disclose the 
 trouble of her mind. 
 
 " I couldn't stay till the end, you know," she said. 
 "I had to go before the verdict. What happened?" 
 
 "Oh, we won — ^hands down; but upon my soul I'm 
 not sure that she did actually commit adultery. There 
 are some women — men too, for that matter — ^who'll play 
 with fire till their hearts are burnt out — ^but conven- 
 tionality drags 'em back from the one deed that will 
 absolutely crush their conscience, and they think them- 
 selves confoundedly ill-treated when they get their ret- 
 ribution. They whine, like that woman did to-day ; but 
 I'm inclined to believe that on the vital clause she was 
 telling the truth." 
 
 Sally had looked at him, wondering and in amaze- 
 ment; but she had said nothing, mistrusting herself to 
 speak. 
 
 The effect of this incident upon her mind had soft- 
 ened with time — ^in time she had practically forgotten 
 
SALLY BISHOP 253 
 
 about it. And then came round the end of the third 
 year. The previous year he had given up journalism 
 entirely, his time being fully occupied with legal business 
 at the courts. He took chambers to himself in the 
 Temple. Sometimes Sally came down there on a quiet 
 day and they had tea together. 
 
 "We'll pretend," she would say, "that you've never 
 met me before — and it's awfully imwise for me to come 
 and see you in chambers — ^but I come and then perhaps 
 — ^while I'm making the tea — ^you suddenly put your 
 arms round my waist, and of course I'm awfully of- 
 fended. Then you kiss me, and I begin to get fond of 
 
 you — and then " So she led him through a child's 
 
 game to the outburst of a man's passion and he, amused 
 with being the child, found in it all the burning zest of 
 being a man. 
 
 In the Spring that followed the conclusion of that 
 third year, she had reminded him of his promise to take 
 her once to Apsley. He jumped at it. 
 
 "A day in the country '11 do me all the good in the 
 world !" he exclaimed — ^"and you too. I'll write to Dolly 
 at once and see that no one's down there on Friday. If 
 there isn't, we'll go." 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 They made a day of it. In Trafalgar Square at 
 eleven o'clock the next morning, they stepped into a 
 taxi-cab — the same little vehicle that Taylor, from the 
 dining-room window, had seen spinning round the curve 
 of the drive. The hood was put down ; the warm sun- 
 shine, just touched with a light sting from the regions 
 of cold air through which it had passed, beat upon 
 their faces. To such a day, from the grey fogs and 
 lightless hours of winter, one comes, finding life well 
 worth its while. Sally sat with her hand wrapped in 
 Traill's, giving vent to a thousand expressions of de- 
 light, drawing his sudden attention to the thousand 
 things that pleased her eye — the faint wash of green 
 from the buds upon the hedgerows, the bright clusters 
 of primroses that struck light through the shadows in 
 the wood, forcing life through the thick carpet of dead 
 leaves that the trees had given back to earth. 
 
 "Does it worry you — ^my keeping on pointing out 
 things?" she asked at last. 
 
 "Worry? Lord, no! Shout as much as you like. It 
 reminds me of when I was a kid, coming back from Har- 
 row to Apsley for the holidays." 
 
 When they came in sight of the Manor, could per- 
 ceive through rents in the cloak of cedars that enveloped 
 it, the high, graceful Elizabethan chimneys and the 
 points of the red gables on which the starlings congre- 
 gated, Traill half rose to his feet with a straining of 
 his neck — a light of excitement in his eyes. 
 
SALLY BISHOP «65 
 
 ^ "THere it is!" he exclaimed. "That place through 
 the dark trees there. Jove, I haven't seen it for more 
 than three years." 
 
 She followed the direction in which his extended 
 finger pointed, and her eyes took in, not only Apsley, 
 but his life and the true gulf that lay between them. 
 As she saw it from there, she recognized it as a place 
 which, passing, even in those better days when her fa- 
 ther had lived in the quaint little rectory at Cailsham, 
 she might have exclaimed — "Oh, what a lovely place 
 that is! I wonder who lives there?" And it had be- 
 longed to him — ^this man who had taken her life out of 
 its dreary groove and placed it in a pleasure-garden of 
 plenty ; but the garden gate was not locked and the key 
 was not in her keeping. 
 
 This mood was momentary. It passed, scudding 
 across her mind, a fringe of rain cloud that the wind 
 has caught hanging between the hill-tops and driven at 
 its will. When Traill leant out of the car and gave 
 peremptory orders of direction, she forgot about it. 
 Then, in his almost boyish excitement, she realized how 
 much the place really was to him ; how much, notwith- 
 standing all his bohemianism, it counted in his life. 
 
 "You love this place — don't you.'"' she said when he 
 dropped back again into his seat. 
 
 "Yes — I should think so. I know every stick and 
 stone for miles round here. See that little lane up 
 there.?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Had a fight there once with a gamekeeper. Much 
 more exciting, I can tell you, than that show you saw 
 that night." 
 
 "Were you hurt?" she asked, frowning. 
 
 "Oh, not much, not more than he was. It was stopped 
 
256 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 precipitously by a stick, wielded by my governor. He'd 
 got wind of it. We hadn't much time to make a mess 
 of each other." 
 
 "I suppose it must be full of memories," she said. 
 "I can never understand why you should have given 
 it up." 
 
 "Oh, I was a fool of course. I wanted ready money 
 and I didn't want to sell the place — couldn't have sold 
 it. So I let my sister take it over for what the pater 
 had left her. That suited me at the time. Fm not sorry 
 that I saw far enough to re-purchase if I wanted to." 
 
 "You can re-purchase.-"' 
 
 "Lord, yes!" 
 
 "But you did not tell me that." 
 
 "Didn't I.'' Oh yes, I can re-purchase; five thousand 
 any day will make this place my own again. That's the 
 sum I took from my sister." 
 
 Sally inclined her head to show that she understood, 
 but she made no reply. The cloud had blown back 
 again into her mind. She felt the shadow of it, the 
 chill of it, even in the warm sunshine. It took no def- 
 inite shape, it brought no definite warning ; but she was 
 oppressively conscious of its presence and its weight 
 upon all her thoughts. 
 
 Then they entered the drive, swept up between the 
 long beds of brilliant tulips until the house came full 
 in view, and from that moment her little ejaculations of 
 delight and admiration were a pleasure to him and a 
 distraction to her. 
 
 "It's a wonderful old place!" she exclaimed. "And 
 doesn't it make it twice as wonderful to think that 
 Queen Elizabeth stayed here when it was just like it is 
 now !" This fact he had told her as they came down, 
 knowing that the childish enthusiasm of her mind would 
 
SALLY BISHOP 257 
 
 catch hold of it, drive it deep into her imagination and 
 hang thereon a pretty raiment of romance. 
 
 "Does add a bit of colour," he admitted with a smile. 
 "I expect she made it pretty expensive for the old gen- 
 tleman who entertained her. He probably had to keep 
 quiet for a few months after she'd gone, and lay re- 
 strictions on the household expenditure." 
 
 Then they drew up before the hall door and Traill 
 helped her to alight. 
 
 "I guess well make old Mrs. Butterick give us some 
 lunch first. Are you hungry?" He opened the hall 
 door and stood aside to let her enter. 
 
 "Yes, frightfully. I suppose it was the drive." 
 
 "All right, just a second ; you go round there through 
 the hall to the left — ^fine old hall isn't iti" — and the first 
 door on the left, that's the dining-room. I shan't be 
 long. I just want to see about getting this filthy col- 
 oured taxi out of the light and tell the gardener to get 
 the chauffeur a meal — you wait in the dining-room." 
 
 He closed the door again. Sally stood for a moment 
 looking about her. The old square panelling of oak — 
 black with age — the huge open grate with its logs of 
 wood ready for the burning, the ornaments of pewter — 
 old pewter jugs, old pewter plates with coats of arms 
 embossed upon their surface, all the perfection of it 
 awed her and, with a momentary wave of depression 
 that beat over her feelings of admiration, she felt an 
 interloper in a place that was beyond her wildest dreams 
 of avarice. It was with no little sense of reluctance, 
 even though the anticipation of meeting any one never 
 for the moment entered her head, that she made her 
 way slowly to the dining-room, hoping every moment 
 to hear his footsteps following her — giving her, so it 
 seemed, the right to her presence in so luxurious a place. 
 
25t SALLY BISHOP 
 
 No wonder He loved it. And then, the thought struck 
 at her, would it be any wonder if he re-purchased, as he 
 had said he had the right to do? And if that were to 
 happen — ^he was making his name now, and it well might 
 — would he bring her here to live with him? Would he 
 perhaps make her his wife? Or would they live, as 
 they lived together now? Or — ^and the thought drove 
 blood that was cold and chilling through her veins — 
 would it be impossible for them to live so publicly in 
 such a way, and would he then live alone? 
 
 She tried to shake herself free of this mood of con- 
 jecture, took the handle firmly within her fingers, opened 
 the door, and walked into the room. 
 
 The next moment her heart leapt, a live thing within 
 her, then lay still. Every action through her body 
 seemed suspended. She scarcely realized her physical 
 existence at all. It was as though she were conscious 
 only of mind, mind that was filled with perplexity, 
 astonishment, consternation, a mind that was being 
 buffeted by winds from every quarter of the compass of 
 sensation. And through it all, she struggled to drive 
 words together into sentences, words, that like a fiock 
 of witless sheep upon open ground, would not be driven, 
 but ran this way and jumped that in a frolicsome im- 
 becility of purpose. 
 
 And there she stood, just within the room, while Mrs. 
 Durlacher with slowly uplifting eyebrows of amaze- 
 ment rose gradually from the comfortable arm-chair to 
 her feet. 
 
 "Aren't you Miss — Miss ?" She tried to catch 
 
 the name in the air with her fingers. 
 
 "Bishop," said Sally with dry lips. 
 
 "Yes, of course. Bishop — ^Miss Bishop?" 
 
 Sally half inclined her head. 
 
SALLY BISHOP 259 
 
 "But what ?" she hesitated, knowing that the 
 
 rest of her sentence must be obvious, yet gaining time 
 to put the matter together — ^fit it to the whole from its 
 separate parts. This was the girl whom she had met 
 that night in Jack's room — ^the girl he had called a 
 lady. They were still acquainted, still friends — greater 
 friends than ever, since he had brought her down with 
 him to Apsley. Were they married? Married secretly? 
 She was a thousand times better dressed than she had 
 been before. The thought tasted bitter. She swallowed 
 the possibility of it with undeniable courage. 
 
 "Have you come down here with my brother?" she 
 asked, still in assumed bewilderment. 
 
 "Yes," replied Sally. "We — ^we came down in a taxi- 
 cab." 
 
 "But he never said he was bringing any one. He 
 wrote. I — I thought he was going to be alone." 
 
 Nothing could be said to this. To apologize for her 
 presence there would be ridiculous. Sally said nothing. 
 
 "Well," Mrs. Durlacher smiled, brushing away her 
 surprise with that half-breath of laughter which throws 
 a thin wrapping of amusement about a wealth of con- 
 temptuous resignation. "I'm afraid we haven't got 
 much of a lunch to offer you. I expect you'U be very 
 discontented with the slight fare I have provided for 
 Jack and myself. He ought to have told me. Do come 
 into the room, won't you? Wouldn't you like to take 
 off your coat?" 
 
 So, with that ease of apparent hospitality, she made 
 her guest as uncomfortable as possible, a glutton for 
 the slightest sign of embarrassment from Sally. Her 
 gluttony was well served. The poor child pitiably 
 looked once through the door, straining eager ears for 
 the sound of Traill's footsteps; then she closed it and 
 
260 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 came to the fireplace, taking the first chair that offered. 
 
 The sense that she had fallen into a trap, notwith- 
 standing all the perfect simulation of Mrs. Durlacher's 
 apparently genuine surprise, swept chillingly through 
 her blood. When once she became conscious again of 
 her bodily existence, felt the pulses throbbing in her 
 forehead, and knew that her heart was beating like the 
 muffled rattling of a kettledrum, she shuddered. Traill, 
 she knew, had nothing to do with it. If that thought, 
 with the force of conviction behind it, had entered her 
 mind, she would have fled; driven with the curhng lash 
 of fear — fear of life itself, fear of everything. But she 
 did not even contemplate it. It was the woman her in- 
 stinct distrusted. She had realized her an enemy before ; 
 now, in the purring tones of her tardy welcome, she 
 recognized in her an enemy whose aggressiveness is ac- 
 tive, brought into definite play. 
 
 Where lay the trap and how it had been set, she could 
 not conjecture; but that a trap was there, she was con- 
 vinced, and as she had walked unthinkingly into that 
 room, so she had unsuspiciously fallen into the cruel 
 iron jaws of the relentless machine. She sat in that 
 chair by the fire, gazing at the hissing logs as they spat 
 at the flames that licked them, and felt all the powerless- 
 ness, all the impotence, that the frightened rabbit knows 
 when it is caught in the device of the snarer. 
 
 "Did you come down from Town?" said Mrs. Dur- 
 lacher, presently. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "It's a nice drive, isn't it?" 
 
 "Oh yes, it's lovely." 
 
 "Let me see, how long is it since we met last?" 
 
 "Three years, I think, perhaps a little more." 
 
 "Of course — yes — of course it must be. What a good 
 
SALLY BISHOP 261 
 
 memory you have. Would you care to see over the 
 house before lunch? It's rather a charming old place, 
 don't you think so? But of course it's terribly untidy 
 now. I haven't started my house-parties yet, and every- 
 thing's generally more or less upside down till my hus- 
 band and I begin to come down regularly. Perhaps 
 you'd prefer to wait till after lunch, though?" 
 
 Sally rose willingly to her feet. 
 
 "Oh no. Not at all— I should like to see it immensely. 
 I think the hall is perfectly wonderful." 
 
 Mrs. Durlacher stood up, her eyes candidly criticizing 
 Sally's dress. 
 
 "Yes, it is rather quaint. We'U go through to the 
 library first." 
 
 Then, but not until that moment, not until she had 
 passed through the white heat of the fire, and had felt 
 her spirit charred, did any help come to her. Traill 
 opened the door abruptly and came into the room. From 
 the set line of his lips, both of them could see that his 
 temper was loose. His shutting of the door, every ac- 
 tion, was an expression of feelings to which an innate 
 sense of politeness made him deny speech. He crossed 
 the room without hesitation to join them, shaking hands 
 with his sister. 
 
 "They told me you were here, Dolly," he said, all 
 pleasure of meeting her stamped utterly from his voice. 
 
 "Well, I suppose they did," she replied with a laugh. 
 "Besides, didn't you see the car? I motored over this 
 
 morning. That reminds me " She played with 
 
 self-possession, it came so easily to her. " That reminds 
 me, Garrett wants a clean collar. Did you see Garrett i"' 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, did you ever see such a filthy collar as he's 
 wearing in all your life?" 
 
262 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 "I don't know " He crushed her flippancy with 
 
 the tone in his voice, the look in his eyes. "I don't go 
 about looking at other people's linen." 
 
 "No, but you'd have to if you sat behind Garrett as 
 I did this morning for something over an hour. You 
 couldn't help noticing it." 
 
 "Well, you can't expect a servant to be clean, can 
 you.'"' he retorted. "If he hides his uncleanliness that's 
 all you can demand of him." 
 
 She broke into a light, ringing laugh at his ironical 
 humour; but he took no notice of that. 
 
 "Where were you two going?" he added. He ad- 
 dressed the question to Sally, turning his eyes to 
 hers. 
 
 Mrs. Durlacher interposed the answer. "I was going 
 to show Miss Bishop round the house before lunch," 
 she said. "I thought you might show her the grounds 
 afterwards." 
 
 "She's much too tired to go tramping round the place 
 before lunch," said Traill, abruptly. "Remember we've 
 just been bumped down from Town — Trafalgar Square 
 — ^in a jolting taxi. No, she's too tired. She'd better 
 go and take off her hat, I think. Where's Taylor.?" 
 He moved towards the bell. "Taylor had better take 
 her up to the Elizabeth room, or your room if you don't 
 mind." 
 
 The outline of Mrs. Durlacher's lips tightened; but 
 Traill took no notice. He turned to Sally. "Like to 
 lay your hat on the spot where her gracious Majesty 
 was supposed to have rested a weary head, aching with 
 finance.'"' he asked. 
 
 Sally smiled. Admiration for him then was intense. 
 Mrs. Durlacher smiled as well; but for one instant, she 
 winced first. 
 
SALLY BISHOP. 263 
 
 "Let me do the honours, Jack, please" she said 
 sweetly, "at any rate in my own house." 
 
 That was a foolish thing to have said — ^the first false 
 step she had taken. But so far in the encounter, she knew 
 she was losing, and it takes a greater woman than she to 
 play a losing game. In the first clash of weapons, she 
 had been well-nigh disarmed, and the sting of the steel 
 in her loosened grip had touched her to that mo- 
 mentary loss of control. It was not so much the fact 
 that she had spoken of Apsley as her house. That piece 
 of boasting would have fallen from Traill's shoulders, 
 shaken off by the shrug with which he would have taken 
 it. It was the veiled insult to Sally, the iU-concealed 
 suggestion as to what their relations had been when she 
 had met Sally at the rooms in Regent Street, that 
 whipped him to reply. 
 
 He rang the bell imperturbably. That little action, 
 occupying the brief moment that it did, gave him ease 
 to temper his feelings ; then he turned. 
 
 "Don't let's worry about whose house it is," he said 
 coldly. " Miss Bishop's tired — ^that's our first consider- 
 ation. A taxi's not got the latest pattern of springs that 
 your car has." 
 
 Taylor entered the room. 
 
 "Taylor," he added. "Show Miss Bishop up to the 
 Elizabeth room." 
 
 He smiled at Sally as she departed; then, when the 
 door had closed, he turned back to his sister. 
 
 Now she was a lost woman, losing a losing game. Her 
 eyes sparkled with anger; she took her breath rapidly 
 between her teeth. 
 
 "How dare you bring your mistresses down here and 
 insult me in my own house!" she said recklessly. So 
 a woman, the best of them^ strikes when the points are 
 
264 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 turning against her. It is the rushing blow of the los- 
 ing man in the ring. Its comparison can be traced 
 through all sports — all games. There is always force 
 at the back of the blow, the brute force of desperation ; 
 but, with no head to guide it, it wastes itself in air. 
 Once delivered, striking nothing, with all the weight of 
 the body behind it, the body itself is unbalanced, loses 
 equilibrium, becomes a tottering mark for the answering 
 fist. 
 
 The moment she had said it, seeing the flame that it 
 lit in her brother's eyes, Mrs. Durlacher wished it un- 
 said. For the instant he gazed at her, then his anger 
 was spent. Knowing how wasted that blow was, he 
 turned to the mantelpiece and laughed. It was the 
 most bitter retaliation he could have made. She heard it 
 echoing through her brain as the fallen man, dazed and 
 helpless, just hears the seconds being meted out, yet can- 
 not rise, can lift no voice to stop them. 
 
 "What Miss Bishop is to me," he said quietly, "is 
 neither here nor there — only to be classed with one of 
 those impulsive conjectures of yours — ^just the same as 
 when you said that she was a milliner. You don't quite 
 know what you're speaking about, and that gives you 
 confidence. You're a woman. But you'll have to for- 
 give me if I correct you when you talk about this house 
 as yours — it's not — it's mine. You've scarcely what con- 
 stitutes a tenancy of it." 
 
 "Haven't you to put down the sum of five thousand 
 pounds before you can say that?" she asked, her voice 
 steadied, her impulses all under the curb now. She must 
 step lightly if she were to win after this. 
 
 "Do you think that would be a very difficult matter?" 
 he questioned in return. 
 
 "Well^ can you do it?" 
 
SALLY BISHOP 265 
 
 "Oh no," he smiled. "As a matter of fact, I never 
 carry more than four or five pounds in loose cash about 
 with me. Don't be a fool, Dolly. Do you want to irri- 
 tate me into doing something that you know would put 
 your nose out of joint for the rest of your natural life. 
 You know well enough, that I could find the money to- 
 morrow if I wanted to. You've irritated me quite 
 enough already." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "By coming down here." 
 
 "Why should that irritate you?" 
 
 "Because I guess pretty well your reasons. You 
 were expecting a lady — so Mrs. Butterick amiably told 
 me." He turned and looked at her fixedly. "You're as 
 cute as ten, Dolly, but I'm hanged if you know how to 
 play with me." 
 
 "Mrs. Butterick told you that?" she said. 
 
 "Yes — she spoke like a book. Like the book of Reve- 
 lations. Now, when I'd expressly asked you if I should 
 be alone when I came down, what the deuce did you want 
 to come for?" 
 
 "Don't you think you can speak a little more 
 politely?" she requested. 
 
 "That won't help the discussion from your side or 
 mine," he replied quietly. "But rather than give you 
 cause for interruption — I'll do so. Why did you come 
 down here?" 
 
 The mind of a woman works with amazing rapidity, 
 but it is impossible to see the direction it will take. 
 There are little insects known to our childish days as 
 skip-jacks. Scratch them with the end of a piece of 
 grass, and they reward you for your pains — they will 
 jump — ^bound with one spasmodic leap and vanish. So 
 is the working of a woman's mind. You can be al-^ 
 
266 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 most certain of the jump — but of the direction — ^never. 
 
 "Why?" Traill insisted, and then Mrs. Durlacher, 
 turning her gaze to the window, looked far away across 
 the stretch of fields ploughed and green, beyond the 
 blue, rising land that lifts above Wycombe, into that 
 distance which holds all the intricate mysteries qf a 
 woman's being. When a woman looks like this, a man 
 strains eyes to follow her. He realizes all the distance, 
 but cannot with his utmost effort decipher what it con- 
 tains. And that very inability in him is the strongest 
 weapon that she holds. He sees the distance, yet there 
 is none. No wonder that he cannot discern its contents. 
 There is no distance. She is looking inwards — not out- 
 wards ; searching her own mind, searching his, and only 
 playing the game of contemplation to hide what she has 
 found. 
 
 When Traill saw that expression of her face, he 
 dropped the note of brass from his voice. 
 
 "Why?" he asked again, almost gently. 
 
 Her lips bound tight together as though she were 
 keeping back her confession ; her nostrils dilated, check- 
 ing tears. 
 
 "I wanted to see you — ^that's all." 
 
 She said it with a shrug of the shoulders — the mo- 
 tion with which you shake an unwelcome thought from 
 your mind. 
 
 He pressed her further. "But you apparently knew 
 I was bringing some one?" he said. 
 
 She still looked towards her invisible horizon. " I 
 guessed that — guessed that from your letter — the way 
 you said you wanted to find no one down here. I , 
 thought you wouldn't mind my coming— besides — there 
 was no one to order anything for you, and then — as I 
 said — I wanted to see you." 
 
SALLY BISHOP 267 
 
 "Yes, but why?" He took her arm, held the elbow 
 in the cup of his hand. 
 
 She looked once more — looked long into her distance 
 — then turned, petulantly almost, with a smothered sigh 
 to the fireplace, rested her feet upon the fender, and 
 redirected her gaze into the heart of the fire. 
 
 "Oh, it's no good talking about it now," she said. 
 "Miss Bishop '11 be down in a minute," 
 
 "Aren't you happy ? That it ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You aren't happy.'"' 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Harold.? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 On the fender she beat out her thoughts. 
 
 "All the things she wants to say and is too proud," 
 he said to himself as he watched the tapping of her 
 dainty toe. That was precisely what he was meant to 
 think. 
 
 "What's he done.""' he asked. 
 
 " 'Tisn't what he's done — I don't tliink he's done any- 
 thing." 
 
 "Then what?" He put his hand on her shoulder. 
 "Poor old Dolly," he said softly. "But why did you 
 say that about bringing mistresses down here?" 
 
 She looked up frankly — generously into his eyes. 
 "Jealousy," she admitted. 
 
 He laughed lightly. It just caught the edge of his 
 vanity to which she played. Then, bending down, he 
 kissed her, and as Sally entered the room, she saw the 
 kiss — ^to her, a kiss of Judas. In that instant, the in- 
 tuition that it was she who was betrayed, shot upwards 
 like a flame of fire, rushing the blood in a burning race 
 to her temples. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 You may jeer at the instinct of a woman, plant the 
 straight line of logic beside it and ridicule the compari- 
 son as you choose, but it is a sense, a subliminal sense, 
 number it as you like, upon which she can rely as surely 
 as on touch or scent or sight. 
 
 "One of those impulsive conjectures of yours," Traill 
 had said to his sister in reply to her intuition of his 
 relations with Sally. "You don't quite know what you're 
 speaking about, and that gives you confidence. You're 
 a woman." In the face of her accuracy he had said 
 that. It is the only retaliation a man has when a woman 
 betrays the amazing abnormality of that sense which 
 he can never hope to possess. He resorts to one weapon, 
 the scientific reliability of evidence. 
 
 "Where's your evidence.'"' he asks, and having none, 
 he smiles at her. But she knows ; a knowledge that will 
 sweep her into the fire of action, whilst he is methodically 
 buckling on his armour of conviction with the straps 
 of logical evidence. 
 
 It was this instinct, this sixth sense in Sally, that had 
 cast her mind forward, flung it beyond herself into the 
 future, where she saw the Tragedy that awaited her. 
 From the moment she had seen that kiss, she had known 
 that she had an enemy whose weapons were sure, whose 
 wielding of them was quick and keen. From that mo- 
 ment, standing on the rise of so small, so insignificant 
 an incident, she had seen ahead into the years and known 
 
SALLY BISHOP 26d 
 
 what her end would be. With what evidence? None! 
 With what reason? Little indeed of that. That they 
 were standing with swords drawn when she had left the 
 room and that when she returned the swords were sleep- 
 ing in their scabbards and they were kissing to make 
 friends — how much was there to be reasoned from that? 
 Were not such incidents common to the relationship be- 
 tween brother and sister? Yet, beyond all that, Sally 
 saw with a clearness of vision that penetrated every 
 obvious deduction; saw away into the stretch of Time 
 when his sister would have won him back to her side 
 where she could have no place, no existence. 
 
 It might have been wrong, quite easily could have 
 been false a thousand times, but it was knowledge to 
 her, sure, fateful, undeniable knowledge ; and from that 
 day her instinct was keyed to find its proof. The can- 
 cerous disease of jealousy had dropped its first seed in 
 the blood of her, and the vulturous growth began to 
 spread its lean, clutching fingers about her heart. 
 
 "My sister's not hitting it off with her husband," 
 Traill told her, that afternoon as they drove back to 
 London. 
 
 "Is that what she was telhng you when I went upstairs 
 to take off my hat?" asked Sally. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "That was why you kissed her?" 
 
 "Exactly; did you see me kissing her?" 
 
 "Yes, when I came into the room." 
 
 "Yes; well that's it. I always thought Durlacher 
 was a fool," he added meditatively. "Used to tell her 
 so before she married him. What in the name of God 
 can you expect of a guardsman? He's one of those 
 men who just lives through life — taking all, giving 
 nothing. I doubt if the rotting of his body will be 
 
270 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 t 
 
 manure for the earth when he dies. He'd sell it if it 
 were." 
 
 Sally closed her eyes, then opened them suddenly to 
 study his face. Such stray phrases as these that fell 
 from his lips always kept the knowledge in her mind of 
 how hard he was. 
 
 "Has he been unkind to her.!"' she hazarded. She 
 forced a spurious interest to please him. 
 
 "She says not — ^but then — she doesn't know. It's 
 perhaps as well that she doesn't. My experience of di- 
 vorce leads me to see that it's a dog's game ; mountains 
 are made out of mole-hills to weight the case one way 
 or another, and he could probably retaliate with a lot 
 of half-truths, quite unprovable ; but the mere mention- 
 ing of them in the courts would leave a stain on her. 
 No, it's perhaps as well that she doesn't know as much 
 as I do. She just thinks they don't get on and a patch 
 can settle a thing like that. Lord! The number of 
 people nowadays who pull along all right, with marriage 
 lines that are unrecognizable from their original condi- 
 tion because of the patches here and the patches there — 
 why, they're legion !" 
 
 "Are you going to do anything about it?" she asked. 
 
 "Me.'' Oh, I suppose I shall have to be a sort of go- 
 between. She's my sister, and as far as I can see, she's 
 pretty miserable." 
 
 On this account, then, began his first visits to Sloane 
 Street. There, the actors in this little play went 
 through their parts — ^well trained, well rehearsed. There 
 was never a note of the prompter's voice to reach the 
 ears of Traill from the wings. He listened quietly, sym- 
 pathetically to her tardy admission of the state of af- 
 fairs. Three times he went to Sloane Street in the after- 
 noon before he was placed in possession of all the subtle 
 
SALLY BISHOP 271 
 
 details and never once did he meet Durlacher. Dur- 
 lacher, himself, was always away. It must be admitted 
 that Traill was interested in these intricate details. 
 They gave him insight into the vagaries, the pitfalls and 
 the fallacies of the life with which he had to deal in the 
 divorce courts. Undoubtedly they were of service to 
 him ; undoubtedly, moreover, blood is thicker than water, 
 and he thought, he imagined, that he would be able to 
 save his sister from an impending crisis. 
 
 On the third occasion, whilst they were sitting over 
 tea in the drawing-room, the door opened and the man- 
 servant announced — Miss Standish-Roe. 
 
 Traill stood up with a jerk and felt for his gloves. 
 
 Mrs. Durlacher's eyes lost no sight of that and she 
 hurried quickly forwards. 
 
 "My dear child, how sweet of you !" She kissed her 
 cheek affectionately. "Let me introduce you to my 
 brother." 
 
 Traill turned and his mind was cast back to the night 
 he had dined with his sister at the restaurant. This 
 was the girl he had noticed; her father was the man 
 who sat on boards in the city. He bowed with his eyes 
 on her face. 
 
 "Surely you're not going to go yet, Jack," said Mrs. 
 Durlacher. Her eyes were feverishly watching his hands 
 as he began slowly to draw on his gloves. He hesitated. 
 Miss Standish-Roe took the seat he had vacated and 
 looked questioningly up into his face as though it were 
 she who had made the request. 
 
 "Very well," he said, "Then I'll have another cup 
 of tea with you." 
 
 From that moment, and Mrs. Durlacher's heart had 
 leaped with exultation, she began to play for his hu- 
 mour, baiting the line that she cast with those little 
 
272 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 turns of phrase, those little feathers of speech which 
 she knew would tempt him to rise to the surface of his 
 mood. In a few moments, he was entertaining them with 
 his tirades against conventional institutions. , 
 
 "Conventionality," he exclaimed ; "I'd sooner have the 
 honest vice of a man who pleads guilty ; I'd a thousand 
 times sooner defend his case, than urge for a woman 
 who just holds on to the virtue of conventionality with 
 the tips of her fingers." 
 
 "You gave that lady a bad time the other day, Mr. 
 Traill," said Miss Standish-Roe, admiringly. 
 
 "I did? Which one.?" 
 
 "The lady who admitted to kissing the co-respondent." 
 
 "Why, you weren't in the court were you?" 
 
 "No — ^but I read it in the paper — ^your sister told me 
 about it." 
 
 Mrs. Durlacher looked apprehensively to her brother's 
 eyes. From so small a thing as that he might unearth 
 suspicion. But a pardonable vanity was touched in him. 
 He turned no ground to find the intentions that lay 
 beneath. 
 
 "Well, there was a case," he said. "I've no doubt 
 the woman was innocent of the worst ; but that was an 
 exact case of the virtue of conventionality. She'd just 
 hung on to it, scraping her nails. She deserved all she 
 got." 
 
 "And you persisted in trying to prove her guilty?" 
 said Miss Standish-Roe, in amazement. "When you 
 thought her innocent?" 
 
 "Why not?" he retorted. "Society wants to be 
 purged of that sort of woman, and it's full of 'em." 
 
 Mrs. Durlacher deftly changed the subject. 
 
 "I've got a box to-morrow night. Jack, at some theatre 
 or other," she said casually. "Harold's going out to 
 
SALLY BISHOP 273 
 
 dinner, will you dine with us and drag us along there?" 
 
 "Who'ous?" 
 
 "Miss Standish-Roe and myself. We shall be all 
 alone if you don't." 
 
 Sally's face rose in Traill's mind. If he went, this 
 would be the first evening, except for those engagements 
 which his profession demanded, on which he would have 
 left her to dine at a restaurant by herself. But was he 
 bound? Not in the least! The consideration that it 
 might even seem to an outsider, decided him. 
 
 "Yes, I'll come," he said. "What time dinner?" 
 
 Again there was exultation in the heart of Mrs. 
 Durlacher. 
 
 "Better be seven-thirty," she said. 
 
 He agreed. It never suggested itself to him that he 
 wanted to go. He hated to seem bound. That was his 
 reason. So he took it with an open mind, questioning 
 nothing. 
 
 When he had gone, Mrs, Durlacher turned to her 
 friend. 
 
 "You can come — can't you?" she asked. 
 
 Miss Standish-Roe nodded her head. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 That evening, Traill removed the first pillar in the 
 structure which Sally had built — the Temple of her 
 security. Notwithstanding all Janet's advice, heed- 
 less, utterly, of Janet's point of view which had been 
 held before her eyes on almost every occasion on which 
 they had met during the last three years, she persisted 
 in believing more surely in the mooring of her life to 
 Traill's, so long as no mention of settlement was ever 
 suggested. 
 
 There was fuU reason on her side for this. Unable 
 to accept conditions as Janet would have had her take 
 them — the abandoning of one master for the service 
 of another — she knew that so long as Traill kept her 
 by his side without word of agreement, his honour as 
 the gentleman she always knew him to be would re- 
 main as binding as any sanction of the Church. 
 
 On this evening, then, when he returned from his 
 visit in Sloane Street, they went out together to the 
 little restaurant in Soho where they had taken their 
 first dinner together. 
 
 There was Berthe and Marie — there was Madame 
 — there was Alexandre — all still working together 
 with the precious regularity of the Dutch clock. 
 
 "Bon soir, monsieur — ^bon soir, madame." Not an 
 inflection was changed, not a note was altered. The 
 firm hand of necessity had wound them up day after 
 day, all those three years, and they had ticked to- 
 gether and tocked together to the swing of the pen- 
 dulum of fortune ever since. 
 
 "I shall always love this place," said Sally cheer- 
 
SALLY BISHOP 275 
 
 I 
 fully, as tHey sat down at the same table — sous I'esca- 
 lier, 
 
 "WHy?" 
 
 "Because you first brought me here." She stretched 
 her hand across the table and lovingly touched his 
 fingers. She was happy, then. 
 
 "You're not sorry that I did?" he asked seriously. 
 
 "Sorry — no! How could I be?" Trouble came too 
 quickly into her eyes. It left them slower than it came. 
 
 "Do you remember what you said to me" — ^he re- 
 minded her — ^"just before we went on to my rooms?" 
 
 "I said so many things." 
 
 "No — oh, you didn't. You said so few; but you 
 said one that struck in — deep — straight home." 
 
 "What was that?" 
 
 " You said I was a gentleman." 
 
 "So I believed then, when I first saw you. So I know 
 now, after these three years and more." 
 
 "You know it — do you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Yet I've never said anything to you about what I 
 intend to give you for yourself, in your own right." 
 
 Pain struck into Sally's eyes. Her lips parted in fear 
 and anticipation. 
 
 "Have you taken all that on trust?" he continued. 
 "If I were to die, suppose — death is a great deed that 
 even the smallest of us are able to accomplish — ■ 
 Berthe!" He turned to the attendant who was wait- 
 ing — "Consomme — Omelette aux fines herbes — et poulet 
 roti aux cressons." 
 
 "Oui, monsieur — Consomme — pour deux, monsieur?" 
 
 "The whole lot pour deux." 
 
 Berthe laughed with her little cooing sound in the 
 throat. 
 
276 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 "Omelette aux fines herbes, et poulet roti aux cressons 
 — oui, monsieur." 
 
 She departed and they listened to the repetition of 
 it all— 
 
 "Deux consommes — deux — " as she shouted it through 
 the little doorway to the kitchen. 
 
 "Supposing I were* to die," Traill repeated. He 
 leant his elbows on the table and gazed steadily into 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Why should you talk like that?" she pleaded, and 
 all the while through her brain scampered the questions 
 — "Does he mean if he were to die? Doesn't he mean 
 if he were to leave me?" They danced a mad dance 
 behind her eyes. Had he looked deep enough, he might 
 have seen their capers. 
 
 "Because that sort of thing has to be talked," he 
 said gently. "You haven't the faintest idea whether 
 I've made any provision for you or not. I've often 
 wondered would you ask, but you've never said a word. 
 Aren't you rather foolish? Do you think you take 
 enough care for yourself? Do you think you look far 
 enough into the future? Don't you think you treat 
 life too much in the same way as you did my offer of 
 the umbrella on the top of the Hammersmith 'bus?" 
 
 Many another woman would have had it out then; 
 flung the questions at him, preferring knowledge rather 
 than torture of mind. To Sally this was impossible. 
 Again she showed those same characteristics of her fa- 
 ther. She hoped against almost all absence of promise ; 
 she had faith in the face of the blackest doubt. He had 
 said — if he died— perhaps he meant that. Yet the kiss- 
 ing of his sister lifted like a shadow in a dream before 
 her eyes. She knew he had been with Mrs. Durlacher 
 that afternoon. Could she have won him still further? 
 
SALLY BISHOP 277 
 
 Sally knew her own impotence — ^bowed under it, recog- 
 nized fully how powerless she was to hold him if once 
 the links in the chain of their caring began to lose their 
 grip. And how, he was offering to make provision for 
 her. Inevitably that seemed to be the beginning of the 
 end. Before, she was his, with that emotional phrase in 
 her mind — as God had made them. Now she was to be- 
 come his, because he had bought her, paid for her. 
 There lay in that the difference between two worlds in 
 her mind ; and she fought against it with what strength 
 she knew. 
 
 "I don't want to look into the future," she said 
 bravely. "I hate looking into the future. I'm happy 
 in the present; why shouldn't I remain so.""' 
 
 "How will this prevent you? Doesn't it appeal to 
 you at all, that when we came to live together, I took 
 up a certain responsibility with you? I've got to ful- 
 fill that responsibility. This evening, when we go back, 
 I'm going to draw out some form of settlement which I 
 intend to place with you. I shall take it to my solicitor 
 and get it legalized to-morrow morning." 
 
 She leant forward across the table and touched his 
 hand again. Her lips were trembling; her whole face, 
 which only a few moments before was bright with cheer- 
 fulness, was now drawn, pinched with the suffering and 
 terror in her mind. 
 
 "Please don't," she said brokenly. "Please don't. I 
 don't want any settlement as long as you care for me. 
 What is a settlement to me if, as you say, you were to 
 die? What good would it be to me then? Do you 
 think I could bear to go on living?" 
 
 He searched her face with amazement. "You mustn't 
 talk foolishness like this," he replied firmly, but not 
 unkindly. "We've »U got our own lives to get through. 
 
278 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 We've all got to answer for them one by one, and live 
 them one by one as well. There's no condition of re- 
 lationship in existence, which can make a man and a 
 woman one person except in their imaginations and 
 according to the fairy tales of the Church. You're a 
 dear, simple, little child to talk about not being able 
 to go on living if I were to peg out; but you would. 
 You'd go on living. There's no doubt in my mind, but 
 that you'd love some one else again." 
 
 "You little understand me," she exclaimed bitterly, 
 "if you could ever think that." 
 
 "Well — ^in that respect, at least, I believe I under- 
 stand human nature; and in that respect, too, I im- 
 agine it must be a surer criterion from which to judge 
 of such matters. I don't insist upon it as a certainty 
 — I only suppose it possible. But in any event you 
 would want money to live upon, and my mind is quite 
 made up that I ought to make a settlement on you. 
 Why should you not want me to — eh.'' Why?" 
 
 She hung her head. To tell him, when she had no 
 definite proof that he had thought of leaving her, might 
 be to put the thought Into his mind. She could not 
 tell him. But pride did not enter the matter in the 
 least. If it could have served her purpose in any way, 
 she would willingly have let him know that she counted 
 it possible for him to desert her. But the fear that it 
 might create a suggestion to his consciousness which 
 hitherto had not existed, locked the words in her lips. 
 She would not have uttered them for a crown of wealth. 
 
 "Why?" he repeated. "Eh?" 
 
 "I'd rather you didn't," she said, with trouble in 
 her voice. "I'd rather you didn't — that's all." 
 
 "Well — I'm afraid it's got to be," he replied finally. 
 "In my mind it's not fair to you, and I'm determined 
 
SALLY BISHOP 279 
 
 that wHere jou're concerned, I shall Have nothing with 
 which to reproach myself. I shall draw it up this even- 
 ing when we go back." 
 
 She looked pitiably about her. Now it seemed that 
 the little Dutch clock, which had been ticking so merrily, 
 so much in unison with life, all went out of time. It 
 seemed a farce then, that little Dutch clock. All the 
 romance went out of it — it was only a trade — a trade 
 machine for the making of money, no longer the count- 
 ing of happy hours. Everything seemed a trade then 
 — everything seemed a trade. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 That evening the settlement was drawn up. When 
 he had finished it, Traill held it out to her. 
 
 "You'd better just read it through," he said; "the 
 substance of it is there. To legalize, merely means to 
 write the same thing at greater length and in less com- 
 prehensive English." 
 
 "I don't want to read it," she replied. 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 "It doesn't interest me. You've written it to please 
 yourself, not to please me. Please don't ask me to 
 read it!" 
 
 He was unable to follow the reasoning of this, and 
 he shrugged his shoulders with a sense of irritation. 
 "As you wish," he said quietly and put the paper away 
 in a drawer of his bureau. "I'll give you a copy of 
 this, at any rate." 
 
 Before they had gone abroad, Traill had taken a lease 
 of the floor above his chambers, which contained rooms 
 similar in shape and size to those in which he lived. 
 These he had decorated and furnished according to the 
 slightest wish that he could induce Sally to express. 
 In the room which she used as a sitting-room, he had 
 given her a piano with permission to play on it when- 
 ever he was not in the rooms below. Most of the day- 
 time, then, she was at liberty to make what noise she 
 liked and, at all times, free to have any friends she 
 wished to see her, on the strict understanding that he 
 was not bothered with them. 
 
SALLY BISHOP 281 
 
 There was only one friend. Janet came to see her 
 on every occasion when Traill had to be out for the 
 evening — at a Law Courts dinner or some such public 
 function, but she never met him. 
 
 "Why doesn't he want to meet your friends?" Janet 
 once asked her. 
 
 "I have only one," Sally had replied, laughing. 
 
 "Well — ^why won't he meet me? I suppose you've 
 shown him that photograph you've got of me? It's 
 enough to put any man off." 
 
 "I shall never take any notice when you talk like 
 that," said Sally, 
 
 j "Very well — don't! But why is it?" 
 [■ "I think I know — ^but I'm afraid you'll be angry." 
 
 "No, I shan't. Come along — out with it!" 
 
 "Well — I told him once — that first day I dined with 
 him — that I should love you two to meet. I said I'd 
 love to hear you argue " 
 
 "Oh, God!" exclaimed Janet, She cast her eyes up 
 to the ceiling. "That did it ! AVhat did he say?" 
 
 "He said he could love a woman, but he couldn't 
 argue with her." 
 
 "Yes — of course he did. A woman has to be con- 
 foundedly pretty before a man's going to let her have 
 a point of view. Even then, if she isn't fairly cute, it's 
 his own he gives her. Then I suppose when you came 
 to live here, he saw my photograph?" 
 
 "I suppose he — ^yes, I think he did. I showed it to 
 him ; or he asked who it was." 
 
 Janet broke out into a peal of harsh — strident 
 laughter. 
 
 "It's a wonder he risks your bringing me as near as 
 the next floor," she had said. "Lord! A woman with 
 a face like mine, who argues ! God help us !" 
 
282 SALLY BISHOE 
 
 I 
 
 But once she had understood that point, Janet had 
 
 never alluded to it again ; had made no effort to catch 
 a glimpse of the man who so filled Sally's life. So 
 much, in fact, had she endeavoured to avoid their con- 
 tact that, on one occasion, when she and Sally had been 
 climbing up to the second floor, and the door of his 
 room was opened, through which his voice had sounded, 
 calling to Sally, she had run hurriedly up the stairs out 
 of sight, her heart thumping with excitement when he 
 had shouted out — 
 
 "Who the devil's that?" 
 
 The inclination to shout back — "What the devil's 
 that to you?" she had clipped on the tip of her tongue; 
 but only for Sally's sake. 
 
 On this evening, then, that the settlement was drawn 
 up, Sally had slowly climbed the stairs to the floor 
 above, and once in her little sitting-room, with the door 
 closed behind her, she had seated herself upon the settee 
 near the fireplace and gazed into the cheerless, unlighted 
 fire with dry and tearless eyes. 
 
 To her, the shadow of the end fell on everything. 
 Just a little more than three years and a bend in the 
 road had shown it stretching across her path. True, 
 it was only a shadow. He had said nothing whatever 
 about leaving her; had not even suggested it in the 
 slightest word he had uttered. She must pass through 
 the shadow, then; but what lay upon the other side 
 was beyond her knowledge, though not beyond her fear. 
 
 To drive the apprehensions from her mind, she rose 
 suddenly, shrugging shoulders, as though her blood 
 were cold, and went to the piano. Without thinking, 
 she sat down, began to play; then her hands lifted 
 from the keys as if they burnt her touch. She had as 
 suddenly remembered. Traill was below. For a mo- 
 
SALLY BISHOP. 283 
 
 ment longer sHe sat there, just touching, feeling the 
 notes with the tips of her fingers — ^listening to the 
 sounds in her mind — then she rose, standing motion- 
 less, attentive to all the little noises in-4he room below. 
 
 She heard the clink of a glass. He was taking his 
 whisky. The sound indicated that he would soon be 
 going to bed. She glanced at the clock, ticking 
 daintily on her mantelpiece. It was just after eleven. 
 Thoughts, calculations began to wander to her mind. 
 Downstairs, he had said good night, kissed her — gently, 
 as he always did — and opened the door for her as she 
 came upstairs. But then he did that every night. 
 Every evening he kissed her, every evening he said 
 good night; but then perhaps, some half -hour later, 
 she would hear him mounting the stairs to her room, 
 and her heart would hammer like steel upon an anvil 
 until he had knocked at her door and she had whispered 
 —"Come in." 
 
 Would he come up that evening, she wondered. Two 
 weeks now had passed since he had been to her thus, 
 and so her mind — searching, as it would seem, for its 
 trouble — intuitively connected the circumstance with 
 this event of the settlement. So she drove herself to 
 judge him by the lowest standards — those standards of 
 judgment to which a woman at last resorts when she 
 thinks she sees the waning of her influence. That in 
 the heart of them they seldom put first, but last. Yet 
 in the ninety-nine cases out of a hundred it is, in a man, 
 the soonest to come and the soonest to go, while fond- 
 ness, caring and affection may remain behind, un- 
 touched by its departure. The beast in the every man 
 has little to do with the intellect, and it is with his in- 
 tellect, above all things, that he loves truest and most 
 of all. 
 
284 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 But here Sally fell into that most common of wom- 
 en's mistakes. She judged him by his passions. If 
 she did not hear his footsteps on the stairs that night ; 
 if his knock did not fall upon the door and startle the 
 silence in her heart into a thousand pulsating echoes, 
 then she knew that she would be one step nearer to the 
 realization that it was the end indeed. 
 
 She looked again at the clock and then, with sud- 
 den decision, went into the other room and began to 
 undress. From a drawer in the Chippendale chest which 
 he had bought her, she brought forth a new nightdress, 
 in-let with dainty openwork, which a few days before 
 she had purchased. This she put on. Then she went 
 to the mirror, scrutinizing herself in its polished re- 
 flection. Her hair was untidy. She took it all down 
 and put it up afresh, curling the long strands around 
 her fingers as he had often said he had loved to see 
 them. When that was finished, she sprayed herself 
 with scent — on her hair, her arms, her breast, turning 
 the spray, before it spluttered into silence, in the direc- 
 tion of the pillow upon which she slept. Finally, she 
 knelt down by her bedside and prayed — 
 
 "Oh God — let him love me — always— always ; show 
 me how I can keep him to love me — always — always." 
 
 So she prayed for a way, having already chosen it, 
 as once before she had prayed for guidance, well know- 
 ing what course she was about to adopt. So most of 
 us pray that we may know those things on which we 
 have decided knowledge already. It helps us in the 
 throwing of blame on to the shoulders of God. It con- 
 soles us — the deed being done — ^when we think that — at 
 least — ^we prayed. 
 
 When she rose to her feet, she stood listening — 
 
 listening intently. Then she moved to her bedroom 
 
SALLY BISHOP 285 
 
 door and opened it. She could hear him still moving 
 in his room below; but now it was in the room beneath 
 hers — ^beneath her bedroom. He was going to bed. 
 She crept to the top of the stairs. Every sound she 
 could hear there, the dropping of his boots on the floor, 
 the opening and shutting of his cupboard doors as he 
 put his clothes away. Then, last of all, the creaking 
 of the springs of his bed as he got into it and moved 
 to right and left, seeking the comfortable groove. 
 
 A heavy sigh forced its way through her lips. She 
 had to swallow hastily in her throat to check the sud- 
 den rising of the tears. At last, with impulsive deci- 
 sion, she went back to her room, took a silk dressing- 
 gown from the wardrobe, fitted her feet into little silk 
 slippers and, without hesitation, without pausing to 
 formulate her definite plan of action, she crept down 
 the stairs again, opened the door of his sitting-room 
 and stole in. 
 
 "Jack," she whispered. "Jack !" 
 
 Her throat was dry and the low voice found no re- 
 sonance from the roof of her mouth. There was no an- 
 swer. He had not heard her. 
 
 "Jack!" She said it again and tapped faintly on 
 his door. 
 
 "That you, Sally.?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What is it.'' Come in. I'm in bed. Believe I was 
 asleep. VSTiat is it? Come in." 
 
 She opened the door gently. He sat up in bed, found 
 matches, struck one and lit a candle. 
 
 "Lord!" he exclaimed, "you'll catch your death of 
 cold. What do you want, child?" 
 
 "I can't get to sleep," she murmured, blinking her 
 eyes at the sudden glare of the candle. 
 
286 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 He sat there, looking at her, his eyes dazed, half 
 awake. 
 
 "I don't know." 
 ' "Thinking too much?" 
 
 "Yes, I suppose so." 
 
 "Well, count sheep going through a gate. 'A hun- 
 dred's the prescribed amount." 
 
 She tried to smile because she knew that if she did 
 not, he would think she was unhappy or depressed. 
 
 "No, I want you to let me have a book," she said; 
 "I think perhaps if I read " 
 
 "Of course, take anything you like, and try smoking 
 a cigarette. That may make you drowsy." 
 
 He lay back on the pillows. For a moment, she 
 stood, undecided as to what to do; then she went into 
 the other room, taking up the first book that her hands 
 touched in the darkness. There, again, she waited in 
 silence. At last she undid the fastenings that held her 
 dressing-gown tight about her and came back again 
 into the room. 
 
 "What did you get?" he asked. 
 
 She looked for the first time at the cover. 
 
 "Macaulay's 'History of England.' " 
 
 The springs of the bed creaked to his chuckle of 
 laughter. 
 
 "You'll go to sleep all right now," he said. 
 
 "But I think I'd like a cigarette, if I might." 
 
 "Yes, why not?" 
 
 "Where shall I find them?" 
 
 "In the case, in my waistcoat pocket. It's hanging 
 over the back of the chair. What a ridiculous child 
 you are to let that dressing-gown flap open like that. 
 You'll catch your death of cold. Fasten it up — go on !" 
 
SALLY BISHOE 287 
 
 SKe reluctantly did as she was bid; then searched for 
 the case. When she had found it, she came down to the 
 side of his bed and stood there, picking nervously at the 
 cigarette in her fingers. 
 
 "Would you like me to blow out the candle.?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "Oh no, that's aU right. I can blow It out from here. 
 You get to the door and see your way out first." 
 
 She sat down slowly on the bed by his side, then bent 
 forward, winding one arm around his neck, leaning the 
 full weight of her body upon him. 
 
 "Good night," she whispered as her lips touched 
 his. 
 
 "By Jove, you do smell of scent!" he exclaimed. 
 "Do you always drown yourself in scent before you go 
 to bed.?" 
 
 "No." Her mouth was dry, her tongue like leather, 
 scraping against her teeth. "Not always." 
 
 "Well, good night, little woman; you read half a 
 page of Macaulay and you'll soon get to sleep. Kiss 
 me." 
 
 She kissed him, longingly and then, as he half tried 
 to turn, she felt conscious of her dismissal and rose 
 hurriedly from the bed. 
 
 "Can you find your way upstairs without a candle.?" 
 he asked, when she had opened the door. 
 
 "Oh yes," she said stridently, "quite easily." And 
 she departed, closing the door behind her. With a 
 glimmer of wonder in his mind, he blew out the candle, 
 just listened until he heard her footsteps pattering 
 overhead, then turned over and fell asleep. 
 
 But there was no sleep to be found for Sally. When 
 she was once within her room, she flung book and cigar- 
 ette upon the bed and her body, just as she was, across 
 
288 SALLY BISHOP. 
 
 them. Then came the deluge of her tears. If he had 
 waited, listening to the sounds one moment longer be- 
 fore he went to sleep, he would have heard the choking 
 sobs that broke between her lips. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 When Traill same back early from the Temple the 
 next evening and told Sally that he was dining with his 
 sister at the house in Sloane Street, she took the an- 
 nouncement in silence, eyes lifting to his in a steady 
 question, her heart wearily adding one more figure to 
 the column of events which she had already compiled 
 against her hopes of happiness. 
 
 As yet, openly, she dared question nothing. She knew 
 too well the outlook of his mind where freedom of his 
 own action was concerned. Now she was beginning to 
 realize the full extent, the full impotence of her position 
 as his mistress. Had she been legally his wife, he had 
 given her no cause to complain, created no right for her 
 criticism. As his mistress, she was still less justified in 
 questioning his actions and to do so would, she knew to 
 a certainty, bring down his wrath, more surely than ever 
 draw., to a close their relationship, the termination of 
 which was shadowing itself upon the surface of her sus- 
 picion. 
 
 "Is your sister getting on better with her husband.!"' 
 she asked. 
 
 "Somewhat, I think. I don't really know — ^it's diffi- 
 cult to say. I haven't seen him yet. She doesn't want 
 me to speak to him about it. She thinks it might only 
 make things worse. Says I've got a blunt way that 'ud 
 ruffle what little patience he's got." 
 
 Sally looked directly, deeply into his eyes. 
 
 "Yqu really think it is serious?" she said. "I suppose 
 
290 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 it wouldn't have been possible for her to have imagined 
 it?" 
 
 "Imagined it? No! Why? What should she have 
 imagined it for? We Traills haven't got an ounce of 
 imagination between us. How could she imagine it? 
 What good would it do her? A woman doesn't hesitate 
 and stumble and drag a thing out of her with tears in 
 her eyes, hating to talk about it, when the whole business 
 is only a tissue of her imagination. Besides, what would 
 she gain by it?" 
 
 "Your sympathy," Sally replied. 
 
 Traill walked into his bedroom with a laugh. 
 
 "A deuced lot she really cares about my sympathy," 
 he exclaimed. "I assure you Dolly's not a sentimentalist. 
 She only wants to cling to her rung of the ladder, that's 
 all." 
 
 That was all, and Sally knew it; but she could say 
 no more. She had tried to plant the seed of suspicion 
 in his mind. She had failed. The ambitions which 
 were a motive to all his sister's actions, he could see well 
 enough; but to the means she used in gratifying them, 
 he was blind. And Sally, though she knew nothing, 
 dared not attempt the opening of his eyes. 
 
 "Are you going to change now?" she asked. 
 
 He mumbled an affirmative. She realized, sensitively, 
 that his mind was pre-occupied with other things and, 
 quietly, she crept out of the room, upstairs to the other 
 floor where she stood, looking out of the window, finding 
 her eyes watching the women who were wheeling round 
 the corner of the Circus into Piccadilly, with skirts tight 
 gripped about them, little reticule bags swinging with 
 their ungainly walk, heads alert to follow any direction 
 that their eyes might prompt them. 
 
 When Traill looked into his sitting-room a few mo- 
 
SALLY BISHOP 291 
 
 ments later, looked through the opening front of a white 
 shirt which he was in the process of dragging over his 
 head, she had gone. 
 
 "What are you going to do with yourself this even- 
 ing, Sally?" he asked, before his head was free of the 
 folds of the stiff, starched linen. No answer was given 
 him. Then, when he found he was alone, he cursed vol- 
 ubly at the intractable shirt. The words steadied on 
 his lips as a knock fell on the door. He marched across 
 the room as he was, holding up his garments with one 
 hand and flung it open — one of his characteristic actions 
 — ^he cared little how he appeared or whom his appear- 
 ance affected. 
 
 " You ? Come in !" he said. 
 
 'A taU, well-featured man, well-dressed, well-groomed, 
 walked in through the open door. With a certain 
 amount of care — customary enough in him to hide the 
 obvious — ^he laid his silk hat, brim upwards, upon the 
 table, pulled off his gloves, threw them carelessly into 
 it, and turned round. 
 
 "You're going out?" he said. 
 \ "Yes." 
 ' "Can't come and have dinner with me?" 
 
 "No, couldn't." 
 
 "Taking the little lady out, I suppose?" 
 
 "No, she's upstairs." 
 
 The man's eyes passed across Traill's face as they 
 wandered to the portrait of James Brownrigg over the 
 mantelpiece. 
 
 "Well, I'm at a loose end," he said. He took a gold 
 cigarette-case from his pocket and extracted a cigarette. 
 Traill continued his gymnastics with the shirt, forcing 
 studs through obdurate holes, fastening links and mut- 
 tering under his breath. 
 
292 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 "I thought we might have dined together and taken 
 the little lady to a music hall, like we did before. How 
 long ago was that?" 
 
 Traill tramped into the other room and came out, 
 struggling with a collar. 
 
 "Oh, last September, wasn't it?" 
 
 "Something like that, getting on for a year. How 
 is she?" 
 
 "Oh, first rate. Will you have a drink?" 
 
 "No, thanks, old man. Where are you going to?" 
 
 "I'm dining with my sister. Going to some theatre, 
 I believe." 
 
 "Ah, I saw your sister the other day, about a couple 
 of weeks ago." He seated himself, hitching his trousers 
 above the uppers of his boots. "Prince's, I think it was. 
 Yes, she was skating with that Miss Standish-Roe," 
 
 "Yes, she's coming with my sister and me this even- 
 ing." 
 
 "Is she?" Again his eye lifted to Traill's face. 
 "Damned pretty girl." 
 
 Traill did not reply. Had he made some casual an- 
 swer in the affirmative, the man's eyes might not have 
 followed him as he walked back into his bedroom; 
 the humorous twist of the man's lips might not have 
 been visible. There would have been no thought to 
 create it. 
 
 "What theatre are you going to?" he asked uncon- 
 cernedly. 
 
 Traill mentioned the name, and began the singing 
 of a hymn tune with impossible crescendos and various 
 deviations from the melody. 
 
 "'Can a woman's tender care 
 Cease toward the child she bare? 
 Yes, she may forgetful be. . • ,'" 
 
SALLY BISHOP 293 
 
 "I say!" he called out with unceremonious interrup- 
 tion to himself. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "You say you've got a loose end?" 
 
 "Yes, there's Time got to be killed somehow." 
 
 "Well, take Sally out to dinner." 
 
 "What, the little lady?" 
 
 "Yes, she'll be lonely by herself. I gave her such 
 damned short notice about this engagement of mine that 
 she didn't have time to send for that friend of hers — 
 that Miss Hallard. Would you mind doing that? 
 Don't hesitate to say if you would." 
 
 "Oh no, I wouldn't mind in the leHst. But how about 
 her?" 
 
 "I'll call out to her." 
 
 The visitor could hear him opening the door that led 
 into the passage, then his voice — 
 
 "Sally!" The clattering of feet above reached 
 them, the hurried opening of another door, as though 
 the person called for had been waiting eagerly for the 
 summons. 
 
 "I'm coming," she replied. Her heels tapped loudly 
 — the quick successive knockings as on a cobbler's last 
 — as she ran down the stairs. 
 
 "Mr. Devenish has come in to ask me to dinner, Sally," 
 he said, before she reached the bottom. "He's going to 
 take you instead ; I can't go, of course." 
 
 The footsteps stopped. 
 
 Devenish, within the room, half-closed his eyes, bent 
 his head in an attitude of amused attention. He heard 
 many things in the silence that followed. 
 
 "Had I better go and dress?" she asked, after the 
 moment's pause. 
 
 "Oh no, he's not changed. He's in here ; come along." 
 
294 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 Sally entered and Devenish moved forward to shake 
 hands. 
 
 "Good evening, Miss Bishop; don't you hesitate to 
 say if you'd thought of doing anything else. I just 
 had a loose end, nothing to do — so I looked in here, 
 hoping he might come out to dinner." 
 
 "It's very kind of you to think of it." 
 
 "Oh, not a bit. I shall be delighted. You say where 
 you'd like to dine; it doesn't make the shghtest differ- 
 ence to me. I'll go back and change if you prefer to 
 dress." 
 
 "Oh no, thanks. Really, I think, I'd rather not. If 
 you don't mind my coming as I am." 
 
 "Not a bit." 
 
 She turned to Traill. 
 
 "Shall I go up and put on my hat, Jack.-"' There 
 was no interest in her voice, no enthusiasm. This was 
 a child doing the bidding of its master. Devenish saw 
 through every note of it. He gathered — erroneously — 
 that Traill had told her he was taking Miss Standish- 
 Roe to the theatre ; fancied that perhaps she may have 
 seen or heard of the girl's undeniable prettiness, and 
 was piqued with jealousy. Certainly it was not for love 
 that she was coming out to dine with him. Rut that was 
 no deterrent. He looked forward to it all the more. 
 
 "Yes, run up and put on your hat ; we can all go out 
 together if you're quick." 
 
 She went away quietly. They heard her mounting 
 the stairs, but only Devenish noticed the difference in 
 the way she had come down and the manner in which 
 she returned. He also read its meaning. 
 
 "How long has she been living with you here?" he 
 asked, when Traill had closed the door and returned to 
 the continuance of his dressing. 
 , "A few months over three years." 
 
SALLY BISHOP, 295 
 
 "Of course — I remember your telling me." 
 They fell into silence, Devenish watching his friend 
 with half-conscious amusement as he clumsily tied a 
 white tie, then shot his arms into waistcoat and coat, 
 one after the other, with no study of the effect and 
 apparently but little interest. 
 
 Lest it should seem unaccountable that this man, 
 seemingly a stranger, walking casually one evening 
 into his rooms, should be apparently so intimately pos- 
 sessed of the circumstances of Traill's relationship 
 with Sally, it were as well to point out that men in 
 their friendship are bound by no necessity of constant 
 meeting. In a while they meet and for a while see 
 nothing of each other; but when they meet — ^no matter 
 what time may have elapsed since their last coming 
 together — they are the same friends whose conversation 
 might just have been broken, needing only the for- 
 malities of welcome to set it going on again, as you 
 wind a clock that has run out the tether of its spring. 
 To account then for the friendship of these two so dia- 
 metrically opposed in character — for in Devenish's re- 
 gard for appearances and Traill's supercilious con- 
 tempt of them, there are the foundations of two 
 utterly opposite characters — it is necessary to say that 
 their friendship had been formed at school, after which, 
 a train of circumstances had nursed it to maturity. 
 At school, Devenish had been an athlete, superior to 
 Traill in every sport that he took up. You have there 
 the ground for approval and a certain strain of sym- 
 pathy between the two men. The fact that at the 
 'Varsity Devenish had developed taste for dress was 
 outweighed by the fact that he was a double blue, hold- 
 ing place in the fifteen and winning the quarter-mile in 
 a time that justified admiration. 
 
296 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 These qualities had left a lasting impression upon 
 Traill. He disliked the dandy with a strong predis- 
 position to like the man. Knowing little of his life in 
 society, refusing to meet his wife — ^where he assured 
 Devenish all friendships between man and man ended — 
 he had retained that predisposition towards friendship 
 and in the light of it had spoken, as every man does to 
 another who is his friend, in an open yet casual way 
 about his life with Sally. 
 
 "She lives with me," he had admitted. "If you'd 
 rather not meet her, say so. If you'd like to, don't 
 look down on her — ^I don't suppose you would, but I 
 never trust the virtue of the married man, he's com- 
 pelled to wear it on his sleeve. Anyhow, she's the best. 
 I've never met any woman for whom I'd so readily con- 
 template the ghastly ceremony of marriage. But I 
 suppose every one lays hold of what he can take. I'm 
 absolutely satisfied as I am. The strange woman has 
 no fascination for me now." 
 
 Two years and a half had passed since Traill had 
 said that. Now Devenish had dropped in again for 
 the third or fourth time and found them, still together, 
 but with a vague and subtle difference upon it all, to 
 which his astute mind had assigned the reason which 
 Sally only, beside himself, was aware of. Traill was 
 tiring. If Devenish did not know it instinctively, then 
 he made his deductions from the fact alone that brought 
 about the mentioning of the name of Coralie Standish- 
 Roe. To him, with his own social knowledge of that 
 young lady, the fact in itself was sufficient. 
 
 By the time that Traill was ready, Sally came down 
 prepared to go out. They all descended the stairs to- 
 gether, parting in the street, where Traill held Sally's 
 hand affectionately, then called a han^som and drovft 
 away. 
 
SALLY BISHOP 297 
 
 With apparently casual glances, Devenish watched 
 Sally's face as she looked after the departing cab. She 
 followed it with her eyes as they walked up into the 
 Circus; followed it until it welded into the mass of 
 traffic and was lost from sight. 
 
 "Where shall we go ?" he asked when her features re- 
 laxed from their strain of momentary interest. 
 
 "Really, I don't mind," she replied indifferently. 
 
 He mentioned the restaurant in Soho. She shook her 
 head definitely. 
 
 "Not there.?" 
 
 "No, anywhere but there. I don't — " she hesi- 
 tated. 
 
 "You don't care for the place.?" 
 
 "Oh yes, I do. But " 
 
 "Well, then " He mentioned another and she 
 
 agreed to anything rather than that which held so 
 many happy associations. 
 
 When they were seated at their table, he leant back 
 in his chair and looked at her pleasurably. 
 
 "You know, it's mighty good of you," he said, "to 
 keep me company like this." 
 
 She was too impervious to outer sensation then to 
 find repugnance at the tone of his voice; at another 
 time she might have resented it. Now, scarcely the 
 sense of the words reached her. 
 
 "Which would you prefer, a theatre or a music hall 
 afterwards ?" 
 
 "Whichever you like." 
 
 "Oh, we'll say a music hall, then. In a theatre, 
 you're so bound to listen for the sake of the other 
 people who want to hear. We'll go to the Palace." 
 
 She nodded her head in assent. There was no con- 
 cealment of her mood, no hiding of her unhappiness, 
 
298 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 Even with this man above all others, who she well 
 knew was thoroughly aware of the relationship that 
 existed between Traill and herself, she could not shake 
 off the entangling folds of her depression, lift eyes 
 that were laughing, throw head back and face it out 
 until the ordeal of being in his company was over. At 
 moments she tried — drove a smile to her lips for him to 
 see ; but she felt that it did not convince him ; knew that 
 it utterly failed to convince herself. When he began 
 to speak about Traill, it faded completely from her 
 expression. 
 
 "Jack's gone to a theatre to-night, hasn't he?" he 
 asked ingenuously, when they had half struggled 
 through the courses. 
 
 "Yes " 
 
 "Duke of York's, isn't it?" 
 
 "Yes— I think it is." 
 
 He watched her closely, but her eyes were lowered 
 persistently to her plate, or wandering aimlessly from 
 table to table, never meeting his. The thought that 
 this man might guess the running of the current of 
 events, stung her to some show of pride that yet was 
 not keen enough, not great enough in itself to master, 
 even for the moment, the despair within. All the mak- 
 ing up for the part it lent ; but the acting of it was be- 
 yond her. 
 
 "You've met his sister, Mrs. Durlacher — ^haven't 
 you.'"' he asked presently. 
 
 She saw no motive in this. She felt thankful for it 
 — glad to be able to say that she had. 
 
 "She was at Prince's the other day when I was there 
 and she told me that Jack had taken you down to 
 Apsley." 
 
 "Yes, I went down with him in April." 
 
SALLY BISHOP 299 
 
 "Lovely place— isn't it?" 
 
 "Yes, I thought it was wonderful. Did Mrs. Dur- 
 lacher talk to you about me at all?" 
 
 She could not hold herself from that curiosity. Into 
 her voice she drilled all the orderliaess of casual in- 
 quiry; but give way to it she must. Devenish thought 
 of all the things that Traill's sister had said to him; 
 he thought of the many others, far more potent, that 
 she had left unsaid in the silent parenthesis of insinu- 
 ation. 
 
 "She said how pretty she thought you were," he re- 
 plied. 
 
 Had he thought that would please her? Scarcely. 
 If he knew her mood at all, he must have realized that 
 this was but the sponge of vinegar held to the lips, soft- 
 ened but little, if at all, with the gentle flavour of 
 hyssop. 
 
 They had finished dinner now and were just sipping 
 coffee preparatory to departure. 
 
 "Is that all she said?" Sally asked imperturbably. 
 
 "Oh no, I'm sure it wasn't. But that girl — Miss 
 Standish-Roe — who's gone with them to-night — she 
 was there, and she kept on breaking into our conversa- 
 tion so that really I can't quite remember." 
 
 Had he watched Sally's face then, as closely as he 
 had watched it all through dinner, he would have seen 
 the colour of ashes that swept across it, tardily letting 
 the blood drain back into her cheeks. 
 
 "Miss Standish-Roe?" she repeated, almost inaudibly. 
 
 "Yes — Coralie — she's the youngest daughter of old 
 Sir Standish-Roe. All the others have paired off. 
 Didn't you know Jack was going with them to-night?" 
 
 "Not with her." 
 
 *'Bx Jove— I'm sorry, then." He shrugged Im 
 
SOO SALLY BISHOP 
 
 shoulders to free himself from the sense of discomfort 
 to his conscience. "I suppose I ought not to have 
 mentioned it." 
 
 "Why not.?" 
 
 It is hard to prevent a woman, in the stress of emo- 
 tion, from becoming melodramatic. Tragedy twists 
 her features, strikes unnatural lights in her eyes. She 
 has but little understanding of the drama of reserve. 
 She acts with her heart, not with her brain — ^with her 
 emotions, not with her intellect. In a moment of Trag- 
 edy, it is possible for a man to think consciously in his 
 mind of the appearance he presents. With a woman 
 that is impossible. Considerate at every other time of 
 the impression which she gives, a woman, with the full 
 light of emotion upon her, throws appearances to the 
 winds. She will cry, though she knows there is noth- 
 ing less prepossessing; she will distend nostrils, curl 
 her lip with an ugly turn, fling herself utterly into the 
 grip of the situation, and lose dignity in the tempest of 
 her feelings, unless it be, as in some cases, that the im- 
 periousness of anger should add a dignity to her stature. 
 
 So, in that moment, it became with Sally. From the 
 instant that she knew there was another woman in 
 Traill's life — and it needed even less than instinct to 
 show her that this girl was trying to steal him from 
 her — ^the whole flame of jealousy licked her with a 
 burning tongue. Quiet, sensitive, tender-hearted little 
 Sally Bishop blazed into a furnace of emotion. She 
 did not even know that she was melodramatic; she did 
 not stop to think what effect her expression or her 
 action would have on this man beside her. When he 
 questioned the advisability of having told her that 
 which came so near to the whole system of her being, 
 she let reserve go, and feelings — a pack of sensations 
 
SALLY BISHOP 301 
 
 unleashed — raced riot across her mind, twisting her 
 childish face into a haggard distortion of jealousy. 
 
 "Why not?" she repeated under her breath — "Why 
 shouldn't you have mentioned it? Did he tell you 
 not to?" 
 
 Before him, within the next few moments, Devenish 
 could see the rising of a storm, and so he set his sails, 
 kept a clear head, talked gently, almost beneath his 
 breath, as if the matter were not of the import she 
 found it. The jealousy of women was not unknown 
 to him. He had met it often before ; knew the tempest 
 it called forth; had sailed through it himself with can- 
 vas close-reefed and tiller well-gripped in his hands. 
 In Sally's eyes, as she branded her question on his 
 mind, he could discern that unnatural glint which pre- 
 sages the driven action of a woman who is goaded to 
 desperation. For Traill's sake, for her sake also, for 
 his own sake too, it was essential to keep a steady head 
 — ^move warily and take no risks. 
 
 "Did he tell you not to ?" she asked again, before the 
 plan of action was settled in his mind. 
 
 "Not at all — of course not. Why should he? Be- 
 sides, if he had, should I have spoken to you about it? 
 I thought you knew." 
 
 "No — I didn't know. How old is she — ^this girl?" 
 
 "About twenty-one, I suppose. Twenty-two — 
 twenty-one." 
 
 "Is she pretty?" 
 
 Devenish screwed up his lips — ^lifted his shoulders. 
 
 "Is she?" she reiterated. 
 
 "Many people might not think so." 
 
 "But you do?" 
 
 "Well — I suppose — well, she's not what you'd call 
 plain." 
 
BOi SALLY, BISHOP 
 
 "AH, you won't tell me. She is pretty — ^very pretty. 
 Is she fair?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Fairer than I am?" 
 
 "Well — she has red hair, you see." 
 
 "Is her father wealthy.''" 
 
 "I shouldn't think so. Of course they're by no 
 means poor." 
 
 "He's a knight — ^you said." 
 
 "He's Sir— he's a baronet." 
 
 "That means the title's in the family." 
 
 "Exactly." 
 
 "Is she a nice girl? You know her — you said so." 
 
 "Oh yes, she's quite nice. Nothing very particular, 
 nothing very wonderful." 
 
 She looked full to his eyes, her own starved for 
 knowledge. 
 
 "You're not telling me the truth," she exclaimed 
 suddenly. "You're telling me all lies. You're trying 
 to save Jack. You know you've said too much in tell- 
 ing me that he was going with her to-night, now you're 
 trying to smooth it over." 
 
 "My dear Miss Bishop — " He smiled amiably at 
 her distress of mind — "Surely Jack can go with his 
 sister and some other lady to a theatre without your 
 being so unreasonably put out about it. You can't 
 wish to tie him down." 
 
 "I don't wish to tie him down. That's the last thing 
 I should dream of doing. But you know as weU as I 
 do that he hates that set in society, would never have 
 gone near the house in Sloane Street if it had not been 
 for his sister's unhappiness about her husband!" 
 
 Devenish looked up at her quickly with a swift 
 change of expression. 
 
SALLY BISHOP 303 
 
 "What unhappiness ?" he asked. 
 
 "Why, that they're not getting on together." 
 
 The moment she had said it, a rush of fear that she 
 had betrayed Traill's confidence, overwhelmed her with 
 a sense of nausea. 
 
 "Please don't say I've said that," she begged. 
 
 "Certainly not; but, how on earth can you say it? 
 Captain and Mrs. Durlacher may not be lovers in the 
 passionate sense of the word, but I know of few mar- 
 ried people who get on as well as they do." 
 
 She looked at him with increasing amazement. 
 
 "Some time ago — yes — perhaps. But not now?" 
 
 "Yes, now. I know it for a fact. They hit it oiF 
 admirably." 
 
 Hit it off — Traill's very words! Then it was a lie. 
 A lie of Mrs. Durlacher's that day when they were 
 down at Apsley, a lie to win his sympathy at a moment 
 when she had all but lost it. She had come down there 
 to Apsley with the intention of estranging them. 
 Traill had seen through that. Sally had realized at 
 the time that that was what had stirred him to anger 
 when he had come into the dining-room, finding his 
 sister there with her. Mrs. Durlacher had failed then. 
 She remembered her smothered feelings of delight at 
 at the attitude he was taking when she left the room; 
 but it was after that, after she had gone upstairs, that 
 Mrs. Durlacher, with this lie of her unhappiness, had 
 won him to her side. 
 
 "Are you absolutely sure of that?" she whispered. 
 
 "Why, of course! If anybody's spreading that re- 
 port about, it's a confounded lie." 
 
 Sally looked piteously about her. The iron teeth of 
 the trap she had seen were surely fast in her now. As 
 yet, she was unable to discern the deeper motive in 
 
304 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 Mrs. Durlacher's mind in which the proprietorship of 
 Apsley Manor played so vital a part; but she was 
 none the less certain of the designs that were being 
 carried, out so effectually to wrest Traill from her 
 side. She was an encumbrance to his career. Had he 
 told her that himself she would, with bowed head, have 
 accepted the inevitable; but, coming to her in this way, 
 this deep-laid plot and all the machinations of a woman 
 whom, from the very first, she had had good reason to 
 despise, a devil of jealousy was awakened in her. Obe- 
 dience she might have given; her life she would will- 
 ingly have offered ; yet when It was a subtle poison that 
 was being dropped into his mind to eat away his love 
 for her, all force in her nature rose uppermost and she 
 was driven to ends so foreign, so inconsistent with her 
 whole being, that from that moment Devenish scarcely 
 recognized her as the same woman. 
 
 "I can't come to the music hall with you," she said 
 suddenly. 
 
 He looked at her suspiciously. 
 
 "Why not?" he asked. 
 
 "I couldn't— I couldn't sit there— I " 
 
 It was impossible not to feel sympathy for her. The 
 hardest nature in the world must yield its pity when 
 the scourge of circumstance falls upon the weak. 
 Devenish only knew in part what she was suffering. 
 The mistress — deserted — is a position precarious 
 enough, undesirable enough for any man to realize and 
 feel sympathy for. To her mind, seeing that before 
 her, he offered all such pity as he possessed. But of 
 the love wrenched from her life, the heart aching with 
 its overwhelming burden of misery, he saw nothing. 
 She would get over it. He knew that. Women did — 
 women had to. She would settle down into another 
 
SALLY BISHOP S05 
 
 type of existence. She would become some other man's 
 mistress. She would pull through. He looked at her 
 childish face and hoped she would pull through. The 
 thought crossed his mind that it would be a pity — a 
 spoiling of something not meant to be spoilt — if she 
 lost caste and went on the streets. She deserved a 
 better fate than that. But it would never come to 
 that. 
 
 "What are you going to do, then?" he asked quietly. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know — anything — I don't know." 
 
 "You won't do anything foolish.'"' 
 
 "Foolish? How? Foolish.?" 
 
 He leant his elbows on the table, bearing his eyes 
 direct upon hers. The slight catch in her voice was 
 breaking almost on a note of hysteria. 
 
 "You're excited, you know," he said gently. "You 
 know, you're imagining things. You've got no grounds 
 for them — I assure you you've got no grounds. Come 
 to the music hall with me and forget all about it." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "I couldn't," she replied; "I couldn't. I— I shan't 
 do anything foolish, but I think I'll go now — ^now — if 
 you've finished." 
 
 "Yes, I've quite finished. But I'm going to say 
 something first." 
 
 "What.?" 
 
 "Don't let your imagination run riot with you; and 
 if I can do anything for you — ^there's nothing to be 
 done, I mean — ^but if I can, you let me know. Will 
 you?" 
 
 She nodded her head vaguely. It meant nothing to 
 her ; but she nodded her head. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 Mrs. Duelachee had asked one of her guests to come 
 early. 
 
 "Come at seven," she had said; "before if you can." 
 !And Miss Standish-Roe had arrived at a quarter to the 
 hour. 
 
 When she entered the drawing-room, Mrs. Durlacher 
 kissed her affectionately, then held her at arms' length, 
 her hands on her shoulders and gazed pensively into 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Why do you look at me like that?" Coralie asked. 
 
 Mrs. Durlacher shrugged her shoulders and turned 
 away to her chair. 
 
 "For no reason at all, my dear child, and for a mil- 
 lion reasons. I wish I was as pretty as you are." 
 
 "What nonsense !" 
 
 "Yes, isn't it? But if I had that red hair of yours, 
 and those eyes, I'd be happy for the rest of my Ufe. 
 You can't grow old with that hair as long as you keep 
 thin. Do you mind my telling you something?" 
 
 "No, not a bit; what?" 
 
 "You've got a little too much on that cheek, and your 
 lips as well; do you mind?" 
 
 "Heavens! No! Was that one of the million rea- 
 sons?" She crossed the room to a well-lighted mirror 
 and, by the aid of its reflection, rubbed her cheeks and 
 lips with a handkerchief taken from the front of her 
 dress. "Was that why you stared at me?,'* she asked, 
 
SALLY BISHOP 307 
 
 turning round, looking at Mrs. Durlacher, then at that 
 part of the handkerchief that her hps had touched. 
 
 "One of the reasons? Oh no. I only noticed it. 
 That's all right now. I believe you look better without 
 it." 
 
 "Well, I felt so fagged this evening." 
 
 "I know ; that's wretched. If you were a man, you'd 
 drink; being a woman, you make up. It's much more 
 respectable really. By the way, you don't see anything 
 of Devenish now, do you.'"' 
 
 "No, nothing. We saw him that day at Prince's — I 
 hadn't seen him for two or three months before that — ^I 
 haven't seen him since. I don't think you can ever rely 
 on a married man. Don't you know that line of Kip- 
 ling's?" 
 
 "Which?" 
 
 "In 'Barrack Room Ballads' — 'Fuzzy Wuzzy,' I 
 think." 
 
 "Nothing about a married man, surely?" 
 
 "No ; but it fits him." 
 
 " ' 'E's all 'ot and ginger when alive. 
 
 An' 'e's generally shammin' when 'e's dead.'" 
 
 Mrs. Durlacher broke into a peal of laughter. "What 
 a quaint creature you are," she said. "What ever made 
 you think of that?" 
 
 "Well, he is like that — isn't he? I mean, you never 
 know the moment when his wife isn't going to hear a 
 rumour. Then he shams dead, and the next time he 
 sees you, he just manages, with an effort, to recognize 
 you by your appearance." 
 
 "Is that what happened to Devenish?" asked Mrs. 
 Durlacher with amusement. 
 
 "I expect so. I never heard that his wife knew any- 
 
308 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 thing; but from the way he suddenly fell in a heap, I 
 should think it's quite likely. And he's shamming still." 
 "Well, let him sham. I don't think he's worth any- 
 thing else." She paused, watching the effect of her 
 words. "Oh, and you never told me what you thought 
 of my brother yesterday?" 
 "I think he's rather quaint." 
 "Yes, isn't he? I'm glad you like him." 
 "But why haven't I met him before.-' Don't you ever 
 ask him down to Apsley.? I never realized you'd got a 
 brother, you know, till the other day you showed me 
 that case in the paper." 
 
 "Very few people I know do," replied Mrs. Durlacher, 
 whereby she created a sense of the mysterious, .raised 
 curiosity and played a hand that needed all her skill, 
 all her ingenuity. "I shouldn't have told you about him, 
 even then," she continued, "if it hadn't been fairly ob- 
 vious to me that he was becoming a different sort of 
 person." 
 
 "Why, what sort of an individual has he been?" 
 Mrs. Durlacher told her. Ah, but she made the tell- 
 ing interesting. A man who owns such a place in the 
 country as Apsley Manor, yet prefers to live the life of 
 the bohemian in town, shunning society, reaping none 
 of the benefits that should naturally accrue to him from 
 such a position, can quite easily be surrounded with a 
 halo of interest if his narrative be placed in the hands 
 of a skilful raconteur. Mrs. Durlacher spared no pains 
 in the telling of her story. Led it up slowly through its 
 various stages to the crisis, the crisis as she made it. He 
 owned Apsley Manor, not they! It was his property, 
 capable of repurchase at any moment ! And — she leant 
 back in her chair, covering her face with her hands as 
 though the blow were an unbearable tragedy to her — ^he 
 
SALLY BISHOP 309 
 
 had said that he would take the place back. Five thou- 
 sand pounds was nothing to him. He could find it at a 
 moment's notice. So would any one, when such a place 
 as Apsley was in the balance. 
 
 "You can imagine," she concluded-^bearing it bravely 
 with the resignation of martyrdom — "what a catas- 
 trophe that'll be to us." 
 
 "Poor Dolly ; I never knew of that. I always thought 
 the place was yours. You always said so." 
 
 "Yes; why not? With every right. It is ours — till 
 he repurchases. You see he's beginning to nurse ambi- 
 tion now. I suppose there's no doubt that he'll come 
 up to the top of the ladder. 1 always knew he'd make 
 a splendid barrister if he once caught hold of the ambi- 
 tion. Now, of course, he'll find that the possession of 
 Apsley's of value to him. He'll have to entertain. A 
 bohemian can't entertain any one but a bohemian. 
 Then, I suppose, he'll marry — get a house in Town like 
 we have — and use Apsley, as we've done, for his friends." 
 
 "But, my dear Dolly — ^what on earth wiU you do?" 
 
 "Do?" Mrs. Durlacher rose with a sigh. "Well — 
 there's prayer and fasting; but there'll be considerably 
 more fasting than prayer, I should imagine. I assure 
 you, I do pray that he doesn't make a fool of himself 
 and marry some woman out of the bottomless pit of 
 Bohemia." 
 
 "Well, I should think so. It 'ud be an awful pity, 
 wouldn't it?" 
 
 "A considerable pity — yes. Here he is." She turned 
 quickly to her friend, but her voice was cleverly pitched 
 on a casual note. " Don't say anything to him about 
 Apsley," she remarked. "He never admits to possession 
 of it — that's one of his peculiarities. I don't suppose 
 he will until he planks down his five thousand pounds. 
 
SIO SALLY BISHOP 
 
 He has wEat he calls a legal sense of justice. Makes 
 sure of a statement before he delivers it. You'll never 
 catch him out. That's the Scotch blood on the mater's 
 side of the family. I should think it's saved him out 
 of many a difficulty." 
 
 Traill strode into the drawing-room as unconscious 
 of the fate that Mrs. Durlacher had so deftly woven 
 for him as is the unwieldy gull that, tumbling down the 
 wind, strikes into the meshes of the fowler's net and 
 finds itself enchained within the web. Coralie, herself, 
 set to the task of winning him, was as unconscious of the 
 subtly diaphonous mechanism of the trap as he. Yet 
 she was versed well enough in human nature in her way. 
 Innocence could not be laid at her door with the hope of 
 finding it again. But it needs the long training of social 
 strategy for any one to realize the cunning knowledge 
 that things are not obtained in this world by asking for 
 them, but by the hidden method of suggestion. That 
 Mrs. Durlacher was in search of a suitable sister-in-law 
 was obvious to the most untrained eye. It was no capa- 
 ble deduction on Coralie's part to have made certain of 
 that. But she hesitated when she came to the wondering 
 of whether she was considered suitable to fill that posi- 
 tion herself. The hesitancy was of but little duration. 
 The first time she had seen Traill, he had attracted her ; 
 now the attraction was increased a thousandfold. She 
 had often stayed at Apsley Manor. Once her father 
 had gone down for the shooting and had returned glow- 
 ing with enthusiasm. 
 
 "Place I should like to have," he had grunted, "place 
 I should like to have." And after dinner he sat over 
 his port and amused himself with breaking the tenth 
 commandment. 
 
 But there was no certainty in Coralie's mind that 
 
SALLY BISHOP 311 
 
 Mrs. Durlacher, with all her outward show of friend- 
 ship, would consider her to be the eligible one. Yet 
 here the chance offered. She determined to take it — 
 hand open, ready for the gift. 
 
 From the moment then, that he arrived, she began the 
 outset of her campaign. The social manner she knew 
 he hated. That she cast ofF. The astute woman of the 
 world, he despised. Mrs. Durlacher had weU grounded 
 her. She wrapped herself in the simplicity of a girl 
 whose eyes have scarcely opened to a knowledge of life 
 and whose inner consciousness is as yet untouched. 
 
 If she had given him any impression of a want of in- 
 nocence the day before when they discussed the case in 
 the divorce court which he had won, she now swept it 
 from his mind. He found her ingenuousness charming. 
 Her eyes helped her. They were big, grey, wide-open 
 like a child's. He foxmd himself looking interestedly 
 for the simple questions that they turned upon him. 
 In the box at the theatre, they leant back in their seats 
 and talked in undertones through the acts and Mrs. 
 Durlacher, leaning out to watch the piece, heard not a 
 word that the actors said. Her ears were strained to 
 catch the progress of their conversation. During the 
 intervals, she levelled her glasses at the house and was 
 apparently too pre-occupied to interrupt their enjoy- 
 ment. In the interval that followed the second act, her 
 glasses, roaming aimlessly across the stalls, became 
 riveted to her eyes. After a moment, she looked hastily 
 away, then stealthily looked, again. Finally she turned 
 round to her brother, curbing the surprise which, not- 
 withstanding her efforts, forced itself into the expres- 
 sion of her face. 
 
 Then she beckoned to him. He rose from his chair 
 and came to her side. 
 
312 SALLY BISHO? 
 
 "In the interval after the next act," she whispered, 
 "look through the glasses at the third row in the pit. 
 Not now — not now ! It might be noticed now." 
 
 "Who is it.?" he asked. 
 
 "I don't know — I'm not certain." 
 
 The lights in the theatre were put out just as he 
 was about to turn his head in the direction. He went 
 back to his seat and in five minutes had forgotten 
 about it. 
 
 When that act W9,s over and the lights revived again, 
 Mrs. Durlacher handed him the glasses. He came to 
 the edge of the box. Coralie followed him, looking 
 down on the rows of heads below her. 
 
 "Look round the house first," Mrs. Durlacher whis- 
 pered. 
 
 He swept the glasses right and left about the theatre 
 in an indiscriminate manner — seeing nothing. Then he 
 turned them in the direction his sister had indicated. 
 From one face to another he passed along the third row 
 of the pit, seeing only clerks and their young girls, shop- 
 keepers and their wives. At last he stopped. There was 
 a girl sitting by herself. Her head was down, her face 
 hidden; but he recognized her. Then she looked up 
 quickly — straight to the box — ^turned direct to his 
 glasses a pair of dark eyes that were burning, cheeks 
 that were pale, almost unhealthy in their pallor, and 
 white lips, half-parted to the breaths he could almost 
 hear her taking. 
 
 It was SaUy ! 
 
 Directly she thought that he had seen her, her head 
 lowered guiltily again. She kept it bent, hidden from 
 him, lifting a programme to shield her utterly from his 
 gaze. 
 
 He put down his glasses on the ledge of the box. > 
 
SALLY BISHOP 313 
 
 "Do you allow that sort of thing?" Mrs. Durlacher 
 whispered as she took them up. 
 
 "My God — no !" he exclaimed. 
 
 She smiled in her mind. That word — allow — ^was 
 chosen with discretion. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 As the curtain fell Traill proposed supper at a res- 
 taurant. They readily agreed. Mrs. Durlacher, in 
 the best of spirits, thanking Providence for the weak- 
 ness of human nature that had driven Sally to follow 
 Traill to the theatre, stiU thrilling with the sound of 
 his exclamation in her ears, would have lit the dullest 
 entertainment in the world with the humour of her 
 mood. There was a part for her to play. She played 
 it. All her remarks, bristling with the pointed satires 
 of spiteful criticism, were a foil to the gentle temper 
 of Coralie's conversation. 
 
 "My God!" said Traill, as they walked down one of 
 the passages to the foyer, and he listened to his sister's 
 verdict upon a woman who had gone out before them. 
 "Do you women allow a stitch of respectability to hang 
 on each other's Ijacks.'"' 
 
 "She'd want more than a stitch," Mrs. Durlacher re- 
 plied, "if she's not going to put on more clothes than 
 that." 
 
 Traill shrugged his shoulders, half conscious of a 
 comparison between his sister and the quiet reserve of 
 this girl beside him. He had thought her pretty, see- 
 ing her at a distance on the night when he had dined 
 with Dolly. Meeting her the day before, in the dim 
 light of the drawing-room at Sloane Street, he had 
 found her still more attractive; but on this evening, in 
 the glamour of bright lights — young, fresh, charming 
 
SALLY BISHOP 313 
 
 as she seemed to him — his senses were swept by her fas- 
 cination. 
 
 At all times a beautiful woman is wonderful — ^the 
 thing of beauty and the joy for ever; the phrase that 
 comes naturally to the mind. But when, conscious of 
 her own attractions, she lends that beauty to the ex- 
 pression of pleasure which she finds in the company of 
 the man beside her, then, to possibly that man alone, 
 but certainly to him, she is doubly beautiful. Nature 
 indeed had been generous with Carolie Standish-Roe. 
 Nature has her moods and her devilish humours. She 
 was more than amiable when she bestowed her gifts 
 upon Coralie. You may talk about the value of a 
 noble heart beating in an empty corset, shining out of 
 pinched and tired eyes ; but it is a value, unmarketable, 
 where the good things in a woman's life are given in 
 exchange. Janet Hallard and her like have learnt the 
 realization of that. And of the qualities of noble- 
 heartedness, Coralie possessed but very few. Her dis- 
 position was intensely selfish. She took all the admira- 
 tion that she could get — and it was infinitely more than 
 some women dream of — with a grace of gratitude whose 
 parallel may be found in the school-boy galloping 
 through one helping of food that he may begin an- 
 other. Her hunger for it was insatiable, but she was 
 too young as yet for any such reputation to have fast- 
 ened itself upon her; too young for the manner which 
 becomes the natural expression of women of this type 
 to have blotted out her undeniable charm of youth. 
 Youth saved her from Traill's critical appreciation of 
 women. Two years later he would have passed her with 
 a momentary lifting of interest which she herself would 
 unconsciously have dispelled at the first touch of ac- 
 quaintance. Now, he was not only thrilled, be was in- 
 
316 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 terested. She was a child. He found her so — as much 
 a child as Sally had been. Add her beauty to that — a 
 beauty unquestionably greater than the simple charm 
 of Sally's baby features — ^and add still again that fal- 
 lacious sense of social position by which Traill realized 
 that such a girl he could not ask promiscuously out 
 to dinner, could not casually persuade to come to his 
 rooms, and you have, besides the unavoidable compari- 
 son between the two in his mind, that subtle difference 
 which a life of ease and a life of labour makes in the 
 position of women to a man's conception of the sex. 
 
 Immediately they stepped outside the theatre into 
 the blaze of light where the attendants were rushing 
 for carriages, and men and women, in a confused mass, 
 jostled each other to fight free of the crowd, TraiU's 
 eyes searched quickly for a sight of Sally. Mrs. Dur- 
 lacher also was alert to the possibility of finding her 
 watching their movements. But they saw no trace of 
 her. 
 
 In the mouth of a little alley, deep with shadows, on 
 the other side of St. Martin's Lane, she was standing, 
 her heart throbbing, half timidly, half jealously, yet 
 secure in the knowledge that she was safe from obser- 
 vation. With eyes, burnt in the fever of a fierce emo- 
 tion, she watched them as they stepped into the car 
 that drew up beneath the lighted portico. When she 
 saw Mrs. Durlacher's gesture inviting Traill to sit be- 
 tween them on the back seat ; when she saw him willingly 
 accept, notwithstanding that there was more room, 
 more comfort in the seat opposite, she drew in a breath 
 between her teeth, and the nails of her fingers bit into 
 the palms of her hands. Now, from what little she had 
 seen in the theatre, and taking into greatest considera- 
 tion of all the proof of her own eyes that the woman 
 
SALLY BISHOP Sl7 
 
 was beautiful, eclipsing herself at every point of at- 
 traction, Sally was full-swept into the mad whirlpool of 
 unreasoning jealousy. Every action and every inci- 
 dent that her starved eyes fed upon were distorted, em- 
 bittered to the taste as though the taint of aloes had 
 crept into everything. 
 
 She thought she saw him lay his hand upon hers as 
 he took the place beside her. In that position she knew 
 that they would be wedged close together, their limbs 
 touching, thrilling his senses as she well knew she her- 
 self had thrilled them by even slighter proximity than 
 that. Here, too, she judged again by the lowest of 
 standards, if judgment it can be said of a wild flinging 
 of thoughts — vitriol hurled in a moment of madness. 
 Yet against him she could find no bitterness. The 
 woman, kissing the hand that strikes her, to shield it 
 from the falling of the law, is a type that has made no 
 history; but in the hearts of men she is to be found 
 with her ineflFaceable record. 
 
 It was against the two women, against Mrs. Dur- 
 lacher with her damnable cunning, against the other 
 with her still more damnable fascination, that all the 
 blinding acid of Sally's thoughts was cast. The 
 woman who had hoodwinked him with her lies about her 
 husband, the woman who had crept in, seizing the mo- 
 ment of his blindness — ^these were the two people in the 
 world whom she could willingly have strangled with her 
 little hands that gripped and loosened in the mad emo- 
 tion of her rage. Under her breath she muttered — 
 hissing the words — the vain things that she would do. 
 All the civilized refinement of humanity was burnt out 
 of her. She was not human. She had lost control. 
 The thoughts that revelled in her brain were animal; 
 the savage fury of the beast starved of its food and 
 
318 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 then deprived of the flesh and blood that are snatched 
 from the very clutching of its claws. 
 
 It is not so far a call, even now, for this divine hu- 
 manity, weaned upon the nutritious food of intelligence, 
 nursed in the refining lap of civilization, to hark back, 
 driven by one rush of events, to the lowest forms of 
 nature that exist. If, in the hour of death, seeking 
 immunity from peril, there live men who have trodden 
 down the bodies of women, beaten them with naked fists, 
 severed arms from their bleeding hands that held to 
 safety in order that they might find their own escape; 
 then, surely it is no very wonderful thing for a woman, 
 threatened with the destruction of all her happiness, to 
 give herself over to the mad riot of murderous intent 
 that shouts the cry of bloody revolution through her 
 brain ! 
 
 In these moments nothing human could have been 
 accounted for in Sally. In these moments the fire 
 of the enraged animal glittered in her eyes, the inco- 
 herent mutterings of dumb passion vibrated in her 
 breath. 
 
 A man passing down through the dark shadows of 
 the alley into the street, turned and gazed at her. She 
 took no notice. Did not even see him. The car was 
 just beginning to move out into the traffic. As it 
 turned, too eager to follow, she stepped on to the pave- 
 ment. 
 
 Traill's eyes caught her then, saw her begin to 
 quicken her steps, break even into a run following their 
 tardy progress as they squeezed a way through the 
 press of other vehicles. He looked out through the 
 small, square window in the back of the hood and 
 could still see her, forcing her way through the crowds 
 of people, sometimes jostling them upon the path, then 
 
SALLY BISHOP 319 
 
 running in the gutter for the greater freedom of pas- 
 sage. 
 
 "God!" he muttered under his breath, as he turned 
 back again. 
 
 "What is it?" asked Coralie. 
 
 "Oh, nothing," he rephed; "nothing." 
 
 Mrs. Durlacher caught her lips between her teeth 
 to crush the smile that rose to them. Now she was sure 
 at least that Sally's power was broken. Her subtle 
 use of that word "allow" had served its double pur- 
 pose. Not only had it delicately questioned the pos- 
 session of that authority which she knew he held above 
 aU things; but also, in permitting it, the admission 
 had been deftly drawn from him that Sally was his 
 mistress. She had known it before, as women do know 
 things. Now she was certain of it and, in her cer- 
 tainty, realized that this was the moment — ^to strike 
 when he was weakest. A man, shaken free of the ties 
 that bind him to one woman, is more ready than an- 
 other in the reaction of indifference which follows to 
 fetter himself again in order that life may seem less 
 void, less hollow than he finds it. 
 
 To Coralie, then, in the dressing-room of the res- 
 taurant, as they took off their cloaks, she said — 
 
 "My dear girl, you're making that brother of mine 
 in love with you." 
 
 And to Traill, she jested as they said good night — 
 
 "My dear boy, considering your obligations to other 
 women, do you think it's fair? The girl's losing her 
 heart to you, or will be if she sees you again." 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 The congestion of the traffic, the knotted lines of 
 carriages conveying to their houses the thousands of 
 people whom the theatres had disgorged into the streets, 
 enabled Sally to keep Mrs. Durlacher's car in sight until 
 it passed through the wide portals of a restaurant in 
 the Strand where, from the street, she could see them 
 dismoimt and pass into the building. They had gone 
 to supper. Traill had told her nothing about that. 
 Then it had only been decided since he had met them; 
 he must be enjoying himself in the society of these very 
 people whose society he professed to abhor. That they 
 might have pressed him to accompany them so that he 
 found it impossible to refuse, did not enter the argu- 
 ment in her mind. All thoughts tended in one direction 
 — instinct guiding them — ^instinct, drunk with the noxi- 
 ous ferment of jealousy, whipping her mind down paths 
 where no reason could follow, yet bringing her invariably 
 to the truth with that same generosity of Providence 
 which watches over the besotted wanderings of a drunken 
 man. 
 
 For some moments she stood there, watching the doors 
 which a powdered flunkey had swung to after their en- 
 trance. Wild suggestions flung themselves before her 
 consideration. She would go back to her room, dress 
 herself in the best frock that Traill had given her and 
 go to supper there herself. She would wait there an 
 hour, an hour and a half if necessary, to see if he went 
 home with them. That she had almost decided on, when 
 
SALLY BISHOP 321 
 
 a man of whose presence, passing behind her once or 
 twice upon the pavement, she had been unaware, stopped 
 by her side. 
 
 "Waiting for some one?" he said, with that insinuat- 
 ing tone of voice which disposes of any need for intro- 
 duction. 
 
 She drew away from him quickly in horror, fear driv- 
 ing cold through the hot blood of her jealousy. Then 
 she turned, as he laughed to conceal his momentary em- 
 barrassment, and hurried off in the direction of Trafal- 
 gar Square. 
 
 That incident proved her waiting to be impossible. 
 She walked slowly home, all the spirit within her sinking 
 down into an impenetrable mood of depression from 
 which not even the persistent hope that love must win 
 her back her happiness in the end had any power to 
 raise her. Now she was crushed — burnt out. Only the 
 charred cinders and the ashes of herself were left behind 
 from the flames of that furnace which had torn its way 
 through her. 
 
 Lighting just one candle, she sat in his room waiting 
 for his return. An hour passed, and at last she blew 
 the candle out. He might think it strange to find her 
 there, sitting up for him ; he might suspect, and as yet 
 she was sublimely unconscious that he had seen her. She 
 was sure when she had covered her face with the pro- 
 gramme in the theatre that the action had been in time ; 
 moreover, she was by no means certain that from that 
 distance his glasses had covered her at all. 
 
 Mounting the uncarpeted stairs from his room to the 
 floor above, she stopped once or twice, thinking she 
 heard a hansom pulling up in the street. Her heart 
 stopped with her and she held a breath in suspense ; but 
 on each occasion it jingled on, losing the noise of its 
 
S22 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 bells in the murmuring night sounds which never quite 
 die into silence in that quarter. 
 
 When she reached her room, she lit a candle, holding 
 it up before the mirror on the dressing-table and gazing 
 at her face in its reflection. 
 
 "My God!" she whispered. 
 
 Truly, in the light of that one candle, she hardly 
 recognized herself. Violent sensations, deep emotions, 
 these are the accelerations of time. They produce^ — 
 momentarily no doubt — the same effect as do the passing 
 of years over which such intensity of feeling is more 
 evenly distributed. In those few hours, since she had 
 heard from Devenish that another woman was claiming 
 the attention of Traill's mind, Sally had aged — ^withered 
 almost — ^in the fierce stress of her passion of jealousy. 
 It had passed over her like the sirocco of the desert, 
 leaving her parched, dried, shivelled, as a child grown 
 old before its years. No colour was there in her cheeks, 
 no vestige of the sign that beneath a mere fraction's 
 measurement of that white skin, the blood was flowing 
 through her veins. Yet the skin was not really white. 
 It was an ugly grey, smirched with a colour that bore 
 but the faintest resemblance to animation. Beneath the 
 eyes deep shadows lay, smeared into the sockets. She 
 lifted the candle to their level, but they did not dis- 
 appear. Pain had cast them, and no shifting of mate- 
 rial light would wipe them out. But it was the eyes 
 themselves that startled her. When she looked into 
 them — deep into the pupils — she realized how close she 
 had drifted to the moment beyond which control is of 
 no account — the moment of absolute madness. Even 
 then, they glittered unnaturally. A gleam from the 
 candle again .f She moved it once more — this way and 
 that' — ^but still the light flickered there, frightening her 
 
SALLY BISHOP 323 
 
 into a sudden effort of restraint. She tried to pull her- 
 self together ; put down the candle hurriedly and, feel- 
 ing the leathern dryness in her mouth, caught at a carafe 
 of water, drinking from it without use of the glass. 
 
 That steadied her. Thoughts drifted back into their 
 channels and, coming with them, looming with its por- 
 tentous realization above the others, the remembrance 
 that only the evening before, he had drawn out the set- 
 tlement upon her life. Now she knew why he had done 
 it. Now she found the absolute trending of his mind. 
 He had said if he died ! That was only to blind, only to 
 tie a bandage about her eyes in order to conceal from 
 her the true motive that had instigated him. But she 
 saw the true motive now. Under the bandages she had 
 already tried to peer; now circumstance itself had 
 wrenched them from her. 
 
 With feverish movements, she opened a drawer and 
 took from it a little sHp of paper. This was a copy 
 of the settlement as he had drawn it out. He had pre- 
 sented it to her. 
 
 "You'd better keep it as a memorandum of the de- 
 tails," he had said and, without glancing at its contents, 
 she had thrust it into this drawer. Now she hurriedly 
 spread it open. 
 
 "In the event of my death, or the discontinuance of 
 the relations which now exist between Miss Sally Bishop 
 and myself " 
 
 These were the first words that met her eyes. Her 
 fingers closed automatically over the paper, crushing 
 it into her palm. Could she need any more proof than 
 that.'' That a settlement and dealing with a relationship 
 such as theirs must be worded in such a way, carried no 
 weight with it to her mind. She knew then, that when 
 he had alluded to the event of his death, it had been 
 
3^4 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 farthest from his thoughts. He had meant their separa- 
 tion. In three years — a little more than three years it 
 had come. He was tired of her. She knew well then 
 how useless had been her efforts to move him to passion 
 the night before. Her cheeks flamed, thinking that it 
 had not been because he was unconscious of her attempt. 
 He had seen it. There was no doubt in her mind that 
 when he had told her to fasten her dressing-gown, when 
 he had noticed the perfume of scent from her hair, he 
 had realized the motive that was acting within her. But 
 he was tired — satiated. And how he must have loathed 
 her! Yet no greater than she, at that moment, loathed 
 herself. He knew — of course he knew — ^that her coming 
 down to get the book had all been an excuse. He had 
 probably thought that her desire had been for herself. 
 How could he possibly have known that she felt no de- 
 sire, had been frigid, cold, without a strain of passion 
 in her thoughts, seeking only to tempt him to her side, 
 for his pleasure alone, with the delights of her body? 
 How could he have known? He did not know! Of a 
 certainty he must have thought that it was her own 
 satisfaction she was seeking. The blood raced back from 
 her cheeks, leaving her shivering and cold. Oh, how he 
 must have loathed her! Why had she done it? Why 
 was there not some illuminating power to point out the 
 intricacy of the ways when people came to such a maze 
 in life as this? 
 
 In a torture of shame that blent with all her misery, 
 she flung herself, dressed as she was, on to the bed. Let 
 him find her there — ^what did it matter! She realized 
 that she had lost everything. And there she lay, eyes 
 burning and dry, heart just beating faintly in her 
 breast. But when she heard his footsteps mounting the 
 stairs, she suddenly got up. If he knew that she had 
 
SALLY BISHOP 325 
 
 followed them, he would never forgive Jier. So, in the 
 midst of her misery, she still found the strength to hope. 
 Jumping up from the bed, she stood before her mirror 
 and began to take off her hat as though she had that 
 moment returned. 
 
 When his knock fell on the door, she forced fear from 
 her voice, drove eagerness into the place of it, and called 
 to him to enter. 
 
 The door opened. In the mirror's reflection, she could 
 see him stop abruptly as he came into the room. With 
 hands still lifted, extricating the pins from her hat, she 
 turned. His lips were tight closed, his eyes merciless. 
 So he had looked that day at Apsley when he had re- 
 turned to find his sister with her in the dining-room. So 
 he had directed his gaze upon the woman whom she had 
 heard him cross-examine in the Law Courts. The sus- 
 picion leapt to her mind that he knew, that he had seen 
 her; but having steeled herself to tell the lie, she did 
 not attempt, in the sudden moment, to reconstruct her 
 mind to a hasty admission of the truth. She must tell 
 the lie, clinging to it through everything. 
 
 "Have you only just come in.'" he asked. 
 
 The tone in his voice seemed to question her right to 
 come in at all. And she was no actress. Another woman 
 in her place, even knowing all she knew, suspecting all 
 she did, would have turned to him in amazement ; ques- 
 tioning his right to speak to her like that ; covered her 
 guilt with a cloak of astonished innocence and paraded 
 her injury before him. Sally took it for granted; did 
 not even argue from it the certainty that he had seen 
 her. Her mind was made up for the lie and she did not 
 possess that agility of purpose which, at a moment's 
 notice, could enable her to twist her intentions — a mental 
 somersault that needs the double- jointedness of cunning 
 
336 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 and all the consummate flexibility of tact. He might 
 know that she had followed them, but she must never 
 admit it. It seemed a feasible argument to her, in the 
 whirling panic of her thoughts, that her, admission would 
 be fatal — ^just as the prisoner in the dock pleads "not 
 guilty" against all the damning evidence of every wit- 
 ness who can be brought against him. 
 
 "I've been in about half an hour," she replied. 
 
 "Did you dine with Devenish?" 
 
 The same direct form of question, thrown at her with 
 the same implacable scrutiny of his eyes. 
 
 "Yes," she replied. 
 
 "Where.?" 
 
 She mentioned the name of the restaurant in Shaftes- 
 bury Avenue. 
 
 "Where did you go afterwards?" 
 
 It was all prepared on her tongue. She did not 
 hesitate. 
 
 "To the Palace," she replied. 
 
 "To the Palace?" He repeated it. His eyes burnt 
 into her. Then she knew that he had seen her in the 
 theatre; but only in the theatre where she could still 
 swear to him that he was mistaken. Every instinct she 
 possessed forced her to deny it until the last; beyond 
 that if breath were left her. 
 
 "Did you see it out? Did you see the performance 
 out?" he continued. 
 
 "Yes — -we waited till the end." 
 
 A note of warning despatched to Devenish would en- 
 sure his confirmation of all she had said. He had told 
 her that if ever she needed a friend — ^now indeed she 
 wanted one. 
 
 "What did you do then if you only CiEWne in half an 
 hour ago? It's just one o'clock," 
 
SALLY BISHOP S27 
 
 A thought rushed exultingly to her mind that he was 
 jealous — ^jealous of Devenish. He had not seen her at 
 all. This was jealousy. Her heart cried out in thank- 
 fulness. She crossed the room to him, all the whole 
 wealth of her love aHght and bright in her eyes. 
 
 "Jack" — she whispered — "you're not jealous of Dev- 
 enish, are you?" 
 
 A laugh broke out from his lips, striking her with the 
 sting of its harshness. 
 
 "Where did you go afterwards ?" he repeated. 
 
 "To supper — we went to supper — the same place 
 where we had dined. Why wouldn't you tell me if you 
 were jealous? Do you think I should mind?" 
 
 "Jealous?" He took her arm and led her nearer to 
 the light of the solitary candle. There he faced her, 
 looking down into the weary pupils of her eyes. "All 
 these things you've been saying," he said brutally — "are 
 lies — ^the whole — ^blessed — pack of them. You never 
 went to the Palace Theatre, you went to the Duke of 
 York's. You sat in the third row of the pit and cov- 
 ered your face with a programme whenever you thought 
 we were looking in your direction. You never went to 
 supper afterwards. You tracked Dolly's car into the 
 Strand — running in the gutter to keep pace with it. 
 Jealous? Great God! No! What have I to be jealous 
 about? What did you think you were doing — eh? 
 What did you think you were going to gain by it?" 
 
 Up to a moment, she met his eyes ; but when he railed 
 at her thoughts of his jealousy, then all courage fell 
 from her. "Jealous? Great God! No!" She knew it 
 was finished when he had said that and, beneath the 
 weight of his contempt, she crumbled into the dust of 
 pitiful obsession. 
 
 "Did you imagine," he went on mercilessly — "that 
 
328 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 I undertook the arrangement of this life with you witK 
 the thought for a moment in my mind that you would 
 institute a close vigil over all my actions?" 
 
 "It was only because I knew you were being deceived," 
 she said brokenly. 
 
 "How being deceived? By whom?" 
 
 "By your sister." 
 
 "How has she deceived me?" He forced her eyes to 
 his. "How?" he repeated. 
 
 To defend her case, just as the woman in the Courts 
 had done, she told him of what Devenish had said ; not- 
 withstanding that she herself had pleaded with Devenish 
 to repeat nothing of what had passed between them. 
 Then, in the cold glittering of his eyes, she saw how she 
 had doubly wronged her cause. 
 
 "So you speak to outsiders," he said quietly, "about 
 the things which I have told you in confidence. My 
 God! It's well that you and I are not married; well 
 for you and well for me that we haven't to smirch oun 
 names in order to get the release of a divorce." 
 
 "Divorce?" 
 
 "Yes. Great heavens! Do you think I'm going to 
 live on with you now? Do you think I'm going to be 
 followed in all my actions — ^tracked, trapped — ^and 
 dandle the private detective on my knee?" 
 
 "Ah, but Jack!" She flung arms around his neck, 
 her head bent close to his chest. "I was jealous — can't 
 you see that? I was jealous of that girl." 
 
 He put her firmly away from him. "Oh, that be 
 damned for a tale!" he exclaimed. 
 
 She shuddered. She had sought for pity — ^the last 
 hope. In his voice there was none. If only she had 
 had some one to guide her, some one to show her that 
 it would all lead to this. She would have held him 
 
SALLY BISHOP S2d 
 
 longer ; she would still have held him, had she not given 
 way to let jealousy wrestle with her soul, flinging it at 
 his feet for him to trample on. Whatever had been the 
 attitude of his mind before, she had afforded him no 
 reason to leave her. Now there was cause — cause 
 enough. She could only see the enormity of her guilt 
 with his eyes, so completely did he dominate her. That 
 a thousand circumstances had mitigated her action, had 
 goaded her, as the unwilling beast is driven through the 
 noise and smoke of battle, until, in the fury of fear, it 
 plunges headlong towards the murderous cannonade — 
 that these things should be taken into account did not 
 enter her conception of the situation. She had wronged 
 him. That was all she felt. And now, clutching his 
 hand, raising it to her lips, drenching it with her tears 
 and kisses, she begged his forgiveness, humbhng herself 
 down to the very dust. 
 
 He took his hand away. "What's the good of talking 
 about forgiveness?" he said unemotionally. "The 
 thing's done. I was not the only person who saw you." 
 
 "Your sister?" 
 
 "Yes ; she pointed you out first." 
 
 "I might have guessed that !" SaUy exclaimed bitterly. 
 
 "Why.?" 
 
 "Because she hates me. She knew it 'ud make you 
 angry if you saw me there." 
 
 "Oh, that's nonsense! Why should she hate you?" 
 
 "Why because she wants you for that other girl. 
 And you do care for her now, don't you — don't you?" 
 
 Traill turned away with annoyance. "We'll leave 
 that matter alone," he said. "I haven't the slightest 
 intention of discussing it. To-morrow morning I shall 
 see about letting my rooms. According to the terms of 
 the settlement I drew out last night, you retain these — 
 
330 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 rent free — ^lo the expiration of the lease. That's three 
 years. Bnt you mayn't sub-let." 
 
 Sub-let ! He could talk about sub-letting ! The irony 
 of it dragged a laugh through her lips. 
 
 "Do you think I shall want to sub-let.'"' she said 
 stridently. "Do you think I shall care what I do, where 
 I live, how I live.'"' 
 
 "You'll be a fool if you don't," he remarked. 
 
 The hysterical note in her voice had jarred through 
 him. Once before in his life he had had a woman scream- 
 ing about his ears. There was no desire in his mind to 
 relish the enjoyment of it again. He turned slowly to- 
 wards the door. This was the worst of women. A man's 
 relations with them were bound to end something after 
 this fashion. In common with most men, he shared a 
 hatred of that termination of all intimacies which one 
 calls a scene. 
 
 But, really, he had no cause for apprehension. The 
 tears now were streaming down her face, sobs were chok- 
 ing her, convulsive shudderings that shook her body in 
 a merciless grip. Her spirit was utterly broken. No 
 worse could happen to her now. But through all her 
 misery, she could still think first of him. That tentative 
 drawing away, the hand stretching out for the door, 
 she knew the meaning of that ; she saw that he had had 
 enough — enough of her weeping, enough of her despair. 
 Just as when, watching the fight, she had struggled 
 against her weakness lest it should spoil his pleasure, so 
 now she fought down the hysteria of her mind to give 
 him ease. Very wearily she crossed the room and stood 
 beside him, forcing back tears with lips that were trem- 
 bling and contorted. It was no show of bravado, no 
 spurious bravery, aping self-respect, taking it well, as 
 the phrase has it. She was not brave. She felt a cow- 
 
SALLY BISHOP 331 
 
 ard to all of life that offered. Her heart was that of a 
 derelict — ^numbed, inert, no spirit left in it — ^just lift- 
 ing its head with sluggish weariness above the body of 
 the waves. But simply out of love for him she could 
 not bear to see him annoyed by her suffering. 
 
 "You needn't hurry to go," she said finely ; "I shan't 
 make a fool of myself — the way you think. I shan't be 
 a drag on you — I promise you that. And if you're 
 going to-morrow, wouldn't you stop just a little while 
 and talk.?" 
 
 At any other moment the simplicity of that would 
 have touched him; but the affection that Devenish had 
 seen to be tiring had been snapped — a thread in a flame 
 — ^when he had found her watching his actions, dogging 
 his footsteps. His liberty — ^that which a man of his 
 type most prizes when he finds it being encroached upon 
 — ^had been threatened. There was no forgiveness in the 
 heart of him for that. In the sudden freedom of his 
 affections — just as Mrs. Durlacher had so deftly anti- 
 cipated — he had let them drift — a moth to the nearest 
 candle, a floating seed to the nearest shore — and Coralie 
 Standish-Row had claimed them. 
 
 "Can anything be gained by talking.""' he asked, 
 quietly. 
 
 "Yes — perhaps it's the last time." 
 
 "But nothing can be gained by it. You'll only make 
 yourself more miserable. What is the good of that?" 
 
 "Do you think I could be more miserable ?" she asked. 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 This scarcely, without seeking defence for Traill, is 
 the most difficult part for a man to play well. He had 
 never offered, in the first beginning of their acquaint- 
 ance, to deceive her. He was not a man who had respect 
 for marriage, he had said quite honestly. He had told 
 
S32 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 her to go — have no truck with him ; and if she had gone, 
 if she had not taken upon herself to return his present, 
 he would have seen no more of her. She had known of 
 his love of liberty, and she herself had threatened it; 
 yet now, seemingly, he was playing a mean part, desert- 
 ing her, casting her off, when she loved him with every 
 breath her trembling lips drew through her body. It 
 is hard to play such a part well. Even the least sensi- 
 tive of men, conscious of their own cruelty, will seek to 
 end it as quickly as may be. Wherefore, how could he 
 be expected to see the good gained by staying and talk- 
 ing? What good, in God's name, did talking do. f" With 
 the agony prolonged, the strain drawn out, how were 
 they — either of them — to benefit? Here, indeed, is a 
 judgment of the head. But it was with her heart alone 
 that Sally craved for its continuance. It was the last 
 she was to see of him ; the last time that he would be in 
 her bedroom where all the passionate associations of her 
 life would always lie buried. Can it be wondered that 
 she would willingly have dragged the misery of it 
 through all that night, if only to keep him for the 
 moments as they passed, by her side? 
 
 Yet he was driven to play the mean part — the part 
 for which there never will be — ^perhaps never should be 
 — any sympathy. And he must play it with the best 
 grace he could. A man is always a spectator to his 
 own actions ; a woman, in her emotions — ^never. So 
 women lose their self-respect more easily than men. 
 
 But Traill was not the type to allow these abstract 
 considerations to worry him. The love in him she found 
 to be dead. He was not even moved by the piteousness 
 of her appeal. There, then, it must end. It was not 
 his nature to choose the most graceful, the kindest way 
 to end it. He snapped it off as, eyross thf Kb?§§; you 
 
SALLt BISM6? ^t& 
 
 break a faggot for the burning. And that, too, is the 
 only way to do it. 
 
 "I didn't come up here," he said, "to discuss anything. 
 The whole thing's discussed in my mind. When I saw 
 you running after the car, pushing your way along the 
 gutter — that ended it. You'd better read through your 
 settlement now and if you don't think I've been generous 
 enough, teU me to-morrow morning. I shall be down- 
 stairs tin eleven." 
 
 He opened the door — passed through — closed it. She 
 listened to each one of his steps as he descended the 
 stairs, her mouth hanging open, her eyes struck in a 
 fixed glare at the spot where he had stood. Then, when 
 she heard him close his door below, she just crumpled 
 up in an abandoned heap upon the floor, and with each 
 breath she moaned — "Oh — oh — oh." 
 
 Traill, undressing below, heard it. With a muttered 
 exclamation, he dragged his shirt over his head and flung 
 it violently into the corner of the room amongst the 
 bundle of dirty linen. 
 
BOOK in 
 DERELICT 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Virtue is the personality of many women. Rob 
 them of it, those of them whose value it enhances, and 
 you prize a jewel from its setting, you wrench a star 
 out of the mystery of the heavens and bring it down 
 to earth. It is a common trend of the mind in these 
 modern days to make nobility out of the women whose 
 personality needs no virtue to lift it to a pedestal of 
 fame. But reaUy, it is they who make the nobility for 
 themselves. Phryne of Athens, Helen of Troy, Cath- 
 erine of Russia, Mary of Scotland — these are women 
 who have ennobled themselves without aid of eulogy. 
 Personality has been theirs without necessity for the 
 robe of virtue to grace them in the eyes of the world. 
 But with the seemingly lesser women, the women of 
 seemingly no vast account — with those whose whole in- 
 dividuality depends upon the invaluable possession of 
 their virtue, no great epic can well be sung, no loud 
 pasan sounded. You may find just a lyric here, a 
 rondel there, set to the lilt of a phrase in an idle hour 
 and sung in a passing moment to send a tired heart 
 asleep. But that is all. Yet they are the women upon 
 whom the world has spent six thousand years in the 
 making; they are the women at whose breasts are fed 
 
SALLY BISHOP 335 
 
 the sons of men. The whole race has been weaned by 
 them; every country has been nursed into manhood in 
 their arms. But they are too normal or they are too 
 much a class to have men sing of them. There is not 
 one mother of children in the vast calendars of history 
 who stands out now for our eyes to reverence. Upon 
 the stage of the world their part is played, and what 
 eye is there can grasp in comprehensive glance the 
 whole broad sweep of power which their frail hands 
 have wielded? Only upon that mimic platform of 
 fame, raised where the eyes of all can watch the figure 
 as it treads the boards, have women stood apart where 
 the recorder can jot their names upon a scroll of his- 
 tory for the world to read. There is no virtue essen- 
 tial here ; virtue indeed but adds a glamour with its ab- 
 sence. 
 
 There is some subtle attraction in a Catherine of 
 Russia or a Manon Lescaut which tempts the cunning 
 lust of men to cry their praise for the nobility of heart 
 that lies beneath. But what elusive charm is there in 
 the mother of children whose stainless virtue is her only 
 personality? None? Yet to the all-seeing eye, to 
 the all-comprehending brain — ^to that omniscience 
 whom some call God, be it in Trinity or in Unity, and 
 others know not what to call — these are the women 
 who Hft immeasurably above fame, infinitely above 
 repute. 
 
 So, therefore, rob them of their virtue and you prize 
 a jewel from its setting, you wrench a star from the 
 mystery of the heavens and bring it down to earth, you 
 filch from the generous hand of Nature that very pos- 
 session which she holds most dear. For without virtue, 
 these women are nothing. Without virtue, you may see 
 them dragging the bed of the streets for the bodies they 
 
336 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 can find. It is the last task which Nature sets tKem— 
 bait to lure men from the theft of that virtue in others 
 which they can in no wise repay. 
 
 And this very virtue itself needs no little power of 
 subtle comprehension to understand; for intrinsically 
 it is a fixed quality while outwardly it changes, just 
 as the tide of custom ebbs or flows. Intrinsically then, 
 it is that quality in a woman which breeds respect in 
 men — respect, the lure of which is so often their own 
 vanity. And the pure, the chaste, the untouched 
 woman, whether it be vanity or not, is she whom men 
 most venerate. Of these they make mothers — for these 
 alone they will live continently. And however much 
 love a man may bear in his heart for a woman whom 
 some other than himself has possessed, the knowledge 
 of it will corrupt like a poison in the blood though he 
 forgive her a thousand times. 
 
 Such a woman, pure, chaste, and untouched, had been 
 Sally Bishop. But to one man alone can a woman be 
 this, and then, only so long as she remains with him. 
 Once he has cast her olF, when once she is discarded, she 
 becomes to all who know her, a woman of easy virtue, 
 prey to the first hungry hands that are ready to claim 
 her. This, in an age when the binding sacrament of 
 matrimony is being held up to ridicule both in theory 
 and in practice, is perhaps the only reasonable argu- 
 ment that can be utilized in its defence. It is surely 
 not pedantic to hope that the purity of some women is 
 still essential for the race, and it is surely not illogical 
 to suppose that marriage is the means, in such cases as 
 that of Sally Bishop, to this humble end. 
 
 Pure, certainly, she had been, even in the eyes of 
 such a man as Devenish ; but in the light of a discarded 
 mistress, all her virtue vanished. Innate in the mind of 
 
SALLY BISHOP SST 
 
 the worst of men is the timid hesitation before he brands 
 a virtuous woman ; but when once he knows that she has 
 fallen, conscience lifts, like a feather on the breeze. 
 With a light heart, he reaps the harvest of tares which 
 some other than himself must be blamed for sowing, 
 and with a light heart he goes his way, immune to re- 
 morse. 
 
 This then is the Tragedy which, like some insect in 
 the heart of the rose, had eaten its way into the Ro- 
 mance of Sally Bishop. 
 
 For three days after Traill had left her, she broke 
 under the flood of her despair. For those three days 
 she did not move out of her rooms, taking just what 
 nourishment there was to be found in the cupboards 
 where they stored the food for their breakfasts. On 
 the side of her bed she sometimes sat, biting a dry 
 piece of bread — anything that she could find — in that 
 unconscious instinct with which the body prompts the 
 mind for its own preservation. But these meals — if 
 such they can be called — she took at no stated times. 
 Crusts of bread lay about on the table, showing how 
 indiscriminately of order she had fed herself. For, two 
 hours together, she would sit in awful silence, with eyes 
 strained staringly before her. Of tears, there were 
 none. Sometimes a sob broke through her lips when 
 a sound downstairs reminded her of him; but no tears 
 accompanied it. It was more like the complaining cry 
 of some animal in its sleep. 
 
 For the first two nights she just flung herself on her 
 bed when the darkness came. She did not undress. The 
 nights were warm then, or cold might have driven her 
 between the clothes. But, on the third evening, she dis- 
 robed. This was habit reasserting itself. She did it 
 unconsciously, only remembering as she crept, shudder- 
 
338 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 ing, between the sheets, that for the two previous nights 
 she had not gone to bed at all. 
 
 The toppling fall of reason would soon have ended 
 it; that merciful potion of magic which can bring a 
 torturing misery in the guise of a quaint conceit to a 
 mind made simple as a little child's. Another day or 
 so, and the frightened agony that glittered in her eyes 
 — fusing slowly towards the last great conflagration — 
 would have burnt up in the sudden panic-flare as the 
 reason guttered out, then smouldered down into that 
 pitiable lightless flickering where all glimmer of intelli- 
 gence is dead. 
 
 Inevitably this must have followed, had not Janet 
 visited her late in the evening of the fourth day. Two 
 days before, she had written saying that she would 
 come if Traill were not likely to be there. 
 
 Her note finished abruptly, characteristic of all her 
 letters. 
 
 "If I don't hear from you to the contrary," it con- 
 cluded, "I shall arrive." 
 
 She heard nothing to the contrary. The letter had 
 lain, since its arrival, in the box downstairs. Sally had 
 not moved out of her room. The possibility of a letter 
 from Traill might have drawn her forth; but she knew 
 that such a possibility did not exist. The woman who 
 attended to their rooms she had sent away. 
 
 "I shall be able to look after these two rooms my- 
 self," she had thought vaguely. Then she had locked 
 herself into her bedroom, taken up a duster to begin 
 the morning's work and, after five minutes, idly lifting 
 each thing in her hand, she had seated herself by the 
 side of the bed, allowing the duster to fall limply from 
 her fingers. Then, throwing herself on to the pillows, 
 had given way with tearless eyes to her despair. 
 
SALLY BISHOP 339 
 
 When Janet's knock fell, she was lying In bed, eyes 
 gaping at the ceiling above her in a gaze that scarcely 
 wandered or moved from the spot upon which they were 
 fixed. At the unexpected sound, she sat up. Intelli- 
 gence struggled for the mastery in her mind. There, 
 in her eyes, you could see it fight for victory. 
 
 "Who's that?" she called out querulously in a thin 
 voice. 
 
 "Janet! Do you mean to say you're not up yet?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Well, come and unlock the door. I can't get in." 
 
 Sally drove the energy into her limbs with an effort 
 and tumbled from the bed. As her feet touched the 
 fioor, she lurched forward with weakness. She clutched 
 at the clothes and held herself erect; but her knees 
 trembled, knocking together like wooden clubs that are 
 shaken by reckless vibration. 
 
 With a little moan of weakness she stumbled to the 
 door, holding to the end of the bed, the back of a chair, 
 the handle of the door in her uncertain progress. 
 
 As soon as she heard the key turned, Janet entered 
 and found Sally in her night-dress, a white ghost of 
 what she was, swinging unsteadily before her — so a 
 dead body, swung from a gallows, eddies in a lifting 
 wind. 
 
 "Sally!" she exclaimed. 
 
 Sally stared at her. Her dry lips half-parted to 
 make Janet's name. Her eyes, burnt out in the deep 
 black hollows, flickered with a light of thankful recog- 
 nition. Then she swung forward, a dead weight on to 
 Janet's shoulder. 
 
 For a moment, Janet held her there, looking over 
 the shoulders that crumbled against her thin breast, at 
 the disordered room before her. She saw the crusts of 
 
340 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 bread, she saw the bed-clothes hanging to the floor. 
 She gazed down at the unkempt head of hair that 
 dragged lifelessly on her shoulder, and her eyes were 
 wide in bewildered amazement. 
 
 "Great God!" she exclaimed. 
 
 And she realized how inadequate that was. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 Foe three weeks Janet stayed with her, sleeping with 
 her, arms tight-locked about her yielding body as they 
 had often slept together in the days at Kew. With her 
 own hands, she fed her ; in the warmth of her big, gen- 
 erous heart, she nursed her back to life, as you revive 
 some little bird, starved and cold, in the heat of your 
 two hands. 
 
 During the first fortnight, she asked no questions. 
 What had happened was obvious. She learnt from the 
 people on the second floor in the office of the railway 
 company that Traill had left his rooms; but under 
 what circumstances and why, she made no inquiries. 
 Brought face to face with the exigencies in the lives of 
 others, there is a fund of common sense to be found in 
 the character of the revolutionary woman. That Janet 
 Hallard was an artist, now with a studio of sorts of her 
 own, says nothing for her temperament and less for 
 her art. She had no conception of the higher life, and 
 to her mind the inner mysticism was a jumble of con- 
 fused nonsense — the blind leading the blind, for whom 
 the ultimate ditch was a bastard theosophy. As a 
 matter of fact, Janet had no mean ideas of design; 
 but they were vigorous and, for her living, she had to 
 struggle against the overwhelming sentimentalism of 
 the nouveau art. 
 
 In dealing with Sally then, a subject needing tact, 
 common sense and an unyielding strength of purpose, 
 
 she was more than emmently fitted to gave her from 
 
342 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 the edge of the precipice towards which she had found 
 her so blindly stumbling. It was just such a moment 
 as when one sees one's dearest friend walking blindly 
 to the verge of an abyss and knows that too sudden 
 a cry, too swift a movement to save them, may plimge 
 their reckless body for ever into eternity. In this mo- 
 ment, Janet kept her wits. With infinite care, with in- 
 finite tenderness, never weakening to the importunate 
 demands that were made of her, giving up her work, 
 giving up every other interest that she had, she slowly 
 drew Sally back into the steady current of existence; 
 saw day by day the life come tardily again into the 
 bloodless cheeks, and watched the smearing shadows be- 
 neath the hollow eyes as they disappeared. 
 
 Then, at the end of a fortnight, she learnt in quaver- 
 ing sentences from Sally's lips, trembling as they told 
 it, the story of her desertion. 
 
 "You shouldn't have followed him, Sally," she whis- 
 pered gently at its conclusion. 
 
 "I know I shouldn't — I know I shouldn't. And so 
 I know of course he isn't to blame. It's that woman 
 — ^his sister. I always knew she hated me — ^knew it! 
 She used to look at me like you look at soiled things 
 in a shop! She pointed me out to him in the theatre. 
 I can guess the things she said. She brought the other 
 — the other one to see him. Oh, wasn't it cunning of 
 her.? Mustn't she be a brute! Think what she's done 
 to me! Look how wretched she's made my life! And 
 she's got every single thing she can want. Oh, I don't 
 wonder that people have their doubts about this mar- 
 vellous mercy of God ! I don't see any mercy in what's 
 happened to me. I never saw any mercy in what hap- 
 pened to father ; and yet he onljr ^j^ what he ought to 
 have done." 
 
SALLY BISHOP 34S 
 
 The excitement was rising within her — a steady tor- 
 rent lifting to the flood. Janet watched its progress 
 steadily in her eyes. When it reached this point, she 
 adroitly changed the current of her thoughts. 
 
 "What did your father do?" she asked with interest. 
 
 Sally looked up and the expression in her eyes 
 changed. 
 
 "Have I never told you.'"' 
 
 "No." 
 
 "He consecrated too much wine one Easter Sunday 
 where he was taking a locum tenens — and afterwards, 
 when he had to drink it — it went to his head." 
 
 She told it so seriously that Janet was driven to 
 choke the rush of laughter rising within her. 
 
 "Why did he have to drink it.''" she asked. 
 
 "They have to. Consecrated wine mustn't be kept." 
 
 "But why not.? Does it go bad?" 
 
 "Janet! No — ^but, don't you see.? — they do keep it 
 in the Roman Catholic Church — on the altar — that's 
 why the little red lamp is always burning in front. 
 That's why the people bow when they first come into 
 the church. And don't you see, they're afraid in the 
 Anglican Church, that if the Bread and Wine were 
 kept, people might venerate it as the real Presence, 
 which of course it isn't." 
 
 "Isn't it?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "I couldn't tell you." 
 
 "Then he had to drink it all himself?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Why didn't he get somebody to help him?" 
 
 "He did try. He asked the wardca — ^but the warden 
 was a total abstainer." 
 
344 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 Janet looked sternly out of the window. 
 
 "Then he asked a man he saw outside the church — ^but 
 he was apparently an atheist. At any rate, he didn't be- 
 lieve in that." 
 
 "P'raps he thought the wine wasn't good?" Janet sug- 
 gested. 
 
 "Oh no — he offered to drink it; but of course as he 
 didn't believe " 
 
 "Didn't believe in what? He believed it was wine, 
 didn't he?" 
 
 "Oh yes — ^but he didn't believe in the Communion. 
 So father had to drink it himself. And then, the 
 Bishop came into the vestry and found him." 
 
 "What happened then?" 
 
 "Nothing then — but a few months later, he was 
 appointed to the chaplaincy of a Union — of course 
 a much smaller position than the one he had oc- 
 cupied." 
 
 "Didn't they give any reasons?" 
 
 "Oh yes — in a sort of a way. They said that they 
 thought the rectorship of Cailsham was rather too re- 
 sponsible a post for him. They asked him to accept 
 the other in such a way that it would have been hard 
 to refuse. Of course, they couldn't actually turn him 
 out. But mother hated him for going. It was soon 
 after we left there that I came up to you in London. 
 They were getting so poor. My brother couldn't be 
 kept up at Oxford. The governess had to go. Father 
 died not long after I left. I know what he died of. 
 They called it a general boreak-up." 
 
 "Oh — I know that," said Janet. "There's the shot- 
 gun prescription — all the pharmacopoeia ground into 
 a pill and fired down the patient's throat. It must hit 
 something. That general break-up is the double-bar- 
 
SALLY BISHOP 345 
 
 relied diagnosis. You believe it was the resignation of 
 the rectorship that finished him?" 
 
 "Yes — I'm sure of it. I remember, the day I went 
 away from home — when I came in to say good-bye to 
 him, he was writing a sermon for Easter. It was just 
 Easter then, don't you remember? I went to the little 
 church on Kew Green. He read a bit of it out to me 
 — something about there being the promise of everlast- 
 ing life in the rising of Christ from the dead — and yet 
 I know, in his heart, he was cast down in the very lowest 
 depth of despair." 
 
 Janet shook her head up and down. Not one of us 
 is too old to learn some new mystery in the inner work- 
 ings of the human machine. To Janet it was a fairy 
 tale, what had been life and death to the Rev. Samuel 
 Bishop. But she had achieved her object. Sally was 
 quieter after the relation of that little story and, see- 
 ing in her mood a good opportunity for suggesting 
 some plans about the future, Janet said quietly — 
 
 "What are your mother and sisters doing now?" 
 
 "They've gone back to Cailsham. They've got a 
 school there for little boys — sons of gentlemen — pre- 
 paratory for the Grammar School at Maidstone. The 
 sort of thing that nearly every woman takes up when 
 she gets as poor as mother is." 
 
 Janet left it at that, and set about the getting of 
 a meal, talking all the time in a light and flippant way 
 about her studio ; pointing humorous descriptions of 
 the managers of firms with whom she had to deal in 
 her business of designing. 
 
 "There's one man," she said. "You know the place 
 up the Tottenham Court Road — ^he weighs seventeen 
 stone if he weighs an ounce, and he comes up to busi- 
 ness in the morning, all the way from Turnham Greeq 
 
346 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 in a motor-car that makes the noise of thirty horses 
 galloping over a hard road, with the power of six of 
 them in its inside. He asked me down to dinner one 
 night; I went. It meant business. His wife weighs 
 the ounce that he ought to weigh if he didn't weigh 
 seventeen stone, and they sit at each end of a huge 
 table in a tiny room filled with maroon plush against 
 a green carpet, and all through dinner they talk about 
 carburetters and low-tension magnetos, and Mr. Cheese- 
 man discusses what friend living in the row of houses, 
 of which their's is one, they would get most out of in 
 return for a drive in the motor next Sunday. 'There's 
 one fellow I know,' I remember him saying. 'He's some- 
 thing to do with the stage — ^his brother's in the book- 
 ing-office at Daly's. He might get us some seats if 
 we took him out.' " 
 
 Sally laughed. The first moment that her lips had 
 parted to the sound since Janet had been with her. 
 
 "It's true," said Janet. "I'm not making it up. 
 He got that car — allowing for his trade discount — for 
 a hundred and thirty-five pounds — cape-cart hood and 
 all. It only costs him thirteen pounds a year in tyres 
 — and it can do twenty-five miles to a gallon of petrol 
 with him inside, and he reckons he's been saved five 
 shillings a week regularly in dinners since he got it. 
 Well, what else do you think a man buys a motor-car 
 for if he can't afford it. Some one has to pay for it — 
 why not his friends? That's the English system of 
 hospitality — what I buy you pay for; what you pay 
 for I get, and what I've got I must have bought, other- 
 wise I shouldn't have it. It's the principle of the re- 
 ductio ad ahsurdiMn, if you know what that is. Every- 
 body gets what they want, everybody else pays for it, 
 and everybody's happy. I'll do your washing if you'll 
 
SALLY BISHOP 347 
 
 do mine. Can you have a more generous hospitality 
 than that?" 
 
 Sally laughed again, and then Janet launched her 
 boat of enterprise. 
 
 "You're fond of kiddies, aren't you, Sally.'"' she 
 asked suddenly. 
 
 A tender look crept into Sally's ej^es. "You know 
 I am," she replied. 
 
 "Well — why don't you go down to your people at 
 Cailsham and help them for a little while in the school?" 
 
 The look of tenderness died out. Her eyes roamed 
 pitiably about the room. 
 
 "I couldn't leave here," she said powerlessly. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "I couldn't. It's all reminding me I know; but I 
 couldn't be happy anywhere else. I should be miser- 
 able away from here." 
 
 The meeting of such obstacles as this, Janet had 
 anticipated. She knew well that slough of the mind 
 which sucks in its own despair, and with all the con- 
 centration of her persuasion, she strove to lift Sally 
 out of the morass. Failing on that occasion, she 
 turned the conversation into another channel — ^let it 
 drift as it pleased; but the next day she led it back 
 again. At all costs Sally must be removed from the 
 association of her surroundings, and no means offered 
 better than these. Yet at the end of the three weeks, 
 notwithstanding all the patient persuasion that she 
 employed, her object was as far from being reached 
 as at the beginning. 
 
 "If you spoil your life, Sally," she said, as she was 
 going, "it'll be the bitterest disappointment to me that 
 I can think of. No man is worth it to a woman — no 
 woman's worth it to a man. Can't you get some am- 
 
348 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 bition to do something? All your time's your own, 
 and you haven't got to work for your living. He's 
 been generous enough — I'll admit that. Let me give 
 you lessons in drawing." 
 
 "I could never learn anything like that," said Sally, 
 wearily. "Haven't got it in me." 
 
 This mood of wilful depression, bordering upon 
 melancholia, can be perhaps the most trying test to 
 friendship that exists. To throw life into the balance 
 of chance — to fling it absolutely away in a moment of 
 heroism for a friend one loves, is a simple task com- 
 pared with the unwearying patience that is needed to 
 face the lightless gloom of another's misery. It taints 
 all life, discolours all pleasures, tracks one — dogs one, 
 like a shadow on the wall. Yet Janet passed the test 
 with love the greater, even at the end of the gauntlet 
 of those three weeks. 
 
 "I'll be with you all day, the day after to-morrow," 
 she said, as she departed; "and think about teaching 
 the kiddies — I would if I were you. You'd get awfully 
 fond of them — as if they were your own. Sons of 
 gentlemen! Think of them! Dear little chaps! My 
 God — the mothers bore them, though." 
 
CHAPTER m 
 
 It should not be lightly touched upon, this heroism 
 of Janet Hallard's in sacrificing three weeks of her work 
 — every hour of which meant some living to her — in 
 order to save Sally from that ultimate dark world of 
 dementia towards which she was inevitably drifting. It 
 was not the sacrifice of time alone, not the fact that on 
 her return she was compelled to sell some of her valued 
 possessions in order to meet the rent of her studio which 
 the work she had left undone would have amply supplied. 
 Much rather was it the noble perseverance of efi'ort 
 through the dim, impenetrable gloom of Sally's wide- 
 eyed misery, her own spirits never cast down by the 
 seeming impossibility of the task, her resources never 
 exhausted by the persistent drain that was made upon 
 them. Here was the strength of her masculinity united 
 with the patient endurance of the woman in her heart. 
 No man, of his own nature alone, could have won through 
 the sweating labour of those three weeks — ^few women 
 either. But that very combination of sex, that very 
 duality of her nature which, as a woman, made her un- 
 lovable to any man, and endeared her so closely to Sally's 
 life, had succeeded where a thousand others of her sex 
 would have failed. 
 
 She left Sally, it is true, a woman with a wounded 
 heart to nurse, an aching misery to bear; but she left 
 her with a sanity of purpose which can take up the 
 tangled threads, and, however blinded be the eyes with 
 
350 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 weeping, with fingers feeling their way, can unravel the 
 knotted mass that lies before her. 
 
 So she slowly returned to the common factors of ex- 
 istence, and in six weeks from the time of Traill's de- 
 parture, was ready to smile at any moment to the hu- 
 mour of Janet's dry criticisms of life. But to move 
 from her rooms, to disassociate herself from the past 
 with every sorrow and every joy that it contained, was 
 more than she could bring herself to do. Through all 
 Janet's persuasions, Sally remained obdurate. 
 
 "I've only got the rooms for three years," she replied 
 finally. "I can't think of it as really past until that 
 time's gone by. Then, I will. I'll go anywhere you 
 like. I'll come and share your studio with you." 
 
 They entered into a formal agreement on that and, 
 knowing the Romance in Sally's nature, Janet pursued 
 her quest of success on the other point no further. 
 
 But circumstance, with an arm stronger than Janet 
 could ever wield, succeeded where she had failed. 
 
 One evening, as Sally was preparing to go out alone 
 to dinner, she heard footsteps mounting the stairs to 
 her floor. On the moment, her heart leapt, beating to 
 her throat. Her hands, raising the hat to her head, 
 so trembled that she had to put it back upon the 
 dressing-table. A cold dew damped her forehead. She 
 put her hand up and found it wet. Then the knock 
 fell and, shaking in every limb, she set her lips and 
 walked as firmly as she could to the door. There she 
 stopped, taking a deep breath. Then she swung it open. 
 
 It was Devenish. 
 
 He took oiF his hat and held a hand out to her. She 
 accepted it, confused in her mind as to the reason of 
 his coming. Did he know.'' Or was he utterly uncon- 
 scious? He must have known ; he had come to her door. 
 
SALLY BISHOP 351 
 
 "Do you mind my coming in?" he asked. 
 
 "No, not at all." 
 
 She made way for him to pass into her sitting-room. 
 There followed an awkward pause which he tried to fill 
 with the laying down of his hat and the discarding of 
 his gloves. Sally stood there where she had closed the 
 door, waiting for him to explain his presence. Had he 
 brought a message for her from Jack? Had he come 
 to see Jack — ^knowing nothing — and, finding the rooms 
 below occupied by another tenant, had he come to learn 
 the reason of her? Why had he come? And at last he 
 turned frankly to her. 
 
 "Miss Bishop, I saw Jack the other day. He told 
 me." 
 
 Sally lifted her head with an assumption of pride, a 
 strained effort to show the pride that Janet had urged 
 her to possess. She crossed the room and dropped into 
 a chair. 
 
 "Aren't you going to sit down?" she asked. 
 
 "Thanks." He took the nearest chair, winding his 
 watch-chain about his finger to convey the air that he 
 was at ease. 
 
 "Did Jack send you to see me?" she asked then. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "You've no message from him?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then, why do you come here?" She wanted to put 
 the question firmly, but in her ears it sounded wavering ; 
 in his, touched only with surprise. 
 
 "Do you remember that evening we dined together?" 
 he asked in reply. 
 
 Could she forget it? She nodded her head in silence. 
 
 "If you recollect, I said I wished to offer xny friend- 
 ship.?" 
 
862 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 Her head nodded again. She did not make it easy 
 for him; but the social training inures one to the diffi- 
 culties of forging conversation. He ploughed through 
 with a straight, undeviating edge that in no way dis- 
 pleased her. 
 
 "Well, I don't want to distress you by going over the 
 whole business which, as you might quite justly say, was 
 none of mine. I thought you might find it a bit lonely, 
 and so, as I'd taken you out to dinner before" — ^he raised 
 his eyes, finishing the sentence with a smile and lifting 
 eyebrows. "Were you going out to dinner now?" he 
 added, before she had time to reply. 
 
 "Yes, I was." 
 
 "Then will you come with me?" 
 
 She met his gaze with frank speculation. What did 
 it matter where she went? Who was there to care? 
 Janet, the only one, would urge her to it if she knew. 
 There was no doubt in her mind that friendship had 
 prompted him. It was a considerate thought on his 
 part to come and offer to take her out because he had 
 imagined she might be lonely. She felt grateful to him, 
 but with no desire to show it. If it pleased him to be 
 generous on her behalf, why should she refuse to profit 
 by it ? But here was no thought of giving in return. A 
 woman seldom meets but one man in the world to whom 
 she will give without a shadow of the desire for the value 
 in return. What was there in the world now to pre- 
 vent her from taking what life offered of its small, dis- 
 tracting pleasures? A moment of recklessness brought 
 a deceptive lift to her spirits. 
 
 "I shall be very glad to," she said. 
 
 In her mind was no unfaithfulness to the memory of 
 Traill. Unfaithful, even to a slender memory, it was 
 not in her nature to be. The benefit of the church now 
 
SALLY BISHOP 363 
 
 was the only door through which she could pass out of 
 his life. She considered no hkehhood of it ; for, in com- 
 mon with aU those of her sex in whom the strong waters 
 of emotion run deep in the vein of sentiment, she felt — 
 being once possessed by him — that he was the lord of 
 her life. 
 
 "But I warn you," she added with a pathetic smile, 
 "I shan't be good company. You'll have to do all the 
 talking. You'll have to make all the jokes." 
 
 "I'm prepared to do as much and more," he said 
 lightly. 
 
 "Then you must wait while I put on my hat. Play 
 the piano — can you?" 
 
 "No— not L Can you?" 
 
 "Yes— just a little." 
 
 "Sing?" 
 
 "Yes — sometimes." 
 
 "Ah, that settles it. We come back here after dinner, 
 and you sing every song in your repertoire." 
 
 She laughed brightly at his enthusiasm. "You're 
 really fond of music.'"' she said. 
 
 "Yes, passionately. And I suffer little for my pas- 
 sion because I know absolutely nothing about it. That's 
 a promise, then? You'll sing to me after dinner?" 
 
 "Yes, I should love to." 
 
 » 
 
 So much had her spirits lifted in this deceptive atmos- 
 phere of diversion that Devenish even heard her hum- 
 ming a tune in the other room. And he smiled, looking 
 up to the ceiling with hands spread out and fingers 
 lightly playing one upon the other. 
 
 At a restaurant in Great Portland Street, shut off 
 from the rest of the room by the astute arrangement of 
 a screen — ranged around every table, presumably to 
 ward off the draught — they dined in comparative seclu- 
 
864 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 sion. Into the selection of that dinner Devenish put a 
 great part of his ingenuity. The man who knows 
 how to choose a meal and savour those intervals between 
 the courses with anecdote, has reached a high-water mark 
 of social excellence. Devenish was the type. He was 
 not hampered with the possession of intelligence. Wit 
 he had, but it was not his own. The man, after all, who 
 can echo the wit of others and suit its application to the 
 moment is a man of no little accomplishment. The least 
 that can be said of him is that he is worthy of his place 
 at a dinner-table where conversation is as empty as the 
 bubbles that shoot through the glittering wine to the 
 frothy surface. To suffer from intelligence in such an 
 atmosphere as this is a disease — the silent sickness — of 
 which such symptoms as the lips tight bound, the heart 
 heavy, and an aching void behind the ej'es, are common 
 to all its victims. Later, in the course of its develop- 
 ment, if the attack is acute, comes the forced speech 
 from lips now scarcely opened — forced speech recogniz- 
 able by its various degrees of imbecility. The man, for 
 instance, who asks you if you have been to a theatre 
 lately when you have just deftly foisted upon the com- 
 pany the latest joke you heard in a musical comedy, has 
 reached that stage of the disease when retirement is the 
 only cure. Like quinine in fever districts, there is one 
 drug which may ward off the icy fingers of the complaint 
 — champagne — ^but it should be administered at frequent 
 intervals. 
 
 From such a malady as this, Devenish was not only 
 immune, but he carried with him that lightness of spirit 
 which may go far to relieve others of their suffering. 
 Add to this a face well-featured, a figure well-planned 
 with all the alertness of an athlete, an immaculate taste 
 in dress, and you have the type which the 'Varsity mould 
 
SALLY BISHOP S55 
 
 ofiFers yearly to the ephemeral needs of her country. 
 The impression remains, stamped upon the man until 
 he is weU-nigh forty. He knows how to get drunk in 
 the most gentlemanly way and his judgment about 
 women is sometimes very shrewd. A knowledge of the 
 classics is of service to him if he does nothing. If, on 
 the other hand, he sets about the earning of his living — 
 a drudgery that some of these youths are compelled to 
 submit to — the classics are only the peas in the shoe 
 which, as a pilgrim to the far-off shrine of utility, he is 
 compelled to wear. 
 
 Not having to earn his own livelihood, or rather, hav- 
 ing already earned it in the profession of matrimony 
 into which he had entered in partnership with a wealthy 
 woman, Devenish was a pride to the college which had 
 turned him out. 
 
 He knew most of those people in London who range in 
 the category of — ^worth knowing. Anecdotes of them 
 all — those little personal insights into private domestic 
 relations of which surely there must somewhere be an 
 illicit still, hidden in the mountains where gossip echoes 
 — ^he had at the tips of his fingers. 
 
 "Surely you've heard that last thing that Mrs. 
 
 said at the first night of ;" and thereafter follows 
 
 some quaint conceit — smuggled, God knows how, from 
 the illicit still in the mountains, stamped with a fictitious 
 year to give it flavour — ^which the well-known actress in 
 question would have offered her soul to have said on the 
 occasion alluded to in the story, but which she had 
 never even thought of. 
 
 ' It may be concluded, then, from these apparently 
 needless digressions that Devenish was good company. 
 He did his best to amuse Sally— he succeeded. When 
 they were halfway through the dinner and he had casu- 
 
356 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 ally refilled her glass with champagne, she was prepared 
 to see humour in everything he said. 
 
 There is a mood of recklessness — ^wild determined 
 recklessness — ^that strikes, like a light in the heavens, 
 across the face of despair. In such a mood was Sally 
 then. Her mind, empty of the vice which so often ac- 
 companies it, was echoing with the cry — ^What does it 
 matter? What does it matter.'' When he filled her glass 
 a second time, she half raised a hand from her lap to 
 stop him. But what did it matter.'' It would put her 
 in good spirits, and in good spirits she felt the strong 
 desire to be. Between this and the harmful result of the 
 wine, so far a call was stretched in her mind that she 
 never let it enter her consideration. Let him fill her 
 glass a second time ! She was to return to rooms empty 
 but of the bitterest of associations. The whole long 
 night had to be passed through with that haunting 
 speculation — ^which now so frequently beset her — the 
 wondering of what Traill was doing, the questioning in 
 what woman's arms he was finding the joy of desire 
 which he had found in hers. 
 
 What did it signify then, this evening in which she 
 let go the strained reserve which at any other time she 
 would have retained.? What did it signify, so long as 
 the deepest beating of her heart was unmoved by the 
 quickened pulses and the eyes alight with a reckless 
 laughter? 
 
 It mattered nothing to her who knew its meaning; 
 but to Devenish, seeing the colour lifting to her cheeks, 
 watching the sparkling in those eyes which had met his 
 but an hour or more ago, when disappointed hope had 
 thrown them into deep shadows, there was a tentative 
 significance. It appealed to the lowest nature of his 
 senses to see her, whom he had long desired, unbending 
 
SALLY BISHOP 357 
 
 in her reticence. Her laughter was a whip about his 
 body; her lips, parted — ^losing that set expression of 
 restraint — were becoming an obsession to his eyes. 
 But he guarded all his actions with a steady hand. 
 
 When her glass was empty for the second time, he 
 stretched out his hand to re-fill It again. 
 
 "Oh — I'd better not have any more," she said lightly. 
 "What ever would you do with me if I took too much.-"' 
 And she laughed. Laughed, he imagined, at the pos- 
 sibilities that rose to her mind, and it was on the edge 
 of his lips to say the things he would do. 
 
 "Another glass can't hurt you," he said, laugh- 
 ing with her. "Here — I'll fiU mine — there" — he held 
 up the bottle for her to see — "Now you have the re- 
 mainder. You don't want me to drink it all, do you? 
 I should like to know what you'd do — ^I suppose you'd 
 give me in charge of the head waiter? I guess you'd 
 shirk your responsibilities more than I would." And 
 as he talked, he emptied the bottle into her glass be- 
 neath the fringe of the conversation. 
 
 "Ever hear that story," he began again, and caught 
 her attention once more with an idle tale that had worn 
 its way through half the clubs in Town. His yarns 
 were aU fresh to her, and, moreover, he spun them 
 amazingly well. There was none of that disconcerting 
 fear of their staleness to thwart him — no need for the 
 tentative preface — "You'll say if you've heard this be- 
 fore." One suggested another — they rolled off his 
 tongue. And while she sipped her champagne, he kept 
 her amused; never allowed her the moments of inaction 
 in which to relent. He amused himself. The old, 
 worn-out story has all the humour stiU keen in it for 
 you — if you tell it. It was no effort, no strain to 
 Devenish. He laughed as heartly as he did over the 
 
358 SALLY BISHOf 
 
 stale old jests. Their novelty to her made them new 
 to him. She leant her elbows on the table and watched 
 his face as he told them. 
 
 "Now," he said, when they had finished their coffee, 
 "how about the songs? I've done my share of the en- 
 tertainment. As soon as I've got the bill, we'll go 
 back, and you can supply the more serious items of the 
 programme." 
 
 "Really — I'm afraid I couldn't. I believe you think 
 I sing well — ^I don't. I did think of going on the stage 
 once — into musical comedy — but not because I was 
 musical." 
 
 "Well — of course not. It isn't a refuge for the art. 
 But I have my belief in your being able to sing. You're 
 not going to shake that." 
 
 "Very well — I suppose I'll try." Her hands lifted to 
 her face. "My cheeks are burning. Do they look very 
 red?" 
 
 "No — ^not particularly — ^the room's warm, I think." 
 
 She permitted herself to be satisfied with that ex- 
 planation. Had a mirror been near at hand, she would 
 have realized in its reflection that the warmth of the 
 room was not the only cause for the flushed scarlet of her 
 cheeks, or the light that glittered in the expanded pu- 
 pils of her eyes. 
 
 When Devenish had paid the bill, they departed. A 
 hansom conveyed them back to Sally's rooms in Regent 
 Street. Once seated in it, she leaned back in the cor- 
 ner, and her eyes closed. 
 
 "I do feel so awfully sleepy," she said, ingenuously. 
 
 He glanced at her swiftly. Was that simplicity, or 
 a veiled request for him to close his arms about her?, 
 How could she be simple? The mistress of a man for 
 three jears — ^what simplicity could be left in her now? 
 
SALLY BISHOP 359 
 
 Undoubtedly sKe must know — of course she knew by 
 now — the thoughts that were travelling wildly through 
 his mind. 
 
 "Poor child," he said considerately — "I suppose you 
 are." 
 
 Her eyes opened to that. She sat a little straighter 
 in the corner. There was a tone in his voice more 
 subtle than friendship. Her ears had heard it, but her 
 senses were too drowsy then to dwell for long upon its 
 consideration. 
 
 He would have said more — in another moment, he 
 would have slipped his arm around her waist, had it 
 not been for her sudden movement of reserve. That 
 warned him. Unconsciously a woman gives out of her- 
 self the impression of whether she be easy of winning or 
 not. With Sally, notwithstanding all the circumstances 
 that ranged against her in his mind, Devenish realized 
 that an inconsidered step would be fatal to his desires. 
 That did not thwart him. He admired her the more for 
 it ; wanted her the more. 
 
 When they reached her rooms and, taking off her hat, 
 she seated herself at the piano, creating in the suscep- 
 tibility of his mind a greater sense of the intimacy of 
 their relations, he stood at the other side of the room 
 watching her, content to let his anticipations slowly drift 
 upon the quiet stream of events to the ultimate cataract 
 of their realization. 
 
 This is the true nature of the sensualist. Woman or 
 man, whatever sex, you may know them by their feline 
 delight in the procrastination of the moment. It is an 
 evolution of the intellect. The raw, unbridled forces of 
 nature have no dealings with such as these. They are 
 people of pleasure. They have taken the gifts that Na- 
 ture has offered and, with the subtle cunning of theip 
 
360 SAtLY BISHOP 
 
 minds, have torn the inviolable parchment of her laws 
 to shreds before her face. With no inheritance of the 
 intellect, Devenish possessed all the other qualities. Sen- 
 sualist as he was, with that strain of refinement induced 
 by the easy circumstances of life, the paid women dis- 
 gusted him. Of mere animalism, he had none. Here in 
 this widest essential, his nature marked its contrast with 
 Traill. To admit the beast in every man would have 
 been beyond him ; simply because the admission of a gen- 
 eralization such as that, would most directly have implied 
 himself. In Traill's concession of it, such an admission 
 may easily be read. And this is the type of man, such 
 as Devenish, most dangerous to society. 
 
 If the threadbare hypocrisy of this country of Eng- 
 land could but bring itself to don the acknowledgment 
 that the hired woman has her place in the scheme of 
 things, such men as Devenish would find the virtuous 
 woman more closely guarded from their strategies than 
 she is. 
 
 When her first song was finished, Sally turned in her 
 chair, laughing frankly to his eyes. 
 
 "You needn't suffer on account of your passion for 
 music by having to criticize," she said. " I know it 
 was awful." 
 
 He crossed the room to her side. "As you like," he 
 said, bringing his eyes full to hers. "You can call it 
 anything you please — ^but I want some more." He 
 picked up the pieces of music that lay on the top of the 
 piano. "Do you sing that song out of the Persian 
 Garden — ^Beside the Shalimar? I forget the words 
 of it.?" 
 
 Her fingers ran through the pile of music. " 'Pale 
 Hands I Loved.' Is that it?" She lifted her face and 
 looked up at him. 
 
SALLY BISHOP 361 
 
 "Yes — yes — sing that!" 
 
 "I'm afraid I haven't got the music — can't play 
 without the music." 
 
 He drew a deep breath. "That's a pity," he said. 
 
 "Well— listen— I'll sing this." 
 
 She placed the music before her on the rest, and with 
 one hand on the back of her chair, the other resting on 
 the piano, he bent over her, eyes wandering from the 
 gold of her hair to the parting of her lips as she sang. 
 It was just such a song as he had asked for; filled with 
 the abandoned sentimentalism of decadent passion — 
 
 "Lord of my life, than whom none other shareth 
 The deep, red, silent wine that fills my soul — 
 Take thou and drain, till not one drop remaineth 
 To wet thy lips — ^then turn thou down the bowL 
 
 "Lord of my heart — this boon I crave — ^this only, 
 That all my worth may be possessed by thee; 
 Make thou my life a chalice, drained, that lonely 
 Stands on the altar of Eternity." 
 
 She looked up at him as her fingers wandered to the 
 final chord. His Ups were set in a thin line, and he was 
 breathing quickly. 
 
 "Why did you sing that?" he asked. 
 
 She blindly shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know 
 — ^why shouldn't I? The music's a good deal nicer 
 than the words, I think. Don't you find the words are 
 rather silly.'' They are of most songs, I think." 
 
 "And you call that silly," he said. "I suppose it's 
 a woman's song — ^but, my God! do you know I could 
 sing that to you?" 
 
 His arm was round her then, dragging her towards 
 him in a lithe grip, the fierce strength of which she too 
 well understood. She struggled, breathing heavily, 
 for her freedom; but he caught her face in his hand, 
 dragged it to his lips and covered her with kisses. 
 
S62 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 Then she broke free, rising to her feet, overturning 
 the chair behind her, pushing back the disordered hair 
 from her forehead. 
 
 "How dare you !" she breathed. 
 
 Countless women have said it, in countless moments 
 similar to this. And with it, often, seeing all the cir- 
 cumstances that have led up to it in their different 
 light, comes the knowledge — as it came also to Sally 
 — the understanding of how the man has dared. Reck- 
 lessness had led her. In her heart, she blamed herself. 
 She might have known men now ; known them from her 
 knowledge at least of one man. Undoubtedly she was 
 to blame, taking everything into account — the defence- 
 lessness of her position, the fact that he had known of 
 her relationship with Traill and its termination; yet 
 her eyes flamed with contempt as they met his. 
 
 "Your hat is over on that chair," she said presently 
 in a strident voice. "Will you gop" 
 
 He crossed the room quietly — ^no want of composure 
 — and picked it up. 
 
 "Would you rather I didn't come and see you again?" 
 he asked, brushing the hat casually with his sleeve. 
 
 "I never want to see you again !" she exclaimed. 
 
 He smiled amiably. "Don't you think you're rather 
 foolish?" 
 
 "Foolish!" 
 
 "Yes — the unmarried man who keeps a woman is 
 bound to leave her some time or other — ^that's not half 
 as likely to be the case with " 
 
 "What do you mean?" She was white to the lips. 
 
 He looked puzzled. "I'm afraid I can't understand 
 you," he said. 
 
 She tried to answer him, but the words mingled in a 
 stammering of confusion before she could utter them. 
 
SALLY BISHOP 363 
 
 "You don't think there's a chance of Traill coming 
 back to you, do you?" he went on. "I shouldn't be here, 
 I assure you, if there were." 
 
 Sally's knees trembled with weakness. An overwhelm- 
 ing nausea shook her till she shuddered. 
 
 "Did he tell you to come here?" she whispered. 
 
 "Heavens, no! I don't suppose he'd do that. He 
 wouldn't do a thing like that. But I'm pretty sure he's 
 in love with that Miss Standish-Roe — the beautiful 
 Coralie. He knows it. He won't admit; but I'm cer- 
 tain he is, and I rather think I'd better open his eyes a 
 little." 
 
 That last remark did not fall within her understand- 
 ing. She took no notice of it. 
 
 "And so you came here of your own accord?" 
 
 "Yes — ^why not? I had an apparently erroneous 
 idea that you liked me. When you let me come back 
 here after dinner, I was sure of it. I saw no reason why 
 we shouldn't get along together just as well as you and 
 Traill did." 
 
 "Oh!" she exclaimed, and she hid her face in her 
 hand. 
 
 "Oh yes — I see my mistake by this time," he said 
 easily. All passion was cooled in him now. "I'm sorry. 
 There was no intention of insulting you in my mind." 
 He moved to the door. "I — I thought you under- 
 stood it." 
 
 Sally dropped into a chair, her face still covered; 
 shame — ^the deepest sense of it — ^beating through all 
 her pulses. 
 
 "Well — ^I must only hope you'll excuse my — my igno- 
 rance of women, though I must admit you're a bit dif- 
 ferent to the rest. Well — I suppose I'd better say good 
 night then." 
 
364 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 She heard him take the step forward. She could see 
 in her mind the hand held out, but she did not look up. 
 He turned again to the door. She heard it open. She 
 heard it close. She heard his footsteps slowly descend- 
 ing the stairs. And still she sat there with her face 
 close-buried in her hands. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 You are never to know how deep the iron has entered 
 your soul until Fate begins to draw it out. 
 
 When Traill had left her, Sally's mind had been 
 numbed with misery. The despair of such loneliness as 
 hers is often a narcotic, that drugs all power of thought. 
 In the beating of her pulses, when she had first heard 
 Devenish's footsteps mounting the stairs, she was forced 
 to the realization that hope was not yet dead in the 
 heart of her. That undoubtedly was why, despite all 
 Janet's efforts, she had refused to leave her rooms. The 
 hope that Traill would one day return, that one evening 
 she would hear his steps on the stairs, his knock on the 
 door, had needed only such a coincidence as the unex- 
 pected visit of Devenish to stir it into vivid animation. 
 Just so had the Rev. Samuel Bishop hoped, in the ful- 
 filment of his duties as chaplain, that one day the rec- 
 torship of Cailsham would return to his possession; just 
 so had he been imbued with faith, the same as hers, when 
 he had shuddered at his narrow avoidance of sacrilege 
 in the vestry of the little church at Steynton. To him, 
 at that moment, it would have been as impossible to pour 
 back the consecrated into the unconsecrated wine, as it 
 had been for Sally to lose assurance that Traill would 
 one day return to her. 
 
 But now it was different. The iron, in the sure grasp 
 of the fingers of Fate, was being torn out of her. She 
 could feel it wrenching its way from the very depths. 
 Traill would never come back. It was not so much be- 
 
366 SALLYj BISHOE 
 
 cause she had heard he was in love, that she realized it ; 
 that — even then — ^her faith, in its ashes, repudiated. 
 But when Devenish had said — alluding to the faintest 
 chance of his return — "I shouldn't be here, I assure 
 you, if there were," she had been made conscious of 
 Traill's tacit permission — ^unspoken no doubt — ^to 
 Devenish which had prompted his visit to her rooms. 
 
 But last and most poignant of all in the bitterness of 
 this lesson that she had learnt, was her understanding 
 of the place she held in the eyes of such men as Devenish. 
 With those who knew of her life, no friendship was pos- 
 sible. One relationship, one only could exist — a rela- 
 tionship, at the thought of which, her whole nature shud- 
 dered in violent disgust. 
 
 Janet was right. Janet had seen things from their 
 proper point of view. As a trade she should have 
 looked at it. As the leaving of one master to labour 
 in the service of another she should have weighed its 
 issue. Yet, even now, the cruelty of that outlook 
 revolted her. Had she viewed it thus, those three years 
 of absolute happiness could never have been and she 
 could not even forego the memory of them. 
 
 But the knowledge that had come to her, brought 
 decision with it. She could stay no longer where she 
 was. The thought of meeting just those few people 
 whom she knew, who knew her, in the streets, drove the 
 blood burning to her forehead. She must go away — 
 away from London — away from every chance incident 
 that might fling back in her face the tragedy of her 
 existence. Away from all its associations she would be 
 able to hide it; not from herself, not from the biting 
 criticism of her own thoughts. But from others; she 
 could hide it from them. 
 
 That night she wrote to Janet asking her to come 
 
SALLY BISHOP 367 
 
 and see her ; and the next day they sat opposite to each 
 other at a table in a quiet restaurant up West. 
 
 "I'm going to take your advice," Sally began. 
 
 "You're going away.-"' 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "At once; in a day or two, as soon as I hear from 
 mother. I wrote to her this morning." 
 
 "What did you say?" 
 
 "I said that I'd saved up some money and, as I 
 hadn't been very well, I wanted to come down and stay 
 with her for a change. I suggested that I might be of 
 some use in the school." 
 
 "Yes, that's all right. But for goodness' sake don't 
 let her see that you've got a lot of money. The wives of 
 clergymen, as far as I've ever seen, are weaned on the milk 
 suspicion. They'll never believe anybody's properly mar- 
 ried but themselves; I suppose that's because they're in 
 the trade. I know Mr. Cheeseman think's nobody's fur- 
 niture genuine, except his own. That's always a little 
 business failing. But you ought to be careful." 
 
 "But I haven't any too much money," said Sally 
 quietly. 
 
 Janet gazed up at her in unsympathetic surprise. 
 "That's rather unlike you," she said abruptly. "I 
 think he was very generous. A hundred and fifty a 
 year, free of rent for three years, is more, I imagine, 
 than most men would drag out of their pockets. You 
 could make what living you like besides that, if you 
 chose to. I know I should jolly-well think myself a 
 Croesus with that capital." 
 
 Her tone of voice was hard with criticism. 
 
 "But do you think I take all he's offered me ?" asked 
 Sally. 
 
368 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 "Do you mean to say you don't?" 
 
 "No, I take the very least I can. A pound a week 
 is all I want for my food; what else should I want? I 
 wouldn't touch another penny of it but that till the 
 three years are over. I have all the clothes I could 
 possibly want. You thought I was mean, didn't you, 
 Janet?" 
 
 Janet looked up at the ceiling, then impulsively 
 lield out her hand. 
 
 "God help me!" she exclaimed, "if I find my own 
 sex an enigma; but what on earth made you decide?" 
 
 "Mr. Devenish." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Mr. Devenish, the man I told you I was dining 
 with that night, six weeks ago." 
 
 "Why him, in the name of Heaven?" 
 
 "He came to see me last night." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "He took me out to dinner." 
 
 "Very good thing too. You want a little of that 
 sort of entertaining. Did he advise you to go?" 
 
 "No " 
 
 "Then what?" 
 
 She could see the colour mounting and falling in 
 Sally's cheeks and her suspicions sped to a conclusion. 
 
 "He made love to me," said Sally. Her hand went 
 to her eyes. She covered them. 
 
 "Oh, I see. You want to get away from him? 
 You don't like him? Think he's going to be a nui- 
 sance!"' 
 
 "No, it's not that." She still hid her face. "I 
 don't think he'd ever come and see me again, now." 
 
 "Then what?" 
 
 "It was what he said." 
 
SALLY BISHOP 369 
 
 "What did he say?" 
 
 "He wanted Oh!" 
 
 Janet leant forward on the table. "To take Traill's 
 place — eh?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Janet leant back in her chair and looked scruti- 
 nizingly at Sally's head, bent into her hands, and from 
 what she knew by this time of Sally's nature, there 
 came the understanding of what such a proposal must 
 have meant. 
 
 "And what else did you expect?" she asked gently. 
 "Most men are the same. News that there is a woman 
 to be found situated such as you are spreads through 
 the ranks of them like — like — ^like a prairie fire. It 
 goes whispering from one lip to another. You can 
 never tell where it starts. You can never tell where it 
 ends. As soon as a man knows that money can buy a 
 woman he wants, he'll scrape the bottom of the Bank 
 of England to get it. I told you before, it's a busi- 
 ness ! Why in the name of Heaven can't you give up 
 all your romanticism? If you don't want to go on 
 with it, to be absolutely brutal, if you don't want to 
 make it pay, why can't you take all the money that 
 Traill's given you and go away from here altogether? 
 Well — ^you are going — thank the Lord for that much 
 sense! But go, and take all you can get with you. 
 Save it up if you won't spend it ; and that's better still. 
 But, for God's sake, take it, it's yours ! Surely you've 
 earned it. I should think you had." 
 
 Sally dropped her hands and looked up. "I don't 
 know why you and I have ever got on together, Janet," 
 she said brokenly. "I could never conceive two people 
 more absolutely opposite. I sometimes hate the things 
 you say, but I nearly always love you for saying them. 
 
S70 SALLY BISHOP. 
 
 I loathe the things you've said now. If I thought like 
 that, I can't see what there would be to stop me from 
 sinking as low — as low as a woman can. Do you really 
 mean to say that you'd do like that if you cared for 
 a man, as I do for Jack? Would you grasp every 
 penny he'd left you?" 
 
 "I don't know. I should either do that, or not take 
 a farthing of it. Make my own living, earn my own 
 way, be independent at any cost." 
 
 "Do you mean I ought to do that?" 
 
 "I don't mean you ought, because I know you 
 couldn't. You could no more go and earn your own 
 living now — ^now that you've learnt the ease and luxury 
 of living in a man's arms — than you could fly. You 
 aren't the type, Sally ; you never were." 
 
 Sally's lips pressed together. "You think I love 
 the ease and luxury?" she said bitterly. "You think 
 as poorly of me as that?" 
 
 "I don't think poorly at all. You were never meant 
 to work. Your curse is the curse of Eve, not Adam. 
 You ought to have a child. You wouldn't be wasting 
 your soul out on a man then. You'd take every farthing 
 that Traill's left you, as it's only right you should. You 
 don't see any right in it now ; but you would then. Every 
 single thing in the world is worth its salt, and a child 
 'ud be the salt of life to you. When do you think 
 you'll hear from your mother?" 
 
 "To-morrow, perhaps." 
 
 *'Well, then, directly you hear you can go — ^go! 
 Don't stop in London another second. It's a pitiable 
 purgatory for you now. Go and look after the little 
 kiddies in the school. You'll know quick enough what 
 I mean about the curse of Eve, when you find one of 
 them tugging at your skirt for sympathy." 
 
BOOK rv 
 
 THE EMPTY HORIZON 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Cailsham — one of those small antiquated towns 
 which, in its day, has had its name writ in history — 
 sits at the feet of the hills, like an old man, weary of 
 toil, and gazes out with sleepy eyes over the garden of 
 Kent. In the spring, the country is patched with white 
 around — white, with the blossoms in the fruit planta- 
 tions. Broad acres of cherry orchards spread their 
 snow-white sheets out in the sun — ^a giant's washing- 
 day. The little lanes wind tortuous ways between the 
 fields of apple bloom, and off in the forest of tree stems, 
 lying lazily in the high-grown grass, dappled yellow 
 with sunlight, you will find in every orchard a boy, idly 
 beating a monotonous tattoo to scare away the birds. 
 A collection of tin pots in various stages of dilapida- 
 tion, each one emitting a different hollow note, are 
 spread around him, and there he lies the day through 
 till nightfall, eating the meals that are brought him, 
 humming a tune between them to pass away the time; 
 but ceaselessly beating a discordant dominant upon his 
 sounding drums of tin. This is Cailsham in the spring. 
 Cailsham at any time is more the country that sur- 
 rounds it. All its colours, all its life, all its interests, 
 it takes from those great, wide gardens of fruit as they 
 break from leaf into blossom, blossom to fruit, from 
 
'm SALLY BISHOP 
 
 fruit to the black, naked branches of winter, when 
 Cailsham itself sinks into the silence of a well-earned, 
 lethargic repose. Then they talk of the fruit seasons 
 that are past, and the fruit seasons that are to come. 
 The lights burn out early in the windows, and by ten 
 o'clock the little town is asleep. 
 
 This is Cailsham. The narrow High Street and the 
 miniature Exchange, the square of the market-place 
 and the stone fountain that stands with such an effort 
 of nobility in the centre, bearing upon one of its rough 
 slabs the name of the munificent donor, and the occa- 
 sion on which the townspeople were presented with its 
 cherished possession — these are nothing. They are 
 only accessories. The real Cailsham is to be found in 
 the apple, the plum, and the cherry orchards. From 
 these, either as owners or as labourers, all the inhabi- 
 tants draw their source of life, with the exception of 
 those few shopkeepers whose premises extend in a dis- 
 orderly fashion down the High Street ; the Rector, who 
 has his interest in the fruit season as well as the rest; 
 and lastly, Mrs. Bishop, head-mistress of that little 
 school in Wyatt Street, where the sons of gentlemen 
 are fitted for such exigencies of life as are to be met 
 with between the ages of four and eight. 
 
 With the name of Lady Bray to conjure popularity, 
 she had set up her establishment immediately after her 
 husband's death. Then the old lady herself had fallen 
 asleep — in her case a literal description of her decease. 
 One night they had put her quietly to bed as usual, 
 and in the morning she was still asleep — a slumber 
 which really must be rest. 
 
 Fortunately for Mrs. Bishop the school was planted 
 then. Twenty pupils sat round the cheap kitchen 
 tables in the schoolroom — all sons of gentlemen — ■ 
 
SALLY BISHOP 373 
 
 whose mothers paid occasional visits to the house and 
 peeped into the schoolroom, after they had partaken of 
 tea with Mrs. Bishop in the drawing-room. Whenever 
 this incident occurred, the little boys rose electrically 
 from their forms in courteous deference to the visitor; 
 and the boy, whose mother it was, would blush with 
 pride and look away, or he would frankly smile up to 
 his mother's eyes. Then Mrs. Bishop would inevitably 
 eulogize his progress as she sped the parting guest, 
 making inquiries from her daughters afterwards to 
 ascertain how near she had gone to the truth. One 
 boarder only she accepted into the estabhshment. It 
 had not been her intention to have any. But one 
 day a lady had written from Winchester to say that 
 through a friend of a friend of Lady Bray's, she had 
 heard of Mrs. Bishop's preparatory school for the sons 
 of gentlemen. She was compelled, she concluded in 
 her letter, to go for some little time to live in London 
 and, though she knew that Mrs. Bishop only accepted 
 day pupils at her house, she would consider it a great 
 favour if, for a term or so, she would consent to the 
 admission of her son as a boarder. If such an arrange- 
 ment were possible, she would be glad to know the terms 
 which Mrs. Bishop would deem most reasonable. 
 
 For the rest of that day there had been unprece- 
 dented excitement at No. 17, Wyatt Street. Until late 
 that evening Elsie and Dora Bishop, in consultation 
 with their mother, went into all the financial details of 
 the undertaking. Little Maurice Priestly could sleep 
 in the small room at the top of the house, used then as 
 a box room. The smallness of the window in the slop- 
 ing ceiling could easily be disguised by lace curtains at 
 six three-farthings a yard. 
 
 'Tut that down," Mrs. Bishop had said; aod the 
 
374 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 item of capital outlay had gone down on a half -sheet of 
 note-paper. 
 
 To Cailsham they had brought with them an old 
 armchair convertible, at considerable risk to the fin- 
 gers, into a shake-down bed. 
 
 "We needn't buy a bed," said Mrs. Bishop. 
 
 "No; but it'll need some sort of coverlet to make it 
 look decent. I've seen them at Robinson's in the High 
 Street for two and eleven-three." 
 
 "Put that down," said Mrs. Bishop. 
 
 By ten o'clock the list of expenses had been com- 
 piled. By eleven o'clock it was decided what would be 
 the cost of board and lodging for an adult — a little 
 being added on to that for visionary extras — soap, 
 light, towels, and suchlike, less visionary than others, 
 but extras nevertheless. 
 
 When Mallins, the constable on night duty, passed 
 down Wyatt Street at quarter-past 'deven and saw a 
 light in No. 17, he stopped in amazement and gazed 
 through a chink in the old Venetian blind. 
 
 "It's 'ard on that Mrs. Bishop," he said to his wife 
 the next morning, "the way she 'as to work." 
 
 That same morning a letter had been despatched 
 to Mrs. Priestly, and by return of post came the 
 reply — 
 
 "I suppose what you ask is quite reasonable. I am 
 bringing Maurice to you the day after to-morrow." 
 
 "Suppose!" said Elsie. 
 
 "We couldn't do it for less," said Mrs. Bishop. 
 
 "And the box room'U look really quite comfort- 
 able," Dora joined in. "I've just put the bed up. I 
 never thought it was such a nice little room." 
 
 Two days afterwards Mrs. Priestly and little Mau- 
 rice had made their appearance. The slowest of the 
 
SALLY BISHOP 375 
 
 three flies in the town of Cailsham drove them up to the 
 door and, for the moment, all work in the schoolroom 
 had been suspended. The twenty sons of gentlemen, 
 left to themselves, behaved as the sons of gentlemen — 
 of any men, in fact — will do. There was an uproar 
 in the schoolroom which Dora, before she had obtained 
 a proper view of Mrs. Priestly from behind the door 
 of the pantry at the end of the long hall, was compelled 
 to go and reduce to silence. Having been deprived of 
 the gratification of her curiosity, her effort had met 
 with unqualified success. Between the ages of four and 
 eight a boy can be quelled by a look. That look, the 
 twenty sons of gentlemen received. 
 
 Mrs. Priestly was a tall woman, graceful and, for 
 one who lived in one of the smaller of the provincial 
 towns, elegantly dressed. Her face and its expression 
 were sad. The quietness of her manner and the gentle 
 reserve of her voice added to that sadness. The patient 
 gaze of her deep grey eyes suggested suffering. Un- 
 doubtedly she had suffered. To the sympathetic obser- 
 ver, this would have been obvious ; but to the calculat- 
 ing mind of Mrs. Bishop it presented itself in the form 
 of a social aloofness which she was morbidly quick to 
 see in any one. 
 
 Mrs. Priestly was dark. Little Maurice was fair — 
 the Saxon stamped on his head, coloured in his blue 
 eyes. He was six years old, abundant in extreme animal 
 spirits, which his mother beheld with a love and pride 
 in her eyes that was almost pathetic to see in one so 
 possessed by the apathy of unhappiness, and which 
 Mrs. Bishop observed with the silent resolve that Master 
 Maurice was on no account to be allowed into her draw- 
 ing-room. 
 
 When it had come to the moment of leaving her son 
 
§,n SALLY BISHOP 
 
 to the glowing promises of Mrs. Bishop's tenderness 
 and affection, Mrs. Priestly broke down, winding her 
 arms tight about his little neck and pressing him fiercely 
 to her bosom. Mrs. Bishop stood with an indulgent 
 smile. 
 
 Then Mrs. Priestly had looked up with tears heavy 
 In her eyes. 
 
 "I'll come and see you, Mrs. Bishop," she had said 
 with control — "I'll come and see you when I've said 
 good-bye, before I go." 
 
 Mrs. Bishop had wisely taken the suggestion and 
 departed to the end of the hall where her daughters were 
 standing expectantly. 
 
 "Of course the child is spoilt," she said, In an under- 
 tone. 
 
 "Why.''" they asked in chorus. 
 
 "Well, she's saying good-bye to him — crying over 
 him. I call It very nonsensical. I came away. That 
 sort of thing annoys me." 
 
 And In the drawing-room, mother and son were saying 
 a long farewell that was to last them for a few weeks. 
 It would be some time before she could come down from 
 London, Mrs. Priestly had said. The tears were falling 
 fast down their cheeks. 
 
 "You won't love any one else but mummy, will you, 
 Mauriei"' 
 
 "Shan't love her," he had said, with a thrusting of 
 his head towards the door which Mrs. Bishop had just 
 closed. 
 
 "And you'll say prayers every night and every mom- 
 Ing?" 
 
 "Yes, mummy." 
 
 "And you'll say, 'God help mummy.' " 
 
 "Will I pray for father?" 
 
SALLY BISHOP 377 
 
 j 
 
 She took a deep breath as she looked above his head. 
 He was too young to feel the weight of the pause. It 
 meant nothing to him. He thought she had not heard. 
 
 "Will I pray for father.'"' he repeated. 
 
 "Yes," she said slowly; "pray for father, pray for 
 him first, and then mummy, just before you go to sleep. 
 
 God bless you, my little darling " and in the fierce 
 
 blinding passion which a mother alone can understand, 
 she caught him again in her arms and crushed his 
 yielding little body to her heart. 
 
 Such was the arrival of Master Maurice Priestly at 
 No. 17, Wyatt Street. 
 
 When she arrived, some three weeks after this event, 
 Sally found a little fair-haired boy with sad blue eyes 
 whom at night, in the room next to hers, she sometimes 
 heard crying. She had mentioned this to her mother. 
 
 "Oh, take no notice of it, Sally," she said. "It's 
 probably a noise he makes in his sleep." 
 
 Sally had become a welcome addition to the house- 
 hold. She had oflFered to pay liberally for her board 
 while she stayed there and, during that visit, however 
 long it should prove to be, they had been able to dis- 
 pense with the services of Miss Hatch, the music- 
 mistress, who came regularly every morning from ten till 
 twelve and was a considerable drain on the net profits 
 of the establishment. Sally, unconscious of the change, 
 filled her place. From a quarter past ten, until half- 
 past, her pupil was Maurice, and on the day she had 
 spoken to her mother about his crying, she also ques- 
 tioned him. 
 
 "I wasn't crying," he said proudly. "I couldn't 
 cry." 
 
 He found it easy to say that in the bright hght of 
 the morning. But it was a different matter at night. 
 
378 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 That very night again he wept. She could hear his 
 sobs stifled in the pillow. She was going to bed. When 
 the sound reached her ears, she stopped, listening. It 
 was crying! She opened her door gently. Certainly 
 it was the sound of crying! Then, half -undressed, 
 not thinking to cover her shoulders, she crept across the 
 passage to his door, opened it and peered inside. 
 
 "Maurie," she whispered. 
 
 The crying stopped, 
 
 "Maurie," she repeated, "you are crying." 
 
 He admitted it — sadly; they had found him out. 
 Now they would think he was a baby. That was the 
 inevitable accusation in the mind of these people who 
 were grown up — ^in the mind of every one, except his 
 mother. 
 
 "But I'm not a baby !" he exclaimed. 
 
 Sally knelt down by the side of his bed. "Who said 
 you were a babyi'" she whispered. 
 
 "You were just going to." 
 
 "No, I wasn't. I don't think you are a baby. I cry 
 sometimes." 
 
 "Do you?" There was a thin note of amazement 
 in his voice. "What do you cry for?" 
 
 "Oh, lots of things. What do you?" 
 
 "For mummy — it's so cold in bed without mummy." 
 
 "Do you sleep with mummy, then?" she asked, and 
 she slid a warm arm around his sturdy little neck. 
 
 "Yes — always. Mummy's so warm and she lies so 
 tight. Your arm's warm — ^I like your arm." He felt it 
 with his fingers. "What's that?" he asked suddenly. 
 
 "What's what?" said Sally. 
 
 "Something wet fell on the back of my hand. Why, 
 it's you — it's you. You're crying. Aren't you? 
 You're crying. Oh, I wonder if you're a baby. I don't 
 
SALLY BISHOP 379 
 
 see why you should be, if you don't think I am. Why 
 are you crying?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "Oh, but you must know! I always know why I'm 
 crying. I cry at nights when it's all dark, and you 
 can't hear anything. I cry then because I want 
 mummy. Mummy cries sometimes though, and she 
 doesn't know why." 
 
 "Do you ask her, then ?" 
 
 "Yes ; and she says she doesn't know. So I suppose 
 ladies don't know sometimes, but boys always do. But 
 you won't say I cried, will you.'' Promise!" 
 
 "I promise," she said firmly. 
 
 "Because the others 'ud think I was a baby if they 
 knew, and I'm not really a baby — ^not in the morning, 
 am I?" 
 
 "No ; not a bit." 
 
 "You wouldn't think I was a baby when you give 
 me my music lesson, would you?" 
 
 "No ; I always think you're very brave." 
 
 He twisted about in the bed. "Put your other arm 
 round my neck, will you.'' — like mummy does. She. 
 always puts both arms — it's much warmer." 
 
 She clasped him with both arms. 
 
 "Ah; that's better," he said. "I hope mummy 
 wouldn't mind, because she said I wasn't to love any 
 one else but her. But, of course, I don't really love 
 you, you know. I like you because you're warm." 
 
 "You don't love me then?" 
 
 "No; how could I? I could only love mummy, really. 
 Oh, there it is again! You're still crying, you know." 
 
 "Yes ; I know I am." 
 
 "I suppose you wouldn't come into bed and cry — 
 it's much warmer." 
 
380 SALLY BISHOP. 
 
 A sob broke in Sally's throat. 
 
 Here now it had come — so soon as this — the fulfil- 
 ment of Janet's prophecy. The curse of Eve was no 
 mystery to her now. She knew. She knew what life 
 lacked. J 
 
 "No; you must go to sleep now, Maurie," she said 
 thickly. "You must go to sleep now. You mustn't 
 cry any more." 
 
 "Very well, then," he said resignedly. "You must 
 promise you won't too." 
 
 "I promise I won't. Good night." 
 
 And so, to keep her promise, lest he should hear as 
 she had heard, she lay on her bed and buried her face 
 in the pillow. But she cried. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 That night began their friendship. In that night 
 was sown the seed of the new idea in her mind, which 
 neither the wild passion of her love for Traill, nor all 
 the stem preaching of Janet's philosophy had caused to 
 take root before. A child — she knew that now — a child 
 would save her. A child would make this life of hers 
 worth while. And, having none, she set her heart, as 
 you set a lure with cunning hands, to win the love of 
 little Maurice Priestly. 
 
 At the age of six, a boy-child is constituted of Im- 
 pressions — soft wax to the working of any fingers that 
 touch his heart. In their ramblings together, through 
 the orchards where the ripening apples turned up their 
 bonny faces, peering through the leaves to find the sun ; 
 up the side of the hills, exploring the hidden dangers 
 of the hollow chalk-pits — climbing always to see what 
 the world looked like on the other side — they came to 
 know each other; Sally to know all his little faults, 
 sometimes of pride, sometimes of lovable boastfulness ; 
 he to know that her heart was aching — aching for some- 
 thing — ^something that he could not comprehend. But 
 fancy wove the story for him. He must have a story 
 with which to realize that her heart really was aching. 
 
 "If there's no story," he said, "I shan't really believe 
 you're sad." 
 
 So they sat on the side of the hills, looking out over 
 the head of the tired old man — the little town of Cail- 
 
382 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 sham — and seeing with their eyes what the tired old 
 man saw all day long-^the abundant garden of Eng- 
 land. There Maurice told her the story of her misery, 
 in which fairies and goblins and giants and witches 
 moved in quick and sudden passage across the vistas 
 of his vivid imagination. 
 
 "And that's why you're sad," he said at its conclusion. 
 "If only the prince had not done what the witch told 
 him, you'd have been perfectly happy, wouldn't you.'"' 
 
 Sally put her arm round his neck, lifted the soft, 
 smooth little face to hers, and kissed it. 
 
 "Yes, that's why," she said gently; "but you must 
 never tell any one." 
 
 "Mayn't I tell mummy?" he pleaded. 
 
 She took her arm from his neck and looked straight 
 before her. The moment of jealousy sped through 
 her — shame rode fierce behind. 
 
 "Yes," she replied, "you can tell mummy." 
 
 The weeks of the summer flew by. No sympathy 
 was lost between her mother and herself. Her sisters 
 frankly were jealous of her. She had better clothes 
 than they, knew more of the world, was more interest- 
 ing to strangers in her conversation. The people of 
 Cailsham, treating her first as one of the Bishops — 
 the one who had lived in London, earning her living 
 — came to find that she was a different type of person 
 to the rest of her family. The women admitted her to 
 look smart; the men — at the weekly teas which some 
 member of the tennis club always provided — sought out 
 her company. And then, to compensate for all the 
 unpleasantness In her home, there was Maurie — ^Maurie 
 whom every night since that first occasion of their 
 friendship she said good night to. With arms round 
 each other's necks, they said their prayers together— 
 
SALLY BISHOP 383 
 
 Sally who had offered no supplication on her knees 
 since the night when Traill had left her. 
 
 "I scarcely thought it possible to be so happy," she 
 wrote to Janet. "I absolutely look forward to the wak- 
 ing in the mornings now, because then I go in and 
 wake him up, kiss his dear, brave little face as it lies 
 on the pillow fast asleep ; and then he kneels on the bed, 
 puts his arms round my neck, and we say our prayers 
 together. That means nothing to you, I expect; but 
 don't laugh at it. Oh, Janet, I wish he were mine." 
 
 She was woman enough, too, to find some consolation 
 in the attention which the people of Cailsham paid to 
 her. She was gratified by the interest which the men 
 in the little town, and principal amongst them, Wilfrid 
 Grierson, showed in her whenever they met. He was 
 the eldest son of the largest fruit farmer in the town — 
 a man, therefore, in much request, conspicuous at every 
 party to which it was thought considerate to ask Mrs. 
 Bishop and her daughters. To Sally's mind, nauseated 
 still whenever she thought of it by the light in which 
 Devenish had seen her, the possibility of a man falling 
 in love with her was remote from her consideration. She 
 was brought abruptly to its realization by a remark 
 which Dora, her younger sister, dropped for her bene- 
 fit. 
 
 "If Mr. Grierson wasn't so eminently sensible," she 
 said one evening after a tea which Mrs. Bishop had 
 given at the tennis club, "one would feel inclined to 
 think that he'd lost his head over you, Sally." 
 
 A flame of colour spread across Sally's cheeks. "Let's 
 be thankful that he's eminently sensible, then," she 
 replied. 
 
 "What — do you mean to say you wouldn't marry 
 him.?" 
 
S84 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 "He Hasn't asked me — surely that's sufficient. He 
 never will. My position in life is not the position that 
 he's ever likely to choose a wife from." 
 
 "Your position, Sally," said Mrs. Bishop, looking 
 up from the writing of a letter at the other end of the 
 room, "so long as you are with us, is the same as ours." 
 
 "Yes, I'm quite aware of that, mother. So I say 
 it's quite imlikely that he will ever ask me to marry 
 him." 
 
 Then she left the room, and they discussed the ad- 
 visability of keeping her with them. The fact that she 
 saved the expense of Miss Hatch's services as musie- 
 mistress weighed ponderously in the balance, swung 
 down the scales. They tacitly passed the matter over. 
 
 Upstairs Sally was saying good night to Maurie. "I 
 only want you, my darling," she whispered in the dark- 
 ness. "I don't want anybody else now — say you know 
 I don't want anybody else." 
 
 "But you can't," he replied simply ; "I'm mummy's." 
 
 Sally stood up from the bed. "Yes — ^you're mum- 
 my's," she repeated under her breath, and she repeated 
 it again. She went into her bedroom, beginning slowly 
 to undress, still repeating it. 
 
 From that day onwards, whenever possible, she avoid- 
 ed Mr. Grierson as you skirt a district where fever 
 rages. He was too good a man, too honourable, for 
 her to throw her life in his way. All the outlook of men 
 upon a woman such as herself, which Devenish that 
 evening had shown her, rose warningly to thwart her 
 from taking the opportunity which circumstances 
 seemed generously to be offering. The love of Traill 
 was in no wise lessened in her heart; but now, lifting 
 beside it, had come this love of a child, and with the 
 knowledge that Maurie could never be hers, the insen- 
 
SALLY BISHOP 385 
 
 sate desire to bear children of her own rose exultantly 
 within her. If she were to marry, this would be her 
 portion. If she were to marry for that reason, above 
 all, would she separate herself for ever from the hope 
 — the still flickering hope — ^that Traill might one day 
 return? 
 
 Whilst one impulse, then, pressed her forward to 
 the seeking of the better acquaintance with Wilfrid 
 Grierson, the fear that she was unfit to be the wife of 
 any so honourable as he withheld her. 
 
 But fate, circumstance — give it any name that pleases 
 — was in its obstinate mood. That better acquaintance, 
 it was determined, should be made. 
 
 One afternoon, while Maurie was at his lessons, and 
 her own work for the day was over, she was walking 
 through those apple orchards which spread up to the 
 side of that little lane which leads down oflF the London 
 Road. Supremely unconscious of whose property it was 
 in which she was wandering, she suddenly became aware 
 of a figure descending from one of the apple trees. The 
 first thought that some one was stealing the fruit was 
 driven from her when she recognized Mr. Grierson. 
 
 Before he had seen her, she had turned and hurried 
 back in the direction in which she had come. A break 
 in the hedge had given her entrance from the lane. She 
 made as quickly as possible for that. But the sound 
 of footsteps running over the soft ground, the hissing 
 of the grass stems as they lashed against leather leg- 
 gings, then the sound of her name, showed her that it 
 was too late. She turned. 
 
 "I saw you getting down from the tree," she said 
 evasively, "but I thought it was a man stealing fruit." 
 
 "So you made a bolt for it?" 
 
 "Yes ; was it very cowardly?" 
 
386 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 "Not at all. If it had been a thief, and he'd thought 
 you were suspicious, he might have turned nasty. But 
 are you sure you didn't recognize me and come to the 
 conclusion that I was even less desirable than the man 
 stealing the apples ?"- 
 
 She laughed nervously, knowing what was before her. 
 
 "No; why should I?" 
 
 "Because you've been avoiding me for the last ten 
 days, ever since that tea-party your mother gave at the 
 tennis club." 
 
 She looked to the ground; she looked to the forest 
 of leaves above her head, where the rosy apples peered 
 at her, beaming with their bright, healthy cheeks. 
 
 "You don't say anything to that," he said, striking 
 his leggings with the little switch in his hand. 
 
 "I didn't know I had been," she replied, glancing up 
 to the open candour of his eyes. 
 
 "But you have. I was going to write to you." 
 
 "You were?" 
 
 "Yes ; I'm not much of a hand at it, but I was going 
 to make a shot. I was going to ask you if you — if you 
 were preferring — oh — you understand what I mean — if 
 you didn't like my thrusting my attentions on you — ^well 
 — as I — as I had been doing. I was going to write 
 that to-night." 
 
 She looked up with wide eyes — the eyes that TraiU 
 had first loved — ^but she said nothing. 
 
 "WeU?" he asked, pressing her to the answer. "What 
 would have been your reply?" 
 
 "I really don't know," she said honestly. 
 
 "You don't care for me?" he exclaimed. "I'm not 
 the sort of chap who " 
 
 "Oh, it's not that!" 
 
 "Then, what?" 
 
SALLY BISHOP 387 
 
 She met his eyes steadily. "It's — am I the sort of 
 woman?" 
 
 He came close to her side, took her hand reverently 
 as though its preciousness made him fear the harm his 
 heavy grip might do. And there, under the network 
 of apple branches interwoven with the patches of a 
 deep, blue sky, with now and then the sound of an apple 
 tumbling heavily to the ground, or a flight of starlings 
 whirring overhead, and in the distance the hollow monot- 
 onous beating on the tin drums of the boy who scared 
 the birds, he told her roughly, unevenly, in words cut out 
 of the solid vein of his emotion, what kind of a woman 
 he thought she was. 
 
 "No," she kept on whispering ; "no, no." 
 
 But he paid no attention. He scarcely heard the 
 word in the gentleness of her voice. When he had fin- 
 ished, she took away her hand. 
 
 "That means nothing to you, then," he said bitterly. 
 
 She gazed away through the lines of apple trees that 
 hid the greater distance from view. 
 
 "It means more than you think," she replied. "But 
 I can't let you say it — I can't let you continue to think 
 it, until— until" — she took a deep breath — " until I tell 
 you." 
 
 "Tell me what.?" 
 
 "I'll write to you." 
 
 "But you can tell me. Why can't you tell me?" 
 His lips were white. The little switch snapped in his 
 fingers. Neither of them noticed it. Neither heard the 
 sound. "Why can't you tell me?" he repeated. 
 
 "I can't, that is all. After what you've said — after 
 what you've been so generous to tell me that you thought 
 of me, I — I couldn't. I'll write it." 
 
 He threw the pieces of the switch away into the grass. 
 
S88 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 "You're going to be married?" he muttered. "You're 
 in love, you're engaged to some one else?" 
 
 "No, no, it's not that. Please don't ask me. I'm 
 not engaged to be married." 
 
 "You're married already?" He leant forward, bend- 
 ing over her, the words clicking on his tongue. 
 
 "No — no — ^not even that." 
 
 "Then, what is it?" 
 
 She looked up to his eyes and let him read them. 
 Then he stood upright — slowly stood erect. His cheeks 
 were patched with white, there was a sweat on his fore- 
 head. He wiped it off with his hand. 
 
 "My God!" he whispered. "You, you? Great G«d, 
 
 no 
 
 I" 
 
 He turned, strode a few steps away from her, and 
 stood looking down into the grass. She could hear 
 him muttering. For a little time she waited, head bent, 
 expectant of the sudden bursting of his revolt against 
 the truth. But it never came. His silence was more 
 pregnant with rebuke than speech could ever have been. 
 She bore with it until she thought she had given him 
 full opportunity to rail against her had he wished, then 
 she walked slowly away, the unconquerable sickness in 
 her heart. She walked slowly; but she did not look 
 back. Would he follow her? Would he? Would he? 
 She reached the gap in the hedge. Then she turned 
 her head. He was still standing where she had left him, 
 gazing down into the forest of grass stems. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 This ended her life at Cailsham. How could she 
 remain, how face the reproach, no matter what eflFort 
 she knew he would make to conceal it, which at any 
 moment she might find herself compelled to meet in the 
 eyes of Wilfrid Grierson? Cailsham was too small a 
 place, the little set in which her mother moved too narrow 
 and confined to ever hope of avoiding it. This must 
 end her life at Cailsham. 
 
 With the readiness of this realization, then, why had 
 she told? Cry the woman a fool ! She was a fool. Most 
 good women are. But just as the matter is vital in the 
 mind of a man, so is it in the woman the crucial test 
 of honour. A thousand reasons — ^her happiness — the 
 happiness of content, — the sheltering of her name, the 
 sheltering of her position, aU the cared-for security of 
 her life to follow — ^these can be placed in the scale, 
 weighty arguments against that little drachm of ab- 
 stract honour, to plead for her silence. A thousand 
 times she could have been justified in saying nothing ; but 
 had she done so she would have been a different woman. 
 Fine things must be done sometimes ; mean things will 
 be done always. There are men and women to do them 
 both. 
 
 That no passion was in the heart of her may have 
 been an aid to her honesty. With passion to lift the 
 scale on to the agate, there would have been a deed 
 worthy of eulogy then ! But even m it was, she sacri- 
 
390 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 ficed much; sHe sacrificed her all. For now she knew 
 that she must go ; and there could be no more joy in life 
 for her in the love of little Maurice. To face that, she 
 clutched her hands that afternoon as she walked back 
 into Cailsham. How it was to be accomplished, how 
 endured, was more than she could realize, more than 
 the listless energy of her mind could grasp. 
 
 "I am leaving Cailsham almost immediately," she 
 wrote that evening to Grierson. "You will understand 
 my reasons. I am sorry to have caused you the pain 
 that I did. As you realized, I tried to avoid it. I am 
 not presuming at all in my mind that you will ever wish 
 to see me again; but if your generosity should make 
 tyou think that you owe me any explanation of your 
 silence this afternoon, please believe me that I already 
 understand it, expected it and sympathize from my heart 
 with the position in which I placed you. All that you 
 said to me before you knew, which, of course, I know you 
 cannot think now, I shall treasure in my mind as the 
 opinions of a generous man which were once believed 
 of me. What I have told, or what I have left untold, 
 I know you will hold in your confidence. Good-bye." 
 
 Grierson read that letter the next morning in his bed- 
 room. He sat down , on the bed, and read it through 
 again; then he railed at women, railed at life, railed at 
 himself that such things should mean so much. 
 
 A scene no less dramatic than this was being enacted 
 over the breakfast table at No. 17, Wyatt Street. There, 
 it was the custom for Dora to read such pieces of infor- 
 mation from the newspaper as were considered essential 
 to those who, ruling the lives of the sons of gentlemen 
 and being pioneers of education in Cailsham, must be 
 kept up with the times. On this morning, she had given 
 extracts from the foreign intelligence, had read in full 
 
SALLY BISHOP 391 
 
 the account of the latest London sensation. Then she 
 stopped with an exclamation. 
 
 "Mother!" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Mrs. Priestly !" 
 
 "Mrs. Priestly?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What about her?" 
 
 "She's — she's in the divorce court !" 
 
 Mrs. Bishop slowly laid down her egg-spoon. "Pass 
 me the paper," she said. 
 
 "Yes; just one minute. The case came on " 
 
 "Dora — ^the paper !" 
 
 The printed sheets were handed to her across the 
 table and Sally's eyes — ^pained, terrified — ^watched her 
 face as she read. When she had finished, she laid down 
 the paper, took off her spectacles and laid them glass 
 downwards on the table. The long steel wires to pass 
 over the ears stood upright, formidably bristling. 
 
 "I always had my suspicions about that woman," she 
 said, with thin lips. "Oh, it's monstrous, it's abomin- 
 able ! That boy can't stop here another minute." 
 
 "Oh, but, mother — why?" Sally exclaimed impor- 
 tunately. "What's he done — he's done nothing." 
 
 "If you had a little more understanding about the 
 laws of propriety, you wouldn't ask a ridiculous ques- 
 tion like that. The boy must go at once. I've often 
 thought since you came down here that the effect of 
 London upon you was to make you extremely lax in 
 your judgment of other people's morals. I've noticed 
 it once or twice in different things you've said. But 
 you'll kindly leave this matter entirely to me. That 
 boy — I feel ashamed to think he's ever been under this 
 roof — is illegitimate !" 
 
392 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 "Mother !" exclaimed the two girls. 
 
 "So I gather from this report," she said coldly. 
 
 Sallj said nothing. 
 
 "And to think that I've allowed the wretched little 
 creature to live in my house and mix with my boys — a 
 contaminating influence." 
 
 "It's horrible !" said the two girls. 
 
 "Oh, how unjust you all are!" exclaimed Sally, rising 
 from the table with burning cheeks. "How can a boy 
 of that age be a contaminating influence? How can he 
 affect the innocence of all those other little wretches 
 whom you simper over just because their mothers have 
 it in their power to lift you in the society of this 
 wretched Httle place?" 
 
 Mrs. Bishop had risen from her chair with white hps 
 and distended nostrils. The two girls were staring at 
 Sally with wide eyes and opened mouths. For a moment 
 there was a silence that thundered in all their ears. 
 
 "Sally," said her mother, biting her words before 
 she foamed them from her, "if you weren't a daughter 
 of mine, I'd — ^I'd say you were a wanton woman. You 
 know in your heart, as your father always taught 
 you — as you could read in the Bible now — if you ever 
 do read your Bible — ^that the sins of the fathers, yes, 
 and the mothers too, will fall on the children until the 
 third and fourth generation, and do you think that child 
 of sin isn't contaminated by the vice of his mother's 
 wickedness?" 
 
 Elsie came to her mother's side with the proper 
 aff'ection of a daughter and laid her hand gently on 
 her shoulder. 
 
 "Don't worry yourself, mother," she said. "He can't 
 stay, of course he can't stay. Sally doesn't know what 
 she's talking about." 
 
SALLY BISHOP S9S 
 
 "Certainly, he can't stay," reiterated Mrs. Bishop. 
 "If I have to put him in the train myself to-day, and 
 pack him off to London." 
 
 "But who'll meet him?" asked Dora. 
 
 "Oh, of course, I suppose I shall telegraph to her. 
 I've got her address." 
 
 "But that's a terrible waste of money," Elsie objected. 
 "If you wrote now and sent him by a later train, 
 wouldn't she get it in time?" 
 
 "It can be charged to her bill," said Mrs. Bishop. 
 
 "And are you going to send Maurie alone, all the 
 way up to London?" Sally exclaimed, forced at last to 
 break her silence. 
 
 "Of course," said Mrs. Bishop, with surprise. "You 
 don't think I'm going to afford him the luxury of a 
 travelling companion do you?" 
 
 "You may not ; but I shall." 
 
 "What on earth do you mean?" 
 
 "I shall go with him myself." 
 
 "If you do — if you associate yourself with those 
 disreputable people at all — ^you shall never enter this 
 house again." 
 
 Her voice thrilled with the terror of her threat. 
 
 "I can look forward to the prospect of that with 
 no great reluctance," said Sally quietly. 
 
 "Oh!" Mrs. Bishop exclaimed. "Oh!" Then her 
 daughters wisely led her from the room. 
 
 "I've left my egg unfinished," she said brokenly as 
 she departed. 
 
 They fondly believed that Sally could not face the 
 ominous threat of her mother until they beheld her 
 trunks ready packed in the hall. Then Elsie came to 
 her. 
 
 "Sally," she said, with the voice of one who carries 
 
394 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 out implacable orders, "do you realize that mother 
 meant what she said?" 
 
 "Reahze it? I suppose so. I haven't thought about 
 it." 
 
 "You don't mean that. You must have thought about 
 it. Do you realize that you'll never see her again?" 
 
 "Yes, quite. But not particularly because she says 
 so. I'd never come back again if she were to beg me 
 to. It means a lot to you perhaps, it means nothing 
 to me." 
 
 Elsie looked at her in horrified alarm, as at one sinking 
 into the nethermost hell. 
 
 "I could never have believed you'd say anything like 
 that," she murmured under her breath. "Can't you 
 see that you're breaking the fifth commandment?" 
 
 "Can't mother see," retorted Sally, with vehemence, 
 "that she's breaking all the unwritten commandments 
 of charity — love your enemies — do good to them that 
 hate you? I'd break the fifth commandment fifty times 
 rather than come back and live with all of you again. 
 You're narrow, you're cruel, you're hard, and you save 
 yourselves from your own consciences by caUing it 
 Christianity." 
 
 When this was all repeated, as inwardly she hoped 
 it would be, they could not believe her to be the same 
 Sally. Mrs. Bishop came out into the hall where she 
 and Maurie were waiting for the vehicle which was to 
 convey them to the station. 
 
 "You're not going to say good-bye, Sally?" she asked, 
 drawing her aside into the dining-room. 
 
 "I saw no necessity. Wouldn't it be a farce?" 
 
 "You can talk like that when you're never going to 
 see me again?" 
 
 "I don't see why stating a fact should be unsuitable 
 
SALLY BISHOP 395 
 
 to the occasion. It would be a farce. You hate me — 
 I'm not fond of you. Yet you would be willing to kiss 
 me — ^make a sentimental good-bye of it, because you 
 want to do what you know is wrong — cruel, unkind — in 
 the most Christian-like way." 
 
 Here indeed was the spirit of Janet speaking from 
 Sally's lips. The contrast, in fact, which induced Janet 
 to preach her philosophy to Sally, was now apparent 
 to Sally herself, between her and her mother. She saw 
 through all the little petty sentimentalities, all the false 
 self-deceits with which the worldly mind of many a 
 clergyman's wife shields itself from rebuke. 
 
 "How dare you say such things to me, Sally.'"' she 
 whispered. "Do you absolutely forget that I'm your 
 mother; that in pain and agony I brought you into the 
 world, and nursed and fed you to life?" 
 
 "No, I don't forget that," said Sally, quietly. "But 
 why do you think so much of yourself? Why can't you 
 think a little of that poor woman up in London, trying 
 to shield Maurie from all the horror of this divorce case 
 which now so easily may come to his ears? Why can't 
 you let her leave him here in peace? She suffered just 
 the same agony as you; but she's suffering it still — 
 and you — you're as hard as you can be." 
 
 Mrs. Bishop paled with anger. Accusations, epi- 
 thets, abuse, were the only words that bubbled to her 
 lips. 
 
 "You're just as much a fool as your father," she said 
 chokingly. "He reduced us to this because he was a 
 fool!" 
 
 "You know where it's written," Sally remarked, 
 "'He that calleth his brother a fool.' " In a text- 
 quoting atmosphere she felt that a remark of this kind 
 would carry more weight. • ' - 
 
S96 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 "Yes; but are you my brother? That's identically 
 the same sort of remark that your father would have 
 made." 
 
 "I see," said Sally, "you l-ead your Bible literally. 
 All good Christians do — sometimes. And you could 
 call father a fool ! If you had half the Christianity in 
 you that he had in him, I shouldn't be shocking Elsie 
 by breaking the fifth commandment." 
 
 The rumbling of the old vehicle outside mercifully 
 put an end to that interview, and, once in the train, 
 Sally took Maurie in her arms, pressing his head silently 
 to her breast. 
 
 "We're going to see mummie," she kept on telling 
 him. "Mummie'll be at the station to meet us;" and 
 she had to hsten to the exclamations of delight that 
 fell mercilessly from his lips. 
 
 From a photograph that Maurie had had upon the 
 mantelpiece in his little room, she recognized the tall, 
 stately lady as the train slowed down into the station. 
 Maurie had been leaning out of the carriage and was 
 frantically waving a handkerchief as she walked after 
 them. 
 
 "That's mummie — that's mummie!" he said repeat- 
 edly, looking back into the carriage at her. 
 
 Each time she nodded her head and said to herself, 
 "Now it's all over — now it's all over;" and standing 
 behind him, holding him gently back until the train 
 stopped, she waited stoically for the last moment. 
 
 Directly it came to a standstill, Maurie jumped out 
 of the train, and when, a moment later, she descended 
 from their carriage, she could see the little fair head 
 half hidden in the mother's arms. 
 
 Nervously, reticently, she approached them. Then 
 Mrs. Priestly looked up and the sad grey eyes rested 
 
SALLY BISHOP m 
 
 on Sally. She held out her hand in hesitating embarrass- 
 ment. 
 
 "You are Miss Bishop?" she said. 
 
 Sally inclined her head. 
 
 "Maurie talked about you in every letter he wrote 
 me." 
 
 "I — I think we were friends," said Sally. 
 
 Mrs. Priestly called a four wheeler, told Maurie to 
 get inside. Then she turned to Sally. 
 
 "I received a telegram this morning," she said, "say- 
 ing that Maurie was coming up to London by this train. 
 But I've had no explanation." 
 
 "Didn't you guess the reason?" said Sally, softly. 
 
 "Yes ; I guessed it but " She did not know how 
 
 much to say, how much to leave unsaid. 
 
 "Well, that is it," Sally replied, evasively. "My 
 mother read about your case in the paper this morning." 
 
 "And she packed him off, like this, the same day?" 
 
 "Yes ; my mother is a Christian. She sees things in 
 that light." 
 
 "Did she send you with Maurie, then?" 
 
 "No; she forbade me to go. She was going to send 
 him alone." 
 
 "Then why ?" 
 
 "Because I suppose I'm not a Christian." 
 
 "You came with him all the same?" 
 
 "Yes ; I love him." She looked up into Mrs. Priestly's 
 eyes. "Perhaps that sounds an offence to you? But 
 he doesn't love me. You needn't be afraid that I've 
 stolen his love from you. We always used to say our 
 prayers together, and he always used to pray for you. 
 One night I asked him to pray for me, and he said, 
 'Would that mean that I loved you?' And I — well — 
 I wanted him to love me — you must blame me for that 
 
398 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 if you wish — I said 'Yes,' because I thought he was 
 going to do it. And then- — ^he said" — Sally stared 
 hard at a stoker shovelling coals into the furnace of 
 one of the engines — "he said he mustn't — ^because he 
 only loved you. ■ I only told you that because " 
 
 "You thought I'd be jealous?" 
 
 "Yes ; I should have been." 
 
 "And now you've come up to London," said Mrs. 
 Priestly, straining back the tears in her throat. "What 
 are you going to do? Are you going back to Cails- 
 ham?" 
 
 "No — ^I'm not going back." 
 
 "Then will you come with us ? The rooms I've taken 
 are not very comfortable — ^but " 
 
 "No, I won't come with you — ^thank you for asking 
 me. I have rooms in London myself. I shall go to 
 them. Good-bye." 
 
 "But, Miss Bishop, you can't leave us like this. I 
 must thank you properly for all your kindness. You 
 can't leave us like this!" 
 
 "It's the best way," said Sally ; "I'd sooner this way. 
 Good-bye." 
 
 They shook hands silently. Mrs. Priestly got into 
 the cab. Sally wondered would she tell Maurie that 
 he would not see her again. Then, as the lumbering 
 old vehicle drove off, a little fair head shot suddenly out 
 of the window and a large white handkerchief flapped 
 like a beating flag against his happy little face. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 When she had left her trunks at the rooms in Regent 
 Street, Sally drove straight to Janet's studio, situated 
 in the environments of Shepherd's Bush. 
 
 In the apron of the art-student, her hands unwashed, 
 her hair dishevelled and untidy, she opened the door 
 to Sally's summons. 
 
 "Heavens!" she exclaimed. "Why aren't you at 
 Cailsham?" 
 
 "I came up this afternoon." 
 
 Sally entered the room, crossed to the drawing-board, 
 where the design for a figure of lace was slowly mate- 
 rializing in white paint upon brown paper under Janet's 
 hand. With an apparent concentration of interest 
 she gazed into that. Then Janet closed the door. 
 
 "When are you going back?" she asked, climbing 
 slowly to her stool. 
 
 "I'm not going back." 
 
 Janet grunted, dipped her brush into the porcelain 
 palette and painted in a line that meant nothing. Then 
 she laid down the brush and looked up. 
 
 "I've been expecting this," she said. "Why aren't 
 you going back.!"' 
 
 "Mother doesn't want me — I don't want to go." 
 
 "Does your mother know?" 
 
 "She knows nothing." 
 
 Janet stared. "Then what?" she asked abruptly. 
 
 Sally dropped into a chair. "Mrs. Priestly — Maurie's 
 mother — is being divorced. They found it out to-day 
 in the papers. Maurie's not her husband's child. They 
 
400 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 packed him off at once ; weren't even going to send any 
 one with him. I said I'd go. Mother said if I did, she'd 
 never have me in the house again. ^Hiat didn't make 
 any difference to me. I was going in any case." 
 
 "Why.?" 
 
 "A Mr. Grierson down there, asked me to marry him. 
 I couldn't consent without telling him." 
 
 "You told him.?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What did he say.?" 
 
 "Not very much. Just that at first he couldn't 
 believe it. Then, when he saw I was telling the truth 
 he said nothing." 
 
 "Why did you tell him?" 
 
 "Beciause — it was only right — it was only fair." 
 
 Janet gazed at her, eyes softened with a gentle 
 admiration. 
 
 "Do you remember what you told me about your 
 father?" she said. 
 
 "Yes, why?" 
 
 "I expect you must be very like him. Only, instead 
 of being a slave to a Church, you're a slave to your 
 heart. You're just as much the type of woman whom 
 the world wants and treats damned badly — I don't 
 care if I do swear — as he was the type of man whom 
 an institution like the Church of England requires — 
 and treats damned badly, too. I guess you're exactly 
 like your father." 
 
 "That's what mother said but she didn't put it in 
 that way. She said I was a fool — ^like father was." 
 
 "Hum !" said Janet, and picked up her brush again. 
 For a time she worked in silence, eyes strained to the 
 fine lines, breath held in to steady her hand, then liber- 
 ated with a sudden grunting sound. 
 
SALLY BISHOP 401 
 
 "Would you have married the man?" she asked 
 presently. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Janet painted in a few more lines. "Do you mean 
 to say you didn't realize that he wouldn't be able to 
 stand what you told him?" 
 
 "I expected it." 
 
 "Then why ?" 
 
 "Simply it wasn't fair. You couldn't make it fair, 
 however much you tried. You'd have done the same 
 yourself. I think I could have been happy with him 
 if he knew. I'd have worshipped his children. But I 
 should have been miserable if he didn't know." 
 
 "So you've learnt at last what I told you.'"' said 
 Janet. "Did Tj-aill never wish you to have a child?" 
 
 "No; I don't think so. He never said anything 
 about it." 
 
 "And you?" 
 
 "No ; I don't think I did. I was too happy." 
 
 Janet bent down over the drawing-board. "You 
 would now?" she said without looking up. In the 
 delicate operation of painting in the petals of a rose, 
 she did not realize that her question had not been 
 answered. A minute slipped by and with breath strained 
 in the holding of it, she repeated her question. "You 
 would now?" 
 
 When the rose had bloomed under her brush, still 
 receiving no reply, she sat upright and looked round. 
 Sally's body was bent forward, her elbows were on her 
 knees, her face in her hands. 
 
 Janet clambered down from her stool. "Crying?" 
 she asked. 
 
 Sally gazed up at her with tearless eyes. "No; I 
 can't cry now. I try to. I can't." 
 
402 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 "God! What a idiflFerence it 'ud make to you," said 
 Janet. 
 
 "What would?" 
 
 "If you had a kiddy. What was this little Maurie 
 like? He sounded sweet in your letters. Why don't 
 you see as much of him as you can? I'm sure he's fond 
 of you. Isn't he?" 
 
 "Yes — ^in his way — ^in his dear little way. But you 
 don't want fondness from children." 
 
 "What do you want, then?" 
 
 "Love. If you want anything at aU. There were 
 some of the little boys down at Cailsham who were 
 loathsome: horrid little wretches, who'd put out their 
 tongues at you." 
 
 "Sons of gentlemen," said Janet. 
 
 "One of them spat at me once when I was giving 
 him a music lesson. You couldn't want anything from 
 them. But I could almost have believed that Maurie 
 was mine." 
 
 "Then why don't you go and see him? Take care 
 of him for Mrs. Priestly till the case is over. He's 
 bound to be in the way. When will it be over?" 
 
 "The case?" 
 '' "Yes." 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "Is she likely to win?" 
 
 "I'm afraid not, and I don't believe she minds as long 
 as she's got Maurie." 
 
 "What counsel has she?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. I didn't read the paper." 
 
 "Well, why don't you go and take care of him till 
 it's over?" 
 
 "I don't believe she'd like me to." 
 
 "Why on earth not? Here, let me get at that stove. 
 
SALLY BISHOP 403 
 
 We're going to have some tea. But why on earth not?" 
 
 "I know she was jealous. Maurie used to write her 
 lots of letters about me. She was afraid he was getting 
 to love me. I could see that this afternoon. I could 
 see it so plainly that I told her. I admitted that I'd 
 tried to get him to love me and failed." 
 
 "You did try?" 
 
 "Yes ; I suppose it was about the meanest thing I've 
 ever done." 
 
 Janet laid down the kettle silently on the stove, then 
 came and sat on the arm of Sally's chair. One hand 
 she laid on her shoulder, with the other she raised her 
 face. 
 
 "I haven't appreciated you sufficiently, Sally," she 
 said in a toneless voice. "You're not the sort that gets 
 appreciation. But, my God ! I think you're wonderful. 
 Do I keep saying 'God' too mtich, d'you think?" 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 That night Sally sat in her old rooms once more and 
 wrote a letter to Traill. The return to them had for one 
 moment surged back in a rushing flood of memories ; but 
 it did not overwhelm her. She threw herself into no 
 quagmire of despair. Her eyes were tearless. All her 
 actions were such as those of a person dazed with sleep. 
 One hope she had in her heart which animated her, just 
 as the hope of ultimate rest will give sluggish life to 
 the person whose eyes are heavy with fatigue. 
 
 Towards the realization of that hope, she seated 
 herself at her desk and wrote to Traill. 
 
 "Dear Jack, 
 
 "Will you come and see me to-morrow after- 
 noon at about half -past four? I will give you some tea. 
 I want to speak to you. Please do not think that I am 
 going to begin to pester you with unwelcome atten- 
 tions. My silence over these two or three months should 
 convince you that I would not worry you hke that for 
 anything. 
 
 "Hoping that I shall see you, 
 "Yours sincerely, 
 
 "Sally Bishop." 
 
 When she had posted it, she went to bed and slept 
 fitfully till morning. There was no letter waiting her 
 from Traill, but an envelope addressed with a scrawled, 
 uneven writing lay in the box. She tore it eagerly] 
 open, her heart beating exultantly. 
 
SALLY BISHOP 405 
 
 "Deau Sally," it read, 
 
 "Mummy has gone out I am to write to 
 
 you I am to say good bi proply I am very fond 
 of you but I doant luv you Mummy ses you have been 
 very kind. I wode luv you very much if you was my 
 mummy but mummy ses she is she is I am 
 
 afrade this is not spellt rite but I have got a very bad 
 pen. 
 
 "Yours affagintly, 
 
 "Maueie." 
 
 If the tears could have come then; but she laid the 
 letter down on the table, and her eyes were aching and 
 dry. The quaintness of the spelling, the almost com- 
 plete absence of punctuation. That queer little repeti- 
 tion of words — "she is, she is" — ^none of these things 
 moved her, even to smile. Maurie had said good-bye 
 properly. That, and that he was only just fond of 
 her, was all that reached her understanding. Had the 
 letter been from a lover, dashing all her hopes into 
 fragments, she could not have read it more seriously. 
 But one prospect was left her. She never took her eyes 
 from that. The fact that Traill had not written did 
 not convey to her mind any fear that he would not come. 
 ' She knew that he would not needlessly lead her to expect 
 him and disappoint her at the last. 
 
 At four o'clock she had the table laid for tea. The 
 dainty china that she had bought with him when abroad 
 was brought out. The kettle was beginning to sing on 
 the gas stove in the grate. When everything was ready, 
 she tried to sit quietly in a chair, but her eyes kept 
 wandering to the little Sevres clock. Again and again 
 she rose to her feet, looking out of her window into 
 the street below. 
 
406 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 At last footsteps echoed up the stairs. She caught 
 her breath, and a sound broke in her throat. They 
 came nearer, and she trembled; her hands shook; her 
 whole body was chilled with searching cold. She had 
 not seen him for three months — ^more. Now she began 
 to think that she could not bear it. Then the knock 
 fell on the door. A cry was on her lips. She forced it 
 back, turned, holding as naturally as possible to the 
 mantelpiece, and said — 
 
 "Come in." 
 
 He entered. He closed the door after him. Then 
 she looked around. 
 
 The situation was as strained, as tautened, as is the 
 gut of a snapping fiddle-string. Every sound seemed 
 to vibrate in itself. For an instant he stood still, com- 
 ing forward at last, hand outstretched to relieve the 
 tension. 
 
 "Well, how are you, Sally.'"' he asked. 
 
 The random speech, jerked out — any words to break 
 the silence. Even he felt it beating on his brain. 
 
 She shook hands with him. For the brief moment 
 he touched her cold fingers in the grip of his ; then she 
 withdrew them. 
 
 "Let me take your hat," she said. 
 
 He gave it her. Watched her as she crossed the 
 room to lay it on the chintz-covered settee, turned then 
 to the fireplace, biting a nail between his teeth. 
 
 "Do you know the kettle's boiling?" he forced him- 
 self to say. 
 
 "Yes; I'm just going to make tea. You'll have 
 some tea.""' 
 
 "Oh, rather. You promised that." 
 
 He looked up with his old jerk of the head, courting 
 the smile to her lips. She had no smile to give, and 
 » shrug half tossed hia shoulders. 
 
SALLY BISHOP 407 
 
 "Are you comfortable here?" he asked, as she poured 
 out the boiling water. 
 
 "Oh yes. Very." 
 
 "God!" he said casually within himself, feeling the 
 weight of the strain. Then he struggled for it once 
 more. 
 
 "I'm dining with Devenish this evening," he said 
 lightly. "You remember Devenish, don't you ?" 
 
 "Oh yes — ^I remember him. He came up to see me 
 here a few weeks ago." 
 
 "Did he.? He's a gay dog," he said lightly. "Do you 
 like him?" 
 
 "I haven't thought about it." 
 
 "Oh, then you don't. And haven't you seen him 
 since?" 
 
 "No ; I've been away." 
 !; "Away?" 
 
 "Yes ; down at Cailsham — staying with my mother." 
 
 "Oh, very nice I should think. I'm glad you're 
 moving about a bit. I was rather afraid, you know, 
 that you'd hang about in town all through the summer, 
 and that 'ud be bound to knock you up." 
 
 She handed him his cup of tea. "Why were you 
 afraid?" she asked. 
 
 "Why? Do you think I'd be glad if you were 
 knocked up?" 
 
 He looked up at her, with raised eyebrows, not under- 
 standing. 
 
 "I don't suppose you'd be sorry would you?" 
 
 She said it gently — ^no strain of bitterness. The 
 emotion which had swept her at first was passed now. 
 All her mind concentrated to the one end. 
 
 "Of course I should," he replied. "Of course I should 
 be sorry. Do you paint me in your mind the little 
 boy dropped in and out of a love affair?" 
 
408 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 "Oh no." 
 
 "Then why say that? Of course I should be 
 sorry. Because you and I couldn't fit things properly 
 together " 
 
 "Is that how It seems to you now?" she interrupted. 
 
 "Well, could vre? Is it any good going over it all 
 again.? Did you ever imagine me to be the type of 
 man who would consent to being followed, as you 
 followed me that night.'' I can't suppose you did; 
 otherwise, would you have tried to hide it from me? 
 But I don't lose any friendly regard for you because 
 of that." 
 
 "You don't object to being here, then?" she asked 
 eagerly. 
 
 "No ; certainly not ! Why should I?" 
 
 "Would you come again if nothing of that were 
 ever mentioned any more between us — would you come 
 again?" 
 
 "Yes, willingly. Now that I see that your intention 
 is to be perfectly reasonable, I would — ^willingly. Why 
 not? I don't see why we should be enemies." 
 
 "No," said Sally quickly; "neither do I — ^neither 
 do I." 
 
 He drank through his tea. One mouthful — they 
 were such tiny cups; but that is the way a man takes 
 his entertainment. 
 
 "Have a good time down at Cailsham?" he asked 
 presently. 
 
 He felt more at his ease. She was taking it well — 
 so much better than he expected. 
 
 "Oh, not very good. I have told you, haven't I, 
 that I don't get on very well with my people." 
 
 "Of course; yes. Isn't that rather a pity?" 
 
 Possibly conscience was plyipg its spurs. There 
 
SALLY BISHOP 409 
 
 was some suggestion underlying the quietness of her 
 manner which he found to bring a sense of uneasiness. 
 He would have preferred that she had got on well at 
 Cailsham. He would rather that she had taken a fancy 
 to Devenish. But she was reasonable — extremely reason- 
 able. He had nothing to grumble at. Yet he could 
 not get away from the sense of something that made 
 each word they said drag slowly, unnaturally into 
 utterance. He tried to shake it from him. 
 
 "Well, what is it you've got to speak to me about?" 
 he asked in a fresh tone of voice, as if with a jerk 
 they were starting again over lighter ground. 
 
 "Won't you wait till you've finished your tea?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "I have finished." 
 
 "No more?" 
 
 "No, thanks. Do you mind my smoking?" 
 
 She lit a match for him in answer — ^held it out, 
 waiting while he extracted the cigarette from his case. 
 
 "Now tell me," he said, when she had thrown the 
 match away. 
 
 She gazed for a moment in the grate, at the kettle 
 breathing contentedly on the gas stove. 
 
 "I'm lonely," she said, turning to his eyes. 
 
 He met her gaze as well as he could. He knew she 
 was lonely. Conscience — conscience that no strength 
 of will could override — ^had often pricked him on that 
 point. But what was a conscience? He would not have 
 believed himself guilty of the weakness at any other 
 time. He gave no rein to it. 
 
 "But you'll get over that," he said. "You'll get 
 over that." 
 
 "I don't think so." 
 
 "But why not? Perhaps you give way to it, Find 
 
410 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 yourself plenty to do. Keep yourself moving. You 
 won't be lonely then." 
 
 "I know. But do what!"' 
 
 "Well" — ^the question faced him, he had to answer it 
 — "well, you're fond of reading, aren't you?" 
 
 "Reading 1" 
 
 "And you've got these rooms to keep straight. A 
 good many women if they thought they'd got to tidy 
 up two rooms every day would grumble at the amount 
 of labour, because it took up so much of their time." 
 
 "Yes; but they'd do it." 
 '' "Probably they'd have to." 
 
 "And then they wouldn't be lonely." 
 
 "Quite so. Isn't that what I say.?" 
 
 "Yes; but don't you forget one thing?" 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "They'd be doing it for some one else. They wouldn't 
 be doing it for themselves. And don't you think they 
 get the impetus to do it from that?" 
 
 She leant forward — no sign of triumph in her face 
 — and watched his eyes. She knew he could not reply 
 to that. He knew it too. He pulled strenuously at 
 his cigarette, then flung it into the empty fireplace. 
 
 "Then what is your point?" he asked firmly. He 
 beat around no bushes. That was not the nature of 
 him. This Was a difficulty. He faced it. This was the. 
 scene she had deftly been leading up to. Let her have 
 it out and he would tell her straight, once and for all. 
 "What is your point?" he repeated, "You want me 
 to come back — go through the same business all over 
 again?" 
 
 "No!" 
 
 Now he was puzzled. His eyes frowned straight into 
 hers. 
 
SALLY BISHOP 4H 
 
 "Then what? Come along, Sally, out with it." 
 
 She turned her head away. He heard the sound in 
 her throat as she began to form the words. But she 
 could not say it. Then her hands covered her face, for 
 a moment stayed there; at last she took them away and 
 met the beating gaze of his eyes. 
 
 "If I had a child," she said quickly. 
 
 His forehead creased, line upon line. He took a deep 
 breath and leant back in his chair. 
 
 "What do you mean?" he asked. 
 
 "If I had a child," she repeated, "I shouldn't be 
 lonely then, I should have some one to do all these 
 things for then. I should have something to live for." 
 
 Traill stood abruptly to his feet. "You're — ^you're 
 crazy !" he exclaimed. 
 
 She stood beside him. Her hand stretched out, nerv- 
 ously, touching his coat. 
 
 "No, no, I'm not. I mean it. Can't you see what it 
 would mean to me, here alone, night after night, night 
 after night, no one, absolutely no one but myself." 
 
 He studied her in amazement. "If it were any other 
 woman than you," he said suddenly, "I should think 
 this was a put-up job to compromise me — a cunning, 
 put-up job. But you! It's amazing! I don't under- 
 stand it. Why, you'd brand yourself to the whole world. 
 It'd be a mill-stone round yoiu: neck, not a child." 
 
 "Don't you think I'm branded plainly enough 
 already? What do you think a man like Devenish 
 thinks of me?" 
 
 "Oh, Devenish be damned. There are other men than 
 Devenish in the world. Men who know nothing; men 
 who'd be ready to marry you." 
 
 "Yes, I found one — one who thought me everything — 
 everything till I told him." 
 
412 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 "You told him?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "In the name of God, what for? You must be crazy. 
 What the deuce did you want to tell him for?" 
 
 "It was the only fair thing to do," she said quietly. 
 
 "Fair? Rot! That's chucking your chances away. 
 That's playing the fool! What's he got to do with 
 your life before you met him?" This was flinging the 
 blame at him. 
 
 "Would you rather that the woman you were going 
 to marry kept silent, risked your not finding out after- 
 wards? Would you think she'd treated you fairly if 
 she said nothing, and you were to discover it when it 
 was too late?" 
 
 He had no answer. He tried to make one. His lips 
 parted; then, in silence, he turned away. 
 
 "It might have made your mind easier," she said 
 quietly, without tone of blame, "but it wouldn't have 
 been fair." 
 
 He twisted back. "There's no need for my mind to 
 be made easier," he said hardly. "I've treated you fairly 
 from the beginning to the end. I warned you in the 
 first instance; I told you to have no truck with me. I 
 sent you away. You came back. I didn't ask you to 
 come back." 
 
 Janet's words flashed across Sally's memory; the 
 words she had said when they were talking over the 
 bangle: "I don't care what you say about that letter, the 
 letter's nothing ! It's the gift that's the thing. That's 
 the song of sex if you like, and whether you return it, 
 or whether you don't, you'll answer it, as he means 
 you to." 
 
 It was on the edge of her mind to repeat them then 
 to him; but she refrained. It was better then^ at that 
 
SALLY BISHOP 413 
 
 moment, to let him think that he haid no cause to blame 
 himself. 
 
 "No, my mind's perfectly easy," he added. "Thank 
 God, I don't pose for a paragon; I've got the beast in 
 me all right, but I've treated you square — absolutely 
 square." 
 
 Her fingers clutched. To win her desires she must 
 let him think so. And perhaps he had treated her 
 square ; she supposed he had. 
 
 "Then help me not to be lonely now," she begged. 
 She could see the wave of repulsion beat across his face, 
 but even that did not deter her. "Oh, I don't mean 
 that you should come back and live with me," she went 
 on. "It isn't for that. You can't — you surely can't 
 hate me as much as all that." It was not in her 
 knowledge to realize that he must love her, greater than 
 he had ever loved, if she were to win. To the woman 
 needing the child it is the child alone; to the man, the 
 child is only the child when it is his. 
 
 "I don't hate you," he said. He picked up his hat 
 from the settee, and her heart dropped to a leaden 
 weight. "You seem to harp on that. But what you 
 ask, you surely must realize is frankly impossible. I 
 don't wish to be responsible for a child." 
 
 "You needn't be responsible," she said eagerly. "You 
 need never see it. You've been generous enough to me 
 in what you've given me. I shan't ask for a penny 
 more — ^I shan't use the child to extract money from 
 you. You'll never hear from nie again. After all, you 
 have loved me," she said piteously. "You did love me 
 once." 
 
 He turned angrily away. "My God!" he exclaimed. 
 "You talk as if you were out of your mind! If I did 
 have a child, I should want to see it. I shouldn't want to 
 
414 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 be ashamed of it; I shouldn't want to disown it, as 
 you'd have me do." 
 
 "Well, then, you might see it as often as you wished." 
 
 He strode to the door. She must have it now. He had 
 meant to say nothing, wishing to save her feelings ; but 
 she must have it now. 
 
 "Then I'm engaged to be married," he said firmly. 
 "Do you see now that it's impossible?" 
 
 She dropped into a chair, staring strangely at his 
 face. 
 
 "You — ^married.'"' she whispered. 
 
 "Yes ; and I've no desire to have things cropping up 
 in my life afterwards, just in the way that this Mrs. 
 Priestly in the divorce courts " 
 
 Sally struggled to her feet. 
 
 "Mrs. Priestly?" 
 
 "Yes ; what about her? Do you know her?" 
 
 "What do you know about her?" she asked. 
 
 "I'm counsel for her husband." 
 
 "You're cross-examining her?" 
 
 Straight through her mind leapt that scene in the 
 divorce court when she had witnessed his attack upon 
 the miserable woman whom the law had placed out for 
 his feet to trample on. 
 
 "Yes," he replied. "What do you know about her?" 
 
 She sank back into her chair, saying nothing. 
 
 "You won't say?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "Well, it's of not much interest to me. I shouldn't 
 have you subpoenaed, if you did know anything. You 
 know the case, at any rate. Well, I don't want that 
 sort of aifair in my life ; so you never need mention this 
 matter again. I'll come and see you sometimes, if you 
 want me to ; but only on condition that we have none of 
 
SALLY BISHOP 416 
 
 this. When I'm married, of course, then it'll have to 
 stop." 
 
 Sally raised her head. Her eyes were burning — her 
 lips were drawn to a thin colourless line. 
 
 "You — who never were going to marry !" she shouted. 
 "You who didn't believe in it — ^who wouldn't fetter 
 yourself with it ! Oh, go ! Go !" 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 That same evening there might have been seen two 
 men seated opposite to each other at a small table in the 
 corner of the grill-room of a well-known restaurant. 
 Throughout the beginning of the meal, they laughed and 
 talked amiably to each other. No one took particular 
 notice of them. The waiter, attendant upon their table, 
 leant against a marble pillar some little distance away 
 and surreptitiously cleaned his nails with the comer 
 of a menu-card. A band played on a raised platform 
 in some other part of the room. From where they sat, 
 they could see the conductor leading his orchestra with 
 the swaying of his violin. He tossed his hair into ar- 
 tistic disorder with the violent intensity of feeling as he 
 played, and his fingers, strained out till the tendons be- 
 tween them were stretched like the strings upon which 
 they moved, felt for the harmonics — shriU notes that 
 pierced through the sounds of all the other instruments. 
 
 In the midst of the rattling of plates, the coming and 
 going, the buzz of conversation, these two men chatted 
 good-naturedly over their meal. At its conclusion, they 
 ordered coffee, cigars and liqueurs, and leant back com- 
 fortably in their chairs. Hundreds of others there, were 
 doing precisely the same as they — ^thousands of others 
 in all the restaurants in London. There was nothing 
 remarkable about their faces, their dress or their manner 
 until one of them suddenly leant forward across the 
 table, and his expression, from genial amusement, leapt 
 in sudden changes from the amazement of surprise to the 
 
SALLY BISHOP ilt 
 
 fierceness of contempt and anger. Some exclamation in 
 the force of the moment probably left his lips, for a 
 woman at a table near by turned in her chair and gazed 
 at them with imconcealed curiosity. She kept strained 
 in that position as he brought down his fist on the table. 
 She could see his fingers gripping the cloth. Then the 
 other man put out his hand with a gesture of restraint. 
 
 From that they talked on excitedly — one of them 
 driving his questions to the tardy replies of the other. 
 Here and there in their speech the name of God ripped 
 out, and the waiter, placing the card back on one of 
 the empty tables, stood more alert, listening. 
 
 Their cigars burnt low, their coffee was drained ; yet 
 still they continued, voices pitched now on a lower key, 
 but none the less intense, none the less spurred with 
 vital interest. The man apparently most concerned 
 had ceased from the urging of his questions. His 
 elbows were resting on the table, his face was in his 
 hands. Now and again he nodded in understanding, 
 now and again he ejaculated some remark, pressing his 
 companion to the full measure of what he had to say. 
 Obviously it was a story — the relation of some inci- 
 dent, reluctantly dragged from the one by the per- 
 sistent, unyielding demands of the other. 
 
 The woman at the near table put up her hand to her 
 ear, shutting off the conversation of those with her, 
 striving to catch a word here and there in the endeavor 
 to piece it together. It was about some woman. She 
 — ^was continually being alluded to. She — ^had done 
 this — at a later date she had done that. Gathering as 
 little as she did, the woman who listened was still 
 strangely fascinated to curiosity. 
 
 Then at last a whole sentence reached her ears in a 
 sudden hush of sound. 
 
418 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 The man took his elbows from the table, as if the 
 climax of the story had been reached. 
 ! "I know!" he said excitedly; "I know — the type of 
 woman who never breaks a commandment because she 
 daren't, yet never earns a beatitude because she can't; 
 but, my God, if this isn't true " 
 
 Then the other began his reply — 
 
 'My dear fellow — should I come and- 
 
 She heard no more. A renewed deafening clatter of 
 plates from the grill drowned the remainder of his 
 sentence. 
 
 "There's a little tragedy behind us," said the woman, 
 leaning forward, speaking under her breath to one of 
 her companions. They aU turned and gazed in the 
 direction of the table. Then the two men stood up. One 
 of them picked up the bill. 
 
 "Pay at the desk, please, sir," said the waiter ob- 
 sequiously. 
 
 He half followed them down the room. They had 
 forgotten to tip him. It was quite obvious that they 
 forgot. Yet his face was a study in the mingling of 
 disappointment and contempt. He stood there looking 
 after them; then he chucked up his head In disgust, 
 and catching the eye of some distant waiter, he made 
 a sign of a nought with his fingers, and looked up at 
 the ceiling. 
 
 As they passed the woman's table, she heard one of 
 them say — 
 
 "There's not a straight woman in the whole of that 
 damned set — ^not one !" Then they passed out of hear- 
 ing. 
 
 "I think it's a marvellous thing," said the woman 
 when they had gone, "to think of the thousands of 
 exciting tragedies, romances, crimes perhaps, that are 
 
SALLY BISHOP 419 
 
 being acted out to their ends all round one, and except 
 for a stray little bit of conversation like that, one would 
 never realize it. I remember hearing a woman in a 
 crowd say something to a man in the most awful voice, 
 full of horror, that I've ever heard. I just caught her 
 saying, 'If he finds it out to-night, either I'll kill myself 
 or he'll do it for me,' and then they got out of the crowd, 
 called a hansom and drove away. Positively, I didn't 
 sleep that night, wondering if he had found it out, 
 wondering if he had killed her, wondering if hundreds 
 of other people had found out hundreds of other horrible 
 things. But it all went in the morning. Cissy had a 
 terrible toothache, and I had to take her to the dentist's." 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 It was nine o'clock in the evening of the same day on 
 which Traill had been to see Sally. The lights were 
 burning in her room as Janet approached the street 
 door. Opening it, she walked along the passage and 
 began the ascent of the stairs. Halfway up the first 
 flight she stopped. The voices of two men, talking 
 rather excitedly, came up to her from the street as if 
 they were nearing the house. Another moment and she 
 heard one bidding the other good night in the passage. 
 Evidently he was coming in. She walked on up the 
 flights of stairs. His footsteps sounded behind her. 
 She took but little more notice of the fact until, when 
 she stopped before Sally's door, he stopped behind her. 
 Then she turned round. Her eyes opened a little wider. 
 She began to say one thing; then she changed her 
 mind and said another. 
 
 "Aren't you Mr. Traill?" she asked. 
 
 He looked at her more closely in the dim light from 
 the landing window. 
 
 "Yes ; how did you know?" 
 
 "I'm Miss Hallard." 
 
 "Oh, oh yes ! You're Sally's friend." 
 
 " 'Bout the only one she has," said Janet. There 
 was no flinching in her eyes from his. 
 
 "You mean that for me?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Would it surprise you to hear me say I deserve it?" 
 
 "Yes, considerably. Isn't it a pity you didn't realize 
 that a bit sooner?" 
 
SALLY BISHOP 421 
 
 "Well, we must all have disagreeable times in our 
 lives," he said rigidly. "Sally's had hers, but I guess 
 it's over now. I fancy I've just come from school and 
 learnt my lesson." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Do you expect me to answer that to you.!"' 
 
 Here, in the first moment, they came to their anta- 
 gonism, as Janet had always realized they would. 
 
 "No, I don't expect it in the least," she replied. 
 
 "Well, if you're going in ?" 
 
 "Yes, I'm going in." She opened the door and 
 entered the sitting-room. All the lights were burning. 
 Sally's hat lay untidily on the table. 
 
 "One moment," said Traill. 
 
 'Janet turned round. 
 
 "I should be very glad if you'd allow me to see Sally 
 alone as soon as possible. I want to talk to her. I've 
 got a lot to say." 
 
 "I'll go now," she replied. 
 
 "No, oh no, see her first. She's probably been expect- 
 ing you. Didn't she send for you this afternoon, some 
 time after five o'clock — eh?" 
 
 "No, I haven't seen her since yesterday, I'll just 
 knock at her door. Sally !" She called the name gently 
 and knocked. Traill walked to the mantelpiece. There 
 was no answer. 
 
 "She must be in," he said, "there's her hat." 
 
 Janet knocked again. There was no reply. She 
 turned round. 
 
 "I wonder can she have gone to bed and be asleep?" 
 she said. "She looked terribly tired when I saw her 
 yesterday." 
 
 She knocked again and tried the door; then bent 
 down and examined the keyhole. The key was inside 
 
422 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 and a light was burning in the room. Janet stood up 
 suddenly. Her lips were shaking; her cheeks were 
 white. 
 
 "Mr. Traill," she said in a hollow voice, but raising 
 it as though he were some distance away, "this door's 
 locked from the inside, and there's a light in the room." 
 
 He took it quite casually. ''Better let me try it," 
 he said. "It can't be locked from the inside imless she's 
 there." 
 
 Janet stood aside, trembling, as he tried the handle. 
 Then he, too, bent down and examined the keyhole. 
 
 "Good God! You're right!" he said thickly. 
 
 Janet's eyes roamed feverishly from his face to the 
 door. When he stood back and called out Sally's name, 
 her senses sharpened to a quivering point to catch the 
 slightest sound of a reply. She must be inside — she 
 must be inside! Then why didn't she answer? Why? 
 She recalled Sally's face as she had last seen it, white, 
 drawn, the eyes hollow, the lips but faintly tinged with 
 pink. Now it was in that room, the face that she had 
 lifted and kissed before she had said how wonderful she 
 was. But what was it looking like now? What was it 
 looking like now, alone in that awful silence? 
 
 Traill strode back into the room. 
 
 "What are you going to do?" asked Janet. "Some- 
 thing's got to be done! What are you going to do?" 
 
 "Break down the door," was his answer. 
 
 He searched in the fireplace. He searched round the 
 room. 
 
 "Take that chair ! Take that chair !" cried Janet. 
 
 He picked it up by its heavy arms, stood back and 
 then charged the door. There was a shuddering noise, 
 a splintering sound of wood giving. Then it was all 
 quiet again. 
 
SALLY BISHOP 423 
 
 He got ready to do it again. 
 
 "Wait !" said Janet. In a quivering voicfe she called 
 Sally's name again. 
 
 There was no reply. 
 
 "Do it now!" she said, almost incoherently. "Do it 
 now ! I believe one of the panels is giving." 
 
 He charged it once more, and then again. 
 
 "The panel's giving," said Janet. 
 
 He flung down the chair from his shoulders. The 
 panel had splintered from its joining at the bottom. 
 He could just push it forward a little, making a slight 
 aperture. 
 
 "Get the poker !" he said firmly. 
 
 She ran obediently and brought it to him. He prized 
 it into the gap, levered it forward until there was room 
 for his fingers to squeeze through; then he thrust 
 them in and used the strength of his arm, an additional 
 lever, to push an opening down towards the key inside. 
 
 "Mind your arm," said Janet; " you're tearing the 
 skin." 
 
 He made no reply — forced his hand still further 
 through the gap until the splinters of the wood were 
 cutting into the flesh and the blood was dripping down 
 in red blotches on the white paint of the door. She 
 glanced at his face. It was grey. The pupils of his 
 eyes were large with fear. His breath was hunting 
 through his nostrils as he strained to reach the key. 
 
 "Now I've got it," he whispered. "Prize that open 
 with the poker as far as you can or I'll never get my; 
 hand back." 
 
 She leant all her fragile weight against it, aided 
 with the strength of maddening fear. Her ears were 
 strained for the sound in the lock. When she heard 
 the bolt click, she gasped and pressed forward again 
 
iU SALLY BISHOP 
 
 with redoubled vigor as he slowly drew out his lacerated 
 hand from the crevice. 
 
 Then they both stood upright. Together they both 
 drew a deep breath as Traill turned the handle and 
 opened the door. A physical sickness made them weak. 
 Janet half tumbled, half ran into the room. The length 
 of Traill's strides brought him even with her. 
 
 Sally was there. SaUy was in the room. She lay 
 crumpled on the bed, her legs drawn up, twisted, bent ; 
 one arm thrown out covering her face, her other hand 
 gripping a corner of the bed-clothes, stretching out 
 from her in tautened creases. She looked as though 
 some giant hand had knotted her fragile body with 
 fingers of iron. 
 
 With a cry, Janet bent over the bed. At her feet, 
 Traill picked up a little bottle, hurriedly read the label, 
 and blindly put it in his pocket. 
 
 "Uncover her face," he whispered; "take her arm 
 away from her face — she's choking herself." 
 
 "Choking herself !" Janet gently bent the arm back. 
 Every feature was twisted in the same grip, the lips 
 caught in the same iron fingers and dragged in her suf- 
 fering, baring the teeth — the whole expression of her 
 face was as though she had died, emitting one last 
 scream of unbearable agony. "Look ! Choking herself? 
 She's dead!" 
 
 With a muffled sound, Traill forced himself to her 
 side. He put his arm round her. He lifted her up. 
 The body dragged against him, the head swung from the 
 loose neck. 
 
 "Sally's had her bad time," said Janet, hoarsely, 
 "and, my God, it's over now !" 
 
 THIS END