But, as he thus prepared himself, as it were, for a Marriage, and moped
and chafed more and more that the Bride made no sign, he made a discovery
that he ought to have made weeks before. It was through a thought of the dead Madley that he made it. Since that
night when he had thought in his greenness that a little studied neglect
would bring the lovely Beckoner to her knees, and had made use of her own
jealousy to banish her, he had not set eyes on those fifteen discarded
chapters of _Romilly_. He had thrown them back into the window-seat,
forgotten their very existence. But his own jealousy of Madley put him in
mind of hers of her jilted rival of flesh and blood, and he remembered
them.... Fool that he had been! Had he, then, expected his Desire to
manifest herself while there still existed the evidence of his divided
allegiance? What, and she with a passion so fierce and centred that it
had not hesitated at the destruction, twice attempted, of her rival? Fool
that he had been!... But if _that_ was all the pledge and sacrifice she required she should
have it--ah, yes, and quickly! He took the manuscript from the window-seat, and brought it to the fire. He kept his fire always burning now; the warmth brought out the last
vestige of odour of the flowers with which his room was banked. He did
not know what time it was; long since he had allowed his clock to run
down--it had seemed a foolish measurer of time in regard to the
stupendous things that were happening to Oleron; but he knew it was late. He took the _Romilly_ manuscript and knelt before the fire. But he had not finished removing the fastening that held the sheets
together before he suddenly gave a start, turned his head over his
shoulder, and listened intently. The sound he had heard had not been
loud--it had been, indeed, no more than a tap, twice or thrice
repeated--but it had filled Oleron with alarm. His face grew dark as
it came again. He heard a voice outside on his landing. "Paul!... Paul!..." It was Elsie's voice. "Paul!... I know you're in... I want to see you...."

He cursed her under his breath, but kept perfectly still. He did not
intend to admit her. "Paul!... You're in trouble.... I believe you're in danger... at least
come to the door!..." Oleron smothered a low laugh. It somehow amused him that she, in such
danger herself, should talk to him of _his_ danger!... Well, if she was,
serve her right; she knew, or said she knew, all about it.... "Paul!... Paul!..." "_Paul!... Paul!_..." He mimicked her under his breath. "Oh, Paul, it's _horrible_!..." Horrible, was it? thought Oleron. Then let her get away....

"I only want to help you, Paul.... I didn't promise not to come if you
needed me...."

He was impervious to the pitiful sob that interrupted the low cry. The
devil take the woman! Should he shout to her to go away and not come
back? No: let her call and knock and sob. She had a gift for sobbing; she
mustn't think her sobs would move him. They irritated him, so that he set
his teeth and shook his fist at her, but that was all. Let her sob. "_Paul!... Paul!_..."

With his teeth hard set, he dropped the first page of _Romilly_ into the
fire. Then he began to drop the rest in, sheet by sheet. For many minutes the calling behind his door continued; then suddenly it
ceased. He heard the sound of feet slowly descending the stairs. He
listened for the noise of a fall or a cry or the crash of a piece of the
handrail of the upper landing; but none of these things came. She was
spared. Apparently her rival suffered her to crawl abject and beaten
away. Oleron heard the passing of her steps under his window; then she
was gone. He dropped the last page into the fire, and then, with a low laugh rose. He looked fondly round his room. "Lucky to get away like that," he remarked. "She wouldn't have got away
if I'd given her as much as a word or a look! What devils these women
are!... But no; I oughtn't to say that; one of 'em showed
forbearance...."

Who showed forbearance? And what was forborne? Ah, Oleron
knew!... Contempt, no doubt, had been at the bottom of it, but that
didn't matter: the pestering creature had been allowed to go unharmed. Yes, she was lucky; Oleron hoped she knew it....

And now, now, now for his reward! Oleron crossed the room. All his doors were open; his eyes shone as he
placed himself within that of his bedroom. Fool that he had been, not to think of destroying the manuscript
sooner!... *       *       *       *       *

How, in a houseful of shadows, should he know his own Shadow? How, in a
houseful of noises, distinguish the summons he felt to be at hand? Ah,
trust him! He would know! The place was full of a jugglery of dim lights. The blind at his elbow that allowed the light of a street lamp to
struggle vaguely through--the glimpse of greeny blue moonlight seen
through the distant kitchen door--the sulky glow of the fire under the
black ashes of the burnt manuscript--the glimmering of the tulips and the
moon-daisies and narcissi in the bowls and jugs and jars--these did not
so trick and bewilder his eyes that he would not know his Own! It was he,
not she, who had been delaying the shadowy Bridal; he hung his head for a
moment in mute acknowledgment; then he bent his eyes on the deceiving,
puzzling gloom again. He would have called her name had he known it--but
now he would not ask her to share even a name with the other....

His own face, within the frame of the door, glimmered white as the
narcissi in the darkness....

A shadow, light as fleece, seemed to take shape in the kitchen (the time
had been when Oleron would have said that a cloud had passed over the
unseen moon). The low illumination on the blind at his elbow grew dimmer
(the time had been when Oleron would have concluded that the lamplighter
going his rounds had turned low the flame of the lamp). The fire settled,
letting down the black and charred papers; a flower fell from a bowl,
and lay indistinct upon the floor; all was still; and then a stray
draught moved through the old house, passing before Oleron's face.... Suddenly, inclining his head, he withdrew a little from the door-jamb. The wandering draught caused the door to move a little on its hinges. Oleron trembled violently, stood for a moment longer, and then, putting
his hand out to the knob, softly drew the door to, sat down on the
nearest chair, and waited, as a man might await the calling of his name
that should summon him to some weighty, high and privy Audience....


XI

One knows not whether there can be human compassion for anemia of the
soul. When the pitch of Life is dropped, and the spirit is so put over
and reversed that that only is horrible which before was sweet and
worldly and of the day, the human relation disappears. The sane soul
turns appalled away, lest not merely itself, but sanity should suffer. We are not gods. We cannot drive out devils. We must see selfishly
to it that devils do not enter into ourselves.