fraternity-第29章

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　way　of　pettifying　things！　　Yet；　in　truth；　the　affair　would　seem　ridiculous　enough　to　an　ordinary　observer。　　What　would　a　man　of　sound　common　sense；　like　Mr。　Purcey；　think　of　it？　　Why　not；　as　Stephen　had　suggested；　drop　it？　　Here；　however；　Hilary　approached　the　marshy　ground　of　feeling。

To　give　up　befriending　a　helpless　girl　the　moment　he　found　himself　personally　menaced　was　exceedingly　distasteful。　　But　would　she　be　friendless？　　Were　there　not；　in　Stephen's　words；　a　hundred　things　he　did　not　know　about　her？　　Had　she　not　other　resources？　　Had　she　not　a　story？　　But　here；　too；　he　was　hampered　by　his　delicacy：　one　did　not　pry　into　the　private　lives　of　others！

The　matter；　too；　was　hopelessly　complicated　by　the　domestic　troubles　of　the　Hughs　family。　　No　conscientious　manand　whatever　Hilary　lacked；　no　one　ever　accused　him　of　a　lack　of　consciencecould　put　aside　that　aspect　of　the　case。

Wandering　among　these　reflections　were　his　thoughts　about　Bianca。　She　was　his　wife。　　However　he　might　feel　towards　her　now；　whatever　their　relations；　he　must　not　put　her　in　a　false　position。　　Far　from　wishing　to　hurt　her；　he　desired　to　preserve　her；　and　everyone；　from　trouble　and　annoyance。　　He　had　told　Stephen　that　his　interest　in　the　girl　was　purely　protective。　　But　since　the　night　when；　leaning　out　into　the　moonlight；　he　heard　the　waggons　coming　in　to　Covent　Garden　Market；　a　strange　feeling　had　possessed　himthe　sensation　of　a　man　who　lies；　with　a　touch　of　fever　on　him；　listening　to　the　thrum　of　distant　musicsensuous；　not　unpleasurable。

Those　who　saw　him　sitting　there　so　quietly；　with　his　face　resting　on　his　hand；　imagined；　no　doubt；　that　he　was　wrestling　with　some　deep；　abstract　proposition；　some　great　thought　to　be　given　to　mankind；　for　there　was　that　about　Hilary　which　forced　everyone　to　connect　him　instantly　with　the　humaner　arts。

The　sun　began　to　leave　the　long　pale　waters。

A　nursemaid　and　two　children　came　and　sat　down　beside　him。　　Then　it　was　that；　underneath　his　seat；　Miranda　found　what　she　had　been　looking　for　all　her　life。　　It　had　no　smell；　made　no　movement；　was　pale…grey　in　colour；　like　herself。　　It　had　no　hair　that　she　could　find；　its　tail　was　like　her　own；　it　took　no　liberties；　was　silent；　had　no　passions；　committed　her　to　nothing。　　Standing　a　few　inches　from　its　head；　closer　than　she　had　ever　been　of　her　free　will　to　any　dog；　she　smelt　its　smellessness　with　a　long；　delicious　snuffling；　wrinkling　up　the　skin　on　her　forehead；　and　through　her　upturned　eyes　her　little　moonlight　soul　looked　forth。　　'How　unlike　you　are；'　she　seemed　to　say；　'to　all　the　other　dogs　I　know！　　I　would　love　to　live　with　you。　　Shall　I　ever　find　a　dog　like　you　again？　　〃The　latest…　sterilised　clothsee　white　label　underneath：　4s。　3d。！〃'　　Suddenly　she　slithered　out　her　slender　grey…pink　tongue　and　licked　its　nose。　The　creature　moved　a　little　way　and　stopped。　　Miranda　saw　that　it　had　wheels。　　She　lay　down　close　to　it；　for　she　knew　it　was　the　perfect　dog。

Hilary　watched　the　little　moonlight　lady　lying　vigilant；　affectionate；　beside　this　perfect　dog；　who　could　not　hurt　her。　　She　panted　slightly；　and　her　tongue　showed　between　her　lips。　Presently　behind　his　seat　he　saw　another　idyll。　　A　thin　white　spaniel　had　come　running　up。　　She　lay　down　in　the　grass　quite　close；　and　three　other　dogs　who　followed；　sat　and　looked　at　her。　　A　poor；　dirty　little　thing　she　was；　who　seemed　as　if　she　had　not　seen　a　home　for　days。　　Her　tongue　lolled　out；　she　panted　piteously；　and　had　no　collar。　　Every　now　and　then　she　turned　her　eyes；　but　though　they　were　so　tired　and　desperate；　there　was　a　gleam　in　them。　　'For　all　its　thirst　and　hunger　and　exhaustion；　this　is　life！'　they　seemed　to　say。　The　three　dogs；　panting　too；　and　watching　till　it　should　be　her　pleasure　to　begin　to　run　again；　seemed　with　their　moist；　loving　eyes　to　echo：　'This　is　life！'

Because　of　this　idyll；　people　near　were　moving　on。

And　suddenly　the　thin　white　spaniel　rose；　and；　like　a　little　harried　ghost；　slipped　on　amongst　the　trees；　and　the　three　dogs　followed　her。




CHAPTER　XIX

BIANCA

In　her　studio　that　afternoon　Blanca　stood　before　her　picture　of　the　little　modelthe　figure　with　parted　pale…red　lips　and　haunting；　pale…blue　eyes；　gazing　out　of　shadow　into　lamplight。

She　was　frowning；　as　though　resentful　of　a　piece　of　work　which　had　the　power　to　kill　her　other　pictures。　　What　force　had　moved　her　to　paint　like　that？　　What　had　she　felt　while　the　girl　was　standing　before　her；　still　as　some　pale　flower　placed　in　a　cup　of　water？　　Not　lovethere　was　no　love　in　the　presentment　of　that　twilight　figure；　not　hatethere　was　no　hate　in　the　painting　of　her　dim　appeal。　　Yet　in　the　picture　of　this　shadow　girl；　between　the　gloom　and　glimmer；　was　visible　a　spirit；　driving　the　artist　on　to　create　that　which　had　the　power　to　haunt　the　mind。

Blanca　turned　away　and　went　up　to　a　portrait　of　her　husband；　painted　ten　years　before。　　She　looked　from　one　picture　to　the　other；　with　eyes　as　hard　and　stabbing　as　the　points　of　daggers。

In　the　more　poignant　relationships　of　human　life　there　is　a　point　beyond　which　men　and　women　do　not　quite　truthfully　analyse　their　feelingsthey　feel　too　much。　　It　was　Blanca's　fortune；　too；　to　be　endowed　to　excess　with　that　quality　which；　of　all　others；　most　obscures　the　real　significance　of　human　issues。　　Her　pride　had　kept　her　back　from　Hilary；　till　she　had　felt　herself　a　failure。　　Her　pride　had　so　revolted　at　that　failure　that　she　had　led　the　way　to　utter　estrangement。　　Her　pride　had　forced　her　to　the　attitude　of　one　who　says　〃Live　your　own　life；　I　should　be　ashamed　to　let　you　see　that　I　care　what　happens　between　us。〃　　Her　pride　had　concealed　from　her　the　fact　that　beneath　her　veil　of　mocking　liberality　there　was　an　essential　woman　tenacious　of　her　dues；　avid　of　affection　and　esteem。　Her　pride　prevented　the　world　from　guessing　that　there　was　anything　amiss。　　Her　pride　even　prevented　Hilary　from　really　knowing　what　had　spoiled　his　married　lifethis　ungovernable　itch　to　be　appreciated；　governed　by　ungovernable　pride。　　Hundreds　of　times　he　had　been　baffled　by　the　hedge　round　that　disharmonic　nature。　　With　each　failure　something　had　shrivelled　in　him；　till　the　very　roots　of　his　affection　had　dried　up。　　She　had　worn　out　a　man　who；　to　judge　from　his　actions　and　appearance；　was　naturally　long…suffering　to　a　fault。　Beneath　all　manner　of　kindness　and　consideration　for　each　otherfor　their　good　taste；　at　all　events；　had　never　given　waythis　tragedy　of　a　woman；　who　wanted　to　be　loved；　slowly　killing　the　power　of　loving　her　in　the　man；　had　gone　on　year　after　year。　　It　had　ceased　to　be　tragedy；　as　far　as　Hilary　was　concerned；　the　nerve　of　his　love　for　her　was　quite　dead；　slowly　frozen　out　of　him。　　It　was　still　active　tragedy　with　Bianca；　the　nerve　of　whose　jealous　desire　for　his　appreciation　was　not　dead。　　Her　instinct；　too；　ironically　informed　her　that；　had　he　been　a　man　with　some　brutality；　a　man　who　had　set　himself　to　ride　and　master　her；　instead　of　one　too　delicate；　he　might　have　trampled　down　the　hedge。　　This　gave　her　a　secret　grudge　against　him；　a　feeling　that　it　was　not　she　who　was　to　blame。

Pride　was　Bianca's　fate；　her　flavour；　and　her　charm。　　Like　a　shadowy　hill…side　behind　glamorous　bars　of　waning　sunlight；　she　was　enveloped　in　smiling　pridemysterious；　one　thinks；　even　to　herself。　　This　pride　of　hers　took　part　even　in　her　many　generous　impulses；　kind　actions　which　she　did　rather　secretly　and　scoffed　at　herself　for　doing。　　She　scoffed　at　herself　continually；　even　for　putting　on　dresses　of　colours　which　Hilary　was　fond　of。　　She　would　not　admit　her　longing　to　attract　him。

Standing　between　those　two　pictures；　pressing　her　mahl…stick　against　her　bosom；　she　suggested　somewhat　the　image　of　an　Italian　saint　forcing　the　dagger　of　martyrdom　into　her　heart。

That　other　person；　who　had　once　brought　the　thought　of　Italy　into　Cecilia's　mindthe　man　Hughshad　been　for　the　last　eight　hours　or　so　walking　the　streets；　placing　in　a　cart　the　refuses　of　Life；　nor　had　he　at　all　suggested　the　aspect　of　one　tortured　by　the　passions　of　love　and　hate：　For　the　first　two　hours　he　had　led　the　horse　without　expression　of　any　sort　on　his　dark　face；　his　neat　soldier's　figure　garbed　in　the　costume　which　had　made　〃Westminister〃