Fraternity [61]
of every man. Like the reviving flame of half-spent fires, longing for discovery leaped and flickered in Hilary--to find out once again what things were like before he went down the hill of age.
No trivial ghost was beckoning him; it was the ghost, with unseen face and rosy finger, which comes to men when youth has gone.
Miranda, hearing him so silent, rose. At this hour it was her master's habit to scratch paper. She, who seldom scratched anything, because it was not delicate, felt dimly that this was what he should be doing. She held up a slim foot and touched his knee. Receiving no discouragement, she delicately sprang into his lap, and, forgetting for once her modesty, placed her arms on his chest, and licked his face all over.
It was while receiving this embrace that Hilary saw Mr. Stone and the little model returning across the garden. The old man was walking very rapidly, holding out the fragment of a broken stick. He was extremely pink.
Hilary went to meet them.
"What's the matter, sir?" he said.
"I cut him over the legs," said Mr. Stone. "I do not regret it"; and he walked on to his room.
Hilary turned to the little model.
"It was a little dog. The man kicked it, and Mr. Stone hit him. He broke his stick. There were several men; they threatened us." She looked up at Hilary. "I-I was frightened. Oh! Mr. Dallison, isn't he funny?"
"All heroes are funny," murmured Hilary.
"He wanted to hit them again, after his stick was broken. Then a policeman came, and they all ran away."
"That was quite as it should be," said Hilary. "And what did you do?"
Perceiving that she had not as yet made much effect, the little model cast down her eyes.
"I shouldn't have been frightened if you had been there!"
"Heavens!" muttered Hilary. "Mr. Stone is far more valiant than I."
"I don't think he is," she replied stubbornly, and again looked up at him.
"Well, good-night!" said Hilary hastily. "You must run off...."
That same evening, driving with his wife back from a long, dull dinner, Hilary began:
"I've something to say to you."
An ironic "Yes?" came from the other corner of the cab.
"There is some trouble with the little model."
"Really!"
"This man Hughs has become infatuated with her. He has even said, I believe, that he was coming to see you."
"What about?"
"Me."
"And what is he going to say about you?"
"I don't know; some vulgar gossip--nothing true."
There was a silence, and in the darkness Hilary moistened his dry lips.
Bianca spoke: "May I ask how you knew of this?"
"Cecilia told me."
A curious noise, like a little strangled laugh, fell on Hilary's ears.
"I am very sorry," he muttered.
Presently Bianca said:
"It was good of you to tell me, considering that we go our own ways. What made you?"
"I thought it right."
"And--of course, the man might have come to me!"
"That you need not have said."
"One does not always say what one ought."
"I have made the child a present of some clothes which she badly needed. So far as I know, that's all I've done!"
"Of course!"
This wonderful "of course" acted on Hilary like a tonic. He said dryly:
"What do you wish me to do?"
"I?" No gust of the east wind, making the young leaves curl and shiver, the gas jets flare and die down in their lamps, could so have nipped the flower of amity. Through Hilary's mind flashed Stephen's almost imploring words: "Oh, I wouldn't go to her! Women are so funny!"
He looked round. A blue gauze scarf was wrapped over his wife's dark head. There, in her corner, as far away from him as she could get, she was smiling. For a moment Hilary had the sensation of being stiffed by fold on fold of that blue gauze scarf, as if he were doomed to drive for ever, suffocated, by the side of this woman who had killed his love for her.
"You will do what you like, of course," she said suddenly.
A desire to laugh seized Hilary. "What do you wish me to do?" "You will do what you like, of course!" Could civilised restraint and
No trivial ghost was beckoning him; it was the ghost, with unseen face and rosy finger, which comes to men when youth has gone.
Miranda, hearing him so silent, rose. At this hour it was her master's habit to scratch paper. She, who seldom scratched anything, because it was not delicate, felt dimly that this was what he should be doing. She held up a slim foot and touched his knee. Receiving no discouragement, she delicately sprang into his lap, and, forgetting for once her modesty, placed her arms on his chest, and licked his face all over.
It was while receiving this embrace that Hilary saw Mr. Stone and the little model returning across the garden. The old man was walking very rapidly, holding out the fragment of a broken stick. He was extremely pink.
Hilary went to meet them.
"What's the matter, sir?" he said.
"I cut him over the legs," said Mr. Stone. "I do not regret it"; and he walked on to his room.
Hilary turned to the little model.
"It was a little dog. The man kicked it, and Mr. Stone hit him. He broke his stick. There were several men; they threatened us." She looked up at Hilary. "I-I was frightened. Oh! Mr. Dallison, isn't he funny?"
"All heroes are funny," murmured Hilary.
"He wanted to hit them again, after his stick was broken. Then a policeman came, and they all ran away."
"That was quite as it should be," said Hilary. "And what did you do?"
Perceiving that she had not as yet made much effect, the little model cast down her eyes.
"I shouldn't have been frightened if you had been there!"
"Heavens!" muttered Hilary. "Mr. Stone is far more valiant than I."
"I don't think he is," she replied stubbornly, and again looked up at him.
"Well, good-night!" said Hilary hastily. "You must run off...."
That same evening, driving with his wife back from a long, dull dinner, Hilary began:
"I've something to say to you."
An ironic "Yes?" came from the other corner of the cab.
"There is some trouble with the little model."
"Really!"
"This man Hughs has become infatuated with her. He has even said, I believe, that he was coming to see you."
"What about?"
"Me."
"And what is he going to say about you?"
"I don't know; some vulgar gossip--nothing true."
There was a silence, and in the darkness Hilary moistened his dry lips.
Bianca spoke: "May I ask how you knew of this?"
"Cecilia told me."
A curious noise, like a little strangled laugh, fell on Hilary's ears.
"I am very sorry," he muttered.
Presently Bianca said:
"It was good of you to tell me, considering that we go our own ways. What made you?"
"I thought it right."
"And--of course, the man might have come to me!"
"That you need not have said."
"One does not always say what one ought."
"I have made the child a present of some clothes which she badly needed. So far as I know, that's all I've done!"
"Of course!"
This wonderful "of course" acted on Hilary like a tonic. He said dryly:
"What do you wish me to do?"
"I?" No gust of the east wind, making the young leaves curl and shiver, the gas jets flare and die down in their lamps, could so have nipped the flower of amity. Through Hilary's mind flashed Stephen's almost imploring words: "Oh, I wouldn't go to her! Women are so funny!"
He looked round. A blue gauze scarf was wrapped over his wife's dark head. There, in her corner, as far away from him as she could get, she was smiling. For a moment Hilary had the sensation of being stiffed by fold on fold of that blue gauze scarf, as if he were doomed to drive for ever, suffocated, by the side of this woman who had killed his love for her.
"You will do what you like, of course," she said suddenly.
A desire to laugh seized Hilary. "What do you wish me to do?" "You will do what you like, of course!" Could civilised restraint and