THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON
 
 Novels by Isabel C. Clarke 
 
 Published by Benziger Brothers 
 
 In same Uniform Series, each, net, $2.00 postage IS cents. 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 The novel is a timely one, and intensely dramatic. It shows Miss 
 Clarke's genius in a new and vivid light. With that sure touch of 
 literary artistry that distinguishes all her work, she not only makes the 
 Church's position on marriage unmistakably clear, but pktures the sub- 
 ject against a background of modern ideas with sympathy and under- 
 standing. 
 
 TRESSIDER'S SISTER 
 
 The story is well and interestingly told. Catholic World. 
 
 URSULA FINCH 
 
 A moving love story that is both wholesome and delightful to read. 
 Fortnightly Review. 
 
 EUNICE 
 
 So charming in telling, so Catholic in spirit. Catholic Universe. 
 
 THE ELSTONES 
 
 The interest never flags. America. 
 
 LADY TRENT'S DAUGHTER 
 
 Good fiction is richer for its advent. New World. 
 
 CHILDREN OF EVE 
 
 The narrative is powerful. Boston Evening Record. 
 
 THE DEEP HEART 
 Altogether delightful, graceful and uplifting. Catholic Bulletin. 
 
 WHOSE NAME IS LEGION 
 
 It is a thrilling setting handled with power. Ecclesiastical Review. 
 
 FINE CLAY 
 
 Full of human interest, not a dull page in the volume. Western 
 Catholic. 
 
 PRISONERS' YEARS 
 The book is interesting throughout. Exponent. 
 
 THE REST HOUSE 
 The interest holds down to the last line. Brooklyn Tablet. 
 
 ONLY ANNE 
 
 A genuine welcome addition to Catholic fiction. Ave Maria. 
 
 THE SECRET CITADEL 
 
 The craftsmanship is admirable. Rosary Magazine. 
 
 BY THE BLUE RIVER 
 
 Full of charm and interest. St. Anthony Messenger.
 
 THE LIGHT 
 ON THE LAGOON 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 BY 
 
 ISABEL C. CLARKE 
 
 NBW YORK, CINCINNATI, CHICAGO 
 
 BENZIGER BROTHERS 
 
 PUBLISHERS OF BKNZIGER'S MAGAZINE
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY BBNZIGER BROTHERS
 
 SRLF 
 JIRL 
 
 TO 
 DEAR ISABELLE MACDONALD 
 
 WITH THE AUTHOR'S LOVE
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE 
 LAGOON 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 LADY FLOOD had for some time past observed 
 symptoms of restlessness in her elder daugh- 
 ter, Sydney, although with her natural reticence a 
 quality that sprang from physical indolence rather 
 than from any moral source she had refrained 
 from commenting upon it to the delinquent. She 
 put it down to the War, to the unusual freedom 
 Sydney had possessed during those eighteen months 
 she had spent in a private hospital for soldiers in 
 Gloucestershire, run by her aunt, Mrs. Burgess. 
 Sydney's position there, had been no higher than the 
 rawest or raw V.A.D.'s; her work in reality, and 
 in default of more highly trained material, had 
 been that of a skilled and efficient professional 
 nurse. 
 
 Perhaps the narrow bijou house in Mayfair, 
 where Lady Flood lived uncomfortably in order that 
 her address might be what is known as "good," ac- 
 counted in some measure for the sense of cramped 
 confinement that so assailed Sydney when, after the 
 Armistice, she returned to its shelter. She did not 
 complain, for she too could be reticent, but she 
 felt caged, and at times the terrible futile mutiny of 
 caged wild things shook her to the very soul. 
 
 Sydney Flood was twenty-one years old, and was 
 
 7
 
 8 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 the eldest of the three children of the late Sir Brian 
 Flood. At first sight she did not appear to be of the 
 stuff of which rebels and pioneers are made. She 
 was not tall, but the slenderness of her figure and 
 the smallness of her head gave her a fictitious look 
 of height. She had very thick, pale, almost flaxen 
 hair, which she wore "bobbed" because that had been 
 more convenient when she was nursing. The cutting 
 of her hair had been in itself a profoundly significant 
 action. It was perhaps the first decisive step she had 
 ever taken without consulting her mother. But the 
 fair, soft, short locks suited her round childish face, 
 and gave her something of the aspect of a primrose. 
 At least, so Mr. Duncan Turner was reported to 
 have said, a comment that in due course reached 
 Lady Flood's ears, and tended to mollify her 
 annoyance. 
 
 Under dark, well-marked eyebrows Sydney had 
 quiet gray eyes, set wide apart and of singular 
 beauty. 
 
 Lady Flood disliked the "bobbed" hair because 
 she considered that it made her daughter look quite 
 absurdly young and childish, just at a time when she 
 had no further right to either of those qualities. It 
 accentuated, too, a certain air of innocence and won- 
 der, suggested by the grave quiet eyes. Besides, she 
 felt that her opinion concerning such a drastic step 
 should have been dutifully invited. Sydney to take 
 the law into her own hands! ... It was her first 
 offense, it is true, but it seemed to denote the exist- 
 ence of a mute rebellious spirit never before 
 suspected. 
 
 With the Armistice, Lady Flood had cherished a 
 not uncommon conviction that everything and every- 
 body would at once return to their normal, accus- 
 tomed, and appropriate pre-War niches. Prices 
 would go down, and dividends and the value of se-
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 9 
 
 curities would go up. Butter and sugar and ser- 
 vants would be once more obtainable commodities 
 of easy and regular supply. One would, perhaps, 
 enjoy a slight increase of material comfort to com- 
 pensate one for the compulsory austerities of those 
 wretched, harassing, heart-breaking years. . . . 
 
 Lady Flood could look back upon those four 
 years with the complacent conviction that she had 
 done her duty. She had surrendered Sydney at the 
 age of nineteen to her sister-in-law, Mrs. Burgess, a 
 wealthy woman of determined character, who had 
 been one of the first to turn her country house into 
 a hospital for wounded soldiers, at the outbreak of 
 war. It could not be said that Lady Flood had 
 approved of the step, but Mrs. Burgess had said 
 emphatically : "What nonsense, Lavinia ! Why 
 should you keep Sydney at home when we want 
 every pair of capable hands we can find? She's not 
 your daughter any longer she's a national asset!" 
 Actuated by an obscure sense of patriotism, Lady 
 Flood yielded, comforting herself with the thought 
 that Mrs. Burgess would undoubtedly exact the 
 maximum of hard and strenuous work from Sydney. 
 It would do her good take her away from eternally 
 mooning over her painting, wasting time and ma- 
 terials in the process. Of course, she was far too 
 young, inexperienced, and unskillful, to do any 
 actual nursing, but she would have floors to scrub, 
 plates and dishes to wash. Then had come an epi- 
 demic of measles. Most hospitals were understaffed 
 in consequence; there were not enough nurses to go 
 round. Mrs. Burgess, who had a real liking for 
 Sydney, turned to her in an hour of need. The girl 
 responded. She showed great aptitude for nursing, 
 she was conscientious, and never forgot an order. 
 She had, moreover, the rare gift of being able to 
 eit up at night. In less than a week after the out-
 
 io THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 break of measles, Sydney was put on regular 
 night duty. One could count upon her, Mrs. Burgess 
 said. Her mother didn't really know what was in 
 her. She had a head on her shoulders, despite that 
 childish unformed look of hers. . . . 
 
 Lady Flood was secretly slightly irritated when 
 portions of these eulogies reached her ear.s. She had 
 never imagined that Sydney would be a success, still 
 less that she would be placed in any important posi- 
 tion of trust. The fact struck her as slightly absurd. 
 Probably her services had been exaggerated. She 
 was thankful that Moira, her second daughter, was 
 too young to be caught up into the insidious dangers 
 of war work. Moira was barely eighteen at the 
 time of the Armistice. Jack, the only son, had been 
 a child at a preparatory school at the outbreak of 
 the War. He was a bright, humorous, daring 
 creature who regretted his youth, but from the first 
 declared his intention of entering the Navy. Lady 
 Flood watched the years of conflict go by, with a 
 subtle anguish. They surely couldn't be prolonged 
 sufficiently for Jack to take part. . . . But the day 
 came when as a midshipman, full of hope and cour- 
 age, he vanished into the mists of the North Sea. 
 Lady Flood spent hours of inconceivable anxiety 
 during that last year of the War. There had been 
 she had noticed it from the first with superstitious 
 shrinking such a fatality about "only sons." He 
 had come back to her safe, it is true, but his boyhood 
 had gone forever. She could hardly believe that 
 this grave-faced, stern man was Jack. He reminded 
 her of his father, who had died within a year of 
 his birth. 
 
 Lady Flood loved Moira and Jack with something 
 of passion. She had never cared so much for 
 Sydney, yet she expected her to be a loving and duti- 
 ful daughter. Like many women of her class and
 
 generation she confidently counted upon reaping 
 where she had not sown. 
 
 Although people and things did not, after the 
 signing of peace, settle down to their ancient condi- 
 tions with that celerity for which Lady Flood, in 
 common with many others, had hoped, the six 
 months that had passed since the gray November 
 day, which stood out as a blur of shining light and 
 brought the relief of the Armistice to a war-rent, 
 war-sick world, had not been fruitless or uneventful 
 for her little household. Moira had become engaged 
 at the age of eighteen to Lord Wanley, rich, bril- 
 liant, charming, one of the heroes of the War, and 
 limping still from a severe wound. He was every- 
 thing that the most fastidious and ambitious 
 mother could desire for a favorite and beloved 
 daughter. . . . 
 
 No doubt it was trying for Sydney, three years 
 older and still unwed, to see her brilliantly lovely 
 younger sister married, so to speak, on the very 
 threshold of her career. It might account for some- 
 thing of that subdued, controlled, yet perceptible 
 restlessness observed by Lady Flood. During the 
 brief period of Moira's engagement Sydney was 
 silent and listless, yet her mother felt certain that she 
 was not indifferent to the changes that were taking 
 place. She spent hours in her attic-studio, making 
 "daubs," as Jack irreverently called what was to 
 Sydney the one terribly serious thing now left to her 
 in life. At the hospital she had felt being parted 
 from her art almost bitterly, but she had accepted it 
 as an essential renunciation in an age of renunciation, 
 when youth was giving of its best and age of its 
 dearest in a passion of sacrifice. But now at home 
 once more, leading a life that suddenly seemed 
 empty and aimless and leading no-whither, Sydney 
 sought relief in the art that had never failed her.
 
 12 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 and began to feel, too, that it was slowly reasserting 
 its ancient tyranny upon her life. 
 
 Lady Flood felt annoyed; she had hoped that "all 
 that nonsense" had perished during those months of 
 strenuous hospital work. But she concealed her 
 annoyance because other things were, just then, so ex- 
 ceptionally gratifying. She took comfort in Moira's 
 delicious freedom from moods and melancholies. 
 Moira was radiantly happy; delighted alike with her- 
 self and with Lord Wanley. She was triumphant 
 in her success, and perhaps a little hard and self- 
 centered in consequence, and because her own affairs 
 were just then so enormously and thrillingly inter- 
 esting. It was a pity, she thought, that Sydney 
 should show so little sympathy. It was useless to 
 descant to Sydney upon the thrills and ardors, the 
 general bliss of being engaged. But as sisters they 
 had never been intimate. Jealous perhaps ? Jealous 
 or not, that ugly label was freely affixed to Sydney's 
 withdrawals. 
 
 Certainly, Sydney was not happy, but even by dint 
 of much soul-searching she could not discover that 
 in any one particular she envied Moira. Frankly, 
 she did not want for herself the immense interest 
 and adulation that were at that moment so concen- 
 trated upon her sister by all their little entourage, 
 just as if Wanley's attitude had infected every one in 
 the vicinity with its immeasurable ardor. Nor could 
 she find that she envied Moira for having become 
 possessed of this fine and agreeable specimen of 
 cultivated English youth. But there was something 
 in the spectacle or Moira's strange new freedom 
 that pierced her heart like an arrow. To be 
 free! . . . 
 
 It was through Sydney that Wanley had first come 
 to the house. They had met at a country house in 
 December. Wanley had come down for a week,
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 13 
 
 after being discharged from hospital. He had 
 liked Sydney, perhaps detecting the nurse in her. 
 Some little thing went wrong he hit his leg acci- 
 dentally opening the wound and there was some 
 consternation because the local doctor could not 
 come immediately. Sydney came forward and 
 bound up the limb with skillful tender hands. He 
 was eagerly grateful and sufficiently attracted to 
 suggest a further meeting in town. Subsequently he 
 came to call, and found Lady Flood at home, and not 
 Sydney, but Moira. Sydney was pretty in an incon- 
 spicuous way; you passed her by perhaps only to 
 remember afterwards the haunting beauty of her 
 eyes. But Moira was not a person who could have 
 passed unobserved anywhere. She was tall, fair and 
 graceful, with hair of burnished gold, and wide blue 
 eyes. She had a laughing mouth, a flawless skin, and 
 dimpled cheeks. At that first meeting she swept 
 Wanley abruptly off his feet. Not a week later he 
 called for the second time and invited her to marry 
 him. Moira hesitated, realizing that something of 
 lasting importance was at stake. She liked Wanley. 
 She liked, too, all that she had heard of his courage, 
 devotion to duty, and cool fortitude. Lady Flood 
 gently set before her the more material advantages of 
 such an alliance. They became engaged, and Sydney 
 vanished into the background. Wanley, passionately 
 preoccupied with his beautiful fiancee, had almost 
 forgotten her existence. . . . 
 
 Lady Flood had never doubted that her second 
 daughter would marry, and marry well. The only 
 point upon which her future had offered doubt, lay in 
 the choice she would make. But Lady Flood, an 
 experienced worldly woman with hunting instincts, 
 had felt certain almost from her daughter's cradle 
 that she would do her credit in this matter. Like a 
 practiced mariner she could detect currents and
 
 i 4 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 changes that were unperceived by less observant and 
 well-trained eyes. Moira was everything that Syd- 
 ney was not. In a room she compelled attention as 
 a sudden ray of sunlight will cause people to blink 
 their eyes and gaze in the direction whence it comes. 
 Yet, there was nothing conspicuous about Moira 
 except her beauty. She never seemed to desire to 
 attract attention. She was there, and people drifted 
 towards her as they might have done towards a 
 beautiful flower. Lady Flood watched her with a 
 kind of delighted wonder. 
 
 But with Sydney things were very different. No 
 one ever noticed her, and few remembered her. She 
 was inured to forgetful or inattentive eyes. She 
 could have had, if she had wished, a kind of vicari- 
 ous glory reflected from Moira's indubitable luster, 
 but she was at once too proud and too timid for that. 
 She did not desire to succeed in the way Moira suc- 
 ceeded. She had the artist's characteristic aloofness, 
 the discriminating faculty that prefers the few to the 
 many. She had felt amazed sometimes at her sis- 
 ter's graceful, facile sweetness towards unmitigated 
 bores. Moira's smiles fell alike upon the just and 
 the unjust, the clever as well as the stupid. It was a 
 charming trait and accounted for her popularity at 
 school as well as in society. "Such a contrast to poor 
 little Sydney," people used to say with a shrug that 
 held something of contempt as well as of compas- 
 sion. But poor little Sydney was accustomed to 
 being a shadow in the background. She might have 
 been robed in invisibility, for all the notice people 
 took of her. 
 
 "What does Sydney do with herself?" Wanley in- 
 quired one day, suddenly realizing what an unimpor- 
 tant position his future sister-in-law occupied in the 
 little household. 
 
 "Oh, she paints. She's got a studio at the top of
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 15 
 
 the house. A north attic too cold to be used as a 
 bedroom," was Moira's reply. 
 
 "I'd like to see some of her work," said Wanley. 
 
 "Oh, she'll be delighted to show it to you," said 
 Moira. "She studied, you know, before the War. 
 They used to think her clever and promising." 
 
 After luncheon that day Moira and Wanley 
 climbed up to the studio at Sydney's invitation. 
 Wanley showed a real interest, criticizing frankly, 
 yet showing a discernment that rendered his sever- 
 est speeches innocuous of sting. Sydney was very 
 diffident about her own work; she was always re- 
 luctant to show it. 
 
 Wanley got up at last, flung away the end of a 
 half-smoked cigarette, and said: 
 
 "I should like Moreton Cochrane to see your 
 work, Sydney. He's an uncommonly good judge. 
 People think a lot of his opinion." 
 
 Moreton Cochrane the art-critic the connois- 
 seur of pictures, who did not hesitate to assign 
 cinque-cento paintings to a different hand from those 
 ascribed to them in guide-books ? Sydney knew him 
 well by name. She was astonished that Wanley 
 should think highly enough of her work to wish 
 for Cochrane's opinion upon it. 
 
 She was silent, and he said quickly: "But per- 
 haps you'd rather not? It was only a suggestion 
 I thought you might like it." 
 
 "Oh, but I should like it very much indeed," said 
 Sydney, flushed and eager. "Only, I'm afraid it 
 isn't of of sufficient importance." 
 
 "Well, we'll let Moreton be the judge of that," 
 said Wanley, good-naturedly. 
 
 She was evidently modest about her own powers, 
 yet a patient industrious worker. He felt a re- 
 newed interest in her. His thoughts flew back to 
 the day when she had dressed his wound with such
 
 16 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 competent, capable hands. He owed her a good 
 turn for that it had led him so surely to his pres- 
 ent transcendent happiness. He linked his arm in 
 Moira's as they went downstairs together. 
 
 "What did you really think of it, Wan?" said 
 Moira. 
 
 "Well, I can hardly say. 1 can't tell if it's very 
 good or very bad. But I'm quite sure it's one or 
 the other. Moreton will soon tell us." 
 
 Moreton Cochrane had been extremely useful in 
 helping him to enrich the already beautiful collec- 
 tion at Rocksworth, his place in Yorkshire. Hadn't 
 he put him in the way of securing a small but won- 
 derful silver chest, richly chased and ornamented 
 with figures, that was an undoubted Cellini? Coch- 
 rane's flair for the genuine and excellent was with 
 him a kind of sixth sense, and if he had turned it 
 to professional use, who could blame him? Besides, 
 it would be doing Sydney a good turn. Wanley 
 liked Sydney, with her self-effacing tranquillity, her 
 complete renunciation of the first place. But he 
 did not know her at all, and sometimes he wondered 
 if that renunciation had been quite as easy and sim- 
 ple a thing as on the surface it seemed. Whether, 
 in fact, it hadn't been produced with almost physical 
 pangs. It couldn't be quite easy for one girl to 
 look on and see another step in and take all the 
 prizes. Not that he counted himself in the least 
 as a prize, for he was inherently modest, but he 
 had learnt enough about the Flood household to 
 know that Moira was ever the one to move in the 
 lime-light. Sydney was a mere onlooker. Did she 
 feel her position? Was she even aware of Lady 
 Flood's impatient indifference? Did she ever stop 
 to analyze her own situation? He had ventured to 
 say something of the kind to Moira during their 
 brief engagement, but her reply only taught him
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 17 
 
 that Sydney's rather curious position was taken for 
 granted. Custom had simply crystallized it. "Dear 
 old Sydney ! Of course we're all devoted to her," 
 Moira had said with her gay, rippling laugh. "But 
 she's never cared much for going out. I think 
 she was only too thankful when I was old enough 
 to go instead of her."
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 MOIRA'S wedding took place just before Lent, in 
 the first days of March, and was celebrated 
 with something of pre-War splendor. Sydney 
 found herself for the first time in her life quite alone 
 with her mother. She had long ago realized how 
 far apart they were, so that the prospect seemed to 
 her almost terrifying. Approach was so difficult 
 that one did not attempt it. One just filled the 
 breach with platitudes, and the usual, idle home- 
 chat that fortunately finds a place even in the most 
 estranged families. 
 
 The eventful day passed like a dream. Sydney 
 remembered afterwards without bitterness how en- 
 tirely she herself had been overlooked and neglected 
 at the wedding reception. She was a bridesmaid be- 
 cause Lady Flood had willed it so; she had even 
 chosen dresses of hydrangea-blue georgette because 
 it suited Sydney, to the disgust of Wanley's sister, 
 Charmian, who had black hair and an olive skin. 
 All through the day Sydney found herself, half- 
 unconsciously, memorizing pictures of Moira. 
 Moira engaging every one's attention during the 
 early hours of the morning; tearing up and down 
 the narrow staircase in a shimmering white rest- 
 gown with all her golden hair hanging loose about 
 her shoulders; bending over the trunks that were 
 stuffed with wonderful costly things; rushing up to 
 her mother and kissing her impulsively. . . . Then 
 Moira in her cloth-of-silver wedding-dress and a 
 sheaf of lilies in her hand, and Wanley's pearls en- 
 circling her throat. . . . Moira standing before the 
 
 18
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON ig 
 
 altar in St. George's, Hanover Square, making, as 
 it seemed to Sydney, impossible promises. . . . 
 Moira still beautiful, but a trifle subdued, leaving 
 the church; . . . standing to receive the guests in 
 the tiny crowded room. Moira going away in a 
 dark blue dress with a wonderful sable coat more 
 subdued still, and kissing her mother lingeringly and 
 Sydney coldly. . . . Something of fear and wonder 
 and yet of great joy in her eyes. Moira vanishing 
 into a motor with Wanley. "Lord and Lady Wan- 
 ley subsequently left London for Paris, en route to 
 Cairo, where the honeymoon will be spent." 
 
 "And now," said Mrs. Ingram, an elder sister 
 of the late Sir Brian Flood, going up to Sydney and 
 bestowing upon her a bristly kiss, "you will have 
 to console your mother, my dear, for all she has 
 lost to-day. You know, she feels this parting with 
 darling Moira fearfully, although, of course, she 
 always knew it must happen sooner or later. I'm 
 sure you must see how necessary it is for you to 
 stay at home and be a comfort to her until the 
 time comes for you to be married yourself, Syd- 
 ney if it ever does come !" 
 
 "Yes, Aunt Letty," said Sydney. Her face was 
 quite unmoved. Yes that was what they were all 
 saying, at least those who had any thought for her 
 at all. She could almost hear them telling one an- 
 other: "She's got her elder daughter that's one 
 comfort. Sydney's not likely to marry. And it's 
 her duty to stay and look after her mother. With 
 Moira married and Jack at sea " That was how 
 one was caught in a web, and shown how wicked 
 it would be to try to escape. Marriage was dif- 
 ferent. But if, for instance, you wished to leave 
 home and study and devote your life to Art, you 
 were soon shown how unfilial such an ambition must 
 necessarily be.
 
 20 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 Sydney went down to the drawing-room that day, 
 after the departure of the guests those relations, 
 connections, friends and enemies of both parties, who 
 had been herded there in conditions of almost gro- 
 tesque discomfort for two miserable hours, chanting 
 Moira's praises and forgetting altogether to notice 
 herself. She could not remember that any one had 
 spoken to her, except Mrs. Ingram, whose admoni- 
 tory speech had, however, seemed significant of a 
 prevailing sentiment. 
 
 The room was empty when the girl entered it; 
 the windows were open, the soft airs of an unusu- 
 ally warm March evening poured in; and outside, 
 a streak of very pure crimson painted the western 
 sky. In the distance, up the long street that ran 
 at right angles to her home, Sydney could see the 
 glimmer of young green grass in the Park. The 
 murmur of traffic struck its familiar note; she 
 thought the sound was a friendly one, not too loud, 
 but rhythmic, companionable. 
 
 Already the servants had restored the furniture 
 to its customary place, had swept away the inevitable 
 disorder and debris. Lady Flood had retired to 
 her room after the strenuous exertions and emotions 
 of the day. She would probably rest until dinner- 
 time, and perhaps shed a few tears over Moira's 
 departure. 
 
 Sydney walked up and down the L-shaped room 
 restlessly. Her small pale face was set, and de- 
 spite the childish bobbed hair she looked almost 
 stern. She was suffocating with a sense of imprison- 
 ment. Mrs. Ingram's words echoed unpleasantly 
 in her ears. Outside, the dull little gray street was 
 being swallowed up in the delicious blue dusk of a 
 spring evening; the crimson streak had faded out 
 of the sky. Just below the window, a street lamp 
 burned spectrally. The color of the London twi-
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 21 
 
 light, its enchanting blues, browns and purples, de- 
 lighted Sydney, despite the melancholy of her pres- 
 ent mood. People passed along the pavement below 
 the window . . . shadows in a world of shadows. 
 Tu e ombra e ombra vedi. . . . She thought of 
 Moira journeying towards France. Folkestone 
 the sea- and to-morrow France, the pale North, the 
 burning Midi, all alight with color, the sea again 
 Egypt, the white mosques, the desert lying under an 
 empty sky. . . . She seemed to follow their jour- 
 ney with her eyes. But she only envied Moira be- 
 cause of her power to go away, to shape her life 
 anew. Moira, three years younger than herself, 
 had achieved this miracle. No officious aunts would 
 dare dictate to her or admonish her now, or in- 
 form her where her duty lay. Only Wanley had 
 any right to do that, and Wanley was at her feet, 
 worshiping her. 
 
 Suddenly the door opened, and the grating voice 
 of Wright, the manservant, struck across the silence. 
 
 "Mr. Turner, if you please, miss," he said. 
 
 Then he went back to the kitchen and informed 
 the cook, who was his wife, that he should not be 
 surprised if Miss Sydney and Mr. Turner 
 . . . "One wedding makes many," he darkly 
 prophesied. 
 
 "Now, Wright, don't you be romantic," said his 
 wife, a capable person, engaged in stirring some- 
 thing in a saucepan. "Once I don't say but that 
 mighter been. But 'er leddyship 'ull look 'igher 
 than any Turners now, seeing that Miss Moira's 
 married a lord!" 
 
 The subject of this profane discourse was at that 
 moment standing near the drawing-room window by 
 Sydney Flood's side a slim, dark, rather bullet- 
 headed young man with sleek well-brushed hair and 
 a determined mouth and chin. His face was al-
 
 22 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 most typically legal; he was, in fact, a rising young 
 barrister. 
 
 He had come quickly up to Sydney and had shaken 
 hands with her. Surprised and rather baffled at her 
 silence, it yet did not occur to him that he had in- 
 terrupted a dream. 
 
 She roused herself. 
 
 "Had you left anything behind ? You were here 
 to-day, were you not?" 
 
 "Yes, I was here." His voice held a note of 
 not unnatural annoyance, for surely she might have 
 remembered that. He had spoken to her, and he 
 flattered himself that his appearances in the little 
 house were not quite unwelcome to the elder Miss 
 Flood. Was she perhaps only simulating forget- 
 fulness? But, no, he could not apply even that oint- 
 ment to the scratch she had inflicted. Sydney, when 
 she did speak, was always quite sincere. She never 
 juggled with words and phrases. She seemed to 
 compel a like sincerity and frankness from her in- 
 terlocutors. When, therefore, she alleged forget- 
 fulness as to whether he had been present that aft- 
 ernoon or not, he must bear the thrust, knowing 
 that it held at least no malicious intent. 
 
 "You were in the clouds as usual," he said, smil- 
 ing, but with a slight edge of satire in his voice. 
 
 "I suppose I was," she admitted. "Did it all 
 seem very strange to you this afternoon? To me 
 it was almost incredible !" 
 
 "No; I thought it exactly like all other functions 
 of the kind. A trifle more highly colored, perhaps, 
 shall we say? Moira being as she is, and Wanley 
 being so preposterously wealthy and handsome, one 
 could hardly expect anything else. Otherwise it was 
 only a tiresome repetition of one of the most boring 
 ceremonies that can possibly exist for the onlooker 
 bien entendu!"
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 23 
 
 "Boring?" She lifted wide interrogative eyes 
 to his. "But that isn't surely the effect it has upon 
 most people? They all seemed so excited so en- 
 thusiastic even tearful !" 
 
 "One expects a few conventional tears from the 
 bride's mother if she has anything of the early- 
 Victorian left in her. Lady Flood still possesses a 
 lingering aroma of that eminent period!" 
 
 "Mamma bore it pretty well better than I ex- 
 pected. You see, she adores Moira." 
 
 "She had the screaming envy of every woman pos- 
 sessed of a marriageable daughter in the room," he 
 observed dryly; "no doubt, that increased her forti- 
 tude." 
 
 He sat down near the window, and Sydney sat 
 on a low chair opposite to him. There was no light 
 in the room, and the only illumination came from the 
 street lamp outside, which gave to Sydney's blond 
 head an almost frosty radiance. Duncan Turner 
 thrummed his long fingers on the wooden edge that 
 projected above the panel. He had attractive hands, 
 Sydney thought, slender but very strong-looking. 
 Presently she became aware that his eyes were upon 
 her. Dark brown, and slightly quizzical in expres- 
 sion, they gave her no hint of what was coming. 
 
 "Since Lady Flood exhibited such extraordinary 
 fortitude to-day, shall we put her courage to a fur- 
 ther test?" he inquired, always in that slightly ironi- 
 cal tone which he seldom seemed able entirely to 
 dispense with. 
 
 His right hand strayed out and touched Sydney's. 
 She tried to draw hers away, but found it held se- 
 curely as if in a steel vise. 
 
 "No, I'm not going to let you go until you've 
 answered me! You are quite capable of bolting, 
 Sydney. You look like a frightened deer sometimes. 
 Now what are you going to say to me?"
 
 24 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 "I I don't know what you mean. And please 
 let me go." Her hand lay in his, limp but very 
 still. He knew that his touch was powerless to 
 quicken her pulse. 
 
 "I am merely asking you to marry me," he said. 
 "I fear I did not make it quite clear." 
 
 She looked at him quite gravely. The faint illu- 
 mination from the street showed her his face in a 
 Rembrandtesque effect of darkness and soberly sub- 
 dued light. He was not good-looking; his head 
 was too round, his skin too dark, his nose too long, 
 his lips too thin. She had known him about a year; 
 during that time he had come pretty frequently to 
 the house, but never on terms of any intimacy. And 
 now, this man almost a stranger to her wished 
 to marry her. He held her hand fast, lest she 
 should escape without giving him an answer. She 
 felt awkward, self-conscious, wondering what she 
 should do if some one her mother perhaps, or 
 Wright should suddenly come into the room. 
 
 "1 can't marry you," she said at last, aware that 
 he was waiting in some suspense. 
 
 Duncan Turner smiled; he was evidently not dis- 
 concerted. He was not a boy like Wanley he was 
 a man of thirty, and he looked more than his age. 
 Three years in the trenches had sobered him. He 
 knew exactly what he wanted from life, coupled with 
 a firm resolve to obtain it. 
 
 Sydney thought inconsequently of Wanley and 
 Moira going forth, as it were, upon a joyous ad- 
 venture. A boy and girl, playing at love, at the 
 serious things of life. Moira eighteen, and her hus- 
 band four years older. Sydney had felt ancient be- 
 side them. Her thoughts had strayed away from 
 Duncan, who had now released her hand and sat 
 there with folded arms, regarding her thoughtfully. 
 
 "That is an absurd answer," he said at last. "If
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 25 
 
 you won't marry me, at least tell me why. Do you 
 dislike me?" 
 
 "Oh, no !" Common civility prompted this eager 
 denial. "I really rather like you," she added, with 
 an honesty that had a singular power to wound him. 
 
 His face was wry, as he swallowed the bitter 
 draught thus innocently offered. 
 
 "Even that is better than a little aversion," he 
 said. "The liking is quite a good beginning it 
 might grow, stimulated by a slightly more ardent 
 feeling on my part. Not, I should imagine, to any 
 extraordinary heights of passion, but sufficiently for 
 you to tolerate me as a husband." 
 
 She shook her head. "I don't think I want to 
 be married," she said. 
 
 This astonished him. "It didn't hurt you, then, 
 to see your younger sister married first?" 
 
 "I know that was what I was expected to feel. 
 But I wasn't hurt. I only envied Moira her her 
 freedom." 
 
 "Freedom?" 
 
 "Yes. I want most frightfully to be free !' 
 
 "But why on earth, my dear Sydney?" He was 
 genuinely puzzled, yet aware that he was encoun- 
 tering some obscure form of feminism. 
 
 Her answer was ready and perfectly simple. 
 
 "To paint!" 
 
 She had never uttered this secret desire to any 
 one before. Even now, she could not quite under- 
 stand why she had told Duncan. Perhaps it was 
 because his evident love for her made him patient 
 and sympathetic. Perhaps it was because she wished 
 to show him that she wasn't crying, like a child, for 
 the moon, but for something that was actually ob- 
 tainable . . . only it was wicked and undutiful to 
 wish for it. 
 
 Duncan saw his opportunity.
 
 26 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 "But I am offering you freedom," he said. "If 
 you married me you could paint as much as you 
 chose." 
 
 "Could I? But perhaps I should have other 
 things to do, and you would blame me, then, for 
 neglecting them." 
 
 "I should never blame you." He was aware 
 that he was making progress, though of a difficult, 
 doubtful, ambiguous kind. "I've never been one to 
 think that women ought to be cooped up, silenced, 
 denied all opportunity of self-expression. Yes, Syd- 
 ney, if I can give you nothing else, I can give you 
 the freedom to paint to study your art. . . ." 
 
 He had no fear now that she would wish to es- 
 cape, to leave him. He was making headway, al- 
 beit almost imperceptibly. And she was so doubly 
 attractive in this mood, somber, tinged with rebel- 
 lion, smarting under restraint, pulling against the 
 curb. She was ordinarily so calm, so pale, so self- 
 effacing, that this unexpected wildness of youth in 
 her, this longing to be free, fascinated him. He 
 watched her with attentive eyes. 
 
 "I believe that I could teach you to love me," he 
 said rashly. 
 
 "I could never be in love as Moira was with 
 Wanley." 
 
 "There was certainly an element of calf-love in 
 their mutual adoration." 
 
 "So you don't love me like that?" she was quick 
 to ask. 
 
 "It would be difficult to say exactly how I love 
 you. But I've loved you for a long time nearly 
 a year, 1 think. Ever since I came home on leave 
 that last time. And you were so unconscious, Syd- 
 ney. Almost cruel in your unconsciousness !" 
 
 "I am sorry," she said, touched at the little ad- 
 mission. She could catch something of pain in his
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 27 
 
 words. So he had loved her even before Wanley 
 had loved Moira. She had seen him grave, re- 
 served, apt to be bitter or satirical when he did 
 speak. Always cold and self-contained. Once or 
 twice she had thought he regarded her as a child, 
 extending a kind of tolerant contempt towards her. 
 And all the time he had loved her. She longed to 
 ask him why. There was nothing in her to love. 
 Yet this love of his, unreturned, unwanted, had al- 
 ready created between them a kind of intimacy. It 
 had endowed him with sympathy and understanding, 
 and she had been able to speak freely and candidly 
 to him of her secret ambition. 
 
 "You'd really let me study give up my life to 
 it?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes, if you wished it." There was a shade of 
 reluctance in his tone. "As long as you wished it, 
 dear Sydney." 
 
 "You mustn't think it's a passing craze, as I'm 
 sure Mamma does. It's something in me the 
 realest part something that's starved and hungry." 
 
 For a second his hand touched hers, lightly, as 
 if in compassion. 
 
 "Well, my dear, I shouldn't let you feel starved 
 or hungry." 
 
 "Wouldn't you really?" 
 
 But he would claim her, surely. There would 
 be moments when he would even detest that rival 
 that so separated them. She saw this, and added: 
 
 "It wouldn't be fair to you. No man could marry 
 a woman on such terms I" 
 
 "Oh, let me be the best judge of that! Do you 
 suppose happiness is to be had for nothing? The 
 gods demand a sacrifice !" His voice was warm 
 and passionate; he seemed to her then, curiously 
 changed, full of earnestness and rough power. Then 
 he went on in a more matter-of-fact tone: "Sydney,
 
 28 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 we've discussed this enough, now. Let's go back 
 to the original proposition. Will you marry me?" 
 
 "I can't tell you now. You must give me time 
 to think it over. It's all been such a surprise to 
 me, and just when I had made up my mind that I 
 should never marry." 
 
 "All right think it over. I'll give you till to- 
 morrow. What I've promised holds good, remem- 
 ber." 
 
 She could not be deaf to that ring of hope in the 
 little speech. He would take her on those terms 
 on any terms. Yet, she shrank a little away from 
 him. It seemed a shame to accept so much love 
 from any one and to give them nothing in return. 
 He was such a stranger, but a kind and discerning 
 one. He wouldn't shackle her hand and foot, and 
 bolt all the doors and all the windows. 
 
 She hoped he would not let himself be influenced 
 by anything her mother might say. Across the si- 
 lence that followed, she could almost hear Lady 
 Flood saying: "Paint? What ridiculous nonsense! 
 Thank goodness my girls have no need to earn their 
 own living. Sydney has a pretty little talent when 
 she chooses to take pains." That was another ma- 
 ternal cold douche of fairly frequent application. 
 
 "What are you thinking of?" asked Duncan. 
 
 "I suppose I should have to study in London, 
 as you live here?" she asked, simply. 
 
 He looked exultant. Evidently she was already 
 weighing the pros and cons. He had a man's be- 
 lief in things "righting themselves." But he only 
 said slowly: 
 
 "Yes, I'm afraid I shouldn't be unselfish enough 
 to let you live abroad. But in the summer we'd do 
 just what you like." 
 
 He rose. They had been talking all this time 
 in the darkened room, with only that wan, uncer-
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 29^ 
 
 tain illumination from the street lamp to shed any 
 light upon their faces. She went to a table and 
 switched on an electric lamp. They stood for a 
 moment facing each other in silence. 
 
 "Then you'll let me come to-morrow? When 
 shall I find you? And perhaps you'd better say 
 something to your mother, hadn't you?" 
 
 "Come at tea-time. We are sure to be alone." 
 
 "Good-by, dear Sydney," said Duncan, and bend- 
 ing over her hand, he kissed it almost with rever- 
 ence. 
 
 She watched him, almost with relief, as he went 
 out of the room. 
 
 It was indeed a strange ending to a very strange 
 day. . . . 
 
 I
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE sense of relief Sydney experienced when the 
 figure of Duncan Turner withdrew, caused her 
 a quick pang of dismay. She contrasted it with 
 Moira's passionate lamentations if compelled by the 
 exigencies of fate to be parted from Wanley for 
 a whole day. But Sydney comforted herself with 
 the reflection that she could never, never feel like 
 that. She was always happiest alone. Every one 
 even people you were really very fond of tired 
 you if they stayed too long. And she wasn't made 
 as Moira obviously was for the heroine of a 
 romance. If she really decided to marry Duncan 
 Turner, and she had by this time almost made up 
 her mind to do so, it would be a very prosaic affair 
 indeed. 
 
 Lady Flood had taken her to tea one afternoon 
 at his flat near the Marble Arch. It was a pleasant, 
 comfortable place, with some good furniture and 
 prints, and an immense quantity of books. Dry- 
 looking legal books of course, but plenty of novels, 
 poems and plays, too. She had noticed French and 
 Italian books, as well as English ones. They had 
 seemed to throw a pleasant light upon his hours of 
 recreation and solitude. He was getting on well 
 at the Bar, and could now afford a tiny cottage near 
 some golf links on the Sussex coast, where he often 
 spent the week-end. That would be her life, too. 
 Quite dull and unromantic, like that of so many 
 other women. Just enough love, just enough money, 
 Just enough of everything. No superfluity any- 
 where. . . . 
 
 30
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 31 
 
 She thought of Moira traveling towards the golden 
 sun and sands of Egypt. "A trifle more highly 
 colored," yes, that exactly described it. She, Syd- 
 ney, could never have fitted into that extraordinarily 
 ornate frame. She wasn't even sure that she needed 
 a frame at all. . . . 
 
 She must weigh the matter carefully, make quite 
 certain, to avoid any mistake. For, perhaps, de- 
 spite Duncan's assurances, she would, by marrying 
 him, only exchange one form of servitude for an- 
 other, more exigent, more permanent. If she mar- 
 ried him, holding him to the letter of his bargain, 
 it would necessarily involve the censure of all her 
 own little world. And she might prove too weak 
 as well as too conscientious to fight against them 
 all. She would bury her brushes and paints just 
 as other women had, in the past, buried or burnt 
 their manuscripts-. 
 
 She was in the drawing-room that evening, after 
 a rather silent, melancholy dinner with her mother, 
 when she ventured to broach the subject. 
 
 "Mamma, Duncan Turner came this evening be- 
 fore dinner, after you had gone upstairs to rest. 
 He asked me to marry him." 
 
 Lady Flood bestowed upon her daughter a sharp, 
 shrewd glance. Well, it was perhaps as good a 
 match as she would be likely to make. Still, she 
 might have waited. . . . With the Wanley connec- 
 tion she might even have secured a younger son. 
 One of those fortunate younger sons destined to in- 
 herit the wealth of their mother. . . . 
 
 "And what did you say?" she inquired, looking 
 at Sydney's pale, unmoved face. 
 
 "He is coming back to-morrow at tea-time. I 
 thought we should probably be alone. I shall give 
 him an answer then." 
 
 "You mean to marry him?" asked Lady Flood.
 
 32 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 "I'm not quite sure yet. But I think so. . . ." 
 
 "I never thought you cared about him," said Lady 
 Flood, touching unawares a vital spot. 
 
 "Must one care a very great deal?" said Syd- 
 ney, fingering some work. The rose-shaded electric 
 lamp near her cast a glow on her face and hair, 
 and she looked almost beautiful, in a quiet, spiritual 
 way. 
 
 "It depends upon what you mean by 'caring,' ' 
 said Lady Flood, preferring to evade the question. 
 "He is rather sarcastic and cynical, but I am sure 
 he will make a good husband. Not too exacting, 
 and very steady and industrious. They think most 
 highly of him at the Bar." 
 
 These remarks, uttered with a studied carelessness, 
 showed Sydney that her mother had already given 
 due reflection to the subject in hand. It had evi- 
 dently been no surprise to her. 
 
 Sydney went on with her work in silence, bending 
 her head over it, so that her face was scarcely 
 visible. 
 
 "Of course, if you had waited a little you might 
 have done much better," said Lady Flood. "Moira 
 has done so well for herself, and at her house you 
 will meet all kinds of people." 
 
 "I would rather not owe anything to Moira," 
 said Sydney. 
 
 Lady Flood felt exasperated. Such a proud, un- 
 bending spirit was fatal to the success of any girl. 
 She wondered if Duncan had discerned it. She let 
 her thoughts dwell upon Duncan. A very clever 
 young man who had done great things at Oxford, 
 and given a good account of himself also in the 
 trenches of Flanders. . . . She was thinking of how 
 she would announce her daughter's engagement to 
 listless, indifferent dowagers, praising Duncan's un- 
 doubted abilities. She could not expect to score
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 33 
 
 such a real triumph as Moira's marriage had been, 
 a second time. . . . 
 
 "Well, Sydney, I hope you will think it over very 
 carefully. You haven't given yourself much time 
 in which to make up your mind. But I'm glad you 
 told me about it. Put out the cards, my dear; a 
 game of poker-patience will rest me." 
 
 Sydney put aside her work and drew out the card- 
 table, setting it between her mother and the fire. 
 For the next hour she played game after game of 
 poker-patience. She was a miserable player. Lady 
 Flood, who liked to win, was at last annoyed at the 
 poverty of Sydney's defense. 
 
 "Not a single straight flush!" she said, glancing 
 contemptuously at the rows of cards in front of her 
 daughter. "I can't think what induced you to throw 
 away that heart ! It was the very card I was wait- 
 ing for. I'm afraid you didn't give your full at- 
 tention to the game, but under the circumstances I 
 suppose it's excusable. Moira was a brilliant player 
 I could hardly ever beat her." She glanced at 
 the clock. "They are at Folkestone now, dear 
 things. I hope it will be calm for their crossing 
 to-morrow. Moira isn't at alk a good sailor." 
 
 She sighed, realizing that she was going to miss 
 Moira even more than she had imagined. It was 
 Moira who had brought life and color, youth and 
 laughter, into the little London house. It would 
 be a trifle dull now with only Sydney, for Jack was 
 so rarely at home. Moira had been a fluent, witty 
 talker, able to make ridiculous stories from all her 
 small happenings and experiences. 
 
 Sydney put the cards away. Then she said des- 
 perately : 
 
 "I wanted to say something to you, Mamma." 
 
 "Yes? What is it, my dear?"' 
 
 "If you think you would mind my marrying and
 
 34 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 going away so soon after Moira if it would leave 
 you too much alone I can tell Duncan that I've 
 decided not to marry him." 
 
 Lady Flood stared in amazement. Such an altru- 
 istic suggestion could only mean one thing, that 
 Sydney was as she had feared wholly indifferent 
 to Duncan Turner. 
 
 She said rather sternly: 
 
 "You must not think of any inconvenience that 
 might accrue to me through your marriage. A 
 mother has no right to stand in her daughter's way. 
 Don't you want to marry him? I should never 
 dream of forcing you into a marriage that was dis- 
 tasteful." 
 
 "I do want to marry him for some reasons," 
 said Sydney, looking puzzled. She had an impulse 
 then to explain the whole situation to her mother, 
 but on second thought the futility of such a pro- 
 ceeding deterred her. It was no use explaining 
 things to people who would not or could not under- 
 stand. 
 
 "You are tired to-night you've had a very ex- 
 citing day. No doubt, Moira's marriage has un- 
 settled you. Duncan Turner certainly chose the psy- 
 chological moment to ask you to be his wife." 
 
 "Do you mean he pitied me for being a failure ?" 
 asked Sydney, fixing her straight, direct glance upon 
 her mother. There was an unconscious but almost 
 peremptory demand for truth in that gaze. 
 
 "Of course I didn't mean that. But he may have 
 thought quite naturally that the events of to-day 
 were in his favor, your thoughts being directed to- 
 wards marriage the marriage of a sister several 
 years younger than yourself." 
 
 Yes, they were all trying to make her feel the 
 sharpness of that edge, little dreaming that it had 
 not the slightest power to hurt her. Moira and
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 35 
 
 Wanley were stars of another sphere, destined to 
 trace a coruscating orbit across this gray work-a- 
 day world. They were too successful; they pos- 
 sessed too much; one could not think in those ex- 
 aggerated terms of happiness and wealth. They 
 were a trifle abnormal, and did not fit into any 
 scheme of life within Sydney's experience. Moira 
 had always been the charming, indulged child of 
 the house, yet perhaps Sydney had disappointed 
 them, too, by her want of success, socially speak- 
 ing, her inability to covet even the kind of reward 
 that had fallen to Moira's share, and by her imme- 
 diate readiness to stand aside and let her sister 
 take the front seat. She had eagerly surrendered 
 her birthright, demanding nothing in exchange, at 
 least in so far as they were able to discover. . . . 
 
 "But I'm very glad that Moira has married Wan- 
 ley," she said, with a faint accent of sincere enthusi- 
 asm in her voice. "That needn't imply, however, 
 that I'm dying to get married myself, because I'm 
 not." 
 
 "Still, I gather that you intend to accept Duncan," 
 said Lady Flood. 
 
 "If I do, it will be because I think my marriage 
 will give me certain things 1 can't have here." 
 
 "What things ?" Lady Flood's curiosity was now 
 strongly stimulated, and Sydney seemed in an unusu- 
 ally communicative mood. She felt that it would be 
 useful to draw her out. 
 
 Sydney had always puzzled her by her reticence, 
 her withdrawals, her indifference to the ordinary 
 pleasures of youth. Sometimes she had felt a wish 
 to penetrate into the thoughts that dwelt behind 
 that grave brow. Mrs. Burgess had once declared 
 that Sydney had astonished her by her grit, her^ en- 
 ergy, her initiative. They were certainly qualities 
 that had never revealed themselves in her home char-
 
 36 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 acter. She had always been obstinate and silent 
 even as a small child, but she had never displayed 
 energy nor force of character. Yet, sometimes 
 when Lady Flood had made an attempt to draw 
 nearer to her daughter, she had instinctively re- 
 treated. She had had an almost superstitious feel- 
 ing that something unpleasant might await her if 
 she persisted, something eruptive, volcanic, of ele- 
 mental violence. Let sleeping dogs lie! . . . 
 
 To-night, however, she had no such fear. Syd- 
 ney was perfectly calm. One could approach, al- 
 ways with caution, but without fearing to be en- 
 veloped in a sudden flame of destructive passion. . . . 
 
 "I think it will give me greater freedom to study 
 painting," said Sydney simply. "That is the only 
 thing I really care for." 
 
 Lady Flood looked a little aghast. For a long 
 time the subject had never been mentioned. She re- 
 membered a scene that had taken place about four 
 years ago when Sydney had vehemently demanded 
 permission to take up painting seriously as a pro- 
 fession. The War would prevent her from going 
 abroad for this purpose, she had explained, but at 
 least she could attend a school of art in London. 
 On that occasion Lady Flood had been cold and pa- 
 tient, but perfectly firm. Sydney was seventeen; 
 she must devote her time to other things. To study 
 painting with the definite purpose of making it her 
 profession was not to be considered either now or in 
 the future. Lady Flood might almost have pro- 
 nounced the words of Mrs. Gowan in Little Dorrit: 
 "We never yet in our family have gone beyond an 
 Amateur." There was, as Duncan had suggested, 
 a distinct survival of the Victorian era in many of 
 Lady Flood's opinions. 
 
 Sydney, young, timid, penniless, had had no 
 choice but to yield. Thenceforth the subject was
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 37 
 
 tacitly tabooed, and it was only after her return 
 from the hospital that she had been allowed to take 
 possession of the attic and convert it into a studio. 
 It was a concession for which she was grateful, but 
 it was a mere stone in lieu of the bread for which 
 she craved. 
 
 Lady Flood had that type of mind also more 
 frequent in the Victorian era than in our own day 
 which believes that a subject no longer discussed 
 has ceased to exist. She had comforted herself at 
 first with the belief that the usual pleasures of youth 
 would destroy these artistic cravings. But now she 
 was constrained to realize that there had been a 
 definite reason for Sydney's impatient dislike of so- 
 ciety, and parties. 
 
 Now, after waiting for a moment in which to 
 recover her breath, Lady Flood said dryly: "All the 
 same, my dear, I strongly advise you to leave your 
 brushes and paints behind in the attic the day you 
 marry. You'll have a thousand things to do as a 
 married woman, and I can assure you that you'll 
 have far less time to call your own." 
 
 "If I believed that, I should not marry," said 
 Sydney. 
 
 She was still very quiet and composed, but her 
 curious determination struck Lady Flood as being 
 something very strong and vital, a force that had 
 to be reckoned with. At that moment she felt an 
 extraordinary compassion for Duncan. 
 
 "Did you tell him all this?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes. He quite agreed," said Sydney. 
 
 "The man must be a fool," Lady Flood thought 
 to herself. But perhaps he had made the excusable 
 mistake of imagining that Sydney would prove easy 
 and tractable to deal with. 
 
 "Do you think it will be fair to him?" asked Lady 
 Flood.
 
 38 
 
 "That's just what I told him. But he didn't seem 
 to care." 
 
 It was certainly a proof of the sincerity of his 
 devotion. 
 
 "You have never been happy here," said Lady 
 Flood, in a tone of resigned regret; "I have done 
 my best, but you never seemed to care for what I 
 could give you. You were always hankering after 
 other things impossible things for a girl in your 
 position. If you had been obliged to work for your 
 living, that would have been another affair." 
 
 "Jack has a profession, and he has more money 
 than I shall ever have." 
 
 "There is no need for you to work," said Lady 
 Flood; "you have a good home. Most girls would 
 be perfectly satisfied." 
 
 "But I want to work! I want to paint," said 
 Sydney. "It's something stronger than I am. A 
 vocation " There was a hint of excitement now in 
 her flushed face and shining eyes. 
 
 "You would find a great many real geniuses in 
 the field," observed her mother, "and you are not 
 a genius, my dear Sydney. You have a pretty little 
 talent, and I'm sure you will decorate the walls of 
 your new home with charming water-colors." 
 
 Sydney was silent. She tried to believe that her 
 mother put altogether too low a valuation upon her 
 powers. But if she were really to study seriously, 
 to devote her life to it, she felt that she had it in 
 her to produce something not wholly bad. . . . 
 Passion of creation that mysterious driving power 
 that urges the artist like a strong superior force 
 was at times very strong in her. She knew the sud- 
 den thrill of desire, its warm accompanying glow, 
 the restlessness of brain, that could only be satis- 
 fied by work. At such moments the glacial atmos- 
 phere of the attic did not affect her; she would take
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 39 
 
 brushes and palette and spill wonderful confusions 
 of color upon paper and canvas. And if some- 
 thing happened to prevent her if she were suddenly 
 called downstairs to entertain visitors at afternoon 
 tea or play endless games of poker-patience with a 
 bored mother she knew the ache of frustration, a 
 pitiless pain that gnawed at her very life. . . . 
 
 Duncan, if he loved her, would never let her know 
 that pain. He surely could not be so cruel as to 
 open the door of one cage, only to thrust her behind 
 the bars of another. She had a curious faith in 
 Duncan. He loved her, and she believed that he 
 would give her a complete, perfect liberty. 
 
 Something in her mother's attitude, however, sug- 
 gested that she would have, as Duncan's wife, less 
 liberty rather than more. There would be other 
 things. But, surely, not "people" eternally people 
 who looked surprised and even offended if you an- 
 swered them at random. "Was that elder girl of 
 Lady Flood's quite 'all there'? Such a contrast to 
 her charming sister!" 
 
 Oh, she had fought it out with herself a hundred 
 times ! had tried to do better, to cultivate a pretty 
 manner, an easy flow of conversation, or at least 
 an attitude of concentrated attention. But it had 
 been of no avail. The visions came, and everything 
 real and tangible became suddenly futile and use- 
 less. . . . 
 
 Sydney kissed her mother good-night and went up 
 to her room. Hitherto she had shared it with 
 Moira, because the accommodation of the little 
 house did not admit of their having separate apart- 
 ments. But there was an old divan in the studio, 
 and sometimes Sydney had crept up there to spend 
 the night, when she had found herself unusually 
 wakeful and restless. 
 
 To-night the room looked oddly unoccupied.
 
 40 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 Moira's bed had been taken away, and Sydney's now 
 occupied the center of the wall. A picture had been 
 moved in accordance with this change. A fire was 
 burning in the grate, for the March night had turned 
 cold. It was a pleasant room with dainty chintzes 
 and curtains, and some good rugs on the polished 
 floor. All Moira's manifold possessions had van- 
 ished. She was not Moira Flood any more. She 
 was that far more important person, Lady Wanley.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 DUNCAN TURNER presented himself punctually 
 at five o'clock on the following day. He was 
 neither unduly hopeful nor morbidly despondent; he 
 felt, perhaps, that his chances were in the main 
 good, and that he need not expect opposition of any 
 sort from Lady Flood. He had known them all 
 long enough to form a fairly accurate appreciation 
 of them. Shrewd, observant, and critical, and pos- 
 sessing a kindly if rather cynical tolerance of his 
 fellow-creatures, Duncan had long ago decided that 
 Lady Flood neither understood nor appreciated her 
 elder daughter. She adored Moira and worshiped 
 her delightful son, Jack, but Sydney always seemed to 
 fit imperfectly into her home-frame. Sometimes 
 Duncan had gone so far as to pity her. Sometimes 
 he had felt a queer impatience, verging on irrita- 
 bility, towards her. But always he had cared for 
 her greatly and seen in her the woman he wished to 
 marry. As he rang the bell, he wondered if Lady 
 Flood would feel grateful to him for taking the girl 
 off her hands. If so, he devoutly hoped that she 
 would not show it. 
 
 He was received by both mother and daughter. 
 Lady Flood's greeting was such as she always be- 
 stowed upon him, cordial and pleasant. Sydney's 
 was cold and timid, but without embarrassment. He 
 wondered if the subject had been discussed between 
 them, and what had been said. They were having 
 tea when the door opened and Wright announced: 
 "Mr. and Mrs. Moreton Cochrane!" 
 Sydney rose quickly, and Duncan, glancing at her, 
 
 41
 
 42 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 saw that her face was less colorless, and that she 
 looked both eager and confused. Who were these 
 people who had power to arouse emotion within her ? 
 He gave them a quick, piercing glance. The name 
 had conveyed nothing to him. 
 
 Moreton Cochrane was a tall, ill-made man with 
 a straggling black beard, deep-set eyes, and bushy 
 eyebrows. He was perhaps nearer sixty than fifty. 
 His wife, still in her early thirties, was a woman 
 of renowned beauty. Most of the eminent artists 
 of Europe had endeavored to represent that elusive 
 beauty upon canvas. She was pale and dark with 
 a creamy skin, delicate features, a perfectly drawn 
 mouth, and magnificent eyes. You looked at her 
 and you looked again. You wanted to remain, so 
 Sydney felt, just looking at her. She made you 
 think of flowers, of the fresh and wild fragrance 
 of spring woods ... of something, too, that 
 could be loving, and a little fierce and cruel in its 
 love. 
 
 Mrs. Cochrane saw Sydney's eyes fixed upon her. 
 She was less vain than might have been expected 
 of a woman so universally admired, but she knew 
 the significance of that look. She had seen it often 
 in the eyes of artists, both women and men, who had 
 wished to paint her. There was admiration in it, 
 and astonishment, and a little fear. Some things 
 can be almost too perfect. That was the effect Mrs. 
 Cochrane's beauty had on certain people. They 
 turned aside almost with relief to something more 
 human, more commonplace. They had the feeling, 
 perhaps, that no one woman had the right to ab- 
 sorb so much unmarred loveliness. 
 
 When she met Sydney's gaze, she smiled at her 
 in a frank, affectionate way, as if there already ex- 
 isted a friendship between them. 
 
 There was a little talk of Wanley and Moira,
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 43 
 
 regrets being expressed by the Cochranes that they 
 had not returned to London in time for yesterday's 
 ceremony. It was Wanley who had begged them 
 to come and call. ... At this point Moreton turned 
 abruptly to Sydney. 
 
 "Are you the one that paints?" he said. 
 
 "Yes," said Sydney. 
 
 "My daughter paints in water-colors quite pret- 
 tily," interposed Lady Flood. 
 
 Moreton took no notice of this speech. He 
 glanced again at Sydney, at her slight figure, her 
 childish bobbed hair, her innocent, expressive eyes. 
 She was younger than he had supposed from what 
 Wanley had said. 
 
 "Keen about it?" he asked. 
 
 "Very keen," said Sydney. Her eyes kindled; 
 it was as if something some bright hope perhaps 
 had stirred within her, informing her cold sweet 
 pallor with a sudden vitality. 
 
 "My fiancee's elder sister daubs a bit," Wanley 
 had told him only a few weeks before. "When 
 you're next in London I wish you'd go and have 
 a look at her stuff and give your irrank opinion about 
 it. Of course, if you can honestly tell her she's got 
 no talent, you'll earn her mother's everlasting grati- 
 tude." 
 
 And Moreton had smiled, his crooked bitter smile. 
 "Mere daubs, 1 suppose?" he had inquired. 
 
 "Well, yes, I think so. But I rather think they're 
 individual ones. Different from most people's. I'd 
 like to know if there's any talent in that differ- 
 ence." 
 
 Lady Flood felt slightly offended. She had in- 
 tended by her little speech to relegate her daughter's 
 talent to its proper place in the cosmos, and her 
 verdict had 1 not been accepted as final. These peo- 
 ple important in their way, and friends of Wan-
 
 44 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 ley's had come here apparently for the definite pur- 
 pose of appraising that talent. 
 
 She reflected gloomily that they could not have 
 come at a more inopportune moment. She ought 
 to have told Wright that she was only at home 
 to Mr. Turner that afternoon. 
 
 "I want to see your work, if I may," Moreton 
 said. He was a hard and just critic, but he nearly 
 always had a kind word to say to a simple, earnest, 
 sincere worker. One couldn't always be discover- 
 ing genius, but there was plenty of young talent to 
 encourage. And he liked Sydney's looks, especially 
 her eyes, so grave, so full of vision. The austerity, 
 the simplicity, the innocence of them. But what had 
 made her cut her hair in that ridiculous fashion? 
 Unless she wanted to look fifteen ! . . . 
 
 Duncan sat there astonished at the acute sense of 
 discomfort that had come over him since the ap- 
 pearance of these two strangers. Remembering his 
 conversation with Sydney on the preceding evening, 
 his anxiety increased rather than diminished. Much 
 that she had said then, had been puzzling and am- 
 biguous, but now a certain light was being thrown 
 upon her words, illuminating something of their ob- 
 scurity. And it made him feel uneasy and restless, 
 as if malicious, invisible forces were bent on wreck- 
 ing his happiness before he had had time to grasp 
 it and make it his own. Who was this man to call 
 up so swiftly that bright, animated look into Syd- 
 ney's face? This new stirring of jealousy in Dun- 
 can's heart did most powerfully stimulate at that 
 moment his love for the girl. He felt that it would 
 kill him to lose her. He would make the most 
 outrageous promises if only he might win her. . . . 
 
 She seemed to have forgotten him, so eagerly was 
 she hanging upon Moreton Cochrane's utterances.
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 45 
 
 "I shall be delighted to show it to you," she said, 
 in reply to Moreton. 
 
 Duncan noticed that she made no criticism of her 
 own work, never said as most people would have 
 done, that it wasn't worth looking at. She left all 
 judgment to Moreton. Who was this man to come 
 thus and act perhaps as the arbiter of her fate ? 
 
 "You must bring some of your sketches down 
 and show them to Mr. Cochrane, my dear," Lady 
 Flood said graciously. 
 
 Sydney, with a new and fearful courage, said: 
 
 "I think I can show them to better advantage in 
 the studio, if Mr. Cochrane doesn't mind climbing 
 all those stairs." 
 
 "When you've lived in Italy as long as I have, 
 you never think about stairs," said Moreton, "and 
 you're quite right, Miss Flood an artist's work- 
 shop is the right place to see his work in." His 
 face was interested. He turned to his wife. 
 
 "Roma, you must come too. My wife's opinion 
 is better worth having than mine. It's more fitted 
 to deal with modern work." 
 
 He smiled at his wife with an odd, sudden gayety 
 that flashed simultaneously from eyes and mouth 
 and crumpled up his whole face into a complicated 
 system of wrinkles. 
 
 Duncan was assailed by a deeper and more acute 
 misgiving. Never yet had he been invited to climb 
 up to that fastness where Sydney worked. Beyond 
 one or two sketches that had been framed and hung 
 up in the drawing-room, he had seen nothing of 
 hers. And a little fear of Moreton came over him. 
 He could so easily persuade Sydney that she had 
 real talent; he could fan the smoldering flame that 
 Lady Flood had been at such pains to quench and 
 suppress. . . .
 
 46 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 There was a moment of tension, broken happily 
 by Lady Flood, who invited him to have a second 
 cup of tea. Duncan extended his cup. He felt 
 that the evil spell had been broken. Mrs. Coch- 
 rane addressed a few words to him. She asked 
 him if he knew Italy well, and he was obliged to 
 confess that he had only visited it once many years 
 ago as a tourist. She told him that they lived 
 chiefly in Venice. Of course, they had not been 
 there during the War. But they had returned since 
 the Armistice and had happily found their old pal- 
 ace quite intact. 
 
 Duncan drank his second cup of tea and found 
 it less perfect than the first. He wanted to talk 
 to Sydney alone. He had come for that purpose. 
 She had said that she would give him her answer 
 to-day. But, of course, it was impossible to talk 
 to her with this man absorbing all her attention. 
 She would take them up to the studio, and he had 
 no fancy to make an unwanted addition to the little 
 group, all eagerly discussing her talent. 
 
 Now, they had all three risen and were going to- 
 wards the door, Moreton persistent in his intention 
 to see Sydney's work. Duncan found himself left 
 alone with Lady Flood. He tried to shake off his 
 depression, ashamed that she should think him dis- 
 comfited by the happenings of the afternoon. He 
 was not in the best of moods for discussing his own 
 affairs just then, but he saw that he could not avoid 
 doing so. Lady Flood turned her eyes upon him 
 as her daughter closed the door, and sat there in 
 an expectant interrogative attitude. 
 
 "I suppose Sydney has told you?" he observed. 
 
 "Yes last night. But she has not said any- 
 thing about her final decision to me. It was a sur- 
 prise to me that she should be thinking of mar- 
 riage."
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 47 
 
 "You believed her to be too much absorbed in 
 her art?" 
 
 "I hardly dignify it by that name," said Lady 
 Flood. 
 
 "You don't believe in her talent?" said Duncan. 
 
 "I'm quite sure she isn't a genius, if you mean 
 that." Lady Flood laughed good-humoredly. "Of 
 course, you were wise to promise her liberty and 
 leisure in which to paint. In my day married 
 women weren't supposed to have vocations." 
 
 Duncan felt both relieved and annoyed. 
 
 "This man Cochrane may persuade her that she 
 is a genius," he said slowly, voicing his fears. 
 
 "That is very unlikely. My son-in-law asked 
 him to look at Sydney's work and give us his candid 
 opinion of it. Wanley says his flair for genius is 
 extraordinary. I believe he is absolutely truthful 
 and sincere, even to the point of brutality. I was 
 most anxious he should come, although it's a little 
 awkward, their having chosen to-day. But Wanley 
 knew I was distressed about Sydney, and he thought 
 that a word of discouragement from a perfectly un- 
 biased source might prove beneficial." She spoke 
 as if the whole household had suffered severely 
 under Sydney's ardent pursuit of her art. 
 
 "You have not thought of one thing," said Dun- 
 can, in his dry ironical voice. "The man may not 
 discourage her. If he is absolutely truthful he will 
 let her know exactly where she stands." Then 
 he added more lightly, "I'm not yet perfectly con- 
 vinced myself that Sydney is quite without genius." 
 
 Yes, there was that restlessness of hers, imper- 
 fectly controlled; a striving, an effort, the touch 
 of unworldliness, that supreme preoccupation with 
 something that belonged elsewhere . . . she had all 
 those characteristics. She was close, concentrated, 
 persistent, in her industry. The consecration of
 
 48 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 talent, like the consecration of the soul, gives to 
 its devotee something of a cloistered detachment. 
 
 Duncan's heart sank. He felt that those long 
 nervous hands of Moreton Cochrane's held his own 
 destiny as well as Sydney's in their grasp. 
 
 And Mrs. Cochrane? It is possible that of the 
 two, Duncan feared her the more. In her, he had 
 quickly detected a powerful nervous force, deli- 
 cately, fastidiously rapacious. She had that amaz- 
 ing, almost outrageous, beauty which is never ac- 
 companied by a purely negative character. 
 
 And upstairs in the studio, to whose sacred pre- 
 cincts he, Duncan Turner, had never been admit- 
 ted, Sydney was alone with these two people. With 
 no one to help or protect her. He saw them not 
 as friends, but as enemies. 
 
 His last speech had brought a smile that was al- 
 most sarcastic to Lady Flood's face. 
 
 "I have no fear no fear at all what the ver- 
 dict will be ! I am not a bad judge what mother 
 ever is? of my own child's capabilities and limita- 
 tions. Very hard-working and painstaking I know, 
 but really not a scrap of talent or originality. Such 
 little skill as she possesses is laughably derivative." 
 
 Duncan felt no annoyance with her. He per- 
 ceived that she was concealing a very fierce anxiety 
 beneath this shower of words. She was as much 
 in suspense about Moreton Cochrane's verdict as 
 he was himself. 
 
 "She is so young," he said. 
 
 "Genius always shows itself in the child." 
 
 He began to understand, through all his torment, 
 how Sydney had for twenty-one years been trodden 
 upon, suppressed, and suffocated, but with an out- 
 ward solicitude and kindness that masked the cru- 
 elty which lay beneath. If he could only take her 
 away give her room to expand ! It was this very
 
 thing that had made her seriously consider his pro- 
 posal. A straining after liberty, a mad desire to 
 spread her clipped, prisoned wings. . . . 
 
 "I feel that marriage a happy marriage might 
 transform Sydney into a very different being," said 
 Lady Flood. 
 
 "I wouldn't change her for the world!" said 
 Duncan, with unusual warmth. "If she does de- 
 velop, let her do so on her own lines." He rose, 
 his eyes fixed regretfully upon the clock. He had 
 had no private talk with Sydney that day, and he 
 had work at home waiting to be done. Besides, 
 he hadn't the courage to outstay these people, to 
 listen to the verdict which might shatter all his 
 hopes. 
 
 "You're not going?" said Lady Flood. 
 
 "Yes, I'm afraid I must. I'll look in to-morrow 
 if you'll let me. Or Sydney can telephone to tell 
 me what time she's free -she knows my number." 
 
 "I don't like your going without a word with 
 her." 
 
 "I'm sure she's not in the mood to give me a defi- 
 nite answer to-day. And I'd rather not hurry her." 
 
 Lady Flood was thinking: "That isn't the way 
 to treat Sydney she needs a firm hand." Still, she 
 could not help admiring him for his sturdy attitude 
 in the face of this momentary check. He had his 
 work to do, and he was not going to neglect it. 
 
 "I'm sure she'll want to see you to-morrow. She'll 
 be disappointed to find you couldn't wait." She 
 uttered the conventional sentences without convic- 
 tion. 
 
 Duncan smiled. Yes, he had hoped many things 
 from his visit to-day, and he had drawn a blank. 
 He had longed to speak to Sydney alone, to utter just 
 a careful word or two of love, to touch her hand 
 perhaps. . . . She was a little snow-flower, frozen,
 
 50 
 
 unawakened. And his love was there, waiting to 
 warm her heart. . . . 
 
 "I don't think he's very much in love," thought 
 Lady Flood to herself as he went away. "He took 
 this invasion of the Cochranes so coolly. But I 
 daresay he thinks Sydney would make him a suitable 
 wife, and no doubt he likes the idea of the Wan- 
 ley connection." 
 
 It did not occur to her that Duncan Turner was 
 not at all the kind of man to wear his heart upon 
 his sleeve.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 MRS. COCHRANE was sitting in a brooding, con- 
 templative attitude on the low divan in Syd- 
 ney's studio. Her long dark eyes were dreamily 
 indolent and gave little sign of the alert attention 
 she was bestowing upon the girl who stood there 
 exhibiting her work to Moreton in a simple, unself- 
 conscious manner, rather as if she had been dis- 
 playing the drawings of some artist unknown to her. 
 
 The slight figure in its straight, loosely-made dress 
 of pale gray, was childish and unformed. The 
 bobbed hair looked paler than ever in the strong, 
 bleak north light of the little room. The two 
 women offered a contrast to each other that could 
 hardly have been more sharply defined. Mrs. Coch- 
 rane was aware of it, but she knew, too, that she 
 was not the loser. There was a mirror at no great 
 distance from her, and she glanced at her reflec- 
 tion in it every now and then. Her splendid, opu- 
 lent furs were opened at the throat to show a 
 glimpse of pearls lying against a dazzling skin. She 
 was a finished, sophisticated specimen, and Sydney 
 was at the beginning of things, unawakened, un- 
 aware. . . . 
 
 Mrs. Cochrane had taken a fancy to her, and she 
 hoped that Moreton would find something pleasant 
 to say of those drawings. And if his verdict were 
 a disagreeable one, she hoped also that he would not 
 be too brutal. There was something in Sydney's 
 aspect that irresistibly suggested the shorn lamb. 
 
 Moreton, released from the slightly conventional 
 atmosphere of Lady Flood's drawing-room, was in 
 
 Si
 
 52 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 his element, chatty, critical, yet withal kindly. He 
 could tear a thing to ribbons under the artist's very 
 eyes, but he never proceeded to such harsh measures 
 nor induced despair where he discerned the faint- 
 est sign of talent or serious endeavor. One or two 
 of his "hard sayings" made Sydney wince. But she 
 bore the ordeal well. She was not a coward, and 
 the presence of that silent, exquisite woman sus- 
 tained her. She was determined not to show "feel- 
 ings" under that watchful, indolent scrutiny. 
 
 Moreton went steadily through the drawings 
 proffered for his inspection. He stood in front of 
 the easel, and Sydney was beside him, shifting her 
 work when, by a mute nod of the head, he signified 
 that he had finished inspecting the painting just ex- 
 posed. He looked rather like a hawk regarding 
 its prey with a close, cruel examination before pro- 
 ceeding to devour it. He turned at last abruptly 
 to his wife. 
 
 "My darling Roma, what do you think of it?" 
 
 His voice was changed; it had softened percepti- 
 bly. It made Sydney look up sharply. She was 
 quick to catch the inflections of voices. She knew 
 at that moment that Moreton worshiped his beau- 
 tiful wife. But of course ! She was exquisite she 
 was disturbingly attractive. When she was in the 
 room, you couldn't forget her presence for a single 
 moment, no matter how deeply you might be oc- 
 cupied with other things. In that chill, undecorated, 
 London attic she was like some rare steadily-shining 
 jewel. . . . 
 
 She rose languidly and came over to the easel, 
 glancing perfunctorily at one or two of the draw- 
 ings. 
 
 When she spoke, it was in a high sweet voice 
 that was one of her charms. 
 
 "I think Miss Flood wants a change of environ-
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 53 
 
 ment," she said. "London has made her work 
 bleak. Where she does use color she uses it with 
 extraordinary purity and brilliance, and yet you feel 
 she's a little afraid of it." 
 
 Sydney listened to the words with an eagerness 
 that was expressed not only in her flushed face, but 
 in her whole attitude. They thrilled and warmed 
 her. She had an absurd impulse to kneel at Mrs. 
 Cochrane's feet, and thank her for those words of 
 finely-tempered praise. She knew then, beyond the 
 possibility of doubt, that whatever Moreton Coch- 
 rane's ultimate verdict might be, his wife did not 
 question the existence of talent, or of promise, in 
 her work. 
 
 Unconsciously she moved a step nearer to her, 
 and Mrs. Cochrane turned her head a little and 
 smiled at her. 
 
 "You will be tired standing so long, Miss Flood. 
 And don't let Moreton be too voracious he's seen 
 quite as much as is good for him." 
 
 She held out a delicate-looking hand to Sydney, 
 and drew her towards the divan. They sat there 
 side by side. Sydney was in a state of subdued but 
 ecstatic excitement. She had forgotten the very ex- 
 istence of Duncan Turner; her mind had strayed 
 very far from the purport of his visit. It was 
 Mrs. Cochrane who reminded her of him by 
 saying: 
 
 "Who was that dull young man at tea?" 
 
 "A Mr. Duncan Turner," said Sydney. She 
 flushed a little; she was certain that Mrs. Cochrane 
 had divined the reason of his being there. Her next 
 words confirmed these fears. 
 
 "Are you engaged to him?" 
 
 Sydney stammered, hesitated. The question in 
 its frank outspokenness took her a little aback, de- 
 priving her of speech.
 
 54 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 "Oh, I see, it isn't settled," said Mrs. Cochrane, 
 laughing. "Moreton, you mustn't listen. My hus- 
 band is terribly old-fashioned, Miss Flood he re- 
 gards matrimony as the grave of genius." She held 
 Sydney with her eyes. 
 
 Duncan Turner's star was assuredly not in the 
 ascendant at that moment. 
 
 Moreton had nevertheless been listening atten- 
 tively. He turned sharply to Sydney. 
 
 "But I understood from Wanley that you wanted 
 to take up painting as a career?" he said. 
 
 "So 1 do," said Sydney. "If I could only do 
 that I shouldn't dream of getting married." 
 
 "Poor Mr. Turner!" said Mrs. Cochrane, laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 Sydney lowered her eyes. 
 
 Moreton broke the little silence that followed. 
 
 "And let me tell you, it'll be a thousand pities for 
 you to think about marriage until you've given your 
 talent a very considerable talent it is, too, in my 
 opinion -a fair trial. You've got a great gift, Miss 
 Flood, and I didn't come here expecting to say any- 
 thing of the sort. You ought to study and work. 
 Not alone, but under first-class men. You ought 
 to see what other people are doing, and not only 
 other people but other nations." He spoke authori- 
 tatively, as if he were addressing a child, but the 
 words fell on Sydney's ears like music. Only it 
 would all be of no avail. Her mother would never 
 let her go, would never give her any freedom. The 
 only way to achieve a measure of liberty was by 
 marrying Duncan Duncan, for whom her only 
 feeling was a vague friendliness that yet counted his 
 departure a more welcome thing than his arrival. 
 She sighed. 
 
 Moreton tossed the sketches aside and seemed to 
 be seeking for a particular one. He found it, drew
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 55 
 
 it forth from the little heap upon the table, and put 
 it back upon the easel. 
 
 ^ "Winter Day in Chelsea," he said. "Well, Miss 
 Flood, I can say truthfully that it's a little gem. 
 Bleak? Of course it's bleak, Roma, but winter days 
 in Chelsea are apt to be bleak. You've got that 
 colorful colorlessness of the river and sky wonder- 
 fully. What you want is, as my wife says, a change 
 of environment. You ought to go to Italy and 
 learn what color can be like, the bright sharp lights, 
 the defined shadows. You've got heaps to learn, 
 but the talent's there and the vision, and in this," 
 he flicked at the drawing with his thumb and fin- 
 ger, "you show a perfect mastery of line. I rec- 
 ommend you to forget this Mr. What's-his-name 
 Turner for the next few years, and devote yourself 
 to studying seriously." 
 
 Sydney had risen from the divan. Her hands 
 were clasped, her eyes shining. She looked trans- 
 formed. 
 
 "Oh, if I only could!' 9 
 
 "Why can't you?" There was a hint of impa- 
 tience in his tone. "What is there to prevent you?" 
 
 "Mamma . . . everything . . ." said Sydney. 
 
 "She'd let you travel back with us, surely? We 
 shall be going to Venice in a few weeks. We can 
 keep an eye on you put you up to the ropes. . . ." 
 
 "Venice !" repeated Sydney. 
 
 "Moreton, you are asking impossibilities of Miss 
 Flood. Women don't leave the men they care for 
 like that." The high, sweet, incisive voice held an 
 undercurrent of irony. "We seem to have come a 
 few days too late." 
 
 "But I don't care for him," said Sydney emphati- 
 cally. "He knows that I don't. But I've no free- 
 dom here I can hardly snatch an hour a day_ to 
 paint undisturbed. Mamma dislikes my painting
 
 56 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 . . . and Duncan promised that if I married him I 
 should have liberty to paint as much and as often 
 as 1 wished to." 
 
 "Your Duncan must be a singularly accommodat- 
 ing young man," observed Roma Cochrane. "But 
 to my more sophisticated ears it sounds suspiciously 
 like one of those promises that a husband never 
 dreams of keeping." 
 
 Moreton glanced at her sharply. 
 
 "Yes, Moreton, I mean it, but you oughtn't to be 
 in the room when I'm giving Miss Flood good ad- 
 vice." She smiled at him, and he immediately 
 looked mollified. 
 
 "We're not here to play Providence," he said 
 rather curtly, "and if you want to marry you'd bet- 
 ter forget all I've said to-day. You will be choos- 
 ing the safer, the more sheltered lot, and you don't 
 look as if you'd be much of a fighter. But if you 
 want to paint, don't run after other gods. You 
 must weigh the whole thing carefully, and then 
 choose." 
 
 Sydney shook her head. 
 
 "Mamma would never let me go away to Italy 
 like that. If I don't marry I must stay here and 
 play poker-patience." 
 
 "Poker-patience?" He gave a groan. "And 
 with your talent, your great little gift, your energy, 
 your ambition !" There was scorn in his look as 
 if he would have said: "Weakly, foolish thing!" 
 
 "I have no money of my own," said Sydney. "It 
 costs a lot to travel now. And you'll never convince 
 Mamma that I'm any good." 
 
 Mrs. Cochrane rose and put her hand lightly on 
 the girl's shoulder. She was much taller than Syd- 
 ney, and she had to bend a little towards her. "You 
 can't go against Moreton, you know," she said, and 
 her eyes looked straight into Sydney's.
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 57 
 
 Sydney trembled a little under the touch, the look. 
 There was something both of persuasion and en- 
 couragement in that slight caress. She had not 
 known this woman for more than an hour, yet she 
 felt already that she was a dear and intimate friend, 
 and that she loved her. Mrs. Cochrane was accus- 
 tomed to conquest, knew its signs, enjoyed its ac- 
 complishment. Besides, she liked Sydney, and she 
 had seldom heard Moreton so enthusiastic about 
 any one before. Especially a little, unknown begin- 
 ner a girl who looked scarcely more than a child. 
 He had evidently discerned something in her work 
 that recommended itself forcibly to him. Something 
 that had escaped her own eyes. . . . 
 
 But as she stood there with that hand still lying 
 in light caress on her shoulder, Sydney knew that 
 Duncan had suddenly ceased to matter. He was a 
 negligible figure, lurking somewhere in the back- 
 ground. She wondered if her mother could possibly 
 be induced to accept the task of dismissing him. It 
 was wholly distasteful to her, and she guiltily felt 
 that last night she had given him every reason to 
 hope that her reply would be in the affirmative. 
 
 "I'll give you fifty pounds for the Winter Day," 
 said Moreton with sudden decision. "That'll pay 
 your journey to Venice, and give you something in 
 hand to start with. Living's cheaper there when 
 all's said and done. You'll miss your home com- 
 forts, but Italy's got other things to offer you. We 
 shall spend most of this summer in a little villa 
 we've bought on the Lido, and you could run over 
 there and see us." 
 
 "I couldn't accept it," said Sydney, "the picture 
 isn't worth it. It isn't a picture it's a sketch. I 
 did it in a morning." She held her head proudly. 
 She felt that he was offering her a fancy price as if 
 she were an object of charity.
 
 58 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 He burst out laughing. Moreton's laugh was a 
 little shrill for a man; this gave it a disagreeable 
 quality. 
 
 "Not worth it?" he said. "If you knew me bet- 
 ter, you'd know that I've never yet bought a picture 
 above its value. If I take it to a dealer for you, 
 you may get much more. But I advise you to accept, 
 and do what I tell you with the money." 
 
 Mrs. Cochrane interposed: "This little girl's far 
 too inexperienced to start off alone," she said. "I'm 
 going to try to persuade her to occupy those two 
 top rooms of our palazzo. They're enormous and 
 rather bare, Miss Flood, but they look out on the 
 Grand Canal, and you'll like that." 
 
 "dive's rooms?" said Moreton, and there was a 
 hint of annoyance in his tone that did not escape 
 Sydney. 
 
 "Clive isn't coming out this spring, he's going to 
 Algiers," answered Roma. 
 
 There was a little pause, then Moreton said: 
 
 "But he's always changing his mind -he may 
 want to come." 
 
 "Well, he won't be able to, then, that's all," said 
 Mrs. Cochrane, with a smile. 
 
 "But my dear he'd be most awfully put out if he 
 wanted to come, and found his rooms were occupied ! 
 You must think of somewhere else to put Miss 
 Flood." 
 
 "There isn't another hole or corner. You know 
 how we've all spread ourselves out. And it'll be an 
 excellent lesson for Clive." 
 
 Sydney listened in dismay to this discourse. She 
 had no idea who Clive was, but she readily perceived 
 that while Moreton objected to giving his rooms to 
 any one else, his wife was equally anxious to fill 
 them. She jumped to the rather hasty conclusion
 
 59 
 
 that Mrs. Cochrane didn't care particularly for this 
 unknown Clive. 
 
 "But please it would be impossible in any case. 
 My mother wouldn't hear of it I should never 
 have the courage even if I had the money." Syd- 
 ney's voice was full of distress. 
 
 "Are you of age?" said Moreton. 
 
 "Yes. Last month." 
 
 "Then you're a free agent. Think it over, 
 Miss Flood." 
 
 "Only remember, it's quite settled that you're to 
 come to us. I don't think even Lady Flood could ob- 
 ject to that." Mrs. Cochrane's voice held decision 
 in spite of its sweetness. She was a woman who in- 
 sisted upon having what she wanted. Moreton, 
 knowing this, sighed. He was by no means so sure 
 that Clive intended to go to Algiers. 
 
 "I suppose that would be the best plan," he said 
 rather grudgingly, for he had acquired during ten 
 years of married life the art of rapid surrender. 
 
 "We shall be very glad to have you," said Mrs. 
 Cochrane. "Come as soon as you like. We shall 
 be starting in about a fortnight. Venice is delightful 
 in the spring. You might travel with us." 
 
 "She's got this young man to settle with first, re- 
 member," said Moreton dryly. 
 
 "Oh, that won't take five minutes," said Mrs. 
 Cochrane, "she can write to him to-night. It's much 
 better to write things like that, or else say them over 
 the telephone and then ring off when the hys- 
 terics begin!" 
 
 "Really, Roma!" Moreton went over to the 
 table and began to employ himself with a check-book 
 and a fountain pen. Presently, he handed the green 
 and white slip to Sydney. 
 
 "Look out it isn't quite dry. I'll take the Win-
 
 60 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 ter Day with me if you've got some paper to 
 wrap it in." 
 
 Sydney took the check. "Thank you very much," 
 she said. She had never possessed such a large sum, 
 all at once, before. Lady Flood had only given her 
 daughters small allowances, but had supplemented 
 them with gifts of clothes. Moira had never pre- 
 tended to buy more than shoes and gloves and veils 
 with hers. But Moira had received a large sum of 
 money on her marriage under her father's will, and 
 Sydney knew that if she married Duncan, she would 
 receive a like dowry. But with this fifty pounds as a 
 beginning she could work she could learn. Even 
 if she did not stay long with the Cochranes, she 
 could find rooms and go on with her work. Like 
 all people who have never put it to a practical test, 
 she believed that she could live on very little. 
 
 "I'm afraid poor Mr. Turner will hate us," ob- 
 served Roma Cochrane. 
 
 "But he knows how dreadfully I've wanted to 
 study painting." 
 
 "Is he a good judge ? What does he think of 
 your work?" demanded Moreton, who had rashly 
 put Duncan down as a bore* in his mental category. 
 
 "I don't think he's ever seen it," Sydney confessed. 
 
 Mrs. Cochrane lifted her eyebrows. 
 
 "I see, he's still got a lot to learn about you, 
 my dear!" 
 
 It was quite true. But now he need never learn 
 it. Sydney hoped that he would marry soon, some 
 girl prettier and of more importance than herself. 
 She would never have made him a good wife. Then 
 she hardened her heart a little against him. She 
 almost persuaded herself that he couldn't really 
 love her he knew her so little. He knew nothing 
 of her secret life of dreams, of this other self, with 
 its strange visions, its soaring ambitions.
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 61 
 
 Duncan -belonged to the prosaic and bleak life of 
 London of the world she had tried to- depict in her 
 Winter Day in Chelsea that had won such warm ad- 
 miration from Moreton. And she- was going away 
 from that life. She would not miss his love. She 
 would have instead the tender, half-maternal, under- 
 standing affection of Mrs. Cochrane. Already she 
 told- herself that she loved this beautiful woman with 
 her high sweet voice, her indolence, her odd, ca- 
 ressing ways. 
 
 Sydney made a neat parcel of the drawing and 
 gave it to Moreton. They all went down slowly to 
 the drawing-room, and found Lady Flood sitting 
 there alone. The curtains were drawn, the electric 
 lamps were lit. All signs of tea and Duncan had 
 disappeared. The hands of the little gilt Empire 
 clock pointed to a quarter to seven. 
 
 It was a relief to Sydney to find that Duncan had 
 gone. She felt that she could not meet his straight, 
 uncompromising gaze just then. For the first time 
 she realized that she was going, in conventional 
 parlance, to treat him badly. Last night she had 
 been on the very brink of becoming engaged to him. 
 Her plea for time to think it over had been only an 
 effort to obtain a few hours' reprieve from a condi- 
 tion of things that was necessary, though unattrac- 
 tive. He had stood then simply for the means by 
 which her freedom was to be bought. Yes, he 
 would suffer a little at first; his pride -a quality she 
 dimly discerned behind that polished, ironical ex- 
 terior would be wounded. But soon he would dis- 
 cover how unlovable she was, and that she wasn't 
 in the least like what he thought her. . . . 
 
 "Well, and what's the verdict?" said Lady Flood, 
 rising and coming towards them. She scanned their 
 faces and noticed that Sydney looked slightly ex- 
 cited, almost guilty.
 
 Moreton bestowed a quick glance first upon the 
 mother, then upon the daughter. He had no chil- 
 dren of his own, and he had been left an orphan at 
 an early age, so that the tie of parent and child had 
 very little meaning for him. There was Clive of 
 course he couldn't have conceived Clive at any age 
 deliberately defying him. Clive was a cousin whom 
 he had adopted and brought up from boyhood. 
 Theirs was almost the intimacy of father and son. 
 But Moreton had theoretically doffed all authority 
 when Clive came of age. 
 
 He brought himself back sharply to the present. 
 It was no moment for polite, ambiguous phrase. 
 This woman had to learn the truth about her own 
 daughter, whether it were palatable or not. Her 
 willful blindness, her indifference, her attempt to 
 suppress a beautiful and genuine gift, deserved pun- 
 ishment. He said, almost brutally : 
 
 "Miss Flood will tell you that I've bought one of 
 her sketches. It is one of the cleverest things I've 
 seen for years. Your little girl is something of a 
 genius, Lady Flood." 
 
 Lady Flood turned quite pale. So Duncan had 
 been right after all. And Duncan would assuredly 
 suffer. . . . 
 
 She was a woman of the world so she betrayed no 
 discomfiture. She only said with a smile : "It's very 
 kind of you to say so. We were so afraid she was 
 only wasting her time." 
 
 Moreton and his wife did not remain any longer, 
 so they scarcely saw the full effect of his words. 
 They bade good-by to their hostess and to Sydney, 
 sent polite messages to Wanley, and departed, con- 
 scious however, that the verdict had been a complete 
 and disagreeable surprise to Lady Flood. 
 
 As they drove through the dusky London streets 
 in Roma's perfect car, Moreton said:
 
 63 
 
 "She'll never let her come." 
 
 Mrs. Cochrane skillfully arranged her veil before 
 a little mirror that was suspended in front of her. 
 She waited a moment before she answered. 
 
 "She will come, nevertheless," she observed 
 oracularly. "And I want her to. She's a dear little 
 thing. You must keep Clive up to going to Algiers."
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 UNCAN seemed disappointed at not seeing you 
 alone to-day," said Lady Flood, when the 
 visitors had gone, and she found herself tete-a-tete 
 with her daughter. "Perhaps it was hardly fair to 
 vanish so completely when he had come on purpose 
 to hear your answer." 
 
 Sydney stood by the fire-place, in one of those im- 
 movable attitudes of hers that signified deep thought, 
 perhaps, as her mother was just beginning to learn, 
 of a rebellious character. Although she was so 
 quiet and her face was very still under its aureole 
 of pale hair, Lady Flood was uncomfortably aware 
 that she was in a state of suppressed excitement. 
 Of course ! These people had turned her head, with 
 their foolish, extravagant praise, no doubt uttered 
 with a view of assuring Wanley that his sister-in- 
 law was a person of superlative genius. Genius, 
 indeed! . . . 
 
 "Which of your sketches did Mr. Cochrane buy?" 
 Lady Flood inquired, since no answer to her com- 
 plaint anent Duncan seemed to be at present 
 forthcoming. 
 
 "The Winter Day in Chelsea," said Sydney. 
 "Mrs. Cochrane thought my work was bleak." 
 
 "Winter days are generally bleak," said Lady 
 Flood, prosaically. 
 
 "That's just what her husband said." 
 
 Sydney shifted her feet uneasily. It was she who 
 broke the uncomfortable pause that followed. 
 
 "I shall take their advice. I shall go to Venice 
 and study." 
 
 64
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 65 
 
 Lady Flood was exasperated. 
 
 "You will have to walk there, then. I am not 
 going to give you the money- to do anything 
 so mad!" 
 
 "I have enough for my journey. And they have 
 asked me to stay with them at first. They have a 
 palace on the Grand Canal." 
 
 "You are talking nonsense," said Lady Flood. 
 "There's no time for you to go and study between 
 now and your wedding. You are not going to keep 
 Duncan waiting forever, I suppose?" 
 
 "But, don't you understand? I'm not going to 
 marry Duncan," said Sydney, with unusual decision. 
 
 Lady Flood felt as ir the solid earth were giving 
 way beneath her feet. And only last night she had 
 been able to congratulate herself that this curious, 
 incomprehensible, unsatisfactory child of hers would 
 shortly be off her hands forever, would be relegated 
 to a new and permanent guardianship. Duncan 
 would have the benefit of her moods, whims and 
 "vapors." She had wondered a little that he seemed 
 so keen at the prospect. 
 
 "You gave him to understand yesterday that you 
 intended to accept him." 
 
 "I didn't accept him, though," said Sydney. "I 
 left myself a loop-hole of escape. I'm very thankful 
 now, that I did." 
 
 "He will have every reason to consider himself 
 very badly treated. And you are diminishing your 
 own value. A girl who can play fast and loose with 
 a man like that gets a bad name. . . ." 
 
 "I'm sorry that I told you. If I hadn't told you, 
 no one would have known except Duncan and myself. 
 He understood the position perfectly he knew I 
 didn't care for him as a woman ought to care for her 
 husband. I don't want to marry I want to work." 
 
 Lady Flood made an irritable movement with her
 
 66 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 foot which was discernible as an imperfectly- 
 controlled stamp. 
 
 "Sydney I'm not going to have this npnense ! 
 Of course, I can't make you marry Duncan if you 
 don't want to. But I can and will prevent you from 
 doing such a foolish thing as to go off to Italy with 
 these people you've only seen once in your life, just 
 because a man comes here and buys one of your 
 foolish daubs, no doubt to propitiate Wanley." 
 
 Sydney had never before actively opposed her 
 mother, consequently the strength of her will was an 
 unknown quantity to Lady Flood. She said in a 
 cold resolute tone: 
 
 "I'm sorry you don't approve, Mamma, but my 
 mind is quite made up. I have enough money. . . . 
 And very soon I shall earn more. . . ." Her 
 eyes kindled. 
 
 "You will starve and return home a wreck!" 
 prophesied Lady Flood. "You've never roughed it. 
 You've never gone without a meal in your life. 
 You're not fit to look after yourself!" 
 
 "I shall do as hundreds of others have done!" 
 Sydney felt the fine contempt of regular meals so 
 common among the well-nurtured of a class in which 
 such things are "taken for granted." 
 
 "You know nothing of these people," pursued 
 Lady Flood, falling back upon a second line of de- 
 fense. "I am sure they are worldly and capricious. 
 They will give you up directly they are tired of 
 you. Mrs. Cochrane can have nothing in common 
 with you. But they have only to come here and 
 flatter you and you are ready to give up everything 
 your mother, your marriage, your home at 
 their bidding !" 
 
 "I like them," said Sydney simply, "and I'm sure 
 Mrs. Cochrane won't give me up. She is beautiful 
 and kind." As she spoke, with a kind of reminis-
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 67 
 
 cent tenderness, she seemed to be once more en- 
 veloped in that warm and caressing atmosphere of 
 perfect sympathy and understanding. It was, in 
 truth, Mrs. Cochrane who was calling to her. She 
 had felt the woman's influence much more keenly 
 than the man's. It was strong and persuasive, it 
 seemed to hold her. 
 
 Lady Flood felt a sharp sting of maternal jeal- 
 ousy. She had been prepared and even eager to 
 surrender Sydney into the expectant arms of Duncan 
 Turner, rejoicing perhaps at the happy solution of 
 a difficult problem. But to yield her up to the whims 
 of another woman a woman whose mode of life 
 and thought was quite unknown to her was a very 
 different matter. 
 
 "You have only seen her once. You can know 
 nothing of her. No doubt she is accustomed to 
 make slaves of both men and women she has just 
 that kind of beauty!" Lady Flood admitted the 
 beauty somewhat grudgingly. But who, when all 
 was said and done, was this Mrs. Moreton Coch- 
 rane? Mr. Cochrane had served Wanley in a pro- 
 fessional capacity; he could not be called an intimate 
 friend. But Mrs. Cochrane was, she felt, a dubious 
 personality. She was not simple, and Lady Flood 
 was convinced that in her hands Sydney would be- 
 come an insignificant little pawn. And in her heart 
 she desired to save her daughter from such a fate. 
 Her ideas of managing her children might be old- 
 fashioned and out-of-date, but they were at least 
 wise in their instincts of protection. She was like a 
 clucking angry hen that would gather her chickens 
 for greater safety under her wing, although not 
 hesitating to administer a sharp peck upon them as a 
 punishment for their abortive attempt to stray. 
 
 But Sydney was not in the mood to listen to ma- 
 ternal duckings, however loudly they might proclaim
 
 68 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 approaching danger. She meant to free herself 
 from both the anxious duckings and the severe, re- 
 tributive pecks. Lady Flood would only admit her 
 to the ways of freedom through the door of mar- 
 riage. Sydney intended to choose another door, one 
 that had just become visible through some miracle 
 of good fortune. 
 
 Lady Flood could have wept over this gratuitous 
 wrecking of her maternal hopes. Duncan Turner 
 had convinced her of his love for Sydney, and al- 
 though marriage with him might not be a brilliant 
 affair, it would at least, humanly-speaking, spell 
 security and permanence. He was a man whom peo- 
 ple liked and respected. She was certain that he 
 would have been both kind and judicious in his treat- 
 ment of Sydney. He admired her, believed in her 
 talent, was ready to let her develop it. What could 
 any woman desire more? He had private means, as 
 Lady Flood had long ago been careful to ascertain. 
 Sydney had had the rare good sense to show her 
 appreciation of his offer, and if only the Cochranes 
 had come twenty-four hours later, all their persua- 
 sions would hardly have availed to detach her from 
 London. What had made her change her mind so 
 suddenly? She was ready to sacrifice Duncan with- 
 out a thought for the pain she was going to inflict 
 upon him. Lady Flood had not heard Mrs. Coch- 
 rane's question: "Who was that dull young man 
 at tea?" but she guessed that something must 
 have been said something perhaps contemptuous 
 or disparaging. 
 
 "You forget -they are friends of Wanley's," 
 said Sydney; "it was he who asked them to come to 
 the house." 
 
 Wanley's opinion had of late counted for a good 
 deal in the Flood household. 
 
 "It is one thing for a young man to know and like
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 69 
 
 people, but quite another for a girl to go abroad 
 with them after an hour's acquaintance. I'm sure if 
 Wanley were here he would be the first to dis- 
 suade you." 
 
 Sydney was silent. She knew that she meant to 
 go, in face of all imaginable obstacles. Even if the 
 expedition were to end in disaster, she would still 
 make the attempt. She must have freedom leisure. 
 Not for the idle things of pleasure, but for the pur- 
 suit of a serious aim. Since she had heard More- 
 ton's more than encouraging words she had felt 
 within herself an immense capacity and desire for 
 work. Ambition rthe strong ambition of one-and- 
 twenty stirred within her. She belonged to a gen- 
 eration that cries aloud for liberty to follow its own 
 bent. But it would be useless to try to ex- 
 plain to Lady Flood these feelings and aspira- 
 tions. They would only meet with miscomprehen- 
 sion, condemnation. 
 
 "I did not care for Mrs. Cochrane. Who was 
 she, I wonder?" said Lady Flood. 
 
 "Does it matter?" said Sydney. 
 
 "Of course it matters a great deal. She looks like 
 an actress." 
 
 "You only say that because she is beautiful and 
 perfectly dressed." 
 
 "And darkens her eyebrows, and whitens her 
 face !" 
 
 Sydney relapsed into her old silence. But her 
 thoughts were full of Roma Cochrane. She remem- 
 bered the touch of her, the caressing tones of her 
 voice, her apparent eagerness that she should go and 
 stay with them. She had never before felt so quickly 
 in sympathy with any one. She had never known 
 love; her sentiment for Duncan had been a weak, 
 chilly liking. But she felt a curious affection for 
 Mrs. Cochrane. She wanted to see her again, to be
 
 70 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 assured that the whole ecstatic interview had not 
 been a beautiful, flattering dream. But of course it 
 was true a dream that would very soon be fulfilled, 
 since she meant to go with them at any cost. She 
 would leave this bleakness behind her. She would 
 live for a while in the sunshine. She would put what 
 Moreton had called her "great little gift" to 
 the test. 
 
 "You must please put this mad project out of 
 your head, Sydney," said Lady Flood, making one 
 more attempt to re-assert her ancient authority over 
 her refractory daughter, "I'm not going to let you 
 start off on this wild-goose chase. I strongly advise 
 you to marry Duncan. You may never get such a 
 chance again. He is coming to-morrow, and I said 
 you would telephone to him to let him know at 
 what time." 
 
 "I will telephone in the morning," said Sydney. 
 
 "I wish you to see him. It is the kind of thing 
 that you must explain yourself. I hope you will find 
 him as reasonable as you evidently expect." 
 
 Sydney remembered Mrs. Cochrane's advice to 
 her to telephone, and then ring off when the hys- 
 terics began. No doubt it was the fruit of experi- 
 ence, yet the words, even when they were uttered, 
 had jarred vaguely because something in her heart 
 had told her she owed at least loyalty to this man 
 who had assured her of his love, and was prepared 
 to make sacrifices in order to marry her. Only, she 
 couldn't let Duncan stand between her and absolute 
 freedom. She would explain it all to him. She was 
 sure that he would understand. If he did not approve 
 he would still understand. It was curious that she 
 had already come to rely implicitly upon his sympa- 
 thetic comprehension, nor did she wish to shirk the 
 task of explaining the new situation to him. It could
 
 not compare, for instance, with the difficulty of tell- 
 ing her mother. 
 
 Lady Flood clung to the meager hope that Dun- 
 can would, by his eloquence, turn Sydney from her 
 decision. He might, even yet, persuade her to marry 
 him. To-night she was in a nervous, excited state, 
 but to-morrow she would no doubt see things in 
 their proper light, with all the glamor gone 
 from them. 
 
 She believed still that Duncan's love would tri- 
 umph over this new-born influence of Mrs. Coch- 
 rane's. Unfortunately, the latter had entered Syd- 
 ney's life at a very critical moment when she was 
 actually standing at the cross-roads. It was an 
 example, Lady Flood considered, of the perversity 
 of fate. Twenty-four hours later, and the Coch- 
 ranes would have come in vain. She was inclined to 
 blame Duncan for having failed to elicit a definite 
 answer from Sydney on the previous evening. 
 Either he took too much for granted, or he left too 
 much to chance. Well, he would be the one 
 to suffer. 
 
 As if to show that she could still exercise a cer- 
 tain authority over her daughter, Lady Flood 
 played a far greater number of games of poker- 
 patience than usual, that evening. Sydney, stimu- 
 lated into a kind of defiance, actually defeated her 
 more than once. But her thoughts often strayed 
 very far from the game. She was thinking of Roma 
 Cochrane, and of the little green and white slip of 
 paper lying upstairs that was to open the door of a 
 new and thrilling world to her.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 DUNCAN TURNER arrived, not without misgiving, 
 on the following day. It was Lady Flood who, 
 after all, had rung him up and invited him to tea. 
 She felt that she could not trust Sydney to speak to 
 him over the telephone; she might blurt out the 
 truth, and even prevent him from coming at all. 
 Lady Flood was determined, therefore, that he 
 should not only come, but that he should see Sydney 
 quite alone. She had an engagement herself that 
 afternoon, and she made up her mind not to return 
 until late. They should not be interrupted. Duncan 
 was to have a fair field. All her hopes were now 
 centered upon him. She had not again broached the 
 subject to Sydney, who had relapsed into her normal 
 mood of obstinate reticence. Lady Flood missed 
 Moira more than ever. She would have been glad 
 to have her there, so as to discuss the situation with 
 her. Meals alone with Sydney were apt to be 
 trying. 
 
 Although Duncan had been unaware of Moreton 
 Gochrane's genius for discovering new and prom- 
 ising artists even in their most embryonic stages, he 
 had felt in his bones that something unpleasant and 
 possibly destructive would result from that interview 
 in the studio. This impression 'had remained with 
 him all night; it had scarcely been allayed by Lady 
 Flood's invitation to tea. He had readily perceived 
 the absorbing fascination of Mrs. Cochrane, al- 
 though he knew that she was not a woman who could 
 ever weave spells for himself. But she was un- 
 doubtedly one of those beautiful witches who seem to 
 
 73
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 73 
 
 dull the very outlines of other women, with their deli- 
 cate, exquisite radiance. Beside her, Sydney had 
 looked like a drooping white flower. He had wanted 
 to protect her, to carry her out of reach of such an 
 alter, influence. But he also realized that Sydney 
 did not wish to be rescued, and would have sharply 
 resented any attempted interference. 
 
 She was alone when he entered the drawing-room, 
 dressed, as she had been yesterday, in that loose- 
 fitting gray dress that made her look almost as sim- 
 ple as a little Quaker maiden. She rose and held out 
 her hand, smiling. They sat down opposite to each 
 other. Wright came in with the tea, and, although 
 he made no comment on returning to the kitchen, he 
 still clung to his first belief that there would be a 
 second wedding in the house. 
 
 Although Duncan dropped her hand almost as 
 soon as he had taken it, and his words of greeting 
 were quite commonplace, there was something in his 
 face that made Sydney fear. . . . His eyes sought 
 hers with a look that was at once eager and wistful, 
 even a little anxious, as if he had been longing dur- 
 ing these hours of absence to gaze upon her 
 and was now able to satisfy that longing. It seemed 
 to teach her that Duncan's love was not the kind of 
 love that is easily aroused nor that can change 
 quickly. He loved her, and she was going to hurt 
 him. All this time she had thought of any possible 
 hurt to him with a callousness of feeling that showed 
 she did not realize what her decision might mean to 
 him. But then he had known that she didn't care for 
 him. She had never deceived him about those rea- 
 sons which might have induced her to accept his 
 offer. Yesterday he had represented the door of 
 escape the only legitimate one in Lady Flood's Vic- 
 torian opinion. To-day he was the man who was 
 trying to stand in the way of her development. He
 
 74 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 had agreed to her conditions because therein lay his 
 only chance to win her. Had she been more experi- 
 enced, she would have beheld in this submission the 
 measure of his love. 
 
 She began to pour out the tea, and gave him a 
 cup. He ventured to say: 
 
 "You know I haven't heard Mr. Cochrane's ver- 
 dict yet. . . ." 
 
 It was kind of him, she thought, to speak on a 
 matter indifferent to himself. Yet did it not touch 
 him very closely, very vitally? She was not yet 
 sufficiently courageous to tell him what the verdict 
 had been, and how it would necessarily affect both 
 his life and her own. She only said: 
 
 "What did you think of them? Did you like 
 them?" 
 
 Duncan had not liked them at all, and, if pressed 
 for a reason, he would probably have given no better 
 one than that they were "not his sort." But he was 
 a man of wisdom, and he replied: 
 
 "I am not in a position to express an opinion. It 
 would be rash, considering I only saw them for a few 
 minutes and hardly talked to them at all!" 
 
 "But didn't you think her beautiful? Very beau- 
 tiful?" Her tone was urgent. She longed to know 
 if Duncan had been aware of that beauty. 
 
 He took a little cake from a plate near him, 
 and said: 
 
 "Yes, she is beautiful. But I've seen faces I ad- 
 mired more." 
 
 "I am going to Venice with them in a few weeks 
 to study painting," said Sydney. 
 
 "You are going away to Venice to study paint- 
 ing?" he repeated blankly. 
 
 The shock had been both sharp and unexpected. 
 His face was a shade paler. But he was habitually 
 self-controlled, had cultivated immovability of feat-
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 75 
 
 ure as men who frequently speak in public must 
 necessarily do, and he had himself well in hand. 
 
 The day was slightly foggy, and a premature 
 darkness had fallen upon London. Wright had 
 switched on the electric lights before leaving the 
 room. Now in the soft rose-shaded glow of those 
 cleverly-screened lamps Sydney's face seemed to pos- 
 sess an unusual loveliness that tore at his heart. 
 
 "You astonish me !" he said. "I imagined we 
 were going to be married in a few weeks." 
 
 "I'm sorry but I've quite given up that idea," 
 said Sydney. But as she said the words, she did not 
 dare meet his eyes. 
 
 He perceived, however, that she had dealt the 
 blow in complete ignorance of its mortal quality. She 
 was like a child that fires a loaded pistol playfully 
 at the head of another. She had seen a new outlet 
 of escape, and who could blame her for choosing 
 it? She had no thought for him at all. 
 
 "Our understanding shall we call it? must 
 have been quite one of the briefest on record," he 
 said, in an admirably colorless tone. 
 
 To show her the extent of his wound, would have 
 been an act of gratuitous cruelty, as cruel indeed 
 as her own, but accomplished, unlike hers, with de- 
 liberately malicious intent. 
 
 "It wasn't exactly an understanding, though I'm 
 afraid I did give you a wrong impression," said 
 Sydney slowly. 
 
 "The Cochranes advised you to study seriously.?" 
 he inquired. 
 
 "Yes. And Mr. Cochrane doesn't think a mar- 
 ried woman can give herself so completely to an 
 artistic career as a girl can. He wants me to give 
 my talent such as it is a fair trial for the next 
 few years." 
 
 Duncan's heart sank.
 
 76 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 "I take it that his advice was quite against mar- 
 riage? I am indeed grateful for his admirably- 
 timed interference," he managed to say. 
 
 "He was only against it because he really believes 
 I have talent and that I ought to work. He bought 
 one of my sketches ?A Winter Day in Chelsea. Just 
 a bit of the river and bridge and sky, and a few 
 sea-gulls." 
 
 "Are you seriously telling me that Moreton Coch- 
 rane has bought one of your pictures?" There was 
 surprise, of a flattering kind, in his voice. 
 
 For he had learned something of Moreton that 
 very day from a friend of his. "One of those 
 amateur picture-dealers and curio-hunters that help 
 millionaires to spend their money," the friend had 
 answered. "They say his flair never fails, and he 
 always knows what's what. Who can blame him for 
 using it? He's got a very expensive wife to keep. 
 Still Cochrane isn't a bad chap in his way. He's 
 done many good turns to struggling young artists 
 given them their first leg up, as it were." 
 
 Primed with this new knowledge, Duncan could 
 feel something of Sydney's pride in the sale of her 
 first picture. 
 
 "Yes. He called it a little gem. Don't think me 
 conceited, please, for telling you all this. It's only 
 to show you that that there is some chance of my 
 being able to succeed. . . ." 
 
 Duncan looked at her curiously. From her face 
 his eyes traveled to her hands. The sleeves of her 
 dress were cut short and at the elbows they were 
 turned back with little white frills. It was a fashion 
 he rather admired, and Sydney's arms though thin 
 were very white. Her hands too were white, slen- 
 der, and cared for a lady's hands. He had often 
 noticed them before, but he had never thought of
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 77 
 
 them as skilled in any way, or of possessing unusual 
 powers. But he knew from what his friend had 
 said that Moreton would never have bought one of 
 her pictures unless he had been assured of its super- 
 lative merit. Cochrane's own collection of modern 
 artists, for which he had paid hundreds, was now 
 probably worth thousands, so his friend had told 
 him. Most of the well-known artists of the day 
 were represented therein, and it was possible some 
 of them now regretted the mere songs they had ac- 
 cepted from Moreton in place of those early treas- 
 ures of their brush. 
 
 "It was certainly impertinent on my part to aspire 
 to the hand of a genius," he said, in the light ironical 
 tone he had so assiduously cultivated. It stood him 
 in good stead now. Sydney was almost able to as- 
 sure herself that though his pride was hurt he didn't 
 really care. . . . 
 
 "I should never have made you happy," she said, 
 raising her eyes to his. 
 
 Duncan met the look squarely. But self-control 
 was difficult, it was indeed only rendered possible by a 
 determined concentration of his own thoughts upon 
 Sydney's point of view. Although his acute misery 
 had brought to him a sense of loss that made the 
 whole world seem suddenly dark and empty, he did 
 not in his heart blame her. He understood, and 
 readily forgave her. She had this gift, this creative 
 gift, and she wished to use it, to cultivate it. Had 
 she not spoken yesterday of feeling starved and hun- 
 gry when she had not the leisure in which to paint? 
 He knew that if, in the face of this need of hers, he 
 were to try to prevail upon her to marry him, he 
 might make her perhaps the most miserable woman 
 alive. Later on, when she had studied and satisfied 
 to a certain extent that craving for self-expression.
 
 78 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 . . . But he dared not think of later on. The Coch- 
 ranes were going to take her away. All sorts of 
 strange, novel, and perhaps sinister influences might 
 come into her life. He pictured the milieu, rich 
 undoubtedly, adventurous, roving, restless, not too 
 conventional. And in the midst of it little Sydney, 
 with her grave eyes, her bobbed pale hair. . . . 
 
 "Oh, you would have made me happy you were 
 making me happy," he permitted himself to assure 
 her. "You see I love you, Sydney. You don't 
 quite realize it I think, and I'm speaking a strange 
 language to you." He rose to his feet. Her figure 
 had become suddenly a little blurred. It was the 
 strong light perhaps no, the lamps were all most 
 carefully shaded. There was a moment in which he 
 felt he must fling himself on his knees, and entreat 
 her not to condemn him to this intolerable misery, 
 to a solitude haunted by her face, her voice. But 
 the impulse passed, and he even regretted those last 
 passionate words since they elicited from her a gen- 
 tle: "I am sorry ... if I've said anything to 
 hurt you. . . ." 
 
 He took her hand and gripped it in his. "I know 
 it is absurd and banal to say anything of the kind, 
 but, Sydney, it seems to me that in going to Italy 
 with these people whom you know so little, you are 
 taking rather a plunge into the unknown. And if 
 things go wrong and I can ever be of any use to you 
 as a friend, you'll send for me I hope . . . knowing 
 that I'd come across land and sea at any time to 
 help you." 
 
 "Thank you very much. But 1 feel quite sure that 
 nothing will go wrong." Her tone was one of 
 bright confidence in the future. 
 
 "Good-by, Sydney," said Duncan. 
 
 "Good-by," she answered. "You must come and 
 see Mamma sometimes when I'm gone. She's awfully
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 79 
 
 against it, of course, every one is against it. But 
 you I'm sure you can get her to see that it was 
 necessary. . . ." 
 
 He promised to come. Then he went towards the 
 door. Once he turned. She was standing there, un- 
 perturbed, absorbed in her dreams of the future. 
 And he had no place in them. Not only had she no 
 love for him, but she had hardly any idea of what 
 his love for her might mean. Her awakening the 
 awakening of Sydney would perhaps fall into 
 harsher hands than his own. . . . 
 
 When Lady Flood returned about seven o'clock, 
 she found Sydney sitting there alone. 
 
 "Did Duncan come?" she inquired. 
 
 "Yes. He was here to tea. But he didn't stay 
 very long." Sydney had risen and was helping her 
 mother to take off an opulent fur coat. 
 
 She folded the coat, laid it over a chair, appar- 
 ently absorbed in this small activity. Lady Flood sat 
 down in the arm-chair that custom had made 
 her own. 
 
 "I hope you did not say anything foolish to him 
 about this mad scheme of going to Italy with the 
 Cochranes," she said. 
 
 "I told him that I was going," said Sydney. 
 
 "You are not going! I forbid you to talk 
 like that!" 
 
 Lady Flood had the feeling that during the last 
 twenty-four hours, Sydney had passed quite beyond 
 her control. Some subtle realization of the fact 
 that Moira was now independent of her mother 
 might be inciting this elder daughter to rebellion. 
 But Moira was a married woman, responsible only 
 to her husband. 
 
 "I told Duncan everything. I explained it all to 
 him. He is very kind he quite understood, al-
 
 though I think I hurt him. But I shall still have 
 his friendship." 
 
 Lady Flood sprang up, with blazing eyes. She 
 came towards Sydney almost threateningly. 
 
 "If you disobey me, I will wash my hands of you ! 
 I will leave everything to Moira and Jack you 
 shall have only the portion your father settled on 
 you, at your marriage or at my death. You shall have 
 no allowance from me. I will not be an accessory to 
 this criminal folly ! Girls in your position don't work 
 for their living. . . . For the present you will be a 
 pauper dependent upon what you make." 
 
 Sydney thought of the fifty pounds which surely 
 for a long time would keep the wolf from the 
 door. 
 
 "I shall earn," she said indifferently. 
 
 She felt certain of success. Moreton Cochrane 
 would never have urged her to take this drastic step 
 and turn away from an eminently suitable marriage, 
 if he had not believed that she possessed a genuine 
 gift. From the moment he had spoken, her mind 
 had been made up. She meant to work diligently, 
 strenuously. She knew that she had an infinite 
 capacity for work. She had that energy which is so 
 often observable in the creative artist like a thing of 
 flame urging the fragile body to endeavor. Sydney 
 had no conceit. She was aware that she had almost 
 everything to learn. She was at the beginning of 
 things, and all the real drudgery lay before her. She 
 had an arduous apprenticeship to serve. But the 
 power was there, consuming her. . . . 
 
 Even her mother's anger, so largely intermingled 
 with pain, scarcely touched her. She would soon be 
 out of ear-shot of the duckings, out of reach of the 
 pecks. Conscience was not quite easy, but Sydney's 
 conscience had not been sedulously trained. She was 
 dimly aware that she was "behaving badly" to both
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 81 
 
 Duncan and her mother. But in this lay the proof 
 of the urgency of her task. Other women left home 
 to study for professions, to marry, even to become 
 nuns if they were Catholics but it was still of 
 immense difficulty for a girl living in wealthy in- 
 dolence, to leave her home for any reason save that 
 of marriage. 
 
 Lady Flood left the room, angrily. She had ever 
 regarded those women who found their grown-up 
 daughters unmanageable, as "poor creatures"; she 
 had always been mistress in her own house ; her word 
 was law. She had a strong will, an indolent but 
 dominating personality, and when they were little 
 she had exacted an implicit obedience from her chil- 
 dren. The War . . . yes, the War was to blame 
 for this emancipation of the young. Girls had been 
 thrust suddenly into positions of responsibility, had 
 acquitted themselves well, had learnt their own value. 
 Like their brothers they had done their part in "win- 
 ning the War'." Her eighteen months in the hos- 
 pital had given Sydney a glimpse of that freedom 
 she was now claiming as a permanent condition of 
 her life. 
 
 Sydney felt a little bruised when her mother had 
 gone out of the room. The scars of battle still 
 smarted. She had won, but she had had to pay 
 the price. Payment was an essential part of victory. 
 You could have nothing without sacrifice. Perhaps 
 she would have to pay still more heavily before her 
 final purpose were achieved. But she was young; 
 she had the hope, the indomitable courage of youth, 
 the simple uncomplicated outlook that often accom- 
 panies a complete lack of worldly experience. Dun- 
 can's valedictory words had not impaired that fine 
 courage and confidence of hers. 
 
 She was quite certain that she should never send 
 for him. Let him forget her . . . and find some
 
 82 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 other wife among the thousands of pretty and charm- 
 ing girls in London. She was inclined to believe 
 far more sincerely in the permanence of Mrs. Coch- 
 ran's friendship for her than in that of Dun- 
 can's love.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 Q YDNEY received a note from Mrs. Cochrane a 
 i3 couple of days later inviting her to tea. "Both 
 Moreton and I are longing to know what decision 
 you've come to," she wrote. "Remember that our 
 invitation still holds good, and it will simplify things 
 if you can travel with us. We shall leave the first 
 days of April. I can only tell you it will be a great 
 pleasure to us both if you will make your home with 
 us for some time to come." 
 
 Lady Flood had other engagements that after- 
 noon, and Sydney was able, therefore, to accept the 
 invitation. The Cochranes were then occupying a 
 furnished flat in the neighborhood of Sloane Square, 
 as they had let their own house in London for the 
 season. The apartment had been lent to them by a 
 friend and was charmingly furnished and decorated, 
 with just that kind of modern luxury which Mrs. 
 Cochrane required. 
 
 She was alone, to Sydney's joy, sitting reading be- 
 side a generous fire, for the afternoon was very cold. 
 The room was extravagantly full of flowers; the 
 fragrance of them greeted her upon the threshold. 
 There were opulent bowls of roses, violets, carna- 
 tions and narcissus. A small grand piano was stand- 
 ing open with some loose music lying upon it. 
 Several tables were covered with books and illus- 
 trated papers. 
 
 Sydney came in, flushed and eager, but feeling 
 also a little shy of her new friend. She had never 
 indulged, as many girls do, in facile friendships for 
 other women ; she even shrank a little from intimacy. 
 
 83
 
 84 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 This new friendship seemed to her, therefore, very 
 wonderful, a thing not of every day, but one that 
 was to play an important part in her life. 
 
 Sydney, who was often careless about her clothes, 
 had to-day arrayed herself with especial care. Mrs. 
 Cochrane had revealed to her what clothes could be 
 in the hands of an artist, and for the first time Syd- 
 ney had felt dissatisfied with the really skillful dress- 
 maker whom Lady Flood employed. She and 
 Moira had always been dressed very like the other 
 girls of their set. But there was something indi- 
 vidual and artistic, without being in the least outre, 
 about Mrs. Cochrane's attire, that belonged to a 
 very different order of things. 
 
 She wore on that chilly spring day a dress of 
 softest velvet of some indescribable "mole" shade. 
 There was a narrow border of fur about the low-cut 
 throat. On her tiny feet were gold shoes. She 
 looked indolent, and her somnolent dark eyes 
 seemed to reflect mysteries like those of an Orien- 
 tal dreamer. 
 
 "Well, my dear child, I'm delighted to see you. 
 Sit down and tell me whether you've got rid of the 
 dull young man." 
 
 For the second time a vague sense of disloyalty 
 towards the one man who in her short life had cared 
 for her and told her so, stung Sydney with self- 
 reproach as she answered: 
 
 "Yes. I've told him that I can't marry him. We 
 were not really engaged." 
 
 "Did he make it very difficult for you?" inquired 
 Mrs. Cochrane, who was always interested in the 
 various aspects of love. 
 
 Sydney shook her head. "He understood, I think," 
 she said slowly. She was aware that she had not 
 "got rid of him" forever. She had hardly wished 
 to do that, and she knew that her present decision
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 85 
 
 had not deprived him of all hope. His last words 
 had revealed that, and had expressed also a deep, 
 unmeasured fidelity that had touched her heart. She 
 had never liked him so much as she had done at that 
 moment of farewell. "1 was sorry to hurt him, 
 when it came to the point," she proceeded with 
 knitted brow, "and then there was Mamma. . . ." 
 
 "Ah ! Lady Flood objected ?" 
 
 "Yes, very much. More than I thought she 
 would. She says she won't give me any money. I 
 shall be a pauper!" 
 
 "Still you persisted? That was very courageous 
 of you !" 
 
 "It did require some courage. Duncan says there 
 is a distinct aroma of the early-Victorian period 
 about Mamma !" 
 
 Mrs. Cochrane looked at her in some astonish- 
 ment. The girl was either very courageous or very 
 ignorant. Nothing would have alarmed Roma her- 
 self so much as being suddenly deprived of funds. 
 She always wanted money and a great deal of it. 
 Life was costly. . . . This child had evidently not 
 the least idea how costly it could be. 
 
 "But, my dear Sydney. ..." she murmured, call- 
 ing her'by her name for the first time. She wondered 
 if she ought to encourage her to sacrifice so much in 
 the pursuit of an end so nebulous. Supposing she 
 failed? Roma thought of one or two rare examples 
 when Moreton's vaunted swans had proved to be 
 the most indubitable geese. 
 
 Sydney interrupted her with an obstinate : 
 
 "I don't care ! I want to paint, more than any- 
 thing else in the world." 
 
 Roma regarded her with a close but not unfriendly 
 scrutiny. There was something attractive about this 
 curious resolution, allied to an apparent physical 
 fragility. Sydney was really quite strong, but she
 
 86 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 had the delicate look that extreme fairness so 
 often gives. 
 
 "And then the idea of Venice if you've never 
 seen it must be an additional attraction?" 
 
 "Yes," said Sydney. She was trembling with ex- 
 citement, and had imperfect control over her voice. 
 
 "I've a strong conviction that you won't regret 
 it," said Mrs. Cochrane. "All the really valuable 
 things of life the things that profoundly matter 
 are worth fighting and paying for. I can see you're 
 not afraid of poverty or hard work." 
 
 "I'm not afraid of anything except of my pres- 
 ent life." 
 
 "I wonder if we've done right to encourage you?" 
 said Roma. "Of course, it would have been wrong 
 of Moreton to give you the advice he did if he 
 hadn't been sure you had the talent. But he said to 
 me twice after we came home the other night, 
 'That little girl has genius.' ' 
 
 Sydney glowed. 
 
 "And people as a rule think a great deal of More- 
 ton's opinion," said Mrs. Cochrane, with a com- 
 fortable remembrance of its financial value. 
 
 "Yes, so Wanley told me." 
 
 "It's odd to think you are Lady Wanley's sister. 
 She's just like a thousand other lovely well-bred 
 women. Did you get on well together?" 
 
 "Very well. But we weren't at all intimate," said 
 Sydney. "She was always nice to me, but I used to 
 feel she despised me because I didn't care for the 
 things she cared for." 
 
 Looking back, she could see how extraordinarily 
 solitary her position had been. 
 
 "And you don't regret giving up this marriage?" 
 
 "No I never wanted to marry Duncan. I liked 
 him, but it was a relief when I woke up yesterday 
 morning to feel I was free."
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 87 
 
 Mrs. Cochrane put out her slender hand and 
 touched Sydney's caressingly: 
 
 "I feel that you'll succeed, and that you'll be 
 happy with us. I shan't let you go for ever 
 so long!" 
 
 Sydney's eyes shone. She was as responsive as 
 some delicately-fashioned musical instrument. Roma 
 with quick intuition thought: "Why, she's had 
 no love of any sort in her life ! Poor little thing. 
 
 
 
 They went on talking for nearly an hour. Sydney 
 was unusually expansive in the presence of her new 
 friend, who seemed to sweep aside all her reserve 
 and reticence by the affectionate interest she dis- 
 played. She was just thinking of taking her de- 
 parture, when the door opened and a man came into 
 the room. Sydney looked up quickly, naturally ex- 
 pecting to see Moreton Cochrane. Bu* it was not 
 Moreton. The new-comer was a tall, well-built 
 young man who looked about eight and twenty. He 
 had a fine bronzed face, cut like a cameo, blue eyes, 
 and dark brown hair. 
 
 Roma sprang up. "Why, Clive 1 I thought you 
 meant to stay in Westmoreland till next week!" 
 
 She held out her hand, and Clive took it and 
 smiled down upon her. 
 
 "The weather was appalling, and Lady Darring- 
 ton had one of her Noah's Ark parties. You know 
 the kind of thing! I remembered how Disraeli in 
 his youth used to steal away in the night from coun- 
 try houses where he was bored. Well, I didn't ex- 
 actly do that, but I escaped at cock-crow with a man 
 who had to journey to the wilds of Scotland. They 
 thought I'd gone with him." 
 
 Roma seemed suddenly to remember Sydney's 
 presence. 
 
 "Clive, this is Miss Flood. My husband's
 
 88 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 cousin," she added to Sydney, by way of explanation. 
 "You'll have some tea, Clive?" 
 
 "Yes, but please let it be fresh and strong." 
 
 Roma pressed an enamel bell at her side. A 
 servant came and she gave the order for fresh tea 
 to be brought. Clive sat near the fire and relapsed 
 into silence. 
 
 "Miss Flood has arranged to return with us to 
 Venice," said Roma. 
 
 Clive bestowed a swift glance upon Sydney. It 
 seemed to her that there was a resentful, annoyed 
 expression in his handsome face. 
 
 "She will occupy your two top rooms," Roma pro- 
 ceeded, "since you refused to come with us this time. 
 I'm sure you're making a mistake. It's far too late 
 in the season to go to Algiers." 
 
 "You know I'm pledged to go with Graham," 
 said Clive curtly, "and he likes to sit out in the 
 blazing sun. After Westmoreland, I confess the 
 prospect doesn't displease me. Besides, it's never 
 really too hot there till the end of June, and then I 
 shall be coming back to London." 
 
 "Moreton would scarcely believe that you didn't 
 mean to come to Venice. But it's an ill wind 
 that blows nobody good, as I hope Miss Flood 
 will discover." 
 
 The tea had come, and she gave Clive a steaming 
 hot cup of it. For a few minutes he ate and drank 
 voraciously. Flood? Where had he heard that 
 name? In connection, surely, with some recent 
 smart wedding. . . . Wanley's of course they had 
 been discussing it down at the Darringtons'. Some 
 one had said young Lady Wanley was strikingly 
 lovely. But this girl had no claim to beauty at all. 
 She looked, indeed, little more than a child, with her 
 wide hat that showed a glimpse of the fair bobbed 
 hair, and her straight, short frock. . . . Where had
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 89 
 
 Roma picked her up? And why was she to accom- 
 pany them to Venice? She must be some relation of 
 Wanley's wife, for Wanley was one of Moreton's 
 wealthiest patrons. He remembered meeting him 
 in Venice a few weeks after the Armistice. A 
 charming boy. . . . They said he had been quite 
 crazy about his wife, had fallen in love with her the 
 moment he saw her. But this girl was almost plain. 
 Plain and certainly dull. Why did Roma want to 
 take her back with her? If she must take a girl, 
 why didn't she choose a pretty and charming 
 one? 
 
 Roma's next speech illuminated the situation. She 
 put her hand affectionately upon Sydney's, as if to 
 draw her into the conversation, and said smiling, 
 first at her and then at Clive : 
 
 "Miss Flood is Moreton's very latest discov- 
 ery!" 
 
 "Oh, so you paint?" said Clive. 
 
 "Yes, but I've never studied seriously. I'm going 
 to Venice to work." 
 
 The cool, slow tones of her voice attracted 
 him against his will, but he only replied a trifle 
 sententiously : 
 
 "Italy is, par excellence, the land to idle in !" 
 
 "I don't mean to idle, though," she said, and her 
 clear eyes held a fugitive gleam of amusement. 
 
 Already she felt that she liked Clive. Nearly all 
 women did. He was gay and debonair as a general 
 rule, with the pouting mouth of a thoroughly spoilt 
 child when anything upset him or his plans. 
 
 "Moreton wouldn't let you, in any case," said 
 Clive, "he works his proteges and discoveries to 
 death, or rather he sees that they work themselves 
 to death. He has all the instincts of a slave-driver, 
 and his tongue does duty for the whip." 
 
 "You mustn't make her afraid of Moreton,"
 
 90 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 pleaded Roma, with a smile. "Besides, I'm going 
 to look after her myself, and I shall see that she 
 gets regular food and exercise." 
 
 Clive stirred a little restlessly. Yes, it was Roma's 
 doing, as he had suspected. She had taken a liking 
 to this odd-looking girl, and perhaps they had 
 thought, too, that they would be doing Wanley a 
 good turn, supposing this Miss Flood were really 
 related to his wife. Roma often took these inex- 
 plicable fancies to unlikely people. Bored her friends 
 and relations with them for a few months . . . and 
 then they vanished. But he had an idea that perhaps 
 little Miss Flood wouldn't vanish quite so quickly 
 or so completely as some of those former -proteges. 
 She seemed far too securely established in Roma's 
 favor. Still, of course, there would be in the end the 
 inevitable debacle. Miss Flood didn't look as if she 
 possessed the qualities of the leech. She looked 
 sensitive, as well as unawakened and unaware. 
 Hadn't she any friends to stop her from going? 
 Was Wanley encouraging it? 
 
 And again Roma threw light, as it were, upon 
 the obscure screen. 
 
 "Miss Flood is very serious, you know, Clive. 
 And she's making great sacrifices to come." 
 
 Clive opened his blue eyes very wide. 
 
 "I hope she is doing nothing of the kind! You 
 always embroider deliciously, Roma." 
 
 He leaned back in his chair. 
 
 "I am not embroidering in the least," said Roma, 
 quite unoffended at his words. She took up a sugary 
 cake and began to nibble it. "Moreton was invited 
 by Lord Wanley, who has just married Miss Flood's 
 younger sister, to go and look at her work. He 
 came to curse, and behold he remained to bless. He 
 praised he even bought he flicked at matrimonial 
 schemes till they fell to the ground in ruins !"
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 91 
 
 The remark stimulated Clive's interest and curios- 
 ity. He said, looking at Sydney curiously: 
 
 "Were you really going to be married?" 
 
 "I was thinking of it." She wished that Mrs. 
 Cochrane had not mentioned the matter. This 
 frank discussion of her private affairs before a com- 
 plete stranger made her feel slightly uncomfortable. 
 She could forget her reticence with Roma, but this 
 man made her almost regret her sudden lapse into 
 frankness. 
 
 Clive perceived that her position differed ma- 
 terially from that of any of her predecessors. It 
 gave him a little shock to hear her cool un- 
 abashed reply. 
 
 u Poor chap !" he said. 
 
 He was startled into an attitude of resentful 
 interest. What manner of man was this who had 
 coveted the affection of this quiet, cold girl? She 
 was not even pretty, though she had a sort of re- 
 mote charm of the kind that often attracts the un- 
 usual. And, of course, she must be gifted. More- 
 ton had an uncanny, almost sinister, flair for dis- 
 covering and exploiting young genius. And if he 
 had bought one of her pictures, that spoke volumes 
 for the impression her work must have made 
 upon him. 
 
 "Did you do all this on your own?" he asked. 
 "No guardians to advise you?" 
 
 "I have my mother." 
 
 "May I ask if she approves?" 
 
 "No, you may not!" interposed Roma. "You're 
 not to tease her with so many questions. Be satis- 
 fied that she has chosen art in preference to matri- 
 mony. That alone has ensured Moreton's good 
 opinion." 
 
 Although she said the words gayly, there was a 
 touch of rebuke in her tone. Her attitude of
 
 92 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 strongly protecting Sydney, combined with this 
 slight censure of himself, made Clive secretly furi- 
 ous. He colored a little with anger, aware that 
 Roma had taken Miss Flood's part against him. 
 The spoilt and indulged child was uppermost 
 just then. 
 
 "Miss Flood is one of those rare people who 
 knows exactly what she wants and makes a bee-line 
 for it," continued Roma, bestowing an affectionate 
 look upon Sydney. "Of course, you wouldn't under- 
 stand that, Clive. Your values and ambitions change 
 every year. Witness your declaration last winter 
 that you could never spend the spring anywhere but 
 in Italy again. Now, it is all Algeria, and this sun- 
 bath-maniac, Mr. Graham! The Tell the Desert 
 the Arab quarter! I wish you joy of them all!" 
 
 Clive rose, his cheeks aflame. How far Roma 
 was in earnest, he could not quite tell, but at least his 
 punishment for deciding to go elsewhere, had been 
 swift and sharp. He was not to be allowed to have 
 the chance of changing his mind. Roma had quietly 
 filled his room, a thing that had never happened 
 before. He did not know quite how far she had 
 been impelled to do this by Moreton's enthusiasm 
 for his new discovery, or whether it were merely the 
 result of the sudden fancy she had taken to Sydney 
 Flood. And then the uncomfortable fear took pos- 
 session of him, that she might have been guided by 
 some subtler motive that concerned himself and his 
 Algerian plan. 
 
 "I'm sorry I've bored you with my lack of seri- 
 ous purpose," he said petulantly; "but Miss Flood 
 at least will profit by it, so there will be some- 
 thing gained." 
 
 "But you're not going, Clive?" 
 
 He looked at his watch. "Yes I'm dining at the 
 Club with the 'sun-bath-maniac,' as you call him. We
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 93 
 
 shall go to a play afterwards. I shall be in late, so 
 I'll say good-night." He held out his hand to Roma, 
 then said good-by to Miss Flood and went out of 
 the room. 
 
 Roma leaned back in her chair and smiled. 
 
 "Poor, dear Clive -he's just like a spoilt child in 
 these volcanic moods. Well, we can have a little 
 peace, now he's gone. I'm obliged to give him a 
 lesson every now and then for the good of his soul. 
 We are his nearest relations, and my husband has 
 been like a father to him since he was seven years 
 old, but even so, he mustn't take our indulgence too 
 much for granted. Moreton simply can't bear to 
 thwart him," she added. 
 
 Sydney felt slightly uncomfortable. She felt as if 
 she had assisted at one of those family discussions, 
 not amounting to actual quarreling, which make a 
 third person conscious of being in the way and of hav- 
 ing no right to be present. That she had, however, 
 been there and had acquired this insight into their 
 family life seemed to confirm and strengthen the 
 sense of intimacy which had so rapidly sprung up 
 between herself and Mrs. Cochrane. And Clive had 
 undoubtedly interested her. She was sorry that she 
 was the primary cause of his annoyance. Moreton 
 hadn't wanted her to occupy his rooms; perhaps he 
 had foreseen that Clive would resent the plan. 
 
 It came into her mind then that if Duncan had in 
 any way resembled Clive, she would not have found 
 it such an easy task to dismiss him. He would have 
 made her choice a far more difficult and compli- 
 cated matter. She felt that Clive would be capable 
 of exacting from the woman he loved, that over- 
 whelming, world-obliterating love that had for her 
 so incomprehensibly characterized the relations of 
 Wanley and Moira. Something that swept you off 
 your feet, carried you away. . . . She had barely
 
 94 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 glanced at this thought with a sense almost of guilt, 
 when Roma said: 
 
 "Clive is delightfully handsome, isn't he? Most 
 women who know him, go through a stage of falling 
 in love with him. I always wish they would come 
 to me first, and let me give them a word of warn- 
 ing I should certainly save them from a good deal 
 of pain. There is a great devotion in his life, which 
 keeps him from marrying. I don't believe there's a 
 woman alive who can make him forget it." 
 
 Sydney was silent. She had felt a warm, suddenly- 
 aroused interest in Clive, although obviously he had 
 not liked her, had been, barely civil, indeed, asking 
 those brutally frank questions until Roma had come 
 to the rescue and stopped him. But he shared in 
 the glamor which just then surrounded for her all 
 that appertained to Roma Cochrane and her imme- 
 diate surroundings. 
 
 "How charming it must be for you, my dear Syd- 
 ney, to know that art is so worth while, and that 
 you only want to dedicate your life to it. It's so 
 seldom one finds a woman especially a young one 
 so sensible." 
 
 "You see, so far I haven't been allowed to dedi- 
 cate my life to it," said Sydney thoughtfully; "per- 
 haps that's why I long to do so." 
 
 And then the alternative wasn't wildly exciting," 
 said Roma; "I'm sure that your Mr. Turner is an 
 excellent young man the kind of man who has 
 never given his mother an hour's anxiety but he 
 looked quite without temperament he wouldn't 
 have been able to appreciate you in the least. But 
 later on," and now she looked with a close, long 
 gaze into Sydney's face, "you may have the won- 
 derful experience of love. All women ought to 
 have it, and 1 hardly think you will escape it. It 
 will help you in your work too it will give it vi-
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 95 
 
 tality and meaning. Finish your drudgery first 
 though, as I'm sure Moreton will tell you." 
 
 Sydney stumbled to her feet. 
 
 "I only hope that it may not come for many years," 
 she said, with an attempted lightness. 
 
 "Must you be going?" said Roma lazily. 
 
 "Yes it's getting late. I'm afraid I've kept you 
 too long." 
 
 "Not in the least too long. We ought to know 
 each other better if we're to spend some months to- 
 gether. You're such a restful little companion." 
 And again she bestowed upon her that penetrating 
 gaze. There was criticism in it, but it was a kindly 
 criticism. "I'm quite glad Clive isn't to be with 
 us this spring. I should have so little time for you 
 if he were there. And I've a kind of idea he might 
 have disturbed and unsettled you and made it diffi- 
 cult for you to work." 
 
 "But how could he?" said Sydney, laughing with 
 frank incredulity. 
 
 "Oh, it's his little way. He has that effect upon 
 women." 
 
 "I don't think he would have unsettled or dis- 
 turbed me all the same," said Sydney cheerfully. 
 "But I'm afraid he hates my going with you." 
 
 "You've an unusual power of discernment. But 
 it has only perhaps prejudiced him against you for 
 the moment, and he changes so quickly that to-mor- 
 row he may be violently in favor of the whole plan. 
 What he feels one day he doesn't feel the next 
 that's all part of his wayward charm." Roma 
 spoke reflectively. "However, it isn't likely that 
 you'll ever see much of him he's such a wander- 
 ing, aimless creature. He's Moreton's cousin, you 
 know, the son of old Septimus Cochrane, who mar- 
 ried late in life and had this one child. He was 
 left an orphan at seven years old, with just enough
 
 96 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 to live on, and Moreton took him. They're just 
 like father and son, but Moreton has always in- 
 dulged him to the top of his bent, and you see that 
 when I try to introduce a little discipline, Clive re- 
 sents it bitterly. 1 first saw him on my wedding- 
 day he was just seventeen and the most beautiful 
 boy you ever saw." 
 
 As she related this brief history to Sydney, she 
 was quietly observing its effect upon the girl. It 
 was commonplace enough, yet she managed to imbue 
 it with something of romance. And it quickened 
 in some measure, as perhaps Roma intended that it 
 should, Sydney's swiftly aroused interest in Clive 
 Cochrane. She found herself wishing, hoping, to 
 see him again. To listen to the lazy, half-insolent 
 inflections of his voice, his words resentful, petulant, 
 yet withal attractive. 
 
 "dive's still a child at heart," proceeded Roma; 
 "he has no sense of responsibility at all. Moreton 
 is wonderfully patient with him. But with all his 
 faults he's a dear, and devoted to both of us." 
 
 She was evidently proud of that devotion. In- 
 deed, perhaps it was the one stable thing about 
 Clive. He was always jealous of newcomers into 
 their little circle; he was jealous, too, that any one 
 else should be there on terms of intimacy. She 
 knew that was why he had been scarcely civil to 
 Sydney, had even tried to dissuade the girl from ac- 
 companying them. 
 
 When she said good-by to Sydney, she drew her 
 gently towards herself and kissed her. "I'm so glad 
 so very glad -that you've chosen to come," she 
 said. 
 
 Sydney left the house that evening and walked 
 home as if she had been treading on air. She turned 
 up Sloane Street and walked till she came to 
 Knightsbridge. There she would have taken a 'bus,
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 97 
 
 but they passed her one after another, full to over- 
 flowing. And the fresh cold air of the spring night 
 was invigorating, after the enervating heat of Roma's 
 room. It was hardly dark yet, and the street-lamps 
 mingled their light with the blueness of the dusk. 
 In the Park the still leafless trees waved their boughs, 
 bending a little as the wind passed over them. The 
 wonderful traffic of London, the laden omnibuses, 
 the motors, the great camions, with their brilliant 
 shifting lights, imbued the scene with a curiously 
 picturesque quality. The pavements were thronged 
 with people, some lazy and sauntering, as if enjoy- 
 ing a rare hour of idle ease, others hurrying along 
 as if they were late for some important appointment. 
 Sydney's trained eyes saw all the beautiful effects 
 of that massed, colorful darkness, those wandering 
 shifting lights, the darkly-etched boughs against the 
 high blue dusk of the sky. But her thoughts were 
 elsewhere. She felt as if she had been suddenly 
 transported into a new world whose freedom had 
 been bestowed with royal generosity upon her. The 
 figures of Moreton Cochrane, of his lovely exquisite 
 wife, of Clive, filled that new world with a warm 
 human interest. She felt excited, and a passionate 
 sense of power to achieve thrilled through her. Of 
 course she meant to work, to fulfill their high ex- 
 pectations and demands. But it was not Moreton 
 whom she feared to disappoint it was Roma, and 
 in a lesser degree, Clive.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 IN the days that followed, Lady Flood's anger 
 crystallized into an attitude of permanent, al- 
 most silent, disapproval. Sydney did not again al- 
 lude to her departure, knowing that when the date 
 had been fixed it would be necessary to speak, but 
 not before. Three times a day at meals did the 
 mother and daughter meet. The chilliest of plati- 
 tudes passed Lady Flood's lips. There were 
 Moira's letters to be discussed, and they were full 
 of a gay gossip from Paris and from the various 
 places the young couple stopped at, that caused Lady 
 Flood (a considerable beauty of her own genera- 
 tion) to think regretfully of the southern sunshine. 
 But Sydney was too deeply preoccupied with her own 
 future to feel anything but a passing interest in them. 
 She was absorbed in her own plans, and in those 
 preparations that were being secretly but carefully 
 accomplished. She bought as little as possible, 
 aware that the journey would make heavy inroads 
 upon her fifty pounds. 
 
 It was about a fortnight later that she announced 
 one night at dinner that her departure was fixed for 
 the following week. 
 
 "I shall travel with the Cochranes," she added. 
 
 "I'm not interested in your plans," said Lady 
 Flood stiffly. 
 
 Her daughter might flout her, defy her, but she 
 should not do so without suffering for it. These 
 people would soon tire of having her in their house, 
 and there would come a day when Sydney would re- 
 turn home, a penitent, prodigal daughter. . . . Lady 
 
 98
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 99 
 
 Flood liked to let her mind dwell upon that epoch 
 of restored discipline. 
 
 "Remember this, Sydney," she added after a 
 pause, "if you go, you go for good. I will not re- 
 ceive you at home again." 
 
 "I quite understand," said Sydney. Her eyes 
 were large and brilliant and held a glow of excite- 
 ment. 
 
 "You have behaved shamefully to Duncan, and 
 now you are behaving shamefully to me !" 
 
 "I'm not doing anything wrong," said Sydney. 
 
 "That may be your opinion. It isn't mine." 
 
 "Most girls if they have any talent at all are en- 
 couraged to cultivate it." 
 
 "Not at any cost," retorted Lady Flood. "You 
 have no need to work to earn your own living. 
 That would alter the question at once. As it is, I 
 provide you with everything. You've had the 
 chance, too, of making an excellent marriage." 
 
 "You know I never wanted to marry. I only 
 thought of accepting Duncan because I believed it 
 would give me greater freedom more liberty. I 
 want to paint, more than anything in the world." 
 
 "So it seems," observed her mother dryly. 
 
 "And just because I'm going abroad to study, 
 you are treating me as if I were doing something 
 disgraceful shameful " said Sydney, indignantly. 
 
 "You are disobeying and defying me," Lady 
 Flood reminded her. "I don't care about those 
 Cochrane people. They are rich, but they are not 
 of our world. I am sure Wanley never intended 
 that you should become so violently intimate with 
 them." 
 
 They faced each other passionately across the ta- 
 ble, almost as enemies, aware that they had come 
 to the parting of the ways. And to a wise on- 
 looker the conflict would have seemed less a per-
 
 ioo THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 sonal one, than the outcome of a difference of vi- 
 sion between two generations more completely di- 
 vided in aim and standard than perhaps any two 
 generations had ever been before. It was a con- 
 flict that was being enacted almost universally 
 throughout the whole of the civilized world. Co- 
 ercive measures were no longer possible. Lady 
 Flood had a fleeting regret that the day was passed 
 when parents could enforce their will upon even 
 grown-up daughters by locking them in their rooms 
 until they submitted. 
 
 "I believe you will come to grief," she said at 
 last, sternly; "you have no knowledge of the world 
 nor experience of life. I can't understand in the 
 least what those Cochrane people want with you. 
 I have written to tell Wanley how disastrously 
 things have turned out, and I believe if he had been 
 at home now, he would have put a stop to the whole 
 thing." 
 
 "But I should have left home in any case," said 
 Sydney. "If the Cochranes hadn't come, I suppose 
 I should have married Duncan. And it isn't be- 
 cause you really mind my going that you're so angry 
 with me you wouldn't have said anything if I had 
 left home to be married. Only you don't like the 
 thought of my doing what I've wanted to do ever 
 since I left school." 
 
 There was no passion in her voice, it was cold, 
 impartial, a relentless statement of fact. But it 
 kindled her mother's anger to flame. 
 
 "I really think you are mad! You have never 
 been quite normal even as a child you weren't 
 like other children. And now you seem to take 
 pleasure in breaking my heart! You don't know 
 what you're doing, to leave a comfortable home 
 where you have everything you need. Many home- 
 less women would envy you. Yet you just fling it
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 101 
 
 aside as if it were worth nothing at all ! It's ridicu- 
 lous for you to wish to earn your own living. How- 
 ever, there shall be no retracing of your footsteps. 
 You've chosen your path you shall keep to it." 
 
 "I perfectly understand that," said Sydney. 
 
 She had the ignorant fearlessness of youth. The 
 unknown had no terrors for her, despite her shel- 
 tered upbringing. What terrified her was the 
 thought of wasting these wonderful, precious days 
 of youth, of letting her talent atrophy in uncon- 
 genial surroundings, of living the kind of life that 
 satisfied her mother. Shopping, lunching out, din- 
 ing out, the endless entertainment of visitors, a play 
 sometimes, a few dances in the winter, a few more 
 in the season. Dances when she had fewer part- 
 ners perhaps than any girl in the room. She could 
 dance well, but she was dull to talk to; she never 
 knew what to say. Poker-patience when she was 
 alone with her mother in the evening. Never a 
 morning when on waking she could tell herself, u l 
 shall have no interruptions to-day I can work as 
 long as I like." There were many days, indeed, 
 when there was no time to work at all, when her 
 fingers ached to feel pencil or brush between them, 
 and her mind was full of visions that could never 
 materialize. Any hunger, any privation, rather 
 than that! And it wasn't as if she hadn't the gift. 
 . . . "Your great little gift," "your little girl is a 
 genius. . . ." All her life she thought she would 
 hear Moreton Cochrane's gruff voice uttering those 
 wonderful phrases. 
 
 And she wasn't going alone, as so many girls had 
 had to go. She was going with this wonderful, ex- 
 quisite, new friend who seemed to care for her, who 
 could thaw her cold stupid reserve with the warmth 
 of her own temperament. A woman who compelled
 
 her confidence, who believed in her, encouraged her, 
 made her feel capable of achieving miracles. . . . 
 
 So the last days passed, moving slowly as if to 
 keep her chained as long as possible. She only saw 
 Roma twice in the interim, to learn the details of 
 the journey, the time and place of their meeting. 
 It seemed like a dream, when that chilly morning 
 in early April dawned at last and found her after 
 a hurried breakfast standing in the hall, ready to 
 depart. 
 
 Her trunks two modest ones and a suitcase 
 had already been brought downstairs. They were 
 strapped and labeled. She had the conviction that 
 something of enormous, vital importance had been 
 left behind. She had gone up at the last moment 
 to give a final look around the studio. It was in 
 disorder; the discarded implements of her craft lay 
 about in confusion on table and floor. In the chill 
 morning light it looked bleak and uninviting. Yet 
 it was there, between those four walls, that her fate 
 had been decided. A little sick fear for the first 
 time took possession of her. She was terribly afraid 
 of disappointing these people who had so changed 
 the face of the world for her. But the rights and 
 wrongs of her action failed to disturb her. Religion 
 played a somewhat minor part in the household, 
 being relegated almost exclusively to Sundays and 
 to the more important festivals of the Established 
 Church. It did not enter into their daily lives at 
 all. The reason for her present action seemed to 
 Sydney a perfectly just one. She was a little sorry 
 that her mother disapproved, but then, Lady Flood 
 had never cared for her so much as for her other 
 children, and Sydney had disappointed her by not 
 marrying. 
 
 She was back in the hall, and Wright had gone 
 for a taxi, when her mother appeared on the stairs.
 
 103 
 
 They had said good-by to each other on the pre- 
 vious night; cold kisses had been exchanged. 
 
 "So you are really going, Sydney?" said Lady 
 Flood. 
 
 It was unusual for her to appear at such an early 
 hour. She invariably breakfasted in her own room. 
 
 "Yes, Mamma," said Sydney. "Shall I shall 
 I write to you?" 
 
 "If you care to," said Lady Flood coldly. 
 
 The taxi stood at the door; the purr of its ma- 
 chinery was audible within the house. Wright, look- 
 ing more ancient and austere than usual, was help- 
 ing with the boxes. He was thinking of Duncan 
 Turner, and wondering where the "hitch" had been. 
 
 "Good-by, Mamma," said Sydney. 
 
 She put up her face. She was a little shorter 
 than her mother, and beside her she always man- 
 aged to look small and childish. 
 
 "Good-by." Lady Flood stooped and kissed her 
 daughter's forehead. It is possible that but for the 
 alert presence of Wright she might have demon- 
 strated her displeasure by foregoing that ceremony. 
 But she belonged to an age that kept up appear- 
 ances at all costs. 
 
 Sydney choked back a sob; it wasn't so easy 
 to go, as she had imagined. As she stumbled out 
 of the hall, her eyes blinded with tears, she was 
 conscious that her exit lacked all the dignity of 
 drama. It was foolish, like a farce. Wright re- 
 spectfully held open the door of the taxi, but she 
 felt somehow that he was sharing in the general 
 disapproval. His farewell was respectful, too, but 
 it was chilly. No one else witnessed her departure. 
 She could not help contrasting it with the going 
 away of Moira hardly a month ago. All the serv- 
 ants then had clustered on the pavement, the little 
 crowd of guests were standing in the hall, and be-
 
 io 4 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 yond the red carpet and the awning there had been 
 a great throng of those strange beings who invari- 
 ably assemble outside a house where a wedding 
 party has gathered, to watch the departure of bride 
 and groom. That silent yet perceptible disapproval 
 of Wright made Sydney feel more than ever that 
 she was going away in disgrace, as if bent on some 
 shameful purpose. The tears stung her eyes; the 
 chilly wind reddened her nose. She felt suddenly 
 helpless, like a child. . . . 
 
 At Victoria Station there was the usual bustle 
 and confusion that characterizes the departure of 
 the boat-train. Taxis laden with luggage disgorged 
 women fantastically smothered in fur coats. Syd- 
 ney felt bewildered by the stir and motion. She 
 followed a porter who had taken her luggage away 
 to be registered. She saw no sign as yet of the 
 Cochranes, but their places in the Pullman car were 
 next to each other, so she had no fear of not find- 
 ing them eventually. 
 
 She moved solitarily down the long gray platform. 
 Groups of people were standing about, bent on see- 
 ing the last of their friends. It was just the mo- 
 ment for the rush of passengers to Italy, and many 
 of the travelers seemed to be on their way to spend 
 Easter there. Sydney looked small and insignifi- 
 cant, she even felt a little shabby. She wished she 
 had thought of buying a small soft hat such as so 
 many women seemed to be wearing. Not a hat with 
 a brim in which you couldn't lean back comfortably. 
 
 Her place was found, and the suitcase had been 
 deposited near it. It was still early, and the train 
 did not leave till just after eight. The morning 
 was very gloomy, and the air was full of restless 
 sounds and murmurs, broken by shrill whistles and 
 the sudden expulsion of steam from waiting engines. 
 
 Presently she espied Mrs. Cochrane coming in a
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 105 
 
 leisurely manner down the platform. She, too, wore 
 a fur coat, but it hung open, disclosing a gray trav- 
 eling dress. She had a large bunch of violets pinned 
 in front of her coat. There was something at once 
 simple and sumptuous about her. Her close-fitting 
 fur toque was tied on with a veil. By her side was 
 Clive. 
 
 As she came nearer to the Pullman, Sydney bent 
 her head out of the window and nodded and smiled 
 to her, her face all aglow with pleasure. Mrs. 
 Cochrane smiled back at her, and Clive took off his 
 hat, giving her one of his swift resentful looks, as 
 much as to say: "So you've come in spite of all my 
 warnings?" Then they turned to each other again, 
 and resumed their conversation. 
 
 Suddenly another familiar figure emerged from 
 the throng upon the platform and walked hurriedly 
 alongside the train, gazing rapidly into each com- 
 partment as he passed. Sydney colored, half with 
 annoyance and half with a kind of relief. It was 
 Duncan Turner. He must be looking for her. He 
 had discovered perhaps the date and hour of her 
 departure, and would not let her go without a single 
 farewell word. His face was slightly reddened by 
 his evident has,te, and he looked very short and in- 
 significant beside the tall, elegant debonair Clive. 
 His hat, too, had slipped rather to the back of his 
 head, giving him a somewhat demoralized appear- 
 ance. In his hand he carried a great bunch of vio- 
 lets. They were for her, and she did not want them. 
 She had sent him away, as she almost believed, for- 
 ever, but his presence this morning seemed to de- 
 note that he had not accepted his dismissal in any 
 sense as final. He did not take either her or her 
 ambition quite seriously, and perhaps thought of her 
 as a spoilt child, bent on having its own way, but 
 by no means knowing what was quite good for it.
 
 106 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 Sydney would have given worlds to have evaded 
 that meeting, although she seemed to be the only 
 person in the train that day who was quite alone 
 and had no friend to witness her departure. Above 
 all, she did not wish Clive to see this man of whom 
 he had said, "Poor chap," in that light, disdainful, 
 contemptuous tone. Seeing the two men in juxtapo- 
 sition, as it were, gave her a curious little shock. 
 She remembered, rather inconsequently, what Mrs. 
 Cochrane had told her about Clive that the women 
 he knew often passed through a stage of being in 
 love with him. Sydney was not in love with him, 
 but he stirred her imagination as no man had ever 
 done before. He was to her like a splendid figure 
 of romance, full of charm, of personality. She had 
 felt disappointed because obviously he hadn't liked 
 her, and still resented her going abroad with the 
 Cochranes. 
 
 Now Duncan had seen her and was coming 
 straight towards her. Roma recognized him, and as 
 he passed she bowed to him, and the two men lifted 
 their hats. Sydney rose to her feet 'as Duncan 
 came into the car. The bad moment must be lived 
 through, and in her heart there now stirred a faint 
 gratitude because he had cared enough about her 
 to come the only person in the world who had 
 taken the trouble to do so on her account. 
 
 She felt, rather than saw, that Clive was watching 
 the little meeting from the platform. 
 
 "I came to see you off and to bring you these." 
 Duncan laid the violets on a little table in front 
 of Sydney's armchair. "Somehow I imagined you 
 wouldn't have much of a send-off." 
 
 The words made her relent a little. So he hadn't 
 liked to think of her starting off alone, under the 
 chilling ban of parental disapproval. Perhaps, too, 
 he had wished to assure her by his presence of a
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 107 
 
 tacit and unimpaired fidelity, that had suffered no 
 change from those recent happenings. 
 
 "It was very kind of you to come and to bring 
 me those lovely violets." She sniffed at them 
 their fragrance was delicious. 
 
 She hoped that she did not look too forlorn and 
 miserable. The morning air was cold, a northeast 
 wind was blowing disagreeably. She had the un- 
 pleasant conviction that her nose was red from con- 
 tact with it, and that her eyes must show traces of 
 that recent weeping. 
 
 "And, of course, I wanted to wish you the best 
 of luck in your new venture !" 
 
 "Thank you very much," said Sydney. 
 
 "And Lady Flood is she at all reconciled to 
 the idea?" 
 
 "Not in the least. I'm the prodigal daughter." 
 
 Duncan laughed rather mirthlessly. 
 
 "May I say, I hope there may be no husks in this 
 modern instance of the parable?" he said. 
 
 "There may be husks there'll never be a fatted 
 calf!" 
 
 She had quite forgiven him now for coming. His 
 kind eyes always belied the dry ironical disapproval 
 suggested by his words. Of course, he thought her 
 a fool rthey all did and just 'before a journey 
 every one felt a little depressed. She would be 
 quite cheerful directly the train had started and 
 they were well on their way. 
 
 She knew that he loved her still, in spite of every- 
 thing. Perhaps he felt a passionate regret at her 
 departure. But he gave no sign of any excessive 
 emotion, and only seemed preoccupied with her own 
 welfare and comfort. His thoughts were for her 
 rather than for himself, and she was touched by 
 it. But she could never have loved him. And as 
 she looked at Roma and Clive standing on the
 
 io8 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 platform outside, she felt almost that she could have 
 loved a man like Clive if he had wanted her love. 
 She could picture any woman waiting, tremulous 
 and a-thrill, for the coming of such an one as 
 that. . . . 
 
 "But I take it you are still perfectly satisfied?" 
 Duncan's voice broke across her thoughts, causing 
 her to turn towards him with an alarmed, almost 
 guilty, expression on her face. "If not, let me sug- 
 gest that it isn't yet too late to retrace your foot- 
 steps. I'll come back to the house with you, and 
 see you through the slight awkwardness of confront- 
 ing an injured Lady Flood !" 
 
 He meant what he said, and as her imagination 
 dwelt upon the possibility of such an anti-climax, it 
 possessed something not altogether unattractive. 
 But she roused herself quickly and shook her 
 head. 
 
 "I wouldn't go back for the world ! Oh, you must 
 blame me if you like every one will blame me, you 
 know ! but I've made my choice quite deliberately, 
 and I'm not going back on it. I want to paint 
 I want to succeed! I want to devote myself to 
 it. . . ." 
 
 "And you're ready to pay?" said Duncan, a little 
 wistfully. 
 
 "I'm paying now. Can't you see?" Her lips 
 trembled. 
 
 "But you'll have to pay much more than that, you 
 know," he reminded her. "It's awful to think of 
 you even for a day without money in a foreign coun- 
 try. Do you speak a word of Italian?" 
 
 "Not a word. . . . But it's no use trying to ter- 
 rify me, Duncan. Of course, one feels nervous, just 
 at first, and starting off so early without much to 
 eat. But I shall get back my courage soon," she 
 assured him, with shining eyes.
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 109 
 
 "Well, you might write to me and tell me how 
 you get on," he said. 
 
 "Do you really mean it?" she asked. 
 
 "Oh, I really mean it," said Duncan; "I've an 
 idea I shall look forward rather too much to those 
 letters." 
 
 She said suddenly: 
 
 "Don't think of me. I'm not worth it. . . ." 
 
 Duncan regarded her gravely. "You're worth 
 a good deal to me, Sydney; don't ever forget that 
 or try to persuade yourself that you're not." 
 
 Mrs. Cochrane moved towards the entrance and 
 then came into the car, followed by Clive. 
 
 "We shall be off now in about two minutes," she 
 announced in her high sweet voice; "I've just seen 
 Moreton tearing along the platform he literally 
 does catch his trains, and I hope this one won't 
 elude him." 
 
 "Then I must go," said Duncan. He took Syd- 
 ney's hand and gave her a last, swift, penetrating 
 look. Her face was set and a little stern, as if 
 she had closed her lips upon some high resolve. 
 He shook hands with Mrs. Cochrane and left the 
 train. Nor did he stand near the window when 
 he reached the platform, but hurried away and was 
 soon lost to sight. 
 
 He wondered who Clive was. A friend of the 
 Cochranes, he imagined, but he sincerely hoped he 
 was not going to travel with them. A good- 
 looking chap in his way, but insolent and arrogant. 
 . . . He passed Moreton racing towards the Pull- 
 man car. 
 
 Clive descended slowly from the train. His last 
 words to Roma were whispered ones. He passed 
 out just as Moreton made an awkward, bustling en- 
 trance, catching his foot in something and almost 
 falling to the floor in his anxious haste.
 
 no THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 Mrs. Cochrane hardly seemed to notice him. She 
 went to the window and began to talk to Clive in 
 a soft undertone. Moreton arranged the bags and 
 suitcases with the aid of a porter. 
 
 As the train moved away, Sydney saw Clive stand- 
 ing there, smiling. But there was no sign of Dun- 
 can. Suddenly there came back to her mind some 
 words of Lady Flood's, uttered when they were play- 
 ing poker-patience on the night of Moira's wed- 
 ding: "/ can't think what induced you to throw away 
 that heart. . . ." The memory brought a little 
 flush to her face. She raised her eyes and saw that 
 Roma was looking at her. 
 
 "So Mr. Turner won't accept his conge?" she said 
 lazily. 
 
 "Oh, yes; he only came to see me off." 
 
 "I'm afraid you haven't quite convinced him, all 
 the same," said Roma, smiling. 
 
 "He was afraid I should feel lonely with no one 
 to come and see me at the station," Sydney explained, 
 lamely. She had an ardent wish to defend Duncan. 
 After all, he counted for something. He was the 
 only man who had ever loved her and wished to 
 marry her. 
 
 "He would make an excellent husband he has 
 all the qualities," said Mrs. Cochrane. "Still, you're 
 quite right not to think of marriage, and I admire 
 you very much for not tying yourself down to a 
 long engagement, it would only have complicated 
 everything." She leaned back in her chair and 
 turned over the leaves of an illustrated paper. Clive 
 had flung a bundle of magazines and picture-papers 
 into the train on arrival. 
 
 Suddenly Moreton bent over and said to his wife: 
 
 "What's the matter with Clive? Why's he in 
 such a temper?" 
 
 Mrs. Cochrane looked up coolly.
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON in 
 
 "He's annoyed because he can't have his rooms 
 in Venice, and Mr. Graham has given up going to 
 Algiers. So Master Clive has fallen somewhat 
 heavily between two stools !" 
 
 "But, Roma! When did you know this? You 
 ought to have told me! You know I never pre- 
 vent Clive from coming when he wants to. It's 
 his home. . . ." Moreton's face was working with 
 excitement and looked incredibly wrinkled. 
 
 "It happened not to be convenient to me to re- 
 ceive him," replied Mrs. Cochrane, with a shade 
 of annoyance in her tone. "I have tried to make 
 him look at the whole thing reasonably, but you 
 know how utterly unreasonable Clive is. It's your 
 fault you've had the training of him, and you've 
 spoilt him all his life." 
 
 "But you assured me that he didn't want to come 
 now!" began Moreton excitedly. 
 
 "No more he did last week. But he's changed 
 again he's always changing." She gave a slight 
 frown as if to warn Moreton not to discuss the mat- 
 ter further before Sydney. 
 
 "But, my dear Roma!" 
 
 "Darling Moreton, don't worry me, please, about 
 Clive ! Even I enjoy a little holiday from him now 
 and then." 
 
 She returned to the picture papers, and became 
 seemingly absorbed in them. But the conversation 
 diminished in some sense Sydney's pleasure in the 
 journey. She felt certain that Mrs. Cochrane had 
 so eagerly invited her to go with them to Venice on 
 purpose to keep Clive away if only for a few weeks. 
 Perhaps she had some private reason for treating 
 him in this fashion. Once she had said that "He 
 took their indulgence too much for granted." Was 
 it to punish him that she had entreated Sydney to 
 go with them, so that his rooms should not be avail-
 
 ii2 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 able in case he changed his mind? Clive had evi- 
 dently blamed Sydney; he had scarcely spoken to 
 her to-day, had hardly noticed her. Yet once or 
 twice she had thought his blue eyes had glanced re- 
 sentfully in her direction. 
 
 Suddenly Mrs. Cochrane flung down the paper she 
 was reading and said: 
 
 "I hate spoilt children! Clive is nothing but a 
 spoilt child disturbing us in this way just when we 
 were leaving." 
 
 Moreton held his peace. He was devoted to 
 Clive, and was far more patient and indulgent with 
 him than Roma. His attitude towards the young 
 man was perfectly consistent and never varied; it 
 was that of a father towards a greatly beloved son. 
 Yet Moreton had never shown Clive a father's 
 severity, and perhaps it was true that he had spoilt 
 him. He could remember the boy's pitiable grief 
 when he announced his engagement to him about 
 eleven years ago. "I shall lose you now. She'll 
 hate me and come between us. I shan't be allowed 
 to live with you. It'll be worse than having a step- 
 mother!" He recalled those broken phrases, ut- 
 tered between sobs. But Roma had not fulfilled 
 those gloomy prophecies. On the contrary, she had 
 always liked Clive, and very soon he had begun to 
 display a boy's doglike devotion to her. She man- 
 aged him perfectly, for he was afraid in those days 
 of losing her good opinion. The boyish devotion 
 had long been a phase of the past, but there was 
 still a great friendship between the two. It was 
 only rarely that Roma asserted her authority as 
 Moreton's wife to refuse Clive anything. Her at- 
 titude often puzzled Moreton. Sometimes she 
 made him almost jealous by the frank and friendly 
 intimacy she displayed to Clive; sometimes she an- 
 noyed him by treating his cousin in a cavalier fashion
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 113 
 
 as if he were of no importance and had no right 
 to be with them always. And Moreton knew that 
 Clive suffered under such capricious treatment. Es- 
 pecially he suffered from the process of swift if 
 tacit retaliation that was certain to follow any lapse 
 of consideration on his part. Roma was fickle in 
 her friendships, as Moreton knew; she quickly tired 
 of people and was capable of shutting the door de- 
 terminedly upon them. But she was fond of Clive, 
 and she had a good influence over him, restraining 
 him from a tendency to extravagance, and giving 
 him sound advice in his many love-affairs. 
 
 Moreton felt certain that Sydney's presence with 
 them now was intended as a kind of retribution for 
 some minor offense of Clive's. And the "boy," as 
 he always called him in his thoughts, had resented 
 it bitterly. But Moreton's devotion to his wife re- 
 strained him from any further pleading of the 
 "boy's" cause. Perhaps it would be good for Clive 
 to spend a few months apart from them. He would 
 only idle in Venice. He ought to marry. . . . 
 
 And at this point of his meditations Moreton's 
 eye fell upon Sydney Flood. Why shouldn't he 
 marry that little girl? A charming gifted creature, 
 with a little money and good connections. It would 
 be an admirable solution. They needn't be in any 
 hurry perhaps in about two years' time, when she 
 had thoroughly mastered the technique of her art. 
 Clive would be thirty then a good age for a man 
 to marry. He ought to have a home of his own. 
 
 The train sped swiftly on through the beautiful 
 Kentish fields, passing woods where primroses lay 
 in pale patches on the banks, and where under trees 
 that were scantily veiled in emerald mists a glimmer 
 of gold made itself visible where the first daffodils 
 lifted their green spears and yellow helmets to greet 
 the spring. Here and there a wild cherry tree stood
 
 n 4 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 out like a forest-bride, smothered in the snow of 
 her blossom. England was awakening out of her 
 winter sleep, a <slow, tardy, almost reluctant, but 
 very exquisite, awakening. In the South they would 
 find summ&r sunshine, a riot of roses. . . .
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THE night was warm for April and very wind- 
 less. At Padua the little party left the train, 
 dined, and then started in a motor for Fusina, whence 
 they were to travel to Venice in the Cochranes' 
 motor-boat. This last part of the journey a swift 
 voyaging upon a dim mysterious sea was perhaps 
 the most beautiful of all. 
 
 On their way to Fusina they traversed wide 
 plains, crossed luminous rivers, and passed through 
 innumerable villages illuminated with electric light. 
 Sometimes they saw in the distance glimpses of 
 lonely hills crowned with great pilgrimage churches. 
 Soon they came in sight of the lagoon, lying broad 
 and pale under the stars. Far off through the night, 
 Venice with her wonderful towers sprang mysteri- 
 ously, as it seemed, out of the very water. To Syd- 
 ney she was like one of those legendary cities sub- 
 merged suddenly by the sea and then salvaged and 
 brought up to the surface again, floating upon the 
 water, complete and triumphant, eternally beauti- 
 ful. . . . 
 
 The long line of glittering lights seemed to be in 
 friendly converse with the stars that hung so low 
 in the skies above her. 
 
 During that voyage across the lagoon Sydney sat 
 very still by Roma's side. She could see the long, 
 thin black line that joined Venice to the mainland, 
 lying like a black shadow upon the water. Across 
 it a train, its windows shining like flame-colored 
 squares, traveled rapidly. 
 
 Roma was sleepy; she had said little since they 
 "5
 
 n6 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 had left Padua. Now she suddenly roused her- 
 self to give an order to the men in rapid Italian. 
 Moreton turned to her expostulating: 
 
 "But, my dear it's simply miles out of our way! 
 We want to get home and to bed as soon as pos- 
 sible." 
 
 Roma smiled indolently. "Dear Moreton I 
 simply can't go in so soon on such a heavenly night. 
 And it won't take half an hour longer." 
 
 By this Sydney understood that they were to pro- 
 long the voyage. The thought pleased her. This 
 rapid rushing through the night had a stimulating, 
 exciting effect upon her imagination. 
 
 Their way was indicated by twin rows of black 
 posts rising in velvet darkness from the water, with 
 guiding lights showing at intervals. Presently they 
 passed a taller post standing high and solitary and 
 apart. A tiny structure surmounted it with over- 
 hanging eaves. Before it a blue lamp burned flick- 
 eringly, dimly revealing the statue of a Mother and 
 Child within. Sydney pointed it out to Roma and 
 asked what it was. Mrs. Cochrane, who had re- 
 verted to her former somnolent state, opened her 
 eyes and said: 
 
 "Oh, that's a shrine there's a figure of the Ma- 
 donna in it. The fisher-people put lights and flow- 
 ers before it, and go there to pray. They're awfully 
 superstitious here, you know." She closed her eyes 
 again. 
 
 The little shrine impressed Sydney more perhaps 
 than she realized at the time. In its loneliness the 
 appeal it made seemed to her almost pathetic. She 
 had never lived in a Catholic country, and knew 
 little or nothing of the devotion to the Mother of 
 God which is the natural outcome of a passionate 
 hereditary faith in those stupendous words, repeated 
 every day at Holy Mass: And the Word was made
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 117 
 
 Flesh and dwelt among us. . . . She turned her 
 head and looked back, and saw the little blue light 
 shining like a beacon across the darkness. And 
 she had a fantastic belief that it had in a sense pro- 
 tected and sanctified her new beginning this little 
 lonely shrine set in the midst of the waters, with 
 the Mother and Child keeping eternal watch. It 
 gave her for the first time in her life, perhaps, a 
 wish to pray. 
 
 If Roma had not had this whim to prolong their 
 little voyage, she felt that she might never have 
 seen that shrine. 
 
 Presently Mrs. Cochrane gave another order, and 
 the motor-boat turned once more towards Venice. 
 Soon they neared the city, with her lights, her soar- 
 ing towers, her sleeping darkened palaces, her 
 islands lying apart and crowned always with tower 
 or dome. They passed by the Island of San Giorgio, 
 skirting the canal of the Giudecca with its great 
 domed church, and entered the Grand Canal with 
 its marvelous palaces the most splendid perhaps 
 that exist in the whole world. 
 
 On the golden ball at the point of the Dogana 
 the figure of Fortune holding out its cloak for a 
 vane moved in response to the almost imperceptible 
 breeze. Beyond it the silvery Dome of Santa Maria 
 della Salute rose massive and solemn. On the other 
 side the hotels showed their garish lights, and lit- 
 tle groups of people still lingered on the terraces 
 that went down sheer to the water's edge. Some- 
 where in the distance the strains of a serenade 
 drifted across the water with a kind of subdued and 
 persistent melancholy. 
 
 There was very little traffic on the Grand Canal 
 at that hour. But sometimes a gondola emerged 
 from a little no, crossed the broad stream and 
 vanished up one of those narrow water-ways, its
 
 sharp-pointed prow accomplishing the difficult curve 
 with a strange unerring precision. The long warn- 
 ing cry of the gondolier echoed through the night, 
 smiting across the silence with an almost sinister 
 effect. 
 
 They came in sight of a bridge that glimmered 
 palely. Moreton, as if stimulated by an obscure 
 sense of duty, murmured sleepily to Sydney: "The 
 Rialto Merchant of Venice, you know," and then 
 relapsed into silence. 
 
 Roma had not spoken since they passed the 
 shrine, except to give the order to return. She 
 leaned back with an indolent, contented look upon 
 her face, like some one enjoying the effects of a 
 delicious drug. 
 
 The silver lights and ebony shadows mingled and 
 moved together as if floating upon the broad breast 
 of the water. Venice at night seemed to Sydney 
 to be a city of ceaseless and secret tragedy. 
 
 The motor-boat turned up a rio, passed under a 
 narrow stone bridge, and stopped before a flight of 
 steps washed by the water. 
 
 "This is our house," said Roma; "we never come 
 through the garden at night or with luggage." 
 
 Moreton was the first to land on the wet and 
 slippery steps; he held out his hand to Roma, and 
 then to Sydney. The door above was meanwhile 
 opened, and the strong electric light glanced down 
 sharply upon the little group of people. 
 
 Sydney followed Roma into the house and up a 
 wide marble staircase. They found themselves in 
 a noble hall with painted ceiling and porphyry pil- 
 lars. Some high antique chairs with carved backs, 
 and a few ormolu and marble console-tables ar- 
 ranged around the walls formed almost the only 
 furniture. It was brilliantly lit with electric light. 
 
 Some servants stood there, bowing and uttering
 
 119 
 
 words of welcome. Roma smiled at them, answer- 
 ing them in rapid, perfect Italian. They passed 
 through a splendid suite of rooms until they reached 
 one where they found supper prepared for them. 
 Sydney took her seat at the table, feeling miserably 
 tired. Her head whirled from those long hours 
 spent in the train, as well as from the rapid, almost 
 tumultuous, motion of the motor-boat. She longed 
 to go to bed, but she did not like to suggest it. 
 Roma, who had seemed almost somnolent during the 
 journey from Padua, was now wide-awake, and de- 
 clared that she was very hungry. Moreton insisted 
 that they should both drink some champagne. Even 
 when the meal had come to an end, no one seemed 
 in a hurry to move. Roma sat there, smoking a 
 cigarette, listening to Moreton. Noticing Sydney's 
 silence at last she said to her: 
 
 "You must be tired. I dare say you'd like to go 
 to your room. My maid, Ermelinda, shall take you 
 up there." She pressed a bell that was fixed to 
 the table, and gave the order. 
 
 "Good-night," she said, smiling at Sydney; "mind 
 you don't get up too early. We have luncheon here 
 at half-past twelve, and you're not likely to find 
 any one visible before then." 
 
 The Italian maid guided Sydney up a couple of 
 flights of steep stairs of uncarpeted marble, and into 
 a room at the top of the house that looked over the 
 little garden to the waters of the Grand Canal. The 
 room was large and spacious and had two tall nar- 
 row windows with a little balcony outside. Traces 
 of Clive were visible in a few English sporting- 
 prints that hung on the walls and looked singularly 
 out of place when combined with a delightful painted 
 ceiling whereon Phaeton was to be seen driving the 
 chariot of the sun upon rifts of golden cloud. Some 
 shelves were filled with English and French novels.
 
 120 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 The painted wooden bedstead had a canopy of faded 
 crimson damask above it, and what furniture there 
 was, was rich and splendid. 
 
 The maid opened a door at the other side of the 
 room and switched on the light. "This is the 
 salotto/' she announced, "the salotto of the 
 Signorino." 
 
 Sydney went to the door and looked in. The 
 salotto was larger than the bedroom, and was a fine 
 spacious apartment with painted ceiling and carven 
 doors, and gilt cornices. One or two English arm- 
 chairs and a big Chesterfield provided a note of 
 homely modern comfort in the midst of the faded 
 Venetian magnificence. A large scrivania with books 
 and pens and ink upon it stood in the window. And 
 here, too, there were evidences of dive's occupa- 
 tion. Books, a pipe, ash-trays the little trivial 
 possessions of a man who has gone away, confi- 
 dently expecting to return. They made Sydney feel 
 like an interloper. He must hate the thought of 
 her being here. She could almost see his blue re- 
 sentful eyes fixed upon her. 
 
 She switched off the light and, closing the door 
 after her, returned to her bedroom. The maid was 
 standing there, and pointing to the trunks asked her 
 a question in Italian. Sydney did not understand 
 and shook her head, with a smile. The woman re- 
 peated the question in broken French. Could she 
 help mademoiselle to unpack? Was there anything 
 she could do for her? 
 
 "No, thank you," said Sydney; "I'm not going 
 to unpack to-night. I shall find everything 1 want 
 in that suitcase. And I don't want any help." She 
 smiled at Ermelinda. 
 
 The maid moved towards the door. 
 
 "Buona sera, sianorina. Buon riposo" She 
 went out of the room.
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 121 
 
 Sydney undressed quickly. She had learned that 
 art in the hospital where the hours of sleep had 
 been too few and too precious to be wasted. She 
 brushed back her short hair, and standing there in 
 her white cambric nightdress with its blue ribbons, 
 she looked very young and childish indeed. Before 
 going to bed she went to the window and found 
 that it was closed, and that an outside shutter of 
 solid wood was fastened across it. After strug- 
 gling a little, she succeeded in opening them both, 
 and she looked across the quiet, dark little garden 
 lying in shadow below her to the broad black wa- 
 ters of the Canal, broken by the reflected lights from 
 the opposite houses. It was late, and the busy traf- 
 fic had almost ceased. She saw only a belated gon- 
 dola going past, a black, cumbrous, funereal mass 
 gliding, as it seemed, on the very surface of the 
 water, with its solitary upstanding pilot silhouetted 
 against the wall of a palace on the other side. She 
 could not help admiring the man's graceful poise, 
 his skilled practiced movements. Now it, too, had 
 passed out of sight, and the cold deep waters were 
 undisturbed. 
 
 Back to her mind there came suddenly, irrel- 
 evantly, the remembrance of the little lonely shrine 
 of the Madonna, out there in the heart of the la- 
 goon, with the flickering blue lamp burning before 
 it all through the night. That lamp seemed to cast 
 its trembling reflection across her thoughts, invest- 
 ing them with an unaccustomed illumination, even 
 as it had cast its glow into the dark and silent wa- 
 ters flowing beneath it. And in that hour of curi- 
 ously stimulated mental activity, it seemed to Syd- 
 ney that it was a beacon light, placed there in 
 some strange and inexplicable way to guide herself 
 and other lonely pilgrims who were still ignorant of 
 their ultimate bourne. People put flowers and
 
 THE LIGHT: ON THE LAGOON 
 
 lights there, and prayed to the Mother of God, 
 perhaps imploring her suffrages for dear ones ex- 
 posed to perils on the deep seas that lay beyond 
 Venice. 
 
 To this girl, untrained and untaught, the little 
 shrine was not only a new and unaccustomed thing, 
 but, greeting her as it had done on the very threshold 
 of that new adventure, it seemed to hold a definite 
 spiritual message for herself. Its presence, so sud- 
 denly perceived, had been mysterious and arresting; 
 it had thrilled her and stirred her mind to a fresh 
 activity. The Mother of God keeping watch over 
 the lonely lagoon, holding the Child in her arms 
 as if mutely entreating that He should be remem- 
 bered by those who passed by ! ... 
 
 Sydney knelt down by the window and prayed. 
 It was a formless prayer, yet she seemed to be sup- 
 plicating for help and guidance in her new life. 
 Would not that caressing night-wind waft the words 
 of her little prayer, confused and imperfect as it 
 was, across the wide waters and carry them to the 
 little shrine that stood so solitary in the midst of 
 the lagoon? 
 
 Then she crept into bed and fell asleep. She 
 slept until long after the white spring dawn had 
 broken over Venice and touched the snows upon the 
 distant Alps to rose-color. Even the awakening 
 of traffic, the hoot of steamer, the cry of gondolier, 
 the noisy rushing of motor-boat upon the Grand 
 Canal, failed to disturb her, as she lay there, sleep- 
 ing tranquilly as a child. But into her dreams there 
 flashed always the confused remembrance of a blue 
 light flickering high above the dark ^ilent waters, 
 illuminating a wooden structure with^ overhanging 
 eaves in whose shadows there glimmered palely the 
 figure of the Madonna, holding the Divine Child 
 in her arms.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 A FEW days after her arrival in Venice, Sydney's 
 work began. Moreton Cochrane arranged that 
 she should attend a studio three days a week, where 
 she was to work under an eminent artist, Pinelli. 
 
 Pinelli was an old friend of Moreton Cochrane' s. 
 He had known him before his marriage, had often 
 helped him in his quest for pictures and precious 
 objects destined to enrich the collections of British 
 and American millionaires. This quest had been 
 somewhat in abeyance during the last four years, 
 although it had never wholly ceased, for the War 
 had impoverished many of those who formerly pos- 
 sessed, and enriched others who were able for the 
 first time in their lives to satisfy a desire for pos- 
 session. Thus the pendulum continued to swing 
 backwards and forwards, and Moreton took advan- 
 tage of its swinging. 
 
 "I'm very anxious to see what she'll make of 
 Venice," he told Pinelli, in a confidential interview. 
 "Of course, her forte lies in landscape. But I saw 
 one or two sketches of heads that were individual 
 and promising. She's got that absolute insistence 
 upon truth which you see so prominently now in 
 young artists." 
 
 Pinelli looked at the sketches and shrugged his 
 shoulders. 
 
 "She must learn to draw," he said. 
 
 He was an odd-looking shaggy man, short, with 
 broad shoulders and a leonine head. But in his 
 immense, capable hands pencils and brushes became 
 like animated things that worked with swift preci- 
 
 123
 
 i2 4 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 sion and skill, almost as it were of themselves. Syd- 
 ney, obedient, tractable, and desperately in earnest, 
 worked under him during the weeks of a superb 
 April that followed her arrival in Venice. 
 
 She was not unhappy, but sometimes she was de- 
 pressed in these new and unaccustomed surround- 
 ings. Homesickness, of an unexpected kind, as- 
 sailed her. She had never been so separated from 
 her own family before, and though they had often 
 seemed unsympathetic and uncongenial, she missed 
 them more than she had believed possible. Moira 
 never wrote to her, Jack but seldom, and the post- 
 cards, which were all that Lady Flood's injured 
 pride would permit her to send, were singularly un- 
 illuminating. Towards the beginning of May she 
 read a brief announcement in the New York Herald 
 to the effect that Lord and Lady Wanley had re- 
 turned to London and had taken up their abode 
 at 500 Park Lane. So it had come to this she 
 must learn family happenings through the newspa- 
 pers. Her mother had never alluded to Moira's 
 return, and Sydney had always thought they intended 
 to spend a much longer time abroad. The truth 
 was that Egypt had not suited Moira ; the heat was 
 already intense when they arrived in Cairo, and 
 Wanley, terrified at the signs of indisposition on 
 the part of his beloved bride, took their passages by 
 the next steamer, and returned home. They did not 
 even spend a few weeks in the South of France as 
 they had originally intended. 
 
 But there were times when these little annoyances 
 were utterly forgotten by Sydney Flood, determined 
 to do her best and to make the best, too, of her new 
 life. They were the days when Venice held her 
 in a warm, close clasp that chased away homesick- 
 ness and made life supremely worth while. Venice 
 was so beautiful on certain days, in certain lights,
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 125 
 
 that its loveliness, always so great, seemed to be- 
 come almost unearthly. This city of sky and sea, 
 of light and water, dazzled you. You could only 
 gaze bewildered, almost doubting its reality, half 
 believing, too, that it must vanish as you looked. 
 All that had been written about it or said of it, was 
 inadequate, for no words could translate its beauty 
 into phrases that could in any way describe it. Its 
 spell had indeed begun for Sydney that first night, 
 during the swift rushing across the lagoon from 
 Fusina, under the stars. . . . But the daylight im- 
 pressions were wonderful, too, when everything was 
 painted in strong pure colors, the blue water and 
 bluer sky, the dull red or bright gold of motionless 
 sails poised like butterflies upon the lagoon, the rosy 
 effect of San Giorgio, the uplifted towers, rising 
 everywhere above the water, leaning sometimes a 
 little towards each other as if in the act of whisper- 
 ing some ancient subtle secret. There were gar- 
 dens overhung with roses and with the pendent 
 mauve-gray garlands of wistaria. Little gardens 
 steeped in the quiet blue shade of cypress and palm 
 and ilex, with a fountain perhaps, a gray statue that 
 was white when the sun shone upon it, a rim of scar- 
 let flowers lifting diminutive torches. Fluid effects 
 of color and light, and cool transparent shadows; 
 the purple that lingered in the shade of the umbrella- 
 pines in some ancient garden hidden away in a re- 
 cess of the city; the gold that trickled through and 
 spangled the water below; the jade-green of shadows 
 flung by some old palace leaning over a narrow rio. 
 Picture after picture rose before her, framed arbi- 
 trarily by the rising walls of the palaces that bor- 
 dered those narrow canals, linked by an arching stone 
 bridge. No sound of street traffic ever fell on the 
 ear; one walked freely, safely, from place to place, 
 through quiet squares, across tiny bridges, through
 
 126 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 busy markets, and streets of gay shops full of the 
 wares of Paris. Not a horse, not a bicycle, not a 
 motor-car, was ever to be seen there. The traffic 
 was all relegated to those intricate winding water- 
 ways, to the broad canals, to the open, sunny 
 lagoons. 
 
 But there was necessarily loneliness in this new 
 life. Cut off from all her former companions and 
 associates, Sydney depended entirely upon Roma for 
 companionship. And Roma was far too much oc- 
 cupied to have leisure to attend to her. She had 
 many friends in Venice; she loved to spend a great 
 deal of time on the water, in her own gondola or 
 motor-boat. She made frequent expeditions with 
 gay parties of her friends to the more distant islands, 
 and she did not often invite Sydney to accompany 
 her. It would hardly have occurred to her to do 
 so. Sydney was staying with them for a definite pur- 
 pose, and she must not be encouraged to waste her 
 time. If she had only her art to look to in the 
 future, it would be cruel to diminish her opportuni- 
 ties for studying now. So Roma reasoned, and 
 Moreton supported her in this view. 
 
 "She hasn't come here to play," he said, "and she 
 can potter about Venice as much as she likes by her- 
 self." 
 
 Sydney pottered a great deal. She admired 
 whole-heartedly the tall and slender Venetian girls, 
 their shoulders draped with the deep-fringed silken 
 shawls that they wore with such a superb, natural 
 grace. Dark-haired, red-haired, golden-haired, with 
 the dark eyes of the South, or the bright blue ones 
 that belong to Northern peoples, they were, to 
 Sydney's thinking, always graceful and often very 
 beautiful. The shawls closely wrapped about them 
 gave a narrow look to their shoulders, and often 
 increased the slenderness of their outline. They
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 127 
 
 wore no hats on their wonderful hair, and their 
 skins had that golden look which only a southern 
 sun can impart. 
 
 It was not the best of years for seeing the treas- 
 ures of Venice. The Accademia was still closed. 
 Many of the pictures and treasures had not returned 
 from their mournful exile to the cellars of Rome 
 and Florence ; others had come back but had not as 
 yet been restored to their ancient places. But the 
 four bronze horses galloped triumphantly upon St. 
 Mark's, and the great equestrian statue of Colleoni 
 rode, as has been well said, into space, before the 
 Church of SS. Giovanni and Paolo. 
 
 Unknown to Sydney, Pinelli's first report was none 
 too favorable, a fact which quenched Moreton's ar- 
 dor a little. But Pinelli was ever slow to cry 
 genius. There was aptitude, a pretty little talent, 
 a touch of individuality. But she needed years of 
 training. She hadn't the technical equipment of the 
 average art-student of her years. Sydney was nerv- 
 ously aware that Moreton watched her closely. He 
 was impatient, he wanted her to develop, to blos- 
 som, immediately. She mustn't idle. Not being 
 an artist himself made him unaware of the absolute 
 need of idle hours in an artist's life. Sydney needed 
 space and leisure in which to absorb all these won- 
 derful novel impressions, to steep herself in this new 
 fluid world of water and sky, with the uplifted tow- 
 ers that seemed to rise on purpose to link them like 
 a message between earth and heaven. ^ 
 
 Roma was always kind, counteracting if she no- 
 ticed it Moreton's impatient severity. Sydney's 
 devotion to her deepened profoundly during those 
 first weeks; it absorbed her life fully as much as 
 her work did, and in her imagination was even 
 subtly linked with it. A word, a smile, from Roma, 
 and she would work with feverish energy for the
 
 rest of the day, scarcely giving herself time to eat. 
 Whatever happened she must not disappoint Roma. 
 And Pinelli said to Moreton: "Don't let her work 
 so hard. She's overdoing it she'll get stale." He 
 soon perceived in her those signs of nervous exhaus- 
 tion, of acute tension, of feverish, unnatural energy 
 things that Moreton and his wife were too busy 
 or too much preoccupied to notice. 
 
 Roma was more adorable than ever in her Vene- 
 tian setting. She seemed to belong to those stately, 
 splendid rooms, with their carvings, their alabaster 
 panels, their damask hangings, dim frescoes, and 
 painted ceilings. With her dark hair and eyes, her 
 slim long throat, her delicate small features, she 
 might have been a reincarnation of some great Vene- 
 tian lady of bygone days. One saw faces like hers 
 in some of the old pictures . . . faces that held sad- 
 ness and tragedy and yet the happiness that comes 
 to all women of great beauty. 
 
 She had her own little court of men and women. 
 There were rich English and Americans, passing 
 through Venice on their way home from the South 
 and the East; Italians from all parts of Italy, some 
 of whom had journeyed thither on purpose to see 
 the Cochranes, full of new schemes and plans ; many 
 French, and here and there a sad-eyed Russian or 
 Pole for whom the long tragedy of the War had 
 not yet terminated. Roma, who had the gift of 
 tongues and had also been brought up entirely 
 abroad, spoke French and Italian with equal ease. 
 Among that gay, cosmopolitan crowd that thronged 
 their great rooms that year, she was always the 
 most beautiful woman present. Little Sydney 
 Flood, when she did appear, was scarcely more no- 
 ticed than she had been when she had helped her 
 mother to pour out tea in the little Mayfair draw- 
 ing-room. It seemed as if she had brought with 
 her her old cloak of invisibility. Roma quenched
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 129 
 
 her, as at home Moira had quenched her. But one 
 or two of the older men did take away with them 
 a careful impression of that young, blond English 
 girl, with the childishly bobbed hair, and the grave 
 serious eyes set wide apart that seemed to be gazing 
 on strange visions. . . . 
 
 May passed, and June set in with unusual heat 
 that year. Sydney, nurtured in the North, failed a 
 little under it at first. She had a disinclination to 
 stir; she spent long hours gazing from her upper 
 windows at the busy life of the Grand Canal. She 
 could have drawn by heart those gray Gothic pal- 
 aces opposite mute witnesses of a past age of glory 
 and luxury when Venice had made a chapter in the 
 history of the world. She thought of the genera- 
 tions of men and women, now among the immortals 
 perhaps, who had lived here, died here, had come 
 and gone, had watched as she was watching, had 
 steeped themselves in this unreal beauty, and 
 breathed the soft air of the wide salt lagoons. 
 Venice in summer was assuredly a place to be idle 
 in. She was ashamed of her small accomplishment 
 -of her daily shirking of her task. There was a 
 new wish to be with Roma to go out with her in 
 the motor-boat, and feel the quick rush of air against 
 her hot face. It was a little lonely up here, by one- 
 self, in the heat. . . . 
 
 The grass in the little garden was growing brown. 
 The wistaria hung out the darker violet pendants 
 of its second blossoming. The palms and banana 
 plants acquired a fresher green; heat such as this 
 was their natural element. The oleanders burned 
 with steady flame, making patches of rose-colored 
 fire that decorated every garden and hung over each 
 narrow canal. There were two pure white ones 
 in the Cochranes' little garden ; they blossomed bride- 
 like amid the twilight shadows of ilex and cypress. 
 Roma had arranged some immense silken parasols
 
 130 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 of deep rose-color in the garden, with chairs and 
 little tables set beneath them. When they sat there, 
 as they often did in the morning and late evening, 
 they could see the traffic on the Grand Canal, the 
 crowded steamers, the noisy motor-boats, the gon- 
 dolas stately and solemn, passing up and down. 
 
 Her first inertia over, Sydney resumed her old 
 walks. St. Mark's was- ^as indeed it is to most 
 visitors the magnet that perpetually attracted her. 
 She liked the wide spaciousness of the piazza, home 
 of those flocks of expectant pigeons that fluttered 
 their iridescent wings in the strong fierce sunlight; 
 the five pale golden domes outlined against the pure 
 blue of the sky; the great campanile that dwarfed 
 everything, standing apart and isolated, a rosy shaft 
 lifted heavenwards. It was meant to be seen from 
 the sea and the lagoon when it arose splendid and 
 dominating. But it was the church itself that fas- 
 cinated her, with its dim recesses, the glimmer of 
 gold from its ancient exquisite mosaics, its wonder- 
 fully colored pavement, jewel-like in its many-hued 
 beauty. It is perhaps one of the most devotional 
 churches in the world, and its atmosphere strongly 
 impressed Sydney. Once she was present at High 
 Mass there, when all the church was in festa, and 
 she saw the Cardinal Patriarch enter in procession, 
 attended by bishops and priests, and wearing the 
 flowing scarlet of his gala array. She saw a face 
 like that of some ancient Doge, carven, pale, con- 
 trolled. She saw him kneeling in prayer by the 
 chapel of the Blessed Sacrament, before ascending 
 to his throne in the choir. She heard the magnifi- 
 cent singing, and was present for the first time at 
 the Holy Sacrifice. It was a moment never to be 
 forgotten. She recovered something of that strange 
 thrill of emotion she had experienced when she had 
 first seen the light on the lagoon burning before a
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 131 
 
 shrine of the Madonna. It was about that time 
 that she came across a Missal in English and Latin 
 in an old shop and purchased it. It would explain, 
 she felt certain, all that she was unable to under- 
 stand. She studied it closely, and learned to "fol- 
 low" Mass. Even Roma had no idea whither her 
 thoughts were tending. She felt shy of speaking 
 about spiritual things to Roma, recognizing her as 
 one of those bright pagan spirits that pass through 
 life untouched by any craving for religious consola- 
 tion. 
 
 Her new quest was strongly stimulated by the 
 splendor of the Venetian pictures. It was the Cath- 
 olic content of their art that chiefly amazed her. 
 The Last Supper, the Descent from the Cross, the 
 Crucifixion, the Madonna and Child with attendant 
 Saints these passed before her eyes in almost every 
 church she visited. It was an example of the effect 
 of religion and faith upon art which should silence 
 all latter-day scoffers, and the melancholy upholders 
 of the Art-for-Art's-sake theory. Art when di- 
 vorced from Faith seemed to lose much of its value, 
 perhaps the whole of its spiritual value, which is 
 the most permanent of all. But it was Art that 
 was the loser, not Faith. Faith still continued mag- 
 nificently in this Church to which such divine and 
 eternal promises had been made. It was neither 
 moribund nor dead, as Sydney had sometimes heard 
 said of it in England. It was as strong and vital 
 a factor in Catholic countries as it had ever been; 
 its mission work was now second to none in the 
 whole course of its history since the first Apostolic 
 days. And the sight of those pictures painted for 
 God, for the decoration of His holy house, to teach 
 the story of Our Divine Lord's life upon earth sim- 
 ply, to the poor and illiterate, yet with a profound 
 spiritual knowledge and with a wealth of deeper
 
 132 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 meaning to the educated disheartened Sydney in 
 her own poor endeavor, more than any adverse criti- 
 cism from Moreton or from Pinelli could have done. 
 She saw that she wholly lacked spiritual inspira- 
 tion and vision, and without these it seemed to her 
 now that no art could ever be supremely worth 
 while. It could only be pretty and charming, pleas- 
 ant to the eye, mere portraiture or a thing of topo- 
 graphical interest, but of deeper meaning it would 
 possess nothing. It was their spiritual content 
 that made these old paintings so amazingly vital and 
 triumphant. 
 
 She began to experience, too, something of a Cath- 
 olic's devotion for the Saints, those great and holy 
 emissaries of God who seemed to bring His Heaven 
 a little closer to earth. St. Mark with his winged 
 lion, St. Theodore with his crocodile, were the two 
 patron saints of Venice whose reign had lasted across 
 the centuries, and whose guardianship of the sea- 
 girt city was never suffered to be forgotten. Yet 
 the wish to be a Catholic, to participate personally 
 in the divine riches of the Church, had not as yet 
 come to her. She was groping, and she found help 
 here of a practical salutary kind. But she did won- 
 der sometimes how Roma had managed to live so 
 long in Venice without ever being touched by its 
 spiritual message. Did she walk blindly among 
 these calm Madonnas, these wistful suffering Saints, 
 and only pause to admire the wonderful dexterity 
 with which they were grouped, colored, and por- 
 trayed? Did she never think of the, faith that 
 lit the lamp on the lagoon, and prompted the prayer 
 from the passer-by? 
 
 At times Sydney had a great longing to discuss 
 these things with some one who knew and under- 
 5tood, and could satisfy her craving for exact knowl- 
 edge on the subject. . . .
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 IT was in July that a letter came which seemed 
 abruptly to disturb the easy-going, calm order of 
 the household on the Grand Canal. 
 
 The heat was now intensified, but it had become 
 part of an ordered and accepted condition of things, 
 and ceased to arouse comment. Outside shutters 
 darkened the windows all through the hot hours 
 of the day. Roma enjoyed the hot weather, and 
 spent hours in dreamy indolence in her gondola, 
 or racing over to one of the islands in the motor- 
 boat. Most of her English and French friends 
 had fled before the heat, but the Italian ones re- 
 mained. She never lacked company of the gay and 
 wealthy beautifully dressed kind that suited her. 
 She and Sydney had made little progress in intimacy, 
 but she could always fan the girl's admiration for 
 her to a fine glow by going up to her studio, look- 
 ing at her work, and uttering a few gentle, caressing 
 words before she went downstairs again. 
 
 The letter was from Clive. He wrote announc- 
 ing that he was coming to Venice. Mrs. Cochrane 
 received it at luncheon, and immediately made known 
 its contents. 
 
 "Clive is coming," she said carelessly. "The 
 Erskines have thrown him over, so he is not going 
 to Scotland with them. It was absurd of him to 
 say that he would. But Clive is unlucky this year 
 ! all his plans have collapsed." She threw the let- 
 ter across the table to Moreton. 
 
 "But, my dear " began Moreton. 
 
 Roma cut him short. Both she and Sydney seemed 
 
 133
 
 134 THE LIGHT. ON THE LAGOON 
 
 to guess exactly what he had been going to 
 say. 
 
 "Of course he can go to the hotel. It'll only be 
 for a week or two, as with this heat I intend to go 
 to the Lido earlier than usual this year," Roma 
 said. 
 
 "You'll never get a room for him. The hotels 
 are all full. You forget people haven't been able 
 to come here for the last four years," grumbled 
 Moreton, glancing over the letter. Clive's writing 
 was very clear; he could read it without glasses. 
 
 "The Duke of Rimini is at the Splendid. Clive 
 can go there. He adores them both." 
 
 "He may not like to pay the price of a room at 
 the Splendid." 
 
 "He can have his meals with us," replied Roma. 
 
 She never lost her temper, never argued with 
 Moreton. But unfailingly she always succeeded in 
 getting her own way. Indeed, it seemed to Syd- 
 ney sometimes that there was a conspiracy on the 
 part of all about her to smooth her path for her. 
 Roma accepted such voluntary smoothings as a mat- 
 ter of course. Thus she went through life tread- 
 ing, metaphorically speaking, upon a soft carpet. 
 If the carpet had not been there . . . But such a 
 contingency was unthinkable ! . . . 
 
 "He will never put up with a room over a court- 
 yard," said Moreton, "and that's all he's likely to 
 get at the Splendid now." 
 
 "I shall see that he gets a good room," said Roma. 
 "I shall send Alfredo this afternoon to find out 
 about it." 
 
 "When's he coming?" said Moreton, referring 
 again to the letter. "Oh, Thursday that's in three 
 days' time. Well, we'd better make our plans for 
 going to the Lido as soon as possible. Clive's very 
 fond of the Lido."
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 135 
 
 Sydney had been there nearly three months, and 
 though he was still passionately interested in her as 
 a promising young artist, whose work had improved 
 by leaps and bounds since her sojourn in Venice, 
 Moreton was compelled to admit that he was grow- 
 ing a little weary of her as a perpetual inmate of his 
 own house. Clive, he reflected, was never a gene. 
 He was too much like a son of the house; he was 
 familiar with all its intimate side, and thus could 
 never* be in the way. They discussed plans and 
 business affairs and difficulties freely in front of 
 him, and he often helped them with his sagacious 
 worldly-wise advice. Clive kept Moreton in touch 
 with the younger generation, prevented him from 
 being or feeling himself an old fogey. But More- 
 ton felt that Sydney was very often in the way, and 
 sometimes he wondered how much longer Roma 
 meant to keep her there. Roma seemed fond of 
 the girl, but in a careless, negligent way. Sydney 
 was nervous with Moreton, and this obvious nerv- 
 ousness reacted on his own highly-strung tempera- 
 ment. She was pretty, of course; he hadn't realized 
 in London quite how pretty she was in that delicate 
 blond fashion of hers. It was an elusive sort of 
 beauty that one might very well pass by without per- 
 ceiving it. He wondered what Clive would make 
 of her, and whether she would bore him, too. That 
 she didn't bore Roma was certainly a feather in 
 her cap, for Roma quickly grew weary of girls. 
 She enjoyed stimulating their admiration up to a 
 certain point, but having done so, she liked to turn 
 to fresh fields for conquest. Novelty always charmed 
 her, and she especially liked the novelty of a new- 
 comer's point of view. It was when her influence 
 resulted in a slavish copying of her own methods and 
 views that Roma sickened of her success. But Syd- 
 ney never echoed Roma's opinions; she had sturdy
 
 136 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 ones of her own. Perhaps that was why Roma 
 hadn't yet tired of having her there, was still kind 
 and even tender in her attitude towards her. And 
 it was quite evident that Roma didn't intend to get 
 rid of her in order to make room for Clive. Clive 
 was to be sent to the hotel. 
 
 Moreton surveyed Sydney's work at regular in- 
 tervals. Although he could not draw a line him- 
 self, his eye for perspective and values was unfailing. 
 The least fault in technique disturbed him as a 
 wrong note in music would have done the tender 
 ear of a musician. But Sydney's technique had im- 
 proved wonderfully under Pinelli; her drawing was 
 now accurate and fearless. When annoyed with 
 her, Moreton would tell himself secretly that she 
 was entirely derivative and imitative. Already she 
 had acquired one or two of Pinelli's more pro- 
 nounced mannerisms. She wanted, he felt, the en- 
 ergy of strong originality, the power to see for her- 
 self with her own eyes. She tried to do what was 
 expected of her a fatal thing! He would have 
 liked to see her launch out into strong original 
 work. Without some bold effort of the kind you 
 could not have the inestimable experience of fail- 
 ure. That was what he told himself. It would 
 do her good to fail pitiably, and, "baffled, get up, 
 and begin again." Sydney's work was like herself, 
 delicate, charming, accurate. She had the sort of 
 talent that is better left alone when it has had suffi- 
 cient technical training to insure accuracy of draw- 
 ing. But Moreton, in his restless ambition for her, 
 failed to see this. He could only perceive that she 
 lacked force and vigor. He wanted to see the splen- 
 did, if faulty, effort of youth in her work, the mu- 
 tiny, the self-assertion, the individuality, that deter- 
 mined flinging down of the old standards and the 
 setting up of new ones in their stead, that so char-
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 137 
 
 acterized this gravely proven generation now that 
 it was freed from the ghastly work of war. The 
 mutiny of youth! . . . Why, the world was full 
 of it, it had invaded art as well as life. Poetry 
 music painting all were full of a new spirit and 
 meaning. Oh, the young and sad eyes that had seen 
 too much, and had been filled with rage, rebellion, 
 and anguish! . . . Moreton couldn't believe that 
 Sydney could be quite destitute of that fierce, young, 
 modern spirit. She was, after all, the child of her 
 generation. She had seen how necessary it was 
 for her art that she should break completely away 
 from the cramping atmosphere of a highly conven- 
 tional home. And in the hospital she must have 
 seen at close quarters, the broken men scarcely older 
 than herself, that costly wreckage of the battlefields 
 of France and Flanders. . . . 
 
 It was only at rare intervals that Sydney seemed 
 to Moreton to vouchsafe in her work something of 
 that cold and deliberate truth which for him had 
 invested her Winter Day in Chelsea with so much 
 charm. A bleak charm, it must be said, but one 
 that had led him to expect great things from the 
 artist. He would praise her then, but his words of 
 praise were not very frequent. Sydney was almost 
 as unmoved by them as she was now by his harsh 
 wounding sarcasms that at first had reduced her 
 to tears. She valued his opinion, but she saw him 
 moody and irritable, influenced too, to a curious ex- 
 tent, by Pinelli. 
 
 Whereas, a word of praise or of appreciation 
 from Roma would set her in the seventh heaven of 
 ecstasy. In Roma's hands she was like some sensi- 
 tive, highly attuned instrument. . . .
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE prospect of dive's arrival made Sydney 
 slightly uneasy. She was aware that Moreton 
 would have preferred him to return to his old quar- 
 ters. That Roma for some reason was averse to 
 this, was also perfectly apparent. Sydney was wise 
 enough to see that his coming would inevitably cause 
 a considerable change in their life. 
 
 When luncheon was over she went up to her room. 
 It was darkened, but she groped her way across 
 to the window and unfastened the wooden shutters. 
 She had not yet accustomed herself to live in that 
 complete airlessness such as the Italians will endure 
 rather than admit the fierce summer heat into their 
 rooms. 
 
 The sun shone blindingly on the waters of the 
 Grand Canal, and upon the opposite palaces with 
 their lovely stone tracery and decoration. A gon- 
 dola rocked in front of one of them, attached to 
 tall posts that were painted in bright tones of red 
 and gold and stood out of the water. 
 
 Below in the garden, Moreton and Roma were 
 smoking under the great silken sunshades. The 
 echo of their subdued voices scarcely reached her. 
 Once she heard Moreton laugh his rather shrill, 
 unpleasant laugh. She closed the shutters again 
 and threw herself on the sofa for her afternoon 
 siesta. 
 
 Downstairs Moreton was saying to his wife: "I 
 don't like the thought of the boy having to put up 
 at the Splendid; it's such an expense for him. You'd 
 
 138
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 139 
 
 far better let that girl go into rooms somewhere 
 she's been here quite long enough." 
 
 Roma smoked steadily in silence for a few min- 
 utes before she answered. Her indolent, beautiful 
 eyes were gazing dreamily through the cool green 
 mist of the trees to the shining water beyond. She 
 was dressed in white muslin, and in this simple at- 
 tire looked hardly more than a girl. 
 
 "My dear Moreton I'd rather send her back 
 home than do that. I should as soon think of turn- 
 ing a child out into the street on a winter night, 
 as letting her go into rooms. She hardly speaks 
 a word of Italian," she answered after a brief pause. 
 
 She lifted one slim arm and put it behind her 
 head as she leaned back on the long wicker chair. 
 Her arms were slender and strong, with tiny wrists 
 and hands. The very short sleeves she wore re- 
 vealed all their beauty. , 
 
 "She's not working as; she should," grumbled 
 Moreton. 
 
 "I should think not, indeed, with this tempera- 
 ture." Roma's voice was indolent and good-tem- 
 pered. "You are quite unreasonable, dear More- 
 ton." 
 
 "Pinelli's pretty sick of her, I'm sure, though he 
 doesn't say so. But I mean to tell her what I think 
 very soon. I don't care if she cries or not." 
 
 "She won't cry," prophesied Roma, "and if she 
 did, do you suppose it would improve her work? 
 You and Pinelli have a genius for making these po^r 
 young students miserable. I have seen Sydney quite 
 depressed sometimes, though she never says a word. 
 But I've done my best to keep up her courage." 
 
 "You ought not to try to. But, of course, she's 
 at your feet," he said grumblingly. 
 
 ''Is she?" Roma spoke indifferently. "I really 
 don't know. Of course, I think she likes me. Be-
 
 140 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 sides, you say that of everybody. I'm sorry for 
 her sometimes. I'd like to take her out with me 
 more, but I'm afraid of interfering with her work." 
 
 "It is far kinder to leave her quite alone." 
 
 "Well, anyhow I'm not going to send her away. 
 And, Moreton, take my advice and leave her alone 
 for a bit. You'll only make her self-conscious, and 
 then she won't be able to work at all. She's be- 
 wildered here Venice -Italy it's all so new to 
 her! She'd be wise not to touch a pencil or brush 
 for a few months. Of course, she's not able to 
 paint here yet she ought to steep herself in Venice 
 before she even tries !" 
 
 Moreton always listened to his wife. He be- 
 lieved in her, cherishing always an ardent half- 
 superstitious conviction that she was right. But 
 he only said: 
 
 "Perhaps I was wrong to interfere with her at 
 all. She ought to have married that young Philis- 
 tine who was in love with her, and looked after his 
 house and brought up her babies." 
 
 "Dear Moreton!" murmured Roma, remonstrat- 
 ingly. 
 
 "Well, I hate the thought of letting Clive go to 
 an hotel." 
 
 "You needn't worry about him. The Riminis will 
 be delighted to have him all to themselves. And I 
 shall go to the Lido quite soon." 
 
 "And is Miss Flood to come to the Lido, too?" 
 he inquired. 
 
 "Of course she is! I'm going to put her up in 
 that turret room I know it's an oven, but she won't 
 mind that, as long as she can bask in my smiles. 
 There's plenty of room for every one." 
 
 Moreton was mollified as these plans were dis- 
 closed to him. He had never known Roma aj- 
 range to go to her villa on the Lido so early in
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 141 
 
 the season before. Probably, though she didn't say 
 so, she was doing it on Clive's account. He con- 
 soled himself with the belief that her somewhat 
 cavalier treatment of Clive wasn't really intentional. 
 
 Roma was fond of her villa on the Lido, and 
 felt that its possession gave her importance. More- 
 ton had bought it, at her instigation, for a mere song 
 the first year of the War. Its owner had been 
 pessimistic about the fate of Venice, and was glad 
 to get rid of it even at the price Moreton offered. 
 Roma had encouraged the purchase, because she said 
 it was as safe for a speculative investment as 
 most things. She was never the ambassador of 
 prudence, and often encouraged Moreton in a spirit 
 of recklessness. He generally followed her advice. 
 He used to say that she brought him luck. 
 
 When she left him and went up to her room for 
 the prolonged siesta she daily indulged in, Moreton 
 remained in the garden. He had a conviction that 
 perhaps she was right about Sydney. The girl 
 ought to be left alone, and steep herself in these 
 new impressions. And Roma genuinely liked hav- 
 ing her there. She didn't see a great deal of her 
 perhaps that was the reason but she found her a 
 restful little companion in her rare hours of leisure. 
 Fortunately, so ran Moreton's thoughts, the villa at 
 the Lido was spacious enough to hold them all. It 
 had been built by a man who wanted a summer 
 residence for his own large family of boys and girls. 
 Moreton looked forward as eagerly to Clive's com- 
 ing as if he had really been his own son. Some- 
 times he used to tell himself that a son could hardly 
 have been dearer to him than this nonchalant young 
 cousin. Moreton was nearly thirty years his senior, 
 and looked even more, for Clive was one of those 
 fair boyish-looking men who preserve their youthful 
 appearance far into middle life.
 
 i 4 2 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 It would have been difficult for any one who 
 had known the Cochranes ever since their marriage, 
 to have pictured their menage without Clive; he 
 seemed so much one of the family. He was the 
 kind of man that is found sometimes in the house 
 of a childless married couple, having his assured if 
 ill-defined position as a permanent inmate, never 
 exciting the jealousy of either husband or wife, and 
 possessing a room of his own where he can always 
 leave his things. 
 
 It was the first time Roma had ever stood in the 
 way of his coming back to them, and Moreton un- 
 easily hoped that it would be the last. That she 
 had coolly given up his rooms to some one else had 
 established a precedent, and Moreton feared that 
 it might make Clive regard his position in their 
 house as less secure than formerly. And, of 
 course, he shouldn't like that to happen. When 
 he first married Roma, he had scarcely liked to 
 broach the subject of Clive to her; he was so 
 afraid that she might object to the presence in 
 their house of this seventeen-year-old schoolboy 
 during the holidays. But Roma, after seeing 
 him for the first time, had only said: "Oh, do 
 let him come! Why shouldn't he? He's such a 
 nice boy, Moreton! Only don't let him call me 
 'aunt.' I don't want to be anybody's aunt." Clive 
 was barely three years younger ,than Roma, and she 
 had made a companion of him; they had indeed 
 seemed to Moreton to be very much of an age, and 
 it made the gap between him and his wife appear 
 quite an appalling one. But anyhow, Clive had 
 come home as usual when his next holidays began, 
 and they had been Clive and Roma to each other 
 ever since. Moreton's drowsy thoughts had wan- 
 dered back to those early days of his marriage, 
 and he could see how little Roma had altered, how
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 143 
 
 young she still looked, how beautiful she was. Even 
 more beautiful, he thought, than she had been in 
 those early days. 
 
 Clive, however, did not come as soon as they 
 had expected. He wrote frequently from Switzer- 
 land, where he was staying with a party of friends 
 whom he had had the good luck, he told them, to 
 meet. Moreton chafed a little at the delay. But 
 his brief outburst against Sydney had cooled. Pi- 
 nelli had praised her. Was she going to be a suc- 
 cess after all? 
 
 Several English people passed through Venice 
 just then, and among them were Lord and Lady 
 Westing, old friends of the Floods. They remem- 
 bered Sydney, and perhaps for the first time since 
 her coming to Venice, she was noticed, and treated 
 as if she "counted." For despite her youth and 
 prettiness she failed to attract attention from strang- 
 ers, and hitherto no one had placed her, nor had 
 Roma tried to enlighten any one about her. She 
 was just a student, one of many whom Moreton 
 in his restless quest had befriended. Roma's fash- 
 ionable friends had not much use for students, and 
 no one had felt sufficiently interested in Sydney to 
 ask who she was. Probably if it had been made 
 known that she was the elder sister of the lovely 
 young Lady Wanley, things might have been dif- 
 ferent for her. As it was, she seemed to have no 
 social status; she was there to work, and opportuni- 
 ties for working were rather too lavishly accorded 
 to her. Husks had not been wanting to this prodi- 
 gal daughter, but she had swallowed them without 
 a murmur. After all, she possessed the two things 
 that mattered passionately just then -the leisure 
 in which to work, and the friendship of Roma. It 
 never struck her that that friendship was either cool 
 or insecure. She was quite happy if she had been
 
 144 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 asked, she would have responded that she was per- 
 fectly, unbelievably happy. 
 
 Lady Westing was affectionately warm in her 
 greeting, although she secretly wondered what that 
 quiet little Flood girl was doing there at all. She 
 kissed her, and made her sit down near her, while 
 she plied her with questions about her home affairs. 
 She herself had just come from Malta, where Lord 
 Westing had held an important appointment dur- 
 ing the War, and she had seen Moira on her way 
 back from Egypt. The Wanleys had dined with 
 them in Valetta. She told Sydney that Moira was 
 expecting a child at the end of the year. 
 
 The news startled her; for the moment she felt 
 bewildered. A child. . . . Moira with a little baby 
 of her own. How happy she must be, and yet, 
 surely, with her joy there must be mixed an ele- 
 ment of fear. . . . 
 
 Moira had always loved soft, young things. Kit- 
 tens puppies yes, she would kiss and cuddle them. 
 She must be very happy now. But the news seemed 
 to make the gulf between the sisters a little wider. 
 Sydney felt as if she did not know this new Moira. 
 She longed to see her again. It was Jiorrible ^^ 
 separation. It was unnatural. They shouldn't 
 have cut her off as if she had done something dis- 
 graceful. Something of shame stung her, as she 
 listened to Lady Westing's exclamations of undis- 
 guised astonishment at her complete ignorance of 
 family happenings. 
 
 "Why, my dear child, you don't mean to tell me 
 that you didn't know? Surely they must have writ- 
 ten they're not making any secret of it, for the 
 doctor has insisted upon Moira's living quietly in 
 the country she isn't at all well, poor child !" 
 
 "They they don't write to me," Sydney confessed 
 miserably; "you see, Mamma was angry at my tak-
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 145 
 
 ing up painting as a career . . . she hardly ever 
 writes. . . ." Her face was flushed and confused. 
 Lady Westing looked at her with compassion. 
 
 "What nonsense ! I thought all you young peo- 
 ple did just exactly as you pleased in these enlight- 
 ened days. I've had to let my daughter go and 
 train as a regular hospital nurse. She told me that 
 amateurs weren't wanted any more. Very sensible 
 of her, too." 
 
 "I only wish you would tell Mamma that. She 
 seems to think it isn't respectable to be anything but 
 an amateur!" Sydney was unconscious of irony; 
 she voiced her mother's point of view, as she thought, 
 with perfect accuracy. 
 
 "There must be stuff in you if Moreton Cochrane 
 has taken you up," said Lady Westing reflectively, 
 their host and hostess being just then out of hear- 
 ing at the other end of the great salone, where More- 
 ton was showing some etchings by a new man to her 
 husband. "He is about the best judge of young 
 talent there is. I'd like to see your work." 
 
 "Oh, I'm at the very beginning, you know," Syd- 
 ney assured her, "but I love it, and I'm work- 
 ing hard." Her pale fair face kindled as she 
 spoke. 
 
 Lady Westing patted her hand. 
 
 "I'll give your mother a downright good scolding, 
 and tell her she's exactly fifty years behind the 
 times !" 
 
 The little episode cheered Sydney. She was glad 
 to have seen a friendly face belonging to her old 
 home-life. But the news about Moira had never- 
 theless disturbed her. Moira had always been so 
 splendidly strong and well, so full of energy, and 
 careless of fatigue. Lately she had thought very 
 little about her, or indeed any one at home. They 
 had seemed like far-away shadows. But Lady
 
 146 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 Westing had brought them all much nearer again, 
 and had made Sydney long for news. Her old 
 sense of homesickness returned. She worked with 
 feverish industry in the days that followed. She 
 mustn't give herself time to think. . . . She even 
 forgot to dread the coming of Clive. . . .
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 CLIVE walked in one day when they were all three 
 sitting at luncheon. He wore a white suit, 
 with a blue tie that emphasized the color of his eyes. 
 He looked well and sunburnt. 
 
 "Well, Uncle Moreton? Well, Roma? How 
 do you do, Miss Flood?" 
 
 When he addressed Sydney, his voice lost its 
 warmth and became conventional and expression- 
 less. 
 
 Moreton sprang up eagerly. 
 
 "My dear boy ! But why didn't you let us know ?" 
 
 "I didn't know myself. We only got in after 
 midnight, and I stayed in bed all the morning." 
 
 He sat down opposite to Sydney. A servant 
 quickly brought an extra plate, glasses, knives and 
 forks, and set them in front of him. While these 
 preparations were in progress, Clive leaned back in 
 the high carved chair and glanced contentedly, first 
 at Moreton, then at Roma. 
 
 "Venice is the only place in the world! One 
 ought never to leave it I" 
 
 "You used to say that about Florence," Mrs. 
 Cochrane reminded him. It was the first time she 
 had spoken. 
 
 Clive paid no attention to the little speech. "It's 
 Tunis only more so," he continued. "The lagoons 
 are the Bitter Lakes. The mountains are nearer 
 to Tunis and I think more beautiful -they rise so 
 enchantingly along that bend of the coast. But 
 then Tunis hasn't these splendid towers, these wind- 
 ing canals." He crumbled his bread. 
 
 147
 
 148 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 "Do eat your lunch, Clive," said Roma. 
 
 Sydney wondered a little if she were pleased at 
 his coming. She had evinced none of the eagerness, 
 the hearty welcome, that had come so spontaneously 
 from Moreton. Perhaps she disliked being taken 
 by surprise. 
 
 Clive ate obediently, and for a little time was en- 
 grossed with his food. Presently he looked up and 
 said: 
 
 "Roma, you are going to take me out in your gon- 
 dola this afternoon; we must start at six o'clock, 
 and Alessio is to go wherever I tell him." 
 
 He leaned back, looked at her and smiled. But 
 Roma did not smile. She answered quite seriously : 
 
 "I'm not sure that I can go with you. I think 
 I asked some people to tea. You'd better take 
 Moreton, he has more influence with Alessio than I 
 have." 
 
 Clive' s face fell a little. 
 
 "You can telephone and put your friends off, 
 Roma," said Moreton. "You know I've got an 
 engagement with Westing he wants my opinion 
 about that Vivarini." 
 
 "You see, you must really give us a little notice 
 before you descend upon us, Clive," said Roma. 
 "We're not quite idle, even when you aren't with 
 us." 
 
 "I am sorry," he said, in an injured tone. "I 
 ought to have telegraphed. Perhaps I didn't think 
 it necessary, as I was going to the hotel. But I'll 
 go back to the Splendid and get a gondola there." 
 
 "Nonsense ! There's no need for you to do any- 
 thing of the kind," exclaimed Moreton emphati- 
 cally; "even if Roma can't go with you the gon- 
 dola's at your disposal." 
 
 "Invite the Rimini !" said Roma, with a brilliant 
 smile.
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 149 
 
 Clive continued to eat his luncheon in silence. 
 Once he raised his eyes and looked across the ta- 
 ble at Sydney. How pale she was a delicate fair 
 thing. Charming, too, with all that soft hair, cut 
 short like a child's. White suited her, and that 
 touch of turquoise at the waist. She might have sat 
 for a very young Madonna- one of Vivarini's grave, 
 sweet, youthful Madonnas. In London he had not 
 thought her pretty. But she had improved in looks 
 she was more carefully soignee. Roma's influ- 
 ence, no doubt ! So she was still here she had sur- 
 vived more than three months of it! She looked 
 up suddenly and her eyes met his, gravely, with- 
 out confusion. 
 
 "Do you like Venice, Miss Flood?" The banal 
 question rose to his lips almost involuntarily. "But 
 of course it's absurd to ask you such a thing. 
 Every one likes it there are no two opinions." 
 
 "I like it very much indeed," said Sydney, smil- 
 ing. 
 
 She was sensitively aware of the slight tension. 
 Almost she felt as if some subtle, secret alliance 
 had arisen between herself and Clive as guests, ver- 
 sus their host and hostess. An alliance defensive 
 rather than offensive. Perhaps fewer house-parties 
 than is commonly supposed have been perfectly free 
 from this vaguely apprehended esprit de corps. 
 
 Sydney was glad when the meal was over and an 
 adjournment was made to the garden. After cof- 
 fee had been served, she slipped away up to her 
 room, as she always did. Once she leaned out of 
 the window and glanced down at the little group 
 below, sitting under the shade of the tall rose- 
 colored sunshades. The subdued murmur of their 
 voices reached her. Once she heard Clive laugh. 
 Harmony was restored. Was it her own presence 
 that had created that slight discord, that vague ten-
 
 150 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 sion? A stab of pain ran through her. Was her 
 life always to be an accentuated, aggravated repe- 
 tition of her life at home ? She had so often felt 
 de trop with her mother and Moira and their friends. 
 Yet she desired passionately to be "wanted." Not 
 to be eternally left out in the cold, nor to feel that 
 her very presence was capable of creating that slight 
 yet uncomfortable tension. She closed the shutters, 
 for the glare from the bright water hurt her eyes, 
 and her head drooped on her hands. Had she seized 
 this little bit of life, of adventure, only to find it 
 disintegrating in her hands ? 
 
 Downstairs Clive was saying: 
 
 "And how are you getting on with your latest 
 trouvaille? Is she still a swan or has she shown a 
 disposition to hiss? But somehow I don't think 
 she's a goose ! Her eyes are " He stopped 
 short, and his face became meditative. 
 
 Roma leaned forward. 
 
 "Well, Clive! Let's hear. . . . What are her 
 eyes?" 
 
 "Too innocent and too intelligent. How rarely 
 one sees the combination." He smiled slightly. 
 They might have done worse than saddle themselves 
 with Sydney. 
 
 Roma smiled encouragingly, and Clive proceeded : 
 
 "I see now that the bobbed hair is all in the pic- 
 ture. If Millais had been alive he would have 
 painted her for a Christmas number!" 
 
 "She's working well, but she isn't much of a suc- 
 cess so far," said Moreton, filling and lighting his 
 pipe with meticulous care. "Pinelli can't make her 
 out he told me he was just waiting." 
 
 "The patience of Pinelli is proverbial," said Clive. 
 
 "Yes, he never tries to hustle genius. He waits, 
 trying to charm it out of its shell." 
 
 "And if the shell is empty?" inquired Clive.
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 151 
 
 "Sydney's shell isn't empty," Roma pronounced 
 with quick decision. "It may not contain just what 
 you expect just what you want but it isn't empty. 
 Clive I've changed my mind. I'm coming out with 
 you in the gondola. I'll telephone to the 'people of 
 importance' !" 
 
 She smiled at him. 
 
 "It's awfully good of you. It would have broken 
 my heart to spend my first day here in any other 
 way," Clive assured her. 
 
 Moreton looked relieved. "That's all right," he 
 said. "By the way, Clive, we're making plans to 
 go to the Lido as soon as possible. You can join 
 us there directly we go." 
 
 "That's splendid," said Clive. < "It'll be ripping 
 there this summer. Is little Miss Flood coming, 
 too?" 
 
 "Yes. She's to have those two rooms in the tur- 
 ret." Roma glanced at Clive as she made the state- 
 ment. 
 
 "She'll be roasted," he said. "You'd better give 
 them to me. I'm a salamander." 
 
 "No; I've quite decided she's to have them. She 
 can work there undisturbed." 
 
 "I know what she reminds me of!" said Clive sud- 
 denly; "I've been puzzling all the time. It's the 
 so-called St. Barbara in Boccaccino's 'Madonna and 
 Saints.' I wonder if she's seen it yet?" 
 
 "No, she hasn't. The Accademia's been closed 
 since the War," replied Roma. "And, Clive, I can't 
 let you show this exaggerated interest in little Syd- 
 ney Flood! She's my own private possession, and 
 I won't have her head turned." 
 
 Both men laughed, and Roma joined for an in- 
 stant in their merriment. 
 
 "I should simply love to turn her head," said 
 Clive; "I'm sure I could succeed where that ex-
 
 152 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 cellent young Turner man failed. I feel I've got 
 it in me." 
 
 "Well, I'm not going to let you try. She's far 
 too nice for you to philander with." Roma's tone 
 was good-natured but decisive. She wasn't going 
 to let Clive make Sydney miserable. He would en- 
 courage her to fall in love with him, and all the time 
 he would not have the slightest intention of marry- 
 ing her. And it wasn't fair, with a girl so innocent 
 of the rules of the game. She looked at Clive 
 severely. 
 
 "I shan't let you come to 'the Lido at all unless 
 you can make all sorts of promises," she told him. 
 
 Clive laughed outright. 
 
 "Roma you're like a hen with one chick!" 
 
 "I'm fond of Sydney," she said, "and I'm not go- 
 ing to let her be hurt. She's had a pretty thin time 
 at home, you know. Lady Westing was full of it 
 the other day. She thinks her wonderfully changed 
 for the better since she came to us." 
 
 Moreton was a little astonished at the trend of 
 the conversation. So Roma was really fond of Syd- 
 ney. ... It wasn't only a passing caprice. The 
 girls she had previously singled out for her brief 
 and somewhat fickle friendship had never stood the 
 strong searchlight of her slightly cynical criticism 
 for more than a few weeks. Here was Sydney 
 though, still holding an assured position, in Roma's 
 favor and in the household, after three months' so- 
 journ. It was, he concluded, because she was so 
 tactful, so retiring. She never got in Roma's way. 
 She was almost like a little daughter of the house. 
 He hoped that Clive would take to her too, and then 
 they could all four settle down comfortably at the 
 Lido for the whole summer. It just depended upon 
 how Roma would manage her team.
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 153 
 
 Clive's coming synchronized with a slight illness 
 of Moreton's a chill which he declared that he 
 had caught staying out too late on the lagoon with 
 Lord Westing. He had a sharp attack of fever of 
 the kind that is sufficiently common in Italy during 
 the summer, and especially attacks those foreigners 
 who have lived long under her hot sun and bright 
 sky. The attention of the household was speedily 
 concentrated upon him. This illness made them re- 
 shape their plans, and arrange to go to the Lido 
 as soon as ever he was well enough to be moved. 
 
 Perhaps it was this event that taught Sydney for 
 the first time that her position in the household was 
 extremely insecure. Her dream of being in a sense 
 an attentive, affectionate daughter to Roma faded 
 abruptly. She seldom, during the days of Moreton's 
 illness, saw either her or Clive, except at meals. Her 
 timid offer of help was declined quickly, though 
 kindly, by Mrs. Cochrane. Sydney was more skilled 
 perhaps than any of them in the art of nursing, but 
 no one seemed to remember that. Then, when 
 Moreton was better and able to leave his bed, he 
 was moved out on to the stone loggia beyond the 
 great salone on the first floor. Brown awnings were 
 hung over it to shield him from the sun as he lay 
 there on a couch. Roma and Clive often read aloud 
 to him. Sydney was never invited to join them there, 
 nor to accompany Clive and Roma when they went 
 out for an hour or two before dinner in the gondola. 
 She used to watch them start, from her upper win- 
 dow. Clive's resentment of her presence seemed, 
 however, to have vanished; he always addressed her 
 in a friendly way when he spoke to her at meals. Al- 
 though he slept at the hotel, he came round to the 
 palace every morning at quite an early hour. Once 
 he had even spent the night on a couch in Moreton's
 
 154 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 dressing-room, so that he might be at hand if his 
 cousin got worse or needed anything in the night. 
 
 There was a tendency, Sydney thought, on both 
 his part and Roma's, to exaggerate their preoccupa- 
 tion with Moreton. . . . 
 
 Moreton was better and could receive visitors. 
 He talked of coming downstairs, but Roma thought 
 it more prudent for him to remain where he was for 
 the present. The doctor had told her that his heart 
 was not very strong, and she must see that he didn't 
 exert himself too much. Roma was disturbed; she 
 had always regarded Moreton as a giant in the mat- 
 ter of strength and endurance. She communicated 
 the intelligence to Clive, who took up the attitude 
 that the doctor was exaggerating his condition. 
 Probably he was magnifying some passing weakness 
 into the symptoms of a permanent disease. Roma 
 shook her head. 
 
 "I'm not so sure," she said; "he's a queer color 
 at times. Haven't you noticed it, Clive?" 
 
 "Oh, he's always had that queer dark look," said 
 Clive, trying to reassure her, but feeling vaguely un- 
 easy himself. Moreton was no longer very young; 
 he was nearing sixty, and this recent apparently 
 slight illness had left him alarmingly weak. 
 
 They went down into the garden. The morning 
 was still in its first delicious freshness, and a cool 
 air blew off the Canal. Roma sat under the shade of 
 the silken parasol. "Read to me, Clive," she said. 
 "And let it be Dante, please. I am in the mood for 
 Dante." She leaned back in her chair, clasping her 
 bare arms behind her head. 
 
 "May Miss Flood come down and listen, too?" 
 asked Clive. 
 
 "Yes, of course, if you like it. She won't under- 
 stand a word." Roma's voice was careless.
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 155 
 
 "I'll go up and fetch her," said Clive. He ar- 
 rived at the door of Sydney's studio a little out of 
 breath. She was astonished to see him there when 
 she opened the door to his knock. 
 
 "Roma and I are going to read in. the garden. 
 Won't you come, too? Roma knows I've come up 
 to fetch you." 
 
 He looked down at her gravely. She did not 
 answer immediately, and his, "Do come," held a 
 slightly more urgent note. 
 
 "I'll come," said Sydney; "I must just go and put 
 these brushes away." 
 
 She wore a faded blue over-all over her white 
 dress, and there were little smears of paint on 
 her hands. 
 
 "Don't be long!" he called after her as she 
 vanished. 
 
 Presently Sydney went down to the garden. Roma 
 held out a slim hand to her. 
 
 "Dear child, you've been working too hard lately, 
 and you've been too much alone. But we couldn't 
 help ourselves. Come and listen to Clive he's 
 going to read the Paradiso to me." 
 
 She pulled a chair nearer to her, and made Syd- 
 ney sit there close beside her. 
 
 Clive sat on the other side of Roma. If he raised 
 his eyes he could see both their faces in profile, out- 
 lined against the green dusk of the garden. 
 
 There was a moment of silence while he found the 
 place. They could hear the water lapping almost 
 fiercely against the stone steps that led from the 
 garden to the Canal, with a greedy, sucking sound. 
 The gondola tossed heavily, clumsily, against the tall 
 dark blue posts to which it was moored. A passing 
 motor-*boat churned the water to increased fury. A 
 little breeze stirred from the Canal.
 
 156 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 Behind Roma's head the oleanders lifted their 
 rose-pink and snow-white clusters against the dim 
 green of palm and ilex. 
 
 Then Clive began to read. The Canto he had 
 chosen was that in which Dante questions the spirits 
 whom he meets first in Paradise in the sphere of the 
 Moon. No they were not unhappy or dissatisfied, 
 these souls who had failed to attain to the higher 
 circle of the heavenly glory through some lack of 
 fidelity imposed upon them by human agency. If 
 they had failed to reach that highest heaven of the 
 blessed they were still perfectly contented, for they 
 were accomplishing the Will of God Who had 
 placed them where they were. Clive came to the 
 famous line one of the most beautiful lines in any 
 language in all the world: 
 
 E la sua volontate e nostra pace. 
 
 E la sua volontate e nostra pace. . . . Sydney fol- 
 lowed the Italian imperfectly and with difficulty, but 
 Clive read so clearly and well that she had not been 
 entirely without understanding of the meaning. Now 
 the words of this familiar sentence fell upon her ear, 
 and it seemed to come like some beautiful message 
 explaining those impressions, so confused and 
 hitherto inexplicable, that had affected her ever 
 since she came to Venice. The lamp that had 
 burned on the lagoon before the little shrine of the 
 Madonna ; the wonderful mystery of the Holy Sacri- 
 fice as she had seen it offered with such royal splen- 
 dor on Easter Day in St. Mark's, the singing, the 
 incense, the devout kneeling crowds; the sufferings 
 of the Saints depicted in so many of the old pictures. 
 
 She leaned forward a little, wholly self-forgetful, 
 her lips just parted, her eyes shining with an almost 
 ecstatic fervor. She had something of the look of a 
 suddenly-awakened child, startled but not frightened, 
 because in the act of awaking its attention has
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 157 
 
 been arrested by the sight of something wholly beau- 
 tiful and desirable. 
 
 She was looking towards Clive, but she did not 
 see him; he and Roma might both have been a 
 thousand miles away. Nor did she perceive that 
 Roma was watching her with a curious close atten- 
 tion through half-opened eyes. And His Will is our 
 Peace. . . . She had never known that peace, yet 
 sometimes she had dimly envisaged it when she had 
 looked at those pictured saints, smiling and serene 
 amid the pangs of martyrdom. Would it pass her 
 by forever? She had cut herself adrift from her 
 old life, had broken her former chains, but while 
 she had gained freedom and leisure she had not 
 savored peace. Perhaps God kept that gift in His 
 own Hands, for those who submitted like loving 
 children to His Will. You could not find it of your- 
 self, so her thoughts ran. It was a royal gift, and 
 you must pray for it, pray with that strange soul- 
 surrender that marked the lives of the martyrs, 
 saints, and mystics of the Church. It had nothing 
 to do with earthly happiness or prosperity those 
 too often brought with them their own torment of 
 unrest, their own peculiar fears, their own suspense 
 and dread of loss, because they were temporal 
 things, marked already with the dust of death. 
 Peace . . . yes, but you must pray for it, suffer for 
 it, before you could receive that divine, interior 
 gift. ... 
 
 Clive stopped short in his reading and said : 
 
 "If we really believed that too " 
 
 Roma turned to him sharply, with a pene- 
 trating look. 
 
 "I don't suppose Catholics who do believe it are 
 any happier than we are," she said. 
 
 "It isn't a question of happiness, it's a question 
 of peace," said Clive, and he continued:
 
 158 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 "Ella e quel mare, al qual tutto si move do 
 ch'ella crea e che natura face. . . ." 
 
 Suddenly Sydney rose and stole away, like a white 
 ghost moving between the trees and flowering 
 shrubs. Roma and Clive seemed scarcely to notice 
 her going, and if they did they made no effort to 
 call her back. 
 
 The words beat in her ears; she could not listen 
 to anything more. She wanted to be alone, quite 
 alone. Did Clive realize the profound meaning of 
 that one line? His voice was beautiful, he had 
 made it sound like music, he had even stopped to 
 comment upon it, and Roma's answer had jarred a 
 little, but Sydney did not believe that it had pierced 
 his heart like a sword, as it had pierced hers. 
 
 Clive finished the Canto and then laid down 
 the book. 
 
 "My reading doesn't seem to have met with Miss 
 Flood's approval," he said almost sulkily. 
 
 "Why, didn't you see her face?" Roma said, 
 curiously. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "She looked quite strange almost as if she had 
 seen a vision. I thought myself that your reading 
 had rather upset her. She is such an odd child." 
 
 "She's very silent," he said. "I wish she would 
 talk to me sometimes I think she might interest 
 me. She's not like other people. But she's hope- 
 lessly inarticulate." 
 
 Although she spoke so little and so seldom, he 
 was convinced that she was in reality neither dull 
 nor stupid. He could not quite tell why she inter- 
 ested him so profoundly. Something in her eyes 
 perhaps that belied that dull, tongue-tied attitude 
 of hers. 
 
 "Oh, I understand her," said Roma; "you see, I 
 know her mother."
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 159 
 
 "But Lady Wanley's so different from all ac- 
 counts. Darrington said she was such a radiant 
 charming creature !" 
 
 "In all families there's a spoilt child and a snubbed 
 child," said Roma. "Sydney happens to have been 
 the snubbed child." 
 
 Clive took up the Paradiso and resumed his read- 
 ing, without further comment. But he was sorry 
 that Sydney was no longer there to listen to him. 
 He liked the gentle stimulus of her presence. Very 
 soon, however, Roma said: 
 
 "Don't read any more, Clive. You're getting 
 hoarse."
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE Villa Roma was a banal, modern construc- 
 tion, turreted, and somewhat florid in its 
 exterior decoration, but it was set rather beautifully 
 in a charming shady garden of palms and pines with 
 the inevitable bushes of flaming oleander, whose 
 bright blossoms gladden most Italian gardens from 
 June till October. It stood a little back from the 
 shores of the Adriatic, but from the upper windows 
 there was a glorious view of that superb Gulf with 
 the faint gray and violet silhouette of the Alps rising 
 in far-off splendor against the sky. 
 
 Even from the garden you could catch glimpses 
 of shining lapis-colored water between the dark lus- 
 trous boughs of the pines. The blue sky and 
 sea, the silver flash of a sea-gull, the wide strip of 
 golden sands, the flaming orange and red of the 
 sails, poised like beautiful butterflies upon that azure 
 shield, could still make Sydney understand why that 
 long strip of island that protects Venice from the 
 sea has inspired love in the hearts of generations of 
 poets. Its beauty is great enough to triumph over 
 the vulgarity and ugliness imposed upon it when it 
 became a bathing and health resort for the whole 
 of Italy. 
 
 The brilliant and pure color of it all, poured 
 lavishly as if from some giant palette, astonished 
 Sydney. She loved it in all its moods. Her two 
 rooms in the turret might be hot, but they gave her 
 an uninterrupted view of the sea on the one side, and 
 of Venice on the other, with the wide, pale waters of 
 
 160
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 161 
 
 the lagoon lying between her and that faery city of 
 towers and spires. The jade-green of the lagoon 
 at sunset changing so rapidly to rose and gold; its 
 silver pallor, frail, insubstantial, when the morn- 
 ing mists clung about it and the shadows in it 
 were of velvet darkness; the strong fierce blue 
 of it in the blaze of noon all these moods and 
 aspects became familiar to her. Yet it never 
 looked twice the same, and in its milk-white pal- 
 lor at dawn it seldom failed to startle her with a 
 sense of mystery and unreality, while the colored 
 sails emerging from the mists seemed to be- 
 long to phantom vessels voyaging towards some un- 
 known bourne. 
 
 Roma had contented herself with making the 
 house "comfortable," as she called it. She acknowl- 
 edged its banality, but said it was quite useless to 
 try to hide it. Antiques were for the old Venetian 
 palace, not for a modern villa of pink stucco. 
 "Chintz for villas," she said, "and large easy chairs 
 and Chesterfields." She had procured the said 
 chintzes from England, and they were of bewilder- 
 ing Futurist design and coloring. Moreton called 
 them "restless," and hated them or rather said that 
 he did. But the effect was wonderfully good, if a 
 little startling. Clive held his peace on the subject, 
 as he generally did when the husband and wife were 
 not in complete accord. 
 
 Roma at the Lido was a changed being. She was 
 almost amphibious, bathing for long hours in the 
 sea, and lying about on the strip of sand in a bril- 
 liant rose-pink bath-gown, with a silken cap to match 
 on her head. Her neck and arms were delicately 
 browned by the sun; she looked absolutely Italian. 
 Clive, a strong and practiced swimmer, always ac- 
 companied her. Moreton watched them from the 
 shore with affectionate admiration and pride. He
 
 162 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 often carried a little basket of fruit for them 
 peaches and figs and plums. 
 
 Sydney did not bathe. She had never learned to 
 swim and though Clive good-naturedly offered to 
 teach her, she felt shy of making the attempt. 
 Moreton used to call her down sometimes and say: 
 
 "Come and take half an hour's recreation, Miss 
 Flood, and watch the bathers." 
 
 One morning he summoned her in this way, and 
 she came down wearing a childish dress of white 
 muslin with short sleeves and cut low at the throat. 
 It was a dress such as many women were wearing 
 that summer and it suited Sydney, perhaps, better 
 than it did most of them. The soft blue sash knotted 
 at the side increased her childish appearance. The 
 blond hair was almost hidden beneath a large white 
 muslin hat decorated with a single unconvincing rose 
 of pale blue silk. 
 
 Moreton was in the drawing-room when she joined 
 him, restlessly engaged in moving his wife's 
 bibelots to a more symmetrical position on the tables 
 and cabinets. Sometimes, too, he would turn sud- 
 denly to the wall and straighten a picture. 
 
 "Funny how servants in all countries always leave 
 pictures crooked," he said to Sydney. "Do you like 
 all this color? I'm never sure if I hate it or not to 
 me it's just madness. Roma ought to have had only 
 cool restful grays and greens in these rooms, with all 
 that blue and gold and emerald and rose-pink out- 
 side !" He glanced around him with a discontent 
 not wholly unmingled with a certain admiration for 
 Roma's courage in decorating her roon\ like that. 
 From a psychological standpoint it signified an act 
 of defiance, as he proceeded to explain to Sydney. 
 "You women have been fed up with the drab ugly 
 side of life you've seen nothing else all these years 
 of the War and you're sick of the hideousness, the
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 163 
 
 confusion, the waste of all that's precious and beauti- 
 ful. So you go to the opposite extreme and try to 
 cram your lives with color and movement. All this 
 ridiculous dancing and swimming!" He shrugged 
 his shoulders. "Why can't you be quiet and repose- 
 ful like your grandmothers?" 
 
 He shook his head, and then led the way into the 
 garden. Sydney followed him meekly. He seemed 
 to be always trying to account for Roma's whims 
 and vagaries, to bring her into line with other 
 women and show that she was the perfectly normal 
 product of her time and generation. Sydney won- 
 dered sometimes if he ever deceived himself. To 
 her, Roma always seemed like some brilliant exotic 
 creature that had strayed accidentally into human 
 spheres, never quite at home there despite an ex- 
 terior adoption of their ways and customs. She was, 
 in fact, just Roma, never to be measured by ordinary 
 standards. And for that very reason the love that 
 she so lightly compelled must always be a wistful 
 thing, never hoping for adequate or equal response. 
 
 "No, I don't bathe I'm supposed to have a weak 
 heart, you know," Moreton told Sydney, as they 
 strolled shorewards under the fierce rays of that 
 almost tropical sun. "But I like to watch Roma and 
 Clive they are so wonderful you'd say it came 
 naturally to them to swim." 
 
 But it was not often that even Moreton remem- 
 bered her and called her down from her turret room. 
 The household revolved around Roma. She wasn't 
 selfish; apparently she exacted nothing, and made 
 few demands. But a spontaneous offering of time 
 and attention on the part of every one seemed to be 
 the unwritten rule of the house. Moreton and Clive 
 seemed to live only to do her bidding, to anticipate 
 her wishes. The rivalry between the two men was 
 of the pleasantest description, and never clashed.
 
 i6 4 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 Clive's devotion to husband and wife was complete. 
 His place in the house was rather that of a cherished 
 younger brother. He was nearly always gay and 
 in good spirits, and he was kind to Sydney when he 
 remembered to notice her at all. They never made 
 her feel that she was in the way, but sometimes she 
 found herself wishing that they would leave her to 
 a less formidable solitude. Her very presence in 
 that eyrie of hers was so often quite forgotten. . . . 
 
 She spent hours looking over the sea, sometimes 
 making rapid sketches of those effects of color, that 
 wide laughing space of blue with the golden and 
 orange and pearl-color of the sails painted against 
 it, the dim mountains to the North looking like 
 clouds, and scarcely more substantial than clouds 
 against the sky; the sea-gulls flashing and dipping 
 like silver scimitars. She could see the dark heads 
 of the swimmers, bobbing up and down in that silken 
 expanse of water. It was a world of blue and gold, 
 touched to a note of more vivid color by those idle 
 motionless sails. 
 
 Sometimes she saw Clive and Roma emerge from 
 the villa and stroll shorewards together for the 
 morning bathe, their tall white-clad figures moving 
 rhythmically side by side. Clive's beauty of form 
 and face, the considered athletic grace of his move- 
 ments, were as notable as Roma's in their own way. 
 He attracted Sydney as a very perfect Greek statue 
 might have done. 
 
 Sometimes they would vary the program by start- 
 ing off quite early for an expedition in the motor- 
 boat, bound for Chioggia or one of the many other 
 islands, or perhaps only intending to go to Venice 
 for the day. Moreton generally accompanied them 
 then, his tall ungainly figure making a notable con- 
 trast to Clive's easy grace. Roma would walk be- 
 tween them down to the landing-place on the lagoon
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 165 
 
 side of the island. When their voices and laughter 
 had died away down the wide road with its avenue 
 of plane-trees, Sydney used to sit by her bedroom 
 window and look towards Venice, outlined in mist- 
 color across the breadth of the lagoon, that was 
 polished and shining as a shield on those divine 
 summer mornings. Its smooth surface was broken 
 by the rows of dark staves that pricked the course 
 of the steamers to the Lido or to the other islands. 
 Motor-boats rushed rapidly and noisily to their des- 
 tination, churning the water till it became agitated 
 as if a sudden storm had swept over it. Gondolas 
 passed more solemnly, deeply black against the pal- 
 lor of the lagoon; to Sydney they seemed like the 
 ferry-boats that journeyed across the Styx. Crowded 
 steamers disgorged their human freight at the jetty, 
 just visible through a break in the trees. Sydney 
 watched this life of color and movement, but felt 
 that she had no part in it except to endeavor to cap- 
 ture something of its beauty with her brush. Roma, 
 ten years older than herself, could live freely in it, 
 enjoying every hour of the day, surrounded by ad- 
 miration and attention that never failed. Day after 
 day people came out to the villa to luncheon and tea, 
 to talk learnedly with Moreton about pictures, and 
 to gaze at his exquisite wife. But Sydney was almost 
 as solitary as she had been in London, and she felt 
 her solitude more sharply than she had done even in 
 Venice. There was also much less to amuse her at 
 the Lido. She missed the pictures and churches; 
 she missed something of that sober atmosphere 
 which belongs to Venice. The Lido was a holiday 
 place a place for idlers and idling. 
 
 Very few of Roma's many visitors noticed her. If 
 an English ship had come in, there was sometimes a 
 sprinkling of naval officers, and the younger ones 
 drifted towards Sydney, as to something at once
 
 166 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 young and English in a crowd that consisted largely 
 of foreigners. Perhaps there would be a friend of 
 Jack's among them to accost her with friendly 
 eagerness. And sometimes an acquaintance of her 
 mother's would recognize her and say: "Why, Miss 
 Flood ! Are you spending the summer here ? What 
 news of Lady Wanley?" It was humiliating to have 
 to confess that she knew so little of Moira's doings, 
 but she served up all that Lady Westing had told 
 her, hoping that the paucity of the information 
 would not strike her interlocutor. 
 
 But all through those summer weeks Sydney felt 
 more strongly even than she had done in Venice, 
 that there must be something something perhaps 
 behind all this and apart from it, which, if she could 
 only find it, would be capable of satisfying her own 
 great, if imperfectly formulated, need. Something 
 that would appease the hunger that seemed to belong 
 to her soul more than to her heart. It wasn't love 
 that she desired, she used to tell herself, for that had 
 been offered to her and she had rejected it; she could 
 have fulfilled, had she so wished, her woman's des- 
 tiny of wife and perhaps mother. It hadn't passed 
 her by altogether, as it did so many women. And it 
 wasn't art, because now for the first time in her life 
 she had abundant leisure in which to work, among 
 the most perfect surroundings in the world as the 
 giants of bygone days could testify by their own 
 achievement. And while she was working close, 
 absorbed, almost narrow in her concentration, the 
 hunger was lulled, just as if she had drunk some 
 powerful anodyne that soothed while it could not 
 cure. And then, quite suddenly, it would come back 
 to her, this urgent cry and appeal of the soul. Peo- 
 ple, religious people, would tell you it was the soul's 
 need of God that caused this terrible unsatisfied
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 167 
 
 spiritual hunger. Those who were perfectly satis- 
 fied with all this beautiful world could offer them, 
 never, perhaps, experienced that fierce unrest. 
 
 Sydney gazed across at Venice, and the soaring 
 towers looked transparent things, as if blown out of 
 mist, intangible, impalpable. They seemed to spring 
 up sheer from the lagoon like slender flowers lifted 
 towards the sky. St. Giorgio with its rosy grace, the 
 great Campanile of St. Mark's, the leaning towers 
 of the Frari and St. Zaccaria. Something in the 
 sight of those innumerable, soaring towers and 
 domes had a strange fascination for her. Treasure 
 given to God. . . . The legacy of those splendid 
 days when men devoted their art, their industry, 
 their knowledge to the service of God. She thought 
 of Titian's Madonna uplifted on a golden cloud in 
 the Frari, with kneeling saints and angels watching 
 her Assumption. She saw the upturned face of the 
 boy martyr, St. Placid, in Tintoretto's Coronation, 
 with the young, fair, calm face and the cruel nail 
 piercing his forehead -the first of the sons of St. 
 Benedict to receive the crown of martyrdom. Did not 
 these pictures give witness alike of the times when 
 men worked and suffered and died for the Church 
 with a loyalty that no human institution could ever 
 evoke, as well as of those later days when men 
 spilled talent and fortune recklessly in her service? 
 People worked and suffered still, but how many 
 offered their work and sufferings to God? In these 
 moods the paltriness of her own achievement sick- 
 ened her. To express devotion you must possess it. 
 Sydney realized the lack in herself of those essen- 
 tial spiritual qualities which alone can make effort 
 worth while. But she became more and more con- 
 vinced that they were obtainable, and that she had 
 come abroad perhaps to obtain them. And her
 
 1 68 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 thoughts went back to the light that burned before 
 the shrine on the lagoon a light that beckoned 
 to her still across gray waters. . . . 
 
 There was still something half-superstitious in 
 her belief that this light, encountered, as it were, 
 upon the very threshold of her new life, had held a 
 profound spiritual significance, and bore a message 
 that some day would reveal itself, leading her per- 
 haps into those paths of renunciation and self- 
 immolation wherein the Saints had found inexpres- 
 sible mystical joys amid their sufferings.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 CLIVE went over to Trieste for a week with a 
 party of Italian friends early in August, and 
 it was during his absence that Roma proposed to 
 Sydney that she should begin the long-contemplated 
 portrait of herself. 
 
 Sydney had long ago decided to paint Roma with 
 a background of Venetian seascape in cool dim tones. 
 The ilex trees of the garden, with the break in them 
 that revealed in the distance the mist-colored towers 
 and domes rising out of the lagoon under a sky of 
 empty pallor, gave her exactly the background that 
 she needed, soft, low in tone, as in some cinque- 
 cento picture. Roma was an excellent model, for she 
 had been painted by nearly all the "big" men of the 
 day. She sat to Sydney good-naturedly enough, and 
 seemed eager to be painted by her. The portrait 
 would certainly be individual and charming. More- 
 ton, who was utterly opposed to the scheme, charac- 
 terizing it as waste of time, was forced to bow in the 
 end to Roma's will. 
 
 "I can always buy itand then destroy it," he said, 
 comforting himself with this reflection, while Sydney 
 cherished flattering and romantic visions of the por- 
 trait's being exhibited in the great European gal- 
 leries, entitled: Roma, Wife of Moreton Cochrane. 
 
 Roma came over to the easel and looked at the 
 first sketch, roughly done in charcoal. 
 
 "You know, don't you? that you'll stand or fall 
 by this picture in Moreton's estimation?" she said, 
 putting her hand lightly on the girl's thin shoulder. 
 
 "Yes," said Sydney. 
 
 169
 
 170 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 She worked feverishly. She wanted not to satisfy 
 Moreton, but to please Roma. Those hours they 
 spent together in her studio were almost the happiest 
 she had ever known. Roma talked to her, and Syd- 
 ney listened. There was always charm in what she 
 said a certain individuality of vision, a freshness 
 of outlook. She read a great deal, generally with 
 Clive, an,d was fond of talking about the books 
 she read. 
 
 "I should never be surprised if you became a 
 Roman Catholic. It seems to have a special attrac- 
 tion for people gifted with the artistic tempera- 
 ment," she said to Sydney one day when she 
 was at work. 
 
 It was as if some indefinable process of thought- 
 transference, combined with a subtle sympathy, had 
 made her aware of the trend of Sydney's 
 thoughts. 
 
 Sydney answered gravely: 
 
 "Since 1 came to Italy I've sometimes thought I 
 should like to be one." 
 
 "I'm sure you have. Many of us go through that 
 phase. Even Clive but he was never really serious. 
 He likes to go to Mass though especially he likes 
 'functions'. ... I don't think myself he'll ever 
 change now. Still, there's no knowing. He always 
 gets a bad attack of it when he reads 'The Hound 
 of Heaven.' " 
 
 "I've been to Mass often in Venice," Sydney con- 
 fessed, a trifle reluctantly. "I liked it, too. I 
 wanted to learn more- to know more." 
 
 She stopped suddenly, looking confused. She 
 hadn't really intended to tell Roma. 
 
 "Moreton is full of prejudices," continued Mrs. 
 Cochrane. "I think that had something to do with 
 Clive's not becoming a Catholic. You see, they're 
 so like father and son he wouldn't do anything to
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 171 
 
 pain him for the world. There's nothing so nice 
 about Clive as his never-failing consideration 
 for Moreton." 
 
 Sydney put down her brushes and looked rather 
 wistfully seawards. There had been rain that morn- 
 ing, and the sky was covered with clouds. The sea 
 was flat and gray, and very still under that cloud- 
 canopy. She wondered if Clive had ever known, 
 ever endured, that strange spiritual unrest which 
 had been her portion since she came to Venice. Soli- 
 tude had made her regard it almost morbidly, as 
 something that had taken hold of her very life and 
 would not leave her. She wished that she could find 
 courage to question Clive on the subject when he 
 came back. 
 
 "And you " she turned suddenly to Roma, who 
 was watching her covertly, "you've never wanted it 
 for yourself?" 
 
 "Oh, no I'm an absolute pagan, and then I 
 like to be perfectly free. I don't belong to any 
 church Catholic or Protestant. And in any case 
 it would be useless it would be the one thing poor 
 Moreton could never bear." 
 
 "One can never get away from it here," said Syd- 
 ney; "those churches and shrines and pictures of Our 
 Lady and the Saints. Even on the lagoon that night 
 do you remember? The little shrine of the Ma- 
 donna holding the Child in her arms, and the 
 light burning in front of it. So lonely and 
 so impressive !" 
 
 Her eyes shone. She had, Roma thought, that 
 look almost of ecstasy that had been visible on her 
 face during Clive's reading of the Paradiso. 
 
 "Ah, my dear you're doomed !" she said, but her 
 tone was very tender. "I almost envy you because 
 you're able to feel like that about it all. I can 
 picture you going to confession with the tale of your
 
 172 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 innocent little sins almost like a nun in her cloister. 
 I can almost picture you as a nun, Sydney I" 
 
 There was a half-wistful mockery in her tone. 
 But she rose and came across the room and put her 
 arms round Sydney, and kissed her. 
 
 "You've done enough for to-day. You let things 
 eat you up, Sydney . . . you're looking quite 
 exhausted." 
 
 Roma had never seemed so exquisite and so 
 motherly to Sydney as she did at that moment. She 
 aroused within her a feeling akin to adoration. It 
 recovered for Sydney the first beautiful days of their 
 swift friendship. 
 
 "Oh, I'm not really tired I feel as if I could go 
 on for hours to-day," she assured Roma, eagerly. 
 
 Roma stood looking at the picture. 
 
 "It's really very good -I'd no idea you had it in 
 you to paint like that," she said, surveying it criti- 
 cally. "Moreton must see it soon." 
 
 "Oh no not yet! He mustn't see it till it's 
 done." Sydney spoke almost with passion. 
 
 "But my dear child, why not?" 
 
 "I feel as if I should never finish it if he saw it 
 now. I know he won't care for it." 
 
 Roma secretly endorsed this opinion. Perhaps 
 Sydney was right. She must be given a free hand. 
 She mustn't be cramped with criticism and advice 
 while the work was in progress. It might, as she 
 suggested, prevent her from finishing it. Roma was 
 anxious that the portrait should be a success. It 
 would be a great help to Sydney if it could be ex- 
 hibited. She wanted her to have a future a great 
 future. That shy, unexpressed worship of herself 
 touched her. She thought remorsefully that she had 
 left her too much alone, but she hadn't wanted her 
 to be thrown a great deal with Clive. She had a fear 
 that Clive might make her unhappy. . . .
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 173 
 
 Even when Clive returned, Roma continued the 
 sittings. The portrait was very nearly finished when 
 Moreton suddenly appeared in Sydney's studio one 
 afternoon just before tea. Some people had arrived, 
 and Roma and Clive were in the garden entertain- 
 ing them. 
 
 Sydney was taken by surprise ; Moreton had never 
 before paid her an unexpected visit in this way. He 
 began abruptly : 
 
 "Roma says your portrait of her is nearly finished. 
 I want to look at it." 
 
 Sydney glanced up at Moreton with something of 
 fear in her eyes. 
 
 "Oh, but it isn't quite ready for you to see," 
 she objected. 
 
 "Nonsense!" said Moreton gruffly. "Let me 
 look at it." 
 
 Sydney brought out the canvas, reluctantly but 
 submissively. It was so nearly finished that More- 
 ton's criticism couldn't hurt, one way or the other. 
 Still, she felt half afraid of what he might say. 
 
 He stood there, tall, ungainly, gazing at it, his 
 face all crumpled up with thought. 
 
 "Your background is false, Miss Flood. It's 
 imitative derivative you might have copied it 
 from a detail of Tintoretto's and copied it badly, 
 too ! People will say that you have copied it. It 
 isn't suited to a modern subject it makes Roma 
 look ridiculous." He fretted and fumed, scarcely 
 knowing what he was saying. 
 
 Sydney was quietly defiant. 
 
 "It suits Roma," she maintained, obstinately. 
 "And Roma likes it." 
 
 "Oh, my dear child, do you think Roma always 
 likes what she praises? She hates hurting people's 
 feelings ! But if that's your idea of painting a por- 
 trait, continuez ton jours! Only, you must be pre-
 
 174 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 pared for the kind of criticism I've given you, less 
 leniently expressed." 
 
 Sydney was silent She fidgeted nervously with 
 her brushes, and wished that Moreton would take it 
 into his head to depart. Already he had spoilt her 
 pleasure, even if ever so slightly, in her work, and 
 chilled her enthusiasm which had grown under 
 Roma's approbation. And was that true about 
 Roma praising where she didn't really like? The 
 suggestion wounded her. Perhaps Roma had ex- 
 pressed some adverse opinion to Moreton, and he 
 wanted to give her a hint that his wife was less 
 pleased with the portrait than she seemed. 
 
 "You'll never learn at this rate," Moreton said 
 almost bitterly. His dark fierce eyes swept her face. 
 It was absurd of this child to set her opinion against 
 his, to stick to her guns in this way. "That arm's 
 out of drawing it isn't sufficiently fore-shortened. 
 You'd much better have attempted only a head. 
 You're not up to a full-length portrait yet. In fact, 
 I'm not sure that you hadn't better leave portraits 
 alone altogether. Landscape is your forte, and you 
 would have spent your time much better studying 
 and sketching Venice." 
 
 He hunched his high narrow shoulders and went 
 away. A few minutes later she could hear his mirth- 
 less rather shrilljaugh mingling with the other voices 
 and laughter in the garden. It was time to dress 
 and go down to tea. Roma had told her that some 
 English people were coming. They were passing 
 through Venice on their return from an important 
 mission in the Near East. 
 
 Sydney put on a new white dress that fell in simple 
 straight lines. While she was dressing, she thought 
 of all that Moreton had said. It was the first time 
 that she had ever felt his criticism to be narrow and 
 intolerant. She let these thoughts take actual form
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 175 
 
 in her mind, and then was aghast to feel that she 
 was wanting in loyalty to the very person who had 
 first held out a helping hand to her. But for him 
 she might have been living now in London, as Dun- 
 can's wife; her pencils and brushes relegated for- 
 ever to a decent obscurity, and her high hopes 
 and dreams diminishing every day. . . . She owed 
 Moreton so much that if she were really to lose 
 faith in his wisdom, her position in his house would 
 surely become impossible. She must work as he 
 wished, bow to his judgment, listen meekly to his 
 advice, or she must go and work independently of 
 him, and free herself from the bondage he tried to 
 impose upon her. The little incident had opened her 
 eyes. She knew that in this portrait she had brought 
 out all that was most definitely Italian in Roma's 
 face. Roma was the child of mixed races, she had 
 French and Italian blood as well as English in her 
 veins. And like all the children of mixed nationality 
 she had some of the traits of each race in her, empha- 
 sized and even exaggerated. She .had the subtle, 
 natural intelligence of the Italian, and to this had 
 been added the more careful and thorough educa- 
 tion that England gives to her daughters. Her 
 beauty was a thing preeminently of the South, but 
 she had the physical strength and endurance that 
 belong to the North and something, too, of its in- 
 herent coldness and prudence. It was perhaps this 
 mixture in her of both North and South that made 
 Roma so attractive as well as beautiful. And in her 
 portrait Sydney had made known this ambiguous 
 racial complexity. . . . Perhaps that was what 
 Moreton had perceived and disliked in it. 
 
 Sydney said to herself doggedly: "I could work 
 much better alone. I should trust myself more. I 
 should make big mistakes, but at least I should 
 learn." She needed a freer air. But this time,
 
 176 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 whether she went or stayed, she was going to do 
 exactly as she pleased, regardless of Moreton. 
 
 Roma did not allude to the episode. Perhaps 
 Moreton had not told her of his stormy little visit 
 that had left Sydney so limp and exhausted, yet so 
 almost heroically obstinate. Roma was very busy 
 socially just then. Another English ship had come 
 in, and she entertained the officers to tea and dinner. 
 And after dinner there was generally bridge till a 
 late hour. Sometimes Sydney had to stay up to fill a 
 gap. She was always glad when Clive was her part- 
 ner, he was invariably indulgent and kind and 
 laughed at her mistakes. She played indifferently, 
 but bridge had always formed part of the diversions 
 of her home life whenever Lady Flood could scrape 
 up four people for a rubber on winter evenings, so 
 she had some knowledge of the game. At times, too, 
 Clive used to tell her she displayed an insight that 
 was uncanny. She did brilliant things, but you could 
 never depend on her not to do equally stupid ones. 
 "She does let you down," one young middy remarked 
 ruefully of her. Sometimes she overheard scraps of 
 murmured comment. "What Miss Flood Lady 
 Flood's daughter? Didn't she run away from home 
 or something? Sister of that lovely young Lady 
 Wanley. . . . My dear you can't have forgotten 
 that wedding! What's she doing here? Studying 
 art? . . . Roma tells me she's painted the most 
 wonderful portrait of her! She doesn't look as if 
 she had it in her." 
 
 Roma had an assured triumph that summer with 
 her constant flow of wealthy and important English 
 travelers, cultivated men and women, for the most 
 part, with world-renowned names. The garden was 
 often thronged in the evening with well-known men 
 and beautifully dressed women. Roma always 
 looked wonderful in that soft setting of ilex-trees
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 177 
 
 and flaming bushes of oleander, with blue glimpses 
 of the sea visible between the foliage. Still, in spite 
 of increasing social engagements, she nearly always 
 gave three mornings a week to Sydney, coming up 
 early to the studio before the great heat began, when 
 the crystal mists had not quite lifted from the lagoon 
 and still softened the edges of things, and the towers 
 of Venice were a little blurred against the sky. 
 
 When the portrait was practically finished, Roma 
 brought up a party of her friends to look at it. She 
 wanted to hear other opinions, for by this time she 
 had learned how greatly Moreton disliked it. An 
 artist from Paris a queer yellow-faced man with a 
 shock of black hair and prehensile gesticulating fin- 
 gers, who wore a couple of ribbons in his buttonhole 
 praised it with a kind of exaggerated fervor. 
 "It's very nearly wonderful," he pronounced, "and 
 I think some people will say that it is quite won- 
 derful." "Truth and vision," said a young English 
 artist who did clever, modern, grotesque, Futurist 
 things that he could not induce any one to buy. 
 Among those who were not artists, praise was almost 
 unanimous. It was freely whispered that Moreton 
 didn't like it. But then he had never in his life liked 
 any portrait of his wife not even that wonderful 
 one that had been in the Academy just after their 
 marriage, and which had created such a sensation. 
 Gradually people began to come over to the villa on 
 purpose to look at the picture. Yes, it was the work 
 of that shy girl with the bobbed hair who "adored" 
 Roma Cochrane. But she could paint! It was all 
 nonsense, Moreton's saying that she could not! 
 What was he about, not to see the real genius of it? 
 And the work of his own discovery, too! He de- 
 clared that she ought to stick to landscape. . . . 
 One or two more fearless heretics said, "Poor old 
 Moreton he's getting old and cranky he can't
 
 178 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 judge of anything unless it's been painted at least 
 four hundred years!" Wait, they would add, till 
 it was exhibited in Paris, Rome, London and New 
 York cities where Roma Cochrane was well 
 known. It was inevitable that something of all this 
 should reach Moreton's ears, and from being exas- 
 perated with the picture he became exasperated with 
 Sydney herself. So his opinion was being criticized. 
 . . . He remembered with bitterness Sydney's own 
 swift almost sullen rejection of it. He hated the 
 portrait, wondered how much she would want for 
 it that he might purchase it and relegate it to a 
 decent obscurity. She was a clever little copyist who 
 in a few months had assimilated Pinelli's extraordi- 
 nary technique. She hadn't an original idea in her 
 head. Not a spark of real genius. Ask Pinelli ! 
 . . . But even Pinelli was not quite with him, for 
 he came over to look at the portrait and was in- 
 clined to take something of the. credit to himself. 
 He praised, carefully, judiciously, even with some 
 enthusiasm. But the praise sank into Sydney's heart. 
 
 As yet Clive had never asked to see it. He had 
 always remained aloof when Roma took her friends 
 up to the studio. Perhaps he wasn't really inter- 
 ested in it, but Sydney had an idea that he preferred 
 to remain outside the controversy, which sometimes 
 quite acrimoniously agitated the Cochranes and their 
 friends that summer. 
 
 Roma had the gift of calmly pursuing her own 
 way, apparently unmoved by adverse currents 
 and violent changes. She was seldom heard publicly 
 to express an opinion contrary to her husband's, 
 however vitally she might differ from him in private. 
 But dive's queer loyalty to Moreton was of an- 
 other quality, and he wasn't going to risk entering 
 the lists even secretly against him. Sydney Flood 
 was a passer-by; she wasn't worth risking anything
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 179 
 
 for, he used to tell himself, least of all, any difference 
 of opinion with Moreton. 
 
 Had he pursued this policy, it is certain that mat- 
 ters would have had a very different ending. It was, 
 however, Sydney herself who unconsciously imposed 
 upon him the complications and difficulties of a 
 divided loyalty.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 SYDNEY never forgot the day when Clive first came 
 up to her studio to look at the now finished 
 portrait. 
 
 Moreton and Roma had gone to Venice, to lunch 
 with some people who wished to have Moreton's 
 opinion about a picture they were inclined to buy. 
 The day was wet, and the wind slashed the rain 
 violently against the exposed windows of the tower- 
 room. Venice was quite blotted out. 
 
 Clive had grown tired of sitting alone downstairs. 
 He had finished a novel he had been reading; he had 
 smoked innumerable cigarettes, and now he had 
 nothing to do. The weather, he told himself, was 
 too vile for words. Moreton and Roma would have 
 a most horrible journey back, for the waters of the 
 lagoon were quite rough. Growing tired of this 
 solitude, Clive suddenly remembered Sydney's pres- 
 ence in the house. She hadn't come down to lunch. 
 Often when she was busy she did not appear, but had 
 some food taken up to her. Well, he would go up 
 and have a look at this wonderful portrait, about 
 which opinions were so divided. In his heart he was 
 afraid that he should differ from Moreton, and this 
 reason had loyally prevented him hitherto from go- 
 ing to see it. Moreton had spoken very frankly on 
 the subject to Clive. But youth cries to youth in 
 eternal alliance. Clive, the younger man, belonging 
 to the new generation, rebelled secretly and almost 
 unconsciously against the older man's trained and 
 crystallized judgments. 
 
 Of course, Clive was aware that Sydney had not 
 
 1 80
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 181 
 
 realized his cousin's confident expectations. But 
 very few of Moreton's "discoveries" ever succeeded 
 in doing that, although many of them had neverthe- 
 less subsequently achieved lasting fame and renown. 
 Most of them, to onlookers at least, had been wont 
 to illustrate the familiar metaphor of the rocket and 
 the stick. Sydney had, however, been in a slightly 
 different position from her predecessors, most of 
 whom had been promising boys. It was certain that 
 the Cochranes had never done quite so much for 
 any student before. This having her to live with 
 them ! It was a new departure, too, to persuade a 
 girl of good family to leave a comfortable home and 
 a mother bitterly opposed to the whole proceeding, 
 and to invite her to live with them for an indefinite 
 period. Her position was becoming permanent; it 
 would be difficult for them now to get rid of her, 
 or at least to find an adequate excuse for so doing. 
 Clive, perceiving serious inconveniences to himself, 
 hoped that the experiment might never be repeated. 
 . . . Almost unconsciously he had let his thoughts 
 dwell a good deal upon Sydney Flood of late. She 
 was there, and she seemed to have the unenviable 
 gift of unconsciously setting people by the ears ! To 
 Clive she was something of a problem. Roma cer- 
 tainly seemed fond of her, liked her to be there, 
 though she seldom mentioned her. But he was quite 
 sure that Roma didn't want to have another person 
 permanently ensconced in her house. She had 
 Moreton and himself two people to fetch and 
 carry, to accompany her, for she never went any- 
 where alone. He smiled a little ruefully at this 
 unflattering aspect of himself. 
 
 He knocked at the studio door, and it was almost 
 instantly opened by Sydney. She wore her faded 
 blue over-all a workmanlike garment, smirched 
 here and there with paint. She was very pale, and
 
 1 82 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 her eyes were shining. Yes, she was extraordinarily 
 like Boccaccino's St. Barbara. If she had been a 
 devout person, he thought fantastically, he might 
 almost have persuaded himself that she had now 
 emerged from a state of mystical ecstasy. The soft 
 bobbed hair was slightly ruffled above her brow, and 
 gave her a look of extreme youth. But the eyes ^ 
 the shining intelligent almost mystical eyes were 
 not those of a child; they were those of a visionary. 
 Curious thing he had never noticed before how 
 entirely beautiful they were, redeeming the face 
 from insignificance. 
 
 "May I come in and have a talk, Miss Flood?" 
 he said; "I want to see this portrait you've done 
 of Roma." 
 
 "Do come in," said Sydney. She put her brushes 
 down upon the table, removed the sketch that stood 
 on the easel, and then produced the portrait. 
 
 She wondered a little what had made him come up 
 at last and express a desire to see it. 
 
 Clive sat down on the divan, facing the easel, and 
 smoked in silence. Outside, the rain hissed against 
 the casements, and the wind shook the outside shut- 
 ters. Sydney meanwhile occupied herself with put- 
 ting away some of her things ; there was such a litter 
 on the table. From time to time she glanced half- 
 nervously at Clive, wondering what his verdict 
 would be. 
 
 Clive gazed attentively at the picture, and it 
 seemed to him that he was looking at Roma herself 
 from an entirely new angle. He seemed to see new 
 passions in the face, new capabilities of tenderness, 
 and yet there lurked behind those dark eyes whose 
 gaze followed you so closely, a vigilance, a ruthless- 
 ness, that he had never before suspected. It was 
 not the Roma whom every one knew and admired, 
 brilliant, gay, charming, trying to please every one
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 183 
 
 because she preferred harmony to discord. But it 
 was the face of a woman in whom there were sub- 
 tleties of love and jealousy combined with relent- 
 less power and determination, and these qualities 
 were so clearly expressed that they seemed to endow 
 the portrait with actual life. Had Sydney suspected 
 the existence of almost sinister complexes in Roma, 
 or had her brush accidentally revealed, with its cold 
 and brutal dexterity, a dual personality in her model 
 such as psychologists affirm forms part of every 
 human being, but which to the Catholic is explained 
 by the old interminable conflict between good and 
 evil in the soul? 
 
 As he looked, he felt that, like Moreton, he hated 
 its amazing cleverness. For it was a beautiful, ex- 
 quisite thing, full of Roma's own charm and grace. 
 When it suggested the presence of other qualities, l\e 
 was certain that this was an unconscious achievement 
 on the part of the artist. For surely Sydney loved 
 Roma, and she had received from her nothing but 
 love and tenderness. She had never seen Roma's 
 proud disdainful side; that was only exhibited when 
 she did coldly determine to rid herself of a bore or 
 a limpet. 
 
 Suddenly he became aware that Sydney was wait- 
 ing for him to speak. She had been perfectly still 
 and silent while he reflected, but she would naturally 
 want to know his verdict, even though it wasn't, 
 like Moreton's, an expert one*. 
 
 "You know, I think it's good very good indeed," 
 he said, falling back upon the first platitude that 
 occurred to him. "Moreton doesn't care for it as 
 you probably know I daresay he would give you a 
 large reward for permission to cut it into little pieces! 
 And Roma Roma's been painted too often to care 
 one portrait is like another to her representing 
 only the result of hours of self-sacrificing boredom !"
 
 1 84 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 Sydney flinched a little under the last phrase, it 
 struck her like a whip. Had Roma been bored? 
 Had she said so? The thought wounded her. But 
 she only remarked quietly : 
 
 "I'm glad you like it. 1 think if you like it I 
 shall be perfectly satisfied." 
 
 Clive was astonished, and showed it in the expres- 
 sion of his face as well as in his words. "But, my 
 dear Miss Flood, why should that satisfy you ? I'm 
 an ignoramus about art, as Moreton and Roma will 
 both tell you." 
 
 But her answer was quite simple. "You know her 
 so well I feel you wouldn't easily be pleased. The 
 better we know a face, the less likely we are to be 
 satisfied with a portrait that at best can give only 
 one aspect of it. . . ." 
 
 "Oh, I see," said Clive. "ThenJ think you 
 are right. But this does please me in a sense, al- 
 though it's a phase of Roma I don't know particu- 
 larly well, and one I should say which she's barely 
 conscious of herself." 
 
 She looked so frankly puzzled then, that he ex- 
 onerated her from any knowledge of those complexes 
 in Roma's character which the portrait seemed so 
 violently to suggest. It rather relieved him. 
 
 "Well, you must admit that we all have more than 
 one aspect I don't mean merely a profile or full- 
 face. You, for instance I don't suppose you strike 
 us quite in the same way as you do your mother, 
 for example. And you've probably other aspects 
 which you keep hidden from every one. Looking 
 at you sometimes, I should say you have a deeply 
 religious one which you don't show at all. And we 
 are all rather pagans here, aren't we?" He smiled 
 as he spoke. "It wouldn't do to show us too much 
 of that soul-side !" 
 
 "You think it's fantastic?" she inquired. "I've
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 185 
 
 only drawn her just as I see her perhaps, too, a 
 little as I see her in my dreams. . . ." 
 
 "In your dreams !" repeated Clive, mystified. 
 
 "Yes. She's always so beautiful then." 
 
 "Well, you've given us something of her great 
 beauty here," he said kindly. "And I'll tell you 
 what, Miss Flood I'm going to buy it." 
 
 "Buy it?" repeated Sydney, dismayed and aghast 
 at such a suggestion. "Why, it isn't for sale. I 
 wouldn't sell it for all the world. I shall keep it 
 myself, unless Roma wants it, of course, and then I 
 shall give it to her!" 
 
 "Give it to Roma? Do you know what will hap- 
 pen to it? It will be left in the box-room with its 
 face to the wall, if it has the good luck to escape 
 Moreton's knife ! You'd far better let me buy it I 
 should always give it an honored place, for the sake 
 of the artist as well as for the sake of the sitter!" 
 
 But the artist always has to learn to traffic in his 
 wares, and although Sydney had been proud and de- 
 lighted to let Moreton have her little Chelsea sketch, 
 this portrait was another affair. It was an intimate 
 thing; she had put her very best work into it. It was 
 at once a symbol of her love for Roma Cochrane 
 and of the gratitude she felt towards her. It be- 
 longed both to herself and to Roma, and no one else 
 in the world should possess it. It is not always easy 
 even for the impoverished artist to sell the children 
 of his brain and genius to another man for gold. 
 The fruit of those shining visions is in a sense 
 sacred; to buy and sell seems something of a 
 desecration. 
 
 "I can't give it to you," said Sydney, "but I'd 
 rather give it to you than sell it. I" couldn't sell it." 
 There was firmness in her tone. Clive was a little 
 astonished, but he did not as yet realize that he 
 was defeated.
 
 1 86 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 "That is an absurd piece of sentimentality," he 
 pronounced. "I intend to buy it and I'll make you a 
 very good offer. And then shall I tell you quite in 
 confidence and as a friend what you ought to do 
 with the money?" 
 
 "Only, I shall never have it," she interposed. 
 His friendly tone baffled her. 
 
 "Well, that's for you to choose. And having sold 
 it, I think, as you have learned all you can 
 out here for the present, you ought to go back to 
 your mother." 
 
 His own temerity embarrassed him, and when he 
 had said the words he went to the window and 
 looked out at the falling rain and the gray sky 
 and sea. 
 
 Suddenly he became aware that she had crossed 
 the room very quietly, was standing by his side, her 
 face raised to his with eyes that were pitiful in 
 their entreaty. 
 
 "I thought -I hoped I had kept so out of 
 the way that you hardly noticed my being here any 
 more. I thought you'd got used to it!" Her voice 
 was not quite steady. 
 
 "Got used to it? My dear child, what on earth 
 do you mean?" 
 
 "I mean I couldn't help seeing at first that you 
 didn't like my being here in Venice especially, when 
 I had your rooms. But here it seemed different " 
 She broke off. It seemed to him in those last words 
 there had been the least touch of anger. 
 
 "You have utterly mistaken my motive in giving 
 you this advice," he said haughtily . "I'm not think- 
 ing of myself at all and you are quite wrong to 
 suppose that I've ever found you in the way. I like 
 your being here, and it's because I am your friend 
 that I'm giving you advice which I think to be sound. 
 Go home to your mother, Miss Flood "
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 187 
 
 "She won't have me." Sydney's lips closed ob- 
 stinately upon the words. But a sudden glow of 
 something that resembled joy thrilled through her. 
 . . . / like your being here. ... So he had not, 
 after all, considered her in the way. 
 
 "Then go home and study in London. With your 
 great gift " 
 
 But she interrupted him with a stern: "I shall 
 succeed if I stay here. In London 1 should have 
 no one. . . ." 
 
 "And you mean that here you have Roma?" 
 he said. 
 
 He was not easily disconcerted, but something in 
 her look made it less easy for him to proceed. He 
 could see in her something of the determined woman 
 who had had the courage to defy Lady Flood and 
 leave home at the Cochranes' bidding. It was the 
 ignorant foolhardiness of such a step that chiefly in- 
 trigued him. 
 
 "Yes. She is the first real friend I've ever had." 
 There was something final in Sydney's tone. 
 
 "Nevertheless, you're wasting your time here. 
 And the question is, if it's worth while." 
 
 "What do you mean?" She was sitting now on a 
 low chair by the window, leaning her chin on her 
 hand and looking up into his face. She was not 
 angry any more; she seemed only to wish for an 
 explanation of his so strangely proffered advice. 
 
 "Well, I should say you were missing the sub- 
 stance for the shadow, and that's always a mis- 
 take." 
 
 She said abruptly: "But I'm happy here hap- 
 pier than I've ever been in all my life." There was a 
 touch of defiance, as if she dared him to question the 
 truth of this statement. 
 
 "Yes . . . and for how long? I am going to tell 
 you, although I'm afraid it will hurt you. Till Roma
 
 1 88 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 gets sick of you." He emphasized the last words, 
 thereby increasing their deliberate brutality. 
 
 The arrow with its poisoned tip struck home it 
 went straight to the very heart of her. He admired 
 her stoicism, for though she turned very white no 
 sound escaped her. 
 
 "Already, as you must know, you've disappointed 
 Moreton. This portrait gave rise to a good deal of 
 rather disagreeable controversy, and the critics he re- 
 spects weren't always with him about it. It was very 
 unfortunate for you of course, and I know you 
 weren't to blame. You were everything that was 
 most silent and discreet. Disappointing him doesn't 
 really matter his geese are always lovely white 
 swans at first, and when they do ultimately prove to 
 be genuine and authentic swans, he's always got a 
 little souvenir of them to comfort himself 
 with." 
 
 He was not enjoying himself then. He always dis- 
 liked speaking sarcastically of Moreton to a third 
 person, though sometimes it was necessary to do so 
 in order to save an awkward situation. Yet it 
 savored always of disloyalty, and Clive was at heart 
 fastidiously loyal to Moreton. If the chains ever 
 chafed him, he gave no sign, but submitted cheer- 
 fully to the demands that were made upon him. 
 Nevertheless, for some time past he had felt sorry 
 for Sydney, and although he hated to hurt her, he 
 wished to save her from a possibly rude awakening. 
 She had courage, too she was so quiet, so patient, 
 beneath this deliberate infliction of pain. But he 
 sincerely believed that far worse pain awaited her 
 if she remained. To annoy or irritate Moreton was 
 always an offense to Roma. And Roma could strike, 
 and strike hard, when,the hour came. Clive felt sure, 
 from certain signs, that the hour would not long be 
 delayed, now that the portrait was finished and the
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 189 
 
 heated discussions concerning its merits and demerits 
 had died down. 
 
 Sydney rose and went back to the easel, and as 
 she looked at Roma's portrait her eyes filled 
 with tears. 
 
 "Yes, I know I've disappointed him," she said, 
 "and I'm sorry in a way. But he thought too well 
 of me to start with. His thinking badly of me now 
 doesn't really mean that I'm quite hopeless." 
 
 He was a little startled at this plain enunciation of 
 an incontrovertible truth. Sydney's cold summing 
 up of Moreton was quite just and fair. She could 
 measure her own worth without aid from him. She 
 wasn't a fool, and she had grit. 
 
 Those steady gray eyes enchanted him. He liked 
 the soft, almost babyish curves of her face, the way 
 her pale hair grew close and very thick against her 
 straight square little brow. The lines of her mouth 
 were both sweet and firm. She was too good for 
 this ambiente. It was unsuited to her. He had an 
 odd wish to remove her before the hurting process 
 actually began. Before she had to realize that Roma 
 could be capricious. He no longer wanted her to 
 go away for his sake but for her own. She mustn't 
 think she wasn't wanted, at any rate by himself. 
 
 "And there'll come a day it may come very 
 suddenly- when Roma won't want you here any 
 more," he told her. 
 
 "Will there? Are you sure?" 
 
 Clive laughed a little, but there was no mirth in 
 his laughter. It had a nervous sound. "You don't 
 suppose, do you, that this dear little daughter busi- 
 ness is going to last forever? You've beaten all the 
 records already!" 
 
 "Ah, don't," said Sydney pitifully. Her confi- 
 dence in her idol was still almost unshaken, yet 
 something within her assured her that he was right.
 
 190 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 "I shall wait till it comes. And if it ever does come, 
 I shall just go away." 
 
 "But that's just what I don't want you to wait 
 for," said Clive, very kindly. 
 
 His kindness hurt her more than his harshness. 
 She believed now that he really did like her, did want 
 to save her from something nebulously unpleasant 
 in the future. She no longer thought that he was 
 playing for his own hand. Yet all the time she was 
 trying to assure herself that he was mistaken. 
 "Roma loves me," she told herself; "she won't want 
 me to go at least not for a long, long time." 
 
 "You must never think I'm against you, Miss 
 Flood. If I had anything to say to it you should 
 stay here always. . . ." His voice held something 
 of that tenderness which always rose to the surface 
 when he was talking to a pretty woman. And Syd- 
 ney was pretty. She attracted him to-day more than 
 she had ever done before. He could understand 
 why his cousins had taken such a fancy to her in the 
 first instance. 
 
 "I'm afraid I oughtn't to have said anything," he 
 went on; "I see you don't believe me that I haven't 
 done any good by speaking. All I can ask you now 
 is to forgive rr^e." He moved towards the door. 
 
 To his astonishment she followed him. 
 
 "Don r t go away," she said entreatingly. "What 
 you said took me by surprise. You mustn't think 
 me unreasonable. I've been afraid one always is, 
 isn't one that it was all too beautiful to last !" 
 
 She stopped short, and her eyes were lifted to 
 his suppliantly. 
 
 Clive met her look and in his face there was some- 
 thing hard and relentless and truth-compelling. 
 
 "You were afraid it might happen, then?" 
 he said. 
 
 "Yes -yes. Especially through Moreton. Per-
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 191 
 
 haps not . . . Roma." Her voice failed a little on 
 the word. 
 
 So that was what she wouldn't bring herself de- 
 liberately to envisage. Moreton didn't count 
 Clive had never imagined that he would. . . . 
 
 "Almost from the first, as I've told you, I felt 
 that Mr. Cochrane was disappointed. He expected 
 too much of me too soon." 
 
 "And you don't respect his judgment sufficiently to 
 abide by it, then?" inquired Clive. 
 
 She shook her head. "He may be quite right. But 
 I feel more strongly than ever now that I've got it 
 in me. I'm conscious of a power. . . . He knows 
 nothing of that." She spoke now as if she were on 
 sure ground. 
 
 Against his will Clive felt her attraction slowly 
 growing upon him. She was so young, and despite 
 that quiet gravity of hers, she was so full of the 
 fresh vitality, the vigorous confidence of youth. He 
 liked to watch her. She was always prettiest when 
 she was speaking. . . . 
 
 Clive's attitude was almost incomprehensible to 
 himself. For years he had been devoted to Moreton 
 and to his beautiful wife, had yielded himself to the 
 influence they both exerted over him, so that he had 
 no independent life apart from theirs. He lived 
 with them nearly always. If he tried to break away 
 even for a short time he could detect subtle signs of 
 displeasure evinced at the attempt. And he wasn't 
 really quite happy when away from them. He was 
 deeply attached to them both, and since their mar- 
 riage their home had been his. Yet he felt a violent 
 wish to save Sydney from a fate that would surely 
 wound her. He knew Roma so well, and caring for 
 her profoundly as he did, he still was determined 
 that she should not have another victim at least 
 not this brilliant, sensitive, ambitious girl. Despite
 
 192 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 all the idle flirtations that had marked his career, 
 he had never felt so attracted by any woman as to 
 take her part, even mentally and secretly, against 
 Roma. The disloyalty of the whole business gave 
 him something in the nature of a shock. And in 
 the little pause that followed, he put out his hand 
 and took Sydney's, as if to seal some unspoken pact 
 between them. 
 
 Then abruptly he went out of the room. And 
 as he descended the stairs, he heard Roma's voice 
 calling him. 
 
 "Clive! Clive! Aren't you coming down to 
 tea?" 
 
 He went downstairs and joined his cousins, feel- 
 ing a little relieved that he had just been in time 
 to prevent them from learning where he had spent 
 nearly the whole of that long wet afternoon. 
 
 Sydney Flood. . . . Poor little Sydney Flood. . . .
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 IT did not occur to Roma that the moment of 
 Moreton's condemnation of Sydney's work syn- 
 chronized with that of Clive's suddenly awakened 
 interest in both work and artist. She knew noth- 
 ing of the manner in which their two guests had 
 spent that wet afternoon, and indeed it was little 
 likely that either Clive or Sydney should confide the 
 substance of their conversation to her. 
 
 That Clive should ever interest himself in Syd- 
 ney did not seem a very probable happening, though 
 naturally Roma had once or twice mentally reviewed 
 its possibility, since propinquity has before now 
 brought extremely unlikely people together. And 
 Clive was ingenuously susceptible, and openly pre- 
 ferred the society of women to that of men. He 
 always confided his love affairs to Roma, and in- 
 deed she had had the privilege of watching the prog- 
 ress of many of them, had seen them rise and wane, 
 had listened to his recital of their development, and 
 shown him as much sympathetic interest as an elder 
 sister would have done under the circumstances. 
 Even when they reached that phase of rapid 
 crescendo, which with him was always the penulti- 
 mate one, prior to disillusionment, Roma was in- 
 variably sympathetic and even encouraging. But 
 she had never known him fall in love with any- 
 thing so young and unfinished as Sydney. Clive was 
 fastidious; he would want something at once more 
 sophisticated and more expensive. She had always, 
 however, expected that Sydney would fall at least 
 a little in love with Clive, and she almost believed 
 
 i93
 
 194 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 this to have been accomplished on the day when 
 he had read the Paradiso aloud to them in the 
 
 farden at Venice. She had observed the girl's 
 ushed face and parted lips and shining eyes as she 
 rose so suddenly and went indoors. . . . 
 
 But it had only been a passing emotion that was 
 quite evident and she began to think that Sydney 
 was not especially susceptible. Besides, she was 
 obviously thinking of other things than love and 
 marriage. She had chosen to work, instead of 
 making what would have been an eminently suitable 
 marriage with a man who was certainly very deeply 
 attached to her. 
 
 Roma relaxed her vigilance a little. Sydney was 
 quite safe. The girl had brightened up wonder- 
 fully of late. The success of the portrait for it 
 was a success and had attracted a good deal of at- 
 tention, despite Moreton's unfavorable criticism 
 had evidently pleased Sydney. There was just the 
 least little touch of assurance now in her manner; 
 she wasn't so deprecating. . . . 
 
 A combination of circumstances threw her for a 
 whole morning and part of an afternoon into Clive's 
 company. Moreton and Roma received a telegram 
 from an old friend and client, the Duchess of Mer- 
 thyr, who was staying at Padua and wanted More- 
 ton's opinion about a picture. 
 
 They settled to start off early on the following 
 day in the motor-boat for Fusina, and thence take 
 the electric railway that runs to Padua. There was 
 a suggestion that Clive should accompany them, but 
 he declined. 
 
 They were sitting in the garden after dinner mak- 
 ing their plans. Sydney had gone up to bed early, 
 as she generally did when she had been working 
 hard. And her work had received a fresh impetus 
 of late from the success of the portrait. She had
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 195 
 
 ceased to let Clive's warning words alarm or dis- 
 may her. Roma had never been kinder to her 
 more tender and affectionate. She couldn't believe 
 that Roma would change. . . . 
 
 "Well, you must stay here and be bored then, 
 Clive," Roma told him, on hearing his refusal to 
 accompany them to Padua, "for unless you go in to 
 Venice for the day, you will only have Sydney to 
 keep you company." 
 
 "Oh, I like little Miss Flood," said Clive, smil- 
 ing; "she doesn't bore me at all. I shan't think it 
 a hardship to be left alone with her for a whole 
 day." 
 
 The moon was almost full, and its light was sin- 
 gularly brilliant ; it touched Roma's face to an ivory 
 tone. She had wrapped a shawl of golden silk about 
 her shoulders in the manner of the Venetian women, 
 and her dress and shoes were white. The moon- 
 light gave them a blanched effect. She might have 
 been a ghost strayed out of one of those old Vene- 
 tian portraits, sitting there in the dense shadows of 
 the ilexes and pines. 
 
 She had not replied to Clive's lightly uttered 
 speech; indeed, he wondered if she had heard it. 
 He continued gayly: 
 
 "I shall try to make her come out of her shell 
 a little!" 
 
 Roma laughed pleasantly, as if she had suddenly 
 been awakened. 
 
 "Well, don't try too hard! Molluscs are much 
 safer inside their shells!" she said. 
 
 Moreton looked up sleepily. 
 
 "You make too much fuss about that girl, Roma. 
 It's high time she went home and married that ex- 
 cellent young Turner. People ought to learn to cut 
 their losses." 
 
 Clive reddened a little; he felt thankful that the
 
 196 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 night concealed from Moreton the angry blood that 
 had risen to his face. It was incredible that More- 
 ton should be so blind to contemporary talent I He 
 had lost confidence in Sydney's genius, and the natu- 
 ral result had rapidly followed, he was beginning 
 to dislike her and wanted to get rid of her. Soon 
 Roma would seek a means of satisfying him, and 
 poor little Miss Flood would go to the wall, just 
 as Clive himself had warned her. 
 
 He had never felt so angry with Moreton be- 
 fore, and it made him stop and analyze the cause 
 of his anger. Was it because he cared for Sydney 
 was beginning to care for her suddenly, after 
 spending weeks in the same house with her and 
 scarcely noticing her presence? He could not tell; 
 he only knew that his anger gave him a sharply 
 defined desire to protect her from Moreton's ad- 
 verse criticisms. 
 
 But he sat there, saying nothing. Did Roma 
 guess anything of the tension that had sprung up 
 between the two men? And then Clive realized 
 that he wished to keep his annoyance a secret from 
 Roma. She mustn't know of that newly-awakened 
 interest in Sydney. It was altogether too delicate 
 a thing. It seemed to him in that moment as if 
 Moreton and Roma, from being his best and near- 
 est friends, had become potential enemies. 
 
 "I think I shall take a walk on the sands and 
 look at the moonlight on the sea." He rose and 
 lit a cigarette. "So I'll say good-night. Good- 
 night, Uncle Moreton; good-night, Roma." He 
 walked down the path, pulled open the heavy iron 
 gate and was lost to sight. 
 
 The next morning Clive rose early and went down 
 to the landing-stage with Moreton and Roma. It 
 was a beautiful morning, the lagoon was clear as
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 197 
 
 glass. Venice was outlined in mingled tints of gray 
 and gold and rose. The tall and slim campanile of 
 San Giorgio rose into the limpid blue of the sky. 
 
 "What a heavenly morning," said Roma. 
 
 "Yes," said Clive, "it's a pity you're not going to 
 spend it here." 
 
 "Oh, I couldn't let Moreton neglect such an im- 
 portant piece of business. I wish you were coming 
 with us, Clive. Grace Merthyr would have been 
 delighted." 
 
 "Not for the world! I always suspect her of 
 wanting me to marry that plain eldest girl of hers." 
 
 "You are too conceited for words." 
 
 "Besides, I'd much rather go into Venice with 
 little Miss Flood and look at genuine Tintorets." 
 
 "Oh, so you mean to go sightseeing with her?" 
 
 "If I have your permission," said Clive, smiling. 
 
 "I'm only surprised that you should ask for it. 
 But still yes, I'm sure it would do Sydney good 
 to have a whole holiday. She worked like a slave 
 over that portrait of mine." 
 
 She stepped into the boat, followed by Moreton. 
 In a few minutes there was a long expanse of pale 
 water between them and Clive. Roma waved a 
 handkerchief to him. Then he turned and went 
 back to the villa, drank some coffee, smoked a ciga- 
 rette, and strolled down to the sands for his morn- 
 ing dip. 
 
 Roma's speech had simplified matters for him, 
 and made it easy for him to go up to Sydney's 
 studio on his return and suggest that they should 
 spend the day in Venice together. 
 
 "I told Roma we'd go somewhere," he said. 
 "She thought, too, it would be good for you to 
 have a whole holiday." 
 
 Sydney was both surprised and delighted. How 
 kind of Roma to think of it ! .
 
 She was ready for Clive at the hour he proposed, 
 which was ten o'clock. The day promised to be 
 very hot, and Sydney had put on a dress of white 
 fine muslin delicately embroidered. She wore a 
 shady white hat, and white shoes. 
 
 "She looks like a little girl," thought Clive, and 
 tried to assure himself that the thick bobbed hair, 
 of the color and almost of the texture of spun glass, 
 was ridiculous in a grown woman. Still it suited 
 her, and he could not imagine her with a more con- 
 ventional coiffure. He sat in the gondola, stretched 
 out his long legs, and smoked in contented silence. 
 
 Sydney leaned back lazily. All around them the 
 lagoon lay, milkily-blue and colored like a star- 
 sapphire. It was a still, windless morning, and the 
 golden and pearl sails of the fishing boats hung mo- 
 tionless. Venice, over there in the distance, was a 
 city built of mists, beautiful, insubstantial. 
 
 Far off, the Alps showed their vague pansy- 
 colored summits leaning against the sky. The la- 
 goon, spreading like a sea, lapped the shores of 
 innumerable islands. The Lido hung like a green 
 jewel between lagoon and sea. 
 
 She felt as if she and Clive were floating together 
 upon an illimitable crystal sea. She was very si- 
 lent. Her eyes were drinking in the beauty of all 
 that transparent air and water. As they approached 
 Venice, the city seemed to acquire substance and 
 color and even solidity, while the lagoon changed 
 from crystal to a deep sapphire blue with jade-green 
 shadows that made it look like a beautiful moving 
 mosaic. . . . 
 
 "San Giorgio," said Clive laconically to the gon- 
 doliers, who obediently made for the rosy column 
 of that tower, which of all the towers of Venice 
 seems to arise straight from the sea with its bright 
 golden angel poised upon the green copper summit.
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 199 
 
 "To-day you are to look at Tintorets," he said 
 to Sydney. "I'm sorry the Accademia's closed. 
 There's a picture I'd like you to see there Boccac- 
 cino's 'Madonna with Attendant Saints.' The St. 
 Barbara is extraordinarily like you." 
 
 "One of my favorite pictures is in San Giorgio's," 
 she said. 
 
 "What the 'Last Supper' ? Yes, it's very won- 
 derful." 
 
 "No not that one. The 'Coronation' with the 
 young St. Placid looking upwards, with a nail in his 
 forehead." 
 
 They landed upon the island and entered the 
 beautiful Benedictine church. Clive stopped before 
 the "Coronation." He wondered a little why Syd- 
 ney should care for it so much. She was looking 
 at it now with shining eyes, as if she desired to 
 imprint it imperishably upon her mind. 
 
 Again she felt the passion of faith that had in- 
 spired the painter's brush. Was such passion to 
 be found in the world to-day ? Something for which 
 one would die with the joyful calm serenity of young 
 St. Placid, who gazes upward in the picture with 
 the cruel nail piercing his brow? 
 
 Clive was an excellent guide, he knew Venice 
 well. Sydney dutifully accompanied him round the 
 church while he pointed out various details that 
 might have escaped her. 
 
 "You know, of course, that when a cat is intro- 
 duced into a picture of the Last Supper it is in- 
 tended to symbolize treachery," he said. "You'll 
 find it in many of the old pictures Ghirlandajo's, 
 for instance, in St. Mark's at Florence. And the dog 
 in the same way represents fidelity." 
 
 They returned to the "Coronation," and Sydney 
 stood there with her eyes fixed upon it. Clive 
 fetched a couple of chairs and they sat down be-
 
 200 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 fore the picture. "I must get her a photograph 
 of it," he thought to himself. 
 
 Presently she turned abruptly to him. 
 
 "I wish I knew more of the Roman Catholic reli- 
 gion." 
 
 So it was affecting her that picture of the young 
 martyr. He had not been mistaken then when he 
 had thought to discern in her something of religious 
 fervor. But he only said lightly: 
 
 "Does St. Placid inspire you with a desire to 
 die with a, nail in your forehead?" 
 
 "I'm not sure. . . . But it must be something 
 very strong very wonderful to compel men to lay 
 down their lives for the sake of it. . . ." 
 
 Clive was cautious. "Of course the very fact 
 of being in Italy of seeing all these splendid 
 churches with their wonderful treasures must 
 make us think about it a great deal. In England 
 we've banished it so completely, haven't we ? We've 
 deluded ourselves, too, with the idea that success 
 and commercial prosperity are to be found only in 
 Protestant countries, as if they were the things that 
 mattered most in life! The War has shaken our 
 faith in that a little, and then it gave many of us 
 religious questionings. I know heaps of men 
 some of them very unlikely ones who were con- 
 verted to Catholicism in the trenches. Just the 
 sight of some poor dying soldier, receiving the Last 
 Sacraments from a priest who was perhaps wounded 
 himself, or the Crucifix standing unharmed in the 
 midst of indescribable ruins, worked the miracle 
 with them." He spoke in detached, impersonal 
 phrases, but Sydney remembered that Roma had 
 told her Clive had once had an inclination to be- 
 come a Roman Catholic himself and had relin- 
 quished the idea rather than give pain to Moreton. 
 
 While he spoke, Clive watched Sydney with re-
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 201 
 
 newed interest, with a curious attention. Of course 
 she had a spiritual side ... all creative artists had. 
 Genius wasn't merely a thing of the brain ... it 
 had to do with the soul as well. No amount of 
 education could produce it. ... And Sydney had 
 genius. 
 
 She said desperately: "You can't think how I 
 envy St. Placid. To find something worth living 
 for worth dying for. Something eternal 'ever- 
 lasting. . . ." 
 
 "Don't envy him," said Clive. "I'm sure it must 
 have been exceedingly unpleasant to die with a nail 
 in one's forehead. You are letting Italy get on 
 your nerves, Miss Flood. These grizzly stories of 
 the martyrs . . ." He shrugged his shoulders. 
 "I think you are alone too much. Roma's busy of 
 course. . . . And she thinks we've all thought 
 that you were perfectly contented you'd got leisure 
 to work and study." 
 
 More than ever, then, with her soft round face, 
 her grave earnest eyes with their uplifted look, did 
 she remind him of the so-called St. Barbara in 
 Boccaccino's masterpiece. 
 
 "Don't think too much about the Roman Catho- 
 lic religion," he continued. "I admit that Italy puts 
 it in front of one very attractively, and as long as 
 we don't share her faith we must always feel like 
 strangers here. Mediaeval art was wonderfully 
 pressed into the service of the Church so were the 
 Renaissance, and the Baroque movement of the 
 Counter-Reformation. But Art isn't her hand- 
 maiden any more." 
 
 "Yes I've thought of that. And perhaps that's 
 why Art is no longer so splendid . . . it's lost its 
 eternal message." 
 
 So she had approached the Catholic religion 
 through the strange byway of her art. She was
 
 202 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 not the first to do so. Clive, deeply interested, 
 waited for her to speak. 
 
 "If I could only learn more! When we were 
 living in Venice, I often went to Mass. I thought 
 sometimes I should like to talk to a priest. . . .* 
 
 "Yes?" said Clive. 
 
 "I feel so ignorant. . . . Religion never attracted 
 me before." 
 
 "Well, I should wait, I think, before consulting 
 any one." 
 
 "I'd like to do ... what you think best . . ." 
 said Sydney. 
 
 "Oh, you mustn't let that influence you !" said 
 Clive. The words had startled him there was 
 such a simple sincerity in her voice when she ut- 
 tered them. "There are things we must decide for 
 ourselves. But I've been along the path you're 
 treading now, and I didn't pursue it for private 
 reasons, and because I knew I should be hurting 
 some one some one who was very dear to me. 
 That's a motive which pulls many of us up at the 
 last moment. But you've cut yourself free from 
 your own people^ haven't you? You can do pretty 
 much as you choose in spiritual matters. It isn't 
 my business, perhaps, to tell you to wait, yet that's 
 what I feel about it. Wait till you know a little 
 more have learned a little more because you're 
 so awfully young still !" 
 
 He rose abruptly and went towards the door. 
 Sydney, with one long glance backward at St. Placid, 
 followed him. After the cool gloom of the church 
 the sunshine glittering fiercely upon the water beyond 
 almost dazzled her. 
 
 "I suppose it always wants a great deal of courage 
 to become a Catholic," Sydney said, as they took 
 their seats again in the gondola. 
 
 "Well, yes, I suppose it does. But you're surely
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 203 
 
 not wanting in courage, are you? Look at the way 
 you made up your mind to come to Venice with Roma 
 whom you hardly knew!" He laughed a little as he 
 spoke. She had never had the least notion how 
 reckless that action of hers had been ! 
 
 "But I loved her," said Sydney simply. 
 
 Yes, she had loved her, would have followed her 
 then across the world. Roma had touched her im- 
 agination as no one else had ever touched it. Syd- 
 ney's worship of beauty had at last found some 
 concrete tangible object upon which to expend itself 
 royally. Now things were a little different; she could 
 acknowledge this to herself almost without grief. 
 She loved Roma still, but no longer with such com- 
 plete simplicity. And with her present knowledge 
 she would have hesitated before following her so 
 far. She would scarcely have taken so rash a step 
 a second time, fearing lest the way might prove to 
 be paved with sharp swords that would cut and bruise 
 her feet, as in Hans Andersen's story of the little 
 Sea-Maiden. . . . 
 
 "Oh, that's a phase a good many of us go 
 through," said Clive; "however, we mustn't discuss 
 Roma she's a law unto herself." His voice 
 changed and he paused. Sydney wondered rather 
 irrelevantly if Mrs. Cochrane had ever made him 
 suffer during that process of molding he had un- 
 doubtedly undergone at her hands. Had it always 
 been so easy for him to submit to her will? . . . 
 
 "But let us say, for instance," he continued, "that 
 Roma having failed you if only a little people never 
 do keep very firm on their pedestals, do they? and 
 inevitably they get tired of them and perhaps hate 
 the homage well, as I was saying, Roma having 
 failed a little, you naturally looked about for some- 
 thing to replace her. Something, shall we say? a 
 trifle more stable! And you hit upon the Catholic
 
 204 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 Church as offering an outlet and scope for unlimited 
 adoration. But make quite sure, first, that it is going 
 to give you all you expect. . . . Think it well over, 
 Sydney. . . ." He had never called her by her 
 name before, but the word slipped easily and natu- 
 rally from his lips. Perhaps he was in the habit of 
 speaking of her thus to Moreton and Roma. 
 
 She only said : "You see, I feel it is exactly what 
 I want to help me. Something that would give 
 meaning and purpose to my life to all I try to 
 do." 
 
 "Yes I quite see that. And I think you'll prob- 
 ably end there unless you follow my first advice and 
 go home." 
 
 "No I'm not going home. I'm sure you were 
 mistaken," said Sydney. 
 
 She was still powerfully under the influence of the 
 picture, its spiritual content held her. Clive liked 
 her all the better in this desperately earnest mood. 
 A kind of intimacy was slowly growing up between 
 them. He did not pause to ask himself whither it 
 would inevitably lead them. 
 
 "Now we must go and have some lunch," he 
 said. "I'm hungry, aren't you?" 
 
 "No not very," said Sydney. She had not 
 thought about it, out when she sat down opposite 
 to Clive at a little restaurant-table near a window 
 that looked over the Grand Canal, she suddenly 
 discovered that she was very hungry indeed. Be- 
 fore them they could see the splendid Dome of 
 Santa Maria della Salute outlined against the burn- 
 ing blue of the sky in delicate silver tints, harmo- 
 nious and beautiful. The sunshine was still a little 
 dazzling as it played on the broad stream of the 
 Canal. 
 
 Clive felt quite satisfied with the success of their 
 little expedition.
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 205 
 
 "I've made her happy to-day," he thought to him- 
 self, looking at her grave, serene little face. 
 
 And he thought of her words, spoken so simply, 
 "I'd like to do what you think best." He would 
 scarcely have been human had he not been touched 
 by their spontaneous flattery. They were not to 
 him then, as they seemed afterwards, a danger 
 signal. 
 
 After luncheon they loitered about Venice in the 
 gondola, seeking the narrow shady canals during 
 that hot afternoon. And Clive took her to one or 
 two palaces, of which he had the entree, to show her 
 pictures and statues that were not always visible to 
 the public. Evening was drawing its dusky blue 
 veils over Venice when they returned to the Lido. 
 
 Sydney went up to her studio and lay down on the 
 big divan. She was very tired and very happy. 
 It had been a day of days, one of the happiest, she 
 thought, that she had ever spent in all her life.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 AFTER dinner that night Roma drew Sydney's arm 
 within her own and stepped from the loggia, 
 where the meal had been served, into the garden. 
 
 It was flooded with moonlight, and the shadows 
 flung by the ilex-trees were ebony-colored and 
 sharply defined. Between the boughs they could 
 see the sea, with a broad path of silver across it, 
 mysterious, illimitable. 
 
 "Well, Sydney dear, did you enjoy your day? 
 Did Clive amuse you?" 
 
 "Very much he was so kind," said Sydney. 
 
 "He's a delightful companion, and such an inter- 
 esting guide," said Roma. 
 
 "Yes," agreed Sydney. 
 
 At that moment she actually feared the physical 
 contact of Roma's arm within hers. It was as if 
 through that light pressure she might detect in Syd- 
 ney something of the new emotion which the events 
 of the day had stirred to life. A day of days. . . . 
 
 "Do you know what he says about you?" 
 
 "No." The girl's face in the moonlight was 
 pale, and the soft, short, uncovered hair had some- 
 thing of the moon's silver in it. 
 
 "He says you're like Boccaccino's St. Barbara." 
 
 "Oh, I remember!" She laughed. "I want to 
 see it." 
 
 "We must get you a photograph of it," said 
 Roma kindly. "And Clive tells me he could hardly 
 get you away from the St. Placid in San Giorgio." 
 
 "No it seemed more than ever wonderful to- 
 day." 
 
 206
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 207 
 
 "And so you're still thinking of becoming a Roman 
 Catholic?" 
 
 There was a hint of gentle mockery in Roma's 
 high sweet voice. 
 
 Sydney drew her arm away with impulsive abrupt- 
 ness. She did not like to think that Clive had re- 
 peated any part of their conversation to Roma. 
 What else had he told her? Was he so intimate 
 with her that he told her everything? Her own 
 conscience felt a little guilty, though she had as- 
 suredly said nothing of Roma that was wanting 
 in love or loyalty. A dreadful little thought that 
 Clive's advice to her to leave before Roma grew 
 tired of her, might have been based upon exact 
 knowledge, upon something definite that Roma had 
 said to him, assailed her. But she thrust it from 
 her. She truly believed in Clive's friendship. He 
 had no great liking for her, so she told herself, but 
 he was a little sorry for her because she was solitary 
 and had evidently quarreled with her own people, 
 and he considered perhaps that the Cochranes were 
 apt to neglect her. 
 
 "I want to learn more," was all she said, in a 
 cold, proud little voice. "Of course, I often think 
 about it." She puckered her brow. 
 
 "And Clive does Clive sympathize?" 
 
 "Not exactly he advises me to wait till I know 
 more." 
 
 "But I'm sure you found him sympathetic about 
 these spiritual difficulties?" Roma persisted. 
 
 "Yes. But he didn't encourage me. I feel as 
 if I wanted some one to encourage me to take the 
 step." 
 
 "You must talk to a priest," said Roma. "Only, 
 Clive's advice seems quite sound don't do anything 
 in a hurry. Lady Flood would certainly not ap-
 
 208 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 prove it might crystallize the very difficult situa- 
 tion that already exists between you." 
 
 "Yes, it would do that," said Sydney. 
 
 "I was always glad that Clive gave up the idea," 
 said Roma. "It would only have upset Moreton 
 terribly. And he owes so much to my husband. 
 Very few fathers have done as much for their sons 
 as Moreton has done for Clive." 
 
 Sydney said suddenly: "But if he'd really been 
 in earnest if he had had the faith *hat wouldn't 
 have counted at all! I've an idea that nothing 
 human counts it must be a much stronger love 
 a much deeper devotion than any earthly one !" 
 
 Roma stared at her in astonishment. 
 
 "Yes I think you are right. So we must be- 
 lieve that Clive hadn't, as you say, the faith. He 
 had leanings, and he dutifully checked them for an 
 excellent human motive. I'm glad for his own sake 
 that he did so. He depends a good deal upon 
 Moreton and Moreton has a great dislike to giv- 
 ing money to Roman Catholics. Clive isn't one of 
 your strong heroic souls he couldn't, I think, face 
 poverty." 
 
 As she spoke, she watched Sydney attentively. 
 The girl shrank a little before the scrutiny, and yet 
 so far she had nothing to hide from Roma except 
 the foolishness of her own heart. But she guessed 
 that Roma was considering her in her altered rela- 
 tion to Clive. The friendliness, rather than the 
 friendship, which had sprung up so suddenly be- 
 tween them had, perhaps, not altogether escaped 
 her. She was studying her, Sydney felt, under this 
 new aspect, as if trying to discover whether that 
 phase of falling in lov.e with Clive, through which 
 she had once declared so many women who knew 
 him passed, had come also to herself.
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 209 
 
 Then Clive stepped out into the garden with a 
 lighted cigarette in his hand. 
 
 "What splendid moonlight!" he said, looking up 
 at that high pale sky above his head. "You are 
 an artist, Miss Flood, so I'm sure you've noticed 
 that the summer moonlight in Italy is almost more 
 golden than silver!" 
 
 "Shall we go down to the shore, Clive?" said 
 Roma. She pulled her silken shawl lightly about 
 her shoulders; it increased her natural slenderness. 
 No Venetian woman could have worn it with more 
 perfect grace. 
 
 Clive did not answer, but he moved slowly by 
 Roma's side across the garden towards the high 
 iron gates. As they disappeared together, Sydney 
 could hear the echo of their voices and low laughter. 
 
 On the sea a silver-white sail flashed out suddenly 
 in the broad path painted by the moonlight. The 
 hull of the boat was of velvet blackness. The light 
 wind carried it swiftly out of sight. It looked 
 like a faery vessel, guided by no mortal hand. 
 
 Sydney shivered a little and then went indoors. 
 In the loggia Moreton was lying on a long chair, 
 smoking a cigar. He looked up as she passed on 
 her way into the house. 
 
 "Have they gone down to the shore?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes,"^ said Sydney. 
 
 She said good-night to him and went up to her 
 room. Across the broad pale expanse of the lagoon 
 she could see the lights of Venice glowing steadily 
 in long serried lines under the stars. The towers 
 were dimly outlined in blurred silhouette. The 
 lights of the ships, lying at anchor there, hung like 
 jewels. From the islands other lights flashed their 
 message across the water. And somewhere out in 
 the darkness a blue lamp was burning before the
 
 210 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 little shrine where the Madonna watched over the 
 lagoon, holding the Child in her arms. 
 
 But after that day it seemed to Sydney that Roma 
 had changed a little towards her. She never came 
 up to the studio now, nor did she bring people 
 thither to look at the portrait. Sydney dared not 
 envisage this thought; it struck her dumb. If 
 Roma changed, if Roma failed her ! ... It was not 
 one that could be harbored, and Sydney, young and 
 inexperienced, shrank from grasping the nettle and 
 looking the terrible little truth in the face. If Roma 
 failed her then, there were only two possible courses 
 open to her. One was to remain by herself in 
 Venice, struggling against poverty; the other was 
 to go home, a prodigal daughter, who would cer- 
 tainly find neither robe nor ring nor shoes nor feast- 
 ing awaiting her. 
 
 Once or twice she thought she would invite Clive 
 to tell her the exact truth. He was so intimate 
 with his cousins, he would certainly know if the 
 time had truly come for her to leave them. But 
 she had no opportunry of discussing the matter with 
 Clive. She never now saw him alone. He spent 
 his days wholly with Roma and Moreton, bathing, 
 boating, going over to Venice, lunching out, dining 
 out. Sydney was once more left to her solitude and 
 work. Sometimes she longed for just such another 
 delicious summer day spent lying back lazily in the 
 gondola, with the breeze from the sea ruffling the 
 water of the lagoon and Clive sitting by her side. 
 She thought of the little narrow canals running 
 under white bridges and making a network of com- 
 munication all through the city, the tall walls of 
 splendid palaces rising above them, and the olean- 
 ders flinging their flaming masses of blossom over 
 the ancient gray stonework. 
 
 She was not in the mood to paint. Doing that
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 211 
 
 portrait of Roma had exhausted her. But she did 
 achieve one or two slight impressions of the lagoon 
 at dawn, with the towers of Venice rising beyond; 
 these she finished and put aside, thinking that per- 
 haps one day she would be able to sell them. But 
 the fact was that she needed a holiday, a complete 
 rest. The burning days of late August tried her. 
 She used to watch almost with envy the three Coch- 
 ranes start off day after day from the villa, bent 
 on some expedition. Often they were away from 
 early in the morning until dinner time. Apparently 
 they gave no thought to the solitary little creature 
 up in her turret room. Even Clive, after that brief 
 spell of friendliness, seemed to have forgotten her. 
 Perhaps this was his way of demonstrating to Syd- 
 ney that she really had only one course open to 
 her, and that was to go home. She had rejected his 
 advice, and now she was to be made to learn perhaps 
 that he had not spoken without interior knowledge 
 of the situation. 
 
 One day after their departure, she went down 
 to the landing-stage and took the steamer that plied 
 between the Lido and Venice. She felt she must 
 have change distraction. They were to be away 
 all day until evening; she had heard them gayly dis- 
 cussing their plans last night. When she arrived at 
 the Riva degli Schiavoni, she hired a gondola and 
 went to the Fondamenta Nuova, whence she crossed 
 to the little island cemetery of San Michele. She 
 had never been there, but its red walls and dark 
 rows of cypresses seen from the distance had at- 
 tracted her. As she stood in the little piazza out- 
 side the church, she saw a gondola approaching, 
 guided by two men in deepest black. The gondola 
 was hung with black and silver trappings like a 
 hearse, and a great pall hid some oblong-shaped 
 thing which must be, she knew, a coffin. Close be-
 
 212 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 hind it came a second and a third gondola with lit- 
 tle groups of mourners, men and women, in them. 
 She could only catch glimpses of them sitting under 
 the black hood, but she could discern the long crepe 
 veils worn in Italy by women and girls when mourn- 
 ing for their dead. They made them look like 
 widows. . . . Then another gondola came in sight, 
 bright with flowers, piled up with the great wreaths 
 that were fashioned of two large palm-branches to 
 which graceful knots of blossoms were skillfully 
 attached. There was something stately and digni- 
 fied, and yet very simple, about the little funeral 
 procession coming across the lagoon. Under the 
 bright blue sky and the fierce golden sunshine the 
 deep blackness of the gondolas with their dark hoods 
 and funereally-clad mourners made a wonderful ef- 
 fect that was at once sober and splendid and very 
 solemn. 
 
 When they reached the quay, the coffin was trans- 
 ferred to a bier and wheeled swiftly into the church. 
 Franciscan figures garbed in the brown habit of their 
 order awaited it, and one of them wearing a cotta 
 and stole sprinkled it with holy water, murmuring 
 Latin prayers. The coffin was placed upon a 
 catafalque already prepared before the High Altar, 
 and covered again with the pall. The mourners 
 slipped quietly into their seats and knelt down. Syd- 
 ney followed their example, keeping in the back- 
 ground where she believed that no one would no- 
 tice her. She was intensely, almost passionately, 
 interested. Presently she looked up and saw three 
 priests, in black vestments, enter the sanctuary. The 
 Mass began. Hidden voices sang the Introit, rising 
 and falling in solemn chant: Requiem aternam dona 
 eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat els. The Grad- 
 ual repeated the same supplication. Presently 
 through the church the Dies Ira sounded solemnly
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 213 
 
 that wonderful Sequence wherein the Church 
 seems to cry for mercy for her dead. 
 
 Sydney remained there motionless in her corner. 
 She was thrilled, and yet the solemnity of the serv- 
 ice awed her. It was the first time she had been 
 present at a Catholic funeral and heard a Requiem 
 Mass. There was something at once simple and 
 yet splendid about this last rite, something that 
 made her think of a child going to sleep very tran- 
 quilly and sweetly in the arms of its mother. It 
 was no moment for passionate, unrestrained grief. 
 This was not a sorrow that lacked hope. It made 
 but one more link between heaven and earth; one 
 more freed soul to join the ones who had passed on 
 before it. These mourners were praying for that 
 soul as perhaps they had never prayed for it in 
 life. It needed the prayers and suffrages of the 
 living, so that the stains of earth might be quickly 
 purged from it, and it might enter into the glory 
 of that paradise which Dante had described. E la sua 
 volontate e nostra pace. . . . Those words, uttered 
 in Clive's musical voice, came back sharply to her 
 remembrance. 
 
 A bell rang. She saw the gleaming Host uplifted 
 above the priest's head. Instinctively she bowed her 
 body, covering her face with her hands. There 
 was a hush all through the church. The bell rang 
 a second time, and she watched the swift Elevation 
 of the Chalice. She had the sense then of having 
 reached a home that had always been awaiting her. 
 She could have knelt there in adoration for 
 hours. 
 
 When the Mass had ended and the Holy Sacrifice 
 had been offered for this dead child of the Church, 
 the priests descended into the aisle where the coffin 
 lay. One of them sprinkled it with holy water. 
 The Pater Noster was said, the last Absolution
 
 2i 4 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 given. Mother Church had received her dead child 
 into her bosom, had gathered it thus to her, shriven, 
 absolved. Honor to the frail tenement of clay that 
 had returned to its own dust; prayer and sacrifice 
 for the immortal soul that had gone forth upon its 
 last journey. . . . 
 
 Sydney followed the cortege through the beau- 
 tiful sixteenth-century cloister, and out into the wide 
 sloping space beyond, that formed the cemetery. 
 Groves of cypresses lifted their slim spires to the 
 blue sky. The wind from the lagoon rustled in 
 the long grasses that clothed the ground. There 
 were flaming bushes of oleander to break the sor- 
 rowful darkness of the cypress trees. 
 
 She stood at a little distance as the coffin was be- 
 ing lowered into the ground. Then she turned 
 and hurried away, fearful of intruding, or of being 
 perceived by the little knot of mourners. 
 
 She walked back into the church and as she went 
 towards the door she suddenly espied a tall figure 
 standing there, looking up at the smiling Bernini 
 statues that adorned a tomb. At first she did not 
 realize that it was Clive Cochrane. But when, as 
 she came closer, she did recognize him she had an 
 instinct to slip past him, hoping that he would not 
 notice her. She did not wish to talk to him just 
 then; she felt that any conversation would too swiftly 
 dispel the impressions of that wonderful experience 
 through which she had just passed. She had the 
 sense of having been transported into another world, 
 where dead and living were gathered up into one 
 vast fold the Communion of Saints. For she had 
 not been saddened; she had felt, as never before, 
 the ultimate victory of life over death. Life en- 
 dured, persisted, triumphed, because it was immor- 
 tal, indestructible. Its passage through the world 
 was only a voyage more or less protracted, a
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 215 
 
 traveling towards the gate that men misnamed 
 "death." . . . 
 
 But Clive's eyes were already upon her. 
 
 "Why, Miss Flood !" he said. 
 
 She stood by his side; it did not occur to her to 
 offer any explanation of her presence there. 
 
 "Those statues are Bernini's," he said. "It is 
 the fashion to admire him now, you know there 
 is quite a cult for him in Rome. I confess to hav- 
 ing admired him before it was the fashion, but I 
 haven't been able to convert Moreton. Middle- 
 aged men are terribly hard to convert to any new 
 point v of view!" 
 
 He delivered this dictum with one of his bright 
 smiles. 
 
 They went out into the little piazza. Sydney 
 said: "I have a gondola waiting for me. Will you 
 will you come back in it?" 
 
 "But of course," said Clive. "So you are sight- 
 seeing on your own to-day?" 
 
 "Yes I didn't feel inclined to work." 
 
 "Enjoying it?" His lazy blue eyes contem- 
 plated her half-curiously. 
 
 "Very much." 
 
 "You look ecstatic almost," he told her. "I'd 
 no idea San Michele was such an inspiring place." 
 
 "It was to me. I've been to a funeral ... it 
 was wonderful!" 
 
 Like most young men who are sound in body 
 and healthy in mind, Clive had no particular fancy 
 for allowing his thoughts to dwell upon his latter 
 end. He stared at her in astonishment. 
 
 "But, my dear Miss Flood! You've enjoyed a 
 funeral? Well, de gustibus! " He shrugged 
 his shoulders, and then helped her into the gon- 
 dola. 
 
 Sydney flushed. "It wasn't so much the funeral
 
 216 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 but the Requiem Mass the beautiful singing. So 
 sober and solemn, and yet such hope . . ." 
 
 "You lucky child! You're full of enthusiasms," 
 said Clive. 
 
 She looked almost beautiful, he thought, sitting 
 there very still, with her cheeks flushed a little and 
 her eyes shining. 
 
 Although he laughed at her, she felt he was not 
 unsympathetic. And she was glad to have him 
 there, glad that they were to make the homeward 
 journey together, although somehow to-day his pres- 
 ence didn't seem to matter quite so vitally. The 
 spiritual experience had affected her too profoundly, 
 and she felt that she understood St. Placid as never 
 before. The bitter physical torment and agony of 
 martyrdom had constituted for him a short pas- 
 sage to the ineffable joys which his faith taught him 
 were awaiting him. If only the whole world could 
 return to that faith, what a profound and beauti- 
 ful change would come over it! What a solution 
 of all difficult problems, what a return to those 
 ideals which alone were worth struggling for, liv- 
 ing for, dying for. No form of Protestantism could 
 ever teach such an authoritative message, unchanged 
 across nearly two thousand years. That strange 
 vision of the Truth which tears the scales from 
 human eyes and compels them to behold its white 
 dazzling glory, had come to Sydney. . . . 
 
 "You'll come back to Venice to lunch with me, 
 won't you?" said Clive, presently. 
 
 "Yes, thank you." There was no eagerness in 
 her voice, and he felt almost irritated by her ob- 
 vious absorption in the contemplation of her recent 
 experience. Well, there would be no stopping her 
 now, he reflected. She would certainly become a 
 Roman Catholic, and thus perhaps cut herself per- 
 manently off from her own people. No one could
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 217 
 
 blame Roma for that, or consider her responsi- 
 ble. . . . 
 
 "Where is Roma?" said Sydney, suddenly. 
 
 "They met friends in the Piazza boring people, 
 who carried them off to luncheon. They asked me 
 to go too, but I refused. Besides, I wanted to look 
 at those statues. I'm glad I was too late for the 
 funeral though. I've an idea it might have de- 
 pressed me as much as it seems to have had the 
 reverse effect upon you. Anyhow, it was a piece 
 of luck my finding you there. I hate lunching 
 alone." 
 
 When they had landed, Clive led the way swiftly 
 down a network of calli and across small bridges 
 that spanned narrow canals, where the water was 
 of a deep opaque green. They went across squares 
 presided over by great churches, where houses and 
 shops seemed to doze idly in the sun. Clive knew 
 his way so well that it evoked Sydney's admiration, 
 for the Venetian streets and alleys still perplexed 
 her, and she had found it useless to try and guide 
 herself by the usual means of a map. Clive went 
 on a little ahead of her, and she followed, won- 
 dering at the swift and easy spring of his move- 
 ments. There was something of the physical per- 
 fection of the trained athlete about Clive that made 
 people turn back and look at him after he had 
 passed. 
 
 Clive hired a gondola that afternoon, when they 
 had lunched at a hotel on the Grand Canal and 
 rested on the terrace afterwards. For quite two 
 hours they seemed to explore the innermost recesses 
 of Venice. Finally they emerged into the Grand 
 Canal close to the fruit-market and saw the barges 
 laden with that harvest which Italy possesses in 
 such abundance. There were great heaps of water- 
 melons, those verdant balls of cool refreshment, col-
 
 218 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 ored with the softness of green grass seen in 
 shadow; scarlet masses of ripe tomatoes; the crim- 
 son and gold of sun-kissed peaches. There was a 
 richness and splendor of color in the scene that 
 made Sydney long to return thither and paint it. 
 As they went under the bridge of the Rialto on their 
 homeward way, a steamer passed them and they 
 were caught in its wash; the gondola swayed and 
 tossed with the agitation of the water. 
 
 Clive looked at his watch. 
 
 "We'll take the steamer back to the Lido," he 
 said; "it's getting late, you know, and Roma will 
 be wondering what's become of us. I feel like a 
 truant, but we've had a ripping afternoon, haven't 
 we?" 
 
 He laughed, but Sydney fancied she could detect 
 something of nervousness in his laugh. 
 
 The steamer was very crowded at that hour, and 
 they had difficulty in finding even standing room. 
 They stood so close together that Clive's arm 
 touched hers. People turned and looked at the Eng- 
 lish couple, Clive, tall and slender in his gray flan- 
 nel suit and Panama hat and with that almost arro- 
 gant grace of bearing, and Sydney with her short 
 soft hair, her striking Northern fairness. It is pos- 
 sible that most of their fellow-passengers put them 
 down as a newly-married pair on their honeymoon. 
 Clive's manner was gently protective; he shielded 
 Sydney from all rough contact with the crowd.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 As they walked along the road to the villa, they 
 caught sight of Roma in her white dress mov- 
 ing about among the trees in the garden. Clive 
 called to her as they approached, "Roma ! Roma 1" 
 . . . She came down the path to meet them. 
 
 "Well, Clive ! Why, my dear Sydney, I was get- 
 ting quite anxious about you. Of course, if I'd 
 known you were with Clive I shouldn't have both- 
 ered. But the servants told me you went out quite 
 early this morning *oon after we did, in fact so 
 I began to feel you had lost yourself in Venice. . . ." 
 
 As she spoke, she put her two hands on Sydney's 
 shoulders and kissed her flushed face. 
 
 "I'm sorry," stammered Sydney "I didn't mean 
 to stay out so long, but I met Mr. Cochrane . . ." 
 She turned rather helplessly to Clive, as if appealing 
 to him to explain. 
 
 He said slowly: "We've been idling in a gon- 
 dola. It's the only way of spending such a perfect 
 day as this !" 
 
 Sydney moved away, and went into the house. It 
 was time to dress for dinner, and she was conscious 
 now that her long day had tired her. She had not 
 realized how exhausted she was until she heard 
 Roma's greeting, with its gentle, half-playful reproof 
 that had suddenly chilled her. It was absurd, yet 
 she could almost have believed that Roma disap- 
 proved of her spending the day with Clive in this 
 manner. 
 
 When she had gone indoors, Roma turned to 
 
 219
 
 220 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 Clive and said: "Clive, it isn't fair! She's such a 
 baby thing!" 
 
 "What isn't fair, my dear Roma? Taking Miss 
 Flood in a gondola to see Venice, which you know 
 she's never really done thoroughly?" 
 
 "No I don't mean that. I mean your paying 
 her so much attention." 
 
 Clive laughed good-humoredly. "You can really 
 hardly accuse me of doing that. We met by acci- 
 dent at San Michele of all places in the world. 
 I'd no idea she would be there when I went to look 
 at those Berninis. Could I do anything but take 
 her to lunch somewhere? Afterwards I showed 
 her the fruit market and other objects of interest. 
 She'd been to a Requiem Mass and funeral at San 
 Michele it made her more dull and silent than 
 usual. . . ." 
 
 "Poor Clive! Were you so dreadfully 
 bored?" 
 
 "No, I wasn't bored," said Clive, frankly; "I like 
 looking at her, you know. She makes me believe 
 in an immortal soul. And she's quite pretty really 
 pretty enough to be dull and silent and not lose 
 by it!" 
 
 "Yes, she's very pretty," agreed Roma. 
 
 She was reassured by Clive's saying that their 
 meeting had been wholly accidental. For of course 
 she must take care of Sydney. . . . She was not like 
 an ordinary art student, independent, self-reliant, 
 able to look after herself. And despite Lady 
 Flood's present anger with her, Roma knew that 
 she would not thank them for letting her daughter 
 bind herself to a foolish engagement. Clive had 
 not a great deal of money of his own, certainly not 
 enough for a wife and family. He depended very 
 much upon Moreton's generosity, but Moreton 
 would be certain to disapprove of his marrying Syd-
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 221 
 
 ney. Roma had often been astonished at the easy, 
 thoughtless manner in which Clive would embark 
 upon seemingly serious flirtations with ineligible pen- 
 niless girls. She had known quite a succession of 
 them had remonstrated with him on the subject 
 more than once. But this time she felt some little 
 diffidence about doing so. Sydney was a perfectly 
 suitable match for Clive; it was rather a question 
 whether Lady Flood would smile upon her engage- 
 ment to an idle young man without too much money. 
 Sydney would have her portion when she married, 
 even if Lady Flood declined to augment it. Her 
 only sister was married to a man of great position 
 and wealth. Roma felt she could not now say to 
 Clive as she had often done before: "You couldn't 
 marry a girl like that, you know, without regretting 
 it to the end of your days!" 
 
 But she couldn't she told herself ruefully play 
 eternal policeman. It was a thankless part, quite 
 unsuited to her type. If they wished to be together, 
 she would not interfere. And indeed it was almost 
 the best policy to pursue if one desired the whole 
 thing to end quickly. Clive would soon grow tired 
 of it. She had known him quite desperately in love, 
 and recover from it with astonishing rapidity. And 
 he wasn't in love with Sydney. She knew the signs 
 in him only too well. His interest was lightly 
 aroused; he was intrigued by that spirituality of hers 
 which had become more pronounced in Venice. 
 Very soon she would be quite sure to bore him. She 
 was such a little, immature, untrained thing! One 
 would have expected something a little more finished 
 and worldly from Lady Wanley's sister. 
 
 Roma liked Sydney very much, or at least believed 
 that she did, but she could not understand her hav- 
 ing the slightest attraction for Clive. Still, they 
 must go their way. . . .
 
 222 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders, and in the days that 
 followed she used to say : "Oh no, Clive. Moreton 
 and I can perfectly go into Venice by ourselves! 
 It's only natural that you two young things should 
 like to be together. You'd much better take little 
 Miss Flood out with you and continue her educa- 
 tion." 
 
 Her experience with Clive was that he so soon 
 wearied of that deliberately imposed freedom. It 
 would not be long before he returned to Moreton 
 and herself more devoted than ever, delighted at 
 having regained his liberty, and enjoying his eman- 
 cipation from a chain that was perhaps already be- 
 ginning to gall. 
 
 And Sydney? Well, she had warned Sydney, 
 long ago when she had come to see her in London 
 and Clive had suddenly appeared and resented the 
 presence of this strange girl. 
 
 For the moment Clive took advantage of Roma's 
 permission. "I daresay she's feeling a bit dull all 
 by herself," he would reply, a little surprised per- 
 haps at Roma's suggestion which coincided so ex- 
 actly with his own wishes just then. But she had a 
 strange gift for knowing what was going on in his 
 mind. It was almost uncanny at times this pre- 
 cise discernment of hers and it had before now 
 given him moments of uneasiness. 
 
 He went up to Sydney's studio and knocked at 
 the door. She was not working that morning; none 
 of her artist's paraphernalia was lying about. He 
 wondered what she was doing. Dreaming perhaps. 
 . . . He said: 
 
 "I hope I'm not interrupting you? I came to 
 ask you to go down to the sands with me. More- 
 ton and Roma have gone to Venice." 
 
 "You didn't go with them?" she said. It was so 
 rarely they went without him.
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 223 
 
 "No, Roma's given me a holiday," he told her, 
 smiling. "Let's spend some of it together, at any 
 rate !" 
 
 He looked down at her and laughed. 
 
 "Yes, I'll come," said Sydney. 
 
 She felt vaguely perplexed. Clive had always 
 seemed to wish to accompany the Cochranes on 
 their expeditions. Now, he spoke of being given 
 a holiday. And she had had the absurd idea that 
 Roma hadn't cared for them to see too much of 
 each other. 
 
 They strolled down to the shore and sat on the 
 sands, watching the gay characteristic scene. Be- 
 fore them stretched, like a field of brilliant un- 
 broken blue, the wide waters of the Gulf of Venice 
 that historic sea that had known the galleons 
 and argosies of long past days, those ships engaged 
 in world-wide trafficking when Venice was indeed 
 Queen of the Seas and ruled them with royal hand. 
 But this scene at the Lido, with its touch of vul- 
 garity, had nothing in common with those ancient, 
 sober, and splendid days. The sands were filled 
 almost from end to end with bathing-machines. 
 Boys clad in a scanty loin cloth ran gracefully past, 
 like smooth-limbed bronze statues. There were 
 women, fresh from their morning dip, walking up 
 and down in brilliant-hued bath-gowns. Sometimes 
 their hair was confined in a close cap of bright- 
 colored silk, sometimes it fell over their shoulders 
 in sable masses. Men and women were swimming 
 together in the sea, as if it were their natural ele- 
 ment; their superb movements seemed to be per- 
 formed wholly without effort. Boys would emerge 
 from the waves, rub themselves lightly with hand- 
 fuls of the hot sand, and fling themselves down to 
 smoke. Sometimes their chests and backs were raw 
 and purple with blisters caused by that fierce sun,
 
 224 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 and made them look as if they were suffering from 
 some malignant skin-disease. 
 
 Over there on the far horizon the Alps showed 
 dimly, like dream-mountains enveloped in silver- 
 spun mists. But nearby all color was sharp, de- 
 fined, and violent. Sky and sea were deeply, pas- 
 sionately blue, and the sun shone on the sails of the 
 fishing boats till they looked as if they had been 
 fashioned out of cloth-of-gold and silver. The 
 waves broke in snow-colored foam on sands that 
 were brightly yellow. The dark heads of the swim- 
 mers bobbed up and down in that calm sea. They 
 shouted and laughed at each other. 
 
 "You ought to paint this !" said Clive, suddenly. 
 "Paint it as you see it now with all its bright pure 
 color, with the clear hard edges to everything, even 
 to the shadows. Nothing blurred or smudged, but 
 full of light." 
 
 Sydney pulled out a small block which she nearly 
 always carried with her for the purpose of jotting 
 down impressions. She began to draw, first the mo- 
 tionless sails idly poised upon that sapphire shield, 
 the far outline of the Alps, the stretch of sand, and 
 upon it a scantily-clad boy who ran to and fro, shout- 
 ing and laughing, with the salt drops falling from 
 his loose black hair. In a few deft lines she caught 
 the life and motion of that young and joyous figure. 
 
 It was the merest sketch, scarcely more than a 
 few lines, but her pencil was rapid and practiced. 
 Clive watched her. It seemed so wonderful that 
 those ineffectual-looking little hands . . . She 
 turned her face to him; she was laughing: "What 
 would Pinelli say to that?" she said. 
 
 Clive thought her delicious when she laughed. 
 He took the block from her and deliberately tore 
 off the sheet. 
 
 "I shall keep it," he told her.
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 225 
 
 He gave the block back to her, and in doing this 
 his hand touched hers. They looked into each oth- 
 er's eyes, surprised, almost dismayed. There was 
 a brief silence. Clive broke it. 
 
 "Sydney!" 
 
 She did not answer. 
 
 "Of course we don't love each other," said Clive, 
 in a suffocated tone that betrayed great emotion; 
 "that would be absurd!" 
 
 Sydney made no reply. Indeed, he had uttered 
 the statement without apparently inviting affirma- 
 tion or denial. It was almost as if he had impul- 
 sively negatived an idea that had just occurred to 
 him and that struck him as inherently fantastic. 
 
 "Wouldn't it?" he repeated. 
 
 Sydney felt an absolute inability to speak. She 
 knew then that she loved him. She lowered her 
 eyes, aware that the large bright glare of sea and 
 sky hurt them like the stabbing of a sword. 
 
 "But to-day you are different," he said. "To- 
 day . . ." He stopped, and then stretched out his 
 hand and touched hers. 
 
 She thought of Duncan, whose touch had been 
 powerless to evoke the thrill of joy that passed 
 through her now as she felt Clive's hand upon hers. 
 
 "Just now when you laughed you made me be- 
 lieve that I loved you," said Clive. His tone was 
 fierce, strangled, as if he were engaged in some ob- 
 scure, stern struggle. 
 
 Her heart beat. They were as alone as if that 
 
 fay host of laughing, leaping, plunging figures had 
 een shadows in a world of impalpable light. 
 
 She was afraid that he might discern something 
 of the joy that the touch of his hand on hers was 
 communicating to her. 
 
 "Do you love me, Sydney?" he said, and his hand 
 pressed hers into the soft sand.
 
 226 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 "Please please don't talk like this !" There was 
 urgent entreaty in her tone. Roma's words came 
 back to her mind like wounding arrows. "Most 
 women who knew him passed through the phase 
 of falling in love with Clive." Yes, and perhaps 
 he had told them too that he loved them. Her 
 face was very white and obstinately set. 
 
 "At least, let me tell you that I love you, Syd- 
 ney. You are different from all the rest of the 
 world! Most people have lost their ideals but 
 you've kept yours wonderfully. I've never met any 
 one before so intensely other-worldly so spiritual. 
 . . . I've sometimes seen you look like a little saint 
 in ecstasy. ..." 
 
 All the time his blue eyes were fixed upon her 
 face. He was longing to discover the truth. Did 
 she love him? She was oddly on her guard, doubt- 
 ing, mistrustful. Perhaps Roma had warned her. 
 
 The shadow of Roma seemed to fall between 
 them. Sydne^, with an effort, drew her hand 
 sharply away from the little grave in the sand where 
 Clive had buried it. 
 
 "Do you love me?" he repeated, "for I love you 
 so much, Sydney. I want you to be my wife. I 
 must know. ..." 
 
 There was suffering the suffering of suspense 
 in his face. 
 
 "Yes, I love you," said Sydney, very quietly. 
 
 "You will marry me?" 
 
 "Yes," she answered. But as she uttered the bald 
 monosyllable, he felt that it held something of the 
 solemnity of a vow. 
 
 To Sydney the whole thing was like a strange, 
 beautiful, yet tormenting dream. She was aware 
 that this was the climax of that particular period of 
 her life. She had never thought it would come to 
 her this love of Give's. Even then, she had an
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 227 
 
 inward conviction, based perhaps upon Roma's 
 words, that it could not bring her happiness. But 
 it was unlike Duncan's love because it peremptorily 
 claimed and received from her a reciprocity of 
 affection. 
 
 His very next words struck chill to her heart. 
 
 "Would you consent for a time only to a se- 
 cret engagement? I think for the present it would 
 be better not to tell either Roma or Moreton." 
 
 She hesitated. "If you wish it," she said, in a 
 low voice. She felt then how entirely her happiness 
 was in his hands. She must take no risks. She 
 would do as he desired. 
 
 "It will simplify things," he told her. "We could 
 be married soon. This is August you would have 
 to go home first perhaps it might be quite early 
 in the New Year." 
 
 "Yes," said Sydney. If he had suggested the next 
 day she would probably have said "yes" in exactly 
 that same quiet, acquiescent tone. 
 
 Married? Yes, she would be happily married 
 like Moira. She would know, too, something of 
 that passionate happiness that love could bring, and 
 with it transform all things. Once she had regarded 
 such love with incredulity. It had come to her 
 now. 
 
 "You would go home, between this and then, to 
 your mother, wouldn't you?" said Clive. 
 
 "If you wanted me to," said Sydney; "it wouldn't 
 be very easy. . . ." 
 
 T 'I should like you to be on good terms with your 
 own people," he continued; "I hate family quar- 
 rels." 
 
 She waited a moment and then said: 
 
 "You won't mind my becoming a Catholic? You 
 see, I've quite settled that I must be one." 
 
 "I shan't mind at least not very much. Only, I
 
 228 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 think I'd rather you didn't do anything in a hurry. 
 You're so impulsive, Sydney. . . ." 
 
 "You want me to wait?" There was disappoint- 
 ment in her tone. 
 
 "No. You must do just as you like. Only 
 it'll make a difference to Moreton. . . . He's most 
 awfully prejudiced senselessly prejudiced. That 
 sort of thing's so fearfully out of date !" 
 
 Sydney lifted her head and said with a touch 
 of arrogance: 
 
 "Moreton is nothing to me !" 
 
 "But he's something rand a great deal to me," 
 said Clive, firmly. "I'm very fond of him. I owe 
 him almost everything." 
 
 She was immediately contrite. "Yes yes I 
 know. But it's not something I can put aside out 
 of respect for Moreton." 
 
 "I don't ask you to do that. But I advise you 
 to wait even perhaps till after our marriage." 
 
 "I'm not sure. . . . Clive I feel as if it couldn't 
 be true. I'm not used yet to the thought of your 
 caring for me. . . ." 
 
 "What a fanciful child you are !" 
 
 "And you're quite sure it must be a secret?" 
 
 "Yes I've explained. Because of Moreton and 
 Roma. They mightn't like it. I don't know why. 
 . . . Roma's all right, but Moreton's a queer old 
 fish sometimes !" 
 
 "I'd like Roma to know," said Sydney. 
 
 "Well, we can't tell one without the other." 
 
 "Surely Roma will be pleased? She's so fond of 
 us both. . . ." She said the words almost as if 
 they were a challenge. 
 
 Clive glanced at her pityingly. 
 
 "You don't know your Roma," he observed 
 dryly. 
 
 Sydney stirred restlessly. She felt as if the 
 bright scene in front of her had become suddenly
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 229 
 
 a little cruel, a little hard in its resplendent beauty. 
 There was an inherent simplicity in her character 
 which shrank instinctively from secrets and intrigues. 
 She would far rather have risked Roma's displeas- 
 ure than have kept the knowledge of their engage- 
 ment from her. She wished to be engaged to Clive 
 openly, so that if need be the whole world might 
 know of it, might be aware of the love that had 
 sprung up between them. For love only blooms 
 freely in the light; it perishes and withers in dark 
 places. 
 
 "Oh, let me go away!" she said; "I mean I 
 don't want to go home, at least not yet. But I 
 should like to go and live in Venice, and work for 
 a time there alone. I feel I can't stay under their 
 roof and not tell them. It wouldn't be possible. 
 Surely you must see that?" She appealed to him 
 almost piteously. 
 
 "You must do as you please about that," said 
 Clive, who felt secretly rather relieved at the idea. 
 Many difficulties would thus be evaded. 
 
 "I've once or twice been afraid since that day 
 you spoke to me about going that I was staying 
 too long. And now the portrait's finished, there's 
 really no need r" 
 
 "None at all," said Clive. "I'll hunt about for 
 a couple of rooms for you." 
 
 "They must be very cheap, you know. You 
 mustn't settle on anything without telling me first 
 exactly how much it'll cost. I'm so afraid of ... 
 of debts. . . ." 
 
 "Are you?" said Clive, and laughed a little. He 
 had himself long ago lived down that fear. When 
 things got too pressing, he invariably appealed to 
 Moreton. It had not always been easy, but More- 
 ton generally relented and came to the rescue in 
 the end, although at first he was wont to show a 
 justifiable annoyance. Yes, Clive reflected, he was
 
 230 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 under immense obligations to Moreton, financial and 
 otherwise ; it would never do to risk a regular breach. 
 He had an idea that his cousins expected him to 
 make a wealthy, brilliant marriage he could have 
 done so before now, had he so chosen. They would 
 hardly consider Sydney's little fortune adequate. 
 
 "I shall hate leaving Roma," said Sydney, after 
 a little pause. 
 
 "Shall you?" There was pity in his eyes. Per- 
 haps it was mingled with a little contempt for that 
 obstinate blindness of hers. 
 
 "What excuse shall I make?" 
 
 "You might say, what is perfectly true, that you 
 think you've stayed with them as long as you ought, 
 and that you want to make a start alone." 
 
 "And when I'm gone, perhaps you'll be able to 
 tell them?" she said wistfully. 
 
 "Dear Sydney, you may be sure that I shall tell 
 them at the very first favorable moment. I dislike 
 intensely having secrets from either of them. But 
 I know them both far better than you do. You 
 mustn't hurry me. . . ." 
 
 "I've never lived alone," she said, wondering 
 what her mother would say to this new departure 
 should it reach her ears. Living alone, and secretly 
 engaged to Clive Cochrane. . . . Visions of her 
 mother's displeasure at such a combination passed 
 chaotically through her brain. 
 
 "You'll find it's perfectly delightful," he assured 
 her. 
 
 She was easily ruled, that was one comfort. He 
 had seized rather ruthlessly upon her timid sug- 
 gestion that she ought perhaps to go away, had crys- 
 tallized it in a few minutes into a settled determina- 
 tion. He wanted her to leave the villa; she would 
 be safer thus out of Roma's sight. It was never 
 a simple thing to hide any matter from Roma. And 
 she had a light way of scattering dust upon other
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 231 
 
 people's idols. She wouldn't approve, and she 
 would increase Moreton's inevitable disapproval. 
 Clive told himself that he couldn't risk letting Syd- 
 ney suffer at their hands. He loved her the genius 
 in her, the ardent soul. And somewhere deeply con- 
 cealed in his heart there was a sincere wish to change 
 his present unsatisfactory mode o^ life, so restless, 
 so purposeless. This little creature seemed to 
 breathe a purer, simpler air. He wanted to marry 
 her, to go right away from his former surround- 
 ings. He pictured living with her in some quiet 
 country house in England. He didn't want wealth. 
 He didn't want anything, just then, that belonged 
 to Roma's world. . . . 
 
 "I shall mind leaving Roma," Sydney said again. 
 This thought was uppermost in her mind, teasing 
 her with its persistence. She knew that the taking 
 of that step would be like the first bitter plunge 
 of the swimmer into a cold and unknown sea. Flesh 
 and spirit alike shrank from all that the parting 
 would involve. Hitherto, she had so determined 
 that her departure should never be a voluntary thing 
 on her part. She would stay until Roma asked her 
 to go. ... And all the time she had tried to de- 
 ceive herself, had assured herself that nothing was 
 wrong, that Roma was quite unchanged, still cared 
 for her, and wished to have her there. 
 
 "Ah, you'll get over that," said Clive, with easy 
 confidence. "I'm going to take Roma's place in your 
 life, you know. I shall want all your love now, my 
 dear. . . . And you must see for yourself that 
 Roma's never given you anything like what you've 
 lavished upon her in the way of devotion and affec- 
 tion." 
 
 She winced, but her voice was steady as she an- 
 swered him. "Yes, I can see that. But then she's 
 got other things Moreton, for instance, and " 
 She stopped. She had just been going to add, "and
 
 232 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 yourself" but realized it would be an indiscretion. 
 
 "She has indeed got Moreton!" said Clive de- 
 risively. "My dear Sydney, we can talk to each 
 other frankly now, can't we? You must have seen 
 shut up in your attic even as you have been- 
 that it isn't 'roses, roses, all the way' with More- 
 ton !" 
 
 "No I've often thought he must be trying," she 
 acknowledged reluctantly. "But you're fond of 
 them both, aren't you?" 
 
 Clive looked straight in front of him. 
 
 "I'm perfectly devoted to them both," he said. 
 "But I can't suppress my critical faculty even where 
 objects of devotion are concerned. I can see, for 
 instance, that Moreton is a very irritable man 
 made the more irritable, no doubt, by that obscure 
 heart-disease which he always holds like a rod-in- 
 pickle over us all. I am very sorry when he's really 
 ill, but that does not prevent me from longing to 
 run out of the house, where I can't hear him call- 
 ing me every five minutes. And I can see that Roma 
 is the most beautiful woman in the world, and also 
 one of the most selfish and luxurious. They are a 
 very striking couple, and I admire them both enor- 
 mously, and if any other man were to say to me what 
 I'm saying to you now, I should most certainly knock 
 him down!" 
 
 It was a long speech for Clive to make, and it 
 threw a good deal of light upon his relations with 
 the Cochranes. For Sydney, since their mutual con- 
 fession of love, had begun to perceive in that an- 
 cient intimacy whose ties obviously held him so 
 strongly, an influence that he could not quickly nor 
 easily free himself from. 
 
 She rose to her feet. She was a little stiff from 
 sitting there so long. Clive rose, too, and gave her 
 his hand, helping her to rise. They walked along 
 the sands in rather a subdued mood.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 WHEN they reached the high iron gates of the 
 villa, Clive rang the bell, and the sound of 
 its pealing seemed to echo through the garden. The 
 gates were opened from within, and they entered 
 side by side and walked slowly up the path. Clive 
 stopped in the shadow of a grove of ilex trees; 
 he drew Sydney rather roughly to him and kissed 
 her. "Sydney- Sydney " he murmured. He 
 could feel that she trembled under his touch, but her 
 hands clung to his. 
 
 "My dear," he said, "if things don't go quite 
 smoothly at first, you must promise not to lose your 
 faith in me or in my love for you. Promise me 
 that. . . ." There was an urgency in his tone that 
 struck her very forcibly. 
 
 "I promise," said Sydney. 
 
 They walked very slowly up to the house. As 
 they drew near, they saw Roma sitting in the loggia, 
 looking at some English papers. The large sheets 
 were scattered all about her. 
 
 "Why, how early you're back, Roma," said Clive. 
 
 To see her there made him feel at once aston- 
 ished and a little uneasy. 
 
 "Yes. It's because Moreton didn't feel very 
 well. He's gone up to his room. What have you 
 two been doing?" 
 
 "We've been sitting on the sands, watching the 
 people bathing. Why didn't "you come down and 
 look for us?" 
 
 "I didn't know where you were," said Roma. She 
 threw down the paper. "Clive, you'd better go up 
 
 233
 
 234 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 to Moreton, hadn't you? He's been asking for 
 you." 
 
 "All right. I'll run up and have a look at 
 him.'; 
 
 Clive entered the house. He felt that he could 
 not bear the calm scrutiny of Roma's gaze just then. 
 The existence of a secret between himself and Syd- 
 ney gave him a guilty sensation. His conscience 
 was not quite at ease. . . . Sydney was right it 
 would have been an impossible position for them 
 to remain together under this roof without openly 
 acknowledging their engagement. The sooner she 
 went away the better. He hoped that she would 
 decide to go to London soon. He could follow her 
 then without divulging the purpose of his journey. 
 He would go into Venice this very day and hunt 
 for rooms for her. He was too intimate with the 
 Cochranes to be capable of hiding anything so vital 
 as his own engagement from them. They would not 
 smile upon it they would think it was only another 
 of his foolish, transient love-affairs. 
 
 When he had disappeared, Roma turned to Syd- 
 ney. There was a slight constrained silence. Then 
 she slipped her hand in Sydney's arm and drew her 
 to a seat. 
 
 "Enjoyed your morning on the sands, Sydney?" 
 
 "Yes. . . ." 
 
 Her face burned from exposure to the sun. Her 
 eyes were large and excited. She looked happy, and 
 not quite normal. 
 
 "My dear child -you ought to take more of a 
 holiday. It does you good. Why, you're looking 
 lovely to-day." 
 
 Sydney laughed. "I wish I could believe it. But 
 you're always indulgent to me!" 
 
 How absurd of Clive to impose this secrecy upon 
 her. She felt she knew Roma far better than he
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 235 
 
 did. He had no idea how fond of her Roma really 
 was! . . . 
 
 "I'm not flattering you," said Roma; "you've 
 changed very much since you came to us. Several 
 people have noticed it. Even Clive " 
 
 She let her eyes rest on Sydney's face then with 
 a slow, searching scrutiny. 
 
 "Yes?" said Sydney. 
 
 "He thinks you're very pretty. He didn't like 
 your hair at first he thought it too childish but 
 now he says he loves it. You know you've made 
 quite a conquest of Clive." 
 
 "Have I?" She smiled. "But, Roma I've 
 been thinking it over very seriously, and I've come 
 to the conclusion that it's time for me to go and 
 live in Venice and study seriously." 
 
 Roma dropped her light hold of the girl's arm. 
 
 "Live in Venice !" 
 
 "Yes. I mustn't have any more holidays. . . ." 
 
 Roma stood gravely considering her. She was 
 astonished, and she felt certain that something had 
 happened to cause this sudden decision. 
 
 It was fortunate for Sydney that she possessed a 
 pale, impassive face that so seldom indicated any- 
 thing of the strange thoughts that sometimes filled 
 her brain. 
 
 She could and did meet Roma's look with perfect 
 calmness. 
 
 "But why Venice ?" said Roma. "Why don't you 
 take your knowledge back to London? You can 
 work there if you choose, just as well as you can 
 here." Her voice was sort and tender, and yet 
 Sydney felt that there was an urgency in it, an ap- 
 peal, that was sharp and insistent. 
 
 Sydney shook her head. 
 
 "Oh, not yet! I've still so much to learn here. 
 And I I love Italy. I feel as if I never wanted
 
 236 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 to leave it. The color the splendor!" Her eyes 
 shone enthusiastically. 
 
 "Then I don't quite understand why, if you wish 
 to remain in Italy, you've taken it into your head 
 to leave us." There was a faint note of displeas- 
 ure now in Roma's tone, as if she felt that she ought 
 to have been consulted first. "Of course, I know 
 we're rather gay, worldly people and we haven't 
 much time to take you about. Moreton, as you 
 know, is obliged to combine business with pleasure. 
 People will never leave him in peace even when he's 
 on a holiday. Perhaps you are right, and workers 
 are best alone or among other workers. You want 
 an incentive. Still, it's been nice having you." 
 
 But her suspicions were nevertheless strongly 
 aroused. She was convinced that Sydney had not 
 made this deliberate plan quite by herself. The de- 
 cision was altogether too sudden. Had Clive as- 
 sisted her in making it? Had he hinted at any- 
 thing? Or was she merely fleeing from the slight 
 malaise consequent upon finding herself such a negli- 
 gible quantity in their household? She had perhaps 
 felt that she was de trop that Roma was making 
 some personal sacrifice in asking Clive to amuse her. 
 Moreton's fretful weariness, his lack of courtesy 
 about the portrait, which he more and more disliked, 
 and indeed could hardly bear to hear mentioned, had 
 been perhaps too much for Sydney's endurance. But 
 Roma in her heart did not believe that Sydney's real 
 reason for leaving them had anything, to do with 
 Moreton. 
 
 "What does Clive think of the plan? You've 
 told him, of course?" She fell back upon direct 
 questioning, and there was a new alertness in 
 her tone. 
 
 "Oh, yesr we were talking about it this morning." 
 
 "And he approves?"
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 237 
 
 "I I think so. He's going to look for rooms for 
 me. It is very kind of him. I should never know 
 how to set about it!" 
 
 "He likes doing kind things," said Roma. "I tell 
 him he puts himself out too much for people." 
 
 And again there sounded in her voice that faint 
 note of displeasure. 
 
 "I told him they must be quite cheap. You see, 
 I can't afford much." 
 
 "Have you got any money?" inquired Roma. 
 
 She felt that she really could not let Sydney go 
 penniless into a world that had become so expensive, 
 where indeed the necessities of life had become as 
 costly almost as its luxuries, and were even more 
 difficult to obtain. 
 
 "Not very much." Sydney smiled cheerfully. 
 Poverty had no terrors for her. She had had no 
 experience of its sharper aspects of hunger and cold. 
 "But I shall work and sell things. Even if I don't 
 get much for them at first, it would all be a help." 
 
 "I think I can persuade Moreton to buy that por- 
 trait you did of me. He doesn't like it, as you know, 
 but he'd rather have it than feel it might fall into 
 other hands. I'll get him to give you as good a price 
 as I can." 
 
 Sydney flushed, and threw back her head with a 
 little gesture of arrogant refusal. 
 
 "It is not for sale," she said; "it will remain in 
 my hands. I should never dream of selling it to 
 Moreton or any one else !" 
 
 She remembered Clive's words that Moreton 
 would put it in a box-room with its face to the wall, 
 if it escaped his knife. She was indignant at Roma's 
 suggestion, and a little angry, too, at the careless 
 half-patronizing way in which it had been made. 
 
 "Oh, very well. If you think like that about it, I 
 won't mention it to him," said Roma, astonished at
 
 238 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 the little outburst. "But don't starve yourself, 
 Sydney dear. You mustn't lose your pretty 
 looks." 
 
 "Oh, I shan't starve," said Sydney confidently. 
 
 It was that careless confidence of hers that 
 alarmed Roma. She evidently thought it was going 
 to be so easy -this life of work with hardly any 
 money to live upon. 
 
 "I do wish I could persuade you to go back to 
 your mother. Why, we are nearly in September, 
 and you came with us at the beginning of April. 
 Five months. ... I shall miss you dreadfully, 
 Sydney!" 
 
 She drew the girl to her and kissed her, pushing 
 back the short thick hair with her hand, in her old 
 caressing way. "I hope Clive hasn't been persuading 
 you to go? I'm afraid he's been a little jealous of 
 your apparently permanent position with us. I told 
 you he was like a spoilt child always wants his own 
 way, and is so wayward and unreasonable and capri- 
 cious if he can't have it!" 
 
 Sydney was looking at her with startled eyes. Did 
 she guess anything? Was she trying to, "precher le 
 faux pour entendre le vrai?" Her words sounded 
 so simple. They were mere repetitions of what she 
 had often been heard to say before. But now? . . . 
 She was afraid of Roma at that moment. . . . She 
 believed with Clive that Roma would dislike their 
 engagement. . . . 
 
 Sydney had then an agonizing impulse to make a 
 full confession of the happenings of that morning, to 
 blurt out : "I'm going because he has asked me to be 
 his wife and I have promised to marry him! I'm 
 going because Clive loves me !" and face the conse- 
 quences. She did not wish to have secrets from 
 Roma. After all, was she not her friend? Wouldn't 
 she rejoice in her happiness this great overwhelm-
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 239 
 
 ing happiness that seemed far too wonderful to be 
 true? She wanted to tell Roma that truth that 
 seemed too great almost to be borne : Clive loves me. 
 
 But Clive had enjoined secrecy; had told her that 
 he knew the Cochranes better than she did. She 
 must not disobey him her hold upon him was too 
 slight. To speak the truth frankly to Roma might 
 forever destroy the delicate fabric of that new 
 dream. The impulse passed, checked by a grim 
 little effort that hardened the close firm lines of her 
 mouth so- that it suddenly lost something of its child- 
 ish softness. 
 
 It was a bitter little moment for Sydney. She saw 
 that her friendship for Roma the first great and 
 intimate friendship of her life was at war with her 
 new passionate devotion to Clive. She couldn't hope 
 to keep them both. They were unable to exist com- 
 fortably side by side. But it was her new feeling for 
 Clive, called into sudden passionate life by his words 
 of love, that obstinately triumphed. And the knowl- 
 edge hurt her. dive's love had to-day conquered 
 the place that Roma held in her heart. Now faced 
 by a Roma, apparently determined to learn the 
 truth of what she must certainly dimly suspect, Syd- 
 ney was acutely conscious of a sense of disloyalty 
 that shamed her. The fresh shifting of values had 
 deposed Roma from her ancient high place. To 
 Sydney she seemed at that moment almost like an 
 enemy who was capable of separating her from 
 Clive. The thought was hateful. She longed to 
 fling herself at Roma's feet, and ask her pardon for 
 having harbored it even for a second. 
 
 The rapid manner in which the situation at the 
 villa had developed and evolved had not been ef- 
 fected without a sharp conflict that tore its way 
 through her new happiness, rending it a little. She 
 was aware of infidelity. She wasn't faithful. . . ,
 
 2 4 o THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 She changed. . . . And now she couldn't even tell 
 Roma the truth. 
 
 Roma's high sweet voice fell with an accent of 
 tender reproach upon her ear. 
 
 "Dear child, I mustn't tease you with all these 
 questions. Especially when I see quite well that you 
 can't tell me your real reason for leaving us so 
 suddenly." 
 
 Sydney hardened her heart against the caressing, 
 reproachful voice. It seemed, however, to touch her 
 to the quick. . . . 
 
 "I want to work! Sooner or later I must be inde- 
 pendent. It's most awfully good of you to have put 
 up with me for so long!" she said. 
 
 The commonplace words seemed to relieve the 
 sharp tension of the situation. 
 
 "You'll tell your mother, of course? Lady Flood 
 may be angry with you, but she has a right to know 
 your plans to know where you are. You're not 
 quite the kind of girl to be independent, Sydney to 
 live alone in the way you propose to do. You've 
 always been sheltered. And you let yourself be too 
 easily influenced both by things and people. . . . 
 Perhaps we were wrong, after all, to persuade you 
 to come with us. If it hadn't been for us, you would 
 have been in London now, and perhaps you would 
 already have married that nice Mr. Turner who 
 was so devoted to you." 
 
 Sydney shook her head, smiling. 
 
 "We shouldn't have been happy. . . ." 
 
 She knew now what love could mean. That weak, 
 sisterly liking she had had for Duncan couldn't be 
 compared to it. 
 
 Roma smiled. "He would have made an excellent 
 husband. You mustn't expect romance in marriage, 
 Sydney; it falls to the lot of few of us. We ought 
 to aim at comfort not ecstasy, as Dickens said."
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 241 
 
 "I'm so very glad I didn't marry him," Sydney 
 declared, with a new decision. "It was a most fortu- 
 nate escape. I've got you to thank for that, Roma I" 
 
 They broke off on this more normal note. A ser- 
 vant came to tell Mrs. Cochrane that Moreton 
 wanted her, and she went quickly upstairs. Sydney 
 was thus able to escape to her own room, and for 
 the first time since her engagement she found her- 
 self quite alone. She felt almost sick with excite- 
 ment. It was quite true that Clive loved her ; he had 
 told her so. All these days she had so hoped, and 
 then had put the hope firmly from her because, of 
 course, it was impossible. Now she was his affianced 
 wife. It didn't seem to be quite true. He loved 
 her, but would it last? Was there anything in her 
 to command the love of such a man as that? She 
 had a low opinion of her own attraction; it had been 
 obscured all her life by the presence of Moira's 
 brilliant and unquestionable beauty. Surely, Clive 
 would regret those impulsive speeches in which he 
 had assured her of his love? It was impossible that 
 he could really love her. And even if he did, people 
 would certainly try to take him away from her. 
 People to whom he was bound by long, close, inti- 
 mate ties of gratitude and affection. . . . 
 
 But if he changed his mind now, it would kill her. 
 She was quite sure of that. She couldn't live with- 
 out Clive. 
 
 She looked across the broad pale spaces of the 
 lagoon, and discovered that her eyes were swimming 
 with tears. It was the abrupt closing down of this 
 radiant chapter of her life, she told herself, that 
 made her weep.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 "TtyTAY I come in? Are you busy, Sydney?" 
 
 1VJL Clive stood at the door of the studio on 
 the following morning. Sydney had just finished her 
 first meal of coffee and toast. She was generally 
 astir before any one else in the house. 
 
 dive's face was flushed and eager; there was 
 something almost of the embarrassed school-boy in 
 his bearing. 
 
 Since yesterday, after their return from the sands, 
 they had had no word alone together. Moreton had 
 claimed him inexorably till far into the night. And 
 never had he felt his cousin's exigence so strongly, 
 never had it been to him so galling, so unwelcome. 
 Sometimes it had almost seemed to him that More- 
 ton was purposely detaining him, keeping him away 
 from Sydney as if he detected dive's new desire to 
 be with her. 
 
 "Come in," said Sydney simply. 
 
 She wore her faded blue over-all, and in this 
 familiar garb she always appeared to Clive especially 
 young and childish. Her bare neck and arms sucn 
 thin arms ! Jier silken bobbed hair, the grave, inno- 
 cent, attentive eyes, belonged utterly to youth in its 
 first sweet delicious dawning. Although he did not 
 know it, it was this very quality of youth, that at- 
 tracted him so powerfully to her. 
 
 He shut the door and held out his arms. "Little 
 Sydney," he said, in a voice that held a charming 
 tenderness not untouched with homage, "little Syd- 
 ney I've been waiting for this moment. . . ." He 
 pulled her close to him. She seemed to nestle like a 
 homing bird. 
 
 242
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 243 
 
 And she thought to herself: "He does love me 
 I ought never to have doubted him." 
 
 All night she had lain awake, rehearsing with still 
 something of incredulity that conversation on the 
 sands. It had seemed too much like a dream, im- 
 possible, incredible. But his presence here now 
 that something at once timid and eager in his attitude 
 reassured her. She was much the calmer of 
 the two. 
 
 The room was in disorder. Canvases were piled 
 together; an open trunk gaped in one corner. There 
 was an acrid odor of turpentine and oil paint. 
 
 "I've begun to pack," she explained, as his eye 
 traveled swiftly over the scene. 
 
 "Already? But you haven't found a place yet. I 
 shall try and go to-day to hunt for something. ' He 
 frowned. It wasn't so easy to get away, owing to 
 Moreton's illness. "Is it really so necessary for you 
 to go ? Somehow, I feel as if you'd slip out of my 
 sight forever !" 
 
 "Oh, it's quite necessary. You see, I've told 
 Roma that I'm going!" 
 
 "That was indeed a burning of the boats," said 
 Clive, to whom Roma had not mentioned the fact. 
 "What did she say?" 
 
 "Not very much. . . . She seemed displeased, 
 and yet, I'm sure it was a relief to her." 
 
 "Of course she asked you why?" 
 
 "Yes. And she asked me if you approved." 
 
 "If I approved?" he repeated, in a dismayed tone. 
 "But of course she didn't guess anything?" 
 
 "I don't think she did. But she she puz- 
 
 "You were very careful what you said? You 
 gave her no idea?" 
 
 But he was aware, alas, of Roma's keen knife-like 
 discernment.
 
 244 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 "I was very careful indeed," 
 
 Her heart sank. Did Roma matter so much? 
 Why couldn't he be perfectly frank with the Coch- 
 ranes ? After all, he was not their son they had no 
 real right to dictate to him. He was free free. 
 
 She said impulsively: "Oh, Clive! Let's tell 
 them. . . ." 
 
 Clive moved across the room to the window and 
 looked out, apparently immersed in thought. 
 
 "No, Sydney," he said, "it isn't at all a good mo- 
 ment. Moreton is ill and it would be rather a shock 
 to him. You see, they've always wanted me to 
 marry money I've so little of my own, and I'm 
 afraid I'm extravagant." 
 
 Across the sea the Alps were just emerging dimly 
 but beautifully from the silver-spun mists of morn- 
 ing. A ripple of sunlight touched the water to 
 fragile, sparkling gold. 
 
 "Couldn't you come with me when I go and look 
 for rooms?" he said. 
 
 He felt disinclined to leave Sydney alone with 
 Roma that day. 
 
 She shook her head. "I must pack there's a 
 great deal to do. If you think it's better not to tell 
 them, I'd rather go away quite soon. I hate having 
 secrets from people." 
 
 "You are scrupulous," said Clive. "One can't tell 
 people everything, even one's dearest friends." 
 
 "It isn't easy to keep a secret from Roma." 
 
 "Oh, so you've found that out? Well, anyhow 
 I'm going to keep this one from her." 
 
 He crossed the room, hunted among Sydney's 
 paintings, and drawing forth Roma's portrait set it 
 on the easel. 
 
 "Are you going to let me have it?" 
 
 "No. For the present I want to keep it." 
 
 "It'll be mine when we are married," said Clive;
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 245 
 
 "we'll hang it up hi our dining-room." He stooped 
 and kissed Sydney again, kissing too the top of her 
 blond head. 
 
 Sydney trembled a little under his touch. 
 
 "We must be married very soon," said Clive. 
 "I want you to go home as soon as you can. Just 
 stay in Venice a few weeks, and then make some ex- 
 cuse to leave." 
 
 He was anxious for that reconciliation between 
 Sydney and her mother. He liked Wanley, and he 
 had been told that his wife was an enchanting crea- 
 ture. He wished to be on good terms with them. 
 
 But it was exactly on this point that he felt Syd- 
 ney's obstinacy, and realized that it would not be 
 quite easy to induce her to take the first step towards 
 a reconciliation. He could extract no promise from 
 hen. She was always silent when he suggested it. 
 Silent as she was now, with her fair brow puckered 
 in deep thought. 
 
 There was a light tap at the door and Roma came 
 into the room. 
 
 "Why, Sydney? And Clive! What, packing al- 
 ready, my dear child? You are in a hurry to 
 leave us!" 
 
 Clive stood there, regarding Roma with a singu- 
 larly impassive expression on his face that had sud- 
 denly grown a little hard and set. He saw the two 
 women side by side, and wondered at the rash, sud- 
 den friendship that had once brought them together. 
 All trace of that so recent outburst of love and ten- 
 derness had gone from him. 
 
 Roma was looking fresh and beautiful this morn- 
 ing in a loose dress of white embroidery that was as 
 fine as a handkerchief. She was all in white, down 
 to her little suede shoes. Beside her Sydney looked 
 more than ever like a child, with her straight slight 
 undeveloped form, her short fine hair.
 
 246 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 "Oh, it isn't that, Roma," Sydney was saying, 
 "only, you know, I feel as if I'd stayed with you an 
 unconscionable time. But it has slipped away so 
 quickly. . . ." 
 
 "I tell Sydney she had far better go back to her 
 mother, Clive," said Roma. "She's not the sort to 
 live alone, especially out here, when she hardly knows 
 any Italian." 
 
 "I shall learn," said Sydney cheerfully. 
 
 It was wonderful how bright everything looked to 
 her to-day, especially since her little interview with 
 Clive. He had chased all her tormenting doubts 
 away. Even that one which was based on her own 
 unworthiness of his love. 
 
 "I doubt if you'll find rooms," continued Roma, 
 "Venice is frightfully full. Besides, like every other 
 place it's suffering from a housing crisis. Why are 
 there so many more people in the world now than 
 there were before the War?" 
 
 "More people and fewer houses," said Clive, 
 speaking for the first time. "Perhaps you don't 
 realize there were five million refugees from the 
 Veneto after Caporetto? Anyhow, I'm going to 
 Venice to-day to try to hunt up something for Miss 
 Flood." 
 
 As he spoke, he moved towards the door. 
 
 "Are you going now, Clive?" said Roma. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Shan't you bathe ?'\ 
 
 "No I had a dip quite early." 
 
 "What a pity it's such a perfect morning for 
 a swim." 
 
 "But I mustn't lose any time. By the way, how's 
 Uncle Moreton to-day?" 
 
 "Better. But he had a restless night. I think he 
 wanted you to write some letters for him this 
 morning."
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 247 
 
 "I'll look in on my way down." Clive had reached 
 the top of the stairs. 
 
 "It's much too hot for house-hunting," pro- 
 tested Roma. 
 
 "When a thing's got to be done, it's better to do 
 it," he answered. 
 
 "Don't be trite, Clive !" Roma said, laughing. 
 
 He vanished down the stairs. Roma did not stir. 
 She stood there looking surprised and a trifle an- 
 noyed. She had wanted to bathe this morning, and 
 she could not remember that Clive had ever disap- 
 pointed her before, when she had definitely expressed 
 a wish. He must be in a hurry to get rid of Sydney. 
 She wondered why. Was there some secret pact 
 between them? Why had he paid her such an early 
 visit to the studio ? She had not expected to see him 
 there. What could he find to talk about to little 
 Sydney Flood? . . . 
 
 "Well, my dear Sydney, I hope for your sake he'll 
 be able to find something to suit you. If you could 
 only have put up with us for a few more weeks we 
 should have been moving on somewhere else our- 
 selves. Moreton always wants to go away directly 
 when he gets ill in a place, and this is the second at- 
 tack he's had this summer." 
 
 "I do hope he'll soon be better," said Sydney. 
 
 "When he's ill, he always wants Clive. I wish 
 you hadn't asked him to look for rooms for you just 
 to-day. You could have waited." 
 
 "But it was his own suggestion," said Sydney. 
 She felt that Roma was purposely putting her in the 
 wrong. She was offended with her for some reason. 
 . . . Perhaps it was because she had discovered 
 Clive there. 
 
 Roma sat down near the window. 
 
 "You must be quite sure to tell Lady Flood that 
 you made all these plans for leaving us without con-
 
 248 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 suiting me. Lord Wanley said he didn't think she 
 understood you was inclined to be hard on you. 
 But mothers do generally understand their own chil- 
 dren better than any one, and I'm sure she must have 
 discovered that you were inclined to be shall 1 say 
 obstinate? Fond of your own way?" Her eyes 
 rested upon Sydney's pallid face. 
 
 Sydney felt a lump rising in her throat. This 
 change in Roma's manner was almost more than she 
 could bear. Was it true that she did not know her 
 had never known her? She said meekly: 
 
 "I didn't want to annoy you, Roma. I ,only 
 thought the time had come for me to go. Perhaps I 
 ought to have mentioned it to you first." 
 
 "Yes I think you should have consulted me, be- 
 fore you told Clive, for example. But you mustn't 
 think you've annoyed me. I only felt anxious about 
 your future quite alone like that with so little 
 money. I wish I could persuade you to sell that por- 
 trait of me to Moreton he will give you a hundred 
 pounds for it, he says." 
 
 "No -no ! Roma, please don't speak of it. I'm 
 not going to sell it to Moreton or any one. I'm 
 going to keep it. . . ." Sydney was flushed with ex- 
 citement and anger. She believed that Moreton 
 wished to buy the picture so that he might destroy 
 it. And as long as she lived, she felt that she would 
 never do anything so good, so worth while again. 
 
 "Of course, you won't exhibit it without his 
 permission?" 
 
 "Of course not." 
 
 Roma put her hand on Sydney's shoulder and said 
 in a changed voice: "I do really believe that you 
 care for me, Sydney. You're such a loyal affec- 
 tionate little soul. I think you'd rather starve than 
 part with that picture. Perhaps it may comfort you 
 to know, too, that both Clive and I think it quite
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 249 
 
 extraordinarily clever. Our opinions are worth 
 nothing in comparison to Moreton's, 1 know, but 
 Cliye isn't a bad judge. He says it's the psycho- 
 logical content of this portrait that makes it so 
 valuable." 
 
 Sydney listened in silence. 
 
 Roma rose and said: "Well, my dear, you 
 mustn't be offended at anything I've said. One 
 forgets you're not quite a child it's a temptation 
 sometimes to scold you." She drew Sydney to her 
 and kissed her cheek lightly. "I've loved having 
 you and I shall miss you," she added, with a touch of 
 her old caressing tenderness. 
 
 When she had gone downstairs, Sydney resumed 
 her packing. Her eyes were swimming with tears. 
 She could hardly bear Roma's kindness, whereas her 
 severity made things seem in a sense easier. But when 
 Roma spoke in that caressing way, it made her feel 
 like a traitor. It was cruel of Clive to impose this 
 obligation of secrecy upon her. It was degrading 
 that she could not speak frankly to Roma; it made 
 her feel guilty in her presence, as if sh had done 
 something shameful. 
 
 She was alone most of that day. She and Roma 
 lunched together in solitude. Roma was preoccupied 
 about Moreton, who did not seem so well, and was, 
 she said, very fretful. He wanted Clive, and Clive 
 had not come back. 
 
 "I oughtn't to have let him go," Roma said once. 
 
 It was their absolute dominion over him and his 
 movements that alarmed Sydney. She felt she would 
 never be able to wean him completely from these old 
 ties and associations. Her heart sank a little at 
 each fresh piece of evidence of their complete de- 
 pendence upon him at critical moments like the 
 present. 
 
 Yet, surely, they couldn't expect to keep him al-
 
 250 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 ways thus at their beck and call? He was no longer 
 a boy; he had a right to live his own life. Only, he 
 was to a certain extent dependent upon them for 
 money. Sydney's thoughts revolved in a painful 
 circle; she did not see a clear path before her. She 
 was not very hopeful about her ability to detach 
 Clive. There would inevitably be a struggle, per- 
 haps a painful and protracted one. When she looked 
 at Roma, all hope of victory left her. 
 
 Clive came back at tea-time. Roma and Sydney 
 were having it in the garden. Moreton was still too 
 ill to leave his room. 
 
 Clive joined them under the trees, and flung him- 
 self upon a long chair. 
 
 Roma gave him a cup of tea, and then said: 
 
 "Well? Any luck, Clive?" 
 
 "Yes, I've found a place," said Clive. "Nothing 
 wonderful, and it is up at the top of the house 
 there are lots of stairs to climb. But there's a view 
 across the lagoon, and from the balcony you can see 
 the Grand Canal and Santa Maria della Salute." 
 
 "It sounds charming," said Roma. She looked at 
 Sydney. "When can Sydney have them?" 
 
 "As soon as ever she likes," said Clive. He drank 
 his tea, and then began to relate the day's happen- 
 ings jwith something of boyish enthusiasm. He 
 hadn't seen anything that was remotely possible until 
 he came across a friend who told him of these 
 rooms, exactly suited to an artist. They were only 
 just vacant. It was so difficult to find anything 
 now. 
 
 "And I shall come and help you to fix them up," 
 he said, turning to Sydney. "You'll have to get a 
 few things to make them comfortable. The bed- 
 room's a mere slit, but the studio isn't bad. There's 
 hardly any furniture nothing but absolute necessi- 
 ties, and you'll have to do your own cooking over a
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 251 
 
 stove, or else go out to your meals, which I expect 
 would be the best plan. The woman who lets them 
 will keep them clean for you." 
 
 "We'll all go and look at them to-morrow," said 
 Roma, leaning back in her chair. "I'm sure I can 
 give you some pots and pans, Sydney. We'll search 
 the lumber room in Venice I know we've got some 
 tables there, and a chair or two." 
 
 "That'll be awfully kind of you," said Clive, be- 
 fore Sydney could frame her thanks in words. 
 
 "You will be able to concentrate all your attention 
 upon your work now, Sydney," said Roma with a 
 laugh. "Moreton has always said that an attic and 
 a touch of privation might develop your talent better 
 than anything." 
 
 "Well, she'll have the attic right enough," said 
 Clive pleasantly, "but I hope there will be as few 
 privations as possible. You must always let us know 
 if you are running short of supplies. I promise to 
 be a benevolent raven ! You let down your basket, 
 Italian-fashion, from the top window- I put the 
 food into it you draw it up again and there 
 you are !" 
 
 They all laughed, and then Roma said: "Well, 
 Sydney, when do you intend to go there?" 
 
 And again it was Clive who answered. 
 
 "The rooms are hers from to-morrow. We can 
 hunt up the stuff you mean to give her, in the morn- 
 ing, and have it taken round in the afternoon. Then 
 she could move in on Thursday. There's nothing 
 against Thursday even in Italy, where they add 
 Tuesday to their unlucky days." And he quoted the 
 quaint rhymed proverb : 
 
 Ne di venere ne di marte 
 Non si sposa, non si parte, 
 Non si da principle all'arte.
 
 252 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 "Remember that, Miss Flood, next time you begin 
 to paint any one's portrait!" 
 
 Roma bestowed upon him one of her swift scru- 
 tinizing glances, but Clive failed to intercept it and 
 continued to talk in the same gay strain. But she 
 was perfectly convinced now, that he knew the rea- 
 son of Sydney's suddenly-planned departure. What- 
 ever it was, they must have discussed it together, and 
 it had met with his approval, since he was so eagerly 
 lending his help to effect it. Latterly he had 
 shown a disposition to seek out Sydney's society, and 
 his attitude towards her was one of frank friendli- 
 ness. He was fond of having these friendships 
 they hardly amounted to flirtations with young 
 and pretty women. Sydney wasn't strictly pretty, 
 but she had all the charm of youth. She had im- 
 proved in looks, and people had noticed her more of 
 late, had betrayed curiosity about her by inquiring 
 who she was. And they had learnt that she was not 
 only one of Morton's "discoveries"; she was also 
 Lady Flood's daughter, and a sister of that radiant 
 young creature, Moira Wanley. 
 
 Presently Roma rose from her seat and said 
 to Clive : 
 
 "I'm going up to Moreton, now. You know he 
 doesn't like being left alone. . . . You'd better come 
 too, Clive." 
 
 Clive sprang up, and flung away the cigarette he 
 was smoking. 
 
 "Of course I'll come," he said. "I was forgetting 
 about him. How does he seem this afternoon?" 
 
 Sydney did not hear Roma's reply, for she had 
 already reached the loggia, and in another moment 
 both she and Clive had disappeared into the house.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 ROMA accompanied Cliye.and Sydney to Venice on 
 the following morning. ... It was a day of 
 brilliant sunshine, of bright blue sky, and buoyant 
 glittering water. The Palazzo was, of course, 
 closed, but the old porter soon appeared in response 
 to the bell, and admitted them. They spent a cou- 
 ple of hours "rummaging among the rubbish," as 
 Roma expressed it. She found some chairs, a cou- 
 ple of tables, a sofa with faded cover, and an old- 
 fashioned brazier with bell top of carven brass. She 
 added an ancient pair of crimson damask curtains, 
 and some odd pieces of silk. 
 
 Sydney watched them, saying little. It was always 
 Clive who spoke, approving or rejecting any article 
 proffered by Mrs. Cochrane. 
 
 "Too big it would simply choke up the place," he 
 would say. And then: "There let her have that, 
 Roma. She's sure to find it useful. What a pity 
 that chair has only three serviceable legs, but I 
 could get a man to mend it." And once in a tone of 
 light, eager enthusiasm, "Oh, could you really spare 
 that old chest, Roma? She could turn out some of 
 the stuff that's already there, to make room for it." 
 
 He did not attempt to conceal his interest in the 
 whole business, knowing by experience that a surface 
 enthusiasm always deceived Roma. She was only 
 on the alert if she suspected that he was concealing 
 anything from her. And she mustn't begin to sus- 
 pect just yet. Very soon, of course, he meant to tell 
 her everything. Sydney was quite right about that. 
 
 It was Clive who made all the arrangements. 
 253
 
 254 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 The things must be taken round this afternoon and 
 deposited at the house. And if Roma felt too tired, 
 he could help Miss Flood to fix the place up it 
 wouldn't take very long. 
 
 "Oh, I can't stay in Venice all day," said Roma, 
 with decision. "Moreton would never forgive me 
 he didn't like my leaving him for a whole morning. 
 I shall go home in time for luncheon and you can 
 follow when you've finished, Sydney. Clive " she 
 turned to him ^"what are you going to do?" 
 
 Clive, heated and eager in his shirt-sleeves, looked 
 up from his rapid packing of curtains, pieces of silk, 
 and an old rug, into the chest he had so enthusiasti- 
 cally accepted on Sydney's behalf. "Oh, I must stay 
 here of course, Roma. Miss Flood can't manage 
 alone she needs an interpreter. ... I want to get 
 her place quite finished to-day, so that she can go 
 there as soon as she likes." 
 
 Roma acquiesced. She was thinking to herself: 
 "I wonder why he's so keen about her going? He 
 doesn't want anything to delay it. And yet he's kind 
 to her he likes her. But he mustn't desert poor 
 old Moreton like this. Never mind when Sydney's 
 gone, 1 can tighten the reins a little." 
 
 She was genuinely puzzled by Clive' s apparent 
 eagerness to accelerate Sydney's departure. To her 
 there was something inconsistent in his attitude. His 
 very friendliness to Sydney and her quick responsive- 
 ness made Roma again feel as if there must be some 
 secret pact between them, and that Sydney's going 
 away was all part of it. 
 
 Perhaps it was a relief to them both when Roma 
 left them. Very soon they hired a couple of gon- 
 dolas to take the things round to the Riva degli 
 Schiavoni. They themselves followed in Roma's 
 gondola, she having returned to the Lido in the 
 motor-boat.
 
 THE LIGHT. ON THE LAGOON 255 
 
 Alessio, the gondolier, was put in charge of the 
 furniture, and Clive insisted upon taking Sydney to 
 luncheon at the hotel before letting her climb all 
 those stairs to her new abode. 
 
 As they sat at luncheon Clive said : 
 
 "I'm longing for you to see it, and I hope you 
 won't hate it. Of course, after the luxury of the 
 villa you're bound to feel the change at first. But I 
 know we can make it look top-hole with that old fur- 
 niture of Roma's." 
 
 "It's awfully good of her to give me so many 
 things," said Sydney, "but I can send them back to 
 her if I go away to England." 
 
 "She's splendid, really," he agreed. "I'd no idea 
 she would interest herself so much. I'd like to 
 tell her . . . about our engagement . . . but one 
 mustn't worry her just now. She's so upset about 
 poor old Moreton. He looks pretty bad, Sydney. 
 He's had a sharpish attack this time." 
 
 Clive never departed from the crystallized convic- 
 tion that Roma would dislike their engagement. He 
 didn't want, as he said, "to worry her." He abso- 
 lutely set on one side the contrary hypothesis that 
 the news might be agreeable to her. Sydney always 
 resented this a little, for she remembered with what 
 affection Moira had been received by Wanley's 
 mother and sisters, to whom, as a cherished only son 
 and brother, he seemed to be everything in the world. 
 This suggestion, that she would be less than welcome, 
 hurt her and offended her pride. But she did not 
 venture to say so. Always, she wished to give in 
 to Clive. . . . 
 
 She remarked quietly: "I hate having a secret 
 from her, don't you? Perhaps I shan't mind so 
 much when I'm not living under her roof. I shan't 
 feel as if I were hiding something all the time." 
 
 "Oh, you've felt that, too?" he said, wondering: at
 
 256 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 her sensitiveness. "But it'll be all right when you 
 are living by yourself." 
 
 She leaned forward a little and said: 
 
 "Clive, shall I see you very often? Every day, 
 I mean?" 
 
 "Every day that I'm able to get over to you, you 
 can depend upon my coming, Sydney. Of course, it 
 won't always be possible, especially as long as More- 
 ton's laid up. But you mustn't think hard things of 
 me when I don't come you'll understand I'm being 
 kept over there." He looked at her with an odd 
 half-bashful tenderness. "I shall want to come, you 
 know, far, far more than you can ever want to 
 see me!" 
 
 But her face was unresponsive. She could picture 
 already those days when she would gaze across the 
 lagoon for a Clive who did not come. She could 
 imagine so vividly, alas, the little futile excuses 
 which Roma would make to keep him with them. 
 Moreton wanted him; he mustn't leave Moreton 
 to-day; he mustn't spend so much time away from 
 them. . . . There were letters to be written, ac- 
 counts to be gone through. She had an impulse to 
 tell him of those thoughts, to urge him to break free. 
 But she felt that the time had not come. She could 
 not yet suggest to him that he ought to have the 
 moral force to break those chains for the sake of 
 the woman he professed to love. He would be 
 astonished, indignant perhaps; he would think that 
 she was jealous of those ancient ties. 
 
 But her heart sank a little at the prospect of 
 spending even one day without seeing him. 
 
 After luncheon Clive took her round to see her 
 new abode, which was situated some little distance 
 away, near the Riva degli Schiavoni. 
 
 It could be reached on foot from the hotel where 
 they had lunched, he informed her, for one of the
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 257 
 
 doors was in a little square. The stairs were many 
 and steep, as is so often the case in old Italian houses, 
 but the view from her little terrace repaid her for 
 the exertion. The studio, which was in front, pos- 
 sessed two large windows which opened casement- 
 wise, and let in full and reviving draughts of air 
 from sea and lagoon. She could see the lagoon in 
 all its beauty, sparkling in the sunshine, with the 
 islands nestling upon its broad bosom. To the 
 right, the great Dome of Santa Maria della Salute 
 was delicately painted in silvery tones against the 
 bright pure blue of the sky. The rosy pile of San 
 Giorgio stood up in all its wonderful beauty of grace 
 and color, with beyond it the long line of the 
 Giudecca, the masts and rigging of the ships rising 
 above the houses and forming a miniature forest. 
 The brown and gold and white and deep red of the 
 sails showed clearly on the glittering water of the 
 lagoon. Far off they could see a steamer like a tiny 
 smudge of smoke on the horizon. Around them the 
 numerous towers and domes were uplifted against 
 the sky. They formed the dominant note of Venice, 
 an incomparable heritage from those days when 
 man gave of his best for the service and worship 
 of God. 
 
 Clive and Sydney stood together on the little bal- 
 cony in silence. The soft sea air touched their faces 
 and ruffled their hair. 
 
 They worked hard all the afternoon. Clive was 
 an adept at arranging houses, he had so often helped 
 Roma to "settle in" as he explained. He shifted the 
 furniture from place to place until the arrangement 
 satisfied his fastidious taste. The curtains were 
 hung, the ancient rugs were spread out on the hard 
 composition floor, an old piece of damask silk, beau- 
 tiful in its faded splendor, completely covered the 
 sofa. The room was transformed. Clive, thor-
 
 258 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 oughly tired out with his exertions, flung himself on 
 the sofa and lit a cigarette. 
 
 "Well, do you like it, Sydney? Does it please 
 you ?" 
 
 "Very, very much. It's almost too grand for quite 
 a poor person !" 
 
 "But you won't always be a poor person," he told 
 her smiling. "At first, though, you'll have to be 
 rather frugal, I'm afraid. But if you find it too 
 strenuous you'll go home, won't you? And then 1 
 shall follow as soon as poor old Moreton's better, 
 of course rand there will be nothing for Lady Flood 
 to do but to give us the conventional blessing. Do 
 you think she'll approve of me ?" 
 
 "Oh, I'm sure she will !" Sydney knew that her 
 mother had all an elderly woman's weakness for 
 good-looking young men. Clive was certain to find 
 favor with her. She suddenly thought of the pride 
 she would feel in thus introducing him to her own 
 people. If they were slightly prejudiced against him 
 at first on account of his connection with the Coch- 
 ranes, that would surely soon pass off. Clive was 
 very charming, and when he set himself out de- 
 liberately to please, he could be attractive and even 
 fascinating. 
 
 "You shan't be alone long, Sydney darling," he 
 said. "We must be married quite soon. I don't 
 really see any use in putting it off till next year. It 
 might be in the late autumn don't you think so?" 
 
 "Yes, Clive," Sydney assented. 
 
 She felt that she could leave the future confidently 
 in his hands. In the late autumn? And already 
 they were in September. There would be no long 
 and cruel waiting. She need have no fear of this 
 present solitude, knowing it was only to be a tempo- 
 rary one. 
 
 But his next words chilled her.
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 259 
 
 "We mustn't forget, though, that it all depends 
 upon Moreton's recovery," he said; "I couldn't leave 
 him as long as he is ill it wouldn't be possible !" 
 
 Sydney made no answer. Clive, discerning in her 
 something of opposition, held out his hand and drew 
 her to him. 
 
 "You do see that too, don't you, Sydney?" 
 
 She checked once more that mad impulse to speak 
 and tell him all her rebellious thoughts upon the sub- 
 ject of Moreton. There was a little pause, and then 
 she answered: 
 
 "Perhaps he won't be ill very long. He got over 
 that first attack so quickly." 
 
 "Yes, but we must remember he isn't so very 
 young now. He hasn't got the same recuperative 
 power he used to have. The doctor thinks rather 
 seriously of him he's told Roma so." 
 
 "Oh, has he?" 
 
 "You must have noticed that she's very anxious 
 about him," said Clive. 
 
 "Yes, I thought she was worried." 
 
 "It's so difficult for her to keep anything from 
 Moreton." 
 
 Clive rose from the sofa and went out of the 
 room. When he returned, he carried a parcel in his 
 hand. "I'd forgotten these," he said; "we must 
 hang them up." He took off the paper, and Sydney 
 saw within two framed photographs. One was of 
 Tintoretto's "Coronation" with St. Placid in the 
 foreground. The other was Boccaccino's "Madonna 
 and Saints." Standing near the Madonna was a 
 beautiful girlish figure with a sweet face and eyes set 
 rather wide apart. 
 
 "She's awfully like you," said Clive. "Some- 
 times you've got just that look in your eyes. You 
 see, she's carrying her palm of martyrdom." He 
 glanced from Sydney to the pictured face, as if com-
 
 26o THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 paring them. "It's when you're talking of spiritual 
 things you look so like her," he added, with tender- 
 ness in his voice. 
 
 "Oh, Clive thank you ever so much. I shall 
 love having them both !" 
 
 It was the first present he had ever given her, and 
 the gift touched her. Her simple pleasure de- 
 lighted him. He found hammer and nails and hung 
 them up. 
 
 When he had finished she said hesitatingly : 
 
 "Clive, you said you wanted me to wait, but now 
 I'm here alone, don't you think I might begin my 
 instruction? To be a Catholic, I mean?" 
 
 There was a little pause. She watched his face 
 and saw a cloud come over it, diminishing its 
 bright gayety. 
 
 "No, I think I'd rather you didn't do that," he 
 said, carefully; "I feel you wouldn't wait, then, to be 
 received until after we were married. You'd want 
 to have it over first, and be married in a Catholic 
 church. And I'm afraid that Moreton being what 
 he is a mass of ridiculous old-fashioned prejudices 
 on the subject it would complicate matters very 
 much indeed. It might even lead to a break between 
 myself and Moreton." 
 
 Sydney looked a little indignant. "But I don't 
 owe anything to Moreton!" she said. "I don't care 
 in the least what he thinks !" 
 
 "But you must see that I can't possibly take up 
 that independent attitude," said Clive, patiently. "I 
 owe him too much." 
 
 There was a pause. Sydney regretted her angry 
 words. She saw that they had affected Clive and 
 brought his two loyalties into sharp collision. 
 
 "My dear, you'll give up this idea for the present, 
 won't you?" he said, coming close to her and taking 
 her hand in his. "If it weren't something I feel to
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 261 
 
 be most awfully important, I wouldn't ask even this 
 temporary sacrifice from you." 
 
 The whole trend of her nature was, he knew well, 
 towards the immense unity of Catholicism; it had 
 captured her when she first came in contact with it 
 in Venice, and it still held her fast. There would come 
 a moment, such as came to all intending converts, 
 when the treasures which the world could offer be- 
 came as nought in comparison to those immortal spir- 
 itual gifts that the Catholic Church held securely in 
 her own hands. And when that moment came, he 
 knew it would not find her unprepared. The knowl- 
 edge made him secretly uncomfortable. Once he had 
 been on the verge of commencing his own instruction 
 at the hands of a very well-known Jesuit priest, and 
 had been compelled to renounce the project at More- 
 ton's entreaties. He had not known until then, how 
 strong and violent his cousin's prejudices were. 
 Never since the days of his boyhood had he seen 
 Moreton so angry and implacable. 
 
 Sydney did not speak. At that moment two 
 powerful influences were striving within her for the 
 possession of her will. Clive seemed to discern this 
 and added: "I'm asking this of you as a proof of 
 your love for me, Sydney. You know so well how 
 I'm placed with, regard to my cousins. I think it 
 will be different when I'm married, and have a life 
 of my own apart from them. But now I mustn't risk 
 displeasing Moreton, who has been like a father to 
 me. A kind, good father, almost too indulgent in 
 many ways. I remember his telling me that once 
 when I was a little chap he knew I deserved a flog- 
 ging but he couldn't bring himself to give it to me." 
 
 ' Yes yes, I see it's necessary for you to think 
 of him and what he would wish. I do see you owe a 
 great deal to him, Clive ! I suppose I must give in, 
 too, since you wish it."
 
 262 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 Clive looked immensely relieved. But he knew 
 that Sydney had yielded only after a stormy little 
 struggle, during which she had uttered no word. He 
 had related that little episode of the past purposely, 
 so as to throw a new and tender light upon his rela- 
 tions with Moreton Cochrane. She must be made to 
 see that his childhood had been immensely blessed 
 by that never-failing solicitude and care and love. It 
 was something, perhaps, that he could never ade- 
 quately repay. 
 
 But Sydney saw only the consequences, and they 
 seemed to surround Clive with an arbitrary servitude 
 that was almost a degrading thing. It was some- 
 thing from which she passionately wished to free 
 him. Had he not long ago paid his debt to Moreton, 
 full measure, pressed down and running over? Was 
 he always to show an obedience, a deference, that 
 no father would have dreamed of exacting from a 
 grown-up son? 
 
 Moreton's rule ground fine, and Roma was always 
 at hand to see that it was obeyed. Of their luxurious 
 life Clive was given freely, but in Sydney's opinion 
 he paid heavily for all those privileges. And some 
 day perhaps he would see this clearly for himself, 
 and cut those chains, swiftly, irrevocably. 
 
 Would he ever have the strength to do it? She 
 looked at him, and her heart sank. Their empire 
 over him was so supreme, governing even all the 
 petty happenings of his day. He could hardly ab- 
 sent himself for a whole afternoon without being 
 met by tender reproaches on his return. Even his 
 love for her seemed too weak a thing to admit of his 
 forgetting Moreton's wishes for a moment. It 
 wasn't the kind of love that sweeps aside all obsta- 
 cles to attain its purpose. Did it mean that there 
 was something wanting in that love ?
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 IT was evening when they crossed to the Lido in a 
 small and crowded steamer. They walked up to 
 the villa under the slanting shadows of the plane- 
 trees. A cooler wind blew in from the Adriatic, 
 reviving the air after the great heat of the day. Be- 
 tween the trees they could catch fugitive glimpses of 
 the long bright blue line of the sea, dancing a little 
 as if in response to that wayward, caressing breeze. 
 
 Roma was not in the garden, but it was long after 
 the hour when she generally had tea, and probably 
 she had gone upstairs to be with Moreton. As they 
 entered the hall, they heard her voice, calling softly 
 from the landing above. 
 
 "Clive! Clive!" 
 
 "Yes," said Clive. He left Sydney standing there, 
 and bounded lightly up the stairs, two at a time. 
 Roma's urgent voice gave him a quick sense of un- 
 easiness, of anxiety. He felt that she must have 
 been waiting for them had come to the landing di- 
 rectly she heard them enter the house. 
 
 Sydney had mounted the first step to go up to her 
 room, when she saw Roma descending the stairs 
 and coming towards her. 
 
 "Sydney," she said. 
 
 "Yes?" said Sydney. Her heart beat a little 
 faster. It seemed as if the very atmosphere of the 
 house were impregnated with something sinister, as 
 of an approaching disaster that would drag them all 
 into its net. Moreton and Roma, herself and 
 Clive. . . . 
 
 "I've been wanting Clive," said Roma; "More- 
 263
 
 264 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 ton's been so much worse. I hate bearing anxiety 
 alone." 
 
 There was a strained, almost harsh tone in her 
 voice. She looked irritably at Sydney. 
 
 "Oh, I'm so sorry he isn't so well, Roma. And I'm 
 afraid we were rather late. There was so much to 
 be done." 
 
 "Well, I'm very glad you've got this place ready 
 to go to," said Roma, "although I've been hurt at the 
 very sudden way you planned to leave us. If this goes 
 on, I shall want your rooms here, for I can't do 
 everything for Moreton even with dive's help. We 
 must send for a nurse." 
 
 "I'm very sorry, indeed, to go just when you're 
 so anxious." 
 
 There was genuine contrition in Sydney's tone. 
 She could see that Roma was thoroughly worried 
 and upset. 
 
 "He's been making his will," continued Roma 
 fretfully, "so I'm sure he must be feeling pretty bad. 
 Such an absurd will, too. I suppose he's thinking of 
 that talk he had with Clive two years ago I know 
 it made a great impression on him." 
 
 "AtalkwithClfve?" 
 
 "Yes when Clive was seized with that idea of 
 becoming a Roman Catholic. I'm sure it was only 
 a passing phase, but Moreton is persuaded that 
 dive's still thinking of it. So he's made a will in 
 which no Roman Catholic, or one who becomes a 
 Roman Catholic, or who marries a Roman Catholic, 
 is to have any share in his money." 
 
 As she said these words she looked attentively at 
 Sydney. The girl flushed a little under that scrutiny. 
 She had learnt to fear Roma's discernment. She 
 might have been a hidden listener of their conversa- 
 tion that very afternoon. 
 
 "Is he so very prejudiced?" said Sydney at last. 
 Her throat was dry; she had a little difficulty in
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 265 
 
 articulating. It seemed to her that Roma's words 
 were a sword directed at her own heart. She feared 
 her then. Flesh and spirit alike shrank from this 
 woman she had once almost worshiped with childish 
 adoration. . . . 
 
 "I can't think what made him remember it to-day," 
 proceeded Roma, leading the way into the loggia 
 and throwing herself upon a long chair. "Sit down 
 there, Sydney. 1 like to have you there. You're 
 such a quiet, reposeful little thing. Tell me does 
 your new house look nice? Did Clive help you?" 
 
 "Yes, I let him do everything. He's made it look 
 perfectly lovely." 
 
 "I'm so glad. And you won't find it too lonely 
 without all of us and Clive? You've seen such a 
 lot of him lately. . . ." 
 
 "I am sure to feel lonely to miss you all at 
 first. But I shall have my work. And I hope you'll 
 let me come over and see you sometimes, Roma." 
 
 "Yes of course you must come, directly Moreton 
 gets a little better. I expect he'll take up all our 
 time for the next few days, even if I do manage to 
 get a nurse. But I'll send over a note directly he 
 gets better. Clive must stay here for the present, 
 and help me. He's been out so much the last day 
 or two, and Moreton's wanted him." 
 
 Sydney turned her face abruptly away, and gazed 
 into the garden, so that Roma could only see the 
 pale line of her profile, delicate as a cameo in its 
 drawing. She felt a dull yet fierce indignation at 
 this enslavement of Clive. They controlled his 
 movements, his liberty. Clive must stay here for the 
 present and help me. . . . He would have no choice 
 but to remain tied to Moreton's side as long as this 
 illness lasted. He would never be allowed to come 
 over to Venice to see her. And he would bow to 
 their authority, and place it before any obligations 
 to the woman he loved and had promised to marry.
 
 266 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 She was to be thrust on one side. She had an insen- 
 sate impulse then to reveal the indignant thoughts 
 that were raging in her heart and cry out: "You 
 shall not keep him from me! ... We love each 
 other." 
 
 But she looked suddenly at Roma, and the mad 
 impulse died. Moreton might be exigent, especially 
 when ill, but it was Roma who saw that Clive did 
 not slip away from his old allegiance, it was Roma 
 who so assiduously fanned the flame of gratitude and 
 recognition of past benefits. 
 
 It was a relief when Roma rose and returned up- 
 stairs. Sydney took the opportunity of going up 
 to her own room. She wanted time and leisure to 
 think over that curious piece of information, which 
 Roma had just flung at her, concerning Moreton's 
 will. If the arrow had been shot in the dark, it 
 had nevertheless gone home to the heart of the sit- 
 uation. It had struck at dive's life as well as her 
 own. 
 
 It involved the future as well as the present. If 
 she became a Catholic and Clive married her, he 
 would forfeit all that he might otherwise have in- 
 herited from Moreton. She wondered what Clive 
 would do if confronted with such a situation as 
 that, what course he would pursue. For Sydney 
 was aware 'at that moment that her own resolve 
 to become a Catholic had passed beyond the region 
 of mere velleities; it was something to which she had 
 in a sense pledged herself. To look back now would 
 be to label herself forever a defaulter, a backslider, 
 almost an apostate. 
 
 And even apart from the religious question, there 
 were immense and almost insuperable difficulties in 
 her path. Once she had told herself that the only 
 chance of happiness for them would be to induce 
 Clive to live in England after their marriage, quite 
 away from the Cochranes and their worldly bril-
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 267 
 
 liant milieu. He had fetched and carried for them 
 too long. But would it be a simple thing to wean 
 him from his almost life-long allegiance to More- 
 ton? Moreton had been as a father to him, tender, 
 indulgent as perhaps are few fathers; he had 
 guarded and cared for him as his own son. Was 
 it so strange that he should still exact this filial de- 
 votion from Clive? It would not be easy to take 
 Clive away. Sydney's heart sank. Would he ever 
 seem to be quite hers absolutely hers? She felt 
 as if she would never receive from him a truly single- 
 hearted, undivided devotion. She would always 
 hear Roma's voice calling across her life: "Clive! 
 Clive ! Moreton wants you !" And she would al- 
 ways have the agony of seeing Clive run to obey 
 her, answering her call with eager alacrity. 
 
 Clive did not dine with them that night. 
 
 "He'll have a cozy little dinner upstairs with 
 Moreton," said Roma, as she joined Sydney in the 
 salotto at eight o'clock. "It's better for Moreton 
 to have company when he is eating. And it's 
 cheered him up wonderfully to have Clive there this 
 evening." 
 
 She led the way into the dining-room. In the 
 dim, rose-shaded light Sydney looked paler than 
 usual. This was her last night at the Lido, and 
 she was wondering what that fresh step into the 
 unknown was destined to bring her. She tried to 
 look hopefully into the future, but between herself 
 and that day in late autumn when she was to be- 
 come Clive's wife, a great black gulf seemed to 
 stretch mournfully. She was afraid. For the first 
 time her courage seemed to fail. 
 
 She was aware that Roma was speaking to her, 
 and with an effort she roused herself to listen. 
 
 "What time did you think of leaving to-morrow, 
 Sydney? Do you think you could be ready by ten 
 o'clock, and then we could go together in the motor-
 
 268 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 boat, and take your luggage? It would make one 
 journey, and I want to go into Venice as early as 
 possible to see about a nurse." 
 
 "Oh, I shall be ready by ten, Roma," said Syd- 
 ney; "I could be ready sooner if you wished." 
 
 "Th'en we'll say ten," said Roma. "Clive can 
 stay with Moreton while I'm gone." 
 
 After dinner Roma went upstairs and left her. 
 Sydney went into the salotto and took up a book. 
 But she turned over page after page without assimi- 
 lating anything of its contents. She was thinking 
 of Roma and Clive upstairs, intimately occupied 
 with Moreton, perhaps planning to take it in turns 
 to watch beside him the whole night. There was 
 no place for her in that little group, and yet in a 
 sense she felt that she had a right to be there. If 
 Clive would only speak and make known that right 
 of hers to be treated as one of the family ! . . . 
 
 She stayed downstairs until ten o'clock, hoping 
 always that Clive would come down to say good- 
 night to her. But he did not come, and pride for- 
 bade her to wait up after her usual hour for re- 
 tiring. She crept up to bed, and as she passed More- 
 ton's door she could hear a low sound of voices, 
 of subdued laughter. She tried to picture Roma 
 and Clive sitting there, one on each side of More- 
 ton's bed, with the sick man turning his restless, 
 haggard face from one to the other. . . . The man 
 and woman upon whom all the love of his life had 
 been lavishly poured out. . . . And he received 
 from them both a loving service and attention that 
 never failed him either in sickness or in health. 
 
 Sydney thought of Clive as a victim sitting there, 
 bound to them for all time. 
 
 She rose early on the following morning. No one 
 was astir. She finished her packing, drank her 
 morning coffee, which was always brought up to the
 
 studio, and at a little before ten o'clock went down- 
 stairs. There was no one in the loggia. Clive 
 generally had his coffee there when he returned 
 from his morning dip in the sea, but to-day there 
 was no sign of him. For the first time she felt 
 a little fear that he would not be able to come 
 downstairs to say good-by to her. Perhaps they had 
 not told him that she was leaving so early. 
 
 She waited, restlessly. Once she went out into 
 the garden and looked up at Moreton's window. It 
 was still darkened, with the wooden outside shut- 
 ters closed across it. Perhaps he was still asleep. 
 She wondered if Clive were with him, watching over 
 him,. She was still standing there, when she saw 
 Roma come out into the loggia. 
 
 "Sydney, are you ready?" 
 
 "Yes, quite ready." 
 
 "They've brought down your boxes?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "We had better start. I don't want to lose any 
 time. I'm a little late as it is." 
 
 A lump rose to Sydney's throat. She could 
 hardly speak. It was with difficulty that she said: 
 
 "How is Moreton? I hope he had a good 
 night." 
 
 "No he was very restless, Clive told me. Clive 
 sat up with him." 
 
 "All night?" 
 
 "Yes, he wouldn't let me relieve him. And More- 
 ton hates me to get too tired." 
 
 They walked down to the little landing-stage 
 where the motor-boat was waiting for them. Syd- 
 ney saw that her boxes were already piled upon it. 
 
 "Get in," said Roma. She gave some instruc- 
 tions to the man, in her rapid, perfect Italian. They 
 started almost immediately. 
 
 The waters of the lagoon were rough and agi- 
 tated that morning, for the wind had appreciably
 
 270 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 increased in velocity since the previous night. The 
 journey was not at all a pleasant one for Sydney. 
 She disliked being tossed about, and the glare from 
 the water hurt her eyes. She had so counted upon 
 seeing Clive before she started. For days perhaps 
 he would not be able to escape to come and see her. 
 This going away without a word from him was 
 tragic. Roma had contrived it, perhaps. . . . But 
 she thrust the thought from her. She could not 
 begin to distrust Roma. . . . 
 
 Once alone, she would be able to see things more 
 clearly and in their right proportions. She would 
 recover in those days of solitude that unity of pur- 
 pose which to the artist as well as to the Saint is 
 the one way of peace. She felt as if all these last 
 days she had permitted herself to be swayed and 
 influenced by each strange current that had swept 
 over her life, buffeting and bewildering her. She 
 longed for the quality which she was conscious that 
 she lacked stability. It was lacking in her work. 
 It was cruelly lacking in her life. It was some- 
 thing that she even found lacking in others when 
 they came in contact with herself, as if they 
 would not offer her something which she denied to 
 them. . . . 
 
 She glanced at Roma, who was looking beautiful 
 this morning. She was wrapped in a Tight dust- 
 colored cloak, and her hat was tied on with a white 
 gauzy veil. She seemed perfectly indifferent to the 
 swaying of the boat as it tossed its impetuous way 
 across the lagoon. 
 
 But Sydney did not wish the journey to come to 
 an end, uncomfortable though it was. Roma was 
 the last link with that life she was about to leave. 
 She wished now that it could have been prolonged 
 for a few more days. It was terrible this sud- 
 den departure without a single word of farewell 
 from Clive.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 SYDNEY slept badly that night in her new abode, 
 and awoke with that strange feeling of unreality 
 so common to those who awake on the first day 
 amid novel surroundings. She looked round the 
 room obscurely delineated in the gloom. It was 
 unfamiliar to her, and she could not at first remem- 
 ber where she was. Memory stood like a black fig- 
 ure at the door of her brain, waiting to thrust its 
 unwelcome knowledge upon her. Ah, she knew 
 where she was now! She had left the Lido she 
 was in these rooms Clive had found for her. She 
 was alone. If she wanted her morning coffee she 
 must rise and prepare it, or else go out and have 
 it in some restaurant. She was no longer under 
 the same roof with Clive. The tears filled her eyes, 
 she began to sob weakly. 
 
 Presently she got out of bed, and going to the 
 window unfastened the wooden shutters. The scene 
 that met .her eyes was very fair. The cool mists 
 of an early September morning hung about the la- 
 goon, hiding in the distance the line where it be- 
 came one with the sky. Over there was the Lido, 
 with its beautiful masses of green trees, its banal 
 ugly villas and hotels. The sight of it made her 
 feel acutely homesick. 
 
 Below her feet the lagoon lay pearl-colored. San 
 Giorgio, with its slender, delicious campanile, had 
 lost something of its insistent rosiness in this wan 
 morning light. But the beautful dome of Santa 
 Maria della Salute seemed to be fashioned of some 
 silver ethereal substance, and the great golden ball 
 
 271
 
 272 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 on the Dogana stood up prominently upon its sup- 
 porting white columns with the shifting figure of 
 Fortune holding out its cloak to catch the breeze. 
 A yellow sail thrust its shape through the mist on 
 the lagoon. A sea-gull flew past with sudden flash 
 of silver. It seemed to her that she was looking 
 upon Venice from a new angle, seeing it with new 
 eyes. 
 
 She felt, too, that it had offered her a gift, and 
 though she had not refused it, she had put it aside 
 at human bidding. Her conscience was uneasy. 
 She had a dim foreboding that she would have to 
 choose some day between the two gifts that had 
 been offered to her in Venice. But she put the 
 thought aside. That new will of Moreton's! . . . 
 She wondered if Clive knew of it, and whether the 
 thought had occurred to him also that he and Syd- 
 ney might be called upon to make sacrifices. She 
 told herself a little bitterly, that he would yield 
 ultimately to Moreton's wishes that ancient alle- 
 giance was really the force that controlled and gov- 
 erned his life. 
 
 Those last few days spent at the villa on the Lido 
 had taught her, beyond all possibility of doubt, 
 the significance of Moreton and Roma Cochrane in 
 dive's life. 
 
 He had loved other women, so Roma had told 
 her long ago in London, he had indeed often been 
 in love. Roma had told her this as a kind of warn- 
 ing. Sydney asked herself now whether he had re- 
 nounced those other loves at Roma's bidding, at 
 Roma's suggestion. . . . Did she point out the 
 flaws in the marble, the clumsy clay feet? What 
 were Clive's real feelings towards Roma? 
 
 He could and did criticize her lightly, even bit- 
 terly, it depended upon the mood that was on him 
 he had called her selfish and luxurious, yet had
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 273 
 
 immediately afterwards defended her because "she 
 was Roma and a law unto herself." But he could 
 not, and this knowledge stabbed Sydney with a pain 
 that was almost physical, he could not put her quite 
 on one side even for the woman he had promised 
 to marry. She had power over him, a vicarious 
 power acquired through her position as Moreton's 
 wife, and she used it a little cruelly. That was one 
 of Sydney's most recent discoveries concerning this 
 strange, enigmatic, beautiful, complex woman who 
 ruled that household over there across the lagoon, 
 with such light yet relentless touch. And in her 
 heart Sydney believed that Roma was really indif- 
 ferent to them all. She could care very gracefully 
 for a new friend, for a little time, just as she had 
 cared for Sydney. In the first days of their friend- 
 ship she had seemed to be compelling affection from 
 the girl, who was only too eager and ready to give 
 it. But her love was a surface thing without roots. 
 Roma liked novelty, fresh faces, fresh ideas, new 
 points of view. When any one ceased to provide her 
 with such novelties, she passed on to others that could 
 supply her with something new and individual. But 
 there was always in her a fundamental indifference 
 towards people, that shielded her from any suffer- 
 ing they might cause her. Of course, she was fond 
 of Moreton; most people indeed considered her a 
 devoted wife, eternally patient with his tantrums, his 
 ill-health, his irritable exigence. She invariably 
 showed him a charming, wifely solicitude and in- 
 dulgence. When he was ill, there was something 
 almost ostentatious in her absorption in him and 
 his needs. And she never let Clive forget his duty 
 to Moreton for a single second. If she had a bur- 
 den to carry, she compelled Clive to share it. And 
 Clive offered no resistance; he was graceful and 
 charming in his submission. To look at him, one
 
 274 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 would have thought that his sole desire in life was 
 to devote himself to Moreton and Roma. And all 
 the time he was secretly engaged to the girl whom 
 they had thrust outside their little intimate family 
 group. 
 
 Would Clive come to see her to-day? Sydney 
 asked herself this question with a dull sense of de- 
 spair. If he would only tell them how much he 
 wanted to come, because he loved her. It would 
 be so simple. They might be angry at first, but 
 surely they would soon forgive him. 
 
 She clung to the flattering belief that when once 
 she was Clive's wife, Roma would recover some- 
 thing of her old feeling for her. 
 
 She turned away from the window, and made her- 
 self a cup of tea, heating the water over a spirit- 
 lamp. Clive had insisted upon buying tea and bis- 
 cuits for her in case of emergency, and she found 
 them welcome enough now. It would save her go- 
 ing down all those long stairs in search of a res- 
 taurant where she could have a cup of coffee. And 
 she wasn't really hungry. As it was, she had some 
 difficulty in swallowing those dry biscuits. 
 
 She began to unpack and arrange her things. She 
 had a strong feeling that if she could only begin 
 to work, those restless, tumultuous thoughts would 
 leave her. They teased her brain like a cloud of 
 worrying gnats, and she seemed unable to escape 
 them. Work would perhaps drive them away. She 
 wanted to paint that view from her window before 
 the early autumn mists had quite left it. To-morrow 
 she would get up much earlier on purpose to paint 
 it. Clive should see, when he came, that she had 
 not been idle, that she was really in earnest about 
 her work. 
 
 She unfastened the wrappings that protected the 
 portrait of Roma, and drawing forth the canvas
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 275 
 
 set it on an easel. She sat down opposite to it, 
 contemplating it with an almost brooding melan- 
 choly, and yet with a frank impartiality, as if it 
 had been the achievement of some hand other than 
 her own. That fine glow of inspiration which had 
 stimulated her when she painted it had burned down 
 to dead ashes. She no longer loved Roma as she 
 had loved her then. She had even to resist con- 
 tinually the impulse to distrust her, as one distrusts 
 an avowed enemy. But the picture was charming, 
 it was the real Roma, the flesh-and-blood woman 
 who had once for her spelt perfection. When she 
 and Clive were married, they would hang it up, 
 and look at it often and discuss it quite impartially. 
 . . . They wouldn't be blinded then by that some- 
 thing in Roma that blinded every one in her pres- 
 ence. They would have shaken themselves free 
 forever -from the compelling glamor of her per- 
 sonality. She would be like some splendid, beau- 
 tiful, remembered dream of the past. . . . 
 
 But would she ever be able to detach Clive from 
 the Cochranes as completely as all that? . . . Syd- 
 ney looked at the portrait again, and it seemed to 
 her that, even loving Roma as she had done when 
 she painted it, her artist's vision had been able sub- 
 consciously to detect something of that sinister, al- 
 most hypnotic, power which Roma exercised over all 
 those who came in contact with her. . . . 
 
 It was then that Clive's love seemed to become 
 unreal, a shadowy thing, without substance. She 
 couldn't believe in it any longer. That house of 
 theirs with the portrait of Roma hanging on the 
 wall, would never have any verification in fact. It 
 was an aerial castle. She needed his dear pres- 
 ence, his ardent, eager words of love, his whisper 
 of, Darling Sydney! to assure her that he cared. 
 Without these she could never believe it.
 
 276 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 All that day she was quite alone. No message 
 came to console her. The solitary hours moved past 
 on slow, leaden feet, a funereal procession. She 
 spent the morning arranging her possessions, and 
 once towards midday she went out for a short time, 
 partook of a frugal meal, and hurried home again. 
 She was so afraid Clive might come in her absence 
 that she could hardly bring herself even to do this, 
 but hunger compelled her. She tried to work and 
 even made a careful drawing of the abrupt point 
 formed by the Dogana with the domes of Santa 
 Maria della Salute beyond. She would begin to 
 paint it quite early to-morrow morning. Clive 
 should see it when he came to-morrow. The 
 thought that she would most certainly see him on 
 the following day consoled her a little. 
 
 At night before going to bed, she looked across 
 the lagoon punctuated with those shifting lights 
 from boat and gondola, and saw the electric lamps 
 shining steadily upon the long line of the Lido. 
 There was a moon, and the stars overhead were 
 very bright. She saw the massed trees in dark, 
 inky blots. A cool brackish wind was blowing in 
 lightly, waywardly, from the sea. And although she 
 could not see it, she knew that not far from her 
 the figure of Fortune on the golden ball of the 
 Dogana was holding out its light cloak and shifting 
 in response to that fickle wind. 
 
 In the morning a note was brought to her by 
 her landlady. She had been working for a couple 
 of hours, having risen early, when it came. Yes, 
 it had been brought by hand, by a servant, the old 
 woman informed her in the rapid Venetian Italian 
 which is so hard for a foreigner to understand. 
 When she had closed the door, Sydney went over 
 to a seat by the window and opened the letter. It 
 was the first she had ever received from Clive, and,
 
 277 
 
 strange to say, she had never before seen his hand- 
 writing. It was clear but not large, the conven- 
 tional public-school or Oxford hand. 
 
 The letter was not very long, and there was lit- 
 tle in it for the most famished fancy to batten upon. 
 He hadn't been able to get away. He was sure 
 that she would understand. . . . Moreton was 
 worse, and very fretful, and frightened, too,, about 
 himself, which was rather a novel condition of 
 things. Roma was worn out, and he couldn't leave 
 her to cope with it single-handed. She hadn't found 
 a nurse in Venice, and they had sent to Milan for 
 one. Until she came, he would necessarily be 
 tied. . . . 
 
 Sydney read the letter with its little hurried 
 phrases, and the signature, Your own Clive. But 
 she was not deceived. There was no urgency in his 
 wish to come. Roma had skillfully brought him 
 back to his old allegiance. And she knew now 
 how firmly, yet how invisibly, Roma's hands 
 could hold. Would Clive ever be quite free soul- 
 free? . . . 
 
 Her sketch a slight delicate water-color was 
 finished. Even Sydney, a severe critic of her own 
 work, was almost satisfied with it. It was Venice 
 the Venice that Clive had once told her she did 
 not yet know. She had not perhaps tried to know 
 it very thoroughly; she had had so many other 
 things to think of during her few months there. The 
 novelty of it all had confused and bewildered her 
 at first. But now she was going to learn every- 
 thing that it could teach her. Not only that tech- 
 nical side of her art, which was the first narrow, 
 limited reason of her coming thither. She had not 
 then seen the need of a wider and more spiritual 
 vision to make art supremely worth while. Even 
 this drawing showed an advance upon her previous
 
 work. She hoped that Clive would think it good 
 when he came. 
 
 The morning passed quickly enough. She went 
 out as usual to have her midday meal, the only sub- 
 stantial one her means admitted of. In the morn- 
 ing and evening she had only frugal repasts, pre- 
 pared by herself, of coffee, eggs, bread and fruit. 
 She returned as quickly as she could, still fearful 
 lest Clive should come in her absence. She inquired 
 anxiously if any one had called. But the old 
 woman shook her head. There had been no one 
 no one at all. Sydney took off her hat and lay down 
 for a little while. All of a sudden she felt tired 
 and dispirited. Surely Clive would find means of 
 coming to see her to-day. More than forty-eight 
 hours had passed since she left the Lido, and there 
 had only been that one little note to comfort her, 
 to assure her that he was thinking of her. . . . 
 
 It was nearly six o'clock when she heard the door- 
 bell ring, and a sound of voices in the passage out- 
 side. She went to the door. Her face was all 
 flushed and eager with anticipation. But the fig- 
 ure standing there was a woman's; she recognized 
 at once the dainty spotlessness of Roma's white em- 
 broidered dress. But in her present mood of mor- 
 bid depression Sydney was thankful to see even 
 Roma. She would surely bring her news of Clive. 
 She ran forward eagerly to greet her. 
 
 "Oh, Roma how good of you to come ! I'm so 
 glad to see you ! Do come in. . . ." And she 
 threw open the door of the studio. 
 
 Roma put her arm round Sydney and bestowed 
 a light kiss upon her cheek. 
 
 "Dear Sydney," she murmured, touched a little by 
 the spontaneous enthusiasm of the greeting. She did 
 not know that it had been prepared for some one 
 else. The relations of Clive and Sydney still con-
 
 279 
 
 tinued to puzzle her. Clive was reticent, and Syd- 
 ney eternally on her guard. 
 
 Roma Cochrane entered the room and sat do.wn 
 on a chair near the open window. She seemed to 
 fill the rather bare and shabby apartment with some- 
 thing of her own decorative perfection. And as she 
 looked at her, Sydney felt a strange sinking of the 
 heart. She was such a raw, unfledged thing beside 
 Roma ! Clive was right. Roma would never ap- 
 prove of their engagement, never consider her 
 worthy of Clive. She wouldn't, however, put an 
 end to it clumsily when the knowledge of it reached 
 her. Clive would perhaps hardly be conscious that 
 the termination of it was not his own doing, accom- 
 plished by his own desire and of his own will. Roma 
 always laughed frankly at his frustrated love-affairs. 
 And she would laugh at this one, not the less frankly, 
 directly she definitely discovered how matters stood 
 between them. 
 
 The very fact that Clive had not come that day 
 was an added proof of the power Roma knew so 
 ceaselessly how to exercise over him. Yet . . . how 
 much of it had been her doing? Was it all her fault 
 that he hadn't been able to come? Or had he lent 
 himself quite willingly to her decision? It would 
 be difficult to hazard a reply to these difficult, con- 
 fusing questions. 
 
 "Poor Clive has you quite on his conscience," said 
 Mrs. Cochrane, leaning back in her chair and fan- 
 ning herself. "He feels that he encouraged you to 
 come here rather than go home at once, which was 
 my advice as you will perhaps remember. And now 
 that you're here, he seems to be afraid that you'll 
 hate it. He was very anxious to come and see you 
 himself this afternoon, but Moreton wouldn't hear 
 of it, so to pacify him and to assure him that you 
 were still alive, I came myself."
 
 280 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 "It was very kind of you. . . . How is Moreton 
 to-day?" Sydney said. The vivid color had faded 
 from her face, leaving it pale and impassive. 
 
 She was thinking inconsequently that Roma's 
 beautiful shining presence made her little room look, 
 despite all her care, a trifle austere. 
 
 "There's no improvement," said Roma, shortly. 
 "The doctor came as usual, and says he must be 
 kept very quiet and not worried about anything. 
 I'm glad that effort of making a new will is off 
 his mind. It excited him." Her eyes rested upon 
 Sydney's quiet little face. 
 
 "He made it then just as you told me?" 
 
 "Yes. Hedged about with all kinds of ridiculous 
 conditions. It won't affect me at all, but it might 
 very possibly affect Clive." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "He had such very strong leanings, you see, to- 
 wards Catholicism about two years ago. He may 
 only have put away the idea for a time, thinking 
 perhaps that if anything were to happen to More- 
 ton^ he could take it up again." 
 
 Sydney was silent. She felt that Moreton's ac- 
 tion would affect both herself and Clive. One of 
 them would have to give way, and in her heart she 
 knew that she would not be that one. She had 
 gone too far, she was pledged. . . . 
 
 Roma's high sweet voice struck across her 
 thoughts. 
 
 "What are you thinking of, dear little Sydney?" 
 
 "I was thinking of what you were saying." 
 
 "I don't know if Moreton has told Clive. He 
 tells him a good deal about his business affairs. I 
 sometimes think they are more attached to each 
 other than if they were really father and son. You 
 should see Clive with him now^ so patient, so un- 
 wearying. He may have his faults, but he's the
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 281 
 
 kindest sick-nurse in the world. And then, of 
 course, with him it's a labor of love. He's very 
 devoted to Moreton." 
 
 "Yes," assented Sydney. 
 
 Yet . . . was it really his devotion to Moreton 
 that had kept him away from her for nearly two 
 days? Was there no hour, early or late, that he 
 could snatch for his own pleasure? She repulsed 
 these thoughts they were unworthy. 
 
 Roma went on talking about her husband and 
 Clive, and Sydney listened, trying to imagine her- 
 self as a person who was wholly unconcerned with 
 Clive, his goings-out and comings-in, the trivial hap- 
 penings of his life. Only thus, she felt, could she 
 keep her face under control, and silence the impetu- 
 ous words that rose to her lips. She must act a 
 part in the little tragic comedy. If Roma had come 
 to-day to find out anything she should learn noth- 
 ing from Sydney. She should return to the Lido 
 no wiser than when she left it. 
 
 "Clive is talking of running home for a bit as 
 soon as he can leave Moreton." 
 
 Roma looked closely at Sydney as she said these 
 words, as if to see what effect the announcement 
 would have upon her. But she could learn noth- 
 ing from the pale, studiously-impassive countenance 
 that confronted her. 
 
 "Is he?" was all that Sydney could find to 
 say. 
 
 "Didn't he mention it to you? I thought you 
 were such friends." 
 
 "He only talked of it very vaguely." 
 
 "He's rather secret about it. I'm afraid that 
 means he's got some new attraction in London !" 
 
 Sydney did not answer. Silence, safe, unbetray- 
 ing, was her only refuge. She felt the urgent need 
 of keeping Clive's secret . . . even under torture.
 
 282 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 She wondered why that word arose to her mind 
 now, suggested by Roma's questioning. 
 
 And Roma saw the firm closing of the lips, the 
 clenching of the little betraying hands. Something 
 to hide there the most elementary knowledge of 
 psychology taught you that. . . . 
 
 "It's a pity, if he does go, because then you 
 needn't have left us. The nurse when she comes 
 could have occupied his room." 
 
 "Oh, I shall work harder alone," said Sydney. 
 "I've been quite busy to-day, Roma. I'll show 
 you what I've done." 
 
 The tension must be broken at all costs. She 
 pulled out the nearly completed sketch. 
 
 Roma looked at it critically. 
 
 "Yes, it's charming. You have such a graceful 
 talent, Sydney. One feels this about it, though 
 that if you studied too strenuously you might ruin 
 it. It's a slight, fragile, little gift, very charming 
 and individual. Moreton always believes in a hard, 
 austere school to bring out talent. You've heard 
 him say sometimes that an artist needs an attic and 
 a touch of starvation. But I shouldn't like to pre- 
 scribe such a bitter draught for my little Sydney!" 
 She put out her hand then and touched Sydney's with 
 one of her rare and caressing gestures. "I feel it 
 might destroy the gift you have." 
 
 Sydney thought of her frugal little meals, so dif- 
 ferent from the plenteous abundance that charac- 
 terized life at the Lido. But they were still very 
 far removed from starvation rations, although she 
 acknowledged that she had felt unwonted pangs of 
 hunger towards morning. 
 
 "I've missed you very much, my dear child." 
 Roma threw a warm inflection into her voice, that 
 for the moment chased the girl's miserable distrust 
 away.
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 283 
 
 "And I've missed you, Roma. I have felt a little 
 lonely! Last night I wanted to cry. . . ." 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears. It was always diffi- 
 cult for her to resist Roma's tenderness. 
 
 "Still, I do agree with Moreton that solitude and 
 a certain amount of austerity are necessary for the 
 artist. Especially at first, when they are studying. 
 That's why marriage so often means for women 
 the death of any talent they possess. You're such 
 a wise, prudent child to cultivate singleness of pur- 
 pose. You've so deliberately slain your dreams of 
 love ! Few of us have the courage to do that." 
 
 Sydney felt an impulse then to deny the statement, 
 passionately, categorically. But she sat there, 
 wrapped in a cold attentive calm. Was Roma allud- 
 ing to Duncan Turner or to Clive? It was impos- 
 sible to say. Perhaps she had only made the state- 
 ment so as to elicit an impulsive denial. 
 
 "Sydney, you don't say anything! You never 
 talk to me confidentially now. But I suppose you 
 don't write to Mr. Turner or hear from him?" 
 
 "He did write once. I'm afraid I haven't an- 
 swered the letter. I felt that chapter had come to 
 an end." 
 
 "Unfortunately all chapters are apt to have se- 
 quels," said Roma, with a touch of dryness. "You 
 can never be sure with a man. Especially when he's 
 so completely devoted to you as poor Mr. Turner 
 was." 
 
 "I'm sure that chapter's quite closed," said Syd- 
 ney with decision. 
 
 "Sydney is it because we've seen less of each 
 other lately that I find you just a tiny bit changed?" 
 said Roma. 
 
 "Changed?" repeated Sydney. 
 
 "I sometimes fancy your affection for me isn't 
 quite what it was."
 
 284 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 Sydney stared back into the beautiful, questioning 
 eyes, and wondered why her old devotion had so 
 utterly perished before the royal exigence of this 
 new overwhelming love. . . . Changed? Not 
 the same as it used to be? She looked at Roma 
 uncomprehendingly. Why, of course it had 
 changed. . . . 
 
 "It was only my fancy, then?" said Roma. 
 
 Sydney had the feeling that she was being slowly 
 tortured into making a confession. The only plan 
 was to concentrate her whole will upon resisting and 
 frustrating Roma's intention. To hold out as long 
 as she could. . . . 
 
 "Do you know I was almost afraid to come here 
 to-day lest you shouldn't be quite pleased to see 
 me? One has that feeling about some people 
 that one isn't nearly sure enough of them to visit 
 them unless one is expected. And I had that feel- 
 ing about coming here to-day. You see, I feel that 
 you've never really told me your true reason for 
 leaving us." 
 
 "But you ought to know, Roma, that I'm always 
 so glad so very glad to see you!" 
 
 "Clive noticed too that you had changed a little 
 towards me. He's very observant, you know, and 
 I had never mentioned it to him. It's odd how 
 quickly he notices some things, and how blind he is 
 to others. Men are often like that they will miss 
 something that's right under their nose and then dis- 
 cover what's almost imperceptible ! For instance, 
 they often don't realize an obvious situation unless 
 it's put quite brutally and frankly before them. 
 That's why I sometimes wonder if Clive realizes 
 how much we Moreton and I count for in his 
 life. He takes us rather too much for granted, 
 though I have given him a lesson about that every 
 now and then. The only thing that would perhaps
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 285 
 
 make him realize it would be if some one else a 
 fourth person were to try to/ come definitely be- 
 tween ourselves and him." 
 
 Roma uttered this speech in an almost mechani- 
 cal tone, as if she were slowly revolving some new 
 idea in her own mind and regarding it from all its 
 aspects. But to Sydney, conscience-stricken, every 
 word seemed to hold a subtle and peculiar menace. 
 Some one else ... a fourth person? . . . She felt 
 the shaft pierce her own heart, and she was certain 
 that Roma had not drawn her bow at a venture. 
 There was a considered intention in each one of 
 those words. 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Roma's voice, 
 pitilessly charming, broke the little pause : 
 
 "But then the fourth person would have to be 
 most dreadfully blind and undiscerning not to have 
 discovered at once not only what Clive is to us, 
 but also what's far more important what we are 
 to Clive I" 
 
 Sydney averted her face a little, and her eyes trav- 
 eled over the wide pale spaces of the lagoon touched 
 to rose-color now in the sunset. It seemed to her 
 that Roma was deliberately punishing her for hav- 
 ing become engaged to Clive. She had relegated her 
 to that category of blind undiscerning persons who 
 had overlooked the fundamental forces of affection 
 and duty that guided Clive's life. She had not re- 
 alized the importance of Moreton and Roma. A 
 guilty remembrance of her own hope to detach him 
 completely from them after her marriage, rose to 
 her mind. But it was only when she was actually 
 with Clive that she had ventured to minimize the 
 influence of these two people who so ruled and 
 swayed his life. With Roma before her, coolly and 
 sharply discussing the situation, presenting it with 
 extraordinary subtlety as a hypothetical one, Syd-
 
 286 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 ney felt utterly powerless. She would never be able 
 to take Clive away from them. He would never be 
 permitted to rupture those ancient ties. Moreton 
 stood in a parental relation to him. He had loved 
 and cared for Clive from his boyhood. And now 
 that he was growing old and his infirmity was in- 
 creasing, he leaned on his youth and strength. And 
 Roma was there to see that the youth and strength 
 were punctually offered. 
 
 Sydney felt that, even in this brief separation, 
 Clive's ardor must have cooled. He was absorbed 
 once more in Moreton, had returned to his old alle- 
 giance with perhaps even a little inward contrition 
 for that recent lapse. Yes, he had gone back to 
 Moreton, and it was no doubt Roma who had tacitly 
 indicated the desirability of this course. Sydney 
 looked at Roma now with a new curiosity, blent with 
 a fearful admiration. Yes, she had the pitiless 
 power of the cold and selfish woman. But she was 
 beautiful, and it is the common impulse of mankind 
 to forgive the beautiful all things. That was why 
 Roma would always be forgiven. The others were 
 the blind and undiscerning ones who did not under- 
 stand. . . . 
 
 "I must tell Clive how comfortable the place 
 looks," said Roma, rising and going towards the 
 door. "He's a dear -I don't know what we should 
 do without him. You do like him, don't you, Syd- 
 ney? You get on much better together than you 
 used to?" 
 
 "Much better." Her throat was dry, but she was 
 able to smile as she met Roma's look. 
 
 "I've been almost jealous sometimes, only I've 
 seen Clive in love too often. And this time he 
 wasn't even beginning to be in love I know the 
 symptoms, and besides he always tells me." 
 
 Sydney was standing near Roma, and her hand
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 287 
 
 rested on the back of a chair. Roma put her hand 
 on Sydney's and let it lie there for a moment. 
 
 "And you you needn't tell me that you're quite 
 heart-whole, my dear child ! Your leaving us your 
 ambition to work harder such a sensible motive 
 convinced me of that You've got a cool heart as 
 well as a cool head, little Sydney!" 
 
 Sydney was silent, although she felt as if her 
 very silence, unpunctuated by eager denial or acquies- 
 cence, must seem ambiguous to Roma. But to her 
 the element of intrigue was nauseating. All that 
 was frank and simple in her nature revolted against 
 it. She had never wished to keep her engagement 
 a secret from Roma. She had been impelled by 
 Clive to adopt this policy. She felt her hand grow 
 hot and damp under Roma's cool touch, but she did 
 not dare to draw it away. She kept very still, the 
 muscles of face and body were under the most rigid 
 control. But there was again self-betrayal in this 
 concentrated immovability. 
 
 "Well, 1 must be going," said Roma; "it's getting 
 late, and I've paid you an unconscionable visit. But 
 I simply couldn't bear the thought of your being 
 left quite alone, feeling perhaps bored and hipped 
 in your new solitude. And when Moreton's ill, I 
 know I'm much less necessary to him than Clive is. 
 She smiled and kissed Sydney. "I shall come again 
 very soon and see how you're getting on," she prom- 
 ised her. 
 
 Sydney's relief at the termination of the ordeal 
 was intense. She lifted a stone-cold face to receive 
 that parting kiss.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 THERE was no hope of Clive's coming that eve- 
 ning, and after Roma had departed, Sydney 
 resolved to go for a walk. She had taken no ex- 
 ercise for two days, and a restless feeling came over 
 her, driving her out of doors. 
 
 The evening was fine and very warm, with a faint 
 hint of sirocco in the air, that made the loitering 
 crowds move more slowly than usual. The Piazza 
 of St. Mark's was thronged with its usual vast con- 
 course representative of many nations. People were 
 strolling up and down, often arm in arm ; others were 
 sitting outside the cafes drinking iced coffee or syrup 
 or wine. A band was playing. Venetian women 
 passed slowly by, wearing their deep-fringed shawls 
 with incomparable grace. One or two of them had 
 that superb red hair which is so seldom seen, others 
 were very dark, dark as Neapolitans, a few were as 
 fair, with their blond hair and blue eyes, as many 
 of the daughters of the North. There were men of 
 that type too, tall, bronzed, fair-haired and blue- 
 eyed, the Viking type that breeds the sailor in all 
 lands. 
 
 Sydney turned down the narrow street under the 
 clock and entered the crowded ways of the Mer- 
 ceria, which through winding calli leads from St. 
 Mark's to the Rialto. She resolved to take the 
 steamer back to the Riva. There was more air on 
 the Grand Canal, and she felt a little hot and fever- 
 ish. Some people she remembered complained of 
 fever when the sirocco was blowing, it was often 
 a malarial wind. . . . 
 
 288
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 289 
 
 It was dark by the time she reached her abode and 
 wearily climbed those steep flights of ill-lighted 
 stairs. She wished she had thought of having some 
 coffee when she was out, it would have saved her 
 the trouble of making it now. 
 
 "I must remember I'm not living in a house where 
 meals are regularly and punctually served without 
 any personal effort," she told herself with a wry 
 smile. Of course, she was bound to find it rather 
 a hardship at first to prepare her own food. But 
 life in the hospital had taught her various forms 
 of usefulness, and she could cook fairly well, and 
 was not afraid of hard work. After supper she 
 stayed up as long as she could, unable to face those 
 hours of wakefulness that must surely lie in front 
 of her to-night. She occupied herself with some sew- 
 ing, with putting everything ready for the day's work 
 to-morrow. 
 
 The moon hung low over the lagoon, whitening 
 it to polished argent. Dusky towers lifted their 
 slender shapes to the stars. The cry of a gondo- 
 lier, weird, half-savage, broke the silence. Far, far 
 below she could hear the lapping of the water 
 against the stones. 
 
 To-morrow. . . . Yes, Clive would certainly 
 come to-morrow. He would find some plausible ex- 
 cuse for leaving Moreton. He couldn't let her 
 spend another solitary day without a single glimpse 
 of him. 
 
 With these flattering but unconvincing thoughts, 
 Sydney went to bed, not to lie awake as she had 
 anticipated, but to sleep a troubled, restless sleep 
 punctured by dreams of Roma, who assured her 
 that Clive had never loved her at all. 
 
 When she awoke, day had already broken. The 
 mists of an autumn morning hung over the scene. 
 The lagoon was all of pale silver with the shadows
 
 2 9 o THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 painted in soft, deep tones of velvet-gray. The Lido 
 showed a vague smudge in the distance. There were 
 no accurate defined outlines anywhere; everything 
 was blurred. 
 
 As she dressed, a bell sounded low and deep from 
 the neighboring tower. It was the Angelus, the 
 bell that summoned its listeners to prayer. It was 
 loud, insistent, peremptory, rather than persuasive. 
 People were perhaps praying now in many of the 
 churches and the convent chapels of Venice. People 
 who habitually dedicated that first hour of the new 
 day to God. Sydney listened to it almost in awe. 
 It awoke that train of thought in her mind which 
 for some days she had sedulously thrust from her. 
 Now she had a strong wish to go out to one of those 
 churches and join the kneeling, devout worshipers 
 already assembled there. To pray and to believe 
 that your prayers were heard! Not always an- 
 swered in the way you wished, but heard. There 
 was comfort in the thought. She would pray that 
 Clive might come to see her that day. Clive, the 
 man who had said that he loved her and asked her 
 to be his wife. She would pray, too, that she might 
 keep his love forever, that if need be he would be 
 willing to face poverty for her sake. His love was 
 a precious gift. She felt that she would die if it 
 were taken away from her. . . . 
 
 The chiming bells had ceased, but the wish to go 
 into one of those splendid old churches whose walls 
 had heard the prayers of countless generations was 
 still with her. She wanted to be there, a kneeling, 
 believing worshiper. Believing that God would 
 listen, as a father listens to the voice of his crying, 
 supplicating child. . . . 
 
 She thought of St. Placid's face, young, boyish, 
 with the nail piercing his forehead. It must be ter- 
 rible as well as beautiful to die like that, knowing
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 291 
 
 that the Everlasting Arms were waiting to embrace 
 and receive the martyr who had generously given 
 the last drop of his blood for the Faith. And then 
 her thoughts wandered to that first night of hur- 
 ried journeying across the lagoon, and of the little 
 flickering lamp that burned before the shrine of the 
 Madonna lifted above the cool, vast expanse of wa- 
 ter to remind the passer-by of the Child that nestled 
 in her arms. 
 
 Sydney went quickly down the long flights of 
 stairs. She crossed a little bridge and hurried to- 
 wards St. Mark's. The Piazza was almost empty 
 at that early hour. A few workmen were moving 
 across it on their way to the day's task. Some men 
 were sitting drinking their early coffee under the 
 arcades, and scanning the morning papers. But Syd- 
 ney hardly noticed them. She went quickly towards 
 the church, dim, and jeweled with exquisite mosaics. 
 As yet there were not many people, but Mass was 
 being said at the altar that holds the famous picture 
 of the Madonna, and she could see a few figures 
 clustered in the seats in front of it. She took her 
 place among them, and kneeling down hid her face 
 in her hands. Surely this would comfort her. . . . 
 But the tears streamed down her face. She was tired, 
 exhausted and utterly overwrought. That feverish 
 life of alternate hope and despair, joy and anxiety, 
 of the last few days had had its lamentable effect 
 upon her physical health. And even now she felt 
 not so much soothed as completely astray. She had 
 no place here, she was a pilgrim, a stranger, and she 
 looked at those kneeling forms around her with a 
 dull envy. Many of them, to judge from their ap- 
 pearance, must be very poor indeed, yet they all pos- 
 sessed something that had been denied to herself. 
 In all their cares and sorrows, disappointments and 
 bereavements, they had a solid, never-failing, perma-
 
 292 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 nent source of consolation. The Church was always 
 there, from cradle to grave, to succor and sanctify 
 and strengthen her children. There was no dilemma 
 in which she could not counsel them, no grief that 
 she could not console. And for all her children 
 she had her immutable, unchanging laws. Obedi- 
 ence to those laws could sometimes only be accom- 
 plished with much pain and sacrifice and loss. But 
 they were never reasonless nor capricious. They 
 developed strength rather than encouraged weak- 
 ness, and their whole intention was to discipline the 
 soul to a spiritual perfection. Be ye therefore per- 
 fect. . . . I will show him how great things he must 
 suffer for My Name's sake. . . . Words such as 
 these floated through her brain. She roused her- 
 self. Why, they were like a clarion call ! It would 
 be a sluggish, ignoble soul indeed that would not re- 
 spond eagerly, generously, even as St. Placid had 
 responded. . . . 
 
 Sydney lifted her face and watched attentively the 
 grave and considered gestures and movements of the 
 priest as he performed that daily act of miracle and 
 oblation. The bell rang and she saw the Host up- 
 lifted, and then the gleaming chalice. She bowed 
 her head. Faith is a plant that to many is of slow 
 and difficult growth, and it is not easy perhaps for 
 any convert to designate the exact moment in which, 
 like St. Paul, he became blind to earthly things in 
 order to receive that divine gift. Its first sowing 
 is often imperceptible, but Sydney knew that her own 
 initiation had been on that night of her arrival in 
 Venice when she saw the solitary lamp flickering be- 
 fore the shrine of the Madonna in the middle of 
 the lagoon. That light had been to her a beacon, 
 arousing and stimulating her imagination, arresting 
 her attention in a way she could never forget. Often, 
 she had put all thought of it aside. Clive had even
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 293 
 
 urged her to take no step until after their marriage. 
 But this morning the call to prayer had been too 
 strong for her to resist. Such obedience often wins 
 a great reward. For behold he prayeth is still the 
 reason for the bestowal of many a spiritual gift and 
 grace. In that first agonized, ignorant seeking after 
 God, the seed of many a conversion has been sown. 
 
 Sydney no longer felt a stranger and astray. This 
 was her home, to which she had only to entreat 
 entrance and it would be given to her. She had the 
 feeling that the Madonna was holding out tender, 
 welcoming arms to her. 
 
 She was strangely comforted and quieted. It was 
 nearly nine o'clock when she returned home, after 
 partaking of a hasty cup of coffee in the Piazza. 
 The sun had risen, and had chased all those pearly 
 mists and deep velvet-gray shadows away. Sky and 
 lagoon were bright blue, and the water was flecked 
 with sparkling gold. In the distance the massed 
 trees on the Lido looked lustrously green. It was 
 a beautiful day. And most certainly it would bring 
 Clive. The Lido was so near he could surely find 
 time to come. 
 
 The day passed. She worked all the morning 
 with close, absorbed concentration. After luncheon 
 she felt drowsy and lay down to sleep. But sleep, 
 when it came, brought with it dreams like a cinemato- 
 graph gone mad, offering perpetually changing 
 scenes that had neither sequence nor even any rela- 
 tion to each other. She woke at last with a dull, 
 heavy feeling in her head. It was nearly three 
 o'clock. She put on a thin dress, for the afternoon 
 was hot, and waited for Clive's coming. 
 
 Perhaps Moreton was worse. He was purposely 
 detaining Clive. She pictured Clive sitting by his 
 side in the darkened room, talking in a low voice, 
 reading aloud a little perhaps, administering food
 
 294 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 and medicine. Not grudging the hours spent thus 
 away from her. 
 
 Evening came. The hot September day burned 
 to a close. The red and golden sky made a pas- 
 sionate background for the cold, pure peace of the 
 great dome of Santa Maria della Salute. It red- 
 dened to crimson the group of buildings, the slender 
 campanile, on the island of San Giorgio. The 
 golden ball on the Dogana was afire with light. She 
 watched the color fade. Clive had not come. This 
 was the third day they had spent apart. . . . 
 
 In the morning she was heavy-eyed. She felt too 
 ill to go out to church as she had done yesterday. 
 But she was up very early, and began to paint be- 
 fore the sun was fully risen. The scene was so 
 exquisite, a beautiful repetition of yesterday's. The 
 same pearly lights escaping from the mists. The 
 same velvet shadows delicately blurred. The same 
 cool rush of life-giving wind brimming into the 
 room like a draught of wine, refreshing, invigorat- 
 ing. She saw the line of tall palaces stretching away 
 along the Grand Canal, their details lost in shadow. 
 Purple shadows, jade-colored shadows, and that 
 pure white light upon the lagoon. Here and there 
 the summits of tower or palace received the first 
 touch of the sun, and showed white high-lights of 
 piercing brilliancy. The black shapes of gondolas, 
 moving swiftly and stealthily, made it easier to de- 
 termine all lesser color values. The solitary figure 
 that guided each one struck her afresh with the per- 
 fection of its poise, the vigorous and effective sim- 
 plicity of its movements. Over there on the lagoon 
 some idle golden and pearl-colored sails hung mo- 
 tionlessly. 
 
 Sydney worked with feverish energy, like one in- 
 spired and driven by a strong imperious force. She 
 was nervous, almost ill, her physical condition was
 
 295 
 
 overwrought, but like most artists she worked bet- 
 ter in that state. The picture grew rapidly under 
 her hand. It was beautiful, but she knew that it 
 also had force. It was an impression of that wak- 
 ing light when Venice emerges from the mists of 
 night and receives the first kiss of the sun. Venice 
 ought to be painted at dawn so ran her thoughts > 
 when it was a city of liquid pearl and faint gold 
 and dim shadow. People who did not see it at 
 that hour missed something of its intimate splen- 
 dor, its austere cold loveliness, when its gray pal- 
 aces, touched frugally with gold, were reflected in 
 jade-colored canals, and its domes and towers were 
 lifted to receive that first faint illumination. The 
 hour of ringing, chiming bells sounding their call to 
 prayer, of the cries of early fruit-vendors, of the 
 wakening stir on narrow calli, of the slow dispersal 
 of mists on the broad, pale lagoon. . . . 
 
 When Clive came he must see this picture, even 
 though it were still in an unfinished state. He was 
 a good judge, surer than Roma, kinder than More- 
 ton. He had vision and understanding, and he be- 
 lieved whole-heartedly in her gift. When Clive 
 came. . . . Her heart beat a little quicker at the 
 thought. 
 
 For of course to-day the fourth day of her ab- 
 sence he would be certain to come. 
 
 It was a day of slowly-growing disappointment. 
 Even its early promise of beautiful weather was un- 
 fulfilled. A wind blew in from the sea towards 
 evening, and rain fell. The Lido was Hidden in 
 mist that clung about it like a fine gray web. The 
 fishing boats sailed out and vanished like specters. 
 All that fragile gold that had touched Venice to 
 splendor in the morning had gone, leaving no trace. 
 Venice was gray, austere, wrapped in her mist- 
 garments. She was the Venice of the stern and
 
 296 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 grim race of men who had fought for her, died 
 for her, who had trafficked in far lands to bring 
 treasure home to her in bygone days. The Venice 
 
 of the great Doges, of the Bridge of Sighs 
 
 Sydney feared her to-day in this obscurely hostile 
 mood. She felt almost as if in her new sternness 
 of aspect she were demanding some sacrifice of her. 
 
 Sacrifice of what? Of Clive? Of Roma? Of 
 her art her own life? 
 
 She asked herself these questions as she gazed 
 down into that empty cup of mist. 
 
 Clive had not come; perhaps indeed to-day the 
 weather had deterred him. Or it might be that 
 Moreton was worse, and Roma had assured him 
 that it was his duty to remain with his cousin. Roma 
 would keep Clive thus under her eye, away from 
 temptation, from possible danger. 
 
 There was one moment when Sydney actually con- 
 templated taking a steamer to the Lido and vis- 
 iting the villa. But Roma had said that one must 
 feel very sure of people to visit them unexpectedly. 
 She saw in those words a practical hint for her 
 own future guidance. Yet under ordinary circum- 
 stances there would have been nothing inappropri- 
 ate or unusual about such a visit. It would have 
 been a commonplace act of courtesy to go and in- 
 quire after Moreton. But to go and seek out Clive 
 in this way was impossible to her, the very thought 
 touched her pride to the quick as she banished it 
 She must just wait until he chose to come and ex- 
 plain. Probably Moreton, at a hint from Roma, 
 was keeping him chained to the sick-room. Sydney 
 felt more and more certain that somehow or other 
 Roma had contrived to obtain at least some faint 
 knowledge of the truth. 
 
 Sydney suffered, as a child suffers before its first 
 experience of genuine, unassuageable pain. She
 
 297 
 
 loved Clive very deeply, and perhaps this tormented, 
 stricken love of hers had gained in profundity be- 
 cause she actually feared now that he had deserted 
 her. If he had been here, had recovered for her 
 the simple happiness of those first hours of their 
 engagement, she would not have stopped thus to 
 analyze its precise measure. Now everything 
 seemed to increase her love, that stirring of jealous 
 fear when she thought of Roma's influence, a dread 
 that he had learned of that new will of Moreton's 
 which was such an instrument in itself to compro- 
 mise their future, the growing anguish caused by 
 his silence, and the cold separation that enfolded 
 them. It was a bitter moment for her. She was 
 ill at ease, restless, she could not eat or sleep. She 
 sat there by the window waiting; her dry, hard eyes 
 straining across the mists that shrouded the lagoon. 
 Then she threw herself on the divan. Her lips 
 framed his name involuntarily. Once she cried 
 aloud: "Clive Clive! Do come even if it's only 
 for five minutes, to tell me that you don't care any 
 more." Yes, it would be easier to bear that blow 
 than to go on enduring this suspense that seemed to 
 make her "wither away with fear." 
 
 Night had come when she rose heavily and closed 
 the window, to shut out the sight and sound of that 
 heavily-falling rain that beat so steadily on land and 
 water. Presently she took down, almost at random, 
 a little book from the shelf. Anything to distract 
 her mind. She opened it listlessly, and a sentence 
 struck her eyes with almost the force of a blow. 
 
 "So do thou also learn to part with the necessary 
 and beloved friend for the love of God. . . /' She 
 dropped the book and the words danced before her 
 eyes in letters of flame. Then she once more took 
 up the Imitation and read slowly, carefully, the 
 whole of that chapter, which contains perhaps more
 
 298 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 than any other a counsel of perfection, difficult for 
 the human heart to assimilate. But it was always 
 to those first words that she turned again and again. 
 
 She knew now that ever since Clive had first told 
 her that he loved her and had urged her to put on 
 one side, at least until after their marriage, the 
 thought of becoming a Catholic, she had endeavored 
 against her own conscience to carry out his wishes. 
 She had stifled those spiritual aspirations which 
 Venice had awakened within her. And now she saw 
 quite clearly that her becoming a Catholic even after 
 her marriage would ruin Clive's worldly prospects, 
 would increase the hostility and dislike which he was 
 convinced the Cochranes would display towards such 
 an alliance. If she became a Catholic now, she 
 might even lose him altogether. And she refused 
 to make that sacrifice. God wouldn't ask it of her. 
 This love of hers was a beautiful, holy thing. And 
 then she shivered a little. God sometimes not only 
 demanded sacrifices but exacted them. Sometimes a 
 soul that had turned to Him and received the faith 
 in one sudden blinding glimpse was not permitted 
 to retrace her steps. The old doors were shut, 
 the old ways darkened. . . . "For I will show him 
 how great things he must suffer for My Name's 
 sake. . . ." Yes, you saw that brilliant, overwhelm- 
 ing light, and you fell blinded by the way. You 
 could not of yourself proceed on your journey . . . 
 you were a little child that had to be led by the 
 hand. . . . 
 
 The Purgative Way the Dark Night of the 
 Soul. . . . The language of Mysticism is not known 
 only now to the scholar and the saint. Sydney had 
 read books on the subject -books that were like a 
 scientific treatise in their cold and brilliant analysis 
 and dissection of those higher soul-states. But no\\ 
 she felt their truth in a personal, intimate manner
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 299 
 
 The Purgative Way the soul stripped of all earthly 
 shackles so that nothing should cumber or impede 
 its wings on their swift flight to God. A bitter 
 and painful process, yet the saints had accepted it 
 eagerly. The soul that had received the Divine call 
 to perfection answered gladly, generously. Its only 
 aim was to cooperate, to yield utterly to the Will 
 thus made known. E la sua volontate e nostra 
 pace. . . . 
 
 From her own art she had already learned some- 
 thing of the psychology of vocation, the need of 
 sacrifice, of solitude, of close deliberate concentra- 
 tion. But this was a fiery process that seemed to 
 hold something almost, at first glance, cruel. It 
 was something that absorbed all other things in its 
 own white heat into which the soul had plunged so 
 recklessly, forgetful of those earthly gifts and am- 
 bitions that were cast aside and trampled upon like 
 the forgotten toys of childhood. 
 
 All night the words danced before her eyes alike 
 in her dreams as in her sudden agonized awakenings, 
 painted across the darkness in dazzling letters of 
 fire : So do thou also learn to part with the necessary 
 and beloved friend for the love of God.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 ALOUD knock at the door awoke her shortly be- 
 fore eight o'clock on the following morning. 
 The room was quite dark, for the solid wooden shut- 
 ters were fastened closely across the windows. Syd- 
 ney, barely awake and fancying it was still night, 
 leapt out of bed, and switched on the electric light. 
 Then she opened the door. 
 
 The old landlady was standing in the passage out- 
 side, proffering a telegram. Sydney accepted the 
 pale, dust-colored envelope wherein Italy incloses 
 those messages so often of dread and disastrous im- 
 port. Her name and address were typewritten on 
 a tiny slip of paper fastening down the flap of the 
 envelope. She saw that it had been forwarded to 
 her from the Lido. She broke it open and glanced 
 at its contents. These words were also typewritten 
 and contained one or two mistakes which she no- 
 ticed in spite of her dismay. 
 
 She went back into her room and closed the door. 
 Her first action was to throw open the shutters and 
 let the cool morning air pour into the room. 
 
 It was a fine morning, clear, golden. All trace 
 of last night's rain had gone. But there was a touch 
 of chill in the air, as if snow had fallen on the 
 mountains. 
 
 Sydney stared, white and haggard, at the message. 
 It ran as follows: You had better come home at once 
 Moira dangerously III Flood 
 
 She felt as if her brain were giving way. The 
 words echoed through her mind with an odd mim- 
 icry of her mother's voice, slightly tinged with dis- 
 
 300
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 301 
 
 pleasure, as if in some way Moira's illness could be 
 attributed to something Sydney had done. "You had 
 better come home at once. . . . Moira dangerously 
 ill. . . . You had better come home ... at once 
 ... at once. . . ." 
 
 Sydney dressed herself, drank a cup of coffee and 
 then began to pack with feverish haste. And as she 
 packed, plans formed themselves nebulously in her 
 brain. She must start at once, without any delay. 
 She wasn't really afraid that Moira was going to 
 die, she had always had such splendid health. It 
 must be serious, though, for Lady Flood to send for 
 her in this abrupt fashion, burying the hatchet or 
 rather behaving as if there were no hatchet to be 
 buried. She would catch the first train to Milan, 
 and go on from there that night or very early to- 
 morrow morning. She had some money enough 
 for her journey. She would leave her large boxes 
 in Venice and travel only with a bag and suitcase. 
 Just a change of clothing a thick coat. ... It 
 would be cold now crossing the Channel. 
 
 She opened her portfolio and took out some half- 
 dozen sketches. Daxtfn on the Lagoon, she had 
 done that soon after she first came, and Pinelli had 
 praised it. He had liked its delicate quality, the 
 pearly atmosphere touched with gold. Here was 
 another. Blue sea and a couple of sails, one golden, 
 the other moon-white, a stretch of golden sand. She 
 had done that at the Lido on one of those long lonely 
 days when they had all three left her to her own 
 devices. Days when she hadn't dreamed that Clive 
 could ever love her. For the first time she let her 
 thoughts rest upon Clive. She had been trying to 
 keep that thought, so to speak, at a distance, but now 
 it made its tumultuous entrance into her brain and 
 would not be gainsaid. . . . She went on quietly 
 sorting the drawings until she had singled out about
 
 302 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 a dozen to take with her. The portrait of Roma 
 was too large, it must be left behind. She would 
 pack it up in her trunk. For of course she was com- 
 ing back . . . directly Moira was out of danger. . . . 
 
 She would try and sell some of this stuff in Lon- 
 don. It was odd their sending for her just now, when 
 her own life had reached such a critical juncture. 
 And she didn't in the least want to go. The sum- 
 mons could not have come at a more inopportune 
 time, as far as she was concerned. There was some- 
 thing terrible in the prospect of this abrupt depar- 
 ture. Of course she was sorry about Moira very 
 sorry indeed. But Lady Flood and Wanley would 
 both perhaps be prone to exaggerate any grave 
 symptoms, they loved Moira so much. Still, it was 
 necessary to go, and she was almost thankful at hav- 
 ing something definite to do something that must 
 be done. And she must write to Roma, to tell her 
 why she had gone so suddenly without taking leave 
 of her. Roma would explain to Clive. She mustn't 
 write to Clive. Roma would have her suspicions, 
 if she chanced upon the letter. . . . 
 
 She went on with the work of packing and sort- 
 ing. Fortunately she had thrown away all unneces- 
 sary accumulations before she left the Lido, so her 
 present task was simplified. When it was finished, 
 she went out to the Piazza to find out about the 
 trains. Yes, there was one to Milan during the 
 course of the day, but the man reminded her that 
 it would be necessary to obtain visas for her pass- 
 port. And the passport-offices were not open yet 
 would not be open till nearer midday. There were 
 formalities, it would take a little time. And she 
 must go to the Italian questura. It was with a 
 heavy heart that Sydney plodded round Venice to 
 discharge these duties. By the time they were all 
 accomplished, it was too late to catch the train; she
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 303 
 
 must wait now until the night one. But the reprieve 
 was almost welcome. After all, she would have 
 time to go to the Lido and say good-by to the Coch- 
 ranes. There would be nothing extraordinary in 
 doing this; in fact, it would be perhaps a lack of 
 courtesy on her part not to go. And thus she would 
 see Clive again. She would not have to make that 
 long journey home, eating her heart out with sus- 
 pense. . . . 
 
 She went up to her room to make the final prepa- 
 rations. Her things were all stowed away in the 
 trunk; her bag and suitcase were ready for the jour- 
 ney. She read her mother's telegram over two or 
 three times, trying to realize that it was not all part 
 of a bad dream. After all, Moira must be very 
 ill indeed to induce them to send for her like that. 
 Moira had perhaps asked for her. They had never 
 been very intimate as sisters, but they had been 
 friendly to each other. Perhaps the baby had come 
 into the world before its time. Still she had had a 
 few months of great happiness. If she died, it 
 would be terrible for Wanley, terrible too for Lady 
 Flood. . . . Were not people ever allowed to be 
 happy? So many things came to spoil happiness. 
 Separation, estrangement, death. . . . Hard, bitter 
 things that crucified body and soul. . . . 
 
 As she moved to and fro, Sydney caught sight 
 of herself in the mirror. How strange she looked 
 almost old. A white haggard face, the eyes 
 sunken, the lips a little swollen, the short hair luster- 
 less. Those wakeful nights had told upon her. She 
 had suffered bitterly during those five days that had 
 elapsed since she left the Lido. 
 
 It was after four o'clock when she went down to 
 the Riva to wait for the steamer. When it came, 
 it was full to overflowing. Workingmen and 
 women, and grubby sunburnt children seemed to fill
 
 3 o 4 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 it from helm to prow. Sydney had to force her 
 way on board. There was hardly standing-room, 
 and all around her men were smoking the cheap 
 strong tobacco of Italy, that affected her with a sense 
 of nausea. 
 
 Then the steamer moved, and the contact with 
 the fresh pure air pouring in from mountains and 
 sea revived her. She was able to register impres- 
 sions, the beauty of Venice at that hour, the wooded 
 shores of the Lido drawing closer to them every 
 moment, the fresh blue or water and sky. She 
 seemed to see it all with a poignant sense of apprecia- 
 tion, aware that for a time, at least, she was going 
 to leave it. At the back of her thoughts was the 
 golden hope that she would very soon see Clive. She 
 would hear from his lips some perfectly plausible 
 reason for his apparent neglect. It had never meant 
 could never mean that he had ceased abruptly 
 to love her. When she left Venice that night, it 
 would be with the knowledge that his love was still 
 unchangeably hers. She scarcely thought of Moira 
 now. Moira had so little place in this new pas- 
 sionate life of hers. 
 
 Everything was outlined in that fluid golden light 
 with a curious precision of detail. The lagoon was 
 a wide, shining, silver sea, touched with gold, that 
 reflected lovingly every cloud, every bright sail, 
 every ponderous black gondola. Over there to the 
 North the Alps were dimly visible. They were 
 shadow mountains without substance, the only things 
 in all the scene that were formless and blurred. 
 
 The air made her head spin a little. She had had, 
 although she scarcely realized it, far too little food 
 these last few days. Anxiety had taken away her 
 appetite, had deprived her of energy either to pre- 
 pare adequate meals for herself or to go out and 
 get them in a restaurant. After the orderly luxury
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 305 
 
 of Roma's house the change had been too great. If 
 she had been happy and free from anxiety, she would 
 have enjoyed that slightly Bohemian existence, not 
 spending too much one day lest there should not 
 be enough left for the morrow. But the lack of 
 nourishment, together with the sharp suffering and 
 anxiety, the confusing currents that were swaying 
 her, the conflict that was being fought inexorably 
 within her soul, had all told upon her physical 
 health. 
 
 Now the steamer drew near to the landing stage. 
 People were thrusting and pushing their way to- 
 wards the exit. A man elbowed his way roughly 
 through a little group of women, pushing them aside 
 in his selfish haste. Sydney stood watching the lit- 
 tle scene with apparent attention. She must wait 
 patiently . . . though surely none of these people 
 could have such need of haste as she. If they only 
 knew the longing that was in her heart, would they 
 not stand aside to let her pass off first of all? She 
 leaned against the railings; her head whirled a lit- 
 tle. Something of her buoyant hope died away, 
 its place was filled by an abrupt formless melancholy. 
 There was a vital reason for Clive's non-appear- 
 ance. . . . He hadn't wanted to see her. He didn't 
 love her any more. Roma had persuaded him as 
 she had done on former occasions that he was not 
 really in love. She ought to have known. Since 
 her departure, Roma had resumed her unchallenge- 
 able sway over him. 
 
 Never mind she would pretend that she had only 
 come here for the simple purpose of saying good-by 
 to the Cochranes before her departure for England, 
 and of thanking them for their kindness and hospi- 
 tality towards her. She wouldn't say a word to 
 Clive . . . about anything. She guessed with a 
 shrewd discernment how greatly he would dislike the
 
 306 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 pitiful, reproachful attitude some women would hare 
 adopted. 
 
 Now she was walking rapidly towards the villa, 
 along the dusty road shaded with plane-trees. Her 
 heart beat a little faster as she approached the high 
 iron gates. To-day they seemed almost like the 
 entrance to a prison where Clive was incarcerated. 
 Her courage ebbed a little as she rang the bell. 
 Presently she heard the slight click that signified the 
 gates had been opened from within; she pushed them 
 back and went up the little path, through flowering 
 shrubs, to the house. She noticed that all the win- 
 dows were closely veiled by the protecting wooden 
 shutters; they gave the villa a blind, unwelcoming 
 aspect. The loggia was empty, and there was no 
 one in the garden. The whole place had a deserted 
 look. 
 
 A girl came to the door in response to the ring. 
 She was a recent acquisition, and did not even know 
 Sydney by sight. Her Buona sera, signorina, held 
 something of surprise; to Sydney's sensitive ears the 
 surprise seemed to be not wholly unmixed with an- 
 noyance. 
 
 "Is the signora at home? I wish to see her," 
 said Sydney, in a flat little voice that was almost 
 deprecating. 
 
 "The signora is not receiving to-day. She is in 
 her room." 
 
 "Tell her, please, that I am here." Sydney 
 groped in her bag for card and pencil. She scrib- 
 bled a few lines. "Say that I should like to see 
 her." 
 
 "But, signorina, the orders were she was not to 
 be disturbed. She was up all night. And she 
 sleeps. . . ." 
 
 "I am very sorry. If she could only see me for 
 a moment, I would not detain her. Give that card,
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 307 
 
 please, to her maid and tell her to take it to her." 
 Unconsciously her voice assumed an authoritative 
 ring that was not, she now perceived, without its 
 effect. 
 
 The girl took the card and moved slowly away. 
 Sydney sat down on a chair in the hall. She could 
 hear her going upstairs with reluctant feet. 
 
 She wished that Clive would come down. Per- 
 haps the maid would go to him instead of to Roma, 
 and ask him to see Sydney and hear her message. 
 
 The house was mysteriously still, for it was long 
 past the hour dedicated to the tyrannical siesta. Al- 
 though it was now nearly five o'clock, no one seemed 
 to be stirring. She wished she had remembered to 
 ask how Moreton was. Perhaps he was very much 
 worse, since Roma had been up all night and was 
 now sleeping so late. Who could blame her for 
 taking that well-earned repose ? She was so anxious 
 about Moreton that probably she would show little 
 interest in or sympathy for the bad news Sydney had 
 received about Moira. 
 
 Even in those few days of her absence the house 
 seemed to Sydney utterly changed, and in its new 
 aspect it was even a trifle sinister. It was as if an 
 immense desolation had taken possession of it. The 
 villa had always been such a bright cheerful place, 
 friendly, even homely, and full of life and laughter, 
 the gay laughter of Roma and Clive. Sydney could 
 visualize Roma moving about the garden in her 
 white dress that emphasized the sinuous grace of her 
 figure. And she could picture Clive, but always less 
 perfectly, walking by Roma's side. There had been, 
 too, always the murmur, near or distant, of their 
 voices. Now the whole house was wrapped in a 
 deathly stillness that was only broken by the loud 
 ticking of the big lacquer clock that stood in the hall. 
 This sound presently jarred upon Sydney's nerves.
 
 308 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 At last after a seemingly interminable interval 
 she heard approaching footsteps. The girl was 
 returning, perhaps with some message from 
 Roma. 
 
 Sydney rose and went very softly towards the 
 stairs. At the back of her confused thoughts there 
 was always the hidden hope that it might be Clive. 
 
 Looking up, she saw the figure of Ermelinda, the 
 maid. 
 
 "The signora is very sorry that she cannot re- 
 ceive you," she informed Sydney in her broken 
 French. "She is in bed I had to rouse her to give 
 her your message." 
 
 Sydney tried to believe that there was no veiled 
 hint of insolent reproof in the woman's tone. 
 
 She was desperate. "Oh, tell her that I've come 
 to say good-by I'm leaving for England to-night. 
 My sister is very ill they have telegraphed for me ! 
 I should be so grateful if the signora would only see 
 me for a moment. ..." 
 
 "I will tell her. But she is very tired. She ought 
 to rest. ..." 
 
 There was something of compassion in the wo- 
 man's face as she looked at Sydney now. She had 
 told her that her sister was very ill, and the warm 
 Latin heart is easily touched by any family anxiety 
 or bereavement. The tie of blood is very strong in 
 the South. Ermelinda vanished up the stairs. Syd- 
 ney sat down once more and waited in sick, trem- 
 bling suspense. She did not stop to ask herself 
 where Clive was. Her whole thoughts were concen- 
 trated upon seeing Roma. If she could only see her 
 all other things would be quite easy. 
 
 Ermelinda returned almost immediately. 
 
 "The signora asks me to say that she is very sorry 
 indeed you have had this bad news. She thinks you 
 are quite right to go home at once, and she hopes
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 309 
 
 you will have a good journey. She sends you molti 
 saluti. . . ." 
 
 Sydney's heart sank. She stared at Ermelinda 
 almost uncomprehendingly. Her face was grayish 
 white. She looked as if she were going to faint. 
 All the world was black, and whirling about her. 
 
 "The signorina isn't feeling well? The signorina 
 would like something a glass of wine ?" 
 
 "No no ! I don't want anything. But are you 
 quite sure that the signora won't see me?" 
 
 "Signorina, she is in bed. We had to wake her 
 to give your message. She has been up nearly all 
 night. The signore had a bad crisi" 
 
 "Is he better to-day?" Sydney asked, with an 
 effort. 
 
 "He is resting now. But the doctor says there is 
 no improvement. The signorino is with him." 
 
 In the Cochranes' household Clive was always the 
 signorino a diminutive title invariably bestowed 
 upon an unmarried man in Italy. 
 
 Sydney threw pride to the winds. 
 
 "Couldn't I couldn't I see the signorino for a 
 moment?" she said. 
 
 "Oh, no, signorina that would be impossible. 
 The doctor says that the signore must on no account 
 be left. And the nurse has not yet come. There is 
 difficulty in finding one. The signora would be dis- 
 pleased if I went to fetch the signorino now." 
 
 Sydney leaned back in her chair. She was con- 
 scious of loud buzzing sounds in her ears that pre- 
 vented her from thinking coherently. She had the 
 feeling that her world her bright, beautiful, little 
 world, full of love and hope had fallen upon sud- 
 den and irremediable destruction. Clive was there, 
 upstairs, a few yards from her, and she was not to be 
 allowed to see him; there was no one with enough 
 courage to inform him that she was there. She held
 
 3io 
 
 her hands clasped tightly together to prevent herself 
 from crying out. She had the dreadful feeling, too, 
 that Ermelinda was watching her, wondering per- 
 haps at her imperfectly controlled emotion, and even 
 guessing what was passing in her mind. She did not 
 notice that the woman had suddenly gone away and 
 left her alone. She was aroused by seeing her ap- 
 proach with a little tray in her hands. She put it 
 on a table near Sydney, who saw that a glass of wine 
 and some biscuits had been placed there for her. 
 
 "The signorina is very tired and commossa. This 
 news of the illness of the signorina's sister has no 
 doubt upset her. A glass of wine to move the 
 blood, as we Italians say." She held the glass to 
 Sydney's white lips. 
 
 The girl drank the wine and tried to eat a bis- 
 cuit, but this last effort proved too much for her. 
 The hard, dry substance threatened to choke her. 
 She put it back upon the plate, and murmured a 
 word of thanks. She had a desperate longing to 
 cry. 
 
 At last she rose. "I must be going. It's get- 
 ting late. ... I have a lot to do." She took out 
 a second card and scribbled a few lines upon it for 
 Roma. "Dear Roma, I am so sorry not to see you 
 before I leave for England. I hope Moreton will 
 soon be better. Write to me, please, to London. 
 Your affectionate Sydney." She held out the card 
 to Ermelinda. 
 
 "Thank you, signorina. Do you find yourself bet- 
 ter now?" 
 
 "Yes, thank you. I was only a little tired. I 
 must be going." 
 
 She stumbled towards the door. Before leaving 
 the house she gave one last desperate look towards 
 the stairs, as if her very prayers must induce Clive 
 to descend into the hall at that moment. But in
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 311 
 
 the sinister stillness of the house there was no sound 
 of him. 
 
 Ermelinda accompanied her to the gate. She 
 glanced round the garden as she passed. After the 
 recent heavy rains it was looking lustrously green, 
 and the broad, smooth, delicate leaves of the banana 
 palms were brilliantly emerald and almost translu- 
 cent in their verdant beauty. The oleanders were 
 still blossoming, lifting rose-colored or snowy-white 
 sprays against the dim twilight green of the ilex- 
 trees. Between the boughs of the pines Sydney 
 could see the long bright line of the Adriatic, blue 
 as a tropical sea. . . . 
 
 Near the gate she noticed some salvias that 
 glowed like a rim of ardent unquenchable fire. A 
 cluster of zinnias contributed a variegated blot of 
 color. She followed with her eyes the dim shaded 
 path that led to the gate near the shore. Down 
 that {>ath Clive had first drawn her close to him 
 and kissed her. She could picture him now, bend- 
 ing towards her with an infinite tenderness in his 
 eyes. 
 
 "Good-by, Ermelinda." 
 
 "Good-by, signorina. Buon inaggio!" 
 
 The heavy iron gates clanged behind her as she 
 went out into the white dusty road.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 LATER in the evening Sydney started for the sta- 
 tion in a gondola, floating down narrow dark 
 canals with the pale walls of palaces rising high and 
 frowning on each side. Past a campo presided over 
 by a church, under a white bridge, across the Grand 
 Canal, and through narrow intricate waterways that 
 seemed so familiar to the gondolier, so incomprehen- 
 sible to herself. Overhead the stars had come out 
 and were glittering in the deep blue of the sky. 
 
 At last she found herself in the train. By great 
 good luck she had been able to secure a sleeping 
 compartment. She lay down almost at once and 
 tried to go to sleep. But she was now very tired, 
 so tired indeed that it made her feel almost as if 
 she were very ill. The fatigue robbed her of all 
 strength. She had fits of dizziness, of faintness. If 
 she could only sleep 1 ... 
 
 All this time she had not shed a single tear. Her 
 eyes were quite hard and dry, and she was not con- 
 scious of feeling any particular sensation of grief 
 or loss. Her mind had been so concentrated even 
 subconsciously upon the details of this journey which 
 had to be accomplished at all costs, that she had not 
 dared to occupy her thoughts too much with that 
 terrible little scene enacted at the Lido. 
 
 The train moved off. As it slowly left the sta- 
 tion, she went to the window to look back at Venice. 
 She saw the lights of the beautiful sea-city shining 
 steadily in straight lines, in clusters, in groups. Mov- 
 ing lights upon the lagoon indicating the passing of 
 some vessel. Lights that lifted themselves above 
 
 312
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 313 
 
 the rest, shining beaconlike from some tower. Her 
 thoughts quickly traveled back to that night of her 
 arrival, to the light that had shone out suddenly 
 upon the lagoon, burning before the shrine of the 
 Madonna. Perhaps it was shining there now, to 
 instill hope into the heart of some lonely traveler. 
 She thought of it now as a friendly light that had 
 had a kindly influence upon her own life. 
 
 When the train had traveled over the long 
 isthmus-like bridge that joins Venice to the main- 
 land, Sydney lay down again and closed her eyes. 
 But she could not sleep, and her feverish brain be- 
 gan to reconstruct rapid and shifting pictures from 
 the past. She thought of her nights in the hospital, 
 when she had sometimes been left quite alone, per- 
 haps for hours, with a dying patient muttering inco- 
 herently at her side. Outside, on some of those 
 nights, there had been the wonderful blue swords of 
 the searchlights stabbing the sky to reveal, perhaps, 
 the presence of a Zeppelin hovering like a dreadful 
 bird of prey over the quiet English landscape. Then 
 her return home after the Armistice; Moira's wed- 
 ding, the young lovely face under the wreath of 
 white heather and orange-blossom. Such a young, 
 young bride. But Moira was very ill dying per- 
 haps and she was on her way back to her. There 
 was no time to be lost. Even now she might be too 
 late. . . . Then her interview with Duncan Turner. 
 Her own half engagement to him speedily brought 
 to naught by the sudden appearance of Roma in 
 her life. If she had stayed at home and married 
 Duncan, she would surely never have known such 
 mad moments as these. . . . The visit of the Coch- 
 ranes, she could see them now, sitting in her moth- 
 er's drawing-room, following her up to the studio. 
 But all these people were like shadowy silhouettes 
 thrown momentarily upon a screen, and then as
 
 314 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 suddenly vanishing. Even her mother with her ar- 
 rogant, dominating personality that made such 
 heavy demands upon one's time and strength, was 
 only a shadow now. . . . Memory produced an odd 
 echo of Lady Flood's voice, "My little girl Syd- 
 ney really paints quite prettily. . . . Oh, the merest 
 amateur, of course!" It was odd how these re- 
 membered words still possessed their old power to 
 irritate her. . . . Now she was stumbling past 
 Wright in the narrow hall in that last ignominious 
 going-away of hers, so different from the triumphant 
 departure of Moira just a few weeks earlier. There 
 was a silver salver lying on the hall-table with some 
 notes and circulars upon it. Above, hung some en- 
 gravings which she could remember from childhood. 
 "Affection's First Offering," the "Laughing Boys," 
 the "Accession of Queen Victoria" . . . such an 
 odd assemblage. They were all a little spotted and 
 yellow with damp. . . . She wondered what had 
 made her think of them now. Poker-patience . . . 
 those interminable games with her mother, watch- 
 fully alert. . . . Her own inability to produce a 
 "straight flush" . . . she could hardly remember 
 now what it meant. And again Lady Flood's voice, 
 astonished, emphatic: "I can't think what induced 
 you to throw away that heart. . . ." What heart? 
 Did she mean Duncan's? No . . . she was only 
 talking about the cards. Oh, Sydney felt now, she 
 had never lived in those days; she had been a mere 
 mechanical puppet wound up to do and say certain 
 things at given appropriate moments. Life was 
 when you loved and suffered. Life was CHve. 
 She clenched her hands and shut her eyes. She was 
 back now in the church on the little cemetery island 
 of San Michele. Outside, was the gondola with its 
 black and silver trappings that had brought the dead 
 solemnly, with such stately royal progress, across the
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 315 
 
 lagoon. The voices of the hidden friars were 
 chanting the Dies Iras. She could hear the rise and 
 fall of that solemn singing keeping time and rhythm 
 to the grinding of the wheels as the train sped on- 
 ward towards Padua. . . . And Clive was standing 
 there looking at the smiling Bernini statues. Such 
 a surprise she had never expected to find him there, 
 of all places in the world. That was before any word 
 of love had passed between them, yet even then he 
 had seemed boyishly eager that they should spend 
 the rest of the day together. 
 
 Life was . . . Clive. Not the invisible things of 
 the soul, its obscure strivings and mystical aspira- 
 tions, its eager endurance of pain and loss, its de- 
 sire for suffering. Life was human love, warm, pro- 
 tective, enduring. . . . 
 
 Sydney fell asleep. 
 
 An afternoon of beautiful and mild September 
 weather greeted her arrival in London. She had 
 been obliged to sleep one night in Paris, but had 
 left as early as possible in the morning, having pre- 
 viously telegraphed to her mother to tell her the 
 hour of her train. Not that she expected any one 
 to meet her. They would all be far too anxious 
 about Moira to think of that. 
 
 Summer still lingered. The trees in the great 
 London squares were as yet hardly touched with 
 decay. These oases of verdure- gave, Sydney 
 thought, a charming character to London; they were 
 so frequent, with their wonderfully kept green 
 lawns, their flower-beds, their beautiful tall trees, 
 and they seemed to appear so unexpectedly amid 
 the wilderness of streets and pavements to which 
 they made such a welcome interlude. Returning 
 after a first long absence abroad, those green in- 
 closed spaces struck her as at once beautiful and
 
 3 i6 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 characteristic. Indeed, they are as characteristic of 
 London as the innumerable fountains, springing up 
 all over the city, are of Rome. 
 
 Although many people were still away, the stir 
 and traffic seemed hardly less than in the season. 
 The streets were thronged and the roads crowded. 
 After the quiet of Venice and the absence of all 
 carriages, carts, horses or motors, the sight of 
 so much congested traffic made Sydney feel 
 actually nervous. She was very tired from her 
 long journey, and her face looked drawn and 
 pale under the little, close-fitting black hat she 
 wore. 
 
 Now the taxi drew up before her mother's door. 
 Lady Flood's house looked as it always did that 
 is, as if it had been recently swept and garnished 
 both without and within. The fresh cream paint 
 on its walls gave to all the neighboring houses a 
 dingy and smudged aspect. The white curtains, 
 elaborate with filet lace, were spotlessly clean, and 
 looked as if they had been put up that morning. 
 The door was newly painted a bright green, and its 
 brass knocker shone in the sun. Pink geraniums 
 and white daisies bloomed in the green-tiled window- 
 boxes. 
 
 Sydney glanced at the windows anxiously. But 
 the bright little house gave no evidence of disaster. 
 A man who was pacing up and down the pavement 
 turned as the taxi stopped, and came towards her. 
 It was Duncan Turner. 
 
 "I knew I should miss you at the station," he 
 said, in as ordinary a tone as if he had seen her 
 only the day before, "so I preferred to wait here. 
 I am glad you have got home all right. It was a 
 long journey for you to take alone." 
 
 He had helped Sydney from the taxi as he spoke. 
 Then he rang the bell. In a few minutes she and
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 317 
 
 Duncan and her luggage were safely inside the house. 
 Wright had admitted them with a decorous expres- 
 sion of subdued welcome. 
 
 "Then Moira's better?" she said. 
 
 "Yes. She's out of danger, thank God," said 
 Duncan. 
 
 "Is her ladyship in?" said Sydney, turning to 
 Wright. 
 
 "No, miss; she told me to say that she'd be in to 
 dinner and she hoped you would take a rest. I was 
 to bring up tea directly you came." 
 
 "Yes, 1 should like it very soon," said Sydney. 
 She moved towards the staircase. Duncan hesi- 
 tated. 
 
 "Won't you come up and have tea with me?" she 
 said. 
 
 She felt as if she did not want to be left alone. 
 Duncan was here and he might just as well stay 
 with her. He could tell her so much that she wanted 
 ardently to know. It was a comfort to have him 
 there, a friendly presence to welcome her. It 
 would have been terrible to arrive and find no one 
 but Wright. . . . 
 
 Sydney mounted the narrow stairs, newly carpeted 
 in a shade of dark bright blue. The house seemed 
 to her very small, quite a miniature abode, indeed, 
 after the immense, lofty, spacious rooms of Venice, 
 but it also struck her as perfectly appointed and fin- 
 ished, in a trim neat English way. 
 
 She sat down opposite to Duncan in the drawing- 
 room, and it seemed to both of them as if she had 
 never been away. 
 
 "Now tell me about Moira, please. You see, I 
 know nothing at all." 
 
 "Well, she was taken ill very suddenly just after 
 her return from Scotland. Fortunately they were 
 in London. She nearly died, and of course she's
 
 3 i8 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 lost her baby. But since yesterday the doctors say 
 she's been out of danger." 
 
 "And you've seen Mamma?" 
 
 "Yes I've been round most evenings lately, ex- 
 cept when she was staying with Moira. I had an 
 idea she liked me to be here." 
 
 "I'm sure she did. And she told you that she'd 
 sent for me?" 
 
 "Well, to tell you the truth, I suggested it. It 
 didn't seem fair to leave you in ignorance. I felt 
 that you ought at least to have the chance of com- 
 ing back." 
 
 "It was very kind of you," said Sydney absently. 
 "I wondered at their sending for me." She was 
 thinking to herself : Was it very kind of Duncan or 
 very cruel? If she had only stayed a few days 
 longer she might have seen Clive again. It was 
 through Duncan's agency that the chapter had been 
 abruptly, almost cruelly, closed. 
 
 "Your mother told me that she'd had a telegram 
 from you from Paris. I offered to go and meet you, 
 but one so often misses in the crowd. I thought it 
 would be safer to stay about here." 
 
 "Had you been waiting very long, Duncan?" asked 
 Sydney, curiously. 
 
 "About an hour, I think. Your train must have 
 been late. I was beginning to give you up to wish 
 I'd come to the station, and helped you with your 
 luggage." 
 
 "Oh, I'd only hand things with me," said Syd- 
 ney, "I left my heavy luggage in Venice. You see, 
 I shall be going back there as soon as Moira's bet- 
 ter." 
 
 "Oh, you're not tired of it, then?" 
 
 "Tired of it? Oh, no!" 
 
 He glanced at her sharply, scrutinizingly. 
 
 "You don't look as if it had agreed with you very
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 319 
 
 well," he observed. "Why, you've hardly any flesh 
 on your bones! And your eyes . . ." 
 
 "Oh, I'm only rather tired by the journey." 
 
 "I can't believe that a two days' journey can have 
 reduced you to this condition !" 
 
 "I shall be all right to-morrow," said Sydney 
 confidently. 
 
 Moira was better, and soon, very soon, she would 
 be able to return to Venice. 
 
 Duncan still looked dissatisfied. 
 
 "So you really enjoyed it? And was that woman 
 kind to you ?" 
 
 "That woman? . . ." 
 
 "Your dear, wonderful Mrs. Cochrane!" His 
 eyes were mocking, but she detected a deadly seri- 
 ousness in his voice. So he was blaming Roma for 
 this change in her. . . . 
 
 "She was -kind," said Sydney reluctantly, "but I 
 wasn't with them any more, Duncan. I had taken 
 rooms in Venice I was working alone there." 
 
 "You were working alone in Venice?" 
 
 "Yes, why not?" 
 
 "I thought the idea was, you were to live with 
 the Cochranes." 
 
 "Well, I did live with them for five months. But 
 various things happened, and I came away. Mr. 
 Cochrane was ill for one thing they wanted my 
 room for a nurse. But they didn't ask me to go 
 it was my own doing. Roma wasn't quite pleased 
 at first. . . ." 
 
 Duncan only said: 
 
 "I'm glad they didn't ask you to go." 
 
 Yet, if it had all been a failure, if Mrs. Cochrane 
 had shown herself as capricious as he had believed 
 her to be, why was Sydney so anxious to return? 
 There must be some vital attraction. She had 
 brought with her as little as possible, and had left
 
 320 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 the remainder behind. He was puzzled. ... 
 
 "So you were happy? Really happy?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes. I was glad to have so much time for work- 
 ing, for study." 
 
 She spoke quite simply, and yet he felt keenly 
 that she was hiding something of importance from 
 him. And it was something that had hurt her, had 
 caused her sharp suffering, that had written 
 its traces in her heavily shadowed eyes and upon 
 her thin pale cheeks. Something that had 
 taken away the look of fresh youth that had been 
 hers. 
 
 "Oh, my dear, aren't you going to tell me 
 anything more than that?" he asked, almost piti- 
 fully. 
 
 Sydney shrank back into her shell. 
 
 "There is really nothing to tell. You mustn't 
 think that it's been a failure. . . ." There was en- 
 treaty in her eyes, as if she were tacitly imploring 
 him not to question her further. Yet it is certain 
 that but for her promise to Clive, she would have 
 told Duncan the whole story, sure of his sympathy, 
 his understanding, that never yet had failed her. 
 
 "I did not want you to go," he said, "and I don't 
 want you to return. I hoped you'd had enough of 
 it and of those friends of yours. I confess this idea 
 was in my mind when I ventured to press upon Lady 
 Flood the appropriateness of the present moment 
 for a reconciliation." 
 
 "You mustn't think I didn't want a reconciliation. 
 I had been thinking of it very seriously for some 
 little time," she said. 
 
 It was a point, indeed, upon which Clive had been 
 rather insistent, and upon which she frankly con- 
 fessed to herself that she had not always seen eye 
 to eye with him. 
 
 "And the young Apollo, who was at the station
 
 321 
 
 seeing them off that morning, did he form one of 
 the party?" inquired Duncan. 
 
 "Not in Venice. But he came with us when we all 
 went to the Lido." 
 
 Sydney's voice was very carefully controlled. 
 
 "And what role does he play in the Cochrane 
 menage?" 
 
 "He is Moreton's cousin. He lives with them." 
 
 "Always?" 
 
 "Yes. You see, he has been with Moreton since 
 he was a little boy. He's like a son to him. When 
 Moreton's ill, he never leaves him." 
 
 Duncan looked at her with an expression of ironi- 
 cal incredulity upon his face. 
 
 "How filial!" was all he said. "And you found 
 him an agreeable addition to the little group?" 
 
 "I saw very little of him. But, yes he was 
 agreeable." 
 
 "And yet you preferred to leave them?" 
 
 "Yes. I thought I'd stayed quite long enough." 
 
 Duncan was silent. He wondered what had hap- 
 pened. But he saw that Sydney did not intend to 
 tell him. She was on her guard. Her answers 
 conveyed little that was not quite commonplace. 
 Still, she had suffered, was suffering still. Her eyes 
 gave her away most horribly. 
 
 "And you liked Venice? It gave you all that 
 you'd hoped?" 
 
 Her answer came spontaneously, eagerly. "Much 
 much more!" 
 
 "That's good," said Duncan cheerfully. 
 
 "You see, it's all so wonderful. The pictures 
 the churches the place itself!" 
 
 Her enthusiasm touched him. "I've never been 
 there. But I think you make me want to go." 
 
 "It's so beautiful, it hurts you to leave it." 
 
 "But you did quite right to come. I should have
 
 322 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 been very sorry if you'd refused the olive-branch." 
 
 "I couldn't have refused it," said Sydney quietly. 
 
 Duncan got up to go. 
 
 "Now I hope you'll take your mother's advice and 
 go and have a good rest till dinner time. You look 
 as if you needed it. Good-by, my dear Sydney." 
 
 He took her hand, held it, looked into her eyes. 
 "It's good to see you back," he told her. 
 
 "Thank you," said Sydney. His kind words, his 
 friendly touch, made the tears come into her eyes. 
 
 But Duncan did not seem to notice them. He 
 turned abruptly away and went out of the room.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 SYDNEY went up to her room. Everything was 
 in readiness for her. There were even flowers 
 on the dressing-table. She noticed that the carpet 
 was a new one, and there were fresh curtains in the 
 windows. The place seemed to smile a welcome 
 upon her. They were glad, perhaps, that she had 
 returned. When she remembered that this recon- 
 ciliation was Duncan's doing, she felt grateful to 
 him. And Moira was better. She would soon be 
 able to return to Venice. The thought cheered her. 
 
 So Moira was out of danger, but she had lost 
 her baby. That would be a terrible grief to her. 
 She had been married only a few months, and the 
 little creature must have come prematurely into the 
 world without life or consciousness. She knew 
 enough of her sister to realize what a sorrow this 
 would be to her. But Moira, the wife, the mother, 
 was a stranger to Sydney. She had moved into an- 
 other sphere where the shadow-like figure of 'her 
 elder sister must have become increasingly shadowy. 
 Sydney tried to keep her thoughts concentrated upon 
 Moira. Otherwise she was beginning to feel that 
 she might lose her sanity. . . . 
 
 She took off her dusty traveling clothes and 
 brushed her short hair free from the grimy soot, 
 which had given it an almost grayish aspect. Then 
 she lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. But 
 she could not sleep. The noise of the train was 
 still in her ears, the wheels were grinding and whir- 
 ring in her head like an angry, insistent machine. 
 She opened her eyes and gazed about the room as 
 
 323
 
 324 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 if to convince herself that she was really back at 
 home. Yes, the walls had been repapered, a dull 
 soft green. The color was restful. The new cur- 
 tains were also green, and the carpet was violet. 
 The effect was charming, if a trifle sober. It showed 
 that her mother must have thought of her, planned 
 for her, prepared for her return, and even perhaps 
 hoped for it, during those long months of her ab- 
 sence. It seemed to tell her that she was no longer 
 in disgrace. But if she revealed her intention of 
 going back to Venice, what then? Lady Flood had 
 perhaps assured herself complacently that when her 
 truant daughter returned it would be for good. 
 
 Lady Flood -Duncan all of them had confi- 
 dently depended on the certainty that Roma Coch- 
 rane would be "found wanting." And so she had, 
 but in a way that Sydney could not possibly reveal 
 to them. Roma had succeeded in separating her 
 from Clive, but they must never know that. She 
 would guard her secret faithfully. Yet, when she 
 thought of the bitter necessity of having to do so, 
 she felt indescribably abandoned. It would have 
 made the meeting with her mother so much easier 
 if she could have announced her engagement to Clive 
 Cochrane. And even if Lady Flood did not heartily 
 approve of the connection, she would be glad to 
 learn that her daughter's future happiness was as- 
 sured. When she knew Clive, she would be certain 
 to like him. Sydney pictured herself telling her 
 mother of her happiness. She had to rouse herself 
 to thrust the flattering dream from her. If Clive, 
 at Roma's instigation, really intended to throw her 
 over, it was far better that no one should know 
 of the engagement. Her abasement, her humilia- 
 tion, would thus be hidden in her own heart. She 
 would not have to endure the torture of revealing 
 them.
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 325 
 
 But she could not even now lose all faith in Clive. 
 There must be some explanation, quite simple and 
 plausible, of his seeming negligence. He would 
 have come to see her if he had been able to. She, 
 better than any one, knew how bound he was, how 
 little freedom he had. She knew too, almost bet- 
 ter than he did himself, how completely he was un- 
 der Roma's sway. He sometimes seemed hardly 
 aware of fetters; he had worn them so long they 
 had ceased to gall him. Roma governed him with 
 the lightest but surest touch. 
 
 For Sydney dared not yet even to herself envisage 
 the possibility of dive's ultimate desertion of her. 
 When she did that, she felt that she would go mad. 
 She loved him more than all the world. All the 
 rest were shadows, her mother, Moira, Duncan. 
 But Clive was real, and he loved her. . . . Then 
 Roma's voice teased her across the silence : "I some- 
 times wonder if Clive realizes how much we More- 
 ton and I count for in his life." And she had 
 added that if a fourth person ever tried to intervene 
 between them it would teach him the exact measure 
 of such significance. 
 
 When Sydney remembered those words her heart 
 sank. For Roma must have known quite well when 
 she uttered them that Sydney herself was that fourth 
 person who had so rashly intervened. And because 
 of her, Clive's eyes were to be opened. Roma would 
 never permit him to marry : her. He would have to 
 marry some one of wealth and importance, some one 
 of whom Moreton approved. 
 
 And that will? It, too, had perhaps been exe- 
 cuted at Roma's instigation to raise a tangible 
 permanent barrier between Sydney and Clive. . . . 
 
 The door was opened and Lady Flood came sud- 
 denly into the room. As she entered, she fumbled 
 for the switch of the electric light, and immediately
 
 326 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 the room was filled with its sharp white glare. Syd- 
 ney sprang down from the bed, and ran towards her 
 mother with eager, uplifted face. They kissed each 
 other in silence. Both felt deeply moved. There 
 was warmth in Lady Flood's embrace. Sydney had 
 never felt so assured of her mother's love as she did 
 at that moment. 
 
 Lady Flood's face bore traces of sharp and bitter 
 anxiety. She was pale, and her eyes were heavy and 
 sleepless-looking. There were new lines about her 
 mouth and forehead. She was a woman to be pitied, 
 not feared. 
 
 She was the first to speak. 
 
 "Wright told me you had arrived. I hope you 
 had a good journey?" 
 
 She sat down, and Sydney sat near her, scarcely 
 believing in the reality of the little scene. 
 
 "Yes, thank you, Mamma. At least, it was very 
 tiring I came off in such a hurry. And I'm so 
 thankful Moira's better. You must have had an 
 awful time." She put out her hand timidly and 
 touched her mother's. 
 
 Theoretically Lady Flood intensely disliked what 
 she was wont to stigmatize as "being pawed." But 
 the slight caress coming from Sydney pleased her. 
 It evinced affection, perhaps even contrition for the 
 past. But her next thoughts were less kindly. "She 
 never did that before," she thought to herself, "she 
 must have learned those wheedling ways from that 
 woman!" Roma was still "that woman" to Lady 
 Flood the one who had taken her daughter away 
 from her. 
 
 Like Duncan, when she looked at Sydney she 
 believed that the venture had proved a failure. The 
 girl was wan and thin ; she had lost that round, soft, 
 childish look which had ever been one of her chief 
 charms. Well, if it had proved a failure so much
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 327 
 
 the better. Sydney would no doubt have learnt her 
 lesson, would realize that she had a good home and 
 ought to live in it. 
 
 "Did Duncan meet you?" she asked, when she 
 had recovered from the little shock of mingled sur- 
 prise and annoyance that Sydney's gesture had 
 evoked. 
 
 "No -he was waiting outside the house. He was 
 afraid to miss me at the station. The trains are 
 so crowded now." 
 
 "I hope you asked him to come in?" 
 
 "Yes. He had tea with me." 
 
 "I am very fond of Duncan," said Lady Flood, 
 "he has been of great service to me. Since Moira's 
 illness he has been here nearly every day. It's very 
 good of him, as he's a busy man." 
 
 Sydney said quietly : "Please tell me about Moira, 
 Mamma. When shall I see her?" 
 
 "Oh, you will have to wait a few days," said Lady 
 Flood; "she's too weak to see any one yet. We 
 have to keep her from anything at all exciting or 
 disturbing." 
 
 "But I'm her sister," said Sydney; "surely, I 
 shan't excite or disturb her." 
 
 Lady Flood cleared her throat. "Yes, you are 
 her sister, and if you had been here since the begin- 
 ning of her illness there's no doubt you would be 
 admitted now. But you've had no share in her life 
 since she married. The sight of you might upset 
 her. She doesn't even know that you are back in 
 England." 
 
 "Oh, doesn't she?" said Sydney, a little crest- 
 fallen. 
 
 "I don't think you quite realize how very ill she's 
 been. We were terribly anxious." Lady Flood's 
 eyes filled with tears. "Poor Wanley was nearly 
 off his head. And then there was the disappoint-
 
 328 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 ment. Moira had looked forward so passionately 
 to having this baby. It nearly broke her heart." 
 
 "Poor Moira," said Sydney. Yes, she could be- 
 lieve Moira had longed for a child, young as she 
 was. She had always loved soft, young, helpless 
 things; she was naturally a maternal woman. 
 
 "I should like to have seen her," she said sud- 
 denly. She longed then to tell her sister how sorry 
 she was for her. 
 
 "Well, you shall see her as soon as she's allowed 
 to have any visitors. You mustn't blame me, Syd- 
 ney, if you are counted as a visitor." 
 
 "I don't think I am blaming any one," said Syd- 
 ney slowly. 
 
 "Directly Moira's better I shall tell her that 
 you've come back." 
 
 She looked closely and critically at her daughter. 
 Yes, she was changed, without counting that de- 
 plorable physical change which might be merely the 
 result of her long anxious journey. But she had 
 more assurance than when she went away; she 
 looked self-reliant, capable, less timid. There was 
 a little hardness too, expressed in the almost severe 
 lines of her mouth when she was not speaking. She 
 had the appearance of some one who had traveled 
 through mysterious phases of suffering. 
 
 "You were happy with these Cochrane people?" 
 Lady Flood asked curiously. 
 
 "Yes, Mamma," said Sydney, "but you know I 
 had left them I was living alone in Venice when 
 you sent for me. Didn't you get my letter?" 
 
 "No. I suppose it was lost. The letters have 
 been coming very irregularly. I'm thankful I did 
 send for you, under these circumstances. Had you 
 lived long alone in this way?" 
 
 "No only a few days. It was last Thursday 
 that I left the Lido, where we spent the summer."
 
 329 
 
 Only a few days ! The phrase was a mockery. To 
 one it is ten years of years. . . . The quotation rose, 
 unbidden but poignant, to her mind. 
 
 "I shouldn't have liked to think of you living 
 alone in a strange place." 
 
 "I was quite happy. I was working," said Syd- 
 ney, simply. "Would you like to see some of my 
 things, Mamma?" 
 
 "Yes," said Lady Flood. 
 
 Although she had firmly believed that Moreton 
 Cochrane had exaggerated the significance of her 
 daughter's talent, yet insensibly his opinion had in- 
 duced her to set it upon a higher plane. She could 
 always quote Moreton when necessary, to excuse this 
 desertion of home and friends on Sydney's part. 
 She had found, too, that people were decidedly im- 
 pressed when they heard Moreton's verdict. She 
 had liked it when they had assured her pleasantly: 
 "Your little girl must be a real genius. How wise 
 of you to let her go and study abroad!" Such re- 
 marks as those had made Sydney's absence much 
 easier to bear; Lady Flood was commended for her 
 wisdom in permitting it, and few outside her own 
 family were aware of the girl's headstrong action 
 that secretly had caused her so much distress. Dun- 
 can's calm, "Oh, she'll come back," had been an- 
 other reassuring palliative. And he was right 
 Sydney had come back, shockingly thin, but with a 
 new tenderness in her manner that was more at- 
 tractive than the old reserved timidity. 
 
 Sydney was busy pulling out the sketches from 
 her portfolio. They were not many, for she had 
 left everything that was not quite finished or that 
 did not satisfy her, behind. But these would surely 
 give Lady Flood some idea of her progress. They 
 might not be good, but they were still very far 
 removed from being bad or indeed from being
 
 330 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 merely indifferent and commonplace. She propped 
 them up on a chair, and watched with some curi- 
 osity her mother's face. 
 
 "I like that," said Lady Flood, looking at the 
 sketch that had been made that morning when Syd- 
 ney had been in such bitter suspense and had risen 
 almost at dawn after a sleepless night. "I like that 
 light on the sky and water." 
 
 When she had looked at each one in turn she 
 said: 
 
 "But surely that isn't all? You've been away 
 such ages." 
 
 "Oh, no, but I didn't bring any more with me. 
 I left all my heavy things in Venice. There was a 
 portrait of Roma that people thought wasn't too 
 bad. But Moreton didn't like it." 
 
 "What a pity to have left your things there," said 
 Lady Flood. "However, I suppose you can have 
 them sent." 
 
 Sydney was silent. It hardly seemed the right 
 moment to speak of her determination to return 
 thither. She would keep her own counsel until 
 nearer the day. 
 
 "I'm glad you have improved," said Lady 
 Flood. "I am sure you must have worked well. 
 Mr. Cochrane was encouraging?" 
 
 "Not always. Still, I think Pinelli, with whom 
 I worked, was satisfied." 
 
 "Why did you leave the Cochranes?" inquired 
 Lady Flood. 
 
 "I thought I had been there long enough." 
 
 "But they were kind?" 
 
 "Yes, but they were very busy. Socially busy 
 I felt sometimes as if I must be rather in the way. 
 I'm not a sociable person, as you know. And then 
 Moreton got ill they were very busy looking 
 after him."
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 331 
 
 "They?" Lady Flood, on the alert, caught at 
 the significant plural. 
 
 "Roma, and Moreton's cousin, Clive Cochrane." 
 
 "Clive Cochrane ! You didn't mention him in 
 any of your letters." 
 
 "He lives with them. But he only came when 
 we went to the Lido. He is like a son to More- 
 ton." 
 
 She uttered the phrases mechanically. 
 
 "I hope they did not show you that you were 
 in the way?" 
 
 "Oh, no ! Roma even seemed a little hurt at 
 my going at first." 
 
 Lady Flood rose. She stooped and kissed her 
 daughter. 
 
 "I am very glad to have you safely at home, 
 my dear." 
 
 "Thank you, Mamma," said Sydney. 
 
 Lady Flood went out of the room. 
 
 Sydney was almost thankful when she had left 
 her. Those simple answers to her questions about 
 Clive seemed to have satisfied her mother, but that 
 she should have betrayed any curiosity on the sub- 
 ject was a danger-signal. If she knew the whole 
 truth, she would certainly censure his conduct as 
 dishonorable, and perhaps she might have added 
 something to the effect that it was only what a girl 
 had to expect if she left a safe and sheltered home 
 and chose to live by herself in a Bohemian, uncon- 
 ventional manner. The example would serve to 
 emphasize the rectitude of her own views concern- 
 ing the independence of young girls. And then per- 
 haps Lady Flood would have assured her of what 
 she now so heart-breakingly suspected, that Clive 
 had not the slightest intention of marrying her. He 
 had been "amusing himself," philandering with the 
 only girl at hand during those brilliant summer
 
 332 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 days at the Lido. When the situation threatened 
 to become a little too serious and to endanger his 
 own position with the Cochranes, he had urged her 
 to leave. And when she did leave, he had yielded 
 to pressure there must have been pressure and 
 quietly dropped her. That was exactly how Lady 
 Flood would read and interpret the little story. 
 When Sydney's thoughts reached this bitter point, 
 she instinctively lifted up her hands to shield her 
 burning face. She felt as if she had been flung into 
 the dust, and that every one could read in her face 
 the story of that humiliation. Clive would be thank- 
 ful to learn that she had left Venice; perhaps he, 
 too, hoped that she would never return. And if 
 she went back, would it only be to find doors closed 
 against her rthe doors that had once seemed to her 
 to open upon the very Garden of Life? . . . 
 
 But there was no sign of any struggle in her pale, 
 impassive face when she went down and joined her 
 mother at dinner. Except that Sydney talked more 
 than she used to, the meal was a mere renewal of 
 old times. Mrs. Wright, it is true, had received 
 no orders to prepare the "fatted calf," but she had 
 a good memory for "Miss Sydney's" favorite dishes, 
 and they duly made their appearance that night.
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 THOSE first days at home left no impression at 
 all on Sydney's mind. True, they were peo- 
 pled with the two figures of her mother and Dun- 
 can Turner, who still came to the house every day, 
 and frequently dined with them. It was a relief to 
 have him there, kindly, ironical, even and stable in 
 temperament. He always seemed to be quite happy, 
 alone with Lady Flood and Sydney, intimately, and 
 as it were en famille. He looked at Sydney's 
 sketches, admired them, and secretly longed to know 
 the true history of her life during those months of 
 absence. That it had not been a calm, happy, or 
 eventless history, he was the more convinced as the 
 days passed and Sydney had presumably recovered 
 from the fatigue of her journey. She looked still 
 wan and pale and suffering, and he was sure that 
 her sufferings had not been physical. But she was 
 completely reserved on the subject; she let drop 
 no hint of those happenings. He wanted desper- 
 ately to comfort her, but she neither invited nor 
 required sympathy. 
 
 Some days passed before the desired permission 
 to go and see Moira was given. Then Lady Flood 
 herself took Sydney to the great house in Park 
 Lane, as if to regulate the visit. She had to wait 
 in a little room all swathed in brown holland, on 
 the landing, while her mother went upstairs to see 
 Moira. She sat there, feeling weary and dispirited 
 and even slightly nervous. She wondered what she 
 would say to Moira. She had a nervous dread of 
 finding herself quite tongue-tied. They seemed to 
 
 333
 
 334 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 be such strangers to each other. Since their part- 
 ing last March, their paths had lain so wholly apart. 
 
 Presently the door opened and a nurse came into 
 the room. She was quite a young woman, but with 
 a very decided and sophisticated air, as if life held 
 few secrets from her; nevertheless, something in her 
 face conveyed the impression that all her experience 
 had been gained as an intelligent, observant onlookeor. 
 
 "Will you please come upstairs, Miss Flood? 
 Lady Wanley is quite ready to see you." 
 
 There was something authoritative in her man- 
 ner. Sydney imagined that she was capable of ex- 
 acting implicit obedience from her patients. She 
 was speculating about the nurse in this way as she 
 followed her up the stairs. She seemed to her 
 highly trained, efficient, assured, and perhaps a lit- 
 tle cold and heartless. But she liked her and felt 
 that if she were ill she would like to be nursed by 
 her. 
 
 Before a door on the higher landing, the nurse 
 paused. 
 
 "Of course I needn't warn you not to say any- 
 thing that's remotely likely to upset your sister. 
 She's extremely weak she is not making such quick 
 progress as we hoped. I'm against her seeing vis- 
 itors at all, but she heard you were at home and she 
 asked to see you." 
 
 Sydney flushed a little. 
 
 "I'm accustomed to ill people," she said. "I 
 nursed in a hospital for eighteen months." 
 
 The nurse smiled. She had had to do with un- 
 trained inefficient nurses during the War, and pos- 
 sibly she was a little hard on them and their well- 
 meaning efforts. She opened the door and let Syd- 
 ney pass into the bedroom where Moira lay. 
 
 It was a lofty, luxurious apartment, very faintly 
 lit with concealed and shaded lights. The floors
 
 335 
 
 were polished, and a few beautiful pale rugs covered 
 them. The curtains were of dull gold damask, and 
 the scant furniture was antique and of fine quality. 
 Moira's bed was of some beautiful inlaid wood, deco- 
 rated with fine carving, and over it was spread a 
 coverlet of exquisite old lace. Sydney approached 
 the bed timidly, half in fear, and as she came near 
 Moira opened her eyes. 
 
 There flashed through Sydney's mind a memory 
 of her sister as she had last seen her leaving the 
 house with Wanley on her wedding-day, surely the 
 most beautiful bride that was ever seen, radiant in 
 her great happiness. Now she lay there very pale, 
 very still, and her golden hair lay in confusion on 
 the pillow scarcely restrained by a blue ribbon that 
 tied it back from her face. She did not look pretty 
 or even young any more. Sydney felt as if she were 
 
 fazing upon some tragedy the tragedy of love, 
 or love had brought her to this tormenting experi- 
 ence in which soul and body had been caught up in- 
 exorably into a wheel of suffering. Were there any 
 answers anywhere to questions of such appalling 
 difficulty? And then quite suddenly the picture of 
 the young martyr St. Placid rose up before Sydney's 
 mind. Love the extremity of love had brought 
 the martyr also to that pass of physical suffering 
 which killed him and admitted him forever to the 
 company of saints in heaven. Did love always mean 
 sacrifice? . . . But these thoughts jostled against 
 each other with amazing rapidity, and she had 
 scarcely stood for a moment by her sister's side be- 
 fore she bent down and whispered, "Dear Moira. 
 . . ." She put her hand gently on her sister's. 
 Moira looked at her with strange, haggard eyes. 
 "I lost my baby," said Moira, "and I wanted to 
 see him so. More than anything in the world. I 
 shouldn't have minded anything if I could only have
 
 336 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 had him." She closed her eyes, and two tears slowly 
 trickled through the shut eyelids. 
 
 "Poor Moira. . . . I'm so very, very sorry," said 
 Sydney. 
 
 She dropped a light kiss on Moira's hand. It 
 was very cold, very unresponsive. 
 
 Sydney was ready to sympathize with suffering 
 with grief -in any form. But the thought came 
 to her then with bitterness, that in her own suffering 
 and loss she could ask sympathy of no one. There 
 was an element of shame in it that forbade her to 
 speak of it. Her failure to keep Clive! . . . Her 
 last mad expedition to the Lido in the hope of see- 
 ing him! The refusal of Roma to receive her, 
 which had been like a blow in the face. . . . 
 
 Moira opened her eyes again suddenly and looked 
 at Sydney restlessly. 
 
 "Do they think I'm going to die?" she whispered, 
 with a glance towards a little group of people who 
 were standing close together near the window. 
 
 "Oh, no, Moira darling . . . you're getting bet- 
 ter. Soon you will be quite strong." 
 
 Yet, when Sydney looked at her sister, her heart 
 sank a little. She looked terribly ill far more ill 
 than she had even expected to find her. She had 
 been down to the very gates of death, and had re- 
 turned empty-handed. . . . 
 
 A figure detached itself from the group near the 
 window and advanced towards Sydney. It was 
 Lord Wanley. 
 
 "Thank you so much for coming, Sydney. I hope 
 you'll soon come and see Moira again." 
 
 Although he did not tell her to go, Sydney rose, 
 feeling that his words conveyed a hint of dismissal. 
 She kissed Moira again, stroking back the soft hair 
 from her brow, and then followed Wanley out of 
 the room.
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 337 
 
 In the dusk of the landing his tall, upright, young 
 figure looked imposing. 
 
 "How do you think she's looking?" he said. 
 
 "I find her very much changed. I suppose that's 
 only natural." 
 
 Sydney tried to infuse a hopefulness, which she 
 was very far from feeling, into her tone. 
 
 "She is fretting so about losing the baby. As if 
 that mattered as long as she's come safely through !" 
 said Wanley with energy. 
 
 "She always loved babies and young things like 
 kittens and puppies," said Sydney. 
 
 "You know, she isn't quite out of the wood yet," 
 said Lord Wanley. "This is the tenth day, and 
 she's pretty bad. Her pulse isn't good. . . ." He 
 frowned and his face became grave. "If she only 
 wouldn't fret!" 
 
 Sydney was silent. 
 
 Wanley took her hand. 
 
 "I'm most awfully glad you've come back," he 
 said, with a kind of boyish awkwardness. "Your 
 mother has missed you very much, and I wished 
 you'd been with her. We were all half mad with 
 anxiety. Moira so nearly slipped through our fin- 
 gers." His voice broke on the words, and Sydney 
 saw with a kind of horror that his eyes were filled 
 with tears. "I want to ask you one thing, Sydney. 
 Will you pray for her? A great deal, I mean. 
 Pray that she may get better, that she may be happy 
 again. I'd give all the world to see her look happy 
 as she once did." There was a strong but repressed 
 emotion in his voice. Sydney had never liked him 
 better than she did at that moment. 
 
 "I promise to pray," she said. "I've learnt to 
 pray in Venice." 
 
 "In Venice?" he repeated, mystified. 
 
 "Yes. The churches there are such homes of
 
 338 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 prayer. Think of all the generations of people 
 who have passed through them, praying. ... I 
 used to like to think of that." 
 
 There was a faint look of surprise in his face, 
 but he made no comment. 
 
 "Don't forget," he said, "and good-night, Syd- 
 ney. Come again soon." 
 
 He went back into his wife's room, and Sydney 
 slipped downstairs and out of the house. 
 
 As she walked along Park Lane, she had the 
 feeling that she had been visiting two strangers. 
 They were not the Moira and Wanley of a few 
 months back, radiant in their perfect happiness, their 
 mutual love. They were two people who had loved 
 and still loved each other passionately, but who had 
 been caught into the tragic grip of life and com- 
 pelled to suffer and to renounce. She cOuld admire 
 in Wanley his complete and devoted absorption in 
 Moira. tie loved her so much that nothing else 
 in the world counted in comparison with her. It 
 forced Sydney to ask herself if Clive would be like 
 that if sorrow and anxiety came to him. She could 
 picture him impatient, longing for the moment when 
 he could depart tranquilly to scenes that laid less 
 claim on his emotions, to a more peaceful and amus- 
 ing environment where life made slighter demands 
 upon his endurance. He was a comedian who wisely 
 refused to play tragedy. At the slightest hint of 
 discomfort he preferred to absent himself altogether 
 from the boards. Roma, recognizing this in him, 
 was careful to preach gratitude and obligation. It 
 was she who insisted upon his playing the part of 
 devoted nurse to Moreton. Her hold over him, 
 given his temperament, was masterly. 
 
 Sydney mentally contrasted the two men. In the 
 last few days Venice, and all that it stood for of 
 temporal things, had grown a trifle pale and indeter- 
 minate. No word had come to her from the villa
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 339 
 
 on the Lido, and those bright gay scenes had lost 
 a little of their brilliancy in her remembrance. She 
 had hardly expected Roma to write, but Clive could 
 easily have ascertained her address by calling at 
 her lodgings. She had been careful to give it to 
 her old landlady before she left, requesting that 
 any letters that came might be forwarded. Upon 
 this she based her somewhat forlorn hope of hear- 
 ing from him again. She was still reluctant to think 
 that his silence was intended to inform her tacitly 
 that everything between them was at an end. But 
 as each succeeding day passed with no sign from 
 him, the conclusion seemed more than probable. 
 The fear of it was always with her, chilling her heart 
 like the touch of icy fingers. It was with her now 
 as she walked along Park Lane, a solitary little fig- 
 ure with something of that very fear written in her 
 eyes. 
 
 Instead of going straight home, she turned down 
 South Street. She knew there was a Catholic church 
 close by, and she remembered Wanley's entreaties 
 that she would pray for Moira. She had never 
 thought of him as a particularly religious person, 
 and the request had filled her with a mild astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 She would go into the church now to pray. Not 
 only for Moira, but for herself, for Clive. She 
 would pray that this tangle might somehow be 
 straightened out. It was impossible to go on liv- 
 ing in this state of constant suspense. It would 
 kill her, or at least unfit her for anything. . . . Un- 
 der its baleful influence all the spiritual side of her 
 life was slowly becoming atrophied. Since her re- 
 turn to London she had scarcely prayed at all. She 
 had deliberately turned away from the thought of it. 
 But the sight of Moira, of Wanley's miserable 
 anxiety, that sudden vision of life in its grimmer, 
 more serious mood, had made her feel as if her
 
 340 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 own grief had an element of unworthiness in it. 
 
 She stood hesitatingly in the cobbled street out- 
 side the church. There were very few people about, 
 and she was little likely to see any one she knew. 
 She looked up at the quiet night sky that hung above 
 London like a filmy web punctured with a few pale 
 stars. A motor passed her swiftly. Two men 
 walked by together arguing in loud tones. The fa- 
 miliar distant stir of traffic sounded in her ears. 
 She went up to the door and pushed it open. . . . 
 
 Inside the church it was dark and very quiet. 
 Lamps glimmered before the altars, and in particu- 
 lar Sydney noticed the large hanging one that 
 burned before the Tabernacle on the High Altar. 
 The vague perfume of spent incense accosted her 
 with something of familiarity, so that the atmos- 
 phere seemed almost a welcoming one. Here, 
 surely, she could recover something of that passion- 
 ate sense of spiritual things, their truth, their ulti- 
 mate reality, which she had known in Venice. But 
 for her sojourn in Italy she might have passed them 
 by eternally, have never savored them. 
 
 There were flowers in profusion before a statue 
 of Our Lady, dimly visible in the dusk. And be- 
 fore the altar of the Sacred Heart, where many thou- 
 sands of converts have made their abjuration, a red 
 lamp burned. Sydney crept up close to the railing 
 and knelt down. She was trembling with excite- 
 ment. It seemed to her that she had come thither 
 not only to pray for Moira's recovery, as Wanley 
 had asked her to do, but much more to pray for 
 her own needs, and to face that inevitable choice 
 which sooner or later she would have to make, irre- 
 spective of Clive's wishes. That he had held her 
 back with such strong force all this time, against 
 her own desire and against her own conscience, 
 seemed to her at that moment almost terrible. But
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 341 
 
 she had loved him so much that she had yielded 
 rather than run the risk of losing him. And if Clive 
 did still love her there would be no escape for her, 
 the choice would still have to be made. She would 
 have to confront the problem and solve it. But was 
 it not already solved? At that moment, exalted, 
 almost ecstatic, she felt capable of making any re- 
 nouncement, even the renouncement of that beauti- 
 ful human love which had been offered to her. The 
 words of the Imitation flashed back relentlessly to 
 her memory: "So do thou also learn to part with 
 the necessary and beloved friend for the love of 
 God. . . ." 
 
 And then she remembered with an almost sick 
 foreboding that sacrifice was sometimes not only 
 invited but exacted. . . . The weak hands too frail 
 to offer it had the chalice thrust between their fin- 
 gers; the trembling lips had no choice but to drink 
 the bitter soul-healing draught. 
 
 Sydney knelt there for a long time in quiet prayer. 
 . . . The stillness, the silence, the holy atmosphere 
 of the church with its Living and Listening Pres- 
 ence, soothed her. And as she prayed, her faith 
 seemed to leap upwards in her heart like a flame. 
 She could never quench it now. If she did not fol- 
 low whither it led, into the arms of the Catholic 
 Church, the sin of apostasy, she knew, would be hers. 
 
 When at last she rose to go, she looked at her 
 watch in alarm. Lady Flood would have returned 
 home by now, would be wondering what had become 
 of her, and how she had spent the interim after 
 leaving Park Lane. She hurried home, and was re- 
 lieved to find that Duncan Turner was expected to 
 dinner. Thus a solitary meal with her mother would 
 be avoided, and in her present mood this prospect of 
 having a third person present was not therefore 
 unwelcome.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 DUNCAN was already there when Sydney de- 
 scended to the drawing-room that evening. 
 No questions were asked about her late return, and 
 she began to hope that it had not been observed. 
 She felt that her intention of becoming a Catholic 
 would meet with but little sympathy from Lady 
 Flood. She would not perhaps actually disapprove, 
 for she had been heard to call herself broad-minded 
 and to say it didn't matter if people were Buddhists 
 or Mohammedans as long as they "lived up to their 
 lights." But it would certainly furnish her with an 
 additional proof of Sydney's deplorable inability to 
 conform to type. She would probably say that her 
 daughter asked for unnormal extravagant things 
 which most girls never desired at all. She wasn't 
 contented with the life that was hers. Lady Flood 
 would inevitably regard this new venture as another 
 symptom of Sydney's "perversity." 
 
 But to-night her thoughts were entirely preoccu- 
 pied with her younger daughter, to the entire exclu- 
 sion of Sydney and her concerns. She announced 
 during dinner her intention of returning to Park 
 Lane that evening. She was not quite satisfied about 
 Moira; she was very good and patient and uncom- 
 plaining, but the great weakness, the depression of 
 spirits, seemed to augment rather than to diminish. 
 She passed hours of lethargy, and then would arouse 
 herself to cry feebly. It was very distressing for 
 poor Wanley. . . . 
 
 Sydney therefore remained at home, with the 
 prospect of an evening to be spent in Duncan's com- 
 
 342
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 343 
 
 pany. It was a relief, rather than otherwise, to 
 have him there. And he never stayed late he al- 
 ways had work on hand that claimed him inexorably. 
 He was a man who naturally put work before pleas- 
 ure, just as he, quite unpriggishly, concentrated all 
 his energy upon the achievement of his duty. 
 Amusements rather failed in their effect with him, 
 and lately, when he had realized this more clearly, 
 he had asked himself ruefully if he were growing 
 old. No it was since the War. He had not been 
 able to return to trivialities ; and upon a world gone 
 mad with feverish dancing, he gazed in ironic be- 
 wilderment. He saw men and women older than 
 himself caught up into that whirl, and he secretly 
 marveled. . . . 
 
 Lady Flood liked to think that she was leaving 
 him and Sydney together. The more they saw of 
 each other the better. Duncan was a man who im- 
 proved on acquaintance, and she herself had found 
 him an agreeable, entertaining companion. She 
 wanted Sydney to realize the genuine kindness of 
 heart, the great unselfishness, that lay behind that 
 cool, sarcastic manner. At one time she had re- 
 garded a marriage between them as suitable rather 
 than particularly desirable; it would "do" if nothing 
 better offered. But now she had become actually 
 zealous to bring it about. Duncan was really very 
 deeply attached to Sydney, and she was perfectly 
 aware that he had not taken his dismissal as final. 
 When Roma Cochrane failed her, it would be the 
 moment for him to step in. And although Sydney 
 would not tell her mother that Roma had failed her, 
 she was certain of it. Duncan had been glad to find 
 that Lady Flood was now an enthusiastic supporter 
 of his cause. They had discussed the matter quite 
 freely during Sydney's absence. He had learned 
 to appreciate also Lady Flood's sterling, if old-
 
 344 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 fashioned, qualities. All the months of Sydney's 
 sojourn in Venice, he had worked hard to bring 
 about a rapprochement between the estranged 
 mother and daughter. He could so readily sym- 
 pathize with both their points of view, and some- 
 times he felt it was only his love for Sydney that 
 made him throw his whole weight into her side of 
 the balance. There was certainly a great deal to 
 be said for Lady Flood's disapproval of the Venice 
 adventure. 
 
 They sat opposite to each other in the bright, pol- 
 ished little room, with its perfection of order and 
 detail. The September evening had turned chilly, 
 so that a fire had been lit in the small, modern, fuel- 
 saving grate. Lady Flood disliked returning to a 
 fireless room. 
 
 "May I smoke?" inquired Duncan, taking out a 
 cigarette case. 
 
 "Oh, yes Mamma doesn't mind. You see, she 
 has to let Jack smoke all over the house !" 
 
 Sydney was wearing a loosely-made blue dress, 
 very pale in color, and cut low at the throat. It 
 was one of several perfectly new dresses she had 
 found in her wardrobe when she returned home. 
 Lady Flood knew enough of her daughter to feel 
 sure that she would come back from Venice in a 
 general state of clotheslessness. It was a kindly 
 thought, and Sydney had felt grateful to her mother. 
 She only wished that Lady Flood had also thought 
 of refunding the money she had spent on her hur- 
 ried journey. She had only a few shillings left, and 
 there was her return journey to be thought of. 
 
 Sydney was looking better and more rested, 
 though still wretchedly thin. Duncan felt a kind of 
 dismay as he looked at her slender, thin arms. She 
 must have starved, or else she had been living on 
 her nerves. The latter, probably! . . .
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 345 
 
 "When are you going back?" he asked suddenly. 
 
 Sydney looked flushed and confused. 
 
 "Who said anything about my going back?" She 
 was on the defensive at once. Duncan laughed. 
 
 "I rather think you mentioned it yourself. You'd 
 left your things whatever that elusive term may 
 mean in Venice ! And have you ever watched a 
 bird sitting on a twig when it doesn't mean to stay 
 there ? You know by instinct as well as observation 
 that it's preparing to fly, that it's only there for one 
 moment. There's a little nervous quiver a trem- 
 bling of wings. And then r !" He waved his hand 
 in imitation of a bird's swift flight. 
 
 "Don't, please, say anything about it to Mamma," 
 said Sydney; "it would only distress her. I can't 
 help seeing that she thinks I've come back for good. 
 And I haven't in the least. I'm keener than ever 
 about having some sort of career. But of course 
 I shouldn't dream of going till Moira's convales- 
 cent." 
 
 "Do they write to you from Venice?" asked Dun- 
 can. "Do you hear from them, Sydney?" 
 
 He wondered if pressure were being brought to 
 bear upon her from that side, urging her return. 
 
 She shook her head, and to his dismay her eyes 
 filled with tears. "I've heard absolutely nothing 
 since I left. They are all ... very bad about 
 writing, but it does seem so strange when you have 
 lived with people for so long and known all that 
 was going on in the house, to be cut off suddenly 
 from any news of them at all. Roma always says 
 she answers notes but never letters." 
 
 "But you've written, of course?" 
 
 "Yes I've written to Roma." 
 
 "I'm sure you must want to hear very much how 
 they're all getting on," said Duncan, sympathetically. 
 In his private opinion, they must have got rid of
 
 346 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 her, but so skillfully, that she actually believed she 
 had left them of her own accord. Well, Mrs. 
 Cochrane was quite clever enough for that too. . . . 
 
 "I do ... very much indeed." 
 
 "I am sorry for you, Sydney," said Duncan 
 imperturbably. 
 
 "Sorry for me?" 
 
 "Yes. I feel, you see, that you're crying after 
 shadows." 
 
 "Shadows !" repeated Sydney, uneasily. 
 
 Ah, but he was wrong there, his quick discernment 
 had failed for once. Roma and Clive were the two 
 real and substantial figures in her life, and in their 
 hands lay the making or marring of it. They were 
 the only people who were bright, beautiful, and 
 alive. It was he, Duncan, who was the shadow, and 
 round him moved other shadowy insubstantial fig- 
 ures, her mother, Moira, Wanley. ... 
 
 "These people are nothing to you !" said Duncan 
 with a touch of violence. 
 
 Sydney wanted to cry out then: "But Clive is 
 everything to me. I'm going to marry him!" In- 
 stead, her lips closed firmly upon their secret. Clive 
 didn't mean to marry her. Of that she felt quite 
 sure. Roma had intervened. He had been in love 
 so often before, and always Roma had stepped in, 
 mocking, and discovered to him the clumsy clay feet 
 of his idol, the flaws in the marble. 
 
 "I don't know what they've done to you," con- 
 tinued Duncan, passionately, "and I don't suppose 
 we ever shall know, because quite obviously and per- 
 haps very naturally you refuse to speak of it. But 
 I judge by the deplorable effect upon you to me 
 it's simply appalling! They've taken away the hap- 
 piness from your eyes your beautiful eyes, Sydney ! 
 and the youth from your face, and the very flesh 
 from your bones. They've robbed you of appetite
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 347 
 
 and sleep. Dear Sydney listen to me forget 
 them! . . . 
 
 She listened, astonished at his indignation, at the 
 touch of passion with which he had presented her 
 case. But all the time she was telling herself that 
 she could never forget Clive, even if her love for him 
 were to kill her. She loved him too much. And she 
 believed that some day things would be made smooth 
 again between them. Clive would come back to her, 
 contemptuous of Moreton's will, of Roma's en- 
 treaties, and they would be married quietly in a 
 Catholic church and live in some country place in 
 England, away from Moreton, away from Roma. 
 Clive would be her very own. She would possess 
 him entirely. ... If she did not cling to this belief 
 she would go mad. . . . 
 
 She did not speak, but sat there in an impassive, 
 attentive attitude, and Duncan saw the new stern- 
 ness of purpose in her face with sinking heart. The 
 wings were a-tremble, preparing perhaps for pro- 
 longed flight. . . . 
 
 "I was happy," she said at last, "although I know 
 
 fou won't believe it, Duncan. I was happier than 
 Ve ever been. But don't let's talk about it. It 
 isn't a subject on which we're ever likely to agree. 
 And there's something else I want to tell you." 
 
 "Yes?" he said, and leaned forward a little. Was 
 she going to lift the veil, if only partially? His gaze 
 was very intent and eager, but Sydney, occupied with 
 her own thoughts, scarcely noticed him. 
 
 "I can trust you, of course, not to say anything 
 to Mamma ?" 
 
 "I think so." 
 
 "She would be so distressed I" 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "When I was abroad I thought a great deal 
 about religion- the Catholic religion," she said.
 
 348 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 "You know, in Italy it's difficult to get away 
 from it. One wonders sometimes at the im- 
 mense number of people who go there and never 
 seem to think about it at all. Whereas, it is 
 everywhere all around you. The shrines at street 
 corners out even on the lagoon the pictures, the 
 statues, and then the churches, so beautiful, so 
 splendid." 
 
 "I know," he said. An immense relief took pos- 
 session of him. 
 
 "And so I thought a great deal about becoming 
 a Catholic." 
 
 "I can quite understand it. But why didn't you?" 
 
 "There were obstacles," she answered. "I 
 thought then I could put it off wait a little. But 
 now I feel I can't wait. . . ." 
 
 "And are these particular obstacles removed?" 
 he inquired. 
 
 "Oh no, they're quite permanent." 
 
 "Then, 1 take it, you've resolved not to notice 
 them any more?" 
 
 "I ... think so. You see I'm in a very difficult 
 position. I must be received into the Catholic 
 Church because I am a Catholic I have the faith 
 I can't remain outside. It would be wrong." She 
 lifted her eyes to his; they were glowing with a 
 steady fire. "But I shall be hurting myself if I do it." 
 
 "I suppose you can't possibly speak to me quite 
 plainly for once, without these enigmas?" he said, 
 a trifle impatiently. 
 
 "No. I've promised. Otherwise I think I should 
 tellyou, Duncan." 
 
 The little confession touched him enormously, and 
 he could not resist taking advantage of it. 
 
 "Oh, my dear Sydney, I wish there were no secrets 
 between us. You know, I think, how deeply all your 
 difficulties concern me 1"
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 349 
 
 There was a little pause. Then she said: 
 
 "Couldn't you help me then to become a 
 Catholic?" 
 
 "Well, I know one or two priests. One of them 
 a very good chap was with me at Oxford. I'm 
 sure he could help you. He is a soul-hunter !" 
 
 "I should like to know him," said Sydney, simply. 
 "And you think I'm right, don't you, in wishing to 
 become a Catholic as soon as possible?" 
 
 "Certainly, if you're quite convinced you ought 
 to be one." 
 
 "Oh, I'm quite sure about that. I spent a long 
 time in the church in Farm Street this evening. I 
 saw everything quite clearly." 
 
 "Well, then, I think it's the best step you can pos- 
 sibly take. I regard it as perfectly awful, the way 
 in which young girls and boys leave their homes now 
 and go out to work in the world at the very age 
 when they are most susceptible to any new and 
 vicious teaching, without the support of any religion 
 at all. But, Sydney, I came in contact with the 
 Catholic religion for the first time when I was in 
 France. I tell you the crucifix came into its own in 
 the trenches. It was the one live true thing in the 
 midst of all that havoc and destruction that was 
 slaying the youth of the world. Men prayed there 
 who had never prayed before. I've been present 
 when the priest came to administer the Last Sacra- 
 ments to a dying poilu. And I used to wonder then 
 how the Reformation here in England ever managed 
 to stamp out the faith in the efficacy of those Sacra- 
 ments from among our people. That last Absolu- 
 tion and anointing . . . that final consolation of the 
 Viaticum. I know it was stamped out, but how? 
 Abroad, men who have neglected their religion for 
 years seldom fail to send for a priest to give them 
 that last comfort and assurance when they're dying!"
 
 350 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 His experience in the trenches then had been 
 much the same as dive's. Both these men had been 
 brought sharply into contact with the Old Faith, had 
 seen its vitality, its divine mission in the midst of a 
 ruined, bleeding world. And upon them both it had 
 made a strong and lasting impression. 
 
 "Then you you wouldn't be against it?" said 
 Sydney. She had a growing confidence in Duncan's 
 judgment. 
 
 "On the contrary J'm heart and soul for it!" he 
 assured her. "I believe that the Catholic Church is 
 the one live spiritual force in the world to-day. She 
 is the true League of Nations no other can have 
 any moral value. She is the spiritual tie that links 
 nations in a great commonwealth. And she carries 
 her own credentials she has existed triumphantly 
 for nearly two thousand years. In England in 
 America everywhere her great work is steadily 
 progressing." 
 
 His enthusiastic words kindled her own thoughts 
 till they seemed to resemble steady flames. 
 
 "Oh, Duncan, I never thought you'd talk like 
 that. It it is splendid to hear you !" 
 
 It was a relief to find that Duncan was not only 
 sympathetic, but eager and enthusiastic. 
 
 "Well, I shall take you to see Father John one 
 day. You'll like him, and I'm sure he'll help you. 
 You'll find him a very wise person." 
 
 "Yes, I should like that," said Sydney. 
 
 When Lady Flood returned about ten o'clock, she 
 was charmed to find them sitting over the fire and 
 talking in quite an engrossed manner. She won- 
 dered what Duncan found to say to Sydney, as she 
 herself always felt her to be the reverse of stimu- 
 lating. She beamed upon them. 
 
 "How is Moira?" said Sydney. 
 
 They were all three standing now in front of the
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 351 
 
 fire, Lady Flood between her daughter and Dun- 
 can Turner. 
 
 "She seems a little better I've left her sleeping 
 quietly. Wanley says your visit did her good you 
 must go again. I have begged him to get some 
 rest. Poor fellow he's quite worn out." 
 
 "I'm very glad to hear there's an improvement," 
 Duncan said quietly. He glanced at the clock and 
 added: "I must be going now I've rather a lot 
 to do between this and to-morrow morning. When 
 will you come out with me, Sydney? You don't take 
 enough exercise." 
 
 "To-morrow afternoon, if you like," said Sydney. 
 
 She wondered if he would make a plan so that 
 they might go and see Father John. She was nearly 
 certain that this was in his mind. Duncan always 
 planne'd and carried out things as quickly as possible. 
 
 Lady Flood glanced at them curiously. But she 
 only said: 
 
 "You're quite right, Duncan. Sydney wants 
 fresh air and exercise. She is much too pale."
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 DUNCAN called for Sydney about three o'clock on 
 the following day. Lady Flood smiled appro- 
 bation upon their departure together. Matters were 
 certainly looking much more hopeful, and her castle- 
 building was at once renewed under what really 
 seemed far more auspicious circumstances. She had 
 heard much praise of Duncan both from his col- 
 leagues and from others, and all that she had heard 
 inclined her to regard him with considerable favor. 
 Sydney would be lucky to get him for a husband, was 
 her private opinion. And there was nothing in his 
 demeanor to suggest that he had taken his former 
 dismissal seriously. He was genuinely devoted to 
 Sydney, and it was to be hoped that some day she 
 would display sufficient sense to appreciate and re- 
 turn that devotion. 
 
 She must learn first of all to forget those "fool- 
 ish Cochrane people," as Lady Flood mentally 
 termed them. 
 
 "Where are we going?" said Sydney, as they 
 started out in the direction of the Park. 
 
 "We shall take a taxi and go straight to Father 
 John's. He is expecting us." 
 
 Sydney was a little startled. That exalted mood 
 of yesterday had dropped from her, those fine fer- 
 vors were gone. Life, like the September day, was 
 a trifle gray and chilly. She wondered what she 
 would say to Father John. 
 
 Duncan's precipitate action in thus immediately 
 planning a meeting between them seemed a slightly 
 severe proceeding to a person who was prone to 
 
 352
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 353 
 
 dream and procrastinate. Sydney liked to "feel in 
 the mood." And to-day she did not feel in the 
 mood. Duncan, however, seemed to ignore her hid- 
 den unwillingness. 
 
 "Don't let's go to-day, Duncan," she said sud- 
 denly, "I think I feel nervous and as if I'd rather 
 wait." 
 
 "No time like the present," said Duncan cheer- 
 fully, but with an odd determination. "First steps 
 are always odious. And this is a very important 
 first step." 
 
 He walked on inexorably. She knew that in an- 
 other few minutes she would be sitting beside him in 
 a taxi whirling towards the unknown abode of 
 Father John. 
 
 "Why do you want me to go so much?" she said. 
 "You know I never make up my mind so quickly as 
 all that. I like to have lots of time to think 
 things over." 
 
 "Well, in the first place I want to get you back to 
 a more normal state. And I think Father John will 
 help you." 
 
 Sydney was indignant. "Just because I'm rather 
 thin you think I'm not normal !" 
 
 Her gray eyes flashed. 
 
 "Oh, my dear Sydney," he said, stopping in front 
 of her, "it's your soul that's sick we can all see that. 
 And Father John is a first rate man for souls !" 
 
 He hailed a passing taxi, helped Sydney into it, 
 and then gave the driver some minute directions. 
 They turned northward across the Park, which was 
 looking beautiful to-day, all misty with dim distances 
 and yellowing trees, and some brilliant groups 
 of dahlias and chrysanthemums blooming in the 
 flower-beds. 
 
 Sydney sat back, resolutely silent. Duncan was 
 not, after all, an agreeable companion; he was much
 
 354 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 too autocratic. If he ever married she thought that 
 his wife would probably be afraid of him. Mentally 
 she contrasted him with Cl'tve, and it was certain 
 that Clive did not lose. His sunny humor, his non- 
 chalance, his easy good-nature were his most pro- 
 nounced characteristics, making intercourse with 
 him both pleasant and delightful. All that he did 
 was performed with an admirable and natural grace. 
 Clive would never have imposed his will upon her 
 in this way, although he had had a far greater right 
 to do so. He never hurried her, but always coun- 
 seled prudence. Last night when she returned from 
 Farm Street, she would have gone with eagerness to 
 see this unknown priest, but the day had brought 
 calmer counsels, and she would have preferred to 
 reflect further before taking even this first step. 
 What did Duncan mean by giving her this push, as 
 it were, into those dark and untried waters? 
 
 "If you think I'm going to confide my private af- 
 fairs to him, you are very much mistaken," said 
 Sydney presently. 
 
 Duncan looked at her with a slight lift of the 
 eyebrows. 
 
 "What you say to him is entirely your own 
 affair." 
 
 "And I don't think it will be any use beginning my 
 instruction now. I shouldn't have time to be re- 
 ceived before I go back to Venice." 
 
 "If you ever do go back to Venice," said Dun- 
 can, imperturbably. 
 
 "I've every intention of going back the moment 
 Moira's better. Mamma is sure to take her away 
 to the sea it's an infallible remedy with her. 
 Brighton or Bournemouth " Sydney cherished 
 unenviable memories of being deported to one of 
 those resorts after childish ailments such as measles 
 or chicken-pox.
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 355 
 
 "Well, you might go to Bournemouth too, 
 mightn't you?" said Duncan. 
 
 "You don't seem to understand that I'm going 
 back to Venice to work." 
 
 "Yes, I do understand that's what you want to 
 do. Whether it's the best or the right thing is an- 
 other matter." 
 
 Sydney only said: "Even if I don't stay there 
 very long, I must go back to fetch my things." 
 
 "Couldn't Mrs. Cochrane have them sent?" 
 
 "I can't trouble Roma. She has so much to do^? 
 with her husband so often ill." 
 
 "Well, you know best about that," he said. 
 
 Convinced as he was of Sydney's talent, he felt 
 that in Venice, especially since she had left the Coch- 
 ranes' house, she was not working under the best 
 conditions either for her health or her art. She 
 was far too inexperienced to take adequate care of 
 herself, and he formed an indifferent opinion as to 
 the meals she had when living alone. But Sydney 
 would reveal nothing of her daily life, either when 
 she was with Mrs. Cochrane or while she had re- 
 mained alone in Venice. She carefully shielded 
 those happenings from profane eyes. Something 
 was at the back of it all ... and then she had 
 promised not to tell. But Duncan was very near the 
 truth sometimes in some of his conjectures. 
 
 "Here we are," he said suddenly, as the taxi 
 driver drew up before a high narrow house, built of 
 discolored bricks and stained with the soot and 
 smoke of ages. 
 
 The door was opened by an aged woman who 
 showed them into a parlor. It was bleak and ugly 
 with gray distempered walls, a polished table, and 
 a couple of wooden chairs. There were one or two 
 pious pictures on the walls. The outlook over a nar- 
 row little yard was even less inspiring than the room
 
 356 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 itself. Something of its depression descended upon 
 Sydney, who was in a nervous highly-sensitive mood. 
 She was angry with Duncan for bringing her hither 
 against her will, yet secretly some part of her was 
 paradoxically grateful to him because he had taken 
 the difficulty of the decision out of her own hands. 
 
 Hitherto she had never realized how formidable 
 Duncan could be; she was thankful now that she 
 had refused to marry him. "He's worse than 
 Mamma," she thought. It would have been an ex- 
 change from one form of domestic tyranny to an- 
 other and far more enduring one. 
 
 Duncan, ignorant of the unfavorable impression 
 he had made, sat there looking perfectly calm and 
 slightly ironical. He had, however, enormous 
 faith in Father John, and he hoped that Sydney was 
 not going to behave too absurdly. Still, she was 
 showing signs of life, of vitality, again. Anything 
 was better than that impassive stupor; it had 
 alarmed him. 
 
 The door opened and Father John came into the 
 room. He was a youngish man, not much past 
 thirty, and he looked little older than Duncan him- 
 self. He was dark with a thin face and calm brown 
 eyes. 
 
 "This is Miss Flood, Father," said Duncan. 
 
 Sydney rose and shook hands with the priest. On 
 the whole she was favorably impressed by him. He 
 looked business-like and full of common-sense. He 
 wouldn't ask impossible things of her. If Duncan 
 left them alone together, she thought that she would 
 tell him exactly how matters stood and ask his 
 advice. 
 
 Duncan had every intention of leaving them alone 
 altogether. "I'll go and look around the church," 
 he said. "If I can find any one to blow for me, I 
 might have a go at the organ."
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 357 
 
 "I think you'll find Pearce there," said Father 
 John. 
 
 When Duncan had gone out of the room, he mo- 
 tioned Sydney to a seat and sat down opposite to 
 her. The table was between them, and Father John 
 took up a penholder that was lying there in con- 
 venient proximity to an ink-stand and fidgeted a lit- 
 tle with it. He asked Sydney one or two questions, 
 and she answered him frankly. 
 
 "Have you ever read this?" he said, taking a little 
 red book from a drawer. 
 
 She glanced at the cover. It was the Catechism. 
 "No I've never read it." 
 
 "Well you'd better go through it as soon as you 
 can and see if it has any difficulties for you. It's 
 rather a stumbling-block to some people, you know." 
 
 "I'm not afraid of stumbling-blocks. I'm so 
 utterly convinced." 
 
 "Still, we mustn't do anything with our eyes shut," 
 said Father John. "And now will you tell me as 
 far as you can just what has brought you like this 
 to the door of the Catholic Church? Are there any 
 Catholics in your family? Have you been thrown 
 with Catholics who have presented their faith to you 
 in an attractive light? 1 think I must know a little 
 how you've come to this conclusion of complete 
 conviction." 
 
 Sydney tried to relate as faithfully as possible 
 those various experiences which had brought her to 
 the door, as he expressed it. There was the light 
 on the lagoon, shining suddenly, mysteriously, out of 
 the darkness and revealing the dim figure of the 
 Madonna holding the Child in her arms. There 
 was the young St. Placid in the Benedictine Church 
 of San Giorgio, with the cruel nail piercing his boy- 
 ish brow. The funeral at San Michele with its note 
 of everlasting hope that had struck her so forcibly.
 
 358 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 The many times she had attended Mass, at first ig- 
 norant and astray, and then following the liturgy 
 with an extreme joy. There was nothing to hold her 
 back in the shape of doubt or difficulty. . . . And 
 then she paused. For the other influences were just 
 then very strong, very potent. She seemed to have 
 a vision of Clive sitting by her side on the sands of 
 the Lido, and telling her that he loved her, and ask- 
 ing her for his sake to postpone the matter. 
 
 She told Father John the whole history of her 
 engagement to Clive. He would treat the confi- 
 dence, he assured her, as if it had been made under 
 the seal of the confessional. 
 
 "So you think if he married a Catholic he would 
 forfeit any money that might otherwise have come 
 to him through his cousin?" he inquired. 
 
 "Yes. That was expressly stated." 
 
 "And you think you run the risk of losing him in 
 consequence ?" 
 
 "It's what I'm afraid of. It is what has kept me 
 hanging back." 
 
 "But now you are not going to hang back any 
 more," said Father John, very kindly indeed. "Al- 
 mighty God very often asks great sacrifices of the 
 convert as if to test his faith and endurance. It 
 has seemed to some people almost like a payment. 
 And as a rule I hope we are quite ready to pay." 
 He smiled down at Sydney almost with compas- 
 sion. 
 
 Payment? The word fell ominously upon her ear. 
 But she had always known that the price might be 
 a heavy one. It was this very dread that had held 
 her back so long. Now something stronger than all 
 her fears was urging her forward. She had passed 
 the stage when she was able to choose. 
 
 At that moment the future seemed to her to be 
 veiled in thickest darkness. Yes, there would be
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 359 
 
 payment and sacrifice, exacted even to the uttermost 
 farthing. But she knew something of the value of 
 those spiritual gift* which would be eternally hers. 
 One would surely renounce all temporal things in 
 order to obtain them. 
 
 "Does the prospect alarm you?" Father John 
 asked. 
 
 Duncan Turner had spoken to him of her courage, 
 her nobility of soul. He seemed to discern dimly 
 then the presence of those qualities in her. 
 
 "Not too much I mean, I'm quite ready to pay," 
 she answered. 
 
 "I have a sister in Milan," he continued; "she's 
 a nun in a convent there. If you return to Italy, 
 I'd like you to go and see her. She would welcome 
 you warmly. I'll give you the address." He wrote 
 it on a slip of paper and handed it to her. "But you 
 must think a great deal before you decide to make 
 that journey. I should like you to put it off till after 
 you've been received. It's just as well to give that 
 time of study and preparation entirely to Almighty 
 God. Great graces often await the convert won- 
 derful answers to prayer." 
 
 He went to a drawer and took out a prayer-book 
 in which he wrote some words. Then he gave it to 
 Sydney. She glanced at the inscription, which ran as 
 follows: In all things taking the shield of faith 
 wherewith you may he able to extinguish the fiery 
 darts of the most wicked one. And take unto you 
 the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit 
 which is the word of God" 
 
 The Sword of the Spirit. . . . She had the feeling 
 then that it had pierced her heart. 
 
 "Now if you will kneel down I will give you a 
 blessing," said Father John, in a matter-of-fact tone. 
 
 Sydney obeyed, and as she knelt there he raised 
 his hand and made the sign of the Cross over her
 
 360 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 bowed head, and murmured the words of the Latin 
 blessing. 
 
 "And now we'll go and find Duncan," said the 
 priest, leading the way down a long darkish passage 
 which led into the sacristy and thence into the church. 
 Rather doleful sounds proceeded from the organ, 
 for Duncan was testing some of the stops. But on 
 hearing them approach he began to play Gounod's 
 A ve Maria. 
 
 Father John and Sydney had climbed up into the 
 organ gallery. Duncan turned his head and smiled. 
 He ended upon a crashing chord. 
 
 "Ready, Sydney?" 
 
 "Yes," said Sydney. 
 
 They said good-by to the priest, and he fixed a day 
 for Sydney to come for her first instruction. She 
 agreed quite meekly. 
 
 On their way back to the taxi she suddenly turned 
 to Duncan after a long pause : 
 
 "Duncan, I want to thank you ever so much. I 
 didn't want to go a bit but you were quite right to 
 insist, though it seemed rather brutal at the time. 
 Honestly, I'm most awfully grateful." 
 
 Duncan let his hand rest lightly upon hers for 
 the fraction of a second. 
 
 "I knew you'd like Father John," was all he said.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 DUNCAN made some excuse and refused Sydney's 
 invitation to come back and have tea with her. 
 He left her at the door of her mother's house, 
 realizing better than she did the necessity of solitude 
 for her just then. Father John had perhaps not said 
 very much to her that day, but whatever he had said 
 it had brought back something of its old peace and 
 serenity to the girl's face. Her thanks and gratitude 
 had touched him, he could gauge by that the meas- 
 ure of the priest's success. 
 
 Sydney went up to the drawing-room and sat down 
 by the fire. Wright brought in the tea, and she 
 drank some, for she was feeling both cold and a 
 little exhausted. Her mother would probably not 
 return till dinner-time. Sydney was conscious of a 
 wish to tell Lady Flood about her visit to Father 
 John. She did not want to make a secret of it. She 
 was tired of secrets, of the atmosphere of intrigue 
 that they created. And the moment was not an un- 
 propitious one, for her mother was so preoccupied 
 with Moira that she accepted lesser misfortunes and 
 annoyances with an admirable resignation. 
 
 As she was sitting there, Wright came into the 
 room with a small silver tray on which were a letter 
 and a telegram. They were both addressed to Syd- 
 ney, and even before she recognized Roma's hand- 
 writing, she had observed the blue Italian stamp on 
 the envelope. 
 
 Wright withdrew, and Sydney tore open the tele- 
 gram. It consisted only of a few words: Moreton 
 died this morning, Roma. 
 
 Moreton died this morning. . . . The date was 
 361
 
 362 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 tkat of two days ago. Moreton died this morning. 
 . . . What did it mean? What could it mean? 
 And then suddenly she had a vision of Clive that 
 stabbed her like a spear. Clive, alone with Roma, 
 comforting Roma, helping Roma. All his immense 
 filial solicitude transferred from Moreton to Roma. 
 She gave a low wild sobbing cry, like a creature 
 wounded to death. It was torn from her, an ex- 
 pression of the dreadful and insupportable anguish 
 that was torturing her, body and soul. Moreton 
 died this morning. . . . Roma was a widow. She 
 was free. And in that new freedom of Roma's 
 Sydney saw the rock upon which her own happi- 
 ness would indubitably suffer shipwreck. 
 
 She forgot to open Roma's letter. Even if she 
 had thought of it, it is possible that she might have 
 omitted to read it then. The telegram must neces- 
 sarily contain later news than the letter. Leaving 
 her cup half full of tea Sydney went up to her own 
 room. She sat down near the writing-table and took 
 a telegraph form from a little rack holding writing- 
 paper, post-cards, and luggage-labels, which stood 
 there. She dipped her pen in the ink. What could 
 she say to Roma? Just this that she was sorry? 
 She was indeed sorry with an anguish of grief that 
 seemed to blot out everything else. But she could 
 not say that to Roma. The message must be short 
 and quite conventional. In the end she wrote sim- 
 ply: Please accept my deep sympathy, Sydney. 
 She could picture Roma opening it and tossing it 
 carelessly aside. She would receive hundreds of 
 messages of similar purport. 
 
 She went out and took the telegram herself to the 
 nearest post-office. The fresh air did her good and 
 revived her. When she returned home the wish to 
 cry had quite left her; she was tranquil and com- 
 posed, even a little ashamed of her late outburst.
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 363 
 
 How thankful she was that Duncan had declined to 
 come in to tea. If he had come he would have been 
 present when she received Roma's telegram. 
 
 When she was back in her bedroom she suddenly 
 remembered the letter, and taking it up she tore open 
 the envelope. Probably it would be quite short, 
 perhaps warning her that Moreton had suddenly be- 
 come much worse. She had no presentiment of 
 approaching evil, when she first opened Roma's 
 letter. 
 
 For a long time she sat there, gazing at the thin 
 gray sheet in her hand, incredulous, unbelieving. 
 Sometimes when people have received some hideous, 
 mortal, physical wound they have been known to 
 experience something of that incredulity, that sense 
 of complete unreality which possessed Sydney now. 
 It was a nightmare from which she would certainly 
 soon awake. It was not possible that Roma^ who 
 had once loved her could have hurt her thus. 
 Other hands might be cruel in their impulses to 
 destroy, but not Roma's. Sydney in her heart had 
 trusted Roma against her own better judgment. 
 She had loved her very much, and more readily, 
 more eagerly, than she had ever loved any one be- 
 fore. Much more readily even than she had loved 
 Clive, whose gentle half-mocking aloofness had so 
 suddenly changed to a passionate devotion that had 
 warmed her own heart and made heavy demands 
 upon it. Once she had believed that Roma's love 
 for her was fixed as the eternal stars. Now it was a 
 dead thing. And in its death it wore the terrible 
 mask of hatred. She hid her eyes. She was 
 afraid to look, even in imagination, upon that 
 dead face. . . . 
 
 "Dear Sydney " the letter ran, written in Roma's 
 perfect upright hand/'jf has been on my mind to<
 
 364 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 write to you ever since you left but t miserable weak- 
 lings that we are, we are all apt to defer the saying 
 of a disagreeable but true thing. And I am going 
 to say something that you will certainly dislike and 
 possibly resent. To begin with Moreton is very ill 
 indeed and the doctors hold out very little hope of 
 his recovery. He is conscious and knows both Clive 
 and myself and is restless if we leave him. This 
 will explain to you why after you left we were not 
 able to take much notice of you; we were so fully 
 and anxiously occupied. But I am sure you must 
 have known for some time past that Moreton' s opin- 
 ion of your talent had completely changed. He had 
 most reluctantly come to the conclusion that you were 
 incapable of ever having a satisfactory career as an 
 artist, and he deeply regretted that he had ever per- 
 suaded you to leave home and study abroad. He 
 considered you a clever copyist, but when you at- 
 tempted to be original, as in the portrait you did of 
 myself, the result was merely laughable. It is for 
 this reason that I am now writing to urge you most 
 strongly not to return to Venice. Your place is 
 where it has always been with your mother. This 
 life here is far too exhausting, exciting, and feverish 
 for you. I have for some time past been observing 
 its effect upon you, and I feel that I ought to tell you 
 I have judged it to be a distinctly deteriorating one. 
 When you coolly set aside my friendship and began 
 to show an absurd adoring devotion to Clive, who can 
 never resist such encouragement, accustomed as he is 
 to feminine adulation (and of this I had especially 
 warned you) f I resolved to put an end to a situation 
 that was becoming impossible for us all. If you 
 ever cherished the remotest hope that Clive would 
 marry you, I can now assure] you that there is no'* 1 
 nor ever was the slightest prospect of such a con- 
 tingency. Nor is Clive in the least responsible for 
 what was certainly the product of your own unre-
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 365 
 
 strained and undisciplined imagination. Remain in 
 England, my dear Sydney, paint a little in your spare 1 
 time, and above all marry that nice young man who 
 brought you such a handsome nosegay the day we 
 left Victoria station. You will hate me for speaking 
 the truth, and for thus putting an end to all inter- 
 course between us, but it is the only thing you have 
 left me to do. Want of perfect frankness must 
 necessarily destroy friendship, and you have lived in 
 terror, I am sure, lest I should suddenly discover the 
 truth. Clive knows that I am writing and he is also 
 fully informed of the substance of my letter. Yours 
 sincerely, Roma Cochrane. 
 
 At first Sydney did not cry. She sat there by the 
 table, her head and eyes burning, and a sick, dis- 
 mayed indignation possessing all of her that still 
 had sense to feel any emotion at all. There was 
 anger in her heart anger at the shame thrust upon 
 her but at the back of it, trying to hide, trying to 
 veil its face, the figure of Grief lurked phantom-like. 
 She must keep it hidden and veiled. . . . She must 
 not let it come quite near. . . . Better hot anger 
 than the sense of humiliating grief over that broken 
 friendship, that dead love. There seemed at first no 
 real connection between Roma's cruel letter and 
 Clive. But when she looked again at the closing sen- 
 tences she saw that there was an intimate connection. 
 Clive knew that the letter was to be sent to her; he 
 was fully informed of its substance. He had chosen 
 this cowardly way of telling her that his own love 
 for her was dead, intimating too that it had only 
 been the product of her own unrestrained and undis- 
 ciplined imagination. Perhaps he had never told 
 Roma that he had held her in his arms and kissed 
 her, and whispered words of passionate love, and 
 asked her to marry him. No, he would be little 
 likely to tell Roma those details. He had succeeded
 
 366 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 in throwing the blame for all that had passed, upon 
 Sydney. Roma was not cruel without provocation. 
 She had known what was going on, and she had re- 
 solved to punish Sydney. The punishment was not 
 wantonly inflicted. It was to show Sydney that she 
 was perfectly aware of all that had happened, and to 
 put an end forever to the secret engagement whose 
 existence she had somehow discovered. 
 
 And Clive? What part had Clive played in it 
 all? Had he looked on, merely nonchalant and 
 amused, while two women tore each other to 
 pieces because of him? In any case he would have 
 no pity for Sydney, who had caused his relations to 
 the Cochranes to become even temporarily strained. 
 He was to be taught "what they counted for in his 
 life." No doubt by this time he had learned the 
 lesson accurately and in a way that he would be little 
 likely to forget. In any case he would have no pity 
 for Sydney, although possibly he might cherish some 
 secret resentment against her. Perhaps she had 
 ceased to exist for him the day she had left 
 the Lido. . . . 
 
 For that was the day the real darkness had 
 descended upon her. From thenceforth she had al- 
 ways experienced dread and fear, alternating with 
 wild and ever-unrealized hopes. The long slow days 
 that she had spent alone in Venice. The evening 
 when Roma came, torturing her with questions 
 whose answers she already perhaps knew. The 
 ceaseless waiting for Clive. Her journey to the 
 Lido, fruitless, humiliating, on the very day of her 
 departure for England. Roma's refusal to see her. 
 Ermelinda's pitying yet half-contemptuous glance. 
 She understood it now. Gossip had no doubt perco- 
 lated to the servants' quarter. 
 
 She seemed to be sitting once more at her window, 
 gazing across the misty lagoon for a Clive who 
 never came. 
 
 But in the confusion of those days she had never
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 367 
 
 clearly envisaged the change that had come over her 
 own attitude to Roma. She had still loved her oh, 
 surely she had loved her! but she had certainly 
 begun to fear her, to fear that very power of attrac- 
 tion, that curious glamor which had first drawn her 
 to her side with an invisible, irresistible force. She 
 had feared her . . . because of Clive, because of 
 her influence over him. And all the time Roma had 
 not been blind; she had been aware of the little 
 drama played behind her back in her own house. 
 She had waited, and when the time came she had 
 struck . . . and struck hard. 
 
 Sydney was still reeling, half-stunned from the 
 impact of that deliberate well-directed blow. 
 
 The break with Roma meant a break with Clive. 
 It meant, too, that all these months of her life in 
 Venice and at the Lido must be blotted out from her 
 mind and memory as if they had never been. This 
 broken engagement of hers this broken friendship 
 that had once seemed such a rare and beautiful thing 
 were episodes that she would never willingly speak 
 of. Then all at once her decision was made. As soon 
 as possible she would return to Venice. She would 
 not submit to Roma's cruel and callous decree of 
 banishment. She would return. For at least she 
 had a right to see Clive again, to learn the truth from 
 his own lips. He must give her some explanation of 
 the mystery in which all these last weeks had been 
 so heavily wrapped. She had a right to know why 
 their engagement was at an end. It had been a con- 
 crete thing and not the mere product, as Roma so 
 cruelly suggested, of her own imagination. They 
 should not thrust her out into the darkness and down 
 into the dust like this without a word. And if Clive 
 did not love her any more, she could at least go away 
 and die quietly. For surely she could not live after 
 that. f Life would have no meaning for her with- 
 put him.
 
 3 68 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 It was at this point that Sydney bowed her head 
 and wept. 
 
 There was one blow that had been inflicted that 
 had left her unscathed. That was the expression of 
 Moreton's changed opinion of her talent. She had 
 known long ago that he had ceased to "believe in 
 her," and it had never affected her at all. She esti- 
 mated her own powers with a curious accuracy, and 
 she felt that her estimate was a truer one than his. 
 She might never be a great artist, but at least she 
 was an artist with a true gift, a wide vision, a techi- 
 cal skill that she was doing her best to improve. It 
 was with a little rush of renewed pain that she re- 
 membered that Clive had believed in her. Even in 
 the days before he had learned to care for her he 
 had displayed no doubt as to her ability. He had 
 admired her portrait of Roma, even when Moreton 
 had decried it. She clung pathetically to the poig- 
 nant remembrance of his praise. 
 
 Yes, she would go back and learn the truth. It 
 could not hurt her more than she had already been 
 hurt, and it might conceivably pour some little balm 
 upon her wounds. Clive had been compelled to yield 
 to Roma's entreaties that he should give up Sydney, 
 a girl quite unworthy of him and who was, besides, 
 bent upon becoming a Roman Catholic. Yes, she 
 could picture all that had passed. It wasn't Clive's 
 doing at all. He was weak Roma had ruled him 
 too long. He just submitted. It was Roma who 
 had no doubt undertaken to "get rid of her." And 
 then she remembered Clive's own words, spoken with 
 compassion as well as with a touch of scorn : "You 
 don't know your Roma." 
 
 Yes, that at least was quite true. She had never 
 known Roma. That Roma she had loved and 
 adored with a young girl's trembling worship had 
 never existed at all.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 AT dinner that night Sydney was alone with her 
 mother, who had brought back a much better 
 report of Moira, and was therefore in a more ob- 
 servant mood. 
 
 She said suddenly to Sydney: 
 
 "Is there anything the matter, Sydney? You are 
 looking very pale." 
 
 Sydney answered slowly: "I've heard bad news 
 from Venice. Moreton Cochrane is dead." 
 
 "Dead?" repeated Lady Flood. "And not at all 
 an old man ! Less than sixty, I should say." 
 
 "He was fifty-eight," said Sydney, "but of course 
 he's been very ill lately with his heart. I had a letter 
 from Roma, too, sent before his death, telling me 
 that they had very little hope." 
 
 There was a short silence, and then Lady 
 Flood said: 
 
 "He looked quite a strong sort of man that day 
 he was here. Rather vigorous than otherwise. 
 Does she want you to go to her?" 
 
 "Oh no !" said Sydney. There was certainly noth- 
 ing further from Roma's thoughts than any wish 
 of that sort. What were her exact words? You 
 will hate me for speaking the truth and for thus put- 
 ting an end to all Intercourse between us. . . . Yes, 
 they were quite clear, quite final. Roma never 
 wished to see her again. She forced back the tears 
 that were threatening to spring into her eyes. 
 
 "Judging from what I saw of Mrs. Cochrane, I 
 should nardly imagine that she would be broken- 
 hearted," observed Lady Flood. 
 
 369
 
 370 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 Yea, that also was probably quite true. Roma 
 had been a devoted wife; she nad been fond of 
 Moreton as far as she was capable of being fond of 
 any one. She had liked the kind of life that he was 
 able to give her, and the money that he poured out 
 so lavishly upon her. Roma liked to have plenty of 
 money; she spent it royally, for she was both ex- 
 travagant and generous, a combination that is less 
 frequent than is generally supposed. And all that 
 perfection of hers had been Moreton's continual de- 
 light. Her exquisite clothes and jewels, her beauti- 
 ful artistic houses, were the gifts he could bestow 
 upon her so that everything about her should be 
 flawless, and should add to the perfection of her 
 beauty. 
 
 "I've been wanting to speak to you about Venice," 
 said Lady Flood suddenly; "of course you're not 
 thinking of going back there now?" 
 
 She seemed to speak with the energy of carefully 
 simulated courage. 
 
 "Of course I have been thinking of it, Mamma. 
 I have been planning to go, directly Moira got 
 better." 
 
 "You've already wasted a good many months 
 there. I should have thought by,now you must have 
 seen how useless it was !" 
 
 "Useless?" In the face of this frontal attack 
 Sydney felt limp and helpless. She was nervous and 
 unstrung, and longing for solitude where she could 
 hide her misery from observant eyes. 
 
 "Well, I mean you must see that you're not going 
 to take the world by storm. Mr. Cochrane flattered 
 you, and, like an inexperienced little school-girl, you 
 accepted it all quite seriously. But now I think it 
 would be far wiser for you to stay here. You shall 
 have leisure in which to work." This was a very 
 remarkable concession, as Sydney was fully aware,
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 371 
 
 nevertheless it failed to tempt her. She must go 
 back. Venice was calling to her. . . . 
 
 "It's very kind of you to want me here, Mamma, 
 but I do really feel I ought to go back." Her tone 
 was piteous. 
 
 "I hoped," said Lady Flood, playing her last 
 card, "that you might perhaps reconsider a marriage 
 with Duncan Turner. He assures me that he has not 
 changed in the slightest degree except to become 
 more devoted to you." 
 
 "I shall never marry Duncan," said Sydney, in a 
 final tone. 
 
 She had had a glimpse that day of his iron will. 
 And although in the end she had thanked him, there 
 had been something of the "kissing-the-rod" attitude 
 in those thanks. But both he and Father John 
 seemed a long way off now. She had other sterner 
 things to think of. Things that must be accom- 
 plished first. She hardened her heart against all 
 these good kind people who would have kept her in 
 England. 
 
 "I hope there is no one else?" said Lady Flood, 
 who had long had her suspicions on the subject; 
 "you did not have any foolish flirtations while you 
 were in Venice? You aren't engaged to any one 
 there?" 
 
 There was a kind of crescendo of anxiety in 
 her tone. 
 
 Sydney was so pale that she looked as if all the 
 color had been washed out of her face. 
 
 "I am . . . not engaged," she said, and there was 
 such a lump in her throat that it seemed to close? 
 upon the words. When she had said it she felt 
 as if she had lied. But, no -it was quite true. 
 Clive had been accessory to the writing of that let- 
 ter. It was to show her that everything between 
 them was at an end. That engagement, they would
 
 372 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 now have her understand, had been but the product 
 of her own unrestrained, undisciplined imagination. 
 She would have to keep the secret of it until the 
 end of her life. She loved Clive far too well ever 
 to tell the truth to a living soul. He must have 
 known that, and thus he had not feared to lie to 
 Roma. But he had seen the folly, the madness of 
 such an engagement, and he had chosen the quickest, 
 the most efficacious means of getting rid of her. 
 
 Lady Flood asked no more questions. It was 
 useless to try to obtain any information from Syd- 
 ney; she had always been obstinately reserved. Even 
 as a child, threats had to be used to induce her to 
 speak. 
 
 Still, it was a little difficult to understand why 
 Sydney should look so terribly upset because More- 
 ton Cochrane was dead. She never seemed to have 
 liked him particularly; it was Roma who from the 
 first had attracted her so powerfully. There was 
 a mystery about the whole business which intrigued 
 Lady Flood. She wondered if Duncan knew any- 
 thing. But then he was the least curious of men. 
 If he wished to learn the precise nature of the dis- 
 aster that had overtaken Sydney in Venice, it would 
 simply be in order that he might assist her to ex- 
 tricate herself from it. When Lady Flood looked 
 at her daughter and saw her pallor, her deplorable 
 thinness, her nervous sleepless appearance, she felt 
 that she had used the word disaster advisedly. But 
 it was not one that she ventured to utter aloud. 
 
 When the evening papers were brought in, they 
 all proved to contain obituary notices of Moreton 
 Cochrane. Moreton Cochrane, the eminent art- 
 critic, had died at his villa on the Lido at the age 
 of fifty-eight years. Some of the notices were ex- 
 tremely eulogistic; others, evidently written by men 
 of the younger generation, were frankly derisive.
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 373 
 
 To some, Moreton had been a brilliant and sound 
 critic, possessing unusual flair combined with a sin- 
 gularly wise and broad judgment. To others, he 
 had appeared only as a dilettante with a shallow 
 but successful talent for judging pictures. One or 
 two old but rather significant mistakes were brought 
 up against him by these irreverent youthful persons. 
 Some of the papers remembered to add that he had 
 married just eleven years ago Roma, only child of 
 the late Montgomery West. There were no chil- 
 dren of the marriage. Visitors to last year's Salon 
 would no doubt remember the very remarkable por- 
 trait of Mrs. Cochrane which had made the name 
 of a young French artist. It was considered by 
 competent judges to have been one of the most beau- 
 tiful portraits done in recent years. . . . 
 
 "I had no idea he was so celebrated," said Lady 
 Flood dryly. She was decidedly impressed by the 
 number and length of the notices. Mr. Cochrane 
 had evidently been a person of great importance in 
 his own line. Still, she had never liked either him 
 or his wife. She was glad to think that Sydney 
 was removed from their influence. It was absurd 
 this talk of going back ! 
 
 Sydney made her plans very cautiously. First, 
 she wrote to Father John to tell him that for the 
 present she could not commence her instruction. She 
 gave no reason, and was too proud to ask him not 
 to mention her decision to Duncan. Let Duncan 
 find out what he could, but she did not in her heart 
 believe that he would learn anything from Father 
 John. The next thing to be done was to try to 
 sell some of her Venice drawings, in order to be 
 able to pay for her journey. This was especially 
 important, as Lady Flood had not refunded the sum 
 she had spent on her journey home.
 
 374 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 She took out some half-dozen sketches. In the 
 gray light of London with its confused and misty 
 outlines the brilliant coloring and sharp precision of 
 these drawings seemed almost exaggerated. The 
 only one that really satisfied her was the pearly Dawn 
 on the Lagoon, with its delicate violets and grays 
 and subdued silvers, and the campanile of San Gi- 
 orgio rising faintly rose-colored abruptly from the 
 pale water. She lingered a little over them, hat- 
 ing to part with them, for they were most inti- 
 mately her own, and she disliked to think of strang- 
 ers handling them. But at last she wrapped them 
 up and set forth on her quest. She made up her 
 mind to consult a dealer whose name she had often 
 heard Moreton mention. 
 
 It was an uncomfortable moment for Sydney when 
 she found herself in a kind of office at the back of 
 the shop, proffering her wares to an elderly, shrewd- 
 looking person of pronouncedly Semitic type. He 
 turned over the drawings carelessly, almost contemp- 
 tuously, putting his face down extremely close to 
 them as if he were very short-sighted indeed. But 
 he gazed longest and closest at Dawn on the 
 Laaoon. 
 
 I'll give you ten pounds for that one," he said 
 at last, brushing the rest away with his hand with 
 a gesture of disdain. 
 
 Sydney was startled. But she was not going to 
 sell her drawing for what she considered a paltry 
 sum. 
 
 "Twenty-five," she said firmly. "I've had fifty 
 for a drawing before now." 
 
 The man looked at her with some curiosity. 
 When she first came in she had given him the im- 
 pression that she was very young indeed, almost a 
 child. With her short skirts and bobbed hair it 
 was scarcely to be wondered at. But now that he
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 375 
 
 bestowed a more intent glance upon her he be- 
 came aware of the firmness of purpose in her 
 face. 
 
 "Some friend must have given it to you then," 
 he observed succinctly; "you never got fifty pounds 
 over the counter for work like that." And his 
 cigarette-stained fingers flicked at Dawn on the 
 Lagoon with something of contempt. Sydney kept 
 her temper with difficulty. All the time she was 
 thinking: "I must have twenty-five. It'll take me 
 back to Venice. ... 1 shall see Clive and he'll tell 
 me the truth. After that it won't matter." 
 
 She gathered up the drawings and was begin- 
 ning to wrap them in paper again when the man 
 said: "You'll never get twenty-five for that little 
 sketch. It isn't as if you had a name. When you 
 haven't got a name you're paid by size. You'd bet- 
 ter let me have it for ten pounds." 
 
 "I'm not going to sell it for less than twenty- 
 five. I will take it elsewhere," said Sydney firmly. 
 She disliked now the thought of selling it to this 
 man with his veiled insolence, his contempt for her 
 work. 
 
 She had got as far as the door when he came 
 after her. 
 
 "I've a customer who likes drawings of Italy 
 especially of Venice," he said. "But he don't give 
 fancy prices unless there's a name to it. I take it 
 you're about at the beginning, aren't you? Not but 
 that it is a nice, clever little bit of color. I'll have 
 another look at it, if you please." 
 
 Sydney came back reluctantly and opened her par- 
 cel once more. This selling business was odious, 
 even humiliating, but she would have endured worse 
 things than that to enable her to return to Clive. 
 When she thought of that meeting a great hope 
 welled up in her heart like a spring. Despite
 
 376 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 Roma's letter she could not renounce her faith in 
 Clive. 
 
 It was an attempt of Roma's to keep them apart. 
 She, Sydney, was not going to fall into the trap. 
 She must learn from dive's own lips that he had 
 ceased to love her. . . . 
 
 "Well, I suppose I must give you twenty-five for 
 it," said the man, screwing up one eye and survey- 
 ing the sketch through the other. 
 
 He pulled open a drawer, and began to occupy 
 himself with writing a check. 
 
 "Name?" he inquired. 
 
 "Miss Sydney Flood." 
 
 "Well, Miss Flood, we shall be hearing of you 
 one of these days, I daresay," he remarked, care- 
 fully blotting the slip of paper. 
 
 Sydney made no reply. His patronizing tone was 
 extremely distasteful to her. She longed for the 
 interview to come to an end. 
 
 "You'd better leave me your address. My cus- 
 tomer might ask to see some more stuff of yours," 
 he remarked. 
 
 Sydney handed him her card and put the check 
 into her purse. Then with a stiff, "Thank you. 
 Good-morning," she went out of the shop. 
 
 The money would take her back to Venice, and 
 she intended to start as soon as possible. Her face, 
 as she walked along the street, was stern with pur- 
 pose. To those who looked close it was the face 
 of a woman who had been most cruelly hurt. 
 
 It was on the following afternoon that a note 
 came from the dealer inviting her to bring some 
 more sketches for inspection. His customer had 
 bought Dawn on the Lagoon, and if she had any 
 other water-colors of a similar type it would interest 
 him to see them. There was just time to go round 
 before tea, and Sydney immediately packed up the
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 377 
 
 remainder of her sketches. There were about ten 
 of them in all, and even if they were less good than 
 the one she had sold, they at least possessed some- 
 thing of the atmosphere of Venice. The high sharp 
 tones, the cool shadows, the explicit outlines . . . 
 she had studied and absorbed those effects, before 
 she had ever put brush to paper, with eyes trained 
 to be observant and accurate as well as imaginative. 
 
 The dealer was in a far more polite mood that 
 afternoon. He seemed perfectly satisfied with the 
 "stuff" Sydney had brought to him. That one of 
 the Lido, for instance, with its glowing golden sands, 
 its bright blue sea and sky, the beautiful and char- 
 acteristic sails of the fishing boats, especially pleased 
 him. "He's pretty sure to buy that," he com- 
 mented. 
 
 He could not give the name of his client without 
 first asking permission. But he might mention that 
 he was a very wealthy gentleman with a great love 
 for Italy. He thought Dawn on the Lagoon quite 
 extraordinarily clever, true and brilliant and passion- 
 ate. He had expressed surprise that it had never 
 been exhibited. He had referred to her always as 
 Mr. Flood, imagining from her Christian name that 
 the artist was a man. "Judged you to be quite young 
 and unusually promising, with a rare quality of vi- 
 sion," said the dealer, to whom these things were 
 of value only because they were marketable com- 
 modities. 
 
 But Sydney flushed under the praise. It seemed 
 to her the most genuine and impartial criticism she 
 had ever received. It was neither the patronizing 
 praise bestowed as an encouragement, nor the cen- 
 sure prompted by a desire to snub, which had hith- 
 erto been her portion. Her work had been judged 
 on its own merits quite apart from herself, indeed 
 it had been held to be the production of a man.
 
 378 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 All these months it seemed to her that she had been 
 working blindly, feverishly, asking herself continu- 
 ally: "Is it worth while? Am I any good?" Now 
 the praise of this unknown critic answered these 
 questions, and stirred within her the old ambition 
 that Clive's love seemed to have quenched, as if no 
 other emotion could exist side by side with it. 
 
 A couple of days later she received a very sub- 
 stantial check for six of the drawings. The re- 
 mainder were returned to her. At least now she 
 had plenty of money for her journey to Italy, nor 
 need she fear starvation when she got there. She 
 would see Clive, just once, learn the truth from him, 
 and then, if need be, she would go away quietly and 
 work. And in time her work would teach her to 
 forget. She had a firm belief in it as an anodyne.
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 SOME weeks had passed, and Moira was now so 
 far recovered that Lady Flood was planning to 
 take her to Bournemouth. The doctor recom- 
 mended change. The day of departure was fixed, 
 and still Sydney had said no word to her mother 
 or to Duncan about her intended return to Venice. 
 Indeed, Lady Flood was so preoccupied with the 
 thought of taking Moira away to the seaside that 
 she did not question Sydney, but took it for granted 
 that she would spend the weeks of their absence in 
 London. Once she even tentatively suggested that 
 Sydney should accompany them, but the girl made 
 some slight excuse. 
 
 It was the evening before Lady Flood's departure 
 for Bournemouth. She and Sydney were at dinner, 
 and Duncan was with them. Upstairs Sydney's 
 ticket and passport reposed in readiness; she in- 
 tended to leave on the morning following her moth- 
 er's departure. She would write a note telling her 
 that she was gofng. It was easier to write than 
 to speak. She was only terrified lest at the last mo- 
 ment some one should step in and stop her. 
 
 She was alone with Duncan for a few minutes 
 after dinner, when Lady Flood was called away to 
 the telephone. Duncan looked at her and said: 
 "So the bird is preparing to fly?" 
 Sydney flushed. "How do you know?" 
 "My dear, I've known it I think for ages. 
 You've been waiting your opportunity, haven't you?" 
 "Don't tell Mamma," pleaded Sydney piteously. 
 
 379
 
 380 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 Duncan was hurt. 
 
 "When will you learn to trust me?" 
 
 "I sometimes feel that you are in league with 
 Mamma," said Sydney. 
 
 "I'm only in league with her in so far as we both 
 ardently wish to secure your ultimate happiness." 
 
 "I'm not happy here. You must see that. 1 was 
 happy in Venice!' 
 
 'Were you?" he said, but his ironical glance was 
 slightly incredulous. "I must take your word for 
 it, then. May I ask what you're going to do about 
 Father John?" 
 
 "I've written to explain things to him. He'll 
 understand." 
 
 "You haven't" and here he was aware he was 
 treading on delicate ground "you haven't given up 
 the idea of becoming a Catholic?" 
 
 "Of course I haven't. Probably I shall be re- 
 ceived abroad." 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't go, Sydney," said Duncan 
 with sudden seriousness; "I've an idea there's a very 
 bad quarter of an hour waiting for you in Venice." 
 
 She said quickly: "What makes you think that?" 
 
 "Well, I feel for one thing that you are going 
 there against your own better judgment." 
 
 It was quite true. But she disliked to hear it 
 put into words. If she were, for instance, to see 
 Roma instead of Clive, there would be a very bad 
 quarter of an hour indeed. 
 
 "And now that Moreton's dead, his wife will be 
 in deep mourning, and probably she won't go any- 
 where or receive visitors. I shouldn't like you to 
 feel that you weren't wanted by Mrs. Cochrane !" 
 There was a little disdain in his voice. 
 
 "You never liked her. . . . You don't under- 
 stand," said Sydney. 
 
 It was horrible to think that Duncan should not 
 only have divined her intention, but that he should
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 381 
 
 also have laid his finger so unerringly upon the very 
 misgivings that were assailing her. 
 
 "Have you enough money for your journey?" he 
 inquired. "Traveling costs a lot, and the trains are 
 so crowded now, you can't go second class." 
 
 Sydney flushed a little. "You needn't be anxious 
 about that. I've plenty of money." 
 
 Duncan was secretly astonished, and in his as- 
 tonishment there was an anxiety which he could not 
 immediately allay. Were these people actually pay- 
 ing for her journey in order that she might return 
 to them? What was their influence over her? He 
 set aside these thoughts as unworthy, yet he could 
 not but realize the sinister effect of that influence. 
 It was only when she had apparently forgotten them 
 a little, had turned her thoughts to becoming a Cath- 
 olic, that she had seemed in the least like the old 
 normal Sydney. 
 
 Once Lady Flood had said to him : "I'm not really 
 afraid that she'll go off suddenly without telling me. 
 To begin with, she hasn't the money I've been care- 
 ful not to give her any." 
 
 It was only natural that he should wonder, there- 
 fore, where the money had come from. So he was 
 intensely relieved when after a slight pause Sydney 
 said: 
 
 "You see, I've been able to sell seven of those 
 sketches I brought back. They they paid pretty 
 well for them." 
 
 "They?" said Duncan. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know the man's name. I sold them 
 through a dealer," explained Sydney. "They think 
 I'm a man when they see the name Sydney Flood!" 
 
 She laughed, and Duncan, relieved, was able to 
 join in her laughter. 
 
 "You won't go without telling me, will you ?" he 
 said at last. "I am so very fond of you, Sydney, 
 that it gives me a kind of right a sort of brotherly
 
 382 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 right, since you won't hear of anything else. I 
 should like to come and see you off." 
 
 "Very well, Duncan. If you come in to-morrow 
 afternoon after Mamma's gone, I will tell you." 
 
 "But you know 1 think it's awfully wrong of you 
 to go without telling your mother." 
 
 "Yes, I know. But she would try to prevent me, 
 and I can't risk that. You can't think how much 
 against it they all are Mamma and Moira and 
 Wanley. They were talking about it only yesterday." 
 
 " 'In the multitude of counselors,' " quoted Dun- 
 can dryly. 
 
 "No," she said firmly, "I know best about this. 
 I must go." 
 
 Lady Flood came back into the room. 
 
 "We shall be leaving early," she said, "about 
 eleven o'clock. There's to be a motor-ambulance. 
 I do hope the dear child will bear the journey well." 
 
 "Is there anything I can do?" said Duncan. 
 
 "No I don't think so, thank you," said Lady 
 Flood. 
 
 She liked to think that this serious, reliable young 
 man was always at hand eager and ready to proffer 
 assistance. He had won a place in the regard of 
 the whole family. Already Wanley was fond of 
 him, and had been heard to express a wish that he 
 and Sydney "would make it up." Duncan's wel- 
 come as an "in-law" was prepared and waiting for 
 him. It was not his fault that it could not yet be 
 bestowed. 
 
 His heart sank when he thought of Sydney's ob- 
 stinacy in making this second journey. And she 
 looked so miserable so unfit to go alone, and per- 
 haps have a "thin" time when she got there. 
 
 "I should like to speak to Roma Cochrane for 
 five minutes alone," he thought to himself as he 
 walked home that night. "1 think I could say all 
 I want to in five minutes."
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 383 
 
 Lady Flood departed for Bournemouth on the fol- 
 lowing day without a single qualm of anxiety on 
 Sydney's account. She had kissed her affectionately 
 at parting; and promises to write very soon had 
 been made on both sides. 
 
 When her mother had gone, Sydney went up to 
 her room to make her final preparations. She would 
 have to leave the house before seven o'clock on the 
 following morning, and she thought she would ask 
 Duncan to come and help her. He could bring a 
 taxi; one could not always find one at that early 
 hour. She must tell Wright to put some coffee in 
 the dining-room for her at half-past six. 
 
 The prospect of the journey excited her. Now 
 that it was drawing so near, much of her anxiety 
 seemed to leave her. She was so sure that it would 
 be all right that she only needed to see Clive 
 again, and everything would be once more smooth 
 between them. It was Roma who had planned and 
 plotted to separate them. Had not Clive once 
 begged her not to lose her faith in him, however 
 much circumstances might appear to be against him ? 
 Those words recurring to her now had a comforting, 
 tranquilizing effect upon her. 
 
 Roma had told her in her letter that the whole 
 episode had been but the product of her own imagi- 
 nation. Nevertheless, Sydney felt assured that Mrs. 
 Cochrane must have known something of dive's 
 divided loyalty. She must have regarded Sydney 
 in some sort as a rival, even if she knew nothing of 
 the actual truth. But the conflict had changed since 
 Moreton's death. Roma was a free woman now, 
 and if she chose, she could bind Clive to her by 
 lasting ties. She did not love him -of that Sydney 
 felt convinced but she would allow no other woman 
 to possess him. He was the younger of the two, 
 and for a long time Roma had ruled him. With 
 Moreton she had kept him closely chained.
 
 384 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 The November morning was bitterly cold; there 
 was a frost, which had produced a slight but disa- 
 greeable fog that blotted out everything that was 
 not quite close at hand. Perhaps there would be a 
 fog, too, in the Channel. That would be very tire- 
 some, and mean additional delay. She was to sleep 
 in Paris that night, and continue her journey to 
 Venice on the following day. 
 
 Duncan appeared, punctual to the moment, his 
 dark face slightly reddened by the contact with the 
 bleak air. He accompanied Sydney to the station, 
 saying little on the way, and making a studious en- 
 deavor not to appear in the least disapproving. It 
 was too late to play the part of the disinterested 
 adviser, since Sydney neither asked nor required 
 counsel. She was quite as obstinately bent upon this 
 second journey as she had ever been on the first. 
 If her courage was failing her at all, she gave no 
 sign of it. She was calm, composed, pale, very 
 resolute, with shining eyes and set mouth, her de- 
 termined expression being singularly at variance with 
 her childish appearance. 
 
 "I hope you'll bring back some more delicious 
 water-colors," he did manage to say once, feeling 
 that the silence was becoming almost more than he 
 could bear. 
 
 "I shall have to try and sell what the dealer calls 
 my 'stuff' if I'm to live," she answered. "So I hope 
 not to bring a great deal back with me, if I ever do 
 come. I don't fancy Mamma will be so easy to 
 propitiate this time," and she smiled. 
 
 Duncan's face was perfectly grave. He had an 
 immense sympathy for Lady Flood, and he sincerely 
 hoped that she would not blame him for conniving 
 at Sydney's departure. Last spring he had felt a 
 great sympathy for Sydney when she struck that 
 blow in the cause of her own freedom. But since 
 then, he had learnt to like and appreciate her mother.
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 385 
 
 He was beginning to think there was something 
 to be said, after all, for the steady, home-loving, 
 reliable Victorian woman. 
 
 "You can hardly blame her if she isn't," he said, 
 after a moment's pause. He realized, as he spoke, 
 that he must really love Sydney very much indeed 
 to be able to forgive her this second escapade. The 
 other had been simple enough to understand; she 
 had been swept off her feet by the charm and beauty 
 of Mrs. Cochrane, by the skillful flattery bestowed 
 upon her work. But this second journey was much 
 less easy to understand. She was flying in the face 
 of every one's advice, and there was no reason to 
 believe that the slightest pressure was being applied 
 this time from the Cochrane side. And if they 
 didn't want her, why in Heaven's name was she go- 
 ing back there, precipitately, almost secretly? These 
 problems were difficult of solution, and Duncan's un- 
 easiness concerning them had long ago led him to 
 suspect the "young Apollo" of having something 
 extremely definite to do with the step Sydney was 
 about to take. Most probably she was in love with 
 him, but then she certainly did not look in the least 
 like a woman who was engaged in a successful love- 
 affair. Everything rather pointed to the contrary. 
 And if this man didn't love her, why was she going 
 back to be shamed and perhaps humbled by a chill- 
 ing reception ? This thought disturbed Duncan most 
 of all. His queen, who should have been raised so 
 high, to love or fancy that she loved unavailingly ! 
 He glanced at the slight, composed figure by his 
 side. He longed to take her roughly in his arms 
 and tell her that he would not let her go. But 
 the risk was too great. Sydney might have yielded, 
 but on the other hand she might never have for- 
 given him. Duncan folded his arms and looked out 
 of the window. The fog disclosed nothing more 
 illuminating than a straight line of rather shabby
 
 386 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 railings. He did not know in the least where they 
 were. 
 
 "Oh, you haven't given me your address in 
 Venice," he suddenly reminded her. 
 
 Sydney took out a card and gave it to him. She 
 had written the address upon it just below her name. 
 Duncan glanced at it and put it in his pocket. Even 
 the possession of this struck him as in some sense 
 a safeguard. She might so easily have refused 
 to give it or hampered the bestowal with condi- 
 tions. 
 
 Now they had reached Victoria station, and the 
 real business of the day began. Although they were 
 very early, an immense number of intending passen- 
 gers had already assembled there. To his relief 
 Duncan found that Sydney was going to travel first- 
 class, he had been half afraid that she would econo- 
 mize over that part. He did not realize that her 
 sole aim was to get to Venice as quickly as possible, 
 and to insure this she was going to travel by the 
 train-de-luxe from Paris. Having seen her into a 
 compartment with several other heavily-enveloped 
 women, .he stood on the platform outside close to her 
 window. He did not find much to say. Sydney 
 seemed so utterly careless of the hurt she was in- 
 flicting upon him; he did not even think that she 
 realized it. That strange concentration of hers 
 always perhaps rather a cruel, relentless thing was 
 completely occupied by the thought of going to 
 Venice. She was probably not thinking of him at 
 all, unless she felt perhaps a vague sense of grati- 
 tude for the slight help he had been able to offer. 
 Very soon she would be miles away from him. He 
 wished he had thought of traveling to Folkestone 
 with her. This going away of hers was a thou- 
 sand times worse than the last. At least, then she 
 had been traveling under the care of the Cochranes.
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 387 
 
 He bought some illustrated papers and gave them 
 to her. 
 
 "And you've got things to eat and drink, I hope?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. Biscuits and chocolate," said Sydney, 
 cheerfully. 
 
 "And you'll write? 1 shall want to hear how you 
 get on." 
 
 "Yes. I'll be sure to write. And, Duncan, would 
 you mind posting this letter to Mamma?" 
 
 She put it into his hand with a smile of confi- 
 dence. Duncan accepted it with rather a rueful air. 
 
 "You're determined to make me an accessory after 
 the crime," he said. 
 
 "Well, I really couldn't trust it to any one else, 
 could I?" said Sydney. "You must do your best 
 with Mamma, you know, Duncan. You've really 
 got a great talent for managing her !" 
 
 "I'm afraid I shall have lost what little influ- 
 ence I had. Your going off like this your drag- 
 ging me into it " 
 
 "Oh, no ! You asked to come ! You questioned 
 me till I was obliged to confess the truth. You're 
 always practicing the cross-examination of people in 
 private life." 
 
 "Am I?" said Duncan. He found her determined 
 gayety in which he did not in the least believe 
 slightly jarring. Of course it was easy to see that 
 she was preternaturally excited. In fact, he had 
 never seen her so excited in all his life. She was so 
 glad to go, then ? So untouched by the faintest sor- 
 row at leaving him to his solitude? 
 
 "Now you're off. Good-by, my dear Sydney. 
 Write from Paris if you can." He wrung the little 
 gloved hand thrust out of the window towards him. 
 
 "Yes yes " said Sydney, "good-by, Duncan 
 thank you for coming." The train moved like a long 
 winding serpent out of the station.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 FOR Sydney the long journey passed in a kind of 
 uneasy restless dream. It is true that her brain 
 continued to register impressions of all the scenes 
 through which she passed, but they were mere sur- 
 face things; her subconscious mind was deeply and 
 wholly preoccupied with the climax towards which 
 that journey was bearing her. So much hung upon 
 the issue or it. Sometimes she even felt as if her 
 whole future life were at stake, would depend upon 
 whether her endeavor to see Clive again proved suc- 
 cessful or not. 
 
 There was a thick fog in the Channel, enfolding 
 it like a close blanket and swallowing up all other 
 shipping from sight, making it necessary, too, for 
 the steamer to emit a continuous succession of ex- 
 cruciating sounds to warn other craft of its approach. 
 Many ofthe passengers were extremely nervous, and 
 Sydney noticed to her astonishment a young, very 
 well-dressed woman who became almost hysterical 
 with fear as the boat plodded its way across to 
 France. 
 
 Well, the delay would not affect her very much, 
 since she had arranged to sleep in Paris. She was 
 to travel by a through train to Venice, that left Paris 
 on the following day in the late afternoon. She 
 would spend one whole night in the train and part 
 of two days less than thirty hours in all, unless it 
 were very late. Venice! . . . She thought of it 
 now with an anguish of longing that was almost 
 fantastic. Two months had gone by since she had 
 left it, and now it was nearly six weeks since More- 
 
 388
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 389 
 
 ton Cochrane's death. She wondered if she would 
 find Roma still at the Lido. Of course, it was get- 
 ting late in the season; most of the villas and hotels 
 would be closed for the winter, but it was possible 
 that she might prefer to spend the first weeks of her 
 widowhood in retirement there. It was difficult for 
 Sydney to picture Roma as a widow. . . . 
 
 It was night when she left France behind her, 
 passing the Alps, that looked so cold and majestic 
 with their crown of snows in the moonlight. Dawn 
 was breaking faintly over the Lake of Geneva as 
 the train skirted it, and the pale silhouettes of snow- 
 capped mountains seemed to lift themselves from 
 a sea of mist towards the brilliant colorless sky. 
 Sydney fell asleep again as the train bored its way 
 through tunnels into Italy. It was nearly midday 
 when they reached Domodossola, and she heard the 
 familiar sound of Italian voices, and felt the thrill 
 of being once more in Italy. She was so happy 
 then, that she felt as if everything must go well. . . . 
 
 The sun was shining as she passed the Lakes, that 
 were turquoise-colored under that serene sky, with 
 groves of flaming chestnut woods clothing the slopes 
 above them. Milan Brescia (the words of The 
 old Patriot came inconsequently to her mind and she 
 quoted them softly to herself: 
 
 "Thus I entered Brescia, and thus 1 go 
 In such triumphs people have dropped down dead." 
 
 In such triumphs people have dropped down dead 
 yes, she thought it wouldn't hurt perhaps to die like 
 that in one splendid moment of success!) Verona 
 Padua she would soon be in Venice now; every 
 moment the train was drawing nearer to it. 
 
 She would go to bed as soon as possible to-night, 
 so as to have a long rest. Then to-morrow not
 
 390 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 too early she would take the steamer and cross 
 the lagoon to the Lido, where she would at least 
 hear news of Roma. Her heart sank a little at the 
 thought of that meeting it was bound to be a very 
 disagreeable one and she might still insist upon 
 preventing her from seeing Clive. Sydney knew 
 that it would require all her courage to go, and 
 that she must doff her mantle of pride before she 
 started. . . . 
 
 Now the lights of Venice were dimly visible 
 through the thin silver fog that hung over the 
 lagoon. The autumn air was chilly. There was a 
 circle of mist over the moon. On each side of the 
 train the pale and luminous waters of the lagoon 
 stretched like a vast plain. 
 
 Sydney put her head out of the window and 
 strained her eyes to catch the first glimpse of those 
 shadowy, nearing towers. 
 
 She was a little giddy when she descended from 
 the train, but the fresh cold air revived her as she 
 went in a gondola to her old abode. There had 
 been no time to warn the landlady that she was com- 
 ing, but surely it would not take long to get things 
 ready and even supply her with a little food. She 
 wasn't hungry; she only longed to go to bed and 
 sleep and sleep. . . . 
 
 She climbed the flights of steep stairs that led 
 up to her apartment and rang the bell. After some 
 little delay, which rendered her nervous lest there 
 should be no one to admit her, the old woman opened 
 the door. She lifted up her hands with a gesture of 
 surprise and pleasure when she saw Sydney standing 
 there, and her eager, warm welcome touched the girl, 
 who was in the mood to be sensitive to trifles. Yes, 
 she would bring her something to eat at once; she 
 had bread and coffee and eggs and some red wine if 
 the signorina wished for it. Sydney gratefully ac-
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 391 
 
 cepted, and went into her bedroom. It looked a lit- 
 tle bare, and it was very cold and cheerless. Her 
 locked trunks were standing there just as she had left 
 them. She went to the window and threw it open 
 and pushed back the wooden shutters. Across the 
 lagoon, whose waters were faintly touched to silver 
 by that misty moonlight, she could see the lights upon 
 the Lido burning almost spectrally. Was Roma 
 there? And Clive? . . . 
 
 She was too tired to do much unpacking. Just 
 her things for the night. . . . She swallowed some 
 food and then got into bed. Her longing for sleep 
 was almost like an illness. But it was not easy to 
 sleep that night. Tormenting visions of what to- 
 morrow might bring teased her brain. The sound 
 of the train was still in her ears, and the grinding 
 of the wheels made her feel as if her head were 
 turning with them. She tossed restlessly, a prey to 
 anxiety and suspense. But to-morrow she would at 
 least learn the truth. To-morrow she would go to 
 the Lido and confront Roma. It would be very 
 hard and difficult, but it was necessary it had to 
 be done. She could not submit to being thrust into 
 the darkness away from Clive without a single word 
 of explanation from him. 
 
 In the morning the sight of her white ravaged 
 face in the mirror almost deterred her from going. 
 Her eyes and skin looked dull and lusterless. What- 
 ever beauty she had was under eclipse. 
 
 Venice looked sad and morne under this melan- 
 choly November sky with the light fog still cling- 
 ing about the lagoon and obscuring the islands. It 
 had an austere aspect, very different from its radiant 
 summer mood. The steamers were plying to and 
 from the Lido; she could see them pass, congested 
 as always with passengers. A gondola went by and 
 its black shape disappeared into the mist. A man-
 
 392 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 of-war was anchored in the Giudecca Canal. She 
 saw again the beautiful dome of Santa Maria della 
 Salute. And on the golden ball at the point of the 
 Dogana the familiar figure of Fortune holding out 
 its cloak moved in response to the wind. Nothing 
 was altered, except that Moreton was dead, and 
 Roma's love for her had changed into hatred. Of 
 Clive she dared not think. 
 
 It was nearly eleven o'clock when she went down 
 to the Riva and took a steamer to the Lido. It 
 was not very crowded at that hour, and she found 
 a seat forward, where the cool air touched her face 
 and revived her. As she drew nearer to the island, 
 she thought that it looked beautiful with its trees 
 wearing their brave, golden autumn array. South- 
 ward she could see the irregular line of the coast 
 colored in faintest violet, and to the north the Alps 
 seemed to hang in mid-air, their summits all cov- 
 ered with snow. 
 
 Her troubled imagination began to picture all 
 kinds of calamities that might have occurred during 
 these past weeks of silence. Since the news of 
 Moreton's death, no word of the Cochranes had 
 reached her. There had been, as she knew, a re- 
 crudescence of the spagnuola, as the Italians call the 
 fatal Spanish influenza, in many places. Clive and 
 Roma might both be dead, for all that she knew. 
 But no, she reflected quickly, there would have been 
 at least a paragraph in the paper to announce the 
 death of Mrs. Moreton Cochrane had it followed 
 that of her husband with such tragic swiftness. 
 Well, whatever had happened, she would soon know. 
 What was it that Duncan had said? His words 
 recurred to her uncomfortably now: "I've an idea 
 there is a very bad quarter of an hour waiting for 
 you in Venice. . . . He had wanted to save her 
 from it, and she had refused to be saved. But she
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 393 
 
 had a sudden wish then that Duncan could have been 
 with her. 
 
 When she reached the Lido she walked towards 
 the Villa Roma. The acacias still wore their fragile 
 foliage, that looked now like golden coins, and a 
 faint gleam of sun illuminated the long avenue to a 
 bright splendor. The plane-trees were shedding 
 their large, crisp, substantial leaves, and the little 
 dark pendent balls decorated the half-stripped 
 boughs. When she came in sight of the high iron 
 gates, her heart beat a little faster, and she felt 
 that she had scarcely strength to proceed. Yes, 
 Duncan was right, she oughtn't to have come; she 
 hadn't the courage. . . . 
 
 Sydney looked timidly up at the house. It 
 showed signs of habitation. Some of the windows 
 were open, and a faint wreath of smoke curled lazily 
 up from one of the chimneys. Some wicker chairs 
 were in the loggia ; she was relieved to see that no 
 one was sitting there. If Roma caught sight of her 
 she might give an order that she was not to be ad- 
 mitted. Roma was ever afraid of a scene. She had 
 no fancy for being confronted by her victims after 
 their downfall. 
 
 Sydney stood there irresolutely. A bush of 
 mimosa near the gate was already in blossom, and 
 its powerful scent filled the air and made her feel 
 almost faint. Between the boughs of the pines she 
 could see the long blue line of the Adriatic glim- 
 mering in the sun. She rang the bell, waited, heard 
 the faint click that signified the drawing back of the 
 latch, and pushed open the gate. 
 
 A flower-bed covered completely with a mass of 
 scarlet salvias blazed like fire near the house. A 
 low hedge of veronica was decked with its small pur- 
 ple pyramids of bloom, and some butterflies had set- 
 tled there and were opening and shutting their dark
 
 394 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 scarlet-marked wings. They were "Red Admirals" 
 of coarse. . . . She passed a bed of violets; their 
 perfume mingled with that of the mimosa, making 
 the very air fragrant. Now she was near the door, 
 and she glanced up at the room that had once been 
 hers. She thought of that wet day when Clive had 
 first wandered lazily in to look at the portrait of 
 Roma. A little nonchalant and disdainful at first, 
 then suddenly interested and warming to enthusiasm. 
 Then all the other days. . . . The ,day when he had 
 made her go and sit on the sands with him and told 
 her that he loved her. She choked back a sob. To 
 see Clive, was now all that she needed. . . . Just 
 to see him. Not to reproach him. Not to plead. 
 Only to look upon his dear face and listen to his 
 musical, charming voice. 
 
 Overhead the pines looked lustrously green 
 against the deep lapis of the sky. It was a day of 
 summer, the beautiful sad summer that belongs to 
 St. Martin. 
 
 A manservant whom she had never before seen, 
 opened the door. 
 
 "Is the signora at home?" asked Sydney. Her 
 voice was not perfectly controlled, and surely it was 
 the strong mingled scent of mimosa and violets that 
 was making her head swim so that she almost feared 
 she would fall to the ground. 
 
 "La signora non riceve" said the man courteously. 
 
 "Does not receive?" repeated Sydney. "Oh, but 
 I think perhaps she will receive me. . . ." 
 
 She took out her card-case and gave a card to the 
 man, saying in her pretty halting Italian: "Please 
 give this card to the signora." 
 
 The strong sunlight hurt her eyes. The scent of 
 the mimosa was overpowering. She felt almost 
 faint with suspense as the man departed with her 
 card.
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 395 
 
 Roma would be angry with her for coming. She 
 had never seen her angry, for Roma had methods of 
 gaining her own way without displays of wrath. 
 In emergency she was cool, calculating, decisive. 
 
 The man returned. 
 
 "La signora non riceve. . . ." 
 
 This time she was aware of a touch of determina- 
 tion in his voice as if the orders he had received had 
 been very explicit. 
 
 "Is ... is the signorino here?" she asked des- 
 perately. Not a second time would she go away 
 without a word. 
 
 "Si, signorina" 
 
 "Give him this card. . . ." She scribbled on it: 
 "Clive I want to see you for a moment. Please 
 come." 
 
 The man took the card, and in .his face she dis- 
 cerned a kind of insolent surprise at her persistency. 
 
 "S'accomodt," he said, indicating a chair in the 
 hall. 
 
 It was almost an exact repetition of he* former 
 visit, except that on that occasion Moreton had been 
 still alive, lying ill in the darkened room upstairs 
 with Clive in close attendance, night and day. 
 
 Little sounds came to her. The ticking of the 
 lacquer clock . . . how well she remembered it. 
 The distant sustained chatter coming from the serv- 
 ants' quarter. The song of a bird in the trees out- 
 side, a melancholy autumn chirrup, so different from 
 its spring melody. Five minutes passed. . . . Ten 
 minutes. . . . Perhaps Roma and Clive were con- 
 sulting together; Clive in favor of seeing her and 
 giving her a word of explanation; Roma totally, 
 coldly opposed to such a proceeding. Sydney felt 
 as if her fate were trembling in the balance. 
 
 There was a step on the stair and Clive Cochrane 
 came into the hall.
 
 396 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 "Miss Flood, Mrs. Cochrane has sent me to tell 
 you that she regrets she cannot possibly receive you. 
 She thinks you have made a mistake in coming here 
 at all. Did you not receive her letter?" 
 
 Was this Clive speaking her Clive who, last 
 time she had seen him, had clasped her to him and 
 kissed her? Sydney listened as one stunned; she was 
 not conscious of any pain, only a numbness that 
 seemed like death. 
 
 Miss Flood Mrs. Cochrane . . .it was long 
 since Clive had used those formal names in speak- 
 ing to her. She said in a low controlled voice : 
 
 "I had her letter. But I wanted some explana- 
 tion " She looked up at Clive. He did not meet 
 her eyes, but gazed straight in front of him. His 
 face was very stern; something of its old boyish- 
 ness had gone out of it. He did not look happy, 
 and she knew that he was angry and was trying to 
 control that anger. 
 
 She cried out suddenly as if the words had been 
 wrung from her by some superior force : 
 
 "You told me not to lose faith ... in your love 
 for me. . . ." 
 
 "I think you ought to have realized that circum- 
 stances have very much changed. My cousin's 
 death has made a great difference to me. But to 
 show you how entirely useless it is for you to come 
 here asking for explanations, I will tell you what is 
 known only to a very few people. Roma and I were 
 married three days ago in Switzerland. We re- 
 turned here yesterday." 
 
 He made a movement as if to leave the house and 
 conduct her to the gate. 
 
 There was no kind of compassion in his tone as 
 he pronounced the fatal words. There was no ef- 
 fort to soften the blow for her. He had returned 
 to his old allegiance, and he had made it a perma-
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 397 
 
 nent one. His only anxiety now seemed to be to get 
 rid of Sydney as quickly and as efficaciously as pos- 
 sible. 
 
 She followed him, stumbling, down the path. 
 
 "My wife was very much opposed to my telling 
 you of our marriage, Miss Flood," he continued, 
 "but for once I felt that I could not yield to her 
 wishes. I consulted her before coming down to see 
 you." 
 
 Roma and I were married three days ago. . . . 
 The whole world seemed to be spinning about her in 
 darkness, and Sydney felt as if her limbs would give 
 way. She had hardly strength to follow Clive in 
 his evident haste to the gate. But she kept a firm 
 hold over herself. In her blanched, set face there 
 was no sign of emotion. She had the desire, com- 
 mon to proud natures, to hide her mortal hurt. In 
 betrayal of it there would be a second and deeper 
 agony. 
 
 The sunlight hurt her like fiery darts falling upon 
 her face. That terrible sky dazzled her; it was 
 almost as blue as it had been in summer. She never 
 knew quite how she reached the gate, while those 
 words echoed maddeningly, deafeningly, in her ears : 
 Roma and I were married three days ago. . . . 
 
 They must have been married, the day she left 
 London to embark upon this foolish, futile journey. 
 Duncan seemed to have foreseen, with his strangely 
 acute discernment, that the adventure would end in 
 disaster. He had tried to hold her back; they had 
 all tried to hold her back. Duncan . . . Father 
 John. . . . She was being heavily punished now. If 
 she had only waited she would indubitably have 
 heard the truth in due time. 
 
 Clive was holding the gate open, waiting for her 
 to pass through.
 
 398 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 "I am sorry you returned to Venice," he was say- 
 ing, "but naturally Roma imagined she had made her 
 meaning perfectly clear, that she didn't wish to re- 
 ceive you again. I certainly thought the letter was 
 sufficiently explicit." 
 
 "I did not feel from Mrs. Cochrane's letter that 
 she was aware of the truth," said Sydney, lifting her 
 head a little. She looked at Clive with a faint dis- 
 dain. He was a coward then he had not dared 
 to inform Roma of how matters stood between him- 
 self and Sydney. He was ashamed of that love that 
 had sprung up between them a young, fresh, beau- 
 tiful thing that might have borne such happy fruit. 
 They had loved each other, and now she felt al- 
 most as if she were looking upon the face of a 
 stranger. A stranger who nevertheless had the 
 power to inflict cruel hurt upon her. 
 
 The sacrifice had been exacted. It had not been 
 left to her to make the choice between the claims 
 of faith and those of human love. In the midst of 
 this present grief she felt the profound spiritual con- 
 solation of that thought. Almighty God sometimes 
 showed his nearness to a soul by causing it to suffer. 
 That was perhaps why St. Teresa had prayed for 
 suffering. "Either to suffer or to die!" . . . 
 
 "Good-by," she said. Her throat was dry and 
 seemed to close upon the word. She did not hold 
 out her hand to him; she felt that she could endure 
 anything in the world rather than that conventional 
 touch of hand to hand. She bowed slightly and 
 her face was quite impassive as she went out of 
 the gate. 
 
 Cnve watched her for a second there was some- 
 thing at once so mature and so childish about her. 
 The vision of that slight, light figure stepping swiftly 
 away half-fascinated him. What pluck and grit 
 she had if this had really hurt her ! But no he
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 399 
 
 couldn't believe that, the whole episode had been so 
 little removed from a schoolgirl's sentimental wor- 
 ship. . . . 
 
 He pushed the gate so that it shut and locked 
 automatically, and went back to the house. Then 
 he ran lightly up the stairs to Roma's sitting-room. 
 
 She held out her arms to him, and he went and 
 knelt by her side. Her dark eyes were very bright 
 as they rested upon him. She was a changed Roma 
 a Roma all softened with love. . . . 
 
 "Darling, was she very tiresome? Tell me. . . ." 
 
 "Oh, she wasn't tiresome. I just told her, and 
 she went away . . . she hardly said anything. She 
 didn't seem to blame any one." He thought of that 
 proud little figure walking away down the road, the 
 childish head held very high, with something of a 
 woman's pride. He could not deny to Sydney a 
 certain wistful admiration. 
 
 "You were very foolish and weak, Clive, ever to 
 let her imagine you cared about her. . . ." 
 
 "Yes," he admitted. "But now we need never 
 think about that again. It's all over and I'm glad 
 I saw her. It was better." 
 
 "She was such a silly little thing," said Roma 
 Cochrane. "1 blame myself for ever persuading her 
 to come with us. But she looked such a child, and 
 she seemed so restless and ambitious and unhappy, 
 and then there was that awful mother. ... I did 
 it for the best." 
 
 "She was the very last of poor old Moreton's 
 discoveries," said Clive. 
 
 "You never did really care for her, did you, 
 Clive?" Roma asked, a little persistently. 
 
 Her face was very near his, and Clive drew her 
 to him and kissed her. "Never never, Roma 
 darling," he whispered.
 
 SYDNEY walked down the road under the shade of 
 the plane-trees, whose harsh dry leaves were scat- 
 tered everywhere, and crackled audibly as she trod 
 upon them. She did not once glance back at the 
 villa, for she was conscious, amid all the raging 
 tumult of her thoughts, of one distinct wish, and 
 that was never again to look upon the face of Clive 
 Cochrane. He had married Roma. He had not 
 even troubled to write to put an end to an engage- 
 ment which he now tacitly denied had ever existed. 
 It was true that he had been perfectly conversant 
 with the exact terms of Roma's last letter to her. It 
 was perhaps at his own request that Roma had come 
 to see her that day in Venice, and had explained to 
 her casually the closeness of the ties which bound 
 Clive to herself and Moreton. 
 
 His silence was now accounted for. All that 
 had been ambiguous and puzzling was made abun- 
 dantly clear. They were married, these two, -her 
 friend and the man who had promised to marry 
 her. They were alike lost to her. She had known 
 for some time that Roma's friendship for her was 
 a thing of the past, but the faithfulness of Clive's 
 love she had never really doubted. 
 
 This time she had no sense of unreality such as 
 she had experienced that day in London when she 
 had read Roma's letter. She was no longer like 
 an onlooker gazing in stupefied horror at the tor- 
 tures of a writhing fellow-being whom she did not 
 identify as herself. Now body and soul were 
 wrapped in an enveloping mist of pain, and as the 
 
 400
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 401 
 
 pain drew near to her heart in concentric waves 
 of agony, she had a feeling which she fantasti- 
 cally imagined must resemble that of approaching 
 death. . . . 
 
 She remembered nothing of that journey back to 
 Venice in the steamer. It was almost empty, and 
 she sat with her eyes fixed upon Venice, upon the 
 beautiful dispositions of its towers and domes, ris- 
 ing as it were sheer from the water, like some long- 
 sunken city that had been miraculously salvaged. 
 Some sea-gulls were flying low over the lagoon, and 
 as the November sunlight touched their wings, they 
 seemed whiter than the snows that lay upon the 
 summit of the Alps. The gray palaces on the Grand 
 Canal were touched here and there with frugal gold 
 as the sunlight smote them. Between the twin rows 
 of them the Canal ran, deep, jade-colored, stirred 
 momentarily into white froth as a motor-boat 
 churned its tempestuous way through those quiet wa- 
 ters. Everywhere the foliage of trees and shrubs 
 was touched to brilliant, fiery reds and golds by the 
 hand of autumn. Only the darkness of pines and 
 cypresses and ilex-trees remained unchanged; the 
 passing of the seasons could not affect their somber 
 majesty. 
 
 Sydney went back to her own apartment. She 
 lay down on the sofa and closed her eyes, for she 
 was very tired. Her thoughts continued to revolve 
 in the same maddening circle. Roma should have 
 been more explicit. Clive should have written to 
 break off their engagement. If they had only been 
 frank with her, she would have been saved from 
 making this mad, disastrous journey. For how 
 could she go home again in the face of this humili- 
 ating experience that had humbled her to the very 
 dust? She could never hold up her head again. 
 When the marriage of Clive and Roma should be-
 
 402 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 come known for such exciting gossip as that was 
 bound to leak out very soon they would all guess 
 at the reason of her abrupt return. She could not 
 go back, she must stay somewhere in Italy alone, 
 wounded to the death. The portrait of Roma, 
 which she had taken out that morning, was watching 
 her with attentive, mocking eyes. She rose and 
 impatiently turned it with its face to the wall. She 
 could not bear to look upon it, to remember with 
 what love she had painted it. She saw for the first 
 time that unawares her brush had given something 
 of its latent ruthlessness to that beautiful face, some- 
 thing too of its intrinsic hardness and power. 
 
 Long ago in London Roma had told her that 
 many women had fallen in love with Clive. She had 
 spoken of it lightly as a phase through which they 
 had passed, almost as if it had been a process of 
 initiation. Now Sydney knew that there had been 
 a profound warning in those carelessly uttered words, 
 as if Roma had wished to protect her from some 
 possible danger that might arise if she came to 
 stay with them. But Clive had won her love with 
 his own. It had been for her a slow growth, re- 
 luctantly awakened, and only really attaining to a 
 passion of conscious devotion on the day he had 
 told her that he loved her and asked her to marry 
 him. And surely he had loved her. She clung piti- 
 fully now to that conviction. He had loved her, 
 and Roma discovering it had perhaps urged him to 
 advise Sydney to leave the villa. When once she 
 had gone away it was perfectly easy for Mrs. Coch- 
 rane to effect the rest. She could and did keep 
 them apart, the fortuitous incident of Moreton s 
 illness aiding her in the execution of her plan, for 
 it would have been doubly difficult for Clive to get 
 away under such circumstances. Roma had always 
 held Clive as it were under a spell. And now three
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 403 
 
 days ago she had become his wife. Moreton had 
 been dead but a few weeks, but Roma had cast pru- 
 dence to the winds. She was ever indifferent to gos- 
 sip, to public opinion; she was as Clive had once 
 said a law unto herself. And perhaps deep down 
 in her heart there had been some little rear of 
 Sydney. . . . 
 
 But had Clive ever seriously intended to marry 
 Sydney? Had he been only amusing himself, as he 
 had done countless times before, only to be rescued 
 by Roma from a folly she quickly taught him to rec- 
 ognize? This time there had been at least suffi- 
 cient earnestness about him to make Roma feel some 
 little alarm. Perhaps it had come as a surprise 
 to her that little, quiet Sydney Flood, desperately in 
 earnest and with so little to say, should have occu- 
 pied the position of a serious rival. But when she 
 had begun to suspect it perhaps that very day when 
 he had asked her to marry him, and because they 
 had neither of them been able completely to conceal 
 their young, exultant, triumphant happiness Syd- 
 ney's doom was sealed. Sydney could hear her say- 
 ing in her high, sweet voice: "So you really want 
 to leave us? Of course I know we're rather gay, 
 worldly people, and we haven't much time to take 
 you about. Still, it's been nice having you." But 
 the next moment she remembered with a pang that it 
 was Clive who had first suggested she should go 
 away. That was before he had ever spoken of love 
 to her. He had hinted that Roma was getting tired 
 of having her there. It was so difficult, looking 
 back, to discern the false from the true. There 
 was so much of cruel and perplexing intrigue and 
 confusion in it all. 
 
 Then another scene swept before her eyes. Clive 
 in the little green garden with its grass and statues 
 that overlooked the Grand Canal, reading aloud
 
 404 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 from the Paradiso to herself and Roma. She re- 
 membered it she had so often read that Canto 
 over and over again for fear of forgetting. That 
 meeting of Dante with the spirits in the sphere of 
 the moon. They had attained Heaven, but not to 
 the highest heaven because they had, although 
 through no fault of their own, violated their vows. 
 They were happy, desiring nothing beyond what 
 they had received, since in their present sphere they 
 were accomplishing the Will of Almighty God. 
 E la sua volontate e nostra pace. They were in 
 heaven, and their will was for all eternity united to 
 the Divine Will. Therein lay their peace. Their 
 souls held no other desire. 
 
 And Sydney remembered, too, how dive had 
 looked up with oddly-shining eyes and said: "If we 
 really believed that too " And Roma, looking at 
 him with one of her penetrating, attentive glances, 
 had answered coldly: "I don't suppose Cath- 
 olics who do believe it are any happier than we 
 are." 
 
 "It isn't a question of happiness it's a question 
 of peace," Clive had said, and then he had gone back 
 to his reading, while Sydney had slipped away, un- 
 able to bear any more. She had always thought 
 that hearing him read those words had sown the 
 first little seed of faith in her heart. That and the 
 light on the lagoon, that had Beckoned to her on the 
 night of her first arrival in Venice. She could see 
 it now, the little, dark, roughly-made shrine with its 
 penthouse roof, the pale Madonna within, the blue 
 lamp burning all through the night, like a beacon 
 to guide lonely travelers. . . . 
 
 Sydney reviewed her experiences critically and 
 closely that day after her return from the Lido. She 
 saw that her rash obstinacy had been of the kind 
 that Shakespeare describes as:
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 405 
 
 ". . . a wild dedication of ourselves 
 To unpath'd waters, undreamt shores;" 
 
 predestined almost from the first to disastrous fail- 
 ure. If she had only been contented with those 
 opportunities to work, had concentrated her mind 
 and will upon her art, she believed that things would 
 have gone better. But it was her spiritual faith- 
 lessness that had been the worst thing of all; her 
 obedience to Clive's wishes in defiance of the dictates 
 of judgment and conscience. She could see these 
 things clearly enough, but all the time her eyes were 
 dry and her heart felt like a stone. People had 
 failed her; love had immensely failed her. She was 
 young, and yet life seemed to be for her at an end. 
 She shrank from the thought of going home. But 
 she must leave Venice as soon as possible of that 
 she was quite certain. She would not stay there a 
 day longer than was necessary. That beautiful and 
 bright chapter of her life must be closed, and she 
 wondered whether, when she was quite an old 
 woman and had perhaps forgotten this grief, she 
 would have the courage to return to the city that 
 despite all things held her heart so fast. 
 
 Later in the day she put on her hat and coat and 
 went out. She felt restless, and a longing for fresh 
 air seized her. She must go out and walk until she 
 was tired. She would lose herself in the labyrinth 
 of narrow calli, and perhaps she would revisit some 
 of her favorite churches. 
 
 The afternoon was fine, and overhead the sky was 
 still blue. Venice lay bathed in the mellow sun- 
 shine of November that can be such a perfect month 
 in Italy. The sunlight brought out all the beauti- 
 ful pale tints of the houses and domes and towers, 
 in their perfect grouping. There was a freshness 
 in the air as if the wind in coming to Venice had
 
 406 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 passed lightly over distant mountain snows. Sydney 
 was struck afresh by the clear, definite, unsmudged 
 outlines, the sharp, accurate drawing, the grouping 
 of light and shade, the color that lurked everywhere. 
 But while her brain noted those effects from sheer 
 habit of minute attention, her thoughts were really 
 with Roma and Clive. She looked once across to 
 the Lido, and the tears filled her eyes. Over there 
 were the two people whom she had loved better than 
 all the world. They were utterly estranged, dead 
 to her for the rest of her lite. She choked back 
 a hard sob, and walked on blindly, not knowing 
 where she went. 
 
 She walked indeed until she was ready to drop. 
 The sun had set and the blue dusk was filling the 
 city like some ethereal liquid, punctured by the bril- 
 liancy of the electric lamps. The streets were 
 crowded as always at that hour, and people moved 
 slowly on the narrow pavements. Officers with 
 medals and wound stripes, soldiers in the familiar 
 grigioverde uniform; family groups of parents and 
 children; amorous couples gazing into each other's 
 eyes the dark, tender eyes of the South; slender, 
 graceful Venetian girls with their silken shawls 
 drawn closely about their shoulders. There were 
 priests, too, in black cassocks and broad-brimmed, 
 black beaver hats. There were tired-looking women 
 carrying slumbering infants and perhaps leading an- 
 other child scarcely older by the hand. Sydney knew 
 the scene by heart \t was a typically Venetian one. 
 But this evening she felt that she alone in all this 
 vast concourse was solitary. She had no one, and 
 she felt friendless. And in the melancholy of her 
 mood she began to doubt, perhaps for the first time, 
 her own power as an artist. She was going to be 
 a failure after all! She hadn't anything of the in- 
 herent brilliancy of actual genius. She hadn't even
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 407 
 
 a good, sound, useful work-a-day talent. Moreton 
 had lost all faith in her long before his death; she 
 knew that she had disappointed him. She could 
 see him now his odd, crumpled-looking face with 
 its dark, shaggy beard, the crooked, contemptuous 
 smile, the keen, cold eyes that never softened except 
 when they looked upon Roma and Clive. How 
 passionately he had loved them both, and how 
 quickly they had forgotten him! . . . 
 
 Suddenly down a little narrow canal she saw a 
 gondola, and in a flash she recognized the uniform 
 worn by Alessio. Sitting in the gondola were Clive 
 and Roma. It was as if her very thought of them 
 had caused them to materialize. They were sitting 
 close together, and even in the gathering darkness 
 she was able to see that their hands were inter- 
 locked. A light from a neighboring palace sud- 
 denly illuminated them so that Sydney could see 
 Roma's face quite distinctly under the small black 
 hat she was wearing. It seemed to her then that 
 all that was Italian in Roma was strongly empha- 
 sized; she was beautiful as Italian women are beau- 
 tiful, and possessed too something of that arrogance 
 belonging to the children of an ancient race, that 
 often characterizes them. Sydney could see that 
 their faces were turned towards each other. They 
 were thinking of themselves, of each other, and not 
 at all of her. She had been brushed aside, as one 
 brushes aside a fly. She could see now that they 
 were smiling. . . . The gondola went slowly under 
 the bridge, Alessio uttered the long, wild, melancholy 
 cry of warning, and gondola and occupants shot 
 round the corner and vanished out of her sight. 
 
 Sydney walked on a little way and then entered a 
 church whose door was standing open. Some 
 twenty people were assembled there reciting the 
 Rosary with a priest, who together with an acolyte
 
 4 o8 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 was kneeling in the sanctuary. The monotonous 
 repetition of the prayers soothed Sydney. She knelt 
 down and her eyes were fixed upon the Tabernacle. 
 
 When the Rosary was finished, the Litany of 
 Loreto was recited, and then a little procession en- 
 tered the sanctuary with a priest who wore a golden- 
 colored cope. The Blessed Sacrament was placed 
 in the Monstrance and lifted to a throne above the 
 Tabernacle so that all might gaze upon it. Those 
 present bowed their heads, and Sydney followed 
 their example. She had a strong reeling that she 
 had been brought thither to offer something. 
 A sacrifice? A burnt-offering? . . . And to 
 Whom? . . . 
 
 The Altar was brilliantly illuminated with the soft 
 yet bright glow of many candles. The shining, 
 golden pyramids of flame burned steadily. Clouds of 
 incense were being wafted upward, and the strong 
 perfume of it filled the church. When Sydney 
 glanced round her, she saw that the building was 
 now nearly filled with people, all kneeling in devout 
 attitudes. They had perhaps been passing by on 
 their evening walk, and had come in for this little 
 space of prayer and worship and praise. Among 
 tnem were two nuns, their pale faces framed in white 
 coifs and their heavy black veils falling about their 
 shoulders. Their calm faces attracted Sydney; 
 their grave eyes were fixed upon the Monstrance with 
 mingled adoration and love. E la sua volontate e 
 nostra pace. . . . The words came back forcibly to 
 her mind. That complete and selfless union with 
 the Divine Will must surely be the mainspring of 
 their lives. 
 
 Sydney felt then that she was the sole survivor 
 of some tremendous cataclysm that had abruptly and 
 without warning descended with appalling violence 
 upon her life, destroying its beauty, its fair promise.
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 409 
 
 She had wanted to die, feeling that only death could 
 rob her of this sense of bitter abasement and hu- 
 miliation. But now something told her of another 
 solution of even such a problem as hers. She had 
 come to one of those "dim lulls of unapparent 
 growth" when the soul asserts its peculiar claim. 
 Happiness? Had she ever been truly happy? 
 Not, certainly, in those restless, feverish days of her 
 engagement to Clive; the very secrecy of it had 
 robbed her of happiness, though she had experienced 
 certain joys that might perhaps never be repeated. 
 But each one of those days had deepened her fear 
 for the future, her nervous dread of discovery that 
 might end it all; even the possibility of his ultimate 
 faithlessness had not been wanting to her imagina- 
 tion. And now that the blow had fallen with the 
 force of a death-dealing wound, it had brought with 
 it a sense of finality, a termination to those pecu- 
 liar fears, that almost resembled a strange suffering 
 peace. She looked again at the kneeling figures of 
 those women who had renounced the world and its 
 joys, perhaps even in their youth, for the love of 
 God. They had found peace even as Dante's happy 
 souls had found it, in the daily and hourly accom- 
 plishment of His Will. Just as their bodies were 
 trained to that admirable motionlessness as they 
 knelt in prayer, their minds to adoring contempla- 
 tion, so their souls were disciplined to that beautiful 
 submission. . . . 
 
 As she knelt there, she had a fantastic thought 
 that it was in reality Clive who had brought her 
 thither. His words, so idly uttered, as he read to 
 herself and Roma in the garden ! He had been con- 
 cerned chiefly with the beauty of them the almost 
 proverbial music of those liquid vowel sounds. He 
 had only glanced, in passing, at their spiritual con- 
 tent. Clive lived for the day and the hour. But
 
 4 io THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 it was he, nevertheless, who had taught her that im- 
 mortal truth : And His Will is our peace. . . . 
 
 Sydney became slowly aware of the Divine Pres- 
 ence. It permeated the church with its mystical at- 
 mosphere of holiness, sanctity, and love. It flowed 
 around her like a flood of love whose waves sup- 
 ported and uplifted her soul. Something of peace 
 came back to her heart. She felt that she had re- 
 covered something that she had lost, something of 
 most precious worth, that anointed and healed her 
 wounds. She knew now something of the sweet and 
 irresistible violence by which souls are arrested and 
 prisoned forever in that divine love. It was the 
 loving violence that had prompted those words, "and 
 compel them to come in." It seemed as if an al- 
 most invidious love surrounded such souls, so that 
 they were not permitted to wander alone in the dark- 
 ness any more. Faith lit a lamp to guide them. 
 The Sword of the Spirit pierced them. She had 
 the sense of being gathered up and enfolded by most 
 loving Arms that would never let her go.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 SYDNEY'S things were in readiness; she had fin- 
 ished her packing, and in another two hours she 
 would have left Venice. She had been there only 
 four days, and she had made no definite plans for 
 the future. She thought perhaps she would go as 
 far as Milan and spend a few days there. Beyond 
 that she did not look. 
 
 She had written a short letter to her mother, tell- 
 ing her that she was leaving Venice and that she 
 would send her new address as soon as possible. She 
 made no mention of returning home. But even that 
 step in her new mood had come within the range of 
 possibilities. 
 
 It suddenly occurred to her that she would have 
 time to pay a farewell visit to St. Mark's, and she 
 went downstairs and walked quickly to the Piazza. 
 The day was fine, and there were a great many 
 people walking about or sitting at the Tittle tables 
 outside the cares. The flocks or plump pigeons were 
 preening their iridescent wings in the sun. The pale 
 gold of the domes stood out delicately against the 
 sky. Sydney went into the church, and going close 
 to the altar where was the famous shrine of Our 
 Lady, she knelt for some moments in prayer. 
 
 That peace which had come to her on that evening 
 when she felt that nothing could raise her from the 
 dust whither Clive's hands had thrown her, remained 
 with her still. She did not suffer any more, but her 
 face was grave and pale as if she had passed through 
 an experience that had taken from her something of 
 the joyousness of youth. 
 
 411
 
 4 i2 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 She did not stay there very long; she was afraid 
 of missing her train, and it would take nearly an 
 hour to go to the station in a gondola. She was 
 hurrying back and had just come in sight of the 
 door of her abode when she saw the figure of a man 
 approaching it from the opposite direction. His 
 unmistakably English appearance was the first thing 
 that arrested her attention, but as she drew nearer 
 he halted, and she saw to her amazement that it was 
 Duncan Turner. 
 
 He moved a step towards her. 
 
 "Duncan " she said, and held out her hand to 
 him. The sight of a friendly face in her solitude 
 made the tears spring to her eyes. 
 
 He caught her hand and held it thus for a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 "My dear my dear " he said, "you must for- 
 give me for following you. But I had such a strong 
 presentiment that things were not going well " 
 He stopped short, and saw with dismay that her 
 eyes were full of tears and her lips trembling. 
 
 "Yes it's all been a dreadful mistake, and I'm 
 on the point of leaving Venice. I've ordered a gon- 
 dola to come in about half an hour to take me to 
 the station." 
 
 "Were you going home?" said Duncan. 
 
 "No. But you'll come in, won't you ? I can ex- 
 plain better. . . ." 
 
 She led the way into the house and up what seemed 
 to him interminable flights of steep stone stairs.^ At 
 the top Sydney paused and opened the door with a 
 latch-key. He followed her into the studio, where 
 her neat luggage was standing in readiness. 
 
 "Come and look at the view, Duncan," she said, 
 simply. 
 
 They stood side by side. At their feet the broad 
 lagoon lay all silver and blue in the sunlight. Heavy
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 413 
 
 black gondolas skimmed with extraordinary speed 
 to and fro. A crowded steamer passed. Near by 
 the beautiful island group of San Giorgio was all 
 rose-colored in the strong autumn sunlight ; and upon 
 the golden ball of the Dogana the exquisite figure 
 of Fortune holding out its cloak moved in response 
 to the light breeze that came over the lagoon. Far 
 oft they could see the Lido, faintly dimmed by the 
 mist that clung about its shores. 
 
 Duncan did not speak. He was looking at that 
 wonderful view, but all the time he was thinking only 
 of Sydney, and of all her mysterious life here in 
 Venice. He wondered what part that "dark, in- 
 triguing woman," as he mentally dubbed Roma Coch- 
 rane, had played in that life. And Clive? He re- 
 pressed a rising jealousy of that man with his hand- 
 some, debonair, arrogant face. What part had he 
 played in it? What had they both done to produce 
 such a change in little Sydney Flood? 
 
 "Won't you tell me, my dear Sydney?" he said, 
 and took her hand. 
 
 "It was Clive. " she said. "We were engaged 
 last summer when we were staying over there at 
 the Lido. But after I left he didn't come to see me, 
 and then when I went to England he didn't write, 
 so I knew there was something dreadfully wrong. 
 Roma did write once, but I didn't believe her I felt 
 that she didn't know the truth. Clive was always 
 afraid lest they should find out about our engage- 
 ment and disapprove. Duncan I couldn't bear 
 it any more the silence the uncertainty." She 
 choked back a sob and looked at him wildly. "I 
 went there the day after I arrived. And they are 
 married Clive and Roma . . . they were married 
 the very day I left London. And I ... I wanted 
 to die." 
 
 "But your life is only just beginning, Sydney,"
 
 414 THE LIGHT ON THE L4GOON 
 
 he said, and there was a grave tenderness in his 
 voice that soothed her. 
 
 She looked up. "Yes I've learnt that. I have 
 seen how God strips the soul He wants to call into 
 His service. And I'm not really unhappy and suf- 
 fering any more. It was only just telling you that 
 made me want to cry." 
 
 He looked across the lagoon. A sail beautifully 
 colored in blue and gold came into sight. He said 
 slowly : 
 
 "What you've got to do now is to rebuild, recon- 
 struct. . . ." 
 
 He thought of some fair city over which an earth- 
 quake has passed, destroying all, and reducing the 
 fine palaces and buildings to formless ruins. And 
 it required patience and hope to rebuild. But she 
 was strong enough for that too. He saw that she 
 was being guided by a new wisdom. If Venice had 
 done nothing else for her, it had at least led her into 
 the way of peace. 
 
 "I saw Moreton's will in the paper," he said; "he 
 left everything between his wife and Clive Cochrane. 
 Mrs. Cochrane was to have two-thirds, and his very 
 dear cousin and adopted son one-third. But there 
 were conditions, ruling out Roman Catholics or any 
 one who should marry a Roman Catholic. I don't 
 fancy those conditions will disturb either of them 
 very much," he added. 
 
 "Yes he made that will during his last illness. 
 Roma told me about it," said Sydney. 
 
 Moreton's whole fortune belonged to them 
 both now. There had been a practical as^well as 
 perhaps a sentimental reason for that swift wed- 
 ding. 
 
 There was a knock at the door, and a man ap- 
 peared, to carry down Sydney's trunks. She and 
 Duncan followed him downstairs. In the narrow
 
 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 415 
 
 no a gondola was waiting, rocking ponderously as 
 the water sucked fiercely against the stones. 
 
 Sydney stepped in. "You'll come with me to the 
 station, Duncan?" she said. 
 
 "And further than that if you'll let me," he an- 
 swered, taking his place beside her. "I've left my 
 bag there, because I thought I'd come to see you 
 first before taking a room anywhere." 
 
 "But you haven't half seen Venice," she protested. 
 
 "I'll come back and look at it another time." 
 
 They were on their way to the station, when he 
 turned to her suddenly and said: 
 
 "You haven't told me yet where you're going." 
 
 "To Milan," said Sydney, "it's not a very long 
 journey from here." 
 
 "To Milan?" he repeated in surprise; "but you 
 don't know any one in Milan !" 
 
 "I want to go to Father John's sister. She is 
 a nun and lives in a convent there. 1 think I should 
 like to live for a time very quietly in a convent." 
 
 "Yes," he said, "that sounds a good scheme. I'll 
 take you there if you'll let me, Sydney." 
 
 "Yes, thank you, Duncan. It'll be nice to have 
 you you prevent me from thinking too much. 
 Sometimes I've wanted you " She made the 
 statement quite simply, but it caused his heart to 
 beat a little faster with renewed hope. During this 
 past week hope had indeed been to him but "a timid 
 friend." 
 
 "But afterwards, when you're rested, you'll come 
 back to London, won't you?" he said, a little wist- 
 fully. "Lady Flood's most awfully upset, and I'm 
 afraid I've lost her good opinion forever, although 
 I assured her that I had been a most reluctant acces- 
 sory. She came back to town at once, and even had 
 serious thoughts of following you herself. But I 
 begged her to let me come instead. . . ."
 
 416 THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 
 
 "Tell her I'll come back as soon as I can," said 
 Sydney. She paused for a moment and then added : 
 "Duncan, you're very good to me and I'm not worth 
 it." 
 
 There was something in his steady, unspoken hom- 
 age that seemed to lift her from the dust of that past 
 humiliation, and restore to her her wounded self- 
 respect. In that moment she felt the worth and 
 strength of his love as never before. 
 
 "But, you see, I think you are," said Duncan, and 
 his voice was not quite steady as he pronounced the 
 words. 
 
 But there was something in that little speech of 
 hers a gratitude that she did not now attempt to 
 hide that rewarded him for his long and patient 
 waiting, and made him look forward to her return 
 home with a new and solid conviction that this time 
 he would not wait in vain. 
 
 She turned to him abruptly and said : 
 
 "Duncan, I wish you could have seen the light on 
 the lagoon ... it was so wonderful so mysteri- 
 
 ous." 
 
 "One of these days you must show it to me, dear 
 Sydney," he answered. 
 
 THE END 
 
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 net, 
 
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 7
 
 FREDDY CARR'S ADVENTURES. 
 
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 HIS FIRST AND LAST APPEARANCE. 
 
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 CKIEST 
 net, $1.50. 
 
 , 
 HIS LU 
 
 YEAR, FINN. S.J. 
 , .. 
 HOSTAGE OF WAR, A. BONESTEEL. 
 
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 LIER. net, $0.75. 
 
 8 
 
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 net, $0.75.
 
 TALES AND LEGENDS OF THE TOM'S LUCK-POT. WAGGAMAN. net, 
 
 MIDDLE AGES. DE CAPELLA. net, $0.75. 
 
 $1.00. TOORALLADDY. WALSH, net, $0.75. 
 
 TALISMAN, THE. SADLIER. net, $1.00. TRANSPLANTING OF TESSIE. WAG- 
 
 TAMTNfJ OF POLLY DOBSEY net GAMAN. net, $1.00. 
 
 $"50 TREASURE OF NUGGET MOUN- 
 
 THAT FOOTBALL GAME. FINN, SJ. T^. TMART. * * 
 
 net $i 50 1 WO LITTLE GIRLS. MACK. net, 
 
 THAT OFFICE BOY. FINN, SJ. net, ,.^5- 
 
 jj so UNCLE FRANK S MARY. CLEMEN- 
 
 THREE LITTLE GIRLS AND ESPE- - "& $ ^ WN c OF M ARTORTF 
 
 CIALLY ONE. TAGGART. net, $0.75. U w A or?m iS fa .7 MARJORIK 
 
 TOLD IN THE TWILIGHT. SALOME. VIOLIN ^AKER.SmTH. f, $0.75- 
 
 net > * 1 - 00 - , WINNETOU, THE APACHE KNIGHT. 
 
 TOM LOSELY; BOY. COPUS, SJ. net, TAGGART. net, $1.00. 
 
 Si-so. YOUNG COLOR GUARD. BONESTEBL, 
 
 TOMPLAYFAIR. FINN. S J. net, $1.50. net, $0.75- 
 
 VTL NOVELS 
 
 ISABEL C. CLARKE'S GREAT EUNICE. CLARKE, net, $2.25. 
 
 NOVELS. Each, , $2.25. FABIOLA. WISEMAN, net, $1.00. 
 
 TH| U ELSTONi: FABIOLA'S SISTERS. CLARKE, net, 
 
 ?ArS C T E RENT'S DAUGHTER. F * EACON ' THE " BRAC ^ 
 
 CHILDREN OF EVE. FAUSTULA. AVSCOUGH. , $2.25. 
 
 WHOS D E E NAMl A ISLEGION. 5^A& I 3UJ I ? 
 
 FINE CLAY FORGIVE AND FORGET. LJNGEN. 
 
 PRISONERS' YEARS. ffftJfe**V -rnrmxTc , 
 
 THE REST HOUSE. GRAPES OF THORNS' WAGGAMAN. 
 
 . 
 
 ONLY ANNE *"'> 
 
 THE SECRET CITADEL. HEART OF A MAN. MAHER. net, 
 
 BY THE BLUE RIVER. Tjl 2 .'?,^ r,i7 r ^ T. 
 
 HEARTS OF GOLD. EDHOR. net, $1.25. 
 
 AGATHA'S HARD SAYING. MULHOL- HEIRESS OF CRONENSTEIN. HAHN- 
 
 LAND. net, $1.65. HAHN. net, $1.00. 
 
 ALBERTA: ADVENTURESS. L'R- HER BLIND FOLLY. HOLT. net,$i.2S. 
 
 MITE. 8vo. net, $2.23. HER FATHER'S DAUGHTER. HINK- 
 
 BACK TO THE WORLD. CHAMPOL. SON. net, $2.25. 
 
 net, $2.25. HER FATHER'S SHARE. POWER, net, 
 
 BARRIER, THE. BAZIN. net, $1.65. $1.25. 
 
 BALLADS OF CHILDHOOD. Poems. HER JOURNEY'S END. COOKE. net, 
 
 EARLS, SJ. net, $1.50. $1.25. 
 
 BLACK BROTHERHOOD, THE. GAR- IDOLS; or THE SECRET OF THE 
 
 ROLD, SJ. net, $2.25. RUE CHAUSSE D'ANTIN. DE NAV- 
 
 BOND AND FREE. CONNOR, net, $1.00. ERY. net, $1.25. 
 
 "BUT THY LOVE AND THY GRACE." IN GOD'S GOOD TIME. Ross, net, 
 
 FINN, SJ. net, $1.50. $1.00. 
 
 BY THE BLUE RIVER. CLARKE. IN SPITE OF ALL. STANIFORTH, net, 
 
 net, $2.25. $1.25. 
 
 CARROLL DARE. WAGGAMAN. net, IN THE DAYS OF KING HAL. TAG- 
 
 SI. 25. GART. net, $1.25. 
 
 CIRCUS-RIDER'S DAUGHTER. IVY HEDGE, THE. EGAN. net, $2.25. 
 
 BRACKEL. net, $125. KIND HEARTS AND CORONETS. 
 
 CHILDREN OF EVE. CLARKE, net, HARRISON, net, $1.25. 
 
 $2.25. LADY TRENT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 CONNOR D'ARCY'S STRUGGLES. CLARKE, net, $2.25- 
 
 BERTHOLDS. net, $1.25. LIGHT OF HIS COUNTENANCE. 
 
 CORINNE'S VOW. WAGGAMAN. net, HART, net, $1.00. 
 
 $1.25- "LIKE UNTO A MERCHANT." GRAY. 
 
 DAUGHTER OF KINGS, A. HINKSON. net, $2.25. 
 
 net, $2.25. LINKED LIVES. DOUGLAS, net, $1.25. 
 
 DEEP HEART, THE. CLARKE, net, LITTLE CARDINAL. PARR. n/,$i.6s. 
 
 $2.25. LOVE OF BROTHERS. HINKSON. net, 
 
 DION AND THE SIBYLS. KEON. net, $2.25. 
 
 $1.25. MARCELLA GRACE. MULHOLLAND. 
 
 ELDER MISS AINSBOROUGH, THE. net, $1.25. 
 
 TAGGART. net, $1.35. MARIE OF THE HOUSE D'ANTERS. 
 
 ELSTONES, THE. CLARKE, net, $3.25- EARLS, SJ. net, $2.25.
 
 MELCHIOR OF BOSTON. EARLS, SJ. 
 
 net, $1.25. 
 MIGHTY FRIEND, THE. L'ERMITE. 
 
 net, $2.25. 
 MIRROR OF SHALOTT. BENSON, net, 
 
 $2.25. 
 
 MISS ERIN. FRANCIS, net, $1.25. 
 MR. BILLY BUTTONS. LECKY. net, 
 
 MONK'S PARDON, THE. DE NAVERY. 
 
 net, $1.25. 
 MY LADY BEATRICE. COOKE. net, 
 
 *i;- 
 
 NOT A JUDGMENT. KEON. net, $1.65. 
 ONLY ANNE. CLARKE, net, $2.25. 
 
 ? ** *" 
 
 OUT OF BONDAGE. HOLT, net, $z.2S. 
 
 PASSING SHADOWS. YORKE. net, 
 
 PER'E ' MONNIER'S WARD. LECKY. 
 
 PILKINGTON HEIR, THE. SADLIER, 
 
 net $r 2 <- 
 
 PRISONERS' YEARS. CLARKE, net, 
 
 2 2 , 
 
 PRODIGAL'S DAUGHTER, THE, AND 
 
 OTHER STORIES. BUGG. net,$i. 5 o. 
 PROPHET'S WIFE. BROWNE, we/, $1.25. 
 RED INN OF ST. LYPHAR. SADLIER. 
 
 net $i 25 
 
 REST HOUSE, THE. CLARKE, net, $2.25. 
 ROSE OF THE WORLD. MARTIN. ne, 
 
 $1.25. 
 ROUND TABLE OF AMERICAN 
 
 CATHOLIC NOVELISTS, net, $1.25. 
 ROUND TABLE OF FRENCH CATH- 
 
 OLIC NOVELISTS, net, $1.25. 
 ROUND TABLE OF GERMAN CATH- 
 
 OLIC NOVELISTS, net, $1.25. 
 ROUND TABLE OF IRISH AND ENG- 
 
 LISH CATHOLIC NOVELISTS, net, 
 
 $1.25. 
 RUBY CROSS, THE. WALLACE, net, 
 
 $1.25. 
 RULER OF THE KINGDOM. KEON. 
 
 net, $1.65. 
 SECRET CITADEL, THE. CLARKE. 
 
 net, $2.35. 
 
 SECRET OF THE GREEN VASE 
 
 COOKE. net, $1.00. 
 SHADOW OF EVERSLEIGH. LANS- 
 
 DOWNE. net, $1.00. 
 SHIELD OF SILENCE. HENRY-RUF- 
 
 FIN. net, $2.25. 
 
 SO AS BY FIRE. CONNOR, net, $1.25. 
 SON OF SIRO, THE. COPBS, SJ. net, 
 
 STORY OF CECILIA, THE. HINKSON. 
 
 net, $1.65. 
 
 STUORE. EARLS, S.J. net, $1.50. 
 TEMPEST OF THE HEART. GRAY. 
 
 net $i 25 
 
 TEST OF COURAGE. Ross, net, $1.00. 
 THAT MAN'S DAUGHTER. Ross, net, 
 
 CHOICE SKINNER net i oo 
 
 ***. <, 
 
 OF SILAS - DEVINE - 
 
 TRUE STORY OF MASTER GERARD. 
 
 SADLIER. net, $1.65. 
 TURN OF THE TIDE, THE. GRAY. 
 
 net, $1.25. 
 UNBIDDEN GUEST, THE. COOKE. 
 
 niTriA1JC AMT v ,.,,, 
 T E CE C DARS AND THE 
 . CANON SHEEHAN. net, $2.25. 
 UP IN ARDMUIRLAND. BARRETT, 
 T J- S - B - nel > $* -^S- 
 
 URSULA FINCH. CLARKE. /, $2.25. 
 VOCATION OF EDWARD CONWAY, 
 
 THE. EGAN. net, $1.63. 
 WARGRAVE TRUST, THE. REID, net, 
 
 $1.65. 
 WAR MOTHERS. Poems. GARESCHE", 
 
 S.J. net, $0.60. 
 WAY THAT LED BEYOND, THE. 
 
 HARRISON, net, $1.25. 
 WEDDING BELLS OF GLENDA- 
 
 LOUGH, THE. EARLS, SJ. net, $2.25. 
 WHEN LOVE IS STRONG. KEON 
 
 net, $1.65. 
 WHOSE NAME IS LEGION. CLARKE. 
 
 net, $2.25. 
 WOMAN OF FORTUNE, A. REID, net, 
 
 $1.65.
 
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