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By　fixing　his　eyes　obstinately　on　the　ground；　which　gave　him　an　air



of　reflective　sadness；　Renouard　managed　to　recover　his　self…



possession。　　He　used　it　to　keep　his　voice　in　a　low　key　and　to



measure　his　words　on　the　great　subject。　　And　he　took　care　with　a



great　inward　effort　to　make　them　reasonable　without　giving　them　a



discouraging　complexion。　　For　he　did　not　want　the　quest　to　be　given



up；　since　it　would　mean　her　going　away　with　her　two　attendant　grey…



heads　to　the　other　side　of　the　world。







He　was　asked　to　come　again；　to　come　often　and　take　part　in　the



counsels　of　all　these　people　captivated　by　the　sentimental



enterprise　of　a　declared　love。　　On　taking　Miss　Moorsom's　hand　he



looked　up；　would　have　liked　to　say　something；　but　found　himself



voiceless；　with　his　lips　suddenly　sealed。　　She　returned　the



pressure　of　his　fingers；　and　he　left　her　with　her　eyes　vaguely



staring　beyond　him；　an　air　of　listening　for　an　expected　sound；　and



the　faintest　possible　smile　on　her　lips。　　A　smile　not　for　him；



evidently；　but　the　reflection　of　some　deep　and　inscrutable　thought。















CHAPTER　IV















He　went　on　board　his　schooner。　　She　lay　white；　and　as　if　suspended；



in　the　crepuscular　atmosphere　of　sunset　mingling　with　the　ashy



gleam　of　the　vast　anchorage。　　He　tried　to　keep　his　thoughts　as



sober；　as　reasonable；　as　measured　as　his　words　had　been；　lest　they



should　get　away　from　him　and　cause　some　sort　of　moral　disaster。



What　he　was　afraid　of　in　the　coming　night　was　sleeplessness　and　the



endless　strain　of　that　wearisome　task。　　It　had　to　be　faced　however。



He　lay　on　his　back；　sighing　profoundly　in　the　dark；　and　suddenly



beheld　his　very　own　self；　carrying　a　small　bizarre　lamp；　reflected



in　a　long　mirror　inside　a　room　in　an　empty　and　unfurnished　palace。



In　this　startling　image　of　himself　he　recognised　somebody　he　had　to



follow　…　the　frightened　guide　of　his　dream。　　He　traversed　endless



galleries；　no　end　of　lofty　halls；　innumerable　doors。　　He　lost



himself　utterly　…　he　found　his　way　again。　　Room　succeeded　room。　　At



last　the　lamp　went　out；　and　he　stumbled　against　some　object　which；



when　he　stooped　for　it；　he　found　to　be　very　cold　and　heavy　to　lift。



The　sickly　white　light　of　dawn　showed　him　the　head　of　a　statue。



Its　marble　hair　was　done　in　the　bold　lines　of　a　helmet；　on　its　lips



the　chisel　had　left　a　faint　smile；　and　it　resembled　Miss　Moorsom。



While　he　was　staring　at　it　fixedly；　the　head　began　to　grow　light　in



his　fingers；　to　diminish　and　crumble　to　pieces；　and　at　last　turned



into　a　handful　of　dust；　which　was　blown　away　by　a　puff　of　wind　so



chilly　that　he　woke　up　with　a　desperate　shiver　and　leaped　headlong



out　of　his　bed…place。　　The　day　had　really　come。　　He　sat　down　by　the



cabin　table；　and　taking　his　head　between　his　hands；　did　not　stir



for　a　very　long　time。







Very　quiet；　he　set　himself　to　review　this　dream。　　The　lamp；　of



course；　he　connected　with　the　search　for　a　man。　　But　on　closer



examination　he　perceived　that　the　reflection　of　himself　in　the



mirror　was　not　really　the　true　Renouard；　but　somebody　else　whose



face　he　could　not　remember。　　In　the　deserted　palace　he　recognised　a



sinister　adaptation　by　his　brain　of　the　long　corridors　with　many



doors；　in　the　great　building　in　which　his　friend's　newspaper　was



lodged　on　the　first　floor。　　The　marble　head　with　Miss　Moorsom's



face！　　Well！　　What　other　face　could　he　have　dreamed　of？　　And　her



complexion　was　fairer　than　Parian　marble；　than　the　heads　of　angels。



The　wind　at　the　end　was　the　morning　breeze　entering　through　the



open　porthole　and　touching　his　face　before　the　schooner　could　swing



to　the　chilly　gust。







Yes！　　And　all　this　rational　explanation　of　the　fantastic　made　it



only　more　mysterious　and　weird。　　There　was　something　daemonic　in



that　dream。　　It　was　one　of　those　experiences　which　throw　a　man　out



of　conformity　with　the　established　order　of　his　kind　and　make　him　a



creature　of　obscure　suggestions。







Henceforth；　without　ever　trying　to　resist；　he　went　every　afternoon



to　the　house　where　she　lived。　　He　went　there　as　passively　as　if　in



a　dream。　　He　could　never　make　out　how　he　had　attained　the　footing



of　intimacy　in　the　Dunster　mansion　above　the　bay　…　whether　on　the



ground　of　personal　merit　or　as　the　pioneer　of　the　vegetable　silk



industry。　　It　must　have　been　the　last；　because　he　remembered



distinctly；　as　distinctly　as　in　a　dream；　hearing　old　Dunster　once



telling　him　that　his　next　public　task　would　be　a　careful　survey　of



the　Northern　Districts　to　discover　tracts　suitable　for　the



cultivation　of　the　silk　plant。　　The　old　man　wagged　his　beard　at　him



sagely。　　It　was　indeed　as　absurd　as　a　dream。







Willie　of　course　would　be　there　in　the　evening。　　But　he　was　more　of



a　figure　out　of　a　nightmare；　hovering　about　the　circle　of　chairs　in



his　dress…clothes　like　a　gigantic；　repulsive；　and　sentimental　bat。



〃Do　away　with　the　beastly　cocoons　all　over　the　world；〃　he　buzzed　in



his　blurred；　water…logged　voice。　　He　affected　a　great　horror　of



insects　of　all　kinds。　　One　evening　he　appeared　with　a　red　flower　in



his　button…hole。　　Nothing　could　have　been　more　disgustingly



fantastic。　　And　he　would　also　say　to　Renouard：　　〃You　may　yet　change



the　history　of　our　country。　　For　economic　conditions　do　shape　the



history　of　nations。　　Eh？　　What？〃　　And　he　would　turn　to　Miss　Moorsom



for　approval；　lowering　protectingly　his　spatulous　nose　and　looking



up　with　feeling　from　under　his　absurd　eyebrows；　which　grew　thin；　in



the　manner　of　canebrakes；　out　of　his　spongy　skin。　　For　this　large；



bilious　creature　was　an　economist　and　a　sentimentalist；　facile　to



tears；　and　a　member　of　the　Cobden　Club。







In　order　to　see　as　little　of　him　as　possible　Renouard　began　coming



earlier　so　as　to　get　away　before　his　arrival；　without　curtailing



too　much　the　hours　of　secret　contemplation　for　which　he　lived。　　He



had　given　up　trying　to　deceive　himself。　　His　resignation　was



without　bounds。　　He　accepted　the　immense　misfortune　of　being　in



love　with　a　woman　who　was　in　search　of　another　man　only　to　throw



herself　into　his　arms。　　With　such　desperate　precision　he　defined　in



his　thoughts　the　situation；　the　consciousness　of　which　traversed



like　a　sharp　arrow　the　sudden　silences　of　general　conversation。



The　only　thought　before　which　he　quailed　was　the　thought　that　this



could　not　last；　that　it　must　come　to　an　end。　　He　feared　it



instinctively　as　a　sick　man　may　fear　death。　　For　it　seemed　to　him



that　it　must　be　the　death　of　him　followed　by　a　lightless；



bottomless　pit。　　But　his　resignation　was　not　spared　the　torments　of



jealousy：　　the　cruel；　insensate；　poignant；　and　imbecile　jealousy；



when　it　seems　that　a　woman　betrays　us　simply　by　this　that　she



exists；　that　she　breathes　…　and　when　the　deep　movements　of　her



nerves　or　her　soul　become　a　matter　of　distracting　suspicion；　of



killing　doubt；　of　mortal　anxiety。







In　the　peculiar　condition　of　their　sojourn　Miss　Moorsom　went　out



very　little。　　She　accepted　this　seclusion　at　the　Dunsters'　mansion



as　in　a　hermitage；　and　lived　there；　watched　over　by　a　group　of　old



people；　with　the　lofty　endurance　of　a　condescending　and　strong…



headed　goddess。　　It　was　impossible　to　say　if　she　suffered　from



anything　in　the　world；　and　whether　this　was　the　insensibility　of　a



great　passion　concentrated　on　itself；　or　a　perfect　restraint　of



manner；　or　the　indifference　of　superiority　so　complete　as　to　be



sufficient　to　itself。　　But　it　was　visible　to　Renouard　that　she　took



some　pleasure　in　talking　to　him　at　times。　　Was　it　because　he　was



the　only　person　near　her　age？　　Was　this；　then；　the　secret　of　his



admission　to　the　circle？







He　admired　her　voice　as　well　poised　as　her　movements；　as　her



attitudes。　　He　himself　had　always　been　a　man　of　tranquil　tones。



But　the　power　of　fascination　had　torn　him　out　of　his　very　nature　so



completely　that　to　preserve　his　habitual　calmness　from　going　to



pieces　had　become　a　terrible　effort。







He　used　to　go　from　her　on　board　the　schooner　exhausted；　broken；



shaken　up；　as　though　he　had　been　put　to　the　most　exquisite　torture。



When　he　saw　her　approaching　he　always　had　a　moment　of



hallucination。　　She　was　a　misty　and　fair　creature；　fitted　for



invisible　music；　for　the　shadows　of　love；　for　the　murmurs　of



waters。　　After　a　time　（he　could　not　be　always　staring　at　the



ground）　he　would　summon　up　all　his　resolution　and　look　at　her。



There　was　a　sparkle　in　the　clear　obscurity　of　her　eyes；　and　when



she　turned　them　on　him　they　seemed　to　give　a　new　meaning　to　life。



He　would　say　to　himself　that　another　man　would　have　found　long



before　the　happy　release　of　madness；　his　wits　burnt　to　cinders　in



that　radiance。　　But　no　such　luck　for　him。　　His　wits　had　come



unscathed　through　the　furnaces　of　hot　suns；　of　blazing　deserts；　of



flaming　angers　against　the　weaknesses　of　men　and　the　obstinate



cruelties　of　hostile　nature。







Being　sane　he　had　to　be　constantly　on　his　guard　against　falling



into　adoring　silences　or　breaking　out　into　wild　speeches。　　He　had



to　keep　watch　on　his　eyes；　his　limbs；　on　the　muscles　of　his　face。



Their　conversations　were　such　as　they　could　be　between　these　two



people：　　she　a　young　lady　fresh　from　the　thick　twilight　of　four



million　people　and　the　artificiality　of　several　London　seasons；　he



the　man　of　definite　conquering　tasks；　the　familiar　of　wide



horizons；　and　in　his　very　repose　holding　aloof　from　these



agglomerations　of　units　in　which　one　loses　one's　importance　even　to



oneself。　　They　had　no　common　conversational　small　change。　　They　had



to　use　the　great　pieces　of　general　ideas；　but　they　exchanged　them



trivially。　　It　was　no　serious　commerce。　　Perhaps　she　had　not　much



of　that　coin。　　Nothing　significant