CHAPTER II

GREY AND GOLD

"Two shall be born the whole wide world apart,

And speak in different tongues, and have no thought

Each of the other's being, and no heed;

And these, o'er unknown seas to unknown lands

Shall cross, escaping wreck, defying death;

And all unconsciously shape every act

And bend each wandering step to this one end--

That one day, out of darkness they shall meet,

And read life's meaning in each other's eyes."

There are few men who in thinking ahead, however vaguely, to the time

when they will share life with a woman do not expect to find their

ultimate kingdom in the heart of some girl with a face like the morning

and a nature fresh and unspoiled as an opening rose. With the freshness

faded from his own heart and the "songs of the morning" long forgotten,

this modest instinct to allot to himself the beautiful and the ideal

remains deeply rooted in the best and worst of men. Of Irishmen it

should be said in extenuation that they are usually greater idealists

than the generality of men, and possess the instinct of worship more

strongly. They do not always make fortunes nor gain fame; but they make

shrines. And deep in the nature of every one of them sits fast the

belief that the finest woman in the world is surely for him because he

has the finest shrine ready for her. If she does not fit, it is not the

fault of the shrine, which is composed of the very best materials--that

stuff of which dreams are made.

Garrett Westenra had all the bigoted simplicity of the man who has never

loved and been deceived. There is nothing like a wrecked shrine or two

for getting rid of unworkable notions about the uses of women as idols;

but no woman had ever deceived him, so he had kept all his faith and

bigotry and generous beliefs to bestow upon the one woman--a golden

apple with a bitter core perhaps, for it is not always fair to the woman

to have too much in this line to bestow. Being a citizen of the world

he did not of course suppose that fine qualities and a beautiful nature

are only to be found in the opening-rose type of woman, but certainly he

had unconsciously or otherwise assigned to the woman of his dreams all

the traditional virtues and graces of character and bearing. He had come

of fine simple people: one of the old Irish families who through poverty

and misfortune had lived for generations with the simplicity and

austerity of peasants, but whose men had never lost their breeding and

bearing, and whose women were strong and fearless without breaking the

laws of their religion.

One of his ancestresses had eloped with a Westenra, and pursued by her

disapproving brothers, the pair had swum a river abreast; later, when

having fought one brother after the other the bridegroom, wounded in the

legs, was unable to walk, his wife carried him on her back for miles to

a place of safety--not that he was small and weak (no Westenra was ever

that), but that she was big and strong and fine; her wedding ring, a

thin thread of gold, had come down through generations to Garrett

Westenra and fitted his third finger easily. His great-grandmother,

daughter too of an old but impoverished family, had not disdained to

rebuild with her own hands the house in which she afterwards lived and

died. These were the single-hearted, simple, faithful women,

"Strong and quiet like the hills,"

from whom Westenra had sprung. Tradition dies hard when it is rooted in

such firm ground. Small wonder that dismay blotted out delight when he

recognised at last the romantic face of the woman he had waited for,

only to find it allied to the strange, rootless, roving, almost vagrant

personality of Valentine Valdana.

Even if every one on the ship except himself had not appeared to know

that she was Mrs. Valdana _the_ journalist, he could not long have

remained in ignorance of her name for "Val Valdana" in writing so

illegible as to invoke curiosity was written on everything she

possessed, and she left her possessions everywhere. She was the most

careless woman in the world. She lost and mislaid books, cushions,

papers, and rugs; her shoes were frequently undone, and her hair almost

always on the point of coming down. Yet she never looked untidy because

her feet were pretty and her hair was of the feathery kind; and in the

matter of her lost possessions she preserved entire calmness, for some

one was always obliging enough to find them for her and bring them back.

Once she left on deck a book full of audacious sketches and notes about

the passengers, and the wind ruffling the leaves of it dispersed scraps

of paper in every direction. One of these displayed a pair of

love-birds sitting beak to beak on a branch, but the birds possessed the

life-like features of two cranky old maid passengers who were

continually squabbling in public; beneath was the scribbled legend: "_If

we comfort not each other, Who shall comfort us in the dark days to

come?_" ... Another entitled "_La planche_" was the portrait of an

enormously fat lady passenger grown extraordinarily slim and pretty. A

little pink hard-shelled woman with a habit of making up to people only

to say something extremely unpleasant to them was cartooned as a crab

reaching out and nipping everything within reach. A moony-looking

individual with a wry neck, peering eyes, and a loud brown check suit

had lent his individuality to the sketch of a tortoise pottering

curiously about the deck. A newly-married couple who were always

sipping egg-nog together had been pilloried as the Siamese twins joined

by a large egg.

Yet when the cartoonist came on deck the victims of her pencil were all

ready to smile at her, and return her property without resentment. It

was so patent somehow that malice was the one thing absent from the

mental make-up of Mrs. Valdana.

Another day soon after their first meeting, Westenra found her in her

deck chair with one slim foot twisted round to inspect what is sometimes

known as a "potato" in the heel of her stocking.

"Isn't it amazing how holes in one's stockings arrive?" she remarked to

him pleasantly. "I would n't mind only I 've got such tender heels."

Impossible for a thoughtful man who has known poverty and carried

memories of his mother's fingers worn with darning to imagine such a

woman as a wife and mother. Plainly the shrine Westenra had built for

the woman of his dreams could never be occupied by this one. No shrine

could keep for long so restless a heart, nor fireside and cradle detain

such wandering feet! As the days went by the likeness in fact that he

had seen in her to his vision became blurred and faded. It was not

difficult at last to persuade himself that his recognition of her had

been a fantasy of his brain. Once the thought dismissed of any mystical

bond between them, he could not help liking the incompetent, careless

creature and finding pleasure in her society. She was a good companion:

not gay herself so much as the cause of gaiety in others. She rarely

said witty things, but it was surprising how witty others became in her

company. Her art was of the kind that seems to underlie rather than

break through the surface of conversation, leaving the best points for

others to make. But sometimes when things were at their dullest she

would suddenly send up a little sparkling rocket that lit the mental

horizon and thrilled the surroundings with colour.

Westenra, whose native wit and eloquence needed little sharpening, was

at his best with her, and he became his pleasant and extremely engaging

self while enjoying to the full that charm in her that from the first he

had not denied. Her ardent feeling for the ideal and the original was a

spur to his intellect, and not only re-awoke his natural gaiety, but set

stirring all his altruistic dreams. For there was greatness smouldering

in Westenra, that needed only the right woman's hand to fan it into

flame.

No one observing Mrs. Valdana listening, almost thirsting for all he had

to say, would have guessed that as far as actual experience of life

went, hers had been far wider and greater than his, for the usual

results of experience--callous indifference or a calm philosophic

outlook--were amazingly absent from her. She was vividly interested in

life, and the more she saw of it, the less _blasee_ she became; and

because ideas interested her even more than experience she was deeply

interested in Westenra.

If the latter had ever lived in England he would infallibly have

recognised the name of Valentine Valdana as being that of one of the

foremost women journalists in the world. Even had he been in the habit

of reading those American Sunday journals whose overseas cables in a

surprisingly small space manage to mention the doings of everyone of

importance, he would have realised that so far from being the

"small-headed, yellow journalist" he supposed, she occupied a unique and

enviable position in the newspaper world. But he had never concerned

himself with the doings of European journalists. America is a big

country, with big enough personalities and interests of its own to

absorb such attention as a man wrapped up in his work and the great

scientific facts of life has to give to public affairs. Thus it came to

pass that he did not know there was one thing Mrs. Valdana, with her odd

eccentric gowns and ornaments, a hole in the heel of her stocking, and

her black hair endlessly coming down, was not careless about, and that

one thing was her work--and that because of her work she was famous.

Certainly she was not the person to tell him, being as reticent about

the astonishing things she had done as she was childishly frank about

her picturesque tastes and fancies. She would show her ivory bracelets

cut green from the tusks of an elephant in Central Africa, or howl in

the moonlight like a jackal, or dance like a Somali warrior (as she did

at the concert got up for the sailors' benefit), or describe the orchids

that hang like glowing lamps from the trees in the deep steaming forests

of the Congo; but she would say nothing of her articles on sleeping

sickness and Congo atrocities, or how she had nearly lost a foot on a

terrible march in Somaliland, but turned out an amazing Odyssey on the

manners and customs of a little known people. She always forgot to

mention that it was she who had shot the elephant from whose tusks the

bracelets came, and that her knowledge of jackal music was acquired in a

lion-infested part of Bechuanaland, where she had got lost from her

party and spent a sinister night up a tree.

Next to Africa she loved India best in the world, and could discourse

alluringly on the subject of _phul-karries_, and silk embroideries from

Delhi, of sunsets seen across the plains when the buffaloes and the

goats are being herded home in a mist of golden dust; of paddy-birds

standing in shallow grey pools, and the grace of the swathed women

coming from the wells. Chanting through her nose a thin monotonous

wail, while with three fingers and her thumb she made a measured

thrumming tattoo on the table, she could conjure up the very heart-throb

of the Indian Bazaar until the never-ending rhythmic torment of the East

dragged at the heart of those who listened. She could tell too every

kind of amusing story and scandal about Anglo-Indian society; but she

would never mention that she had been sent out in '97 to get for her

paper the truth about the Tochi rising--and had got it; that she was at

Simla when the English were waiting breathlessly for news from their men

at the front, knowing that any serious reverse in the Tirah might

possibly mean an attempt at a general rising and massacre in the plains

and hill stations of the Punjab, and that she was one of those women who

had gone out as usual to balls, and laughed and jested with sickening

fear in their hearts, under the keen eyes of the native servants--and

afterwards had sat in her room hour after hour sorting and classifying

her facts, embodying them in the strong vivid articles that a few weeks

later made England "sit up" for awhile and realise that all was not

peace and fair contentment in the Indian Empire.

There were lots of other interesting things Mrs. Valdana never told.

She had been in Russia on a mission for Mr. Stead, and in Turkey to

probe out the affair of a secret concession for turquoise searching

granted by the Sultan to an English Member of Parliament. She had

interviewed De Witte, the Red Sultan, and Paul Kruger, and stayed at

Groot Schuur as Cecil Rhodes's guest. But all these things were part of

her work, and of her work (except to other journalists) she never spoke.

It spoke for itself.

Though she had done special work for many of the big London papers she

was a free lance and under bonds to no journal. No inducement that

could be held out to her was strong enough to lure her from her ways,

which were the ways of a literary vagabond who came and went at no man's

bidding, but achieved her best work by wandering only where she listed,

and writing only what her heart urged. This might have been fatal to

financial success, but that it was allied to an instinct that amounted

to genius for the big vivid things that take hold of the public

imagination. Every good journalist has a nose for news; Valentine

Valdana had the added gift of an "eye for colour"; she saw it across

continents, recognised it overseas, followed it as her star; and what

she wrote concerning it editors were pleased to scramble for. If one

disapproved of her "stuff" another was only too glad to embrace it. She

revised and blue-pencilled for no man. Her creed was Byron's when he

wrote to Murray: "Cut me up in the _Quarterly_, rend me in the Reviews,

do unto me as did the Levite unto his concubine, but do not ask me to

revise, for I cannot and I will not." She would not either, and she did

not have to. Enough that her stuff was signed with her well-known

nom-de-plume "Wanderfoot" for it to sell like hot cakes. In fact, in

her own line Valentine Valdana was famous; and Garrett Westenra did not

know it.

Nor would he have been greatly impressed if he had known. He was

entirely opposed to that kind of fame for a woman.

All Irishmen, whatever their rank or situation, are at bottom profound

lovers of nature, virtue, and simplicity; and from this great quality of

the heart springs the singular charm that makes them the most attractive

people in the world; but it has a defect in its almost peasant

standardising of women. Lack of money in Ireland has created in the

Irish an eternal oversense of the value of riches; but though there has

never been any lack of women in Ireland they are not undervalued on this

account (in fact, as has been shown, they are given shrines to occupy).

Still there is a secret and peculiar hatred in the Irishman's nature for

any change in the status of women, moral or intellectual, since the time

of Mother Eve or the beloved Madonna. The wife-and-mother is the ideal,

and very rightly so, but she is a meek and submissive and gentle

wife-and-mother, and she sits eternally by the fireside with a child on

her knee. Yes, though in his heart he will crown her with a golden

crown and burn incense before her, that is where an Irishman always sees

the ideal woman--by the fireside, with a child on her knee. No true

Irishman will ever be a suffragist.

Considering these things it was surely unwise of Garrett Westenra, very

much an Irishman, to linger day after day by the deck chair of a

vagabond woman, who, from all accounts and appearances, had never

possessed a fireside of her own, nor was ever likely to appreciate one.

Yet linger he did, and day by day her charm wrought upon him and wound

itself round him and penetrated him until it seemed to become part of

him. By no effort of hers was the thing done. She grew strangely

silent as the voyage drew towards an end, sitting in her chair with

still eyes and hands, like a woman in a dream drifting down a dream

river. Once more she began to resemble the woman Westenra knew so

well--the mystery woman with whom he had walked for many years in his

secret garden. And when he came on deck and did not find her in her

place, the deck and the ship and the world seemed to become suddenly

empty--with an appalling emptiness.

But always when alone in his cabin he made the same observation to

himself.

"This thing has got to stop. It is rank foolishness. What do I know of

her? God knows what her life has been. She is not the woman I have

dreamed of. She is not within a hundred miles of the kind of woman I

could spend my life with.... A reckless, careless vagabond!

Good-hearted, yes, full of fine impulses ... full of charm! But when

the glamour has gone ... what then?"

He had that gift and curse of his race of seeing too far--the

worthlessness of the prize at the end of the race, the rotten core

inside the rosy apple. Perhaps why Irishmen achieve so little, is that

nothing which can be got seems to them worth while getting!

So he said to himself firmly:

"This thing has got to stop."

He said it and meant it right up to the last night of the voyage--a

night when they stayed late in their deck chairs under a glorious moon

that transformed the sea into a golden harvest of promise. Many other

couples sat along the deck laughing and jesting, announcing their

intention to stay up until the Statue of Liberty hove in sight, but well

aware that the purser would be prowling along the deck at about

half-past ten with hinting scowls for all loiterers. Long before the

purser came, however, the keen air had driven most people below, and

there was no one left except Westenra and Mrs. Valdana, and a far couple

in the shadow of the bridge.

A silence had fallen upon Westenra and his companion, one of those

silences that have lips to speak and hands to caress. A little wind

blew past them carrying a snatch of her hair across his lips. He had

never before felt a woman's hair on his lips! Her pale hand nervous and

lonely lay outside the rug in which she was wrapped.

"That hand looks cold lying there," he said, and taking it drew it under

a fold of his own rug, and held it fast. It lay in his without response

like a little stone hand, but through his palm he could feel her pulse

beating wild and uncertain, and that stirred him strangely, yet awoke

the doctor in him too. He remembered the brandy-and-soda she had drunk

the first evening, and every evening since. He remembered too his own

cynical thought, and repeated it now, though his voice held little

cynicism.

"I 'll give you two years longer to live if you keep on at this rate."

"What rate?" she asked in surprise.

"Drinking, smoking, taking drugs. What drug is it you take?"

"You seem to know all my vices," she said laughing a little tremulously.

She was leaning back in her chair looking very pale. "I have to take

veronal sometimes to make me sleep."

"You would sleep naturally if you gave up smoking and drinking, and

lived a quiet natural life."

"But then I could n't write."

"Well, you must give up writing."

"But then I could n't live," she said laughing. "You don't seem to know

that I write for my living--it is my work."

"Your work is a curse to you if it makes you do these things."

"It is all I have," was her strange answer.

He turned in his chair and looked at her. In her face was none of the

bitter humiliation of the woman whose weaknesses are suddenly exposed

and condemned. She was smiling a little, a smile with a twist to it,

like the smile of a child who is determined not to weep. And her

smoke-coloured eyes, bright and sad with tears, and exile, and lost

joys, and all the sorrow of the Irishry, were the eyes of the woman who

had been given him in a dream. While he looked at her she closed them

and sat very still. At last he knew that there was no question of

fleeing from Fate. He leaned forward and laid his lips on her sad

smiling mouth, and found there the answer to many a question.

Yet when he spoke it was to ask another.

"Now will you leave writing?"

"Yes, Garrett," she said simply. "I will leave everything for you; I

think it was written so in the beginning of things."