Four years ago, not long after their first acquaintance, he had made her
an offer of marriage, impelled by something which had appeared at the
time quite outside himself and his usual wise, ponderate view of life. He had been relieved, as well as keenly hurt, when she had refused him. Everything that concerned himself appeared to John Coxeter of such
moment and importance that at the time it had seemed incredible that Nan
Archdale would be able to keep to herself the peculiar honour which had
befallen her,--one, by the way, which Coxeter had never seriously
thought of conferring on any other woman. But as time went on he became
aware that she had actually kept the secret which was not hers to
betray, and, emboldened by the knowledge that she alone knew of his
humiliating bondship, he had again, after a certain interval, written
and asked her if she would marry him. Again she had refused, in a kind,
impersonal little note, and this last time she had gone so far as to
declare that in this matter she really knew far better than he did
himself what was good for him, and once more something deep in his heart
had said "Amen." When he thought about it, and he went on thinking about it more than was
quite agreeable for his own comfort or peace of mind, Coxeter would tell
himself, with what he believed to be a vicarious pang of regret, that
Mrs. Archdale had made a sad mistake as regarded her own interest. He
felt sure she was not fit to live alone; he knew she ought to be
surrounded by the kind of care and protection which only a husband can
properly bestow on a woman. He, Coxeter, would have known how to detach
her from the unsuitable people by whom she was always surrounded. Nan Archdale, and Coxeter was much concerned that it was so, had an
instinctive attraction for those poor souls who lead forlorn hopes, and
of whom--they being unsuccessful in their fine endeavours--the world
never hears. She also had a strange patience and tenderness for those
ne'er-do-wells of whom even the kindest grow weary after a time. Nan had
a mass of queer friends, old protégés for whom she worked unceasingly in
a curious, detached fashion, which was quite her own, and utterly apart
from any of the myriad philanthropic societies with which the world she
lived in, and to which she belonged by birth, interests its prosperous
and intelligent leisure. It was characteristic that Nan's liking for John Coxeter often took the
form of asking him to help these queer, unsatisfactory people. Why, even
in this last week, while he had been in Paris, he had come into close
relation with one of Mrs. Archdale's "odd-come-shorts." This time the
man was an inventor, and of all unpractical and useless things he had
patented an appliance for saving life at sea! Nan Archdale had given the man a note to Coxeter, and it was
characteristic of the latter that, while resenting what Mrs. Archdale
had done, he had been at some pains when in Paris to see the man in
question. The invention--as Coxeter had of course known would be the
case--was a ridiculous affair, but for Nan's sake he had agreed to
submit it to the Admiralty expert whose business it is to consider and
pronounce on such futile things. The queer little model which its maker
believed would in time supersede the life-belts now carried on every
British ship, had but one merit, it was small and portable: at the
present moment it lay curled up, looking like a cross between a
serpent's cast skin and a child's spent balloon, in Coxeter's
portmanteau. Even while he had accepted the parcel with a coolly civil
word of thanks, he had mentally composed the letter with which he would
ultimately dash the poor inventor's hopes. To-night, however, sitting opposite to her, he felt glad that he had
been to see the man, and he looked forward to telling her about it. Scarcely consciously to himself, it always made Coxeter glad to feel
that he had given Nan pleasure, even pleasure of which he disapproved. And yet how widely apart were these two people's sympathies and
interests! Putting Nan aside, John Coxeter was only concerned with two
things in life--his work at the Treasury and himself--and people only
interested him in relation to these two major problems of existence. Nan
Archdale was a citizen of the world--a freewoman of that dear kingdom of
romance which still contains so many fragrant byways and sunny oases for
those who have the will to find them. But for her freedom of this
kingdom she would have been a very sad woman, oppressed by the griefs
and sorrows of that other world to which she also belonged, for Nan's
human circle was ever widening, and in her strange heart there seemed
always room for those whom others rejected and despised. She had the power no human being had ever had--that of making John
Coxeter jealous. This was the harder to bear inasmuch as he was well
aware that jealousy is a very ridiculous human failing, and one with
which he had no sympathy or understanding when it affected--as it
sometimes did--his acquaintances and colleagues. Fortunately for
himself, he was not retrospectively jealous--jealous that is of the dead
man of whom certain people belonging to his and to Nan's circle
sometimes spoke of as "poor Jim Archdale." Coxeter knew vaguely that
Archdale had been a bad lot, though never actually unkind to his wife;
nay, more, during the short time their married life had lasted,
Archdale, it seemed, had to a certain extent reformed. Although he was unconscious of it, John Coxeter was a very material
human being, and this no doubt was why this woman had so compelling an
attraction for him; for Nan Archdale appeared to be all spirit, and that
in spite of her eager, sympathetic concern in the lives which circled
about hers. And yet? Yet there was certainly a strong, unspoken link between them,
this man and woman who had so little in common the one with the other. They met often, if only because they both lived in Marylebone, that most
conventional quarter of old Georgian London, she in Wimpole Street, he
in a flat in Wigmore Street. She always was glad to see him, and seemed
a little sorry when he left her. Coxeter was one of the rare human
beings to whom Nan ever spoke of herself and of her own concerns. But,
in spite of that curious kindliness, she did not do what so many people
who knew John Coxeter instinctively did--ask his advice, and, what was,
of course, more seldom done--take it. In fact he had sometimes angrily
told himself that Nan attached no weight to his opinion, and as time had
gone on he had almost given up offering her unsought advice. John Coxeter attached great importance to health. He realized that a
perfect physical condition is a great possession, and he took
considerable pains to keep himself what he called "fit." Now Mrs.
Archdale was recklessly imprudent concerning her health, the health,
that is, which was of so great a value to him, her friend.