/P
 

 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE
 
 Novels by Isabel C. Clarke 
 
 Published by Benaiger Brothers 
 
 In same Uniform Series, each, net, $2.25, postage 15 cents. 
 TRESSIDER'S SISTER 
 
 Not only an absorbing love story, but an essentially practical presenta- 
 tion of modern sociological conditions from the Catholic viewpoint is this 
 latest novel by Miss Clarke. _ Her treatment of the subject shows her 
 talent in a new and brilliant light. 
 
 URSULA FINCH 
 
 In this book Miss Clarke has equalled and in some sense surpassed 
 anything she has ever done before. Catholic Bulletin. 
 
 THE ELSTONES 
 
 The characters are intensely human, and thoroughly loyal, and it is 
 on their conflicting loyalties that the plot is built. The development is 
 very clever, the interest never flags, and the story mounts steadily to the 
 climax. A merica, 
 
 EUNICE 
 
 It is a story of infinite charm, perfectly told, and remarkable for its 
 clear cut drawing of the contrast between the spirit of this world and 
 the spirit of the Church of God. The Catholic World. 
 
 LADY TRENT'S DAUGHTER 
 
 It is interesting and fascinating and holds the reader's attention to 
 the final chapter. The Hotniletic Monthly. 
 
 CHILDREN OF EVE 
 
 This is a novel at once powerful and tender, delineated with that 
 delicate and charming touch that has made Miss Clarke's books so 
 popular. Canadian Messenger of the S. H. 
 
 THE DEEP HEART 
 
 A pure, wholesome and interesting story. The Ecclesiastical Review. 
 
 WHOSE NAME IS LEGION. 
 
 It is an enthralling bit of fiction, replete with stirring coincidences. 
 Miss Clarke's talent for character drawing is admirable. Dominicans. 
 
 FINE CLAY 
 
 It is a masterly study of an interesting problem. The Tablet t 
 
 PRISONERS' YEARS 
 
 A masterpiece of sound and color, of light and movement, and Cif 
 deep and sympathetic understanding. Pittsburgh Catholic. 
 
 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 Has the unique art of arousing our interest and of sustaining it 
 through many pages to the end. The Rosary Magazine. 
 
 ONLY ANNE 
 
 A genuine and welcome addition to Catholic fiction. Ave Mario. 
 
 THE SECRET CITADEL 
 
 Fragrant with the same mystical element that stamped "By the Blue 
 River as a work of art. Catholic Transcript* 
 
 BY THE BLUE RIVER 
 This is an excellent novel. Messenger of the Sacred Heart.
 
 THE 
 POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 BY 
 
 ISABEL C. CLARKE 
 
 Naw YORK, CINCINNATI, CHICAGO 
 
 BENZIGER BROTHERS 
 
 PUBLISHERS OF BBNZIOBR'S MAGAZINE 
 1921
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY BENZIGER BROTHERS
 
 SRLF 
 .URL 
 
 513S755 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 CHAPTER I 7 
 
 CHAPTER II 15 
 
 CHAPTER III 26 
 
 CHAPTER IV 43 
 
 CHAPTER V 57 
 
 CHAPTER VI 67 
 
 CHAPTER VII 84 
 
 CHAPTER VIII - . 90 
 
 CHAPTER IX 114 
 
 CHAPTER X 127 
 
 CHAPTER XI 140 
 
 CHAPTER XII 152 
 
 CHAPTER XIII . 160 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 173 
 
 CHAPTER XV 185 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 200 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 209 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 218 
 
 CHAPTER XIX . ^ft. 225 
 
 5
 
 6 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 CHAPTER XX 239 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 248 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 266 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII , . 271 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV .279 
 
 CHAPTER XXV 286 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI v . . . 294 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII ' . . 305 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII . 317 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 330 
 
 CHAPTER XXX 341 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI ........ 348 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 360 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII ....... 366
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE January sunshine spun golden webs as it 
 glanced fitfully upon the Thames, illuminating 
 the dingy wharves and warehouses on the southern 
 side of the river, and enfolding the long grey line of 
 the Embankment in its subdued radiance. Down 
 the side streets from the Strand, congested with foot 
 passengers, with newspaper boys, whose posters of 
 varied hues flapped in the chilly easterly wind, and 
 with vehicles of every description, a light dust scat- 
 tered itself disagreeably. Hurrying people emerged 
 from the Temple Station a little crowd that melted 
 and dispersed rapidly as it reached the upper air. 
 From afar could be seen the procession of motor 
 omnibuses plying their way down the Strand in fugi- 
 tive glimpses of vivid arresting scarlet that acquired 
 a new significance and value in the pale winter sun- 
 shine. 
 
 A motor coming from the Law Courts threaded 
 its way skilfully across the street, slipped down the 
 hill towards the Temple, and was soon travelling 
 with rapidly accelerating speed westwards along the 
 Embankment. One of the occupants, a girl of per- 
 haps twenty years, leaned her head a little out of the 
 window to glance at the ruffled grey and silver of the 
 river, at the avenue of bare plane-trees, at the trams 
 passing to and fro. Her companion, who was a 
 year or two older, had sunk listlessly into the cor- 
 ner of the car as if anxious still further to conceal 
 her heavily-veiled face from the inquisitive eyes of 
 the passers-by. She thought, indeed, that she had 
 never realised the subtle torture that could be 
 summed up in the one word staring until the experi- 
 
 7
 
 8 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 ence of the last two days. She leaned back, closing 
 her eyes and did not speak; and her attitude, limp 
 and weary, seemed to convey an inarticulate appeal 
 for silence. 
 
 Suddenly the girl turned towards her, and laid an 
 abrupt hand upon hers. She suffered the touch with- 
 out remonstrance, and the slight, shrinking move- 
 ment she betrayed was evidently unobserved. 
 
 "So that's over, darling. How thankful you must 
 be I" 
 
 Gillian Driscoll did not answer. The expressed 
 sympathy produced an inward recoil, just as the 
 touch of the hand that still clasped hers had evoked 
 the physical shrinking. Her face behind the veil 
 was white, and her features, small, regular, and 
 delicate, were as little expressive of any emotion, 
 whether of thankfulness, relief, or sorrow, as those 
 of a mask. Indeed her mind was curiously blank, 
 and if she had been capable of any definite feeling 
 it would have been that of a slight irritation towards 
 the girl whose adoring eyes betrayed her sympathetic 
 devotion. She desired only to be alone, but the 
 effort of ridding herself of Joan Pallant promised 
 an exertion to which she felt singularly unequal. 
 She therefore endured in silence. 
 
 "You looked simply splendid, Jill I" 
 
 Splendid? Almost, the word provoked a smile 
 the slight ironical smile of the woman clever enough 
 to analyse the measure of her own disillusionment. 
 Splendid . . . splendid . . . the thrumming of the 
 engines seemed to roll out the word with mocking, 
 rhythmic reiteration. She, who had drunk deep of 
 the cup of humiliation, who had seemed to herself 
 soiled beyond all hope of purification, had taken 
 refuge behind the wall of her pride, and she had 
 looked in Joan's eyes splendid. What a word to 
 use for a woman in her position, who through no
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 9 
 
 fault of her own had been dragged in the unspeak- 
 able dust of her husband's dishonour. Across the 
 pause that followed, some words of his came back 
 to her: "What a little fool Joan is!" They even 
 seemed to give her courage now to endure Joan's 
 undesired presence and sympathy. 
 
 Did the girl imagine perhaps that her friendship 
 might presently acquire a new value from her own 
 changed position that she would be admitted to 
 a closer intimacy? The wife of Aylmer Driscoll, 
 the distinguished poet and dramatist, had perhaps 
 not always been accessible, for in their own circle 
 her popularity was scarcely less than his own. Now, 
 as the deserted woman, doubly betrayed by husband 
 and friend, driven by circumstances to divorce him 
 and expose to public view the precise measure of 
 her misery and humiliation, she would no doubt find 
 herself abruptly fallen from the old pedestal, from 
 the second niche, as it were, in the temple, and 
 might even become a prey to idle Joans and insig- 
 nificant humble worshippers. 
 
 The scenes of the past two days passed rapidly 
 before her eyes. Often she had seemed to herself 
 to be one of the figures of a dream a bad but 
 wholly unreal dream. She could always be silent; 
 it was easy for her not to speak; the real hurt came 
 when speech was compulsory, when her wound had 
 to be made public. To her the story was no new 
 one. She had known for two years her husband's 
 diminishing love, so incredibly, monstrously changed 
 from the ardour of the honeymoon nearly four years 
 ago in wonderful days of June so different from the 
 winter ones which had seen the final act of the 
 piteous little drama. She had known intuitively, 
 could almost have given a date to the change, but 
 she had not guessed then at the identity of the third 
 person. She had been so blind, so slow to see. Hers
 
 io THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 was a nature incapable alike of suspicion or jealousy. 
 Least of all had it ever occurred to her to suspect 
 Deborah Venning, her own friend, the friend of 
 her girlhood. 
 
 And it was for Deborah's sake that she had 
 yielded to Aylmer's fierce entreaties that she should 
 divorce him. But he had never mentioned her. He 
 believed that Gillian was still ignorant. Deborah's 
 name from first to last had never been mentioned; 
 her fair fame had remained untouched by breath 
 of scandal. And even if they sometimes suspected 
 that Gillian had guessed or learned the truth about 
 them they had counted upon her capacity for silence. 
 Deborah, who had demolished so deliberately the 
 palace of her friend's happiness such a fair and 
 beautiful palace full of the treasures of precious 
 memories both sweet and sad had known too that 
 she could rely upon the ultimate silence of the 
 woman with whom she had to deal. . . . 
 
 When Gillian looked back upon it she saw that 
 Deborah's adoration had been scarcely less slavish 
 than that of Joan. She had been her bridesmaid; 
 she was the first to greet her on her return from her 
 honeymoon, regarding Aylmer, the dispossessor, 
 with a jealous dislike that first amused him and then 
 provoked him to a half satirical endeavour to 
 change it. The precise date of that change Gillian 
 never knew. Deborah had left town, had gone to 
 live in the country with her invalid father, had taken 
 to gardening, and thus had a little disappeared from 
 the horizon. Rumours of her engagement were 
 circulated from time to time, and then as quickly 
 denied. Photographs of her garden frequently 
 found their way into illustrated journals or into those 
 luxurious books on gardening which excite the envi- 
 ous admiration of the amateur. 
 
 And Gillian herself had lived in a world apart for
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE n 
 
 the first two years of her married life. At first she 
 had been wholly enveloped in Aylmer's love; then 
 followed the birth of their only child, a little girl 
 who survived only six months. Prostrated with 
 grief she had for a long time withdrawn herself from 
 all society. When she took up the old life again 
 she found it changed. Aylmer had just achieved a 
 wonderful success with a new book of poems, and 
 she continued to revolve a happy satellite round that 
 strangely shining planet. She had half forgotten 
 Deborah, whom she had seen sobbing wildly at the 
 baby's funeral. She had said to Aylmer when they 
 returned to the drearily silent and empty house, 
 
 "What made Deborah cry like that? She never 
 seemed to take much notice of Baby. . . ." She, 
 feeling like a stone, had perhaps envied those facile, 
 abundant tears. 
 
 Aylmer's answer for the first time had struck a 
 jarring note. 
 
 "She has such a very tender heart," he said; "she 
 was crying for our grief. You seem to forget how 
 devoted Deborah has always been to you." 
 
 It had faded quickly from her remembrance, that 
 speech, because she was in such grief that her whole 
 world was temporarily darkened. At first she had 
 hoped for another child, but no child came to fill the 
 empty nursery. She roused herself at last, accusing 
 herself of neglecting Aylmer, of flinging him on his 
 own resources for amusement and relaxation, of 
 withdrawing herself too rigorously from all society. 
 . . . How could one expect a man primarily inter- 
 ested in his own poetry, his own career, to continue 
 to grieve for a small baby of six months old? 
 
 Gillian, the mother, had felt as if the heart had 
 been torn out of her body. 
 
 And now the end. . . . She had looked upon 
 Aylmer's face that day for perhaps the last time.
 
 12 
 
 It was a handsome face, scornful, with brown eyes 
 that almost matched the red-brown hair. Something 
 of Shelley about the lips and brow. Yes, it was a 
 poet's face. She did not love him any more, but 
 she had not yet learned to hate him. She felt her- 
 self incapable of emotion or feeling, except that 
 strange and bitter sense of raw, wounded pride. She 
 was as one who stands among the ruins caused by a 
 sudden earthquake and is only concerned because the 
 intimate details of her home have been ruthlessly 
 exposed to public view. The ruins were on such a 
 colossal scale, involving past, present, and future, 
 that even now she could hardly realise their full 
 significance. 
 
 The car had passed down the Mall and was near- 
 ing Buckingham Palace freshly, almost insolently 
 white in the glory of its new fagade when she 
 turned with a touch of impatience to Joan. That 
 devotion recalled the days of Deborah's friendship, 
 and Joan was to suffer a little vicariously for evok- 
 ing its unpleasant memory. Gillian had lost her 
 faith alike in men and women; she saw a potential 
 enemy in every one that approached her. In her 
 heart she blamed Deborah more bitterly than 
 Aylmer. 
 
 "I will drop you, Joan," she said, "before I go 
 home." 
 
 Joan's face flushed. "Oh, I thought " she 
 
 began. 
 
 "Not to-day," said Gillian with decision. "I have 
 a great deal to do. I must be alone." 
 
 "Oh, but you mustn't tire yourself with business, 
 darling. You'll be ill after this awful trial and 
 strain. . . ." 
 
 "111? What nonsense! I was never better in 
 my life." 
 
 To prevent further discussion she lifted the speak-
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 13 
 
 ing-tube and in a cold, firm voice directed the chauf- 
 feur to drive to Joan's address. A few minutes 
 brought them to Lady Pallant's house in Belgrave 
 Square. The decisive action had succeeded although 
 there were tears in Joan's blue eyes. . . . But of 
 course Gillian was upset, she was not herself. She 
 had borne herself like a heroine all through those 
 dreadful proceedings; she had been, in a word, 
 "splendid." Joan's vocabulary was limited rather 
 than discriminative. In her unaltered loyalty she 
 could make excuses even for this sudden shunting 
 of her own person. Dropping a hasty kiss on Gil- 
 lian's averted cheek she alighted from the car. 
 
 "Home?" she asked interrogatively. 
 
 "Yes home, please," said Gillian's cold, weary 
 little voice. 
 
 The motor slid on westward. At the door of an 
 immense block of red-brick flats overlooking Kens- 
 ington Gardens it once more stopped, and Gillian's 
 slim figure emerged. She paused a moment to give 
 some instructions to the chauffeur, then, without 
 summoning the lift (for was not the porter deeply 
 interested in the case of Driscoll v. Driscoll?), she 
 hurried up the single flight of stairs that led to her 
 domain. Once more, after the nightmare happen- 
 ings of the day, she found herself alone. 
 
 The flat held no memories of Aylmer. She had 
 taken it furnished, and had moved into it with a few 
 of her own things when the definite rupture between 
 them had taken place a few months ago. She had 
 not disliked its fashionable, rather banal decorations 
 that were so normal, so utterly lacking in individ- 
 uality. In London she thought there must be thou- 
 sands of flats similarly furnished and arranged. It 
 was all done with the taste of the Ideal Home deco- 
 rator; one could see in exhibitions whole houses 
 furnished to this pattern, each room a little model
 
 i 4 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 of its kind, with nothing superfluous, with the per- 
 sonal note completely absent; with no suggestion of 
 individual taste or preference. Bright and polished, 
 it spoke only of a taste that was professionally artis- 
 tic the comfortable refuge of those who fear to 
 exercise their own judgment in such matters as car- 
 pets, curtains, wall-papers, and furniture. It was, 
 indeed, just the abode for a woman who had learned 
 to desire only the commonplace. This afternoon its 
 aspect of shining welcome gave Gillian a vague sense 
 of comfort. She took off her hat, and the heavy, 
 suffocating veil, and lay down on the sofa in her 
 drawing-room whose two big windows looked out 
 upon the huge elms and pleasant green sward of 
 Kensington Gardens.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 GILLIAN had been married to Aylmer Driscoll 
 nearly four years before, from the house of her 
 mother's cousin, Lady Pallant. She was an orphan 
 and a ward in Chancery, and her girlhood had been 
 spent exclusively in Bath with her two elderly un- 
 married aunts, the Misses Martha and Letitia Stan- 
 way, who had a house in Brock Street. When she 
 was eighteen, Lady Pallant invited her to spend the 
 season with her in town. 
 
 "If she is as pretty as she promised to be as a little 
 thing," observed Lady Pallant reflectively as she 
 sent the invitation, "I shall get her off my hands 
 before Joan comes out." Lurking in her mind there 
 was perhaps the unexpressed hope that Paul, her 
 only son, might take a fancy to her. She knew to a 
 penny the sum of Gillian's dot. 
 
 Six weeks later, so rapidly did events succeed one 
 another, Gillian consulted her on the subject of Dris- 
 coll's offer of marriage. He was twelve years older 
 than she was, and he looked more. He was a clever, 
 distinguished man with a good private income. 
 Lady Pallant was one of those people who professed 
 not to understand poetry, but she had heard it said 
 that Aylmer's was good. On the whole she ap- 
 proved, and she managed with admirable success to 
 conceal her own disappointment. Gillian's marriage 
 took place in the early days of June. She was 
 attended by four bridesmaids, Deborah Venning, 
 Joan Pallant, then a schoolgirl, and Aylmer's two 
 younger unmarried sisters. Miss Letitia Stanway, 
 who was of an emotional and sentimental disposi- 
 tion, wept audibly during the ceremony in one of the 
 front pews, thereby exciting the contemptuous an- 
 
 15
 
 1 6 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 noyance of Lady Pallant. Gillian held herself like 
 a proud young queen, and looked beautiful. . . . 
 
 Now her marriage was at an end the marriage 
 that was to have lasted all their lives, until death 
 should part them. She had loved Aylmer ; she would 
 have gone on loving him if he had let her. Had it 
 been her fault? Had she failed in the essential 
 qualities of a wife in sympathy, interest, encour- 
 agement of that work by which he set so much store? 
 She had been very young, of course, and wholly in- 
 experienced Joan could have given her points in 
 knowledge of the world. That Bath upbringing had 
 not been an adequate equipment for her future life. 
 
 Deborah, her one intimate friend, had always 
 seemed so much more capable and wise than her- 
 self; she had always consulted Deborah. It was she 
 who had first drawn Gillian's attention to the fact 
 that Aylmer had fallen in love with her. Deborah 
 had had two proposals, and knew, as she expressed 
 it, the symptoms. She was never greatly in favour 
 of the marriage. Aylmer was not nearly good 
 enough for her darling Jill. She relented, however, 
 when she found that Gillian's affections and vanity 
 were alike stirred by this handsome, clever, and 
 withal ardent lover. Deborah made, so many peo- 
 ple said, a strikingly handsome bridesmaid. Joan, 
 in those days a timid worshipper, envied Miss Ven- 
 ning for the closer measure of intimacy and friend- 
 ship she enjoyed. 
 
 What a long time ago it all seemed I In contrast 
 to the pale shy girl who, dressed in white satin and 
 wearing the bride's insignia of orange blossoms in 
 her hair, had promised to love, honour, and obey 
 Aylmer Driscoll, she felt herself to be an old woman. 
 These last few days seemed to have added ten years 
 to her life. As she lay upon the sofa watching the
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 17 
 
 light fade and fail in the London sky, she looked 
 exhausted, not only with the strain of that so grimly 
 protracted trial as by the continued effort to be self- 
 controlled, an effort which as she had gathered from 
 Joan's exaggerated admiration had been at least 
 partially successful. Yet her part in the proceedings 
 had been very slight; they had spared her all they 
 could. As she was leaving the court she heard a 
 strange woman say: "What a girl! She must be 
 older than she looks though, if she's been married 
 four years." She had felt almost grateful to her 
 unknown critic, for she felt a hundred, such an ugly, 
 soiled, withered hundred. . . . 
 
 How she had hated that sordid scene, unduly pro- 
 tracted by her trustees on a question of the alimony 
 she was to receive. She had felt soiled all over she 
 who could remember crying as a little child if she 
 soiled her hands! She had been compelled to look 
 at Aylmer, her own husband who had once loved her, 
 as if he were a stranger, a cruel hostile stranger who 
 could still hurt her although all her love for him had 
 perished when she learned the truth. It had been 
 unbearable. His eyes had searched her face piti- 
 lessly those strange powerful eyes of his. . . . She 
 was thankful to creep away out of his sight. She 
 felt all the time as if her self-control would give 
 way, and she would suddenly hear herself cry aloud : 
 "You know it is all Deborah's doing. . . . Deborah 
 has taken you away from me I" Sometimes the 
 words echoed in her ears just as if she had really 
 surrendered to that mad impulse and uttered them. 
 . . . And she would have been revenged. She 
 would have punished them both, faithless husband 
 and false friend, for their treatment of her, for their 
 hideous perfidy. . . . 
 
 But the words had never been uttered, and she 
 had given Aylmer back his freedom, and Deborah's
 
 1 8 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 name had never been mentioned, her fair fame re- 
 mained untouched. 
 
 What a strange world a world in which she sud- 
 denly found herself quite alone. Her child was 
 dead; she could feel almost thankful for that now; 
 a child inevitably complicated the position of di- 
 vorced parents. She was deserted and abandoned. 
 True, the doors of the little dark grey house in 
 Brock Street were open to her, but she felt that she 
 could not return to the scenes of her girlhood. Her 
 pride forbade it. And she knew instinctively it 
 would have been a grievous trial to the two old 
 aunts. They were terribly shocked as it was, and to 
 have Gillian back in their midst, to be subjected to 
 the inevitable questioning of all their friends, would 
 have been a bitter ordeal. 
 
 The day had not fulfilled its earlier promise, and 
 the clouds that had gathered behind Kensington 
 Palace had brought heavy showers of rain. A wind 
 had sprung up and stirred to violent commotion the 
 black lace-like branches of the great elms. Crowded 
 motor omnibuses passed swiftly along the wet and 
 slippery highway, the luckless outside passengers 
 clustering miserably beneath dripping umbrellas. 
 
 Gillian had had her tea, and the maid had long 
 ago returned to fetch the tray, on which stood the 
 untasted bread-and-butter and cake that had been 
 prepared for her. Mrs. Driscoll still lay on the sofa 
 idly turning over the leaves of the evening papers. 
 From the pages of each one she saw the hideous 
 headline, "SOCIETY DIVORCE CASE: VERDICT." 
 
 There was a ring at the bell; she heard footsteps, 
 a man's voice in the hall. Who could it be at this 
 hour? The clock on the mantelpiece pointed to 
 half-past six. And she had given orders that she 
 would not be at home to any one. Surely no one 
 would dare intrude upon her now. The door opened
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 19 
 
 and the maid brought in a card and gave it to her. 
 The name brought an angry little flush to her face. 
 Joan, not daring to come herself, had sent an emis- 
 sary in the person of her brother. 
 
 "You must say I can't possibly see any one," she 
 said, rising from the sofa. 
 
 "Mr. Pallant says he's come on business, with a 
 very important message from her ladyship, ma'am," 
 said the maid. "He says he won't detain you more 
 than a moment. I told him your wishes, ma'am." 
 
 "Very well I suppose I must see him then." 
 
 Gillian went up to the mirror and smoothed her 
 dark hair with her hands. Then turning, she moved 
 forward to greet her visitor. 
 
 All her movements were graceful; the lines of 
 her figure were slim, straight, rather fine-drawn ; the 
 poise of her little head always gave a touch of arro- 
 gance to her mien. 
 
 The door had closed upon Paul Pallant. He came 
 up to her and took both her hands in his, swiftly, 
 masterfully. 
 
 "I knew you were in," he said in his cool steady 
 voice. "I felt I simply must see you. So I invented 
 that message from my mother. Rather clever of 
 me, wasn't it? Your maid's a bit of a dragon, Jill!" 
 
 She did not speak. Across her pain his strong 
 touch comforted her. She had never known Paul 
 very well. She had been too much engrossed in 
 Aylmer during those few weeks she had spent under 
 his mother's roof prior to her marriage to take much 
 heed of the pale taciturn youth who came up for 
 occasional week-ends from Aldershot. But he had 
 always been friendly and pleasant, and once Joan 
 had eagerly repeated to her that Paul had said she 
 was very pretty. Joan always thirsted for corrobo- 
 ration of her own opinion; she did not wish to be 
 the sole worshipper in the temple.
 
 20 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 She took her hands away and sat down, turning 
 her face from the light. And Paul stood there, 
 steadily surveying her. 
 
 "You have been crying," he said at last, calmly 
 looking down at her. 
 
 "I suppose I have," said Gillian weakly. 
 
 "Don't don't, Jill," he said. 
 
 He spoke as if her tears were swords that pierced 
 him. 
 
 "I can't help it. You would cry if you had gone 
 through what I have to-day!" 
 
 "No, I should not. I should be too busy killing 
 Aylmer to cry," he said, and his face grew hard. 
 
 "Why should you want to kill him? I don't in 
 the least want him to die. Living is so much 
 harder!" 
 
 "You're frozen, child," said Paul. "May I make 
 up the fire?" 
 
 Before she could answer he was on his knees 
 upon the hearth-rug. He raked out the ashes, put 
 on some lumps of coal, one by one, and watched as 
 the first little grey swirl of smoke gave place to sud- 
 den flame. Gillian found herself noting the deft 
 movements of his thin brown hands. 
 
 His self-imposed task finished, they sat opposite 
 to each other in silence. Paul Pallant's thin face 
 was a little restless. His eyes were very bright. 
 
 "I was not there to-day," he said at last, "although 
 I wished to be. . . . But Joan told me that she 
 went. I hope she didn't worry you most awfully?" 
 
 "Oh no," said Gillian. "I'm sorry I couldn't 
 bring her back with me. She wanted to come. But 
 I preferred to be alone." 
 
 "I'm afraid I'm not so amenable as Joan," he 
 said quietly, and he looked away from her, his eyes 
 fixed upon the kindling fire. "Let me stay a few
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 21 
 
 minutes, Gillian." His voice sank to a sudden 
 meekness. "I've been wanting to see you simply 
 frightfully all day." 
 
 It struck her that exaggeration of speech must be 
 a peculiarity of the Pallant family. It was certainly 
 not derived from Lady Pallant, whose words were 
 always few and singularly to the point. 
 
 Then quite abruptly, without further hesitation or 
 preliminary, Paul said: 
 
 "I love you. Didn't you ever guess it? Do you 
 love me, Gillian?" 
 
 He stood up now, and his face, always rather 
 emotionless, had grown quite pale. 
 
 "I never thought about it. Why should I love 
 you? How could I?" 
 
 He looked astonished. Was it possible she did 
 not comprehend all the vital significance of his 
 words ? 
 
 "I love you, Jill," he said again. 
 
 "Don't!" And now she lifted up her hand as if 
 in entreaty. "I hate to hear you say it." 
 
 The odd and strange whiteness of his face, the 
 blazing darkness of nis eyes, alarmed her. "It 
 sounds so so wrong," she added. 
 
 "To-day," he said slowly, "has given me the right 
 to speak.' 
 
 "Why should it?" she cried petulantly. "To- 
 day hasn't made me any the less Aylmer's wife." 
 
 "You are not his wife any more, thank God," said 
 Paul. "In six months you will be absolutely free." 
 
 "Please don't," she said imploringly. "I feel it is 
 so wicked so wrong." Her voice was troubled. 
 "Horribly wrong. I have not been at all wicked, 
 and yet I feel so soiled and disgraced. . . ." 
 
 In the pause that followed Gillian gathered cour- 
 age. 
 
 "You are almost as silly as Joan," she said, but
 
 22 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 the little laugh that followed this speech was unsuc- 
 cessful. 
 
 "Joan!" he said contemptuously, "you are not 
 surely going to compare a schoolgirl's folly with the 
 kind of love I am offering you now!" 
 
 "It makes my position all the worse that you 
 should dare to come here like this and deliberately 
 make love to me !" she declared wrathfully. 
 
 But Paul, unheeding, knelt down between her and 
 the fire and possessed himself of her two cold little 
 hands. 
 
 "I love you, Jill," he said. "I have waited for 
 to-day for four years." 
 
 She wrenched her hands free. 
 
 "I won't listen to you ! What you say is impos- 
 sible . . . you are insulting me !" 
 
 "Insulting you? When I love you? When I 
 long for the day when I can make you my wife. . . ." 
 
 "I shall never be your wife. I am Aylmer's wife." 
 
 She had never envisaged the future, nor dreamed 
 that it could hold for her a new love, another mar- 
 riage. 
 
 "Don't speak to me of Aylmer. It makes me 
 want more than ever to kill him !" 
 
 He rose and made a few steps abruptly up and 
 down the room. Then he came back to her side. 
 
 "And in any case," she went on, "I should never 
 dream of marrying again. I am afraid of love. It 
 can hurt too much. I would far rather be alone 
 . . . without it!" 
 
 "You need not be afraid of my love," he said 
 quietly; "I worship you too much!" 
 
 She did not speak. She struggled against the 
 slowly growing conviction that his words, his touch, 
 his very presence, were subtly comforting her. 
 
 And she had no need of comfort. . . . Her soul
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 23 
 
 cried out fiercely for solitude. . . . The Pallants 
 were engaged in a conspiracy to deny her that soli- 
 tude. It only remained now for Lady Pallant to 
 come and offer a few blunt words of sympathy, prac- 
 tical and unimaginative. . . . 
 
 "I assure you," she said impulsively, "I had quite 
 as much as I could bear from Joan to-day." 
 
 "I'm awfully sorry," he said; "I'm sure she was 
 very trying. But she means well, poor little kid. 
 I'm afraid it runs in the family to be foolish about 
 you." 
 
 He had turned her sword against himself. 
 
 "You should have sent her off," he added. 
 
 She received this advice with a meaning silence. 
 
 "She's awfully devoted to you," he went on; "she's 
 taken it very much to heart. . . ." 
 
 "Oh, don't I know it? I don't want anybody's 
 devotion either yours or hers!" She spoke vehe- 
 mently. 
 
 "I'm sure you must be jolly well fed up with life," 
 he said, suddenly breaking into slang that won an 
 unwilling smile from her. "But you'll come and 
 see us whenever you feel inclined, won't you, Jill? 
 The house is your home whenever you choose to 
 make it so. I'm sure my mother would have sent 
 all kinds of messages if she'd known I was coming." 
 
 "I'll come and say good-bye," she said, relenting 
 a little. "You see, I've made up my mind to go 
 abroad almost at once. In a few days I shall go to 
 Paris and then to Italy. I thought of starting next 
 Saturday." 
 
 "On Saturday? Surely not so soon as that? You 
 don't let the grass grow under your feet, do you?" 
 His tone was slightly hurt. "Why must you be so 
 precipitate?" 
 
 "I don't like these cold winter months in England.
 
 24 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 It's warmer in Italy. There's more sunshine, and 
 I'm longing to go away to shut it all out. To forget 
 if I can!" She burst suddenly into tears. 
 
 "You oughtn't to go alone, anyhow," he said with 
 decision. "Can't you get some friend to go with 
 you? I'm sure Joan would go like a shot if you 
 could get round mother to let her. Or that other 
 friend of yours Miss Venning?" 
 
 "What, Deborah?" she almost screamed. "Take 
 Deborah with me?" Her tears threatened now to 
 become hysterical; she continued to sob, uttering 
 broken sentences. "I shouldn't dream of taking 
 Deborah with me I Oh, please go away, Paul I I 
 simply can't bear any more. Give my love to Cousin 
 Janet. . . . Say I'll try and come in and say good- 
 bye to her . . . and Joan. And if you care for 
 me, do try and stop Joan from coming here I" 
 
 "I say I'm afraid I've upset you most awfully," 
 he said with contrition. He paused for a moment, 
 wondering if he ought to leave her at once. "Jill," 
 he said, "I can't go away like this I must know 
 that I'm going to see you again. You must really 
 tell me a little more." His face clouded, and be- 
 came suddenly gloomy and anxious. "I spoke too 
 soon and I'm sorry. I might have known you 
 weren't in the mood to listen. But it's too late to 
 take back my words. I love you and I'm sure I 
 could make you happy I'm sure I could give you 
 back the happiness you've lost. You'll let me try, 
 won't you one of these days?" 
 
 "No," she said, "I can't say anything now. As I 
 told you just now, I'm afraid of love. I hope I shall 
 never love any one again. And as for marriage, 
 that's quite out of the question." 
 
 "Well, I must be content with that, I suppose," 
 he said, smiling. 
 
 What a child she was still, with a child's unrea-
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 25 
 
 soning petulance. A child, too, that had been most 
 cruelly and savagely hurt. 
 
 He lifted her hands one after the other to his 
 lips and kissed them reverently. Then he looked 
 steadily into her eyes. 
 
 "One of these days, dear Jill . . . "he said. 
 
 He left the room so silently she hardly realised 
 that he had gone. One of these days . . . one of 
 these days. . . . What a silly thing to say I How 
 could Paul and loan both be so stupid as to care for 
 her to make themselves unhappy about her? 
 
 "How thankful I shall be to get away from every 
 one," she said aloud to herself as she heard the front 
 door slam. "Especially from the Pallants." 
 
 But even as she framed the words she knew that 
 they were not perfectly sincere. She had been very 
 glad of Paul Pallant's company that evening; it 
 had disturbed her, but it had undoubtedly helped her 
 to bear her embittered loneliness. 
 
 "And, after all, it might have been Joan!" she 
 said, with a little wry smile.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 LADY PALLANT wondered why both her son and 
 daughter seemed so nervous and pre-occupied 
 that night at dinner. Joan in particular had red 
 eyes and wore a slightly plaintive and injured ex- 
 pression. She ate little, and the meal was proceed- 
 ing in silence when this fact of his sister's diminished 
 appetite obtruding itself upon Paul, he made a re- 
 mark which suggested a clue to the situation. 
 
 "Starving, Jo?" he said, in the light ironical tone 
 that always made his sister flinch and turn crimson. 
 "That won't help Gillian, you know!" 
 
 At the mention of Gillian's name Lady Pallant 
 looked up from her delicate dissection of a chicken's 
 wing. 
 
 "Did you go with Gillian to-day, Joan?" she in- 
 quired. She was a handsome woman of about fifty, 
 tall, dark, inclined to be stout. She had rather an 
 imperious air, and was the moving spirit in the 
 household, inspiring both respect and awe. 
 
 "Yes, mother," said Joan meekly. 
 
 "I told you," said Lady Pallant, "that I entirely 
 disapproved of your going to such a place of your 
 being seen there at all!" 
 
 She had lunched out herself, and so had been 
 unaware that Paul had enjoyed that meal at home 
 in solitary state. 
 
 "Yes, mother," said Joan again, scarcely knowing 
 what she said. 
 
 She did not dare look up and meet Paul's bitter 
 amused eyes. 
 
 "It is a most equivocal position for a young girl," 
 pursued Lady Pallant, who, having had her sus- 
 picions confirmed, was determined not to allow the 
 
 26
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 27 
 
 misdemeanour to pass unrebuked; "in my young 
 days it would not have been at all comme il faut for 
 a girl to be seen in the Divorce Court listening to a 
 case." 
 
 Joan was silent. 
 
 "I am surprised that you went against my wishes 
 in the matter. In the future I shall have to be 
 more particular in controlling your movements since 
 you are evidently not to be trusted. I must say, too, 
 that I am surprised Gillian allowed it!" 
 
 This unexpected attributing of the blame to Mrs. 
 Driscoll aroused Paul from his silence. He looked 
 up sharply. 
 
 "Speak up, Jo I Tell mother it wasn't Gillian's 
 fault. You simply insisted upon going, didn't you? 
 You would go she didn't want you a little bit!" 
 
 His anger was slightly tinged with jealousy, which 
 made him speak more harshly than perhaps he in- 
 tended. He had longed passionately to be with 
 Gillian in that evil hour, to stand by her. Every 
 dictate of prudence had compelled his absence. But 
 in the spirit had he not been by her side, holding her 
 two cold little hands in his, even as he had held them 
 to-night? . . . 
 
 "No, she didn't want me," Joan confessed; "it 
 wasn't her fault." Remembering the humiliating 
 manner of her peremptory dismissal on the way 
 home, she longed to ask the terrible questions, "Did 
 she tell you so, Paul? Did she say she hadn't wanted 
 me?" But she shrank from the inevitable answer. 
 Paul was not in the mood to spare her. 
 
 "I am glad that Gillian won her case," said Lady 
 Pallant. "Of course she behaved very foolishly 
 and imprudently. To shut yourself up for months 
 and months and refuse to see people is not the way 
 to keep your husband." 
 
 Paul's eyes flashed.
 
 28 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 "Even that isn't any excuse for a man to desert 
 his wife, and behave in the caddish way Aylmer 
 has behaved to herl I always said he was a 
 bounder." 
 
 Joan darted a grateful look from misty blue eyes. 
 
 "I wonder what Gillian will do," continued Lady 
 Pallant. "She has, fortunately, plenty of money of 
 her own. And then Aylmer will be compelled to pay 
 her the usual proportion of his income." 
 
 "If I were Gillian I wouldn't touch a farthing of 
 his money," said Paul; "her trustees insisted upon 
 the alimony she didn't want it I" 
 
 "I am accustomed," said his mother dryly, "to 
 Joan's exaggerated partisanship of Gillian. But 
 from you Paul " she stopped and smiled. 
 
 "Any man who is worth his salt may be forgiven 
 for expressing himself strongly on the subject of a 
 woman who has been treated as Aylmer has treated 
 her," he retorted. 
 
 Again that mute rather pathetic glance of grati- 
 tude from Joan. 
 
 Lady Pallant felt the implied reproach in her 
 son's tone. She thought to herself: "How dread- 
 fully upset they both are about this affair of Gil- 
 lian's I" She observed without analysing; recog- 
 nised a fact, yet exhibiting no desire to deduce rea- 
 sons for it. Hence she never suspected the true basis 
 of her son's defence of Gillian. Mrs. Driscoll was 
 her cousin, had lived in her house, had been launched 
 by her as one of the prettiest debutantes of that sea- 
 son, had met Aylmer under her roof, and had been 
 married from thence. For her these reasons sufficed. 
 She had not the remotest knowledge of her son's 
 attitude towards Gillian. . . . 
 
 "I wonder what she will do," said Lady Pallant 
 after a pause, during which neither Paul nor Joan 
 ventured any remark; "do you know what her plans 
 are, Joan?"
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 29 
 
 "She didn't say," said the girl; "she didn't talk 
 much to-day. I think she was stunned. She wasn't 
 like herself. It's been a great shock to her." 
 
 "She means to go abroad almost at once!" said 
 Paul. He betrayed no triumph at this superior 
 knowledge of Gillian's plans. Jealousy touched 
 Joan's heart with its knife, causing a cold sinking 
 sensation. Why had she confided in Paul? When 
 had he seen her? Had she sent for him? She did 
 not dare ask these questions aloud. Paul had always 
 dominated his young sister; he was five years older 
 than she was. Her attitude towards him was a 
 curious mingling of fear and reverence. His words 
 could strike hard, and he had what his mother called 
 the "Pallant temper." They were mutually jealous 
 of each other's friendship for Gillian. 
 
 "Abroad? Alone? How unwise I" said Lady 
 Pallant. "I hope she does not intend to go alone. 
 Perhaps she means to take a friend." 
 
 Paul vouchsafed no further information. 
 
 "Perhaps she will take Deborah Venning with 
 her," said Lady Pallant, "they were always such 
 great friends." 
 
 "Deborah!" Joan uttered the name below her 
 breath, but the whisper held scorn. "Jill never sees 
 Deborah now. "I'm sure she doesn't care for her 
 any more I" 
 
 It was Paul's turn to feel astonished at his sister's 
 superior knowledge on the subject of this quondam 
 friendship. It reminded him of Gillian's sudden 
 outburst of tears this evening when he had mentioned 
 Miss Venning's name, of her cryptic utterance, "I 
 shouldn't dream of taking Deborah Venning with 
 me!" What had compassed the overthrowal of 
 Deborah from her once unassailable position as Mrs. 
 Driscoll's greatest friend? What did Joan know? 
 
 "You mean you've applied for the post?" he said 
 satirically, as if with deliberate intent to wound. It
 
 30 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 would have been difficult to say whose nerves had 
 been the more jarred during that day of public reck- 
 oning. "You've cut Deborah out have you, Jo?" 
 His eyes glinted sword-like. Joan's fell under the 
 glance; she bit her lip as if she were trying to sup- 
 press those tears that had threatened all the evening. 
 "But she won't take you, my dear!" 
 
 "She certainly will not!" Lady Pallant exercised 
 her rare authority. Besides, the events of the day 
 justified her. "Joan will not be allowed to travel 
 under the care of any one whose name has been made 
 unfortunately so public. A woman however in- 
 nocent who has divorced her husband is not the 
 proper chaperon for a young and sheltered girl. 
 Joan has her home duties." 
 
 "You needn't be afraid, mother," said Paul, "Gil- 
 lian wouldn't be bothered with her. She wishes for 
 solitude. She's sick of humanity. She doesn't even 
 want Joan chose extraordinaire !" 
 
 Joan suppressed a sob ; her throat felt dry. Even 
 Paul's sarcasm was lost in the unwelcome news he 
 had so carelessly conveyed. Gillian was going 
 abroad; she might possibly keep her destination a 
 secret. And she was a bad correspondent. Life 
 looked blank for Joan; home duties offered but a 
 dismal substitute for the beautiful presence thus 
 abruptly and decisively withdrawn. . . . 
 
 "It is a thousand pities her aunts have absolutely 
 no hold over her," said Lady Pallant, reflecting upon 
 the undesirability of a young woman possessing suffi- 
 cient money to gratify any imprudent whim that 
 might suggest itself. "It is a wretched business," 
 she added. 
 
 Dinner was at an end. Joan followed her mother 
 out of the room, a demure crushed figure. The two 
 hours in the drawing-room still lay before her, and 
 until they were over she would not be free to seek
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 31 
 
 her own room and indulge in those long-repressed 
 tears. Lady Pallant would not have permitted a 
 premature withdrawal. She held that it was im- 
 prudent to relax a disciplinary hold in little things. 
 Only illness absolved her daughter from a punctual 
 appearance at all meals, and at stated hours in the 
 drawing-room. And to-night there was less chance 
 than ever of evading that unwritten law. Joan had 
 committed a definite act of rebellion in accompany- 
 ing Gillian, and for some days at least, until the 
 impression had a little worn off, she knew that the 
 bit would inevitably be tightened, and that it behoved 
 her to be careful of her conduct in little things. She 
 took some embroidery and began to sew, but her 
 eyes were brimming over with tears. Why had 
 Gillian made up her mind to go abroad? Why had 
 she never told her of her intention? She had the 
 feeling that Gillian was slipping away from her. 
 . . . And Paul knew. She must have told Paul. 
 
 Paul did not join them. They heard, as they sat 
 there, the front door slam, a signal that informed 
 them he had gone out to his club. Devoutly Joan 
 wished that she, too, had a club which could swallow 
 her up nightly during that dreaded two hours be- 
 tween dinner and bedtime. She envied Paul his 
 absolute liberty, his freedom from all petty tyran- 
 nies and restraints. Above all she longed to be free 
 free that she might go even now to Gillian. . . . 
 The thought was such a daring one that it brought 
 the colour to her cheeks. It was followed quickly 
 by another. What if Paul had gone to see Gillian 
 now instead of seeking refuge in his club? 
 
 Lady Pallant's thoughts were also concentrated 
 upon Mrs. Driscoll. She did not quite share her 
 children's admiration for Gillian; she considered her 
 careless and imprudent. Nor did she approve of 
 her influence over Joan, although it could not be
 
 32 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 clearly proved from what Paul had said that she 
 had persuaded Joan to accompany her to the Law 
 Courts. He had warmly contradicted the assertion, 
 and Joan had reluctantly agreed. Her daughter's 
 disobedience had owed nothing to Gillian. In future 
 she herself must exercise more authority, Lady Pal- 
 lant reflected as she glanced once at Joan's meek 
 bent head. In Gillian's absence this would be easier. 
 But she must see Gillian before she went. She must 
 warn her of the difficulties, the temptations of her 
 position. A young and pretty woman who had di- 
 vorced her husband possessed a dangerous independ- 
 ence. She would meet with admiration and pity 
 from men, with blame and often contempt from 
 women. There were always people ready to blame 
 a wife, however innocent, who had been compelled 
 to divorce her husband, especially when the hus- 
 band was such a brilliant and popular figure, the 
 writer of such amazingly clever poetry and plays. 
 Lady Pallant had never liked Aylmer, though she 
 had felt flattered when he came to see her, and she 
 was an admirer of his dramatic work. She was 
 afraid that Gillian had not been quite the right wife 
 for him. Authors were a race apart. She thought 
 of Shelley, of Byron. . . . Genius did not always 
 make for domestic happiness. A seeking for inspira- 
 tion seemed to tempt persons thus endowed into 
 fortuitous flirtation. "She's absolutely necessary 
 to my work," Aylmer had informed her when he 
 first came to discuss his engagement to Gillian. At 
 the time Lady Pallant had regarded the utterance as 
 a piece of monstrous egotism. Cynically she im- 
 agined that when Gillian failed him, the essential 
 inspiration was sought elsewhere. She could not 
 hold her entirely free from blame. Absorbed in her 
 child, and then in the loss of that child, she had
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 33 
 
 doubtless proved increasingly unappreciative of his 
 work. It never occurred to Lady Pallant that De- 
 borah Venning had been to blame Deborah, who 
 was so little seen in London now, who lived in the 
 country, devoting herself to her garden and her old 
 invalid father. There had never been a word said 
 against Deborah Venning. . . . 
 
 Lady Pallant ordered fhe car at a quarter past 
 ten on the following morning, an unusually early 
 hour for her to leave the house. She drove at once 
 to Kensington, to catch Gillian before she went out, 
 as she expressed it. She was so successful that Gil- 
 lian had not even begun her toilette. She had, how- 
 ever, finished her breakfast, and was in bed, read- 
 ing the newspapers, of which she had ordered about 
 a dozen. In all the illustrated ones there were pic- 
 tures of herself; old presentments raked up from 
 that remote epoch four years ago, when her wed- 
 ding had made a little sensation. The Daily Kodak 
 alone showed her as she had been yesterday when 
 she had lifted her veil to give evidence. Inset was 
 a picture of Aylmer, arrestingly handsome. 
 
 If Lady Pallant felt at all shocked at the nature 
 of Gillian's occupation she did not say so. 
 
 Propped up by downy pillows delicately embroid- 
 ered and monogrammed, and wearing a white silk 
 wrap elaborately trimmed with real lace and a 
 boudoir cap to match, Mrs. Driscoll looked ex- 
 tremely young and pretty. She was feeling more 
 cheerful to-day. Preparations for her journey were 
 proceeding rapidly; the telephone at her elbow was 
 in constant use, and these minor activities were driv- 
 ing from her mind the unpleasant happenings of yes- 
 terday. She had slept well, and a quiet night had 
 given her fresh courage. She could look at the
 
 34 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 world this morning and not hate it with such savage 
 bitterness. And there was balm, too, in the remem- 
 brance of Paul's visit, Paul's words. . . . 
 
 "I'm awfully sorry not to be up, Cousin Janet," 
 she said, putting up a white cheek to be kissed. 
 "Just look at these. I feel like the prisoner in a 
 murder case!" She indicated the confused heap of 
 papers of which some of the sheets had slidden upon 
 the floor. 
 
 Lady Pallant's mien was mysteriously funereal, 
 as if she had come to offer sympathy for a recent 
 bereavement. 
 
 "My dear! I lost no time I So shocking! And 
 after only four years!" 
 
 Gillian coloured. She would have preferred not 
 to discuss the subject seriously at this early hour. 
 But Lady Pallant's manner indicated that she con- 
 sidered Mrs. Driscoll's attitude deplorably frivo- 
 lous. 
 
 "People seem to have lost all sense of the indis- 
 solubility of marriage of the holiness of the tie!" 
 she continued firmly. "The obligations, the duties, 
 the responsibilities involved! One sees it over and 
 over again. And there is such a disposition in these 
 days to treat the culprits lightly to receive them 
 again!" 
 
 "Aylmer's books will have a larger sale than ever, 
 and people will simply flock to see his plays," said 
 Gillian bitterly. 
 
 Lady Pallant did not reply to this remark, though 
 she thought it more than likely. She merely said: 
 "Paul tells me you are thinking of going abroad." 
 
 "Yes, I'm going on Saturday if I can get ready," 
 said Gillian. "I am giving up the flat. I shall be 
 away a long time," she added. 
 
 "I hope," said Lady Pallant, "that you are not 
 thinking of going alone."
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 35 
 
 "Yes, Cousin Janet. I'm going quite alone." 
 
 "But is that quite wise, my dear? A very young 
 woman and in your unhappily most unfortunate 
 position !" 
 
 "I admit my youth and my unfortunate position, 
 but I feel I really must think a little of my nerves. 
 Cousin Janet you've never been in the divorce 
 court " 
 
 "My dear I trust not, indeed!" cried Lady Pal- 
 lant, holding up restraining hands. "You shock 
 me inexpressibly!" 
 
 "So you can't have any idea how dreadfully stren- 
 uous it is," pursued Gillian with imperturbable calm- 
 ness. "I felt ten years older last night. My 
 nerves " 
 
 "Nerves!" said Lady Palant. "Duty should 
 come before nerves." 
 
 Gillian wondered if this solemn dictum held as 
 much sense as sound. 
 
 "Italy will distract me," said Mrs. Driscoll. "I 
 have never been there since I was married, and it 
 was never any fun going about with my aunts. They 
 were always so horribly shocked at what they called 
 foreign ways. I'm sure I shall simply love it now 
 alone and free like this!" 
 
 "Yes, but you can't stay in Italy for ever," said 
 Lady Pallant, "four or five months perhaps but 
 even in June it is often unbearably hot. I hope you 
 will come back in May!" 
 
 "I shan't make any plans," said Gillian, leaning 
 lazily back on the pillows and looking at her cousin 
 through her long veiling lashes. "It will be so deli- 
 cious just wandering about and seeing all the charm- 
 ing places one knows so well from picture post- 
 cards!" 
 
 "I dislike the thought of your staying about at 
 hotels alone. You are so young and people are sure
 
 36 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 to talk and then this unfortunate business has been 
 so very notorious Aylmer being such a well-known 
 man and all ! My dear, I feel you will be the prey 
 of all kinds of horrible unprincipled people I can't 
 bear to think of it." 
 
 "Oh, you musn't be anxious about me, Cousin 
 Janet," said Gillian earnestly. 
 
 "Paul dislikes the idea almost as much as I do. 
 He didn't say so in so many words, but I could 
 tell from his manner when we were discussing it at 
 dinner last night. And a mother always knows 
 what is passing in the minds of her children I" 
 
 Gillian suppressed a smile. 
 
 "And poor Joan is simply miserable at the pros* 
 pect of losing you 1" 
 
 "Dear Joan . . ." murmured Gillian without 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 "Of course I couldn't think of letting her go 
 with you. That is one of the reasons why I came 
 to see you to-day to beg you not to suggest any 
 such thing!" 
 
 "I should never have dreamed of suggesting it," 
 said Gillian. 
 
 "I know you will forgive me if I seem unkind 
 but I have such imperative reasons for not wishing 
 her to go," said Lady Pallant. 
 
 "But I wouldn't take Joan for the world 1" said 
 Gillian, opening her eyes very wide at this to her 
 preposterous suggestion. "I mean I want to be 
 alone, . . . that's such an immense attraction. . . . 
 I couldn't have a girl on my hands. It's such a 
 a responsibility," she added lamely. 
 
 "Quite so," said Lady Pallant; "I was sure you 
 would understand. Joan is a very good girl, but 
 she requires like all young girls vigilance and dis- 
 cipline. It would be too heavy a burden for your 
 young shoulders !" Lady Pallant snatched with sus-
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 37 
 
 picious eagerness at this solution. "Joan's upset, 
 of course she is so fond of you." 
 
 "She musn't miss the season, though," said 
 Gillian. 
 
 "I was wondering if you couldn't persuade Miss 
 Venning to go with you," continued Lady Pallant 
 unsuspiciously. "She is devoted to you, I am sure 
 you have only to suggest it." 
 
 "Ask Deborah to leave her bulbs in February?" 
 Gillian's voice was strained and almost hoarse with 
 the effort she made to steady it, but Lady Pallant 
 observed only the light gaiety of the words. 
 
 "A friend in need is so much more important than 
 a bulb !" she pronounced after a moment's reflec- 
 tion. 
 
 "Ah, you don't know the gardening soul," said 
 Gillian. 
 
 She lay back for a moment closing her eyes 
 wearily. The little action was not lost on Lady 
 Pallant, who regarded her compassionately. What 
 a child she looked, when all was said and done 
 scarcely older than Joan. To have one's life 
 wrecked at twenty-two years ! What incredible cru- 
 elty! Impulsively, for she was not a demonstrative 
 woman, she leaned forward and put her hand on 
 Gillian's fragile one. It would be easier to talk 
 to her, to sympathise, if only Gillian would show 
 some little sign that she felt the seriousness of her 
 position. Instead, she seemed to resent talking 
 about it. She was actually looking forward to that 
 free time in Italy with zest and eagerness. Lady 
 Pallant had come to-day with the intention of hav- 
 ing what her daughter would have called a "heart- 
 to-heart" talk, but Gillian's attitude made such a 
 thing inconceivable. 
 
 "I do hope it won't be rough on Saturday," said 
 Gillian suddenly, opening her eyes; "do you think
 
 3 8 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 this wind will have gone down by then? I have 
 such a stupid, chattering horror of the Channel 
 even when it is fairly smooth. Of course at this 
 time of year one must expect storms." 
 
 Lady Pallant had no views as to the probable 
 state of the Channel on Saturday; she wondered, 
 indeed, that this unimportant side-issue could thus 
 prospectively affect Gillian. 
 
 "I cannot say," she remarked; "you may of course 
 have it very smooth. But after a storm there is so 
 often a ground swell which is almost as disagree- 
 able ! I wish you were not going." 
 
 "Oh, but I'm longing to get away. I feel I shall 
 so enjoy being an independent tourist not even a 
 personally conducted one !" 
 
 "Paul," said Lady Pallant, reverting to her for- 
 mer objection, "is quite extraordinarily upset at the 
 idea!" She paused for a moment. "I wish Paul 
 would marry. He is growing so irritable. The 
 way he caught Joan up at dinner last night was 
 quite painful. They used always to be so devoted 
 to each other. I hoped at one time that he would 
 take a fancy to Lady Ferner's younger daughter 
 the pretty fair one who is a friend of Joan's, too. 
 I asked her to dine constantly when he was with 
 us for his long leave, but he never took the slightest 
 notice of her. I should like them both to marry, 
 of course, but it's different for a girl. However, if a 
 young good-looking man doesn't marry when he has 
 plenty of means it 1*5 his own fault, isn't it?" 
 
 "I suppose it is," said Gillian nervously. She 
 was not quite sure if this speech were intended as 
 a deliberate warning, a cry of "Hands off!" ad- 
 dressed to herself. 
 
 "I should welcome any girl of suitable age and 
 birth," continued Lady rallant, "no matter what 
 her fortune was. I should be the last person to put
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 39 
 
 any obstacles in his way. But Paul seems quite blind 
 where girls are concerned sometimes I think he 
 almost dislikes them. That's the worst of the Army 
 if a man really cares about his career it seems to 
 swallow up all his time, giving him leisure for no 
 other interests." 
 
 Gillian felt somewhat relieved at this proof of 
 Lady Pallant's ignorance both as to the nature of 
 her son's interests and the state of his heart. 
 
 While she murmured a half-audible reply, Lady 
 Pallant, laying her hand again on Gillian's, said 
 abruptly : 
 
 "My dear child, I cannot go away without telling 
 you how very sorry I am for you. So very, very 
 sorry! ..." 
 
 There was a hint of softening in her large, well- 
 moulded features and fine dark eyes. 
 
 "Oh, that's all right, Cousin Janet," said Gillian 
 flushing. "I mean . . . I'm sure you are." 
 
 "Such a terribly difficult position for you, and at 
 your age, too. So many girls of your age are still 
 living in the shelter of their own homes. And it's 
 not as if you were a widow, my dear, and could 
 hope in course of time to make a second marriage." 
 She paused now, regarding Gillian as if to watch 
 the effect of these words. 
 
 Mrs. Driscoll began anew to wonder if Lady 
 Pallant were in such complete ignorance as she 
 had supposed on the subject of Paul. 
 
 "A second marriage, dear Cousin Janet? What 
 a simply horrible idea I" She tried to laugh, but 
 the sound was strangled in her throat. 
 
 Lady Pallant breathed a faint sigh of relief. 
 
 "Ah, I hoped you would agree with me there. 
 Our dear vicar, Mr. Reynolds, is entirely opposed 
 to divorced persons re-marrying, even the one 
 known as the innocent party. We were having a
 
 40 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 long talk about you, my dear, only two days ago." 
 
 "Dear Cousin Janet I do wish you wouldn't dis- 
 cuss me even with a clergyman!" 
 
 "I always go to him for advice and counsel," 
 said Lady Pallant, drawing herself up with a slight 
 stiffening of the spine. "I find him particularly 
 helpful, and I wish Paul and Joan did not dislike 
 him so much, for it is so often on their account that 
 I am obliged to consult him. I assure you, that 
 to be the mother of a grown-up son and daughter 
 in these days of relaxed parental discipline is an 
 agonising responsibility; one feels in a perpetual 
 state of apprehension. Paul is quite out of my con- 
 trol I suppose that is only natural when a man has 
 his income in his own hands. Joan I have been 
 a little anxious about Joan of late. For instance," 
 her voice dropped sympathetically, "she insisted 
 upon accompanying you to the Law Courts yester- 
 day. Very sweet and dear of her and all that, but 
 I do feel that she oughtn't to have gone against 
 my definitely expressed wishes. I was very vexed 
 with her. I feel very strongly that a young girl 
 should not be seen in such places. It is so . . . so 
 soiling. Joan does not often disobey me." 
 
 Gillian's mouth opened convulsively as if she were 
 trying to repress a smile. Then she said: 
 
 "Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry she disobeyed you. I 
 didn't want her to come at all I felt you would 
 disapprove. It was quite her own idea. I wasn't 
 in the mood for any company." 
 
 "That was just what Paul seemed to think, and 
 he as good as told Joan so last night." It did occur 
 to her then to wonder how Paul had come to acquire 
 such an accurate knowledge of Gillian's mood upon 
 that famous occasion. "He almost inferred that 
 she had been very tactless to inflict herself upon you 
 at all. But Paul was in a very odd mood last night
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 41 
 
 something seemed to have upset him completely. 
 I do so dislike that bickering at meals. When they 
 were children I never permitted it!" 
 
 Gillian offered no solution as to the reason of 
 Paul's ill-temper. She had a feeling that she must 
 keep his secret, especially as she was now convinced 
 that his mother's suspicions were aroused, and that 
 she was trying to approach the matter by side-roads 
 and perhaps surprise Gillian into a confession or at 
 least a denial. 
 
 Mrs. Driscoll gave a little wriggle of impatience; 
 she was annoyed to find herself, thanks to the Pal- 
 lant family, unwittingly involved in fresh complica- 
 tions. She longed to abuse Paul and Joan openly 
 to their mother for their undesired friendship and 
 devotion; she wanted to say that it was none of 
 her seeking. . . . 
 
 "Well, my dear, I've been worrying you about 
 my own affairs, and I really came to talk about 
 yours!" Lady Pallant said this quite brightly, and 
 with apparently no ulterior signification of interests 
 running parallel and mutually involved. "And I 
 really must be going. It is the day I have my hands 
 manicured. Come and dine with us to-morrow, 
 won't you? Quite en famille of course. I am 
 sure you won't want to meet people just now!" 
 
 "Oh, thank you, Cousin Janet, but I don't really 
 feel like going anywhere." 
 
 The thought of meeting Paul with this secret be- 
 tween them alarmed her. 
 
 "Joan will never forgive me if I fail to persuade 
 you. Really just this once. A kind of fare- 
 well" 
 
 Gillian reluctantly agreed. She hoped that Paul 
 might have an engagement; he did not often dine 
 at home. 
 
 "I'm afraid we shan't have Paul he talked of
 
 42 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 going to see this new dancer with Captain Grant. 
 Do you know, Gillian, I sometimes fancy that Cap- 
 tain Grant is taken with Joan?" 
 
 "What an excellent ideal" responded Gillian 
 heartily. 
 
 She felt intensely relieved at the probable ab- 
 sence of Paul. She could almost look forward to 
 a dull evening spent alone with Lady Pallant and 
 Joan. 
 
 "I can leave early," she thought to herself,
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 LADY PALLANT was sitting alone in the drawing- 
 room a few minutes before eight on the fol- 
 lowing evening. The room was spacious, and on its 
 pale walls there hung some fine pictures and etch- 
 ings. Blue was the predominant colour in the carpet 
 and hangings and in a beautiful old screen. 
 
 Lady Pallant sat very upright in a high chair, for 
 she belonged to a generation to whom lolling had 
 been forbidden, and she reaped the benefit of this 
 education, for her back was as straight as ever, 
 and the carriage of her head almost imperial. Her 
 black satin dress fitted tightly, and she wore a lovely 
 string of pearls round her still white and plump 
 throat. She was idly turning the pages of Punch 
 when the door opened and her son came into the 
 room. 
 
 The black and white effect produced always by 
 his smooth jet-black hair and white face was en- 
 hanced by the conventional evening dress which was 
 peculiarly becoming to him. His slight, spare figure 
 under middle height was boyish-looking, but there 
 was no trace of the boy in his grave, rigid face, 
 with the smouldering passionate eyes, the com- 
 pressed firm mouth. Lady Pallant's one regret was 
 that she had not bestowed upon her son her own 
 inches. He was small for a man, being slightly 
 shorter than his sister, which was an eternal grief 
 to him. 
 
 "Oh, I thought you were dining out to-night with 
 Captain Grant, Paul," she said, a little disturbed by 
 his unexpected appearance. 
 
 "No, mother," he answered shortly. 
 
 "I heard you talking about going to see this 
 
 43
 
 44 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 new dancer with the unpronounceable name," she 
 said. 
 
 He frowned slightly. "As you know, I'm not very 
 keen about seeing new dancers." 
 
 She paused, and laid Punch down on a table be- 
 side her. 
 
 "I'm expecting Gillian to dinner. Did Joan tell 
 you?" 
 
 "She said something about it," said Paul care- 
 lessly. 
 
 He walked across the room and stood with his 
 back to the fire, his face turned from the electric 
 light that burned carefully shaded in some old gilt 
 sconces. 
 
 "I told Gillian we should be quite dans I'intimite," 
 she said. 
 
 He did not reply. His eyes wandered restlessly 
 round the room. Within him there was a great 
 tumult. Since he had visited her at her flat on the 
 evening of the divorce he had not seen Mrs. Dris- 
 coll. It would be safe to say that she had scarcely 
 been out of his thoughts. His love for her during 
 these last days had become almost overwhelming 
 in its fierce intensity. And with its growth the fear 
 that she did not love could never love him had 
 increased in proportionate intensity. 
 
 Lady Pallant was just beginning to wonder why 
 he was so unusually silent and glum when the door 
 opened and Joan came into the room. She wore 
 a loose, flowing tea-gown, shell-pink in colour. It 
 was picturesque and becoming, but decidedly outre. 
 Her mother glanced at it with visible disapproval. 
 
 "My dear Joan, where on earth did you get that 
 
 garment? You know how much I dislike those 
 oppy things. You look like a sack." 
 
 "Anyhow, I'm a slim sack," said Joan, looking 
 down at her own slightness. She thought the full,
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 45 
 
 soft thing hung gracefully about her tall, slim per- 
 son. Besides, had she not copied it from a French 
 model belonging to Gillian? She wore at her breast 
 a great piece of green jade set in silver. 
 
 "I shall certainly speak to Madame Marthe about 
 your clothes. I won't have you wear these extraor- 
 dinary things!" 
 
 Joan bit her lip, but continued to look at herself 
 approvingly in the glass. She wondered if she were 
 nearly as pretty as Gillian. Captain Grant had told 
 her that they could not be compared, but of course 
 he was prejudiced in her favour, and she did not in 
 the least believe this tribute to her own charms. 
 His admiration the first she had enjoyed was 
 giving her a new conceit in her personal appear- 
 ance. She had thought lately a great deal about 
 her clothes and the most becoming way of dressing 
 her hair; she had even practised charming languor- 
 ous attitudes in front of the long pier-glass in her 
 bedroom !" 
 
 "Do not let us be found squabbling when Gillian 
 comes!" said Paul hastily, and with some show of 
 irritability. 
 
 Gillian's arrival put a stop to any further polemic. 
 As she came in she seemed to bring with her an 
 atmosphere of fresh fragrance, born of the soft 
 winter night which in its humidity seemed already 
 to hint of opening buds and early flowers. Paul 
 thought she looked beautiful in a soft dress of iron- 
 grey chiffon that seemed to envelop her like a rain- 
 cloud, and whose hue matched her eyes. Joan im- 
 mediately flung her arms round her, crying: 
 
 "Darling Jill! How awfully sweet of you to 
 come !" 
 
 Paul flashed a look of half-jealous disdain at his 
 sister. 
 
 "For goodness' sake, Joan, don't throttle Gil-
 
 46 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 lian!" he said, with exasperation in his voice. 
 "You're behaving like a boisterous school-girl I" 
 
 Joan hung back, flushed, almost tearful, ashamed 
 of her own impetuous boldness. Her lips trembled. 
 To be snubbed in front of Gillian gave her sharp 
 pain. 
 
 "Don't listen to him, Joan," said Gillian kindly. 
 She laid her hand almost tenderly upon the girl's 
 shoulder. She could hurt people herself with sharp 
 gibe if necessary, but she did not like to see other 
 people doing the hurting. Joan's misty blue eyes 
 expressed oceans of adoring gratitude. 
 
 "He looks a horrid cross boy to-night," added 
 Gillian. 
 
 Paul laughed; his good-humour was restored. 
 "When I was trying to save you, top," he said. 
 Her tranquil sweetness soothed his jarred over- 
 wrought nerves. He would have given worlds and 
 worlds to put his arms round her as Joan had done, 
 only much more gently, with indeed an infinite ten- 
 derness and lay his lips to hers. The thought was 
 so strong in his mind that he wondered if in some 
 strange unexplained manner it could have commu- 
 nicated itself to her in all its mad longing. 
 
 They went down to dinner. The table, small and 
 square, looked like a little white oasis in the middle 
 of that great room with its fine dark panelling. It 
 was set with four places, and it looked both inti- 
 mate and sociable. Lady Pallant disliked shouting 
 to people across yards of mahogany. And with four 
 people, too, the conversation must necessarily be 
 general. 
 
 Paul sat opposite to his mother; Gillian and Joan 
 faced each other. The meal proceeded smoothly. 
 Lady Pallant knew all about her food, for her late 
 husband had been a celebrated gourmet, and her 
 schooling in this department had been rigorous and
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 47 
 
 severe. She hoped sometimes that Paul dined at 
 home more often in consequence. Joan was her 
 despair. She would only eat diminishing unwhole- 
 some things; she had the very young girl's ambi- 
 tion to be extraordinarily slight, and was immensely 
 proud of her sylph-like proportions, revealed rather 
 than concealed by the condemned tea-gown. 
 
 To-night Lady Pallant was not thinking of her 
 daughter. Joan might eat or leave as she chose. 
 Her thoughts were concentrated upon Paul ; she was 
 watching him covertly. But his face wore no sign 
 of emotion or interest. He talked away to Gillian, 
 snubbed his sister occasionally with a derisive com- 
 ment that brought the quick flush to her cheek, and 
 ate his dinner as usual. She must have been mis- 
 taken as to the cause of his recent ill-humour. It 
 could have nothing to do with Mrs. Driscoll. There 
 was nothing in his manner, cool and imperturbable, 
 to suggest that he was even slightly interested in 
 Gillian. Her anxiety was lulled to rest. She even 
 forgot how disconcerted she had felt at his sudden 
 appearance just before dinner; she had certainly 
 heard him announce his intention of dining with 
 Captain Grant. Perhaps the plan had fallen 
 through. It was absurd to conjecture from such 
 slender premises that he had deliberately renounced 
 a former engagement in order that he might see 
 his cousin. 
 
 Once during the meal when he administered a deli- 
 cate snub to Joan, Gillian said, smiling: 
 
 "How you do bicker you two !" Her look of 
 sympathy was not lost upon poor Joan, who glanced 
 at her gratefully. 
 
 "It's only lately," she explained, "that Paul's 
 taken to being so horrid to me !" 
 
 "It's only lately," mocked Paul, "that you've 
 taken to being so uppish and behaving in this inde-
 
 48 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 pendent way, just as if you were your own mistress. 
 Grant," his eyes shone, "will knock all that nonsense 
 out of you!" 
 
 "Now Paul," implored Gillian. 
 
 Joan had never confided in her about Captain 
 Grant, and the mention of his name brought a scar- 
 let flush to her face. It was cruel of Paul to allude 
 to him, just as if he were Joan's accepted lover, 
 as if she had decided to give him the right to "knock 
 any nonsense out of her" in the future. 
 
 But Gillian divined Paul's motive. It lay deep- 
 rooted in a subtle, unacknowledged jealousy, fanned 
 to-night perhaps by her own obvious partisanship 
 of Joan. She felt at the moment as if she would be 
 inordinately thankful when the seas divided her 
 from the Pallant family. He was still jealous be- 
 cause Joan had accompanied her to the Law Courts, 
 had occupied that position by her side which he had 
 so passionately desired for himself. Gillian was 
 the only person present who understood the work- 
 ing of his mind, and the knowledge irritated her. 
 What right had he to be jealous of his sister, or of 
 any one else for whom she showed preference? How 
 had he dared, when all was said and done, to come 
 the other evening and speak to her of his love? 
 She was present to-night just to show him how 
 lightly, how carelessly, she estimated that love. 
 
 "They're always quarrelling," said Lady Pallant. 
 "I'm only sorry they are both too old to be sent out 
 of the room when they begin!" 
 
 She glanced severely at Joan. Joan could be very 
 irritating. 
 
 "We are all on edge to-night," thought Gillian. 
 She wished there had been other people present 
 people who did not belong to the family, and who 
 would exercise a restraining influence. To dine dans 
 I'intimite with one's own relations was never an un-
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 49 
 
 mixed joy; to-night with all these cross-currents it 
 was a more than usually strenuous experience. 
 
 "I've taken my ticket," she said suddenly. "I am 
 to start at eleven on Monday and go to Paris for 
 a few weeks. Then on by the Simplon into Italy." 
 Her eyes were dreamy; it was as if she saw herself 
 travelling swiftly into the radiant blue and gold of 
 an Italian spring. "I shall get everything I want 
 in Paris." 
 
 Both Joan and Paul were silent. The girl's face 
 was consciously sad; the man's obstinately grim. 
 Lady Pallant was beginning to think it wasn't such 
 a bad idea of Gillian's to go away right away for 
 a time. Joan was showing a distinct disposition to 
 imitate her, to emulate that freedom and independ- 
 ence; it was bad for her to witness a woman so 
 little her senior enjoying such a measure of liberty. 
 "Jill does it why shouldn't I?" Lady Pallant had 
 heard that remark once or twice lately on her daugh- 
 ter's lips, and Mrs. Driscoll's absence would at any 
 rate silence such a protest. And Paul? . . . Ah, 
 that was where her real anxiety lay. But if he really 
 had any fleeting fancy for Gillian, born of his chival- 
 rous pity and compassion for her "life awry," there 
 was no remedy like the severe one of separation. 
 A wholesome and drastic remedy like the lopping 
 off of a limb to save the whole body. Lady Pallant 
 belonged to the stern old school of heroic treatment ; 
 she was always impatient of modern palliatives and 
 soppy compromise. She was all for cutting off the 
 offending hand, for sharp removal of the mote. She 
 was beginning to regard Gillian's project in a new 
 and approving light. 
 
 For there was danger in Gillian, for all that soft 
 quietness, that inherent gentleness of hers. Lady 
 Pallant recalled Aylmer Driscoll's brief courtship 
 a thing of flame, sweeping all obstacles aside, en-
 
 50 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 gulfing Gillian in the vortex of its passion. And 
 now more lovely than ever she claimed, inarticu- 
 lately it is true, but none the less surely, compas- 
 sion from the sterner sex. They would see in her 
 the woman whom a "swine," to use Paul's own ex- 
 pression, had treated ignobly. Aylmer was by no 
 means popular with men; he had the latent touch 
 of effeminacy which so often imbues the poet and 
 writer unless he belongs to the robust school. His 
 conquests had always been in feminine fields. Rec- 
 ognising these facts with her astute if narrow vision, 
 Lady rallant decided that Gillian's absence from 
 England would be, under the circumstances, provi- 
 dential. Of course there would be a certain amount 
 to put up with from Joan, who would be miserable 
 at losing her friend. But Joan must be sacrificed 
 on the altar of Paul's welfare. Mr. Reynolds had 
 warmly acquiesced in her view of the situation ; had 
 foreseen, too, the peril in the person of this young 
 and beautiful cousin whose intimate friendship with 
 Joan undoubtedly constituted a sure and dangerous 
 link with Joan's brother. . . . 
 
 In the drawing-room conversation was desultory. 
 Lady Pallant fingered the pieces of a jig-saw puzzle. 
 Joan occasionally went over to the table and fitted 
 in a piece with a triumphant air of realised inspira- 
 tion. Gillian and Paul sat on two armchairs at the 
 end of the room away from the fire, and under cover 
 of Joan's spasmodic playing (for she was restless 
 to-night, and hovered between her mother's puzzle 
 and the piano) they discoursed together in low 
 tones. 
 
 "So you're really going," he said. There was 
 no sentimentality in his tone, only a kind of dis- 
 dainful reproach. "Any idea how long you'll be 
 away?"
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 51 
 
 "I thought perhaps six months," she said. 
 "One never knows. Business or the aunts might 
 bring me back." 
 
 "Less than that," he suggested, "ought to satisfy 
 Mrs. Grundy." 
 
 "You know I don't care about Mrs. Grundy." 
 
 "Then why go at all?" 
 
 "I'm going to please myself. I want change. I 
 feel shut up in London. Oh, I want to taste my 
 freedom to feel its wings!" 
 
 "And you can't do that in London?" His eyes, 
 narrowing, were fixed upon her face. 
 
 "I feel like a prisoner here. I've done nothing 
 and I won't be punished." 
 
 "Who wants to punish you?" 
 
 "All the people," said Gillian, "who pity me, and 
 give me advice. I sometimes think that women, 
 however much they may pretend to pity me, are 
 looking at me with scorn, and saying to themselves, 
 'What a fool she must be she couldn't even keep 
 her husband!' They forget that there aren't many 
 husbands like Aylmer." She paused with shining 
 eyes. "He makes me think of Shelley. I had ceased 
 to stimulate, ceased to inspire him. It's just a case 
 of Harriet and Mary over again. I was always 
 dreadfully sorry for Harriet." 
 
 "One would not," said Paul bitterly, "take Shelley 
 for an example of domestic respectability. But 
 Aylmer has not Shelley's excuse. He has never 
 been, and he will never be, a great poet. To my 
 mind he is on the contrary a very mediocre and 
 inferior one. I have yawned my way through most 
 of his plays. I dislike his verses intensely. I dis- 
 liked the Gillian series of sonnets most of all!" 
 
 It seemed almost incredible even to himself that 
 he should at last be able to express openly and fear-
 
 52 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 lessly his opinion of Aylmer Driscoll to Aylmer's 
 wife. Yet even now he was amazed at his own 
 hardihood. 
 
 "He would have been far greater if he hadn't 
 always been spoiled by the critics," she said softly. 
 "I can always see what's good in his art. I don't 
 say that he's like Shelley in point of genius, only 
 that he reminds me of him sometimes. He wasn't 
 generous like Shelley. He couldn't have written the 
 Adonais about a brother poet. But some of his 
 work not a great deal perhaps- is really fine. I 
 didn't like the Gillian series myself." 
 
 While she sat there discussing Aylmer coldly and 
 dispassionately with Paul, she felt as though she 
 were calmly dissecting an intimate stranger, a man 
 whom she had once known, and from whom she 
 had long been separated. It was so difficult to iden- 
 tify the Aylmer of four years ago with the Aylmer 
 of to-day. The past controlled the present to a 
 certain extent, but it could not cloud her judgment. 
 Except during the first glamour of love she had 
 always been able to criticise his work. She had been 
 ready with due meed of praise, but she had been 
 ruthless too. She remembered the day when he had 
 first cavilled at her criticism ; that had always seemed 
 to her the beginning of the end, it had destroyed 
 the perfect frankness that had existed between them. 
 
 Already her wound was old. If the divorce pro- 
 ceedings had punctured it to fresh hemorrhage it 
 was still very nearly healed. A year ago she had 
 suffered and wept; had felt with every nerve in 
 her body the dreadful humiliation of Aylmer's de- 
 sertion. Love does not die very easily even when 
 pride assists at the slaying. Hers had died slowly, 
 painfully, step by step; she had watched it as a 
 stoical sufferer will observe an open wound. . . .
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 53 
 
 Now already she could speak of Aylmer the poet in 
 this cold, impartial, dispassionate way; she could 
 criticise justly and generously, yet not without the 
 old frank ruthlessness. 
 
 "You must write to me, you know," Paul said 
 in a low tone under cover of the majestic first chords 
 of the Pathetic Symphony. 
 
 "I ... I don't think so," said Gillian, suddenly 
 confused. 
 
 His face hardened. 
 
 "Don't be too cruel to me, Gillian," he said. "I 
 know when we are hurt ourselves we want to retali- 
 ate, and our victim is generally some one who has 
 committed the fatal mistake of caring for us. Don't, 
 please, make me your victim!" 
 
 "I don't see that my writing to you would serve 
 any useful purpose, Paul," she answered. 
 
 "It would only be very kind, very humane. And 
 when you send for me I shall come." 
 
 "But I shall certainly never send for you !" She 
 looked at him in surprise at this immensely auda- 
 cious suggestion. 
 
 "Not even," he said, "when the decree is made 
 absolute?" 
 
 "Not even then." 
 
 "You will never let me repeat what I said to you 
 the night before last?" 
 
 "Paul, what's the use of talking like this? You 
 know it is utterly impossible!" 
 
 He jerked back his head a trick he had when 
 he was at all perturbed and looked her steadily 
 in the eyes. 
 
 "Dear heart how I love you!" he said, smiling, 
 yet there was a bitter note of self-derision in his 
 tone. 
 
 The look, the words, touched her in spite of her-
 
 54 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 self. Almost they thrilled her. Something in her 
 heart, something that was desolate, lonely and 
 wounded, responded involuntarily to Paul. She 
 felt pride in his love that tortured hurt thing laid 
 maimed at her feet. His strange eyes, dark with 
 mystery, were fixed upon her with frank adoration. 
 Her own softened as they met them. His words 
 echoed in her ears, "Dear heart how I love you 
 ..." Joan's whirling notes seemed to catch them 
 up and repeat them in the frantic passion of the 
 quick movement. And, after all, were they not 
 pretty words? Love, whatever its guise, was almost 
 always a beautiful thing of gracious words and 
 phrases. . . . 
 
 She was silent. If he perceived the growing soft- 
 ness of her eyes and mouth he was too wise to follow 
 up his brief triumph. She rose from her seat 
 wearily; her slight, lissom figure looked delicate and 
 fragile. 
 
 "I must really be going, Cousin Janet." 
 
 Lady Pallant rose and surveyed for a second the 
 almost completed puzzle. Joan's music stopped ab- 
 ruptly on a crashing chord that held no little exas- 
 peration. Paul had simply monopolised Jill the 
 whole evening. . . . 
 
 "Don't overdo it, Gillian," said Lady Pallant 
 kissing her, "you are looking very tired." 
 
 She said languidly, "I shall rest in Italy in the 
 sunshine. I'm anaemic the sun is the best cure for 
 that in the world!" 
 
 Lady Pallant said: "The winds are treacherous 
 there in the spring. I had pneumonia in Florence 
 once." 
 
 "Oh, I shall be very careful. I'm very attentive 
 to Brother Body !" Her tone was light. She kissed 
 her cousin on both cheeks and then turned to Joan, 
 who was looking plaintive and reproachful.
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 55 
 
 "Good-night, dear little Joan. Come round and 
 see me at tea-time to-morrow a farewell visit. 
 You'll find me dusty and grubby with packing!" 
 
 Joan clasped her round the neck, regardless of 
 Paul's former speech. "Good-night, darling, dar- 
 ling Jill!" 
 
 Paul accompanied her downstairs. 
 
 "How are you going?" 
 
 "I must have a taxi, please." 
 
 In a few minutes a taxi was throbbing before the 
 door. Outside in the square the immense plane trees 
 were swaying against the night sky, tossing their 
 heads like plumes in the hurrying wind. It was fine, 
 and a few stars were visible. There was a sense 
 of spring in the rush of cold, exhilarating air that 
 met them as they stood upon the doorstep. 
 
 Paul followed Gillian across the strip of pave- 
 ment. For a moment the light from the street lamp 
 illuminated her face. It was white and troubled 
 under the uncovered masses of her dark hair. She 
 looked like a queen, proud though dethroned; a 
 queen in exile. . . . Paul's hand was on the door 
 of the cab. 
 
 "I must see you home," he said. Before she, 
 could remonstrate he had got in and was sitting 
 beside her. The taxi glided forward. 
 
 Joan, drawing aside the blind in the drawing- 
 room and looking from the window, said jealously: 
 
 "Paul's gone in the taxi with Gillian. How selfish 
 it was to keep her all to himself this evening. He 
 talked to her all the time I never had a word 
 with her!" 
 
 She gave a little dry sob. Lady Pallant looked 
 at her austerely. 
 
 "You'd better go up to bed, Joan, my dear," she 
 said quite good-humouredly. "And don't talk non-
 
 56 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 sense about Paul. It's always silly to be jealous." 
 She kissed her daughter's forehead. Joan felt 
 herself dismissed and snubbed, and withdrew sulkily 
 triumphant that she had, at any rate, "given Paul 
 away" to her mother. Was Paul really in love with 
 Gillian? Did he mean to marry her when the 
 divorce was perfectly accomplished? They seemed 
 to have progressed enormously in intimacy since the 
 last time Joan had seen them together. Did Paul 
 know all the details of those of her nebulous plans 
 that Gillian was forming for the future? He might 
 follow her to Italy. ... It hurt her to think that 
 Gillian had never disclosed to her that growing 
 friendship with Paul. She felt in a sense shut out 
 by these two people who were both so dear to 
 her. .
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 IN the cab Paul sat silent, not raising his eyes. 
 They had turned up into Knightsbridge and a 
 little crush delayed them at the corner of Sloane 
 Street. The lights of a giant hotel gleamed vividly. 
 Knots of people awaiting the approaching string of 
 omnibuses stood on the pavement. There was stir, 
 colour, movement, excitement in the nocturnal 
 scene. Once free of the block they slipped swiftly 
 forward into the comparative quiet of the long road 
 that dips to Kensington. The trees in the Park 
 waved their leafless branches; their dark trunks 
 looked like serried ranks of sentinels. Couples loi- 
 tered on the pathway, their arms encircled. Great 
 motor omnibuses laden with human freight ground 
 their way east and west. . . . And Paul turned 
 suddenly to Gillian as if realising for the first time 
 that they were alone together in this great, wonder- 
 ful, confused world of London. 
 
 "Oh, my darling, I love you," he said. He put 
 his arms round her and drew her to him. Their 
 lips met. He remembered afterwards that he had 
 not been surprised at her sudden surrender. To- 
 night she was changed and softened; she was be- 
 ginning to envisage what his love might mean for 
 her in the future. To-night he could almost make 
 himself believe that she loved him. 
 
 "And you? And you?" he said. But again his 
 lips were on hers so that she could not answer. 
 
 "Oh, Paul it is all so wrong, as I told you 
 before. I'm still Aylmer's wife. I'm not going 
 to marry you. I know I have been weak in letting 
 you speak to me in this way in letting you kiss 
 me. ..." She hesitated, withdrawing now from 
 
 57
 
 58 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 his touch. He could scarcely see her white averted 
 face. 
 
 "But if you love me " he said, bewildered. 
 
 Surely that change in her could signify nothing but 
 that she was beginning to love him. 
 
 "Why, you'll be as free as Joan in six months' 
 time, my dear. What's going to prevent our mar- 
 rying?" 
 
 "I tell you I don't feel free!" Her face wore 
 a puzzled look that gave it for the moment an 
 almost childish aspect of helpless inconsequence. It 
 was that of a child brought face to face with a 
 problem whose solution was beyond its capacity. 
 "Some people think it wrong your mother does, 
 for instance for a woman who has divorced her 
 husband to remarry." 
 
 "My mother thinks it wrong?" he repeated in- 
 credulously. 
 
 Many times lately he had seriously considered 
 the question of confiding his secret to his mother. 
 She had always wished him to marry young; she 
 had sometimes openly deplored his delay in choosing 
 a wife among the hundreds of charming and suit- 
 able girls. That she could disapprove of Gillian 
 as a future daughter-in-law provided a fresh di- 
 lemma in a situation that was, to say the least of it, 
 sufficiently tangled. Oh, why wasn't Gillian a young 
 girl, free to love him without question, free to listen 
 to his love? He caught her hands passionately. 
 
 "Oh, my dear my dear," he said; "don't listen 
 to all these people. We've our own consciences 
 our own standards haven't we? If it doesn't 
 seem wrong to us we cannot hurt our own honour !" 
 
 "But I'm not sure, you see. I don't know what 
 to think. I can't say whether it's wrong or 
 right. . . /' 
 
 He put his arms about her again. The comfort
 
 59 
 
 of his touch militated powerfully against the grow- 
 ing desolation of her loneliness. Could it be pos- 
 sible that she had fallen in love with him? His 
 ardent love and devotion had undoubtedly evoked 
 response within her. She permitted again his caress, 
 his kiss, wondering at herself through all her grow- 
 ing conviction that she did love him, did wish in 
 the far future to marry him. 
 
 "I love you," he murmured, "I love you." His 
 hands strayed over her hair. "How beautiful you 
 are, dear Jill. ..." There was worship in his 
 tone. "Nothing else matters if we love each other. 
 You must write to me, darling." 
 
 The taxi stopped abruptly before the great new 
 block of red-brick flats built in careful Georgian 
 pattern. He sprang out and helped Gillian to 
 alight. 
 
 "Don't come in, Paul," she said. 
 
 "I must see you again. When?" he said. 
 
 "I'm not sure. I'll write." 
 
 He stopped in front of her, unwilling to let 
 her go. 
 
 "Do you think Joan guesses anything?" he said. 
 
 "I can't tell. Sometimes I think she does. She's 
 jealous, you know. But she hasn't said anything." 
 
 "Yes," he said; "she seems jealous and suspi- 
 cious. I don't understand her. She's been awfully 
 queer lately." 
 
 "She's a good little soul," said Gillian, "be kind 
 to her, Paul." 
 
 She touched his hand and moved away towards 
 the lift. She did not look back, though she felt 
 that his eyes were watching her. 
 
 Gillian let herself in with the latch-key. She 
 went straight into her bedroom and switched on 
 the electric light. Then she examined her face
 
 60 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 scrutinisingly in the mirror. It looked white and 
 troubled in its dark setting of hair. She was still 
 trembling a little with an emotion she had not as 
 yet attempted to analyse. The warmth and ardour 
 of Paul's love had touched her. She felt no longer 
 so cold, so desolate. But it had evoked reminis- 
 cences and challenged comparisons. It seemed only 
 the other day that Aylmer had come to her with 
 words of love the first she had ever heard. She 
 had thought and believed that first love would be 
 immortal, that nothing but death could separate her- 
 self and Aylmer. . . . Now their love lay dead 
 between them. She was almost glad that it had 
 died, as it were, abruptly. No slow drifting apart, 
 no daily diminishing. It had been just that the 
 seeking and finding of a fresh inspiration. The 
 egotism of genius had demanded this faithlessness. 
 
 Her maid knocked and came into the room. 
 
 "I didn't hear you come in, ma'am. Miss Ven- 
 ning is waiting to see you in the drawing-room." 
 
 "Miss Venning?" said Gillian, bewildered. "Oh, 
 tell her I'll come in a moment." 
 
 She scarcely knew what she said. 
 
 The woman withdrew noiselessly. Gillian sat 
 down by her dressing-table almost stunned by the 
 suddenness of the announcement. Why had De- 
 borah come? Why must she face the double tor- 
 ture of seeing this woman who had once been her 
 friend? She leaned her arms on the table and hid 
 her face in her hands. Her heart beat violently, 
 the trembling of her limbs increased. At last she 
 rose, and with a cold, controlled face she walked 
 down the narrow passage into the drawing-room 
 with head erect and eyes shining dangerously. 
 
 Deborah, who was sitting listlessly by a fire that 
 was almost out, rose and came quickly towards her.
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 61 
 
 She was going to kiss her, but Gillian stood stock 
 still at her approach and did not even hold out her 
 hand. Their eyes met. . . . 
 
 Deborah was not in evening dress. She wore a 
 coat and skirt of dark seal-coloured velvet, and a 
 large hat to match that shaded her face. Her 
 throat was bare and looked very white against her 
 dark furs. Her vivid golden-red hair shone 
 strangely; her cheeks were flushed. She looked to 
 Gillian immensely changed, and in the change there 
 was a subtle note of demoralisation to which few 
 women could have been blind. The slightly ex- 
 aggerated fashion of her clothes seemed to overpass 
 the legitimate limit of "smartness"; she was not 
 dressed as a lady should be. Gillian recoiled from 
 her. 
 
 "Why have you come?" she said in her cold even 
 way. "If you had written first, instead of taking 
 me by storm, I should have told you quite frankly 
 that it was impossible for me to receive you." 
 
 Deborah drew back a step. She had not ex- 
 pected a definite declaration of war. What did 
 Gillian know? Aylmer had always assured her of 
 his wife's complete and unsuspecting ignorance. 
 
 "Why what do you mean? I've always come 
 to see you whenever I liked, Jill," she began pro- 
 testingly. 
 
 Gillian's eyes swept her face with a remorseless 
 scrutiny. 
 
 "Have you?" she said. "Perhaps times have 
 changed. At any rate for the future I should like 
 you to understand quite clearly that I can't and 
 won't receive you. I don't wish to see you. I am 
 sure you will know why without my having to tell 
 you !" 
 
 It seemed to her that something of Deborah's 
 magnificent vitality left her at these words. She
 
 62 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 looked suddenly drooping. Her lips parted, but 
 she uttered no word. 
 
 Gillian was silent, too. She had no intention of 
 helping her out of a situation she had brought vol- 
 untarily upon herself. 
 
 "But, Jill ..." she said at last; "but, Jill . . ., 
 I don't understand I" 
 
 "But I do!" Gillian's voice rang out inexorably. 
 "Your name was not mentioned, and you have me 
 to thank for that 1 I can't think why I was so stupid 
 and weak as to keep it out of the proceedings. But 
 because I am stupid and weak I didn't mean you 
 were to dare to come here and encroach upon my 
 privacy!" 
 
 "Oh, but you are making a mistake, Jill ... a 
 frightful, hideous mistake !" 
 
 "Don't please tell me any lies, Deborah. It isn't 
 worth while. I really know everything." She 
 moved towards the bell significantly, and was about 
 to put her finger upon it when Deborah ran forward 
 to stop her. 
 
 "Oh, Jill one moment! What what are you 
 going to do?" 
 
 "Do? Why nothing at all," said Gillian. "What 
 are you afraid of?" 
 
 She gazed at Deborah with scorn. The girl 
 looked very white, and her mouth was trembling 
 piteously. Her mouth was her ugliest feature, it 
 was large and weak. But the upper part of her 
 face was beautiful, even the eyes of greenish hazel, 
 clear as a summer pond. 
 
 "How did you know?" she gasped at last 
 
 "You must be satisfied with knowing that I do 
 know. Will you please go away now, Deborah? I 
 am going to ring the bell. I've done a great deal 
 for you, but I really can't see you and talk to you 
 you mustn't expect it."
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 63 
 
 "You knew all the time?" The words were 
 laboured, as if dragged from her against her will. 
 
 "Almost all the time." 
 
 Deborah suddenly fell on her knees, sobbing at 
 Gillian's feet. 
 
 "Don't make a scene, please," said Gillian 
 harshly. "Do get up and go away." 
 
 "Oh, Jill Jill you're an angel. It would have 
 simply killed dad if he'd known anything!" 
 
 "What a pity you ran the risk, then, of killing 
 him," said Gillian. Her light ironic tone flicked like 
 a whip. She regarded the kneeling figure with 
 amused scorn. 
 
 "Forgive me forgive me, Jill." 
 
 "Why should I forgive you? You knew what 
 you were doing I You've ruined my life and my 
 home. You've been a low-down thief. I despise 
 you. It's no good your coming and whining to 
 me, now whimpering over a thing you did delib- 
 erately only afraid of being found outl You had 
 better get up, for I am going to ring the bell I" 
 
 Deborah rose to her feet. Her face was slightly 
 reddened with crying; her hat was a little awry, 
 it intensified and accentuated that indescribable look 
 of demoralisation which Gillian had noticed in her 
 appearance to-night. 
 
 Gillian held the door open and she had no choice 
 but to say good-bye and go quietly away, for the 
 maid was already at the front door waiting to show 
 her out. 
 
 "She knows what she wanted to know -what she 
 came here to find out," said Gillian to herself. 
 
 She had hated the degrading little scene. To 
 utter hideous truths seemed always a soiling thing 
 to do, no matter how necessary it might be. She had 
 hated this meeting with Deborah, so superfluous, 
 so unnecessary. She had never desired the consola-
 
 64 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 tion of an opportunity to tell her dispossessor what 
 she thought of her. . . . 
 
 "Deborah asked for it," she said, excusing her- 
 self. 
 
 What an evening of turmoil of dramatic hap- 
 penings, unsought, undesired. First Paul then Deb- 
 orah. Her unquiet brain meditated first upon one, 
 then upon the other; filling her thoughts with pain- 
 ful confusion. How glad she would be to go away 
 away from it all. She longed to cut the ties that 
 bound her to England, to make a fresh start, to hide 
 herself as it were. What would Deborah tell 
 Aylmer? Would she confess that episode of her 
 nocturnal visit, and its results so ignominious to her- 
 self? She strongly felt that Deborah would keep 
 the matter to herself. She had not been spared. 
 She had come to have her fears allayed, as a mur- 
 derer will seek his victim's grave to assure himself 
 that it has not been disturbed, that nothing has been 
 investigated nor discovered. She had come perhaps 
 to look upon her hapless dupe. She was the older 
 of the two ; at school she had always had the stronger 
 character, she had led Gillian. . . . 
 
 Gillian sat immersed in these painful and bitter 
 thoughts. The fire had gone out, but she did not 
 feel at all cold. She knew she would find one 
 brightly blazing in her bedroom directly she went 
 there. Even now the room seemed full of Deborah's 
 presence; the scent of her clothes still drenched It. 
 . . . Yes, there had been something repulsive about 
 Deborah to-night. She was too vivid, and she had 
 lost dignity and self-respect. When she had been 
 kneeling there in utter abandonment and entreaty, 
 Gillian had felt inclined to touch her with her foot 
 as she might have touched and spurned some un- 
 clean reptile. She had resisted the impulse. Deb- 
 orah was almost low enough in her own estima-
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 65 
 
 tion; she could only kneel and cry for mercy and 
 silence. To sue favour of one whom one has in- 
 jured irremediably is a depth to which few can 
 descend without loss of caste. 
 
 How could Aylmer love this woman ? How could 
 she inspire him? He had perhaps seen in her only 
 the innocent girl diligently tending at all seasons the 
 flowers of her own growing. Deborah's garden was 
 almost celebrated, and she had even published a 
 little book about it, illustrated with photographs 
 of her own taking. Over and over again during the 
 first year of their married life Gillian and Aylmer 
 had spent week-ends with the Vennings. Aylmer 
 had once described the relations of Deborah and 
 her old father to whom she was indeed sincerely 
 attached as ideal. He had liked the quiet and re- 
 pose of the old Surrey garden with its fresh perfume 
 in hot June days of roses and stocks and syringa. 
 Sometimes when Gillian had been prevented by ill- 
 ness or mourning from accompanying him, he had 
 gone alone at her persuasion. After the baby's 
 death, indeed, Gillian had welcomed it as a relaxa- 
 tion for him when she was in too deep grief to see 
 any one. She had believed absolutely in Deborah's 
 love for herself, in Deborah's unalterable loyalty 
 and allegiance. The two in whom she had the most 
 perfect confidence had betrayed her and she could 
 scarcely tell which of the two disillusionments had 
 been the more bitter. 
 
 The coming of Deborah had disturbed her tran- 
 quillity anew. She felt restless to-night; her brain 
 was extraordinarily active. Perhaps, too, she re- 
 proached herself a little for having listened to Paul's 
 renewed words of love, for having suffered his kisses, 
 his touch. She did not quite know why she had 
 yielded except that it had seemed in a sense to com- 
 fort her. She had felt grateful to him. If she
 
 66 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 married him she knew that his love for her would 
 never undergo any change; it was of the obstinate, 
 persistent kind that nothing can destroy. He would 
 always worship her, always kneel at her feet. His 
 dark eyes followed her into her dreams that night, 
 and in her dreams, too, she heard him repeat with 
 a new and wonderful tenderness: "One of these 
 days, dear Jill one of these days"
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 AT four o'clock on the following day Joan Pallant 
 appeared, a pleasing picture of youth and pret- 
 tiness that never amounted to actual beauty, care- 
 fully and fashionably dressed in a dark blue coat and 
 skirt with big white furs. She was triumphant, too, 
 at the thought of having scored a victory over Paul, 
 who had not been invited, but this brief triumph 
 was quickly destroyed, for on entering Gillian's 
 bright little room she discovered Miss Letitia Stan- 
 way the younger of Mrs. Driscoll's two aunts 
 already ensconced there in the most comfortable 
 armchair near the fire. 
 
 Miss Stanway was elderly but child-like. This 
 was because she had always been treated by her elder 
 sister as though she were still a foolish inclined-to-be- 
 naughty child. Letitia had always been dominated 
 by Martha, obeying her, deferring to her in all 
 things. Miss Martha still rated her soundly on oc- 
 casion, and almost always behaved tyrannically 
 towards her, and Letitia adored her a'nd looked up 
 to her in all things. 
 
 As a child when still under their tutelage, Gillian 
 had very much preferred her Aunt Letitia. This 
 was principally because Aunt Matty had always 
 undertaken the disagreeable side of her education. 
 It was Aunt Matty who gave her her first lessons, 
 who had been the one to take her to the dentist, 
 and administer when necessary powders, rebukes, 
 and even painful punishments. Her rule had been 
 a very strict one, but on the whole it was fairly just, 
 although Gillian soon became aware that it was more 
 severe than that enjoyed by the majority of her own 
 contemporaries.
 
 68 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 While it had been Miss Martha's role to punish 
 and reform, it had been Miss Letty's to comfort 
 and assuage. This was done in no subversive sense, 
 for Miss Martha permitted the chidden Gillian to 
 seek the comfort of Miss Letty's sympathy. "Or- 
 phans require a certain indulgence," she was wont 
 to say. "I am sure if our dear sister had lived she 
 would have spoilt Gillian terribly she was always 
 much too soft." 
 
 Gillian had spent the first eighteen years of her 
 life in the little grey severe-looking house in Brock 
 Street, with only rare intervals of absence when she 
 went to school or was taken to the seaside. She 
 was, in many ways, extraordinarily ignorant and 
 innocent when she went to spend that memorable 
 first season with Lady Pallant an epoch which had 
 promptly ended with her marriage to Aylmer. But 
 she had been very carefully educated. In Bath it 
 would be a matter of some difficulty for a girl to 
 escape education. Gillian went to the Technical 
 School to learn cooking and dressmaking. She was 
 drilled and taught to dance and swim ; she was even 
 forced to play games which she dislilted and found 
 fatiguing. Her clothes were strong and plain, but 
 they could not hide the delicious grace of her slight 
 figure. Bare throats and low-necked blouses were, 
 it is needless to say, taboo in that demure household. 
 The short and tight skirts of that era were never 
 permitted to disfigure the slim form of Gillian. Her 
 aunts spent a good deal on her clothes, and in spite 
 of the severity of their tastes she contrived to look 
 charming, if a little old-fashioned and ungirlish. 
 
 "The fashions are positively indecent," Miss 
 Martha had observed, gazing at a picture of a nar- 
 row slit-up skirt worn by a young woman whose as- 
 pect suggested effrontery, "and I will never consent
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 69 
 
 to dear Gillian wearing melons in her ears like those 
 Barracombe girls!" 
 
 Letitia had been weeping just before Joan's ar- 
 rival over the defalcation of Aylmer Driscoll. 
 
 Seeing Gillian alone in her flat "brought it all 
 home to her," she said. And who could believe 
 that a man capable of writing such exquisite verses, 
 full of edifying, uplifting thoughts, could be so 
 wicked and unprincipled? 
 
 "We thought Matty and I that he was the 
 one man worthy of our dear Gillian, and the one 
 who could best understand and appreciate her. We 
 always believed, my dear, that your life would be 
 one long path of sunshine." 
 
 For in spite of a lifetime spent beneath the crush- 
 ing common sense of Miss Matty, Letitia Stanway 
 still remained incorrigibly sentimental. Had Miss 
 Martha been present she would certainly have 
 checked such an effusion with a severe, "Don't be a 
 sentimental goose, Letty!" But for once Miss 
 Letitia was in a position to speak freely out of the 
 fulness of her heart, and if any transitory sense 
 of gratitude for the cold in the head that had kept 
 Martha in Bath that day had ever found inward 
 expression in her heart she would have immediately 
 suppressed it as unimaginably wicked. 
 
 Nor was she quite sure that her sister would have 
 encouraged any discussion of such an unmentionable 
 episode as a divorce case even with one of the lead- 
 ing characters. She belonged to a generation that 
 was appalled and shocked by the frank discussion of 
 realities. 
 
 "No one's life is ever a path of sunshine," said 
 Gillian coolly, "even I didn't expect that, you know, 
 Aunt Letty. But I did expect, like most girls, just
 
 yo THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 the ordinary commonplace normal happiness with 
 all its ups and downs that marriage generally means 
 when two people are really in love with each other. 
 You mustn't fret over it, Aunt Letty. It's bad, I 
 know, but it isn't as bad as it sounds. One can get 
 used to almost anything, I believe." 
 
 "If we could only persuade you to return to our 
 roof," said Miss Letitia, "it would be such a joy to 
 have you, dear Gillian. Bath is always so charm- 
 ing at this time of year, and the quiet, regular, har- 
 monious life would refresh and soothe you after all 
 you have gone through. Martha begged me to add 
 her entreaties to mine. She could not approve, she 
 said, of any one so young and and pretty as your- 
 self, Gillian, going abroad alone." 
 
 "It's very kind of you, Aunt Letty. Later on 
 perhaps. Just now I don't want to go anywhere 
 where I know people, or have friends. ... I feel 
 I can't display my unsuccess before the world." 
 
 Gillian leaned a little forward towards the fire, 
 the light of which warmed the dull vieux-rose char- 
 meuse dress she was wearing to a flame-like hue. 
 
 "Martha always felt," continued Letitia, "that if 
 she could only have seen Aylmer and talked to him 
 and remonstrated with him she might have influenced 
 him for his good, and persuaded him to return to 
 you. But he absolutely refused to see her or even 
 to communicate with her except through his solicitor, 
 who certainly wrote the most insulting letters. If 
 you remember, Aylmer never seemed to care for 
 Martha even at the beginning I can't think why!" 
 
 Gillian suppressed a smile, covering her face, 
 which was still averted, with her hand. How diffi- 
 cult it had been, even in the beginning, to induce 
 Aylmer to journey down to Bath and stay in Brock 
 Street. He declared that the large joints of beef 
 and mutton, the boiled suet puddings, watery vege-
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 71 
 
 tables, and the cold food rigorously adhered to on 
 Sundays, made him perfectly ill. He also passion- 
 ately disapproved of Miss Stanway's firm attitude 
 towards the dates upon which she considered that 
 fires should be given up. 
 
 The smile hurt Gillian ; it belonged to those days 
 of perfect sympathy, of mutual laughter over Miss 
 Martha's unbending discipline. 
 
 "Martha declares she will never open another 
 book of Aylmer's; she has burnt all those she had," 
 added Miss Letitia. 
 
 "You must tell her," said Gillian, looking up, 
 "that she mustn't judge poets just like other people. 
 They are different." She fell back on her old line 
 of defence that had been so unsuccessful with Paul 
 Pallant. "She must remember Shelley." 
 
 "Shelley?" Miss Letitia was now genuinely 
 shocked. "Oh, my dear Gillian such a wicked 
 young man with all those Harriets and Marys and 
 Janes. Pray do not mention Shelley ! Martha and 
 I have never read his poems except a few in the 
 anthologies. So opposed to all law and order and 
 discipline ! Badly as Aylmer has behaved, he hardly 
 deserves to be compared with Shelley. What does 
 Janet Pallant say?" she continued. "I feel she must 
 be dreadfully distressed, especially as you were 
 married from her house. Dear Gillian," sentiment- 
 ally and reminiscently, "I always said you were the 
 handsomest couple I ever saw. Aylmer was really 
 beautiful for a man and you, well, of course, we 
 may have been partial, but I can remember Matty 
 saying to me on the way home, 'We have every 
 right to be proud of our dear little girl !' ' 
 
 "Do have one of those cakes, Aunt Letty," said 
 Gillian, desirous of stemming the flood of reminis- 
 cence. 
 
 "Oh my dear you are feeding me far too well ! 
 And after all those rich, delicious things we had at
 
 72 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 lunch I feel as if I had eaten far too much already. 
 Only I was hungry after my long journey. Of 
 course I know the trains are very quick, but two 
 hours is quite a long time when one seldom goes be- 
 yond the Sydney Gardens or the Pump Room. We 
 are getting so old and stay-at-home that I assure 
 you we regard going to Lansdown or Sion Hill as 
 quite an excursion!" 
 
 "I wish I could have seen Aunt Matty before I 
 start," said Gillian, "but you must say good-bye to 
 her for me and tell her I've quite made up my mind 
 to go to Italy." 
 
 "I do wish you were not going there," said Miss 
 Letitia, not unmindful of her sister's very trenchant 
 and pronounced views on the subject. "We know 
 such a sad thing that happened to a girl who went 
 there about two years ago. She was invited to 
 Rome to visit some friends and she was so delighted 
 at the prospect all her young companions envied 
 her! I remember it caused quite a little stir. Her 
 name was Elsie Smith perhaps you remember her? 
 Well, she became a Papist while she was in Rome, 
 and nothing they could do or say could stop her or 
 induce her to change when she came home again. 
 And after a few months she went into a nunnery. 
 Such a sad, sad thing! It has quite broken her 
 mother's heart." 
 
 "I don't think you need be afraid," said Gillian 
 dryly, "of my becoming a Papist." 
 
 The case of Elsie Smith, nevertheless, interested 
 her. She remembered her a weak, foolish-looking 
 girl with no chin to speak of, and with a tyrannical 
 widowed mother whom she could surely have never 
 disobeyed before in her life. That she could have 
 displayed such obstinate determination under any 
 circumstances amazed Gillian. Still ... a nun- 
 nery!
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 73 
 
 "I expect she became a nun to get away from Mrs. 
 Smith," she observed, after a brief mental survey 
 of the situation. 
 
 "Oh, I assure you her mother simply adored her !" 
 said Miss Letitia in a shocked tone; "it is a lasting 
 grief to her. I always advise young people now not 
 to go to Rome, but if they persist in doing so, I say, 
 Remember Elsie Smith!" 
 
 Gillian laughed. 
 
 "It's no laughing matter, my dear Gillian," said 
 Miss Letitia nervously, wondering how Martha 
 would have dealt with this apparent flippancy. "I 
 consider it very wrong to court temptation. One 
 never knows how one may be able to resist it. And 
 Rome does put the Roman Catholic point of view 
 very temptingly in front of people, I have always 
 been told. There are so many surface attractions, 
 and then their music is delightful. People are led 
 on little by little, scarcely realising it. And the 
 power of the priests is so great ! One could see that 
 poor little weak Elsie would have small chance 
 against them!" 
 
 Gillian struck in to change the subject she was 
 beginning to get tired of Elsie Smith "I'm expect- 
 ing Joan Pallant this afternoon. You remember 
 Joan, don't you, Aunt Letty? She was one of my 
 bridesmaids." 
 
 "Oh yes, indeed, I remember her quite well. I 
 remember, too, that Matty thought the way she 
 did her hair was not quite comme il faitt. And her 
 dress for a young girl she wasn't even out then ! 
 Still, Janet Pallant is a very worldly woman. And 
 then that other good-looking girl who was your 
 bridesmaid the one who was at school with you 
 Deborah Venning?" 
 
 "Oh, Deborah's quite well," said Gillian hastily. 
 "I saw her quite lately."
 
 74 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 "She must be terribly distressed, too. Why 
 she quite worshipped you, dear Gillian !" 
 
 "Did she? Well, yes, I suppose she is dis- 
 tressed!" 
 
 She spoke with intentional carelessness. 
 
 "People take these things so much more as a mat- 
 ter of course than they used to," said Miss Letitia 
 regretfully; "I know dear Matty and I are not at 
 all up-to-date, and it really shocks us to hear people 
 speaking so plainly and openly of divorce and ap- 
 pendicitis and all sorts of horrors ! There has been 
 a great change for the worse since the dear Queen 
 died." She dropped her voice to a respectful whis- 
 per, as if it were almost high treason to allude to 
 the mortality of so illustrious a monarch. "Such an 
 example of domestic indeed, of every kind of 
 virtue! She would not receive even the innocent 
 person of a divorce case. It was a fault on the 
 right side, dear Gillian. We little thought in those 
 days that our own niece our sister's daughter " 
 
 "The unexpected always happens," interrupted 
 Gillian, who dreaded her aunt's sentimental out- 
 bursts and was beginning to wish that Joan would 
 arrive and put an end to all intimate conversation. 
 "I dare say I wasn't the right wife for Aylmer. But 
 he wanted a fresh inspiration, and I couldn't inspire 
 him any more. Either I or his work had to go to 
 the wall, so I went. It was a nasty hard wall, and 
 it hurt me dreadfully, so please don't let us talk 
 about it any more !" 
 
 "My dear, is it necessary because one writes 
 poetry to lose all one's moral sense?" protested Miss 
 Letitia. "I really don't know what dear Matty 
 would say to such a dreadful suggestion. A man 
 to sacrifice his wife to his work!" 
 
 "You must tell Aunt Matty that I wish I could 
 have found time to run down to Bath for a few
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 75 
 
 days before I go, but it's simply impossible," said 
 Gillian. 
 
 She pictured the little grey house in Brock Street, 
 her sombre home for so many years. It faced the 
 little grey street, but at the back its windows com- 
 manded a delicious view of the Park, where even 
 now the crocuses must be alight with their golden 
 fire, and the snowdrops peeping forth. . . . 
 
 Then Joan came in, plaintive and a little prickly 
 when she first perceived the austere and ill-dressed 
 presence of the younger Miss Stanway. She had 
 looked forward to a tete-a-tete with Gillian. 
 
 Gillian said: "We're having tea early. Aunt 
 Letty has to catch a train." She smiled carelessly 
 at Joan. 
 
 "Yes, Miss Pallant I've come up from Bath for 
 the day. I couldn't leave Martha for more than one 
 day, especially when she has such a bad cold in her 
 head. I'm always afraid of her chest," said Miss 
 Letitia with nervous volubility. 
 
 A disjointed conversation followed. 
 
 "Do you know Bath, Miss Pallant?" 
 
 "No I've only passed through it in the train." 
 
 "It's delightful in the winter and early spring, in 
 fact Martha and I are devoted to it all the year 
 round. If you care for music there are first-rate 
 concerts at the Pump Room. And the balls at 
 Christmas and Easter our young people there do 
 really enjoy themselves! They're not at all dull, I 
 assure you. And tennis and boating all the sum- 
 mer!" 
 
 "I'm sure it must be charming," said Joan in a 
 bored, indifferent tone. 
 
 "Do have some cake, Joan," said Gillian. 
 
 "We have a house in Brock Street I dare say 
 dear Gillian has told you about it. But nowadays 
 most people want to live on one of the hills, Bath-
 
 76 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 wick, Sion, or Lansdown ! Martha arid I don't care 
 very much for walking uphill now we are getting on 
 in years. But we have a charming view of the Park 
 from our back windows. Oh, I assure you Bath is 
 a beautiful city. And the society is very good. And 
 the education is excellent we pride ourselves upon 
 it. We always flattered ourselves that Gillian could 
 not have had greater advantages in London 1" 
 
 Gillian smiled. "I'm afraid, then, I'm not a 
 credit to Bath," she said lightly. "And I'm sure it 
 must be horribly shocked at me now !" 
 
 Miss Letitia flushed quite pink. "Ah, we old 
 fogies don't discuss such things, dear Gillian. 
 Martha did receive six letters of sympathy from very 
 old and intimate friends, most delicately expressed if 
 I may say so ! I am thankful that nothing was men- 
 tioned in the local papers we were so very much 
 afraid that it might be! We have, you see, Miss 
 Pallant, such a very large circle of acquaintances in 
 Bath, and it is not the fashion there to seek for 
 notoriety. It would have distressed us very much to 
 be mentioned in connection with such an unfortunate 
 case." 
 
 "I am sure you would have felt as if you had lost 
 caste, dear Aunt Letty," said Gillian in a teasing 
 tone, which only served to deepen the flush on her 
 aunt's elderly cheek. 
 
 "My dear Gillian how strangely you are talk- 
 ing. I am so glad dear Martha is not here to hear 
 you. She so deprecates any frivolity of outlook 
 where it is a question of of sin I" 
 
 She uttered the last word below her breath. Gil- 
 lian bit her lip, suppressing a smile. She would not 
 have been surprised to hear that the front blinds had 
 been drawn down in Brock Street on the day of her 
 divorce. Joan glanced with indignant scorn at Miss 
 Stanway. Did she understand Gillian so little that 
 she could accuse her of frivolity? The implied re
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 77 
 
 proach in her tone made Joan long ardently to take 
 up the cudgels in defence of her friend. 
 
 She did not dare do this, upon reflection. She 
 said slowly, looking straight at Mrs. Driscoll: 
 
 "Paul has gone back to Aldershot!" 
 
 She watched her closely as she spoke, with a kind 
 of jealous vigilance, and wondered at the calm in- 
 difference of her answer. 
 
 "Has he? He seems to get no end of leave I" 
 
 "He was in a fiendish temper all the time he was 
 up," said Joan vindictively. 
 
 Gillian looked up at her with an indulgent rather 
 patronising smile; there was a hint of irony in her 
 tone as she said: 
 
 "You both seemed to be a little on edge when I 
 dined with you. I felt really quite sorry for Cousin 
 Janet!" 
 
 Beneath the implied rebuke Joan flushed scarlet. 
 She was thankful that at this moment Miss Stan- 
 way glanced at the clock and rose fussily to go with 
 a little bustle appropriate to the occasion. 
 
 "Good-bye, Miss Pallant such a pleasure to 
 have met you again. My love to Janet. Good-bye, 
 dearest Gillian take care of yourself and be sure 
 and write regularly we shall be longing for news." 
 She kissed her niece effusively on both cheeks. "And 
 my dear, dear Gillian, do please remember poor 
 Elsie Smith!" She waved a forefinger garbed in 
 inky kid warningly at Gillian as she moved towards 
 the door. 
 
 "Elise is going with you to see you off," said Gil- 
 lian, laughing. "You've got lots of time, Aunt 
 Letty. My very best love to Aunt Matty." She 
 accompanied her into the hall, and Joan could hear 
 further embraces being exchanged. 
 
 "Who on earth's Elsie Smith?" she asked rather 
 sulkily when Gillian returned. 
 
 "A Bath girl who went to Rome and became a
 
 78 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 Catholic," said Gillian, throwing herself wearily 
 upon the sofa. A day of Miss Letitia had exhausted 
 her completely. And the subject did not interest 
 her; she wondered at the idle curiosity that had 
 prompted Joan to return to it. "Have some more 
 cake, Joan." 
 
 "No, thank you," said Joan. She put her cup 
 down on the table. "So you have really made up 
 your mind to go to Rome, Jill?" 
 
 "Yes, I hope to get off on Saturday afternoon. 
 There's such a lot to do, what with giving up this 
 flat. I almost wish now that I'd settled to go to 
 Bath first. Only I'm not sure that Aunt Matty 
 would not have expected me to wear mourning!" 
 
 There was silence. Joan found it difficult to talk 
 to Gillian when she was in this satirical mood. 
 
 At last she said: "I'm sorry you're going so 
 soon. I've hardly seen anything of you. And the 
 other night when you came Paul simply monopolised 
 you. And I I am your friend, Jill!" 
 
 "My dear Joan, for goodness' sake don't be 
 jealous!" 
 
 Gillian was lying almost full length on the sofa, 
 and the bright firelight played on her warm rose- 
 coloured dress, and lit up her small, pale, sensitive 
 face. 
 
 "I have felt jealous of Paul," said Joan, "he has 
 no right to take you away from me." She spoke 
 resentfully, turning her face from Gillian, for now 
 there were tears in her eyes. 
 
 "You're talking nonsense!" cried Gillian angrily, 
 "you have no business to come here and say such 
 things to me! Taking me away from you, indeed! 
 He is just as much my cousin as you are. What silly 
 ideas you have, Joan !" 
 
 "But ... he drove home with you. . . ." 
 
 "Well, why on earth shouldn't he?"
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 79 
 
 "He said I wasn't to bother you. . . ." 
 
 "I wish you'd take his advice then. Look here, 
 Joan, I don't want to quarrel with you, but I've 
 really got a most awful lot to worry me just now I" 
 
 "Oh, I know you have, Jill. I'm most awfully 
 sorry for you. I only wish I could help you. I 
 hate your going off alone like this. And Paul has 
 been so unkind. He made out that you didn't want 
 me here at all!" 
 
 "I shouldn't have asked you if I hadn't wanted to 
 see you," said Gillian, taking a silver box from the 
 table and extracting a cigarette which she lit and 
 began to smoke. "If Paul told you that, he had no 
 right to do so." 
 
 "I sometimes think," said Joan slowly, "that Paul 
 has fallen in love with you." 
 
 When the words were out of her mouth she felt 
 almost horrified at her own hardihood. Gillian was 
 inclined to be angry as it was. Perhaps this sugges- 
 tion would put a match to the flame. 
 
 For a moment Gillian did not speak. 
 
 "You have a perfectly diseased imagination," she 
 said at last in cold, cutting tones. "And I wish you 
 would keep your silly fancies to yourself. Why 
 shouldn't Paul see me home ? We have always been 
 excellent friends." She frowned. 
 
 "You know Paul never puts himself out for any- 
 body. Mother says he seems to dislike girls. She's 
 awfully anxious he should marry Lady Blanche 
 Ethan." 
 
 "Paul will choose for himself when the time 
 comes, you may depend upon that," said Gillian, who 
 feared no rival in Lady Ferner's fair-haired younger 
 daughter. "I strongly advise you not to interfere 
 with him and his concerns. Men don't like it, 
 Joan. He is sure to resent it if you keep a watch 
 upon his movements."
 
 80 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 Joan flushed to the roots of her hair. She had 
 not been able to resist the impulse of curiosity that 
 had prompted her to go to the window and watch 
 Gillian drive away with as she had feared 
 Paul. 
 
 She changed the subject, for clearly this was one 
 upon which Gillian was not inclined to speak tem- 
 perately; she was showing annoyance and contempt, 
 and her words had made Joan smart. She felt that 
 she had been small and petty and jealous. . . . 
 
 "Does Deborah know you're going away?" 
 
 At the mention of Deborah, Gillian's face changed 
 and grew hard. 
 
 "Yes," she said shortly. 
 
 "She's written then? I thought she hadn't writ- 
 ten for ages." 
 
 Joan was utterly ignorant of any definite breach 
 with Miss Venning. 
 
 "No, she didn't write! She came!" 
 
 "Came to see you! And is she very unhappy 
 about you?" 
 
 "I don't think so," said Gillian in the same curt 
 tone. "I didn't ask her." 
 
 Joan was jealously suspicious of this sudden, mys- 
 terious recrudescence of Deborah Deborah, who 
 for so long had been High Priestess in the Temple, 
 and who so strangely preferred in these days to tend 
 bulbs and roses in a Surrey garden. 
 
 "Did she look very pretty?" 
 
 "Much as usual," replied Gillian indifferently. 
 
 Joan said: "Paul never admired her, you know. 
 He thought she was painted." 
 
 Joan longed to hear more details of this interview, 
 why Deborah had come, and when, and what she 
 had said. There must have been an unexpected rap- 
 prochement, for she felt certain that of late years 
 there had been a coolness if not an estrangement be-
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 81 
 
 tween these two friends. A fear filled her heart that 
 perhaps, after all, Deborah would accompany Gil- 
 lian abroad. . . . Still, it was only natural that Mrs. 
 Driscoll's friends should crowd round her now, to 
 support her and show their sympathy in this time 
 of trial. It was only natural that Deborah should 
 forget any petty quarrel and rally to her friend's 
 side. . . . 
 
 But Gillian was evidently not disposed to be com- 
 municative on the subject; she appeared disinclined 
 to discuss Miss Venning, just as she had appeared 
 disinclined to discuss Paul. . . . The only thing that 
 seemed to interest her was the prospect of her ap- 
 proaching departure. It held for her no pain of 
 parting, only an immense relief, as if she were about 
 to free herself from unendurable fetters. Joan felt 
 that this attitude was quite cruel. She was suffering 
 at the thought of Gillian's departure ; she would like 
 to have felt that her pain was in some sense shared. 
 But this affair of the divorce had seemed to turn Gil- 
 lian into stone; she seemed insensible to any pain. 
 And if she had cared for Paul, surely, surely she 
 would not go away like this, as if she were thankful 
 to go. Was she unkind and sharp to Paul too? 
 Was this perhaps the reason of his gloom, his 
 strange, morose melancholy? 
 
 When she rose to go Joan put her arms timidly 
 round Gillian. "Do write as often as you can, Jill," 
 she said. 
 
 "I never can find anything to say in letters," said 
 Gillian. "It will take me all my time to write to the 
 aunts." 
 
 "But just to say how you are that you have ar- 
 rived." 
 
 "I'm sure to arrive, but if there's a railway acci- 
 dent you'll see it in the papers. And I'm always 
 quite well. I'm quite vulgarly healthy."
 
 82 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 "And then I shall want to know dreadfully where 
 you are " 
 
 "Oh, well, that's soon said. I'll send you a pic- 
 ture postcard." 
 
 "I hate picture postcards I" 
 
 "Well, postcards without pictures then! You're 
 very hard to please !" She laughed, and then bent 
 down and kissed Joan. "Give my love to Cousin 
 Janet. And I hope to hear soon of your engagement 
 to Captain Grant." 
 
 "I'm not sure that I like him at all," said Joan, 
 "he's got red hair." 
 
 Gillian laughed. 
 
 "And then he's Paul's friend." 
 
 "So much the better." 
 
 As she passed through the hall, Joan saw a letter 
 lying on the polished oak table. It was addressed 
 to Mrs. Driscoll in Paul's handwriting. There 
 was no mistaking that neat, scholarly hand. Joan 
 reddened as she saw it; she felt almost as if she had 
 been prying. . . . Then jealousy seized her tooth 
 and claw. . . . Why was he writing to Jill? Had 
 they some secret understanding from which they 
 were purposely excluding her? What could be in the 
 letter? And what would Jill find to say in reply 
 she who had just acknowledged that she could never 
 think of anything to say in letters? She wouldn't 
 send Paul picture postcards. As Joan went down 
 in the lift the tears gathered in her eyes, making 
 them burn and smart ; she choked back a sob. Gil- 
 lian had been really unkind to her to-day. She had 
 been in one of her queer moods, reserved, inclined to 
 be irritable and angry. What did it all mean? And 
 now Paul was writing to her. He must have writ- 
 ten to her indeed the moment he got back. Was 
 Jill expecting to hear from him? 
 
 The letter was brought to Gillian just after Joan
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 83 
 
 had gone. She smiled as she took it up. "Joan 
 must have seen it," she thought. Then she was 
 angry with herself because the surmise had disturbed 
 her, because there should be anything between her- 
 self and Paul that Joan that all the world might 
 not know. . . . "Joan will be more jealous than 
 ever, now," she thought as she opened the letter. 
 It began "My dear, dear Gillian" She saw that 
 there were two whole sheets closely written. , . .
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 IT was the first love-letter she had received from 
 Paul Pallant, and as she sat there alone, reading 
 it by the fire, something of its warmth seemed to 
 reach and touch her heart. And again she experi- 
 enced the conviction, strengthened anew by those 
 passionate written words, that it was wrong for her 
 to listen to words of love, just as wrong, in fact, as 
 it would have been for her to do so in the days be- 
 fore the law had cut in twain the knot that bound 
 her to Aylmer Driscoll. 
 
 Gillian as a young happy wife had formed few 
 friendships. She had had but little opportunity in- 
 deed for forming them. Her own little world had 
 sufficed. There had been Aylmer monopolising all 
 that first year, a possessive jealous Aylmer who 
 ardently adored her. Then there had come the 
 child to share with him the love of Gillian. There 
 had been room for little else. Deborah, the Pal- 
 lants, the two old aunts in Bath, had but hovered on 
 the threshold of a world that held only husband and 
 child. Aylmer at work, Aylmer idle (as only the 
 poet can be idle in days that lack inspiration), 
 Aylmer loving and exacting, then Aylmer bored, in- 
 different, and socially occupied, drifting on into 
 Aylmer the Changed. That a man who had cared 
 so passionately should all at once cease to care at 
 all, had utterly confused for Gillian all the issues of 
 life, depriving them of firm foundation. Aylmer and 
 Deborah these two had in turn possessed all her 
 confidence and almost all her love. They had be- 
 trayed her. . . . The Pallants, Paul and Joan, were 
 striving assiduously to occupy those empty dream- 
 haunted places, and she had tried with equal energy 
 
 84
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 85 
 
 to ciose the gates of those abodes upon them. She 
 would not even admit to herself that she was begin- 
 ning to care for Paul Pallant. But his caress had 
 stirred across her cold and chilly solitudes; she had 
 permitted it, surrendering herself to the passing pas- 
 sion of it, and then afterwards she had bitterly 
 blamed herself for doing so. She had felt thankful 
 and relieved when Joan announced that Paul had 
 returned to Aldershot. 
 
 Her palace of former days had fallen into ruins 
 as though crumbled by an earthquake. She must go 
 away and build up the bricks and set about making 
 a new life for herself. Other women had done it 
 successfully, had learned at last the secrets of peace 
 and tranquillity beyond the sphere of actual human 
 happiness. She could surely learn to do this, too, 
 although she was still so young. Young? She felt 
 at times incredibly old. She could never trust love 
 again, no matter how splendid the guise he wore, no 
 matter how desirably he presented himself to her. 
 Love could never deceive her again. . . . 
 
 But in spite of herself the dark beauty of Paul 
 Pallant's face haunted her. She heard again his 
 words, "Dear heart, how I love you!" They had 
 melted her stoniness; they had touched her wound 
 with soft and healing fingers. . . . Only she would 
 not let herself dream of Paul. She belonged still 
 in some horrible fashion to Aylmer Aylmer who 
 did not want her any more, who had ceased utterly 
 to love her. How could she love and marry another 
 man while Aylmer lived? Even when he married 
 Deborah if he ever did such a thing she would 
 still feel as if she were his wife. 
 
 Another picture rose before her Deborah stimu- 
 lating, encouraging, inspiring Aylmer in his work. 
 . . . She remembered even now the criticism in a 
 leading London newspaper that had sent him fleeing
 
 86 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 into Surrey a year after the child's death. "Inspira- 
 tion seems suddenly to have failed Mr. Aylmer Dris- 
 coll. This book is only a weak repetition of his 
 former work. He plagiarises himself and trusts to 
 his public's inattention and lack of memory." 
 
 Yet was it not absurd to think that a mere re- 
 view could so change the destinies of two people? 
 // n'y a que la verite qui blesse, and Aylmer had no 
 doubt been sharply pricked by the truth of that para- 
 graph of cheap printing. It had confirmed perhaps 
 his own fears. Inspiration had failed. Gillian had 
 ceased to inspire. He could never again touch the 
 heights of the Gillian sonnets, so cordially detested 
 by Paul. Yes, his best work had been written for 
 her, had been laid at her feet there was no doubt 
 of that in the beautiful days of their engagement, 
 their happy marriage. But now inspiration had 
 failed. She herself had known and realised it long 
 before the anonymous reviewer happened upon the 
 unfortunate truth. His work had seemed to her 
 just then such a secondary thing in the face of the 
 immense loss of her baby. How could he write 
 poetry at such a time? She had never been able to 
 understand the writing of In Memoriam. If Tenny- 
 son had really loved Arthur Hallam, would he have 
 taken the whole world into his intimate confidence 
 so soon? Or was everything to the poet mere 
 "copy" ? Death and sorrow, heart-breaking, nerve- 
 wracking sorrow that tore your heart in two even 
 love that should be too sacred for speech were all 
 these things but base metal to be transmuted into 
 gold? 
 
 Oh, from the first she had wished that their very 
 love might be a secret, silent, hidden thing. She 
 had longed to say, "Don't write about our love, 
 Aylmer," but she had not dared. The beauty of his 
 words held her, the music of them, the splendour.
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 87 
 
 . . . Then she had felt an immense pride in the 
 world's recognition, the world's praise. . . . But 
 her sorrow, no he must not touch that, lest it 
 should stab her wound to a new unendurable agony. 
 He wrote of it, and Gillian felt her heart turn to 
 stone. ... If there had ever been any sensible 
 diminution of her own love for him it had been then 
 when he sang aloud of her sacred grief. . . . 
 
 She, wrapped up in her grief, confused and be- 
 wildered like a child, had ceased to inspire. He had 
 turned to Deborah a sunny picture of tranquillity 
 in a flower setting. The Garden of Delight was 
 published in the following spring, and a chorus of 
 praise greeted the new venture. Its sale eclipsed all 
 Aylmer's previous books. 
 
 "I'm really quite grateful to little Miss Yenning 
 for giving me the freedom of her garden," he had 
 said gaily to Gillian. 
 
 And Gillian had said in a strained cold tone 
 even then she suspected nothing "I'm sure it will 
 succeed. Gardens are all the fashion. Is the front- 
 ispiece one of Deborah's own photographs?" 
 
 Perhaps it was then that a secret tormenting envy 
 of Deborah first assailed her. There was something 
 brave and wholesome and strong in the personality 
 of that girl gardener. Something that spoke of free- 
 dom, of fresh winds sweeping over Surrey heaths 
 and commons, of dancing shadow and sunlight pat- 
 terning the North Downs. And she what was she 
 but a sickly woman who could not throw off the 
 chains of a consuming grief? 
 
 "Yes, Miss Venning took it," Aylmer had replied 
 carelessly, "she is a very clever little photographer." 
 
 As she sat there with Paul's letter in her hand she 
 went over the little story, tracing it link by link in 
 all its piteous futility and failure. In all those years 
 she had not thought of Paul at all. He and Joan
 
 88 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 had seemed mere phantom figures; even her friend- 
 ship with Joan had not been at all an intimate one. 
 She could have wept anew now at the pitiless havoc 
 wrought by Deborah Venning. 
 
 Gillian did not see Paul again before she left Eng- 
 land. The letter told her he had had a slight acci- 
 dent to his foot which kept him a prisoner in his own 
 quarters. He begged her to put off her departure 
 for a few days in order that he might see her again. 
 But she desired above all things to avoid such a 
 meeting. She shrank from a definite understanding 
 with Paul. He made her feel weak when she was 
 in his presence. She felt certain that if she consented 
 to see him again he would extract a definite promise 
 from her. And she wanted to be free quite free; 
 to turn a fresh page amid new surroundings, new 
 people. And already she knew that she was no 
 longer wholly indifferent to Paul. He loved her, and 
 the love he offered her was one she could rely upon 
 and trust. There was something secure and strong 
 about him; something rocky and unchanging. She 
 knew that in his hands she would be safe. The 
 thought attracted her. He could give her all the 
 things she had missed. Nevertheless she shrank 
 from giving him an answer, an assurance that when 
 she was free she would be his wife. That was what 
 his letter plainly demanded of her in clear terms. 
 He loved her, and if necessary he would sacrifice his 
 career in order that he might marry her. She was 
 more to him than all the world. "Do you think," 
 he wrote, "that these last four years have meant 
 nothing to me? If I hardly ever saw you, it was 
 because I would not see you. I have loved you from 
 the first moment of our first meeting." 
 
 No, she could not see him again ; she felt glad to 
 think that he could not come to London. She would 
 hasten her preparations and leave a little earlier
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 89 
 
 than she had said. She would not even tell Joan 
 when she was going. Life had resolved itself for 
 the moment into a harmless scheme to outwit the 
 Pallant family. They seemed to be pressing her on 
 all sides. 
 
 Gillian left town on Friday evening and journeyed 
 to Folkestone, where she spent the night. Before 
 leaving for Paris by the morning boat she scribbled 
 a little note to Lady Pallant informing her of her 
 departure. That would be a bomb-shell for the 
 Pallants on Saturday evening! She pictured iron- 
 ically Joan's tears, Lady Pallant's slighted dignity at 
 not having been informed before the event, and last 
 of all Paul's wounded anger. Yes, Paul would learn 
 through his own people that she had gone. It would 
 show him how little she regarded him ; how free she 
 felt. It would break even the slight bond between 
 them ; it would prevent him from attaching too much 
 importance to those repented kisses. 
 
 As the steamer neared Boulogne she saw that the 
 sun was shining on the clustered red roofs and upon 
 the green surrounding landscape. The sky was quite 
 blue above the town. She lunched and then left for 
 Paris by the next train. Even now she was afraid 
 that Paul might somehow learn of her departure 
 and follow her. 
 
 But his letter reposed in the little handbag she 
 carried on her wrist, and more than once during her 
 journey through the flat plains of France, guarded 
 by those endless avenues of still leafless poplars, she 
 took it out and read it through from beginning to 
 end. She might put the seas between herself and 
 Paul Pallant, but his love surrounded and enveloped 
 her; she could not shake herself free from the com- 
 forting remembrance of it. Her heart questioned 
 if she really desired that freedom she was going 
 forth to seek.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 SPRING had already come to Rome when Gillian 
 reached that city early in March. The air was 
 mild; the skies were wonderfully soft and blue. She 
 established herself at first in a furnished apartment 
 in the Via Sistina, not daring as yet to face the stir 
 of hotel life. She shrank from contact with 
 strangers until this first sense of being utterly and 
 completely alone had passed off a little. It would 
 be easy enough to move later on. The case of 
 Driscoll v. Driscoll was still too fresh in the public 
 mind. Her very name would, she felt, excite com- 
 ment among the English colony in Rome. "The 
 wife of Aylmer Driscoll, the poet you know, she 
 divorced him," she could almost hear those words 
 of shame testifying to her failure. Raw and sensi- 
 tive, with her wound still so recent, Gillian kept very 
 much to herself in those first days. She spent her 
 time diligently sight-seeing. 
 
 A green glimpse of Monte Mario visible from her 
 windows comforted her with thoughts of the quiet 
 country. The sun set there in soft tones of crimson 
 and gold, not very brilliant but clear with pure lumi- 
 nous colour, making the obelisk on the Piazza 
 Trinita look like an inky finger. The street with its 
 busy little shops interested her. Antiquary shops, 
 jewellers, lace-vendors, vied with each other in pro- 
 ducing things likely to attract the passing tourist; in 
 other windows picture postcards, Roman pearls and 
 sashes, and cheap marble reproductions seemed to 
 renew the innocent rivalry. In the afternoon crowds 
 of carriages of all kinds and descriptions passed by 
 on their way to the Pincio and the Borghese Gar- 
 dens. The weather was brilliantly fine, and Gillian 
 
 90
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 91 
 
 enjoyed the sunshine, the warmer climate ; it revived 
 and refreshed her. She was already much less 
 nervous than when she left London. 
 
 But she did not enjoy her solitude many weeks. 
 There appeared in Rome a certain Lady Lucy Fer- 
 rard with her younger daughter Patience. The 
 elder one was already married to Marchese della 
 Meldola, and it was to be near her for a little that 
 they had come to Rome on their way home from 
 Egypt, where they had been spending the winter. 
 
 Lady Lucy Ferrard was a brisk purposeful woman 
 who belonged to an old Catholic family. Her views 
 were rigid, and she was old-fashioned in many ways. 
 Patience Ferrard was a girl of nineteen, soft, fair, 
 and malleable. Her sister, Marchesa Meldola, was 
 a few years older, and was already the mother of a 
 beautiful little boy. Both sisters were pretty in a 
 soft English way, lacking perhaps in individuality 
 and not overburdened with intelligence or education. 
 Lady Lucy had heard nothing of Gillian's divorce 
 when she met her one day walking in the Corso. It 
 was a hot day, and the heat had deepened Lady 
 Lucy's naturally rich colouring to a conspicuous pur- 
 ple. She was even panting a little and wondering 
 whether she should walk home to the hotel or take 
 a carozra. Both ladies were alone when this en- 
 counter took place. 
 
 "My dear Gillian I had no idea you were in 
 Rome!" cried Lady Lucy, holding out a fat hand 
 gloved tightly in white kid. 
 
 Gillian flushed. 
 
 "I haven't been here very long," she said. 
 
 Unconscious of danger, Lady Lucy pursued: 
 
 "I hope Mr. Driscoll is well? Where are you 
 staying? You must both come and have luncheon 
 with us!" 
 
 "I am alone here," said Gillian.
 
 92 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 "Alone?" echoed Lady Lucy in astonishment. 
 
 "Yes." Gillian's voice dropped. She looked for 
 a moment wildly around her as if searching for an 
 avenue of escape. Then as if recognising the futility 
 of the contemplated manoeuvre, she added simply, 
 "We are not together any more. I have divorced 
 him!'; 
 
 "Divorced him !" repeated Lady Lucy incredu- 
 lously. My dear child, what a dreadful thing to do 1" 
 
 She stared at Gillian in horrified amazement. 
 
 "Is is it so dreadful?" Her face whitened; she 
 looked as if she were going to cry. 
 
 "Of course it is dreadful!" said Lady Lucy with 
 brisk decision. "And at your age! Why, you can 
 hardly be any older than Imogen! You shock me 
 inexpressibly. You speak, too, as if you did not in 
 the least realise what an awful step you have taken. 
 To separate yourself legally from the man you have 
 married. . . ." 
 
 Her keen eyes searched Mrs. Driscoll's face. 
 
 "He wished it so much," said Gillian, and her 
 lips trembled as she spoke. "He begged me to do it 
 I should never have dreamed of divorcing him 
 if he hadn't wished it. I have always been weak 
 whenever I have seen any one wanting anything 
 anything it was in my power to give !" 
 
 "Why did he wish for it?" inquired Lady Lucy 
 severely. 
 
 They had walked now as far as the Via Condotti 
 and were going towards the Piazza di Spagna. 
 
 "He didn't say," said Gillian; "I could only sup- 
 pose it was because he was tired of me and wanted 
 to marry some one else." 
 
 "In our Church such a thing would be utterly im- 
 possible," said Lady Lucy. 
 
 Gillian walked silently by her side with her eyes 
 fixed on the ground.
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 93 
 
 "I feel extremely sorry for you, Gillian," said 
 Lady Lu,cy presently in a more kindly tone. "You 
 must come and see us. I must ask you, however, not 
 to discuss it with Patience it would be better not 
 to mention it to her at all. Of course now that 
 Imogen is married she is permitted more liberty. . . . 
 I have kept my girls very sheltered. We came here 
 on purpose to see a little of Imogen and Guido 
 Meldola." 
 
 She did not add that one of her principal motives 
 for coming to Rome was to endeavour to engineer 
 a marriage between Patience and Guido della Mel- 
 dola's half-brother Giacomo. The winter in Egypt 
 had proved fruitless from a matrimonial point of 
 view, and the Ferrards were not at all well off. 
 Lady Lucy, who combined a good deal of worldli- 
 ness with her piety, held the opinion that Patience's 
 type was not one that improved with years. It was 
 at its prettiest in extreme youth when the fair, deli- 
 cate colouring had not begun to lose its charm. It 
 behoved Patience to marry young, and Giacomo 
 della Meldola was an even better parti than his 
 elder half-brother, as his mother had brought into 
 the family some wealthy and valuable property in 
 the Abruzzi. 
 
 When a few days later Gillian was invited to dine 
 with them at one of the immense new hotels in the 
 Via Veneto she found the party was a purely family 
 affair. It consisted of Lady Lucy Ferrard, Patience, 
 Imogen, and Guido della Meldola, and a tall, thin 
 dark young man who proved to be Giacomo. 
 
 He spoke English well and fluently, for he had 
 been educated at Beaumont and since then had been 
 more than once in London. Although he was only 
 twenty-two years of age he looked older, and he 
 was excessively handsome in a way that was quite 
 new to Gillian. He was a typical Roman, with
 
 94 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 finely-cut features and eyes that only just missed 
 being too beautiful for a man. Patience secretly 
 adored him, had guessed her mother's plan of cam- 
 paign, yet despaired in her heart of attaining to a 
 fate that seemed to her so eminently desirable. For 
 Giacomo had so far displayed no intention of falling 
 in love with the docile, sweet-looking English girl. 
 
 The family of Meldola were Black in their sym- 
 pathies, and Giacomo had been very carefully 
 brought up by his mother who adored him. His 
 father had not long survived his second marriage, 
 and this only child had been very dear to the Mar- 
 chesa, who had long passed her first youth when 
 he was born. 
 
 Giacomo was an officer in the Italian cavalry. 
 Upon their first introduction Gillian thought she 
 had never seen any one so handsome. "A beautiful 
 boy," she called him to herself. With regular fea- 
 tures, dark lambent eyes, and thick, densely black 
 hair with the merest hint of a wave in it, he was 
 tall, graceful, and slenderly built, and looked per- 
 haps his best in uniform. Their eyes met across 
 the dinner-table, and Giacomo, the ambition and 
 despair of Roman mothers, was literally swept off 
 his feet. 
 
 The tragic experience of the past had given Gil- 
 lian a slightly pathetic look which was enhanced by 
 the contour of her features, the naturally wistful 
 expression of her eyes. Strange, sad eyes that held 
 Giacomo while he was present and haunted him 
 after he had gone away. She made Patience look 
 colourless and immature not that he had ever 
 thought seriously of Patience. There was a far 
 more dangerous pretendante then sojourning in 
 Rome in the person of Miss Grace Widness, the 
 charming and beautiful young daughter of the Amer- 
 ican millionaire, Mr. Homer S. Widness. Giacomo
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 95 
 
 was aware that his mother regarded with favour 
 the claims of Grace Widness. She was very fair, 
 with hair like spun silk and clear eyes of forget- 
 me-not blue. She was a Catholic, highly educated 
 and well brought up, and her dowry would probably 
 be counted by tens of thousands. She was an only 
 child, and the old Marchesa felt that she was a girl 
 to whom the future of Giacomo could most safely 
 and desirably be entrusted. But she was too wise 
 to say anything to hurry on events, and she gave 
 her son no definite information as to the trend of 
 her hopes. It will thus be seen that Patience, igno- 
 rant of the existence of Miss Widness, had even 
 slenderer grounds for hope than she herself was 
 aware of. 
 
 Gillian felt attracted by the homage in the young 
 man's eyes. To many women there is attraction in 
 the very mystery of a man who belongs to a dif- 
 ferent race and country from their own. He was 
 the first Italian she had met, and for that very rea- 
 son she felt interested in him. There was some- 
 thing in his eager, simple vivacity that appealed to 
 her. He possessed that curious combination of sim- 
 plicity and subtlety which is so characteristic of the 
 Latin. It is difficult for the Anglo-Saxon to be 
 intellectual without being at the same time complex. 
 But for the Latin this is not difficult. With all his 
 cleverness, his knowledge of the world, there was 
 something young and unspoilt about Giacomo. Gil- 
 lian encouraged him to talk, heard of the years 
 passed at Beaumont College, of the subsequent visits 
 to England, where a cousin held a post in the Em- 
 bassy; more diffidently too, he spoke of his own 
 city, whose history he had studied deeply. He was 
 an attractive, sympathetic companion; he made the 
 evening pass pleasantly for her. Before they parted 
 he had unknown to the Ferrards elicited a prom-
 
 96 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 ise from her that she would accompany him on an 
 expedition to Frascati on the following day. His 
 American friends, the Widnesses, with their daugh- 
 ter were also to be of the party. He had not in- 
 vited any one else. They were to lunch at the hotel, 
 and afterwards visit some of the villas. He ar- 
 ranged to call for her at a certain hour in his motor. 
 Gillian accepted gladly ; she liked to think they were 
 to meet again so soon. She began to think that those 
 first days of solitude in Rome must have been ex- 
 traordinarily dull. . . 
 
 On the following morning he appeared alone in 
 his motor. 
 
 "I am going to drive you myself," he announced, 
 smiling. 
 
 "Oh, I thought your friends were coming too," 
 she said. 
 
 "They are going to meet us at Frascati. I had 
 asked Miss Widness to come with us, but she has 
 gone with her parents they preferred that ar- 
 rangement." He pulled a wry, expressive grimace. 
 "Miss Widness, as you will see, is almost too pre- 
 cious to tread the ground of this wicked world. So 
 they keep her up there in an aeroplane I" He 
 laughed, and pointed to the dark blue serene sky 
 that hung above Rome. "I am glad," he added 
 simply; "I wished to have this drive alone with you, 
 Mrs. Driscoll." 
 
 Neither he nor the Widnesses were acquainted 
 with Mrs. Driscoll's history; indeed, if Giacomo 
 considered the matter at all, it is probable that he 
 believed her to be a young widow. Gillian, without 
 the slightest wish to sail under false colours, was 
 thankful to be with strangers people who were 
 agreeable and pleasant and to whom her melan- 
 choly little history was altogether unknown. It did
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 97 
 
 not occur to her that the young man, by whose side 
 she was speeding so swiftly through the enchanting 
 ways of the Roman Campagna, was already begin- 
 ning to fall in love with her. She had never real- 
 ised her own beauty nor her own fascination. Any 
 pride she might have had in her physical or mental 
 equipment had received a severe blow from the 
 defalcation of Aylmer. And she was accustomed 
 to the simple friendship that a woman, whether 
 married or single, can enjoy with men in England. 
 As the wife of a celebrity she had met with a good 
 deal of admiration and attention, and had never 
 valued them at all. She had absolutely no knowl- 
 edge of the Latin temperament. And she liked 
 Giacomo ; his gaiety made the remembrance of Paul 
 Pallant seem a little melancholy and strenuous. 
 
 They sped rapidly across the plain, past ancient 
 tombs, and the massive ruined arches of the old 
 Roman aqueduct beneath whose shadows the sheep 
 were peacefully grazing; past little homesteads and 
 villages where the vineyards were bright with the 
 first young golden leaves, and farms red-roofed and 
 white-walled surrounded by blossoming fruit trees 
 and olive groves of shining silver. Beyond, the hills 
 lay as if asleep in the sunshine those pale, misty, 
 delicately coloured Alban hills upon whose higher 
 summits the snow was still visible in patches of 
 glimmering white. And in the valley, spring with 
 her gay garlands and blossoming orchards, mocked 
 at those snows. 
 
 In their swift progress they passed without awak- 
 ening many a slumbering carrettiere droning across 
 the plain in rough, blue-painted market carts. Some- 
 times they passed a little wayside inn with groups 
 of peasants sitting drinking under a pergola of bud- 
 ding vine. 
 
 Gillian sat there entranced, her eyes fixed on the
 
 98 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 delicious outlines of the hills, softly painted in tones 
 of blue and green against a sky of pure sapphire. 
 Once they stopped and looked back upon Rome when 
 they had partly ascended the hill that leads steeply 
 to Frascati. The huge dome looked like a bubble, 
 immense, almost transparent, a filmy unsubstantial 
 thing. Monte Soracte stood alone in solitary aloof 
 grandeur, breaking the horizon to the north with 
 its fine blue outline shaped like a crouching lion 
 with its head drooping upon its paws. The wide, 
 shining line of the sea showed grey and gold to the 
 westward. High over their heads a lark sang in 
 sustained rapture. Here on the higher slopes the 
 woolly buds of the vines as yet scarcely showed a 
 hint of delicate golden leaf within. 
 
 "Isn't it simply topping?" said Giacomo, smiling 
 and showing his even white teeth. 
 
 Gillian laughed at the modern slang expression 
 that sounded so strangely on alien lips. 
 
 "Oh, but topping," she agreed. 
 
 Impulsively he turned and caught her little grey- 
 gloved hand and kissed it. 
 
 "You love it, too?" he asked, "our beautiful 
 Rome?" 
 
 She became suddenly serious. She realised that 
 he had asked the question in desperate earnest. 
 
 "Yes, I love it. One has the feeling that one 
 belongs," she said in her cold, tranquil, unenthu- 
 siastic voice. 
 
 She had spoken simply, but he, subtle and intui- 
 tive, put a personal interpretation on her words. 
 
 "Who knows but some day you will belong? 
 Rome will take you prisoner. I have known of 
 people who came for a fortnight and who stayed 
 twenty years thirty years until they died!" 
 
 He threw back his head and laughed exultantly, 
 but his dark eyes swept her with a fierce, almost
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 99 
 
 dangerous light, and he took her hand in his again 
 and held it for a moment. "I am beginning to love 
 you," he said, and his voice held a hoarse, strained 
 deep note that startled her. "Perhaps who knows 
 you will be my prisoner!" 
 
 "Don't talk nonsense," she said sharply and an- 
 grily, and drew away her hand. 
 
 "Why?" he said, hurt at her tone, "why shouldn't 
 I love you? Is there any reason?" 
 
 Gillian was not at all prepared to confide her 
 private affairs in the ear of this attractive stranger. 
 Had she yielded to her first impulse and done so she 
 would certainly have saved herself from cruel com- 
 plications and hurts in the future. But she pur- 
 posely made an evasive answer. 
 
 "It's always a pity to love people who could never 
 have anything to give you in return," she said in a 
 chilling tone, and her eyes met his squarely. Oh, 
 why could she not be permitted to forget just for 
 one day that English past that held the dominating 
 figure of Aylmer Driscoll? "Hadn't we better be 
 going on?" 
 
 "If you will," he responded almost sulkily. He 
 turned away from her and took the wheel in his 
 hands. They climbed the hill that led between bud- 
 ding hedges to Frascati. On either side stretched 
 the brown vineyards, decorated with a hint of fragile 
 gold. Beyond the hedge a pear tree stood up cov- 
 ered with a mantle of snowy blossom that suggested 
 bridal array. 
 
 "I have a little villa here," said Giacomo, per- 
 ceiving that his talk of love had been premature 
 and ill-advised, and had found no favour with this 
 Englishwoman with the dark, cold eyes that were 
 at once so beautiful and so mysteriously sad. "Some 
 day when the weather is warmer I will give a din- 
 ner-party. You must come, and we will drive back
 
 ioo THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 by moonlight. Oh, you can't imagine what the 
 Campagna looks like by moonlight a wide silver 
 sea with purple and black shadows and little scarves 
 of mist that try and hide themselves in the hollows 
 and look like fairies. You have never seen it, have 
 you?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "Ah, you will say, too, that it looks just like the 
 sea like a strange Dead Sea with the tombs 
 those lonely, forgotten, desolate tombs rising 
 above the surface. And beyond lies the real sea 
 shining like silver." 
 
 She quoted softly: 
 
 "The champaign with its endless fleece 
 Of feathery grasses everywhere, 
 
 Silence and passion, joy and peace, 
 An everlasting wash of air 
 
 Rome's ghost since her decease." 
 
 "Oh, I know Two in the Campagna" he sur- 
 prised her by saying, as they sped forward into the 
 dusty piazza through the long avenue where innu- 
 merable brown and happy children were playing. 
 "To me it is one of the most understandable of 
 Browning's poems. All English lovers who come 
 to Rome quote it to each other. You must see the 
 Campagna, too, on a morning of Rome and May." 
 
 They stopped outside the hotel which lay a little 
 below the town. To reach it, Giacomo had had to 
 retrace their steps a little and dip down a steep hill 
 to the left of the avenue. Already in the loggia 
 Mr. and Mrs. Homer Widness were standing 
 awaiting them, with their daughter Grace, who 
 looked charmingly dainty in a white cloth coat and 
 skirt and a hat of white felt with a little blue wing 
 in it that matched her clear innocent eyes. Gillian,
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 101 
 
 quite unconscious that Grace was now regarding her 
 a little resentfully as a possible rival as well as an 
 unsuspected peril, smilingly shook hands with them 
 all. She remembered afterwards that she had 
 thought Grace pretty even very pretty in that 
 studied, finished American way that leaves nothing 
 to chance. Her hair was beautiful, golden and bur- 
 nished, and it was most perfectly arranged. Her 
 eyes were of a clear, bright blue, and her com- 
 plexion was delicately pink and white behind the 
 pretty white veil that was fastened with such skill 
 around her hat. Gillian felt that the Widnesses 
 must be proud of their daughter, and she recalled 
 Giacomo's words in which he had described them 
 as thinking her too precious to "tread the ground 
 of this wicked world!" She looked at her almost 
 with envy. 
 
 But Grace's thoughts of Gillian were perhaps less 
 charitable. She knew that there was a project on 
 foot for arranging a marriage between herself and 
 Giacomo. Already she was very deeply in love with 
 the handsome young Italian who had been showing 
 her considerable attention all through the winter. 
 He appealed to her young girl's imagination; his 
 fresh, spontaneous, Latin gaiety attracted her. She 
 felt jealous that he and Mrs. Driscoll should have 
 had this long drive alone together. They had not 
 even brought a chauffeur with them. 
 
 Luncheon was served in the garden at a small 
 table on the terrace. It was a prolonged, rather 
 leisurely meal. Once Mrs. Widness, referring to a 
 recent audience of Pius X., inquired of Mrs. Driscoll 
 if she were a Catholic. 
 
 When Gillian replied quickly in the negative, 
 Grace heaved a sigh of relief. She knew old Mar- 
 chesa Meldola's views, strict and unchangeable, with 
 regard to the religion to which her son's future wife
 
 102 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 must belong. If Mrs. Driscoll were not a Catholic 
 there was not the slightest hope that Marchesa 
 Meldola would consent to her marriage with Gia- 
 como. Of other obstacles Grace knew nothing; she 
 supposed Gillian to be a widow of some standing 
 perhaps, since she 410 longer wore any kind of 
 mourning. 
 
 "I am afraid I really know very little about the 
 Catholic Church," said Gillian almost apologetically. 
 
 Oddly enough her aunt's words echoed suddenly, 
 almost warningly in her ears: "Remember Elsie 
 Smith!" She thought of this unimportant weak- 
 chinned girl in whom Rome had wrought such great 
 and such vital changes, and curiously enough, to- 
 gether with these words of warning came also the 
 remembrance of Giacomo's question that morning, 
 "Who knows but some day you will belong? Rome 
 will take you prisoner!" 
 
 "Perhaps Rome will stimulate your curiosity on 
 the subject," said Mrs. Widness. "I," she con- 
 tinued, "belong to one of the oldest Catholic fami- 
 lies in Maryland. We are very proud of our faith." 
 She spoke with a simple earnestness. 
 
 "And I," said Giacomo, "am black as black I It 
 would shock my dear mother very much to think 
 of me as of any other colour. My father belonged 
 to the Guardia nobile!" He flung back his small, 
 dark head and laughed. 
 
 "Ah, your mother is a real saint, Marchese," 
 said Mrs. Widness. 
 
 "Saints are very hard sometimes they seem to 
 think perfection such an easy thing!" he said gaily. 
 He looked straight at Gillian as he spoke. How 
 pretty she was with her slim bare white throat, and 
 her delicate fragile-looking hands. "She would 
 want to convert you at once, Mrs. Driscoll. Oh, 
 you would be marched off to her pet nuns without
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 103 
 
 delay for instruction ! One does not meet every 
 day with zeal like my mother's." 
 
 Gillian was glad when the conversation took a 
 more impersonal turn. After lunch they drove up 
 to see some of the villas that stand above the town, 
 and wandered idly through ilex woods, or stood 
 and gazed at the view from sunny wistaria-hung 
 terraces. The day was warm, and the hill air fresh 
 and bracing. Gillian kept near Mrs. Widness. Mr. 
 Widness went about alone, taking snapshots desulto- 
 rily with a small hand camera, and thus Grace was 
 left to wander with Giacomo under her mother's 
 consciously vigilant eye. Gillian felt some relief at 
 this distribution. Although she did not in the least 
 believe them, Giacomo's words, "I am beginning 
 to love you," had alarmed her. Paul's case had 
 warned her that she was still perhaps . . . lovable. 
 That love still held for her its slings and 
 arrows. . . . 
 
 "The Marchesa," said Mrs. Widness, "is a very 
 devout Catholic." 
 
 "Yes?" said Gillian. 
 
 "I know her very well indeed," continued Mrs. 
 Widness, "and I can see that she's anxious now 
 about Giacomo. He's her only son, you know 
 Marchese Guido is her stepson. And he's not seri- 
 ous enough in her opinion. She's inclined to think 
 he ought to marry young, as she's got a large for- 
 tune of her own and can make him a handsome 
 allowance, but she wants to find just the right girl 
 for him. There's that Miss Patience Ferrard now 
 whose sister married Guido a very pretty, nice 
 girl and a good Catholic, but hardly a penny piece 
 to her fortune. Giacomo is, of course, dependent 
 upon his mother, and she's a healthy woman still, 
 in the prime of life, although they say she's get- 
 ting on for sixty. If she liked his wife I know she
 
 io 4 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 would treat him generously. I gather she likes 
 this Miss Ferrard well enough, but it seems she bores 
 Giacomo." 
 
 Her clear, vigilant eyes were steadily fixed upon 
 the two young figures going on ahead of them. 
 Giacomo, with his dark head uncovered, moving 
 with swinging strides, was talking and laughing; the 
 echo of his laughter reached them. And Grace 
 with face turned towards him was looking up at him, 
 all attention and admiration. 
 
 "I'm not sure," said Mrs. Widness, "that Gia- 
 como isn't taking a liking to my Grace !" 
 
 Gillian felt the colour deepen in her cheeks; the 
 remembrance of the young Marchese's eager ardent 
 words that morning made her feel a little self-con- 
 scious, even a little guilty. 
 
 "Your Grace is a lovely girl, Mrs. Widness," she 
 said quite simply and sincerely. 
 
 "Well, naturally we think her quite lovely," said 
 Mrs. Widness with a pleased smile, "and she's a 
 good girl and a good Catholic!" 
 
 She seemed to be unconsciously summing up the 
 points in Grace's favour especially those which 
 would appeal most forcibly to the very pious mother 
 of an adored only son. 
 
 Gillian began to feel aware of very different 
 standards from those which had obtained in Brock 
 Street. There the very fact of becoming a Catholic 
 was regarded almost as a disgrace ; here it appeared 
 to be the one thing essential that a girl should have 
 this faith and practise it devoutly. Lost in these 
 thoughts to which she was devoting an ironical atten- 
 tion, she was scarcely listening to the sustained flow 
 of Mrs. Widness's conversation. 
 
 "But young men are the same all the world over, 
 Mrs. Driscoll. They don't want to settle down too 
 early. Maybe the right girl comes along too soon,.
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 105 
 
 before they feel the need of a wife, and they lose 
 her just as much as if she came too late ! Giacomo 
 doesn't strike me as being exactly a marrying man, 
 he just wants to knock about and have a good time. 
 He's too much of a boy, and he's inclined to run 
 after every pretty face he sees I" 
 
 Gillian mentally agreed with this dispassionate 
 estimate of the young man's character. But, judg- 
 ing from his conversation on the way to Frascath 
 that morning, she was driven to the conclusion that 
 Grace's chances were slighter even than her adoring 
 mother supposed. 
 
 "For you see," continued Mrs. Widness, "he's 
 been going around with the Ferrards every day 
 almost since they came. We've been away down at 
 Naples for a couple of months. But directly we 
 came back and he saw Grace again he seemed to 
 forget all about Patience!" She looked hard at 
 Gillian, who felt that she was mentally finishing 
 her sentence with the unspoken words, "and now 
 he's seen you, I'm afraid he's going to forget all 
 about Grace." 
 
 So strong was Gillian's conviction upon the point 
 that again she felt the guilty colour rise in her 
 cheeks. She felt angry with herself angry with 
 Giacomo because his words had made her feel thus 
 guilty. It was absurd of a man to talk like that to 
 a woman whom he had met for the first time the 
 day before ! 
 
 "As you say, Mrs. Widness, the Marchese is 
 very young. He really seems almost too much of 
 a boy to be thinking of marriage at all !" 
 
 She contrived to speak in a cold, indifferent voice. 
 If swords were to be crossed thus early in the duel 
 she was determined to show herself a match for 
 this anxious mother. 
 
 "He's turned twenty-two," said Mrs. Widness,
 
 io6 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 "and Italians develop early, as you'll find when 
 you've been a little longer in their country, Mrs. 
 Driscoll. And then his mother wants him to marry 
 a nice, well-brought-up Catholic girl with a little 
 money." 
 
 She laid down these simple qualifications as the 
 irreducible minimum of gifts, temporal and spiritual, 
 that must be possessed by any aspirant for the post. 
 Gillian suppressed a smile. She felt that each word 
 was a dart, aimed at herself. Had Mrs. Widness 
 thus early perceived the possibility of her capturing 
 the fleeting fancy of this extremely susceptible Ital- 
 ian? And with the thought there came a sense of 
 bitterness that she did not try to control. She saw 
 the gulf that divided herself from a young girl like 
 Grace. 
 
 She drew a swift mental comparison between 
 Lady Pallant and this unknown elderly Italian 
 noblewoman, the Marchesa della Meldola. Both 
 the mothers of only sons, she felt that to neither 
 of them would she be anything but most unwelcome 
 as a daughter-in-law. Gillian realised that in both 
 these instances she would be severely ruled out. And 
 what mother of an only son would not rapturously 
 welcome Grace Widness, with her youth, her dainty 
 prettiness, her girlish innocence, and that fabulous 
 dot which gossip averred would one day be hers, as 
 a daughter-in-law that fulfilled all imagined ideals? 
 Gillian bravely envisaged these unpalatable truths. 
 It was not that she desired in the least to win Gia- 
 como's love. He amused her; his admiration, so 
 swiftly aroused, had touched her. Deserted by the 
 man she had once loved, thrust by his hands into 
 the dust, she felt that the spontaneous admiration 
 of other men might bestow a healing balm upon 
 her self-respect, her deeply wounded pride. She had
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 107 
 
 no wish seriously to disturb Giacomo's peace of 
 mind. Only it seemed that Mrs. Widness of delib- 
 erate intent desired her to understand that there 
 were already rival claimants of unassailable eligi- 
 bility in the field. . . . 
 
 The realisation of her own complete unsuitability 
 supplied her with a sufficiently humiliating sense of 
 her inferiority to Grace Widness and to Patience 
 Ferrard, who each in their own degree attained to 
 the arbitrary standard laid down by the old Mar- 
 chesa. For a moment she felt a little reckless. She 
 longed to bring Giacomo to her feet in very earnest, 
 so that she might defy and circumvent these mothers 
 of marriageable daughters. It would not be a very 
 difficult matter ; she felt indeed that she could easily 
 accomplish it. Had he not already told her that 
 he was beginning to fall in love with her? A little 
 exultant sense of her own power stirred within Gil- 
 lian's heart. She had never used that power to 
 bring Paul to her feet. And if she deliberately 
 made up her mind to win Giacomo, putting her will 
 into the affair with a cold relentlessness untouched 
 by any emotion, surely she would succeed without 
 any difficulty at all? She put the thought from her 
 almost immediately as unworthy, a little undig- 
 nified. 
 
 Giacomo and Grace now came towards them. 
 
 "I have a surprise for you all," said young della 
 Meldola. "I want you all to come on to my villa for 
 tea. I've telephoned to them to have it ready." 
 
 "Oh, but it's getting on for four o'clock now," 
 objected Mrs. Widness, who thought young men 
 should not be given all they demand without any 
 discussion; "as it is we shall hardly be back in Rome 
 before dark." 
 
 Giacomo smiled at Grace.
 
 io8 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 "Miss Widness it is up to you is not that the 
 right American word? to persuade your mother!" 
 he said. 
 
 "Oh, do please let us, mamma," said Grace 
 eagerly. 
 
 "We must ask Mr. Widness," said her mother 
 to Giacomo. "He doesn't care to be out late in the 
 Campagna he thinks it isn't healthy." 
 
 But Mr. Widness offered no sort of objection. 
 In all the smaller amenities of life he always allowed 
 his wife to have her own way. He was a most easy- 
 going, good-natured man, and as a husband and 
 father he was almost without fault. That he was 
 a little dull was really the only thing that could be 
 alleged to his discredit. But even this fact was apt 
 to be overlooked when people remembered the un- 
 counted millions that were indubitably his. 
 
 Mr. Widness and his daughter accompanied Gia- 
 como in his automobile on this occasion, while Gil- 
 lian followed with Mrs. Widness in the luxurious 
 closed limousine. 
 
 Giacomo's villa was situated amid delicious olive 
 groves on the outskirts of Frascati. It was by no 
 means a large one, but it was old and beautiful and 
 its rooms, though few, were lofty and spacious. A 
 great stone gateway stained by the sunshine and 
 rain of centuries to that rich, golden brown which 
 can never be imitated and whose secret lies in the 
 hands of Time, enclosed the huge iron portone that 
 was flung back as the motors approached by an 
 elderly Italian woman who greeted Giacomo with 
 an almost extravagant delight. A short avenue of 
 cypresses led up to the house that nestled against 
 a background of veiling ilex woods. The high, 
 creamy walls were decorated with endless garlands 
 of wistaria that in its soft shades of greyish mauve
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 109 
 
 seemed to harmonise well with the subdued grey- 
 green of the ilex trees. The idle plash of a fountain, 
 the waving palms, the deep and wide loggia sup- 
 ported by creamy pillars, gave an almost Oriental 
 aspect to the place. 
 
 Across the gateway Banksian roses trailed their 
 young shoots, displaying here and there a cluster of 
 creamy buds. Lilac bushes smothered with blossom 
 flung their pervading scent into the warm air, and 
 the Judas trees flamed purple as the heather on an 
 August moorland too beautiful, alas, to be thus 
 associated for ever with the name of the Master- 
 Traitor. The grassy slopes, spreading away from 
 the terraced paths, were strewn thickly with wild 
 flowers, with cyclamen and violets, and wood ane- 
 mones in every variety of delicate hue, pink, peri- 
 winkle blue, snow-white and deepest purple. Great 
 bushes of genista were gay with flaming gold. Shady 
 paths, pale and narrow, dipped enticingly into the 
 woods, and here and there a break in the trees re- 
 vealed slopes filled with olive groves that glistened 
 with flecks of polished silver, long avenues of cypress 
 spires, and the pale gold and green of chestnut 
 trees, maples and poplars, all wearing the first tender 
 garments of spring. 
 
 By a low white wall that enclosed the garden on 
 its western front Giacomo and Gillian stood side 
 by side and looked over the Roman Campagna, 
 lying out there misty and indeterminate in the fad- 
 ing light. It was like some dream sea, painted in 
 dimmest tones of lavender and grey and palest 
 green as if it were seen through a^delicate veil of 
 fragile, insubstantial silver gauze. All the detail 
 of it was undefined, almost blurred, except for the 
 slender white roads that cut across it like wander- 
 ing ribbons. And far off in the midst of the plain 
 lay Rome, whose seven hills appeared from those
 
 no THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 heights like seven mounds, while the immense cupola 
 looked almost as if it were suspended above the 
 vast sun-bleached city. Far off, too, on the western 
 horizon a wide golden glimmer of light revealed 
 the sea lying under a pallid serene sky illuminated 
 by the sinking sun. 
 
 Giacomo's eyes met Gillian's. There was a look 
 in them of almost passionate interest. She coloured 
 a little under that fixed glance. 
 
 "Well, do you like it here?" he said, and waited 
 for her reply. 
 
 "Very much indeed," she replied. 
 
 "I am glad," he said. "I arranged to come here 
 on purpose that you might see it." 
 
 They turned and went into the house and found 
 that tea was already awaiting them in the old salon 
 with its painted ceilings and fine if decaying furni- 
 ure. The roomy armchairs covered with chintz 
 struck the only modern note. 
 
 Mrs. Widness poured out the tea and Giacomo 
 handed bread-and-butter and cakes. Gillian sat near 
 the window; the scene without fascinated her and 
 she paid little heed to the conversation at first. Out- 
 side the sun, drooping slowly, gilded faintly the grey 
 glimpse of Rome. It looked now like a city of 
 mirage, fragile, unreal. The sea was a pale golden 
 shield seen through webs of gossamer. The ilex 
 trees cast long shadows on the turfed slopes. 
 
 "Mrs. Driscoll likes my house," said Giacomo 
 suddenly, and at the sound of her own name Gillian 
 looked up sharply. 
 
 "Especially this most beautiful view," she said. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "the view is enchanting. I am 
 quite a new householder this place has only be- 
 longed to me since I came of age. It is my only 
 share of the Meldola property Guido has all the 
 rest. But I like it best of all. When I am married
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE in 
 
 I intend to spend my honeymoon here. I am not 
 going to frighten my bride out of her wits by taking 
 her to my mother's ghostly old castle in the 
 Abruzzi!" 
 
 The fair face of Grace Widness flashed a vivid 
 pink. She looked a little confused at this careless 
 revelation of matrimonial plans. She glanced at 
 Gillian, whose lips were parted in the little ironical, 
 disillusioned smile that was becoming so frequent 
 with her. 
 
 "Don't you ever live here?" Gillian inquired of 
 Giacomo. 
 
 "Oh, my mother comes here in August for part 
 of her villeggiatura, and I sometimes spend a week 
 or two here with her. It's very dull," he confessed 
 with a slight grimace, "only we two. I prefer the 
 Abruzzi, where I can get a little shooting. But 
 on my honeymoon I shall not want to shoot I" 
 
 But he did not look at Grace Widness as he said 
 the words. For a second his eyes rested upon Gil- 
 lian, then he turned away and began to speak of 
 other things. But Grace had intercepted that fugi- 
 tive glance. There had been in it a strange mixture 
 of humourous self-scorn, of complacency, of deliber- 
 ate, considered adoration. Jealousy plunged its cold 
 steel sickeningly into her heart. She had enjoyed 
 her girlish triumph over Patience Ferrard; now was 
 she, too, in her turn to be dispossessed? She com- 
 forted herself a little by thinking, "It would be 
 absurd. Mrs. Driscoll must be much older than he 
 is. Besides, she's a Protestant." But the comfort 
 was short-lived. Protestants could always become 
 Catholics, and indeed very frequently did so. And 
 she was obliged to confess that Gillian's age could 
 not be regarded as an insuperable obstacle, at most 
 she could be but a year or two older. "I wonder
 
 H2 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 how long her husband's been dead," was her next 
 unspoken comment. 
 
 The finished daintiness of the Englishwoman 
 evoked her admiring envy. Her delicate dark 
 beauty must, she felt, put her own more obvious 
 charms into the shade. But she did not fall down 
 and worship Gillian Driscoll as Deborah Venning 
 and Joan Pallant had each in their turn done. Her 
 rapidly deepening love for Giacomo, that until to- 
 day had been buoyed up by all kinds of girlish hopes, 
 prevented such immature worship. She wanted to 
 defend him against Gillian this strange woman 
 with the cold eyes and smile, of whom they knew 
 so little. . . . 
 
 "How shall we go home?" said Giacomo, turning 
 to Gillian as the two cars came up to the door. 
 "Will you trust yourself to me again?" 
 
 "Grace must come with me," interrupted Mrs. 
 Widness, paying no heed to the last part of the 
 young man's sentence. "I can't let her go in an 
 open car just at sunset. She'd be getting fever in 
 the Campagna. I advise you to come with us too, 
 Mrs. Driscoll. The gentlemen have got their great- 
 coats, which makes a difference I" 
 
 Gillian submitted to this suggestion with one of 
 her sudden accesses of prudence, and accompanied 
 the mother and daughter back to Rome. Grace 
 was silent, perhaps even a little sulky, although it 
 was a relief to have her rival under her own eye. 
 But the disappointed expression on Giacomo's face 
 when Gillian got into the car had not escaped her. 
 She felt that for some reason or other he had 
 desired very strongly to escort Gillian home. And 
 in any case she herself would never have been per- 
 mitted to go alone with him, her father would 
 most certainly have accompanied them. Mrs. Wid- 
 ness conformed most rigidly to the customs and con-
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 113 
 
 ventions of the country In which she found herself, 
 and allowed her daughter much less liberty in Italy 
 than American girls usually enjoy. 
 
 "If Grace wants an Italian husband," she thought 
 to herself with good-humoured complacency, "she 
 musn't fly in the face of all their notions of propri- 
 ety !" 
 
 But even she realised that this young and inde- 
 pendent English widow constituted a danger both 
 proximate and imminent.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 GIACOMO arrived first at the hotel; they found 
 him awaiting them on the steps. 
 
 "May I drive you back to Via Sistina?" he in- 
 quired of Gillian. 
 
 "No, thank you. I'm going to walk." 
 
 She turned to say good-bye to the Widness family, 
 and having done so walked slowly away with Gia- 
 como by her side. Mrs. Widness called after her : 
 
 "Are you sure you won't go in our car, Mrs. 
 Driscoll?" 
 
 Gillian shook her head, smiling. 
 
 "No, thank you. I really prefer to walk." 
 
 She turned into the Via Vend Settembre, and 
 Giacomo was still by her side. "When shall I see 
 you again?" he asked. 
 
 "Will you dine with me to-morrow night?" 
 
 "I shall be delighted." 
 
 "Don't come any further now, please," said Gil- 
 lian; "you'd better go back to your car, hadn't you?" 
 
 She had detected signs of disapproval on Mrs. 
 Widness's face and of disappointment on Grace's. 
 Gillian was always miserable in an atmosphere of 
 disapproval, and she did not wish to become the 
 subject of discussion and gossip. 
 
 "But it's so far for you to walk alone and it's 
 nearly dark," he objected. "I want to walk with 
 you." 
 
 She felt flattered at his obvious eagerness to ac- 
 company her. 
 
 "Please don't," she said simply, and held out her 
 hand. "You know we Englishwomen are accus- 
 tomed to going about alone." 
 
 114
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 Reluctantly he accepted his dismissal. He went 
 sulkily back to the hotel and resisted Mrs. Widness's 
 invitation to dine with them. He had not seen his 
 mother all day, he explained, and she would be ex- 
 pecting him. 
 
 He dined alone with Gillian on the following 
 night. The furnished apartment she had taken be- 
 longed to an American artist and his wife, and it 
 was full of beautiful things, pictures, china, and 
 lovely old furniture. In the morning Gillian had 
 gone down to the Piazza di Spagna and had bought 
 immense bunches of long-stalked pink roses with 
 which she had lavishly decorated the salotto. It 
 looked charming, and as the evening was chilly she 
 had had a wood fire lighted which gave it an aspect 
 of cheerful warmth. 
 
 Gillian wore a dress of shell-pink crepe fashioned 
 very softly with long straight lines that made her 
 look very slender and graceful. She felt a little 
 nervous as she sat there waiting for Giacomo. But 
 when he came in he set her at once at her ease. 
 He sat down and began to talk to her of all he had 
 done that day, of his mother, of their expedition 
 to Frascati. He looked very handsome, his eyes 
 were very bright, and he threw back his head with 
 that now familiar gesture and smiled at her. There 
 was something at once boyish and experienced about 
 Giacomo. 
 
 He was very happy to-night and his spirits had 
 risen to correspond with the occasion. He was en- 
 chanted to find himself en tete-a-tete with this beau- 
 tiful, fascinating Englishwoman. His Latin curi- 
 osity was aroused, and he longed to know her his- 
 tory. How delightful to hear it from her own lips I 
 He almost hoped that it might be a sad one. Had 
 she been happy with this unknown English husband? 
 Had his death affected her profoundly? She was
 
 u6 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 still so young to have traversed all these experi- 
 ences. Yet her eyes taught him that she had not 
 glided easily nor always serenely over hard ways. 
 There had been perhaps hard struggles, sharp mo- 
 ments of pain, weariness, even rebellion. He won- 
 dered if she would ever unfold the pages of that 
 sealed book to him. She would find him all sym- 
 pathy and attention. Her beauty, that suggestion 
 of silence and elusiveness about her, stimulated pow- 
 erfully his imagination. It seemed to him the silence 
 of one who dares not rather than of one who cannot 
 speak. He thought of Patience Ferrard, of Grace 
 Widness young girls whose rank or fortune made 
 them eligible in his mother's eyes and turned 
 wearily from the contemplation of them. . . . Only 
 to-day his mother had actually approached him on 
 the subject of Grace Widness. 
 
 Gillian looked up and saw his dark wonderful 
 eyes fixed upon her. 
 
 "Eh bien?" she said lightly. 
 
 "Oh, you are beautiful!" he said, almost as if he 
 could not help uttering the words, "you are the most 
 beautiful woman in Rome. I want you to meet my 
 mother." 
 
 Surely there would be no more talk then of Grace 
 Widnesses I 
 
 "I shall be delighted to meet your mother," she 
 said in a tone of cold conventionality, paying no 
 heed to his outburst. 
 
 It was the cool calmness of her that piqued him. 
 He thought he understood the Anglo-Saxon charac- 
 ter, but there was something about Mrs. Driscoll 
 that baffled him. 
 
 Dinner was nearly over. The coffee and cigar- 
 ettes had just been brought in. They were alone, 
 and Gillian sat there, leaning one elbow on the table,.
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 117 
 
 while Giacomo gazed at her from the opposite end 
 of the little square table as fixedly as he dared. 
 
 "I have not told her about you yet," he said, 
 lighting a cigarette. 
 
 "No?" said Gillian, "but there isn't much to tell, 
 is there?" 
 
 It was as if she were quietly informing him that 
 he knew so very little about her, that he could indeed 
 answer none of those pertinent questions the mother 
 of an only son would inevitably ask. 
 
 "But I want her to know you well. I wish my 
 mother to receive you dans I'intimite." 
 
 "Is that necessary?" she asked. 
 
 "From my point of view," he said. 
 
 Giacomo had strayed many times upon the allur- 
 ing confines of matrimony, but he had always hesi- 
 tated before taking the final plunge. There had 
 been moments last winter when he had almost re- 
 solved to make his mother and Mrs. Widness, and 
 incidentally Grace, happy by announcing his inten- 
 tion of marrying this richly dowered young girl. 
 Mrs. Widness, perceiving in him a tendency to re- 
 grettable and undue procrastination, removed her 
 daughter to Naples for a couple of months in order 
 to see what effect absence would produce upon his 
 volatile mind. Then she heard rumours of the pres- 
 ence of Patience Ferrard in Rome and she decided 
 to return. All had gone well and smoothly until 
 the sudden appearance upon the scene of Mrs. Dris- 
 coll. Giacomo had scarcely made any pretence of 
 disguising the furious interest that lady had evoked 
 in him. 
 
 Possessing all the Italian's cold prudence and 
 sense of calculation, Giacomo was able to combine 
 ardour with a sheer business-like instinct for getting 
 his due. He wanted, of course, to know much
 
 n8 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 more about Gillian first ; at the same time he wanted 
 her to realise he was so far sincere and in earnest, 
 that he wished to present her to his mother, who 
 would doubtless draw her own conclusions. 
 
 She rose and led the way back to the salotto. 
 Giacomo walked about the room, examining the pic- 
 tures and china; he knew a good deal about such 
 things. He admired the arrangement of the room, 
 its quiet and subdued colouring. But he could not 
 long keep to purely impersonal subjects. Every 
 moment found him falling yet more deeply in love 
 with Mrs. Driscoll. He had known her just two 
 days, but he told himself that he had fallen in love 
 with her at first sight, that he had been waiting 
 for her all his life, and that Providence most merci- 
 fully had saved him hitherto from marriage. 
 
 "Mrs. Driscoll," he said. 
 
 He walked abruptly over to her chair as he spoke, 
 and stooping down took her hand in his and raised 
 it to his lips. She felt that he was trembling. 
 
 "I love you," he said, "I wish to marry you. It is 
 as my future fiancee that I wish to present you to 
 my mother." 
 
 It was almost a relief to get the words spoken, 
 to be able to watch, as he was doing now, the soft 
 colour darken her cheek. 
 
 "You may be perfectly sure of one thing," said 
 Gillian, "I shall never be your fiancee." 
 
 Even now she could hardly believe that he was 
 really in earnest. 
 
 He turned paler. "Are you not free?" he stam- 
 mered. 
 
 "My freedom has nothing to do with it. I don't 
 wish to marry," she said. 
 
 "Were you were you so very unhappy?" he ven- 
 tured timidly.
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 119 
 
 "I was not always happy or unhappy. I can make 
 the best of things." 
 
 She did not quite know why she fenced thus with 
 Giacomo della Meldola. His subtlety, perhaps, 
 evoked subtlety. He was young, clever, ardent; he 
 held the situation in his hands; there was some- 
 thing masterful and dominating about him. She 
 had used her power just a little ; she had consciously 
 encouraged him, but she felt all the time that he was 
 dominating her. Paul had approached her humbly 
 as a slave, this man neither beseeched nor entreated; 
 he simply asserted. 
 
 As she sat there Gillian began in the brief pause 
 that followed her own speech to revolve the matter 
 rapidly in her mind. She was certainly not in love 
 with Giacomo, though she felt his attraction; she 
 felt proud to think he had been so swift to offer her 
 his love. She was certain that never again would 
 she fall in love as she had fallen in love with Aylmer 
 Driscoll. The mingled distress and agony and rap- 
 ture of love could never again be hers; it seemed 
 to her a thing that belonged exclusively to youth; 
 it was something at which age and experience rightly 
 mocked. Her heart was cold. She did not count 
 that momentary tenderness she had felt for Paul; 
 it had been a pitying half-maternal feeling. But she 
 did intend coldly and deliberately intend to ex- 
 tract something definite and durable from life. She 
 was resolved that she would not be cheated; she 
 would secure at all costs material happiness. 
 Whether Giacomo could give her precisely what she 
 desired she could not yet tell. It was her ignorance 
 of him that forced her to temporise. She did not 
 want to make a second mistake. But there was 
 something about him that inspired trust and con- 
 fidence. He loved her, and she felt that at a word
 
 izo THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 she could fan his love to flame. He had great pos- 
 sessions, and was prepared to lay them at her feet. 
 He could give her a new life in agreeable and beau- 
 tiful surroundings so different indeed from the old 
 one that it would be actually incapable of challeng- 
 ing comparison with it. A dignified life, far re- 
 moved from England and Aylmer and all the tortur- 
 ing memories of the past. She remembered all that 
 Mrs. Widness had told her of Giacomo's upbring- 
 ing in strict and pious surroundings. That it influ- 
 enced and still held him was shown in what he had 
 said about his mother. 
 
 "If you were my wife," he said at last, in a voice 
 that was low and soft like music, "I would spend 
 my life in trying to make you happy. I would teach 
 you to forget all that you have ever known of un- 
 happmess." 
 
 In imagination she was bending alone above the 
 cot of her dead child in a darkened London room. 
 That, at least, no later love could ever teach her 
 to forget. . . . 
 
 "Oh, but I don't want to forget everything," she 
 said, almost pitifully; "almost always when one has 
 a great sorrow it means that a great joy has gone 
 before." 
 
 "And this," he said, "was so with you?" 
 
 "Yes," said Gillian, almost unwillingly. 
 
 There was a little table between them; he 
 stretched his arm across it and touched her hand. 
 
 "I am sorry," he said. "Won't you tell me about 
 it, Mrs. Driscoll?" 
 
 His very soul seemed to be looking at her out of 
 his dark eyes; she felt almost hypnotised. 
 
 "Yes I don't mind telling you if you really care 
 to hear about it. I had a baby girl once. When 
 she was a few months old she died." 
 
 He drew in his breath sharply. That grief in
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 her eyes, which he thought sometimes was the most 
 poignant thing he had ever seen, had not been caused 
 by the loss of her husband. Perhaps she had never 
 loved him. She was very young, and girls made 
 mistakes. 
 
 "I would not ask you to forget that," said Gia- 
 como softly. 
 
 She was roused to an amazing consciousness of 
 indiscretion. Why had she lent herself to this in- 
 timately personal conversation with a stranger who 
 was almost unknown to her? She was a reserved 
 woman normally; that grief was sacred and she 
 never mentioned it. Yet he had dragged her from 
 her frozen reserve; he was thawing the ice that 
 seemed to encase her heart. 
 
 "Some day you will tell me more much more," 
 he said gently. 
 
 But this time when he leaned forward and touched 
 her hand he raised it to his lips. The caress made 
 Gillian shiver a little. She sat there very still, very 
 silent, wondering what he would say next. 
 
 "One day you will tell my mother," he said, "all 
 about the darling child you have lost. She will be 
 very sympathetic she will console you. I am sure 
 she will tell you that it is numbered . . . for ever 
 . . . among the Holy Innocents." 
 
 He spoke very simply, very sincerely, and his 
 words touched Gillian in spite of herself. She be- 
 
 em to realise the simplicity and profundity of 
 iacomo's faith, and she could see that he was held 
 by it as if by a chain. No doubt his mother was 
 a bigot, but at least she had given to her son some- 
 thing that was of perdurable worth. There had 
 been something beautifully soft and tender in his 
 voice as he had said those words: "/ am sure she 
 will tell you that it is numbered for ever among the 
 Holy Innocents"
 
 122 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 She wished she had had that thought at the time 
 to comfort her. 
 
 "I should like to know your mother," she said. 
 "I never knew mine. It must be wonderful to have 
 a mother to whom you are everything in the world." 
 
 "Yes," he agreed, "it is wonderful. She loves 
 me above everything else in the world. Yet she is 
 like St. Philip Neri's mother who said she would 
 rather see her son dead than that he should commit 
 one mortal sin." 
 
 A little cold shudder ran involuntarily through 
 Gillian. The words "one mortal sin" struck chill 
 to her heart. It seemed to bring home to her the 
 measure of Aylmer's offence. What would Mar- 
 chesa della Meldola think of such a thing? Would 
 she not be horrified to find in Gillian a deserted, 
 abandoned wife? What views would she hold in 
 her stern bigotry about the re-marriage of divorced 
 persons, even of that one often so curiously termed 
 the innocent party? 
 
 "I think I should be afraid of her," said Gillian, 
 "she sounds severe even hard. I can't imagine a 
 woman saying or thinking such a dreadful thing 
 about her own child." 
 
 "Oh, you would not find her really severe," he 
 assured her, rather surprised at the decision in her 
 tone. The strength of her views on the subject had 
 also somewhat astonished him. "Especially," he 
 went on, "to people who are good. She would, of 
 course, like you much better if you were a Catholic 
 and devote. She would wish you to become a Cath- 
 olic she might even insist upon this before she 
 gives her consent." 
 
 "Her consent?" Gillian frowned. 
 
 "To our marriage," said Giacomo. 
 
 "You are going ahead rather quickly," said Mrs. 
 Driscoll. "I have just told you that I do not wish
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 123 
 
 to marry. Is it possible you did not understand? 
 If I consent to be presented to your mother it is 
 only on condition that you will not repeat any of 
 of this folly to her. I do not at all wish to meet 
 her as your future fiancee. We are mere acquaint- 
 ances are we not? and I should be happy to meet 
 her, because I know you. Under the circumstances 
 it cannot of course matter in the least to her if 
 I am a Catholic or not!" 
 
 Giacomo flushed at the sternness of her tone. 
 
 "Oh, but I want it to matter very much!" he said. 
 
 He felt chilled and hurt. Why had she asked him 
 to come? Why had she allowed him to take her 
 hand and kiss it without any show of protest or re- 
 monstrance? 
 
 "You know me so little," she said, "and yet 
 almost from the first you have begun to speak to 
 me of love. I tell you it is out of the question." 
 She should never have it on her conscience now, she 
 told herself, that she had encouraged him from the 
 outset. Was not this a sufficient snub for any young 
 man? She saw him wince under her words. So 
 already she had power to hurt him. 
 
 "I am older than you," she went on, "and I 
 seem to have a whole lifetime of experience behind 
 me. You are young you are almost a boy only 
 a boy would speak as you do in this foolish exagger- 
 ated way. But if you wish to marry I advise you 
 to marry some young girl, like Miss Widness, who 
 is rich and a Catholic in short, everything that the 
 most fastidious mother could approve or desire I" 
 
 She smiled ironically at him. Giacomo looked at 
 her through half-closed eyes. 
 
 "But I love you," he said, "and those young girls 
 Miss Widness and Miss Ferrard seem to me 
 babyish and insipid. My mother is, however, very 
 much in favour of Miss Widness. She has been
 
 i2 4 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 brought up in pious surroundings. She would, in 
 truth, be a little handmaid to my mother in all her 
 works of charity." 
 
 "Do you intend then that your wife should oc- 
 cupy herself entirely with good works?" she asked. 
 
 "It is good for women to employ their time in 
 this manner," replied Giacomo, a trifle sententiously. 
 
 "Wouldn't she find it frightfully dull and bor- 
 ing?" Gillian had lively recollections of district vis- 
 iting under the aegis of Miss Letitia in old Bath days. 
 Her idea of good works was slightly limited, but 
 she imagined they were all conducted on the same 
 lines. 
 
 "Not not a girl like Miss Widness," said 
 Giacomo. 
 
 "Then I strongly advise you to marry her," said 
 Gillian, "since she fits in so exactly with your moth- 
 er's ideal." 
 
 The sarcasm of the speech did not escape him. 
 He began to fear that his words had given her an 
 alarming if not wholly erroneous impression of his 
 mother. 
 
 "Ah, but I have my own ideals," he said softly, 
 and now there was something languorous in his 
 tone, and his eyes rested on her with an expression 
 of almost passionate devotion. "And you corre- 
 spond to them exactly. You are the woman I have 
 always dreamed of always waited for. Without 
 being religious and devote as we understand it, you 
 are very good. The rest would come. You would 
 have my mother's example she would influence 
 you." 
 
 "You would give her a great deal of anxiety and 
 unhappiness," she said, "if you were to suggest to 
 her that you wished to marry a Protestant. Just as 
 I should grieve and offend my two old aunts who 
 brought me up, if I were to tell them I was going to
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 125 
 
 marry a Catholic. You see we don't think as you 
 do at all. We should always be disagreeing." 
 
 Giacomo said quickly, "Oh, no, we should not. 
 And my mother yes, she might be anxious and un- 
 happy at first. But if you were to become a Cath- 
 olic that would make everything all right at once !" 
 
 And again Miss Letitia's words echoed in her 
 ears, "Remember Elsie Smith." But surely tempta- 
 tion to change her religion had never been put be- 
 fore poor Elsie in so desirable a form! 
 
 "I am perfectly certain I should never become 
 a Catholic," said Gillian with great decision. "I 
 find it very difficult to believe in anything at all. Do 
 please let us talk of something else!" 
 
 She lit another cigarette, and Giacomo followed 
 her example. 
 
 "I will bring my mother to call upon you," he 
 said. "You will permit this?" 
 
 "Oh, yes do bring her," said Gillian carelessly. 
 
 She felt a vague curiosity to meet the Marchesa, 
 though she had already made up her mind to dis- 
 like her. 
 
 "Only remember that you are to tell her nothing 
 of all this," she reminded him. 
 
 Giacomo agreed sullenly. 
 
 When he rose to go, he held her hand and looked 
 into her eyes a square steady look that made her 
 eyelids drop hastily. 
 
 "I am going to marry you," said Giacomo quietly. 
 "Did I not tell you that Rome would make you 
 
 Prisoner? You shall be my wife my prisoner, 
 ou think we do not know each other sufficiently 
 well yet? Very well we will wait a little. I will 
 wait a year two years but I shall never marry 
 any other woman. I love you, and you think I 
 am only a boy. I am going to show you that I am 
 in earnest."
 
 126 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 When he had gone Gillian found herself trem- 
 bling a little. Something in those last words had 
 convinced her as to the reality and depth of his 
 feeling for her. And was he not able to give her 
 much that she desired to have in the future? 
 
 She sat there alone far into the night, renewing the 
 wood fire from time to time. She liked the aromatic 
 fragrance of those burning olive logs. On the whole 
 she was satisfied with the way she had acted that 
 evening. She had conscientiously tried to snub Gia- 
 como, and he had gone away still full of confidence 
 in his ultimate success. No one could ever blame 
 her for undue encouragement of this young man. 
 But when she looked closely into her own heart, 
 after he had gone, she realised that when if ever 
 he proposed marriage to her again, she would 
 certainly accept him. The prospect of a complete 
 break with her old life, of starting afresh amid sur- 
 roundings that were wholly new and unaccustomed, 
 attracted her enormously. Indeed the more she con- 
 templated it the more desirable did it seem as a 
 solution of her problem. She had been miserably 
 treated by her husband, and she was not at all in- 
 clined to retire into that twilight position to which 
 Lady Pallant and her aunts desired to consign her. 
 She wished to enjoy life, to forget her old miseries, 
 the nightmare of Aylmer's desertion and of Debo- 
 rah's perfidy. Gillian, without realising it, was in 
 a very dangerous state of mind. There was some- 
 thing reckless, desperate, almost unscrupulous in 
 her desire to snatch a few sweet fruits from life. 
 Giacomo loved her, she told herself; why should 
 she repudiate that love? Then a little doubt crept 
 into her heart. When he knew her history, when 
 he knew that the English husband was divorced and 
 not dead, would he still love her?
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THE Marchesa Meldola, though no longer 
 young, was still brisk and active. She had mar- 
 ried rather late in life, and her husband had not 
 long survived his second marriage. By this time 
 her stepson Guido was grown up, and she was able 
 to devote herself entirely to the upbringing of Gia- 
 como, who was a beautiful little boy of four years 
 old. It had always been her hope that he might 
 become a priest, perhaps a monk in some religious 
 order. But as the boy advanced in years, he showed 
 no disposition for this career. He was strong, 
 active, ambitious. The years spent at Beaumont 
 which his mother had also passed in England, 
 where she had many relations had given him a 
 taste for English ways and sports. He decided to 
 make the army his career and entered a cavalry 
 regiment, rather to his mother's disappointment. 
 She, seeing how strong was his desire, did not, after 
 the first, attempt to thwart him. She had brought 
 him up very strictly, even severely, but she adored 
 him, and Giacomo, whose disposition was sunny and 
 careless, reciprocated her devotion. He gave her 
 almost all the obedience and consideration she ex- 
 acted. And so far there had never been any real 
 cause for disagreement between them. 
 
 Now it had become his passionate desire that she 
 should see and approve of Gillian Driscoll. Of 
 course he knew that he could not expect her entire 
 and immediate approval. To begin with he was 
 almost entirely ignorant of Mrs. Driscoll's history, 
 and something in his sense of honour prompted him 
 to wait and hear it from her own lips rather than 
 to pursue the easier course of making inquiries of 
 
 127
 
 128 
 
 their mutual friends the Ferrards. He only knew 
 Lady Lucy very slightly, and felt a little diffident 
 about seeking her out just now. And she had no 
 idea that his acquaintance with Gillian had made 
 such rapid progress after their first meeting at her 
 own dinner-party. She did not know Mrs. Widness, 
 who thus had learned nothing about Gillian from 
 her. 
 
 As far as he could tell at their first interview, 
 Gillian impressed his mother quite favourably. Of 
 course her manner could not be called deferential; 
 she had a great deal of quiet assurance and self- 
 possession that seemed to lead her to treat the older 
 woman as an equal. There was no attempt on her 
 side to make a bid for the Marchesa's favour. She 
 was courteous and smiling and that was all. 
 
 The Marchesa was short and rather stout, and 
 was very plainly almost dingily dressed in rusty 
 black. Her grey hair was neatly arranged without 
 any regard to fashion, and her shabby hat and black 
 kid gloves bore signs of honourable usage. Her 
 large fortune was not spent upon her clothes. To 
 the Church and to the poor she was extremely and 
 unvaryingly generous, and she exhibited towards 
 herself the only parsimony of which she was capable. 
 She lived a very retired life, and was absorbed in 
 good works; she saw only her old friends of the 
 "Black" nobility. She knew nothing of that newer 
 world of Rome the Rome of luxurious hotels, of 
 rich Americans, and of elegant cosmopolitan tour- 
 ists. She never saw those fashionable pleasure- 
 seekers who were yearly welcomed in other Roman 
 palaces, and perhaps if she had seen them, the vision 
 would have excited her indignant disapproval, and 
 her fears that Giacomo might find among them an 
 alien bride would have increased ten-fold. 
 
 She wondered a little why Giacomo wished her
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 129 
 
 to make the acquaintance of this Englishwoman. 
 Indeed he had some difficulty in keeping to Gillian's 
 conditions, to abstain from informing his mother 
 of his hopes and fears. He could see that the very 
 request had aroused her suspicions. She said noth- 
 ing, but she thought a great deal more than even 
 Giacomo could have supposed. 
 
 She was surprised at Gillian's youth. She was 
 not only young, but she looked young, with her clear 
 flawless pale skin, her dark grey eyes, her soft dark 
 hair. She was slender, almost girlish-looking, and 
 had the indefinable look of race. The Marchesa 
 recognised in her a woman of character, of crystal- 
 lised views, sympathetic but disillusioned. She had 
 heard the story of the little dead daughter, and her 
 heart ached a little at the forlorn thought. But 
 Gillian was, in her opinion, too young not to be able 
 to make a fresh start, to take up life under new 
 auspices, to become perhaps again a happy wife 
 and mother. 
 
 As they drove away after the brief call had been 
 paid, the Marchesa said to her son: 
 
 "Your new friend is very pretty. But she looks 
 also very sad. I dare say she was not very happy 
 with her husband." 
 
 "I am also of that opinion," said Giacomo. 
 
 "How long has he been dead?" 
 
 "She did not say. I do not know her well enough 
 to ask her such an intimate question." 
 
 The Marchesa had always made up her mind that 
 she would try and like the woman of her son's 
 choice, provided that there was nothing actually 
 against her. She had decided to do this when she 
 saw regretfully that her own choice was not likely 
 to meet with his approval. But there was some- 
 thing about Gillian that had seemed a little strange 
 and alien to her own ideals. It was not that she
 
 130 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 was old, but that she looked at life as few women 
 in their early twenties are accustomed to look at it, 
 with a grave, indifferent, disillusioned scrutiny, as 
 if it could not possibly produce any more surprises 
 of sorrow and pain. It was thus she had taken Gil- 
 lian's measure. Scarcely older than Giacomo, she 
 was yet a hundred years too old for him. And she 
 could not help suspecting that Giacomo was furi- 
 ously interested in this woman. He was so silent 
 about her; he did not seem to wish to discuss her, 
 yet she had noticed that afternoon that he had 
 hardly taken his eyes off her. 
 
 Unknown to his mother, and also, it must be 
 added, unknown to Mrs. Widness, Giacomo fetched 
 Gillian on the following day and took her out to 
 Grottaferrata. They motored over in time for 
 lunch, and he had arranged they should have tea at 
 his villa on the way back. The day was fine, and 
 their swift rushing through the warm sweet air 
 brought a delicately beautiful colour to Gillian's 
 face. She wore a little close-fitting black silk hat, 
 and had tied a scarf of cobwebby back chiffon 
 round it. The dusky setting made a delicious back- 
 ground for her fair skin, and Giacomo noticed it 
 with fervent approval. 
 
 The freedom of their intercourse, their expedi- 
 tion, deliberately unchaperoned, lent quite a novel 
 zest to the adventure. Giacomo was in high spirits, 
 and he infected Gillian with something of his own 
 gaiety. 
 
 To-day Gillian felt a little reckless. She had not 
 moved from her decision made the other night, that 
 if he again asked her to be his wife she would accept 
 him. She gave little thought in those days to Paul 
 Pallant; she had, after all, made him no promise. 
 She was quite free, except for the trivial chain that 
 still bound her to Aylmer Driscoll. In a few months'
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 131 
 
 time that link would be completely severed, and 
 Aylmer would probably marry Deborah Yen- 
 ning as soon as possible. Yes, she was free, and 
 she was conscious that Giacomo had much to give 
 her. It might be that marriage with this young 
 Italian would solve the problem of her future more 
 fortunately than she could have dared to hope. He 
 was young, rich, splendidly handsome, and of noble 
 birth. And he loved her. Although she was not in 
 the least in love with him, she was beginning to 
 like him very much. Marriage was not really a 
 greater hazard based upon such commonplace lines. 
 She dreaded love as a thing that could torture, hurt, 
 and kill; a sword with two edges, a weapon placed 
 in the hand of the beloved often to be turned against 
 oneself in a merciless, mortal blow. 
 
 She did not mean as yet to tell him about Aylmer. 
 As long as nothing was definitely settled she could 
 keep him in ignorance. To-day she would be happy. 
 She looked furtively at Giacomo. His dark face 
 was vivid, his eyes were flaming; he looked extraor- 
 dinarily alive. 
 
 "It's a beautiful day," he said at last. 
 
 "Yes perfect." 
 
 "You must be very happy to-day," he told her. 
 
 "I mean to be." 
 
 "We shall be together all through this long spring 
 day. Does that please you?" 
 
 "Yes it pleases me." She spoke almost shyly, 
 afraid as yet of giving him any clue to the change 
 that had come over her, any hint of her new defiant 
 resolution. 
 
 "Darling!" he said, and for a second his eyes 
 rested upon her. "Ah, what pretty words for lovers 
 you have in English! Darling sweetheart they 
 are prettier even than amatissima and 
 
 Gillian was silent.
 
 132 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 "Darling I" he said again, smiling at her. 
 
 "No don't call me that," she said with an effort, 
 "I don't care about it." 
 
 "When we are married I shall call you darling all 
 day long!" said Giacomo incorrigibly. 
 
 "We shall never be married." 
 
 "You mean you won't marry me?" 
 
 She was silent. She felt that to-day he intended 
 to ask her to be his wife, and she wanted to defer 
 the moment as long as possible. 
 
 "Don't let us talk about it now," she said hastily. 
 
 But her smile as she spoke reassured Giacomo. 
 
 Across the grassy plain of the Campagna broken 
 with the grey old arches and desolate tombs, and 
 strewn now with the scarlet flutter of thousands of 
 poppies, they followed the straight white road to- 
 wards Frascati, with the Alban hills rising before 
 them in beautiful, delicately coloured outlines. Just 
 short of the town they turned to the right and 
 climbed the hill that leads to Grottaferrata. The 
 white dust whirled about them, but Gillian's face and 
 hair were shielded by her veil. 
 
 They lunched at Grottaferrata. It was a simple 
 little meal, but they were both hungry and enjoyed 
 it. It consisted of risotto, little slices of veal fol- 
 lowed by green peas, and some roast chicken with 
 salad. Fruit and golden-coloured wine completed 
 the repast. Giacomo ordered coffee and they had 
 it under the trees. 
 
 "Then for tea we will go back to the Villa Mel- 
 dola at Frascati," he said. 
 
 It was there he intended to ask Gillian to be his 
 wife. He had planned it all with care and fore- 
 thought. Impetuous as he seemed, he liked to make 
 a programme and follow it. And he wanted his 
 own villa to be the venue of his definite proposal of 
 marriage. He wanted to be able to remember it
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 133 
 
 always as the place where they had plighted their 
 troth. 
 
 Gillian said nothing about the proposed visit to 
 the villa ; she was not sure if she wished to go there 
 alone with Giacomo to-day. But he seemed to take 
 it quite for granted that she would come. It did 
 not take them very long to visit the old Badia and 
 the principal places of interest in the little hill town. 
 But it was always the wide view of the Campagna 
 with distant Rome and the sea beyond that held 
 Gillian entranced. As the afternoon wore on, 
 Giacomo's gay buoyancy deserted him a little; he 
 became serious, almost moody. Certain scruples re- 
 asserted their claim rather strongly. And the fear 
 that he might not ultimately win her began to obsess 
 him. With what definiteness she had said, "We 
 shall never be married." What did she mean? In 
 his new silence he asked himself question after ques- 
 tion about that unknown never-mentioned husband. 
 
 They were sitting in the loggia at the Villa Mel- 
 dola having their tea when he leaned suddenly for- 
 ward. Gillian felt instinctively that the crucial mo- 
 ment had come, and woman-like she shrank a little 
 from encountering it. 
 
 "Do you know why I wanted to come here to- 
 day?" he asked. 
 
 She shook her head. She knew now that she must 
 face the situation. There was no escape and did 
 she wish to escape? Her heart's uncertainty op- 
 pressed her. He took her hands and there was 
 something masterful, almost rough in his touch. 
 
 "I love you," he said softly, "I love you, darling 
 Gillian. Will you marry me? Will you be my 
 wife?" 
 
 Her heart beat so rapidly that she felt almost 
 suffocated. And now he had come over to her side,
 
 134 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 had raised her face to his. She felt the touch of his 
 lips. 
 
 She felt helpless as a little child under that fierce 
 caress. They seemed suddenly to have changed 
 places, and she felt as if she were much younger 
 than Giacomo. She put out her hands in feeble 
 protest. 
 
 "I can't answer now," she said at last, "y u must 
 wait a little. I couldn't marry you we know each 
 other so little." 
 
 "Gillian," he said, "that is no answer at all. Let 
 us be engaged now, and then we can be married 
 perhaps in the summer." 
 
 "Oh, I couldn't be married in the summer," she 
 said impulsively. 
 
 The law would only make her free in July. Until 
 then. . . . 
 
 "You have come too soon," she said in a low, 
 constrained tone. 
 
 "If you prefer to wait till the autumn," he said, 
 looking for the moment genuinely puzzled, "it shall 
 be as you wish. All I ask you now is to promise that 
 you will be my wife. You are torturing me, Gillian, 
 by keeping me in this suspense !" 
 
 "I couldn't be married sooner than October," said 
 Gillian doubtfully. 
 
 There was silence after she had spoken. His grip 
 on her hands relaxed. He even moved away and 
 stood a few yards from her on the terrace looking 
 over the Campagna. His face was set and very 
 paie. Through the break in the ilex grove they 
 could see the sea shimmering in the sunlight that 
 made a path of gold across its silver. 
 
 He turned and moved back to her. 
 
 "Will you promise to marry me in October, Gil- 
 lian?" he said.
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 An appreciable pause followed. Gillian was 
 thinking perhaps more of Paul then than of Aylmer. 
 Had not Paul wished to bind her to this very thing? 
 But Paul belonged to the old life from which she 
 longed so ardently, so passionately, to free herself. 
 Paul's claim had become a little pale. She was glad 
 to think she had never made any promise to him. 
 Yet when she left England she had certainly thought 
 that one of these days when her wound had healed 
 a little she would marry Paul. She felt confused 
 and bewildered. Here was a man whom she had 
 known less than a month who wished to marry her, 
 who wanted to bind her to a definite engagement. 
 Still less did she understand her own heart that in 
 unison with her brain was urging her to accept him 
 as her future husband. 
 
 "Yes," she said at last, "if you still wish it I will 
 marry you next October. But you must keep my 
 promise to you a secret. You mustn't tell any one." 
 
 "I shall tell my mother," said Giacomo; "she is 
 always in my confidence, but she will respect your 
 wishes." 
 
 He came then and knelt down near her, enfolding 
 her in his arms. His lips sought hers. Gillian 
 yielded to his embrace. She felt most intensely 
 happy, tranquil, at peace. She felt that he would 
 assuredly teach her to love him. 
 
 "Oh, how I love you !" he said at last. He gazed 
 into her eyes. "My beloved my wife that is to be. 
 When I said the other day that I should come here 
 for my honeymoon, you were the bride I was dream- 
 ing of. I was thinking of the days we should spend 
 here together!" 
 
 Gillian surrendered herself to the spell of the mo- 
 ment. Giacomo had been perhaps more wise than 
 he knew in bringing her here to surroundings that 
 were in themselves romantic and appealing. As it
 
 136 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 was, the exquisite beauty of the scene, the delicious 
 prospect of land and sea outspread before them, 
 mingled in her thoughts' with his' caressing, pas- 
 sionate words, giving them an unusual and individual 
 significance. 
 
 "It will still be lovely here in October," he said, 
 "it will still be summer." 
 
 No to-day she could not tell him the truth. She 
 could not spoil his pleasure, his happiness, by reveal- 
 ing her own past sadness, and the barrier that still 
 reared itself so darkly between them. He evoked 
 in her a curious almost maternal tenderness. She 
 put her arms round his neck and kissed him. The 
 spontaneous embrace touched him. He looked into 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Oh," he said, "you must relent, you must take 
 away this hard condition. If you loved me as I 
 love you, you would not wish to wait so many months. 
 We are neither of us children. What is there to 
 wait for? Why, we may not be alive next October !" 
 
 Gillian's face was curiously white and obstinate at 
 that moment. 
 
 "I am going to keep to that condition neverthe- 
 less," she said. "And you are not to torment me 
 about it. You mustn't ask me to change." 
 
 He put his face for a moment lightly against 
 hers. 
 
 "It shall be as you wish," he said gently, realising 
 that she had some good reason for the request. "But 
 will you not tell me why, carinal" 
 
 She felt afraid then that he intended to ask her a 
 definite question and insist perhaps upon a straight- 
 forward answer. She did not wish to hurt and de- 
 stroy this beautiful hour, that belonged to love 
 alone, with any harsh statement of unpalatable 
 truths. It came into her mind then as a subtle temp- 
 tation that she would rather lie to Giacomo than risk
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 137 
 
 losing his love. What did his love mean to her? 
 Was it of so much more worth than Paul's? Was 
 it something she would die rather than lose? What 
 did it mean then this new cold fear of losing him? 
 Did it mean that she, too, was beginning to care for 
 him, beginning to love him? 
 
 "Don't ask me, please, Giacomo," she said. 
 
 It was the first time she had called him by his 
 name. She was unaccustomed to speak Italian, she 
 uttered it slowly, hesitatingly. 
 
 "Oh," he said adoringly, "how pretty you make 
 my name sound!" 
 
 Another doubt occurred to her. 
 
 "You are sure your mother will keep our secret? 
 I shouldn't like the Widnesses or Lady Lucy to get 
 hold of any gossip." 
 
 She was suddenly afraid of Lady Lucy, who had 
 been so shocked at the bare idea of a divorce; she 
 feared that she might make premature disclosures. 
 
 "You can trust my mother," said Giacomo 
 proudly. "Her only objection to our marriage will 
 be because you are not a Catholic." 
 
 He said it almost timidly, watching her face to 
 see what effect the words had upon her. 
 
 "So few Englishwomen are. I can't see that it 
 matters," Gillian said carelessly. 
 
 "It matters very much to people who are as pious 
 as my mother. I am sure it has never entered her 
 head that I could marry any one who wasn't a 
 Catholic." 
 
 "You said just now that we were neither of us 
 children. Surely you do not intend always to re- 
 main such a slave to your mother's narrow preju- 
 dices?" she said, almost scornfully. 
 
 She was beginning to see that such a mother-in- 
 law might prove an obstacle in the way of that per-
 
 138 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 feet happiness in the future which she had begun 
 to desire so passionately. 
 
 "But even I do not regard them as narrow preju- 
 dices," he retorted. "Of course I would rather my 
 wife were a Catholic!" 
 
 There was silence between them then. The sun 
 was dipping over the sea in a round red globe. Some 
 of the warmth had gone out of the air. A little 
 wind blew across the Campagna and stirred in the 
 ilex trees with a sound as of faint sobbing. Gillian 
 rose to her feet. 
 
 "Oughtn't we to be going back, Giacomo?" 
 
 When she stood thus facing him she seemed 
 almost as tall as he was; her eyes were so little be- 
 low the level of his own. He needed but to bend his 
 head ever so slightly to stoop and kiss her. He 
 clasped her hands and held them pressed for a mo- 
 ment against his lips. 
 
 "How beautiful you are, my Gillian," he said 
 softly. 
 
 On the way homeward they spoke little. The 
 wind had dropped, and against the red and gold of 
 the sunset the huge massive broken arches of the 
 aqueduct of Claudius stood in frowning silhouette, 
 gaunt and desolate. The glow touched the poppies 
 to a deeper crimson. There was something romantic 
 in the solitude, the sadness of the Campagna. It 
 was as if they had suddenly plunged from the sunny 
 fragrant Frascati garden into a twilight world of 
 sorrow and apprehension. 
 
 He pulled up the car at a lonely place in the road. 
 No other vehicle was in sight; the place looked 
 singularly empty and uninhabited. Far off the blue 
 Sabine hills lay remote and as if asleep. . . . 
 
 "You must never change," he said; "I have such 
 a fear of losing you."
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 139 
 
 She smiled up at him. 
 
 "I do not think I shall change," she said softly. 
 
 She drew almost instinctively a little nearer to 
 him. He gave her a sense of safety and protection 
 as of something strong that would die to shield her. 
 
 "Say 'I love you, Giacomp,' " he said entreatingly. 
 "Remember you haven't said it yet." 
 
 "I love you, Giacomo," said Gillian. 
 
 The words rang strangely in her ears. For never 
 had the irrevocable past held her so strongly, so 
 persistently, as it did at that moment when she first 
 confessed her love for Giacomo.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 IT was after dinner that evening, sitting in one of 
 the faded old salons of the Meldola palace, that 
 Giacomo informed his mother of his engagement to 
 Mrs. Driscoll. 
 
 She showed no surprise; the intelligence seemed 
 to her only the confirmation of the great fear that 
 had possessed her heart ever since she had been to 
 visit Gillian. She had recognised the extraordinary 
 beauty and fascination of the Englishwoman, and in 
 her heart she blamed her and her alone. No doubt 
 she had deliberately aimed to bring this desirable 
 quarry down. . . . 
 
 The Marchesa said very little. She listened to 
 Giacomo with attention, but there was neither sym- 
 pathy nor pleasure in her face. He told her plainly 
 that he loved Gillian that he had loved her indeed 
 from the first moment they had met that she re- 
 turned his love, and that they intended to be married 
 in October. 
 
 "Why October?" she inquired, raising her eye- 
 brows. 
 
 "She doesn't wish to be married sooner. I sup- 
 pose she will have business things to see to." 
 
 "A little delay will not hurt either of you. You 
 can scarcely know anything at all about each other. 
 How long has she been a widow?" 
 
 "I really have no idea," said Giacomo, trying to 
 speak carelessly. 
 
 "Who was her husband?" 
 
 "She never talks about him. I think she could 
 not have been very happy." 
 
 "You seem to have asked her no questions at all," 
 said his mother severely. "Before I give my con- 
 
 140
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 141 
 
 sent I must know much more about her. How long 
 her husband has been dead who her people are 
 and so forth. I do not approve of this sudden 
 action of yours. You should have come to me first. 
 She is very pretty, but she is not at all the wife I 
 should have chosen for you. She is English she 
 knows nothing of our ways, our thoughts. And she 
 is a great deal too old for you." 
 
 "She cannot be more than two years older," said 
 Giacomo, stifling his indignation. 
 
 "She has been married before she has had and 
 lost a child. She is years older than you are in the 
 deeper experiences of life. And you know that I 
 am not ambitious for you in the way of desiring 
 great wealth. I only wished you to marry some nice 
 young girl of suitable birth who has been carefully 
 brought up and who is a good Catholic." 
 
 A pause followed this speech. Giacomo was en- 
 gaged in repressing his rising anger. 
 
 "You must tell her frankly that before I give my 
 consent you must ask her certain questions. We 
 have a right to know a great deal more about her." 
 
 "She will, I am sure, tell me everything," said 
 Giacomo, rather uneasily. There was a faint mis- 
 giving in his heart which he could not explain. Gil- 
 lian was very reticent, and she had a habit of elud- 
 ing questions and inquiries, as if he had no right to 
 put them. But surely now she had given him a right. 
 He had felt that she was always on the alert to 
 check any manifestation of curiosity on his part. 
 Even when she had spoken of her dead child she had 
 been reserved and controlled. It was as if she had 
 deliberately intended to draw aside the veil that 
 shrouded this solitary and poignant episode of her 
 past life, and then as quickly to let it drop back 
 again as if it were a picture too precious to be ex- 
 posed for more than a brief moment. She had per-
 
 H2 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 mitted him to know about her child, but she had 
 never mentioned her husband to him, directly or 
 indirectly, and he felt now while seriously reviewing 
 their conversations that all his attempts to discover 
 anything had been cleverly baffled and parried. He 
 recognised Gillian's ability, and sometimes he had 
 felt inclined to resent it. Only when he was with 
 her all resentiment quickly vanished. He was 
 deeply, ardently in love with her. . . . 
 
 He came over and put his arms round his mother's 
 neck. 
 
 "I am sure you will not withhold your consent," 
 he said gently; "when you know her you will love 
 her as much as I do. And you will have heaps of 
 time between now and October to convert her. I am 
 sure she has no prejudices she is only completely 
 ignorant of the Faith. I want her to be a Catholic 
 almost as much as you do." 
 
 The Marchesa relented a little. 
 
 "I will try and love her for your sake," she said 
 mollified. 
 
 That Gillian had insisted upon delaying their mar- 
 riage until October was a point that told enormously 
 in her favour. She evidently did not wish to put 
 the final seal on her triumph by rushing Giacomo 
 into an immediate marriage. 
 
 "She wishes also that our engagement may be 
 kept strictly secret," he went on; "we are only be- 
 trothed unofficially. She doesn't want it talked 
 about. I made her this promise on your behalf as 
 well as on my own." 
 
 The Marchesa marvelled a little at this second 
 unusual and strange condition. Like the first, how- 
 ever, it found considerable favour in her eyes. An 
 engagement conducted in the curious English man- 
 ner of absolute secrecy, though unknown in Italy, 
 could be far more easily broken off. Gillian was
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 143 
 
 not going to make a public display of her victim. 
 And perhaps it would be possible without divulging 
 the real truth to give Mrs. Widness a hint that for 
 the present Giacomo's affections were otherwise 
 engaged. 
 
 Whether Gillian had really sought to ensnare 
 Giacomo the Marchesa could not exactly say, but 
 the evidence so far was all in favour of her having 
 presented the young man with quite unusual oppor- 
 tunities of escape should he grow prematurely tired 
 of the situation. How odd it was that she herself 
 should find it so very difficult to trust Mrs. Driscoll. 
 She had roused within the Marchesa an instinctive 
 maternal impulse to protect her offspring. But she 
 wisely concealed these suspicions from her son. Let 
 him go first and find out what he could. Let him 
 return to her with chapter and verse of all she 
 wished to know concerning his future wife. 
 
 When Giacomo left his mother and went up to 
 his own apartment he felt his happiness a little 
 dashed by her attitude. He had been so steeped in 
 the glamour of love and happiness, an enchantment 
 that wrapped him round with soft rose-coloured airs 
 enfolding him tenderly, that he had scarcely stopped 
 to ask himself concerning those matters which were 
 inevitably the objects of his mother's anxious solici- 
 tude. Now they had awakened within him an 
 anxiety scarcely less profound than her own. He 
 tried to put them aside, to think only of Gillian, to 
 recall in imagination the touch of her little soft fin- 
 gers, the kiss she had spontaneously given him. His 
 day had slipped past in a lovely dream. The places 
 they had seen together would be for ever, he be- 
 lieved, hallowed for him by the remembrance of 
 her. 
 
 Colder, calmer reflection showed him that he was 
 still very far from either being in possession of, or
 
 i 4 4 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 of acquiring, the knowledge, exact and particular, 
 which his mother required. Gillian was an orphan, 
 he knew; she had told him that she did not remem- 
 ber her mother, she had been brought up by two old 
 aunts in Bath. He was utterly ignorant about all 
 the circumstances of her first marriage, and also 
 about the extent of her fortune. He believed that 
 she muat be rather a rich woman. But again he had 
 the sense that he had been perpetually baffled by 
 Gillian. There had been so many things which he 
 ought to have asked, could indeed have asked after 
 he had elicited that promise from her that she would 
 marry him. Yet he had concerned himself alone 
 with the much more agreeable task of making love 
 to her. She had responded to bis love, not very 
 warmly perhaps, and with some hesitation, but at 
 least tenderly and sincerely, and quite sufficiently in 
 any case to assure him that in the future all would 
 be well. 
 
 In October. . . . How many months away was 
 that month 1 . . . He pictured to himself Frascati, 
 and especially the Villa Meldola in October. The 
 vendemmia would be over then, with its sweet fra- 
 grance of ripened grapes, and the trailing vines 
 would be hung with a trellis of scarlet and golden 
 leaves. There would be yellowing tints on the plane 
 trees and poplars, and scarlet and crimson ones on 
 the maples. And in the early morning there would 
 be down in the Campagna a deep, deep white bank 
 of mist. The Alban hills would emerge as it were 
 from that white dripping sea. There would be 
 a delicious autumn crispness in that early morning 
 air to set the blood tingling. And then the day 
 would become like summer with clear blue skies and 
 hot sunshine, dying at last in a wonderful crimson 
 sunset that would paint with rose-colour the wide 
 brown Campagna and the sea lying beyond. There
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 145 
 
 would be wet days, too beautiful also in their 
 austerity when wild winds would lash the hills with 
 fierce storms of rain, and he and Gillian would seek 
 refuge within the walls of the Villa in rooms made 
 cosy and cheerful with great wood fires. And when 
 the storm passed they would wander again in the 
 grave ilex-shadowed gardens, drinking intoxicating 
 draughts of happiness. 
 
 Yet why had she insisted upon this secrecy? He 
 wanted to tell every one of his new happiness ! Why 
 had she laid down, too, this hard condition of delay? 
 Silence and delay. . . . There was nothing of the 
 shy novice in Gillian. She had a will of her own, 
 and Giacomo had been compelled to submit to it with 
 indeed scarcely a protest. He had clearly seen that 
 if he were to win her at all it must be exclusively 
 upon her own terms. Submission was necessary, and 
 he had yielded at least with outward willingness. 
 The thought hurt his pride a little. If she had been 
 a young girl, all future plans would have been simply 
 discussed with her parents, and she would have had 
 no say in the matter at all ; she would have had less 
 to do with the arrangements than any one. But Gil- 
 lian had dictated her conditions with a little air of 
 definite assurance, with a careless pride that 
 wounded him while it evoked his admiration. And 
 with it all he now recognised that there had been a 
 baffling silence and reserve which had actually 
 seemed to forbid him at his peril to ask questions. 
 
 He himself was so much in love that he would 
 have married Gillian without any further definite 
 knowledge, except just what was required to satisfy 
 his own mind and the ecclesiastical authorities that 
 it could be done legally and without flaw. The 
 Council of Trent had laid down certain arbitrary 
 conditions concerning marriage; had any one any
 
 i 4 6 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 right to demand more than that these should be 
 rigorously complied with? 
 
 It was at this point that Marchesa Meldola was 
 summoned suddenly to Ancona, to the bedside of an 
 old cousin who was said to be dying. She was 
 obliged to leave Rome on the very day following 
 Giacomo's announcement of his engagement to Mrs. 
 Driscoll. If anything, her absence at that juncture 
 was a matter of relief to the young man. He could 
 forgo for the time being the task of questioning Gil- 
 lian. His mother would not be there expecting daily 
 to be informed of those particulars she considered 
 essential before she gave her consent. He could 
 come back home in the evening without fearing to 
 encounter her inquiries. So he put off from day to 
 day the task which hourly grew more difficult and 
 mpre repugnant to him. 
 
 Rome was being rapidly deserted by the forestleri. 
 May was now in the last week of her radiant beauty. 
 Surely, Giacomo thought, he could never remember 
 such a perfect May such days of ravishing sun- 
 shine and beauty. The Widnesses had gone to 
 Genoa to see some friends who had just arrived 
 there from New York, and the date of their return 
 to Rome had not been decided. Lady Lucy Ferrard, 
 seeing that the game was up when Grace Widness 
 reappeared on the scene, had taken the disappointed 
 Patience to the fresh woods and pastures new of 
 Florence. The later development which coupled 
 Giacomo's name ever so slightly with that of Mrs. 
 Driscoll had not reached her ears. She explained 
 her departure by saying that Patience was anaemic 
 and found the climate of Rome too enervating. 
 
 Gillian deferred from day to day the enlighten- 
 ment of Giacomo. No one knew of the long hours
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 147 
 
 they spent in each other's company. Day after day 
 he fetched her in the car, a fairy coach which seemed 
 to transport them both into realms of serene and 
 tranquil happiness apart from the whole world. 
 They explored together all the old-world towns that 
 cling like jewels to the crests and spurs of the 
 Castelli Romani; they wandered by their blue lakes, 
 and in their cool shadowy woods. If their youth 
 and beauty attracted attention no one knew who 
 they were; they had scarcely ever encountered 
 friends or acquaintances in those enchanted expedi- 
 tions. Gillian was happy, even very happy, but she 
 felt always that not very far off, Atropos was stand- 
 ing, grimly waiting with her shears. There must 
 inevitably come a day when she would have to tell 
 Giacomo that she was not a widow, that the tie that 
 bound her to her husband was not yet dissolved. Of 
 course it would make no difference to him, to his 
 love for her, which seemed to deepen daily but it 
 might cause all sorts of other difficulties and prevent 
 the Marchesa from giving her consent. There were 
 rocks ahead. Gillian, knowing nothing of the Cath- 
 olic religion and its very strict laws about the sacra- 
 ment of marriage, was quite unaware of the formid- 
 able nature of those rocks. 
 
 Each unknown to the other was bent upon evad- 
 ing for the present the same difficult task. Gillian 
 began to wish she had told Giacomo much earlier, 
 so that he might have known the worst before his 
 definite proposal of marriage. But almost from the 
 beginning she had been actuated by that passionate 
 desire, almost unscrupulous in its intensity, to drink 
 deep and unalloyed draughts of her present hap- 
 piness. If she did not actually love Giacomo at the 
 beginning, she loved the love that he gave her. She 
 was proud of it. It made her violently happy; it 
 lulled her pain and robbed the failure of her first
 
 148 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 marriage of much of its sting and bitterness. Gia- 
 como had restored her pride and self-respect. She 
 was so grateful to him that gratitude soon found its 
 expression in love. After two years of neglect she 
 found it agreeable to be adored as he adored her. 
 And thus it became from day to day harder for her 
 to speak and tell him the truth. She could not now 
 envisage that scene when his enlightenment would 
 have to be accomplished. There was a grave ele- 
 ment of risk in it. She had realised long ago that 
 there was a fundamental and integral hardness and 
 prudence lying behind all Giacomo's surface friv- 
 olity. She would find herself at grips with forces 
 whose strength she could not measure unknown in- 
 herited spiritual forces that held him, influenced him, 
 dominated him. 
 
 Gillian was aware that she had not acted with the 
 frankness that had been Giacomo's simple due and 
 right when first they became engaged. It could not 
 be said, however, that she had any intention of de- 
 ceiving him permanently. Lightly entering upon the 
 adventure, she had not foreseen that it would pres- 
 ently engulf her. She awoke one day to find that 
 her brain guided her no more; her very heart had 
 turned traitor. She loved Giacomo with a love 
 beside which her girlish love for Aylmer had become 
 a pale thing of no consequence, and one that also 
 seemed in retrospect wholly incomprehensible. This 
 new and fierce love kept her silent and afraid. She 
 feared to lose Giacomo. She put off the evil 
 day. . . . 
 
 They were sitting one beautiful evening in early 
 June on the terrace at the Villa Meldola. The roses 
 were in their full beauty, the creamy old walls of 
 the house seemed to drip with blossom, crimson and 
 golden. A pomegranate tree in the orchard below 
 was aglow with fiery red bloom. It was very still,
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 149 
 
 very warm. Far off Rome lay in the plain, a golden 
 city in the evening light. All the wide Campagna, 
 too, lay steeped in that golden haze which trans- 
 figured everything. 
 
 "Are you happy?" he said at last. 
 
 Her hand slipped into his. 
 
 "So very happy, Giacomo." 
 
 "Happier than ever before?" 
 
 Something of that quiet joyousness of hers seemed 
 to fade out of her face. He knew that look any 
 allusion to past days had the power to summon it and 
 to intensify the sadness of her eyes. 
 
 "I feel now as if I had never been happy in the 
 old days," she answered. 
 
 "You have never told me anything of those days," 
 he reminded her. "At least hardly anything." 
 
 "I do not care to speak of it. But some day I 
 will tell you all about it. Not to-day." 
 
 She had trembled then upon the brink of confes- 
 sion. But a wish not to spoil that perfect evening 
 prevented her from speaking. 
 
 Giacomo's heart beat a little quickly. For the first 
 time a real and definite fear possessed him as to the 
 nature of that communication. He had had many 
 misgivings before, but he had never felt as he did 
 now that it might be something which could actually 
 hurt and destroy their happiness. 
 
 "Don't tell me now," he said quietly, "let us talk 
 only of happy things this evening." 
 
 He bent down and kissed her. When he looked 
 at her again there were tears in her eyes. "I want 
 to know everything, of course," he said presently; 
 "you know I am sometimes jealous of those past 
 days." 
 
 She said in a strained hoarse tone : "You need not 
 be jealous. There is only one memory of it all that 
 I wish to keep. You know what that is."
 
 150 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 "You cannot tell me anything that would alter 
 my love for you," he said, "I love you too much. I 
 am afraid of those months that lie ahead of us 
 afraid of their power to take you away from me." 
 
 She said slowly, "If we are ever to be separated it 
 will be by your wish, not by mine." 
 
 "You are very safe in my hands," he answered 
 gravely. 
 
 "If your mother withheld her consent in the end 
 would you still marry me?" she asked, almost 
 timidly. 
 
 "My mother would never do anything so cruel. 
 You need not be afraid of that." 
 
 "But if she did?" 
 
 "She wouldn't, unless of course there were a 
 grave reason!" 
 
 "And if there were what she considered a 
 grave reason? . . ." 
 
 "Darling, these are idle questions. My mother 
 has this power over me, that she can spend her 
 money as she chooses. If she disapproved she 
 might refuse to give me any. I have very little of 
 my own." 
 
 "Oh, it wouldn't be a question of money," said 
 Gillian, rather relieved. "I have plenty for us 
 both. I mean we shouldn't be very rich, but we 
 could live here very comfortably on my money. In 
 that sense we should be perfectly independent of 
 your mother." 
 
 "Oh, but that would make me dependent on you, 
 wouldn't it?" said Giacomo. "I'm not sure that I 
 should like that!" 
 
 "But you wouldn't let it be an obstacle?" 
 
 "My dearest we are discussing a very idle ques- 
 tion. You are pre-supposing that there is a grave 
 reason which might make my mother refuse her con-
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 151 
 
 sent and refuse, too, to give me any money. How 
 can there be such a reason?" 
 
 Again the confession trembled on her lips. But 
 with a swift illuminating recognition she understood 
 that Giacomo had parried her question; he would 
 not tell her how far he should consider himself 
 bound by filial duty in the question of their marriage. 
 
 "And there is not there could never be any grave 
 reason," he persisted, almost as if he were saying 
 the words to convince himself of their truth. "I 
 mean a serious reason that could separate us ulti- 
 mately." 
 
 This time Gillian did not answer him. Her eyes 
 were fixed with a dreamy intensity upon the lovely 
 scene outspread before her. The beauty of the 
 evening held her spellbound. She tried to suppress 
 that cold fear that was laying its icy fingers upon 
 her heart . . . the fear that only love can awaken, 
 that is only associated with the thought of losing the 
 beloved. And in the grip of this fear she drove 
 back that evening to Rome with Giacomo, scarcely 
 speaking a word. It had come so close, it had 
 seemed to touch her. 
 
 "Are you tired? You are looking so white," he 
 said, with a tender solicitude, as he helped her to 
 descend in the Via Sistina. 
 
 "Yes I am tired," she said. 
 
 "You have had too long a day," he said quietly, 
 "you must have a good rest." 
 
 "Yes. Don't come and see me this evening, Gia- 
 como I think I want to be alone." 
 
 His bright face showed disappointment. 
 
 "Very well. I will come round to-morrow and 
 see if you would care to go out." 
 
 She stood watching him as he got into the car and 
 drove away.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 LADY LUCY FERRARD was unconsciously the God 
 in the Machine. She had no idea of the prog- 
 ress of events, for she had seen very little more of 
 Gillian while she remained in Rome. But while in 
 Florence she met Mrs. Widness for the first time, 
 when dining at the villa of a mutual friend, and 
 some chance words from this lady gave her the clue 
 to what was passing. 
 
 Mr. Widness and Grace were also present. They 
 had stopped a few days in Florence on their return 
 journey to Rome. Their future plans were a little 
 vague, and they felt that if Giacomp were really 
 going to marry this attractive English widow to 
 whom his mother admitted he was showing a good 
 deal of attention, it might be prudent to take a trip 
 over to the States and give Grace an opportunity of 
 forgetting him. 
 
 "We've often heard of you through the Mel- 
 dolas," she said, "so I'm really very pleased in- 
 deed to make your acquaintance, Lady Lucy. The 
 Marchesa is such a very old friend of ours and I 
 have sometimes met your charming elder daughter, 
 Marchesa Guido, at her house. Such a sweet pretty 
 creature." 
 
 Lady Lucy smiled and made a conventional reply. 
 
 She carried the war then, if not into the enemy's 
 country, at least to his boundaries. 
 
 "I hope it is true then," she said, "that your 
 daughter is about to be engaged to the younger 
 Meldola. We heard something of it before we left 
 Rome!" 
 
 Mrs. Widness coloured slightly. 
 
 "I'm very sorry if there's been any gossip of tha.t 
 152
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 153 
 
 kind, Lady Lucy," she said, with a glance at Grace, 
 who was talking to Patience Ferrard at the other 
 end of the room. "There's just no truth in it at all. 
 The young people were great friends nothing 
 more. And Giacomo is very much taken up now 
 with a charming young English widow who came to 
 Rome in the spring Mrs. Driscoll." 
 
 Lady Lucy was surprised into an immediate state- 
 ment of the truth. 
 
 "Oh, but Mrs. Driscoll isn't a widow," she said, 
 with a look of extreme astonishment. "I've known 
 her ever since she was a girl. She had a very bad 
 husband, and she was obliged to divorce him just 
 before she came abroad. The whole thing's been 
 a great shock to her." 
 
 "Do you mean she's got a husband living?" in- 
 quired Mrs. Widness. 
 
 "Oh yes. Aylmer Driscoll is still a comparatively 
 young man. It is a miserable position for poor dear 
 Gillian." 
 
 "Then if that's true, Giacomo can't possibly 
 marry her," said Mrs. Widness with conviction. 
 
 "Of course he can't. I suppose he knows her 
 story and is sorry for her." 
 
 Now Marchesa Meldola, without divulging the 
 actual truth about her son's engagement to Mrs. 
 Driscoll, had thought it only kind to give Mrs. 
 Widness a hint that his affections were at least tem- 
 porarily engaged. Mrs. Widness knew that the 
 object of his affections could only be Gillian Dris- 
 coll. Rumours had reached her ears that they had 
 been constantly seen together. But this informa- 
 tion gave a perfectly different aspect to the situa- 
 tion. The young man must either be in total igno- 
 rance of Mrs. DriscolPs history, or he must have 
 deceived his mother on the subject. A feeling of 
 indignation against Gillian surged into Mrs. Wid-
 
 154 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 ness's heart. This woman must have deliberately 
 plotted and planned the overthrowal of Grace's hap- 
 piness. She had herself spoken to her quite frankly 
 upon the subject of Grace and Giacomo on the day 
 of their first meeting at Frascati. 
 
 "It's quite impossible," continued Lady Lucy 
 charitably, "that he could have been showing her 
 serious attention. But a young and pretty woman 
 who has been badly treated by her husband can 
 always command unlimited sympathy from men!" 
 
 "I think there was more than sympathy on Gia- 
 como's part," said Mrs. Widness dryly; "she 
 lunched with us all at Frascati at the very beginning 
 of their acquaintance, and even then he could hardly 
 take his eyes off her." 
 
 It had been a day of petty humiliation for Grace, 
 who had ended it by a violent fit of hysterical cry- 
 ing. She was still looking wretchedly ill and thin, 
 for she had taken the dispossession greatly to heart. 
 
 "I introduced them to each other," said Lady 
 Lucy; "they both dined with us one evening when 
 Guido and Imogen were there. But I didn't care 
 for Patience to see too much of Gillian under the 
 circumstances. With a young girl I felt I could not 
 be too careful 1" 
 
 She glanced across the room at that meek fair 
 head. 
 
 The result of this interview between the two 
 ladies, who had both felt themselves to have been in 
 some sense vicariously defrauded, was that they each 
 wrote a letter forthwith to the Marchesa Meldola. 
 
 The first to reach her, forwarded to Ancona from 
 Rome, was Lady Lucy's, and it ran as follows : 
 
 "When I introduced Giacomo to Mrs. Aylmer 
 Driscoll in Rome I did not imagine that the acquaint- 
 ance would go any further, so I omitted to tell him 
 her history, which is really a very sad one. I have
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 155 
 
 since heard that they have become great friends, and 
 so I think I ought to write and tell you that she has 
 quite recently divorced her husband, who treated 
 her very badly. No doubt they were most unsuited 
 to each other, and one must not judge poets quite 
 like other men- one has only to remember Shelley ! 
 I am sure Giacomo by this time is acquainted with 
 her history, but perhaps you could give him a hint 
 that his attentions are at least exciting comment. I 
 hope you will not blame me for having brought them 
 together, but I hear they met each other afterwards 
 at Mrs. Homer Widness's, and she, knowing noth- 
 ing of Mrs. Driscoll, imagined from something you 
 said that they were now engaged." 
 
 Mrs. Widness's letter written a little later was 
 much to the same effect, it only confirmed the ill 
 news by giving scrupulously all the details which she 
 had been able to glean from Lady Lucy. But in 
 addition she did also somewhat maliciously intro- 
 duce a few comments of her own upon the kind of 
 woman she held Gillian Driscoll to be, and how 
 from the first she had undoubtedly laid herself out 
 to captivate and subjugate the Marchesa's cherished 
 young son, adding a hope that she had not really de- 
 ceived him about her actual position. 
 
 When the Marchesa Meldola received Lady 
 Lucy's letter, her maternal feelings may better be 
 imagined than described. She had the hot temper 
 of her race, and though she had cultivated a rigid 
 self-control it was still apt on occasion to assert it- 
 self. Her present rage against her son was an 
 emotion she had never, however, felt before, and 
 perhaps it was fortunate for Giacomo that he was 
 in Rome, and that before a meeting could be ac- 
 complished her anger would have had time to cool 
 a little. 
 
 So this was the woman he had desired to present
 
 156 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 to her as a daughter-in-law 1 A woman who had 
 divorced her husband and was posing as a bereaved 
 widow I She was nothing less than an adventuress, 
 rendered doubly dangerous by her youth and beauty. 
 The Marchesa told herself that she had always felt 
 there was something wrong from the very beginning. 
 But that there should be a husband still alive had 
 never entered her head. Her worst fears had pic- 
 tured an irregular union in the past. 
 
 No one witnessed, her ebullition of wrath, which 
 was first directed against Gillian and then against 
 Giacomo. The self-discipline of years triumphed, 
 and she soon had herself well in hand. But though 
 outwardly calm her thoughts of her son were angry 
 and full of resentment. He had wilfully deceived 
 her, and it did not at first occur to her that he him- 
 self had perhaps been deceived. He had spoken and 
 written much to her of the beauty and charm and 
 goodness of Gillian, whereas he must have known 
 all the time that she was a married woman who had 
 divorced her husband. Her first action was to send 
 him a telegram. "Come at once. Most urgent," 
 ran the message. 
 
 It was waiting for him that evening after he had 
 parted from Gillian on their return from Frascati, 
 and he made rapid preparations to set out by the 
 night train. He scribbled a line to Gillian saying he 
 hoped to be back on the following evening; there 
 was no time to go and see her. He wondered a lit- 
 tle what his mother could possibly want him for, but 
 it never once occurred to him that it was in any way 
 connected with Gillian. 
 
 Gillian sat alone in her salotto. The day had been 
 very hot and she had not ventured out of doors. 
 She had made up her mind when the evening cool- 
 ness had set in that she would drive up to the Pincio
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 157 
 
 and get a little fresh air. She felt unusually ex- 
 hausted. She was also beginning to feel extremely 
 anxious, and anxiety made her restless and pre- 
 occupied. She tried to read, but could not settle to 
 anything. It was now three days since Giacomo had 
 gone to his mother at Ancona, and she had had no 
 word from him. His silence and absence were 
 pressing very heavily upon her. 
 
 When it was time to start she went into her room 
 and put on a dress of thin white muslin made very 
 simply, with a blouse that was cut open at the throat, 
 and a broad-brimmed white hat adorned with wings. 
 The white hat made her look too pale, it was almost 
 unbecoming she thought, but she did not change 
 it for another. Giacomo was not there to see her, 
 and nothing else mattered. She hired a carrozza 
 and drove up to the Pincio. 
 
 Crowds of people had assembled there, and the 
 band was playing under the ilex trees. The flower 
 beds were still gay, and the clumps of oleander were 
 aflame with fiery blossom. Women in their light 
 summer costumes, officers and soldiers in uniform, 
 priests in shabby black soutanes, groups of students 
 from the various colleges, and white-clad children 
 running hither and thither, all contributed their in- 
 dividual note to a scene that was always varied and 
 interesting. 
 
 Gillian did not wish to stop to listen to the music ; 
 she told the cabman to drive on. She had not visited 
 more than once or twice this typically Roman scene ; 
 hitherto her days had been fully occupied with Gia- 
 como. She was beginning to miss him, and to feel 
 a vague uneasiness about his absence. She had not 
 slept well last night, and her eyes were still heavy 
 and sore. She missed the excitement that had lent 
 such flavour to the days of her engagement. Every- 
 thing seemed a little flat without Giacomo. She 
 wished that he had written to her to explain his
 
 158 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 absence. It was his silence that was so incompre- 
 hensible. Yet conscience warned her that he might 
 be in possession of only too good a reason for re- 
 maining both absent and silent. 
 
 She had shut down the book of the past, definitely 
 and resolutely. She would never again suffer her- 
 self to be enslaved by its sordid horror. She would 
 think only of the future that promised to be so 
 bright. But to-day the thought of the past obtruded 
 itself against her will. Had Giacomo slipped away 
 from her? She, the once deserted, felt apprehen- 
 sive of a fresh abandonment. Was Giacomo already 
 wearying of her even as Aylmer had wearied of 
 her? It was the fate of some women that they could 
 evoke love but never fidelity. 
 
 She began to reproach herself. She felt a little 
 feeling of shame that she had so readily responded 
 to Giacomo's words of love. The long hours she 
 had spent alone with him rose before her now like 
 a procession of accusers. Had she made herself too 
 "cheap"? The thought was hateful to her pride. 
 She had had one lesson, and she had failed to learn 
 it; had failed to permit that sorry experience to 
 serve as an equipment against future ones of a like 
 kind. "I must be a very stupid woman," she thought 
 to herself. 
 
 She made up her mind to be very cold and dis- 
 tant to Giacomo when he returned. She would show 
 him that she was indifferent. She threw back her 
 head a little. They were passing along the broad 
 white road that leads to the Borghese Gardens with 
 its twin avenues of oleanders now in their full 
 beauty. Blossoms of shining silver-whiteness, of 
 rose-pink, of deep crimson, made blots of exquisite 
 colour. The cabman drove slowly as if he guessed 
 that she would wish to let her eyes rest a little upon 
 their bright loveliness. 
 
 Suddenly she saw three figures walking towards
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 159 
 
 her on the path at the side of the road. They were 
 Mr. and Mrs. Homer Widness and Grace. She felt 
 quite sure that they had seen her, but they passed 
 her without recognition, with eyes fixed as if by 
 mutual agreement steadily in front of them. 
 
 At any other time Gillian would not have given 
 two thoughts to the encounter, but she was in a 
 mood that fears affronts, that sees in unseeing eyes 
 a subtle covered insult. She felt quite certain that 
 these people had deliberately cut her. For the mo- 
 ment she felt hot all over. Her heart beat violently; 
 the tears came into her eyes. What did it mean? 
 Then pride came to her rescue. Even if these 
 Americans did cut her, what did it signify? Their 
 friendship was nothing to her. She would not have 
 cared at all, she told herself, if only Giacomo had 
 not gone away three days ago and offered no sign. 
 
 She told the man to drive back to the Via Sistina. 
 Rome was hot, dusty, and disagreeable, she thought; 
 the trams in the Piazza del Popolo annoyed her as 
 she passed through with their scraping and their 
 bell-ringing. All the beauty had died out of the 
 day. . . . She was glad to find herself back again 
 in the quiet room. She took off her hat and lay 
 down wearily upon the sofa. 
 
 The old problem took possession anew of her 
 thoughts. Where was Giacomo? Why had he 
 stayed away so long without writing to her? Had 
 he so soon wearied of his too facile conquest? His 
 mother had sent for him and he had gone imme- 
 diately. Why had she sent for him? And why, 
 why had the Widness family cut her dead this eve- 
 ning? Her brain was tormented ceaselessly with 
 these questions.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 GIACOMO read the two letters from Lady Lucy 
 Ferrard and Mrs. Homer Widness. His 
 mother was present, watching him as he read and 
 digested their sinister contents. Her anger had sub- 
 sided, and she was prepared to act justly towards 
 him and listen to his defence. His face had grown 
 very pale, and little beads of moisture appeared on 
 his brow, just below the rim of dark, smoothly- 
 brushed hair. 
 
 Then he laid the sheets of paper down side by side 
 on the table in front of him. He did not speak, but 
 rose and looked out of the window at the distant 
 port and the sea lying fair and blue beyond. There 
 was a long pause. 
 
 The Marchesa spoke at last. 
 
 "Why did you deceive me about this woman, Gia- 
 como?" she inquired. "You knew that a marriage 
 between you was impossible." 
 
 The words forced the truth from his lips. 
 
 "I I never knew it," he said. 
 
 His voice was hoarse and strained. He was 
 thinking of Gillian, of her obstinate silence respect- 
 ing the past, of her continual evasions whenever 
 they distantly approached the subject, of her vague 
 promises to tell him all about it one of these days. 
 
 The Marchesa unconsciously breathed a sigh of 
 relief. Of course he was not even now free from 
 blame. No man should ask a woman to marry him 
 without first ascertaining that she were free to do 
 so. But he was not so much to blame as she had at 
 first believed. She could see that the contents of 
 those letters had been a surprise to him a bitter, 
 unwelcome surprise. 
 
 160
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 161 
 
 "Do you mean that she deceived you too?" said 
 the Marchesa. 
 
 Giacomo hardly heard her words. His thoughts 
 were completely occupied with Gillian. If what the 
 letters said were true, there must necessarily be an 
 end to all things between them. Even in his hour 
 of anguish he realised that. Despite the bewilder- 
 ment, the confusion into which his own life seemed 
 to have been suddenly thrust, he could at least grasp 
 that salient fact. Under no circumstances could 
 he marry a woman whose husband was still alive. 
 Such a marriage would not count; it would not be a 
 marriage, and he was not the man to submit to so- 
 cial ostracism. He was proud and ambitious and he 
 had an arrogant love for his old name. 
 
 "Do you think it is true?" he said at last, turning 
 towards his mother. 
 
 His face looked suddenly older. It was a grave, 
 stern face that confronted her; all its youth and 
 gaiety seemed for the time to be completely oblit- 
 erated. The eyes were dull and sombre, the mouth 
 was grim. 
 
 "I do not think you can reasonably doubt what 
 Lady Lucy says. She has known Mrs. Driscoll since 
 she was a girl." 
 
 Yes, he could not possibly doubt it, besides, his 
 own heart assured him that it was true. He had 
 always felt the presence between Gillian and him- 
 self of some dividing barrier. Even in the moments 
 when he had held her in his arms and kissed her he 
 had been acutely aware of it. He had longed to 
 break down that wall of reserve and he had not 
 dared. Instinct had warned him that he might find 
 something beyond it of such vital consequence that 
 it would be capable of destroying their happiness, of 
 separating them for ever. He had gone on in a 
 fool's paradise; all through their engagement he
 
 1 62 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 had acted the part of a coward. By a thousand 
 significant signs he had been warned that something 
 lay behind that cold reserve of hers. 
 
 A violent revulsion followed upon his enlighten- 
 ment. He was furious with himself for his own 
 crass simplicity, and he was furious with Gillian 
 because she had so easily duped him. He told him- 
 self that his love for her was dead. It had been 
 murdered as it were by her own hand. She was 
 not the woman he had supposed her to be. There 
 had been something cold and deliberate about the 
 way she had deceived him. She had never actually 
 lied, but she had given him to understand something 
 that was false. Even in those first moments he 
 vowed to himself that he had ceased to love her, 
 and that he would never see her again. He had 
 permitted himself to be fooled by her. 
 
 The Marchesa was intensely relieved to find that 
 her son had been absolutely ignorant of the truth, 
 that he was almost as shocked when he heard it as 
 she herself had been. Her anger against him died 
 down. Of course he had been foolish, almost crimi- 
 nally foolish. But then he was very young, and 
 Gillian was a clever experienced woman, with suffi- 
 cient beauty and charm and wealth to enslave the 
 fancy of a highly impressionable, imaginative young 
 man. It was the woman who had behaved dishon- 
 ourably, and the blame was almost wholly hers. But 
 she would be punished as she deserved to be. 
 
 "You had better not return to Rome," said his 
 mother; "you always said that you intended to make 
 a voyage to Cyprus this summer. I advise you to 
 get leave and make your plans to start at once. It 
 would be mere weakness to go home to see her 
 again." 
 
 "I must see her and explain." 
 
 *"I don't think she will require any explanation,"
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 163 
 
 said the Marchesa dryly; "she will realise by your 
 continued absence that you have discovered the 
 truth. I dare say she will not remain in Rome." 
 
 "I must write to her then," he said, in a voice 
 that was hard as well as weary. 
 
 "I should prefer it," said his mother, "if you 
 would leave her to me. I will make things quite 
 clear to her. It will be better for you not to ap- 
 proach her at all. She deserves no consideration." 
 
 Was his love for her so dead that he had not 
 even now any wish to remonstrate against this 
 harsh decision? He had neither the will nor the 
 words to defend Gillian. He saw that his mother 
 was right. To see Gillian again would be a mis- 
 take, would only perhaps revive his feeling for her. 
 At best it could only inflict unnecessary pain upon 
 them both. No useful results could emanate from 
 such a meeting. Eventually he yielded to his moth- 
 er's suggestion, and promised that he would leave 
 the whole affair in her hands. 
 
 "Be kind to her," he said; "you must remember 
 that she has not the same views of marriage as we 
 have. You must simply tell her the truth that 
 there can be no question of marriage between us. 
 You must explain why. That will be sufficient. Do 
 not blame her nor abuse her for what she has done." 
 
 Was it really Gillian of whom he was speaking 
 in this manner? She might have been the veriest 
 stranger. . . . 
 
 And after all was she not a stranger? The idol 
 before whom he had so devoutly worshipped was 
 thrown from its proud eminence and lay shattered 
 and crumbled in the dust. She was a woman who 
 had divorced her husband. She had never told him 
 that she was not free. He was envisaging a new 
 Gillian, not the woman he had loved. A suppressed 
 sob broke from him at the thought. Grief and
 
 164 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 anger waged a fierce conflict in his heart. He was 
 conscious of but one wish to carry out his moth- 
 er's suggestion and put the seas between himself 
 and Mrs. Driscoll. He would not return to Rome; 
 he would run no risk of seeing her. He would 
 start as soon as possible. His things could be sent 
 to him, and from Brindisi he could take ship to 
 Corfu, the first step upon his eastward way. . . . 
 
 If the Marchesa intended to punish Gillian she 
 succeeded beyond her wildest dreams. She was not 
 in any hurry to return to Rome and inform her of 
 the progress of events. She accompanied Giacomo 
 to Brindisi and saw him start upon his travels with 
 a satisfaction and relief she could hardly conceal. 
 She had never really expected that he would behave 
 so reasonably. She had believed that he would cer- 
 tainly seek an interview with Gillian and hear the 
 truth from her own lips. But through all the con- 
 fusion and bewilderment that followed upon his 
 abrupt enlightenment he had felt a definite fear of 
 facing that final scene. He shrank from hearing 
 that last confirmation of the truth, that admission 
 of her own duplicity. He did not want to see Gil- 
 lian with the veil torn from her face. And he knew 
 that if he did see her, he would have to speak cer- 
 tain truths to her, bitter truths that must necessarily 
 hurt her. He could only go to her with his love 
 lying dead between them that beautiful murdered 
 love that never could know any resurrection/ Even 
 if he were to learn that she had suddenly become 
 free, he could never love her again. He would only 
 be able to see in her the woman who had deceived 
 him, not the woman he had loved so deeply. 
 
 For a space of about ten days Gillian waited alone 
 in Rome for a Giacomo who never came. No tid- 
 ings of him reached her, and she was forced to face
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 165 
 
 the fact that his absence was a deliberate one. Nor 
 was her own conscience quite easy. She was obliged, 
 too, to envisage the possibility that he had by some 
 means or other learned the truth about her. She 
 had delayed and delayed so long, and now perhaps 
 some one had stepped in and told him. 
 
 She was pale and ill with anxiety and suspense. 
 Some days she hardly left her bed, but lay there 
 weeping. She scarcely ever went out of the house; 
 she was afraid of meeting people. Not for all the 
 world could she risk another scene such as that 
 when the Widness family had cut her on the 
 Pincio. 
 
 She had tried to write to Giacomo, but in this 
 she had failed. The letter would not be written. 
 It was something before which her very pride re- 
 belled. At the end of the tenth day she began to 
 wonder if this silence were to be eternally her por- 
 tion, whether he had indeed left her with no inten- 
 tion of explaining his action. In the evening, how- 
 ever, a card was brought to her, and the servant 
 intimated that the Marchesa della Meldola desired 
 to see her. 
 
 Gillian felt her limbs tremble. But she knew 
 that the interview must be faced with all the courage 
 she could command. On the whole it was a relief, 
 perhaps, to deal with a woman rather than with 
 Giacomo. In a few minutes the lift brought up a 
 shabby indignant figure. 
 
 The Marchesa bowed stiffly as she entered the 
 room. She took no notice of the chair Gillian prof- 
 fered. She began her attack without preliminary 
 by saying abruptly, "I have come to explain my 
 son's absence. He left yesterday for Corfu and 
 Cyprus. He thought it inadvisable to see you again. 
 He has learnt and I have learnt how vou have de- 
 ceived him by pretending to be a widow!"
 
 1 66 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 "I have never deceived him," Gillian said proudly. 
 "I never told him that I was a widow." 
 
 After all she had never uttered a single word that 
 was not strictly true. And if Giacomo had drawn 
 false conclusions, why was she to blame? . . . 
 
 "You told him you would marry him. You never 
 told him that you were not free that you had a 
 husband living." 
 
 "I told him I could not marry him until October. 
 But I shall be free next month," said Gillian. 
 
 The Marchesa stared at her in amazement. 
 "Free?" she said. 
 
 "I have divorced my husband," said Gillian; "the 
 decree will be made absolute in July." 
 
 "That does not make you free to marry my son," 
 said the Marchesa. 
 
 The words fell upon Gillian's brain like pelting 
 hailstones. 
 
 She said pitifully: 
 
 "I don't understand. Don't divorced people re- 
 marry here?" 
 
 "We have no divorce in Italy. And for a Cath- 
 olic there is no such thing. A Catholic cannot marry 
 a divorced woman nor one who has a husband 
 living " 
 
 "I am not a divorced woman!" Gillian said, 
 breathing hard. 
 
 "You have, however, divorced your husband. 
 You cannot marry a Catholic. It would not be a 
 marriage." 
 
 "I I didn't know," said Gillian. 
 
 "You knew enough," said the Marchesa, "to keep 
 your real position a secret from my son. We only 
 learned the truth through a friend. It shocked 
 him as much as it shocked me." 
 
 "I thought you would have a feeling against it," 
 said Gillian, "I knew people in England who had.
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 167 
 
 My aunt, Lady Pallant, for instance. But in Eng- 
 land divorced people do re-marry. I only didn t 
 know Catholics couldn't. I thought it was simply 
 a matter of individual opinion. How terrible," and 
 now she looked the elder woman gravely and 
 straightly in the face, "how terrible your religion 
 must be!" 
 
 The Marchesa said nothing. She returned Gil- 
 lian's look, but all the condemning severity had gone 
 out of her glance. She felt for the first time a curi- 
 ous sense of compassion for this woman who was 
 so young, so lonely, and so ignorant. She was too 
 charitable not to try and make excuses for her. Only 
 Giacomo his drawn white face when he first 
 learned the truth still haunted her. The blow had 
 been for him stupendous, overwhelming. 
 
 "Why did Giacomo not come himself?" said Gil- 
 lian at last. 
 
 "He preferred to leave everything in my hands," 
 she answered. "It is not in his power to marry you. 
 I have brought up my son to be a good Catholic. 
 If he were to go through any form of marriage 
 with you, legally valid perhaps in another country, 
 he could no longer practise his religion. It is pos- 
 sible that you did not know did not understand 
 these things. That does not excuse you, however, 
 for having kept all your past history a secret from 
 him. I may tell you that it made a very bad im- 
 pression upon him." 
 
 Gillian was struggling to keep back her tears. 
 Even now she could hardly realise that it was all 
 at an end that Giacomo had left Italy without 
 wishing or trying to see her again. She felt stunned 
 at the drastic punishment which was being meted 
 out to her. Surely she had done nothing to deserve 
 treatment so cruel, so inhuman. . . . 
 
 "I was afraicUthatjf you knew you would inter-
 
 168 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 fere and come between us," she said at last in a 
 low voice. "I was sure of his love, as sure as I 
 could be of anything. But I knew that you had 
 a strong influence over him. I was afraid . . . 
 but I meant to tell him. You may believe me or 
 not as you like, but I meant to tell him before our 
 marriage took place." 
 
 "It is a pity you did not tell him at the begin- 
 ning," said the Marchesa, "it would have saved a 
 great deal of misunderstanding. He would have 
 explained to you at once the impossibility of his 
 marrying you under the circumstances. You would 
 have been spared a great deal of unnecessary pain, 
 and so would my son." 
 
 Gillian was crying quietly, stifling her sobs with 
 an heroic effort at self-control. She felt suddenly 
 most horribly alone more alone even than in those 
 first days of Aylmer's desertion. She felt as if she 
 were travelling across a wide and cold sea in a little 
 rudderless boat that had no other occupant. She 
 was at the mercy of overwhelming waves and 
 storms. There was no help anywhere. She was 
 doubly deserted by husband and lover. The pain 
 in her heart was almost unendurable. 
 
 "I suppose you are not staying on in Rome?" con- 
 tinued the Marchesa. "English people almost 
 'always find it very trying in summer. Very few 
 stay as late as June!" 
 
 "I haven't made any plans," said Gillian. 
 
 "I strongly advise you not to remain. There has 
 been a good deal of gossip, and now that the truth 
 is known things may be made very disagreeable for 
 you. A young woman in your position cannot be 
 too careful. I am very sorry for you, but you 
 would be better at home with your friends." 
 
 Gillian made no reply; it is possible that the 
 words conveyed but little meaning to her. She was
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 169 
 
 almost paralysed with this new sense of desolation. 
 All her fairy castles in the air had fallen to the 
 ground and lay in broken formless heaps, irreme- 
 diably destroyed. She had planned a beautiful new 
 life that should have no tormenting resemblance 
 to the old. And now she was enduring once more 
 the shamed sense of a door being slammed in her 
 face. How could she ever lift up her head look 
 the world in the face again? . . . 
 
 It seemed to Gillian as if this second blow must 
 thrust her permanently into the dust. How could 
 her pride survive it? Giacomo had left her with- 
 out a word. He had made no sign of regret, or 
 sorrow at their premature parting. Her actions 
 had "made a bad impression upon him." That was 
 all that survived. Humiliation could go no further. 
 She longed for the Marchesa to go away that she 
 might look at her face in the glass and see if it bore 
 any outward mark of the burning shame that was 
 consuming her, body and soul. . . . 
 
 Nor were the Marchesa's views matters of per- 
 sonal prejudice as had been the case with Lady Pal- 
 lant. They formed part of the system of irrefutable 
 laws which the Church laid down for the guidance 
 of her children. One had no choice but to conform. 
 It was a matter of common obedience. There was 
 no via media possible. Giacomo had not been in 
 any way coerced by his mother ; he had submitted of 
 his own accord, and had trampled whatever re- 
 mained of his love for her under foot, as a shameful 
 thing to be spurned and destroyed. 
 
 Something lonely and desolate in her aspect sud- 
 denly touched the Marchesa's heart. She thought 
 inconsequently of the little baby Mrs. Driscoll had 
 lost. Whatever her fault had been, her married 
 life must have proved singularly and disastrously 
 unhappy. And had she not said that it had never
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 been her intention ultimately to deceive Gia- 
 como? . . . 
 
 "I am very sorry," said the Marchesa. "I am 
 sure that you and my son cared for each other very 
 much." She paused, looking Gillian in the face. 
 Although she was disfigured by her tears, she still 
 looked beautiful and most heartrendingly sad. "I 
 wish you could have our Holy Faith," she said, 
 wondering a little at her own daring, "it would 
 make such a difference to you now. It would help 
 you to bear it and to think of Giacomo without 
 bitterness. You would see then that he could not 
 have acted in any other way. If the laws of the 
 Church are severe and hard, she gives you the means 
 to fortify yourself to fulfil them. We learn her 
 love as well as her severity. She cannot but teach 
 what our Divine Lord taught. We must submit 
 and pray for strength, and pray too for the grace 
 to endure which He is always ready to give. You 
 said just now that you thought our religion terrible. 
 But I shall always pray that you may find your way 
 to that door, which is ever open." 
 
 "I shall never do that," said Gillian, choking 
 back a hard dry sob. "You and your Church are 
 very cruel." She seemed to hear Aunt Letty's little 
 chirping voice saying once more, "Remember Elsie 
 Smith!" It was a warning that seemed to her now 
 utterly unnecessary. The glimpse she had had of 
 Catholic teaching had been quite sufficient to deter 
 her from any wish for a deeper intimacy. Rather 
 it had excited within her a passionate and fierce 
 hatred. How could men and women submit them- 
 selves to such harsh and arbitrary laws laws which 
 even civil legislation did not attempt to impose? "I 
 shall always hate the Catholic Church," she said, 
 and for the first time there was anger in her voice. 
 
 "Some day, perhaps," said the Marchesa softly,
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 171 
 
 "you will not hate it any more." She looked still 
 pityingly at Gillian. Strange to say, she no longer 
 held a bad opinion of her. She was utterly, totally 
 ignorant. The Marchesa had come to curse and 
 remained to bless. She went up to her and took her 
 hand in that shabbily-gloved one of hers. 
 
 "God bless you, my dear," she said gently. "I 
 shall pray for you always. Perhaps this hard and 
 painful lesson has been given you for a definite pur- 
 pose. Do not fight against the teaching and warn- 
 ing it holds." 
 
 \Vhen Gillian looked up again she was once more 
 alone. The little black figure had slipped away. 
 
 "I wish I hadn't cried," she said to herself. "I 
 wish I hadn't shown her that I was hurt! I hated 
 her pitying me I" 
 
 She fought now with the sobs that threatened to 
 choke her. The full measure of her grief and loss 
 had become as it were suddenly apparent to her. 
 Giacomo had really gone away; he had sent her no 
 message; everything was utteily at an end between 
 them. He was a Catholic, and for that reason he 
 could not marry her. She was not in his eyes free. 
 And she had loved him; she loved him still. That 
 was the bitterest thought of all. She had set forth 
 so lightly upon the adventure, and Love the God 
 had conquered. 
 
 She had been right in her first suspicion that the 
 forces that would be armed against her would be 
 spiritual ones, divine rather than human. After- 
 wards she found some little comfort in the fact. 
 The Catholic Church was more powerful than she 
 had supposed, it demanded and exacted implicit 
 obedience. Giacomo had not been faithless; rather 
 he had been faithful to an earlier and more exacting 
 claim. Yet she wished he had taken away the sting 
 a little by coming to tell her himself to assure her
 
 172 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 that he was also suffering that he still loved her, 
 although she could never be his wife. She felt to- 
 night very young, very solitary, very much alone. 
 
 Still with a faint wish to please Giacomo's mother, 
 as well as to remove herself from an unpleasant 
 position, she made plans for giving up her apart- 
 ment, and for leaving Rome as soon as possible.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 SHE went out oft the following morning to do a 
 little necessary shopping, and in the Piazza di 
 Spagna on her way to Cook's office she suddenly en- 
 countered two ladies. The younger one ran forward 
 eagerly with outstretched hand. 
 
 "Why, Jill what luck!" You're the first friend 
 we've met since we came to Rome." 
 
 The rather boisterous but sincere welcome brought 
 a tinge of colour to Mrs. Driscoll's pale face. So 
 grateful was she to Amaryllis Porter that she could 
 have fallen on her neck and kissed her. The friendly 
 words were as balm to her wounded heart and soul. 
 
 "Mother," called Miss Porter, "here's Jill Dris- 
 coll!" 
 
 Mrs. Porter advanced, heated and panting. 
 
 "A great pleasure my dear Jill," she said, gasp- 
 ing between each word." 
 
 They moved slowly on across the sunny piazza 
 where the brisk red trams were passing to and fro. 
 
 "Ammy and I have just arrived from Sicily. 
 We've only been two days in Rome and we've had 
 enough of it. We're on our way now to buy our 
 tickets at Cook's," said Mrs. Porter. 
 
 "We've had a simply topping winter," put in her 
 daughter, seizing Gillian by the arm. "But Rome's 
 really a bit fuggy at this time of year, isn't it? We 
 are going on to Assisi to-morrow." 
 
 An idea suddenly occurred to Gillian. 
 
 "I'm just going to leave Rome myself," she said. 
 "I took a furnished apartment here and I'm just 
 giving it up." 
 
 "Come along with us then to Assisi," said Miss 
 Porter cheerfully, "it 'ud be awful fun. Unless," 
 
 173
 
 174 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 and she looked doubtfully at Gillian, "unless you've 
 made other plans." 
 
 "No I haven't made any plans. I was wonder- 
 ing where I should go," said Mrs. Driscoll, a little 
 sadly. 
 
 "Oh, you'd much better come with us, then," said 
 Amaryllis heartily; "we should love to have you, 
 shouldn't we, mother?" 
 
 "Of course we should be delighted," said Mrs. 
 Porter; "you two could go about together and do 
 as much sight-seeing as ever you like. Ammy's quite 
 insatiable, my dear Jill, and I can't keep up with 
 her, especially in the heat!" 
 
 Here was escape. Few offers could have been 
 more welcome to Gillian at that moment. She had 
 known the Porters years before in Bath and had 
 never lost sight of them. She had always been glad 
 to see them in London. She liked the breezy, whole- 
 some atmosphere of the girl, who was good-natured 
 and unselfish to the last degree. 
 
 Amaryllis Porter had a brusque, boyish manner, 
 and looked indeed rather like an overgrown boy 
 with her straight active limbs, her thin muscular 
 arms, her neat brown head and clear blue eyes. 
 She and her mother had never cared for Aylmer 
 Driscoll, nor for those denizens of Upper Bohe- 
 mia they had encountered in Gillian's London draw- 
 ing-room. Amaryllis knew vaguely that Gillian had 
 "made a hash of things," and certainly she looked 
 sad and rather ill. But it was not the moment 
 to ask any questions, for by this time they had ar- 
 rived at Cook's, and Mrs. Porter was already mak- 
 ing her desires known. 
 
 Before they left the office Gillian had also ac- 
 quired two tickets for Assisi, and had agreed to 
 accompany the Porters thither on the following day. 
 
 She dined with them that night at their hotel,
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 175 
 
 in some trepidation lest she should encounter any 
 one whom she knew. But one glance round the 
 room sufficed to assure her that all those present 
 were strangers to her. It was a relief not to be alone 
 with her own painful thoughts. 
 
 Mrs. Porter was an elderly sedate lady who was 
 perennially shocked at her beloved daughter 
 "Ammy." She had never talked slang herself, and 
 her daughter's speech sounded not only vulgar in 
 her ears, but it was also entirely incomprehensible. 
 As she looked at Gillian she found it in her heart 
 to wish that Ammy would model herself upon Mrs. 
 Driscoll, who was in her opinion almost perfect. 
 Her manners were so quiet and ladylike, her voice 
 was unusually low and soft. 
 
 It soon transpired that Ammy had recently be- 
 come engaged to a young officer whom they had met 
 in Egypt. At dinner she talked about him a great 
 deal, and Gillian felt without any malice that they 
 must be exactly suited to each other. 
 
 "He's simply a topping polo player," said Miss 
 Porter; "and at golf he beats me all to fits!" It 
 was her nearest approach to enthusiasm, and sig- 
 nified the highest praise of which she was capable. 
 "I dare say we shall get married in the autumn 
 he means to put in for leave then. His name? 
 Oh, didn't I tell you? It's the one thing I don't 
 like about him ! His name is Hengist Sprot. Rot- 
 ten, isn't it? At first I wouldn't have him on that 
 account. As if it mattered." She laughed at the 
 remembrance. "He says Amaryllis Porter is awful 
 too!" 
 
 She rattled on gaily, while her mother listened 
 with an indulgent and Gillian with an amused smile. 
 
 "Did you see Lady Lucy Ferrard in Rome this 
 spring?" inquired Mrs. Porter, when her daughter's 
 now of conversation had momentarily ceased.
 
 176 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 "Yes I dined with them once. They have gone, 
 I think, to Florence." Gillian spoke in a strained, 
 nervous voice. 
 
 "No luck, I suppose?" asked Amaryllis. 
 
 "Luck?" repeated Gillian. 
 
 "With that young Marchese the sister's half- 
 brother-in-law, or whatever he is?" 
 
 "Dear Ammy, I wish you wouldn't gossip so," 
 said Mrs. Porter, in a mildly reproving tone. 
 
 "Well, Mummy you know what Mrs. Merton 
 told us. She said he trotted about after Patience 
 until an American girl with lots of millions came 
 back to Rome, and then he went after her. And 
 then a young widow whose name Mrs. Merton 
 couldn't remember chipped in, and boiled the 
 whole show and cut them both out! No wonder 
 they've gone to hide their diminished heads in Flor- 
 ence ! What sucks 1" And she leaned back in her 
 chair and laughed loudly. 
 
 Gillian's face changed colour. 
 
 "Rotten luck, wasn't it?" continued Amaryllis. 
 "If it hadn't been for Hengist I'd have tried to chip 
 in too ! I'd have given him a nice lesson for philan- 
 dering like that. He jolly well deserved it! Did 
 you ever meet him, Jill?" 
 
 "Oh, yes I met him one night at the Ferrards," 
 said Gillian listlessly. 
 
 She was glad when Mrs. Porter changed the sub- 
 ject by asking what time their train left for Assisi, 
 and they continued to talk of their journey and to 
 make plans for Gillian to meet them at the station. 
 
 On account of their rather early start she excused 
 herself for leaving them soon after dinner. She 
 was desperately afraid that Miss Porter might again 
 revert to the subject of Giacomo. She was begin- 
 ning to feel ungratefully that a little of Amaryllis's 
 conversation went a long way. And there was her
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 177 
 
 packing to be done. Her new maid, an Italian 
 woman, required a certain amount of supervision. 
 She was rather glad to find herself at last alone in 
 her own room. 
 
 She went first to her locked writing-case and took 
 out a slim packet of letters all that Giacomo had 
 ever written to her. They were all quite short, 
 mostly making appointments for their next meeting 
 or expedition. The oldest was only about two 
 months old. From the formal "Dear Mrs. Dris- 
 coll," they had gradually grown in affection until 
 the last ran simply, "Darling, my mother has tele- 
 graphed for me, and I am leaving Rome to-night. 
 It will not be for long, we shall soon meet again, for 
 I hope to be back to-morrow evening. Darling, I 
 love you always, always. GIACOMO." 
 
 And now already he did not love her any 
 more. . . . 
 
 With a little sob she kissed it before she tore it 
 up. Something of her own heart seemed to lie in 
 those shattered fragments. There was an open fire- 
 place in her room and she made a little heap of the 
 pieces of paper and knelt down to burn them, watch- 
 ing them as they slowly consumed before her eyes. 
 The little action seemed to give a definite finality 
 to the episode which had once seemed so bright and 
 beautiful and romantic. She had lost Giacomo for 
 ever. . . . The remembrance of his mother's words 
 brought a flush of shame to her face. She had been 
 so ready to suppose her an unscrupulous, unprin- 
 cipled adventuress. 
 
 It was a relief to feel that to-morrow she would 
 leave Rome. The sudden advent of the Porters had 
 been quite providential and had relieved her of the 
 hard task of making plans. Amaryllis, with her 
 buoyant spirits and unbridled tongue, could hardly 
 be called an ideal companion, but she was better
 
 178 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 than none, and Gillian at this juncture was begin- 
 ning to find her solitude and loneliness press heavily. 
 She would stay perhaps some time at Assisi and 
 then go on to the mountains it was all one to her. 
 She would drift until the inclination seized her to 
 return to England. Even the little grey house in 
 Brock Street had once or twice arisen before her 
 mental vision as a desirable shelter and refuge from 
 the storms of life. There, at least, she was sure 
 of a welcome; there at least she belonged. She 
 thought of those words, "Darling, I love you always, 
 always." And already that brief madness was at 
 an end; he did not love her any more. She felt 
 as if she had been struck in the face before a crowd 
 of people who callously witnessed her shame. . . . 
 
 She passed a feverish, restless night, and rose 
 early, much earlier than was necessary. She arrived 
 at the station before the Porters, who, however, 
 soon appeared upon the scene. Amaryllis wore the 
 neatest of grey suits, short in the skirt and well- 
 fitting. She always looked her best in severe tailor- 
 mades. A grey hat of the same shade fitted closely 
 upon her light brown hair. She wore a white veil 
 and looked as fresh as a rose. 
 
 "Oh, there you are, Jill!" she said, running up 
 to her. "My word, you look a bit off colour!" She 
 gazed at her with real concern. 
 
 "Do I?" said Gillian. "I'm sure I don't know 
 why I should." 
 
 "I suppose Aylmer's been giving you a rotten 
 time?" inquired Miss Porter. 
 
 "I suppose he has. I have divorced him," said 
 Gillian simply. 
 
 "Yes we saw it in the paper some little time ago. 
 I always said Aylmer was a bad egg. I'm glad you 
 had the sense to get rid of him. I don't care for 
 poets myself. Give me soldiers!"
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 179 
 
 She ended with a hearty laugh. 
 
 In a sense it was a relief to speak thus frankly 
 to Amaryllis Porter, for she took the normal Eng- 
 lish views of such proceedings. They were painful, 
 of course, but were sometimes highly necessary and 
 were referred to without much astonishment or dis- 
 approval. Miss Porter had summed up the whole 
 matter by saying that Aylmer was a bad egg and 
 that Gillian had done well to get rid of him. 
 
 "I dare say you will get married again some 
 day," she observed calmly, reflecting as she spoke 
 that Gillian, though scarcely older than herself, was 
 no longer in her first fresh loveliness of girlhood. 
 She had a worn, rather drawn look this morning; 
 there were shadows round her eyes, and her pretty 
 mouth had a sad but resolute expression. She was 
 very thin, and there was something pathetic about 
 her that seemed to appeal inarticulately for pro- 
 tection. 
 
 "Oh, I don't think I shall ever marry," she 
 assured Miss Porter, "I'm not sure one isn't happier 
 alone!'; 
 
 Their conversation was abruptly terminated by 
 Mrs. Porter, who desired her daughter to see to 
 the inevitable registration of their very extensive 
 luggage. Soon they were all three seated in the 
 train and were steaming slowly past the ugly new 
 suburbs of Rome. To her surprise, however, Miss 
 Porter continued their conversation as if it had 
 never been interrupted. 
 
 "You say that now that you won't marry again, 
 Jill because you backed a wrong 'un! But just 
 you wait a bit. One forgets things very quickly 
 really. I've known the most broken-hearted widows 
 marry again. And you're too young to be messing 
 about alone. I hope your money's quite safe?" 
 
 She felt a keen interest in marriage-settlements,
 
 i8o THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 and was rather proud of the amount she could 
 "bring in" to her own. 
 
 "My money is all in trust. No one can touch 
 it," said Gillian. 
 
 "A very sensible arrangement," remarked Miss 
 Porter. 
 
 Her breeziness acted almost as a tonic to Gillian. 
 It seemed to her as if this frank outlook of hers 
 simplified everything. She felt as if Miss Porter 
 had brought with her a wholesome draught of Eng- 
 lish air, sweeping away those complicated cobwebs 
 that seemed to have woven their dusky web around 
 her, holding her fast with invisible threads. At any 
 other time she would not perhaps have appreciated 
 the prospect of making this journey with the Por- 
 ters, now she had deliberately embarked upon it, 
 welcoming it as an escape from an untenable posi- 
 tion. She was feeling utterly crushed and nerveless 
 and inclined to lean upon Amaryllis Porter's good- 
 natured strength. Her very vulgarity seemed to 
 possess a kind of vigorous, attractive sanity. Life 
 had of late seemed so extraordinarily difficult and 
 complicated and had made so many demands upon 
 her exhausted endurance that she was thankful to 
 have this simple presence with her. 
 
 The bitterness of her separation from Giacomo 
 still obsessed her. If he had really loved her, 
 would he have cast her aside with such callous and 
 deliberate action, such unhesitating cutting of the 
 knot? She was ashamed to think that she loved 
 him, that she was ready with forgiveness even now 
 should he choose to come and demand it. ... 
 She had never felt like that towards Aylmer. After 
 the first shock she had been only too ready to harden 
 her heart against him and Deborah; her love for 
 them had changed most abruptly into hate. But 
 she could not hate Giacomo, although he had shamed
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 181 
 
 her to the very dust. His tenderness had awakened 
 within her a new, strange, submissive love. He had 
 come to her so readily, so eagerly; he had softened 
 her pride and healed her wounds. Those hours 
 spent at the Villa Meldola passed continually be- 
 fore her eyes. She saw the golden sunset light on 
 the grey plain of the Campagna and on the polished 
 silver of the sea that lay beyond like a transparent 
 shadow. She saw the great cypresses uplifting their 
 slender dark spires to the sky. She was walking 
 with Giacomo again in the cool shadows of the 
 twilight ilex woods. There was one point at which 
 they were hidden by the trees from any curious 
 observers at the windows, and here he would always 
 stop and lift her face to his and kiss her and kiss 
 her. . . . Even now she could feel something of 
 the thrill those caresses had evoked; even now her 
 limbs trembled a little at the dear remembrance of 
 it all. He had taught her, alas, the unwelcome 
 lesson that she was still capable of love, that her 
 heart had not grown cold and frozen. Till then 
 she had imagined that life had taken from her 
 all capacity for affection; even Paul's love had 
 left her cold and uncaring. But Giacomo had 
 breathed on those dead ashes of love, and had re- 
 newed the fire in them and made them glow. It 
 was impossible to deceive herself on this point, he 
 had taught her to love him, and then he had delib- 
 erately abandoned her. She could never be his wife, 
 so he had resolved never to see her again. 
 
 As Amaryllis fell into silence Gillian's thoughts 
 turned to Paul. What would Paul say if he knew 
 that she had engaged herself to another man, who 
 in his turn had proved faithless to her? Would his 
 love survive this hard knowledge? He did not hold 
 the strict and harsh views she had found in Italy 
 concerning the marriage of women who had
 
 182 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 divorced their husbands. She could still marry Paul 
 if she chose. She felt that his love for her would 
 not quickly change. Was he alone faithful? Ayl- 
 mer had forsaken her for another woman; Giacomo 
 had failed her on account of religious scruples. 
 What pretext would Paul find when his love for her 
 grew weak? . . . 
 
 Through the smiling June landscape the train 
 travelled with a leisurely progress. The gay emer- 
 ald tints of the acacias and the young corn mingled 
 with the soft grey velvet of the olive orchards. 
 Fields of lupins with their white, fragrant spires 
 of blossom seemed to Gillian to resemble thousands 
 of sleeping butterflies. The vines festooned and 
 garlanded hung from tree to tree like giant neck- 
 laces. In the deep furrows a line of scarlet dis- 
 closed the thickly growing poppies. Far in the dis- 
 tance the high mountains still showed faint streaks 
 of snow. They passed ancient cities, brown and 
 bleached with age, hanging to the precipitous crests 
 of the hills with campanile and dome outlined 
 against the sky. Rivers jade-coloured flowed at the 
 foot of those hills. At last the Umbrian plain came 
 in sight, and the lovely hill cities clinging like jewels 
 to the slopes shone pearl-white in the sunshine. Lake 
 Trasimeno lay outspread like a magnificent tur- 
 quoise whose shadows were painted in pure deep 
 violet. Little white villages, clustering at intervals 
 on the lake-side, seemed to be lying asleep in the 
 sun. 
 
 At last the train stopped and Gillian found her- 
 self standing on the platform at Assisi with the 
 city of St. Francis above her, looking down from its 
 grim eyrie across sloping fields filled with olives 
 and vines. She saw the two fortress-like churches 
 that guard the town, one at each end the monas-
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 183 
 
 teries and churches of the two Assisan saints, St. 
 Francis and St. Clare. High above the town, 
 perched on a grassy slope, stood the ancient Rocca, 
 its grim grey shape outlined against the limpid blue 
 sky. Eastward Monte Subasio reared its barren, 
 rugged heights, austere as are all the Umbrian 
 mountains, as if to furnish a sombre setting for the 
 delicate jewel-like cities that cling to their crests 
 and slopes. 
 
 As Gillian looked up she said to herself: "I won- 
 der what Assisi will hold for me." 
 
 She remembered then with a sudden stab of pain 
 that Rome had held for her Giacomo della Meldola ; 
 his splendidly handsome face, his dark eyes, his 
 words of love. Rome had seen the beginning and 
 end of the love affair that had seemed at first to 
 give her back her very youth. And Assisi? . . . 
 Something in its grey austerity almost frightened 
 her. She knew vaguely the outlines of the story of 
 St. Francis. Before her marriage she had attended 
 lectures on Italian Art, and Giotto and Cimabue 
 and Lorenzetti were no mere names to her. The 
 subject had been presented to her from the artistic 
 rather than from the religious standpoint. She knew 
 there were certain things to be seen in Assisi, won- 
 derful frescoes in beautiful old churches renowned 
 through all the world; she knew, too, that St. Fran- 
 cis had been the chief source of inspiration in that 
 religious and artistic revival. 
 
 Miss Porter approached her on the platform, 
 turning away for the moment from the pile of lug- 
 gage which was her principal care. 
 
 "I don't suppose any one has heard of golf here I" 
 she said, surveying the scene with good-humoured 
 toleration. "In fact, it would be almost sacrilegious 
 to mention such a thing." She thrust an armful of 
 clubs into the hands of a surprised Italian facchino.
 
 1 84 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 "And, of course, no one would dream of trying to 
 lay out links on the side of a wall like that." She 
 laughed, and Gillian could not help laughing too. 
 
 u Ammy dear," said her mother patiently, "have 
 you got the luggage ticket?" 
 
 "Yes," said Amaryllis, producing it. "I suppose 
 the hotel people will see to it all. We're going up 
 in the auto-bus." 
 
 Soon they were whirling along the white, steep, 
 and shadeless road that twists and winds up to the 
 city of St. Francis, scattering dogs and chickens and 
 children in their rapid and dusty progress. 
 
 Amaryllis looked up at the city above them. 
 
 "Droll little place," she remarked; "I hope we 
 shan't be bored here. I very soon get fed up with 
 looking at musty churches and peeling frescoes. And 
 I don't suppose there's a good shop in the place. 
 I am going straight up the moment we arrive to 
 have a bath!"
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 GILLIAN was tired that evening and she made an 
 excuse for leaving the Porters early and re- 
 tiring to her room. She wanted desperately to be 
 alone and she felt a little ungrateful desire to get 
 out of earshot of Amaryllis's incessant chatter. 
 
 Beyond her window there was a little terrace, and 
 she went out there to look at the wide, immense, 
 and beautiful view which lay outspread before her. 
 It seemed to her at first so beautiful that it almost 
 took her breath away. The mountains lay wrapped 
 in sombre purple, their shapes were still clearly out- 
 lined against the fading crimson of the sky, but the 
 plain was wrapped in shadow, broken only by the 
 slim and luminous path of the Tescio. Here and 
 there both hills and valley were pierced by little 
 clusters of lights, marking the villages of Bastia, 
 Bettona, St. Mary of the Angels, Rivo Torto, and 
 many more. On the crest of the opposite hill a 
 crooked ascending row of lights showed the hill- 
 town of Rocca di Petrignamo. And there to the 
 north-west, perched high on a rocky summit, the 
 bright lights of Perugia were distinctly visible and 
 seemed in their brilliance to rival the stars that hung 
 low in the violet sky above them. Darkly silhou- 
 etted against the night sky she could see quite close 
 to her the beautiful tower of the Basilica of St. 
 Francis, and the massive buildings of church and 
 monastery seemed to melt into one another in one 
 vast inky blur. A bell from the Campanile rang 
 out the hour. Gillian leaned her elbows on the low 
 balustrade and gazed out into the night that was 
 now dark, but despite its darkness was full of colour 
 and mystery. From the quiet little garden below 
 
 185
 
 1 86 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 the scent of dew-freshened roses stole up to her. 
 Fireflies flitted among the clumps of bamboos and 
 the thick bushes of oleander. She could hear the 
 croaking of innumerable frogs, the shrill, piercing 
 note of the cicala. Something of the enchantment 
 of the place began to steal over her. She felt the 
 touch, almost caressing, of the night wind that stole 
 past like a silent messenger. 
 
 "I think Assisi will heal me," she said to herself, 
 "at least it cannot give me fresh wounds." 
 
 After the tragic experience of Rome she felt that 
 she only needed tranquillity and eventless days. She 
 shrank from people and society, though she was glad 
 now not to be quite alone. She would go for excur- 
 sions with the Porters, and the rest of the time she 
 would explore those countless treasures the city pos- 
 sessed, she would learn to know by heart its dim 
 and beautiful churches. And when she was tired 
 she could lie out undisturbed upon her sunny terrace. 
 
 For the first week she spent some part of every 
 day in doing what Miss Matty would have called 
 "improving her mind." She read books about 
 Assisi there were a great many in the hotel library, 
 some bad, some good, but all of them taught her 
 from varying points of view something of the life 
 of the Little Poor Man whose footsteps had once 
 trodden the steep and cobbled streets of Assisi, who 
 had been born there in a humble stable, and who 
 had returned to die in the city he so loved. Gillian 
 learned of his gay youth, his voluntary poverty, his 
 self-abnegation, his consuming zeal for his Master, 
 his tireless work, his many miracles. She seemed 
 to see him treading with bare feet those sunlit 
 streets. Insensibly his history began to preoccupy 
 her. She spent more and more of her time in the 
 dim Lower Church with its sombre walls decorated 
 with the jewel-like frescoes. She heard the friars
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 187 
 
 chanting their office and the monotonous sound 
 pleased her, it enhanced the atmosphere of the 
 place and intensified its total unworldliness. Tour- 
 ists passed carelessly in and out, staring perfunc- 
 torily at the frescoes without understanding them, 
 and bestowing a casual glance at the ancient glass 
 of the windows. In those hot days of June she 
 found the grey gloom of the church restful and 
 soothing, full of peace and tranquillity. When she 
 left it and went back to the glare of the piazza the 
 sunlight seemed for the moment to blind her; she 
 could hardly distinguish the faces of the beggars 
 who congregated outside the doors. 
 
 Part of the charm of the place lay in its power 
 to still her restlessness. Here she missed nothing 
 of the summer weather she had known in Rome, 
 nothing of the radiant heat, the aching gold of the 
 sunshine, the blueness of the skies; and she gained 
 much, almost indeed immeasurably, in the delicate, 
 fragrant coolness of the star-lit nights and the dew- 
 drenched, mist-wreathed early mornings. She 
 learned to love the haunting mystery of those Ital- 
 ian dawns creeping over the mountains, revealing 
 almost as it were reluctantly the details of the scene, 
 gilding a tower here, a dome there, drawing away 
 curtains of mist to disclose the silver greyness of 
 the olive-orchards, the brilliant emerald of the vines 
 hung with pendent bunches of little green grapes. 
 From her terrace she could see the climbing roofs 
 of Assisi in all their delicate blond colouring, grey, 
 mauve and softest pink and palest gold, ascending 
 to the Rocca like pilgrims mounting that happy hill, 
 as one writer has imaginatively described it. Afar 
 she could see Spello hanging on the mountain side 
 like a pale jewel. In those summer days only a thin 
 little trickle of water divided the pale sands of the 
 Tescio's winding bed.
 
 1 88 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 One morning she rose early and went into the 
 church before the tourists had come to disturb that 
 quiet sanctuary. There was a light in the crypt, 
 and she went down the flights of stairs and found a 
 priest saying Mass at the altar by the Saint's tomb. 
 She knelt down in a dark corner and covered her 
 face with her hands. Presently a bell rang sharply. 
 She looked up and saw the Host uplifted. Gillian 
 found herself trembling a little; a curious emotion 
 possessed her. Without comprehending, she bowed 
 her head. All around her were kneeling peasants 
 in attitudes of devotion. 
 
 She went back to the hotel when Mass was ended 
 and entered the dining-room. Amaryllis was sit- 
 ting there having her morning coffee. She was 
 dressed in a light cotton coat and skirt almost dust- 
 coloured with a neat hat of Panama straw. 
 
 "I went to your room to look for you, Jill," she 
 remarked, "but you weren't there. Where on earth 
 have you been to so early?" 
 
 "I've been in church," said Gillian simply; "it's 
 lovely there in the early morning. I heard Mass 
 in the crypt. What are you going to do, Ama- 
 ryllis?" 
 
 "We're making an early start for the Carceri. 
 Mother's going on a mule, but I shall walk. It 
 takes about an hour and a half, and it's a steep 
 climb. Do you think you can manage it, Jill?" 
 She looked doubtfully at Gillian's pale face and 
 slight, delicate form. 
 
 T 'Oh, I think I can," said Gillian; "I'll go and 
 get ready. What time shall you start?" 
 
 "About a quarter to nine if I can get Mum up 
 to the scratch," replied Amaryllis. 
 
 It was a beautiful morning. The mist had not 
 yet quite lifted down in the plain, but the surround- 
 ing hills were all clearly defined. The Umbrian
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 189 
 
 landscape, bleak and austere, was softened by all 
 the vivid summer green of vine and wheat. The 
 mountains were painted in soft tones of grey and 
 pale violet. All along the sides of the white steep 
 road blue thistles and scabious of various hues, 
 mauve, white, and pink, thrust up their blossoms 
 above the coarse yellowing grass. Purple campa- 
 nulas hung out their bells, tall mulleins like pale 
 candles lifted erect spires; wild parsley, brambles, 
 dog-roses and honeysuckle made a feasting place for 
 the bees and a garden for the butterflies that wan- 
 dered there in drowsy inconsequent flight and settled 
 sleepily upon the flowers; they looked like fragile 
 silken-winged blossoms seeking their earth-sisters. 
 Clouded-yellows, blues of every shade, brown walls 
 and heaths and coppers, fritillaries and gorgeously 
 painted Red Admirals and Peacocks marvellous 
 creatures too delicate for such clumsy school-boy 
 nomenclature floated past in the sunshine. Green 
 lizards darted out among the red rocks. Olive 
 trees covered the slopes like wreathing grey clouds. 
 
 At a stony bend in the road some trouble was 
 experienced with Mrs. Porter's mule, and in spite 
 of the vociferous assurances of her guide that all 
 was well, she descended precipitately from her 
 mount, and excitedly began to demonstrate her fear 
 of proceeding any further under such perilous con- 
 ditions. 
 
 "Nonsense, Mum!" said Miss Porter good- 
 humouredly, "the beast's as quiet as a lamb. Those 
 donkeys in Egypt were much more dangerous, and 
 you never turned a hair. He only shied at those 
 children tiresome little nuisances ! We can't pos- 
 sibly stop here we shall be broiled in this hot sun." 
 
 Mrs. Porter sat down on the nearest bank and 
 began to fan herself. 
 
 "Ammy dear," she said, "it's no use your trying
 
 190 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 to persuade me to get on that brute's back again! 
 I can see he's as vicious as ever he can be you've 
 only got to look at his face ! I'd rather walk every 
 inch of the way than get on his back again." 
 
 Miss Porter went boldly up to the mule and pro- 
 ceeded to pat and stroke him as if to demonstrate 
 his docility. 
 
 "Oh, I dare say he's all right like that," said her 
 mother, "but he did kick just now I was as nearly 
 as possible over the precipice. I'm surprised, 
 Ammy, that you should want your mother to run 
 into such awful danger. The donkeys in Egypt 
 were bad enough, but not one of them ever kicked 
 like that! Besides there were no precipices there!" 
 
 Her large, plump, heated face wore an agitated, 
 scared expression. 
 
 "Nonsense, Mum," repeated Amaryllis, with an 
 amused smile. "He is as quiet as a mouse really. 
 Wouldn't hurt a fly, would he, then?" 
 
 The man stood by smiling. He could guess pretty 
 well what was passing, although his English con- 
 sisted of only two expressions which he had always 
 found sufficient for all practical purposes, "All 
 right," and "Damn!" These he had learned from 
 the lips of the innumerable British tourists whom he 
 had conducted to the fastnesses of the Carceri. 
 
 Quite ten minutes had now elapsed since this 
 exhibition of peevishness on the part of Mrs. Porter, 
 and both Amaryllis and Gillian were beginning to 
 despair of continuing their journey when suddenly 
 round the corner of the hill there appeared the figure 
 of a man a tall figure in grey flannel suit of very 
 English cut. He came down the road and halted 
 before the little group. Divining that something 
 was amiss, he lifted his straw hat, and addressing 
 Mrs. Porter as the oldest and most responsible 
 member of the party, he said:
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 191 
 
 "Can I be of any service to you, madam?'* 
 
 He was fair with brown hair, blue eyes, and 'a 
 very charming smile. Gillian liked his voice. 
 
 ' My daughter is trying to persuade me to mount 
 that mule again," explained Mrs. Porter in art 
 aggrieved tone, "but I utterly refuse. He is a very 
 vicious beast, and just now he kicked and very 
 nearly threw me. I should have gone straight over 
 the precipice. I'd rather walk every inch of the 
 way than get on his back again." She repeated the 
 words with greater obstinacy and determination. 
 
 Amaryllis smiled upon the stranger, and shrugged 
 her shoulders with a gesture that conveyed to him 
 her own helplessness to deal with an obdurate par- 
 ent. He was decidedly good-looking in that well- 
 set-up, active British way of his; it was evidently 
 his intention to be friendly and helpful. She won- 
 dered why his eyes strayed always back to Gillian, 
 who stood there passively without saying a word. 
 
 "Oh, come now," he said, "I'm sure the mule 
 isn't as bad as all that." He spoke some words in 
 fluent Italian to the man, who once more broke forth 
 into voluble explanations accompanied by gesticula- 
 tions that seemed to include Assisi and Spello and the 
 whole of the Umbrian valley. Gillian, whose knowl- 
 edge of Italian was still slight, had managed to 
 gather that the mule was unaccustomed to having 
 such a heavy weight as Mrs. Porter upon his back, 
 and had signified his disapproval by a protest that 
 took the form of kicking. She smiled as she realised 
 this, and her eye caught that of the stranger, who 
 suddenly perceived that she had grasped what the 
 man was saying. 
 
 Turning to Mrs. Porter, he said, "I'm really going 
 up to the Carceri myself this morning, and if you 
 will allow me to accompany you, I'll promise to 
 keep the mule in order. You shan't come to grief.
 
 192 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 It is a longish walk, and it'll be pretty hot before 
 we get there ; I really don't think you could manage 
 it on foot. And having come so far, it seems a pity 
 to turn backl" 
 
 "I simply can't," said Mrs. Porter. "Ammy, 
 tell him I can't." 
 
 She closed her eyes. 
 
 "But, Mummy if he's there to help us I" said 
 Amaryllis persuasively, and with commendable pa- 
 tience. 
 
 "He can't possibly prevent the mule from kicking, 
 Ammy." 
 
 The tone was, however, less decided, and Mrs. 
 Porter, rising from the bank, stood majestically by 
 her daughter's side. 
 
 "I'll walk home," she said, "and you two girls 
 can go on alone with Mr. ." She glanced in- 
 terrogatively at the stranger, who replied without 
 hesitation: 
 
 "Ian Frazer." 
 
 "It would be very kind of you to go with them," 
 Mr. Frazer," added Mrs. Porter. 
 
 "Do let me entreat you not to give up the expe- 
 dition," he said; "why, you are more than half-way 
 there it would be a thousand pities to go back 
 now. I'll answer for the mule!" 
 
 He went up to the suspected animal and took 
 hold of the bridle, as if to encourage Mrs. Porter 
 to trust herself once more to its mercies. His eyes 
 met Ammy's. He surveyed her bright, boyish face 
 with its frank eyes and curly hair, then almost in- 
 voluntarily he glanced back at Gillian. 
 
 "I'll walk between you and the edge of the road," 
 he went on; "even if the mule does kick again, which 
 I don't think he will, you won't be in any danger." 
 
 Mrs. Porter shuddered a little, then came for- 
 ward uneasily. She gazed up at the steep white
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 193 
 
 road, stony, precipitous; the glare from it hurt her 
 eyes. 
 
 "Very well," she agreed reluctantly, and after 
 some little further delay and difficulty she was hauled 
 once more upon his back, and the mule proceeded 
 without remonstrance, an apparently docile and re- 
 pentant animal. 
 
 They climbed the hill, Mr. Frazer leading the 
 mule by the bridle and interposing his tall stalwart 
 figure between Mrs. Porter and the dreaded preci- 
 pice. 
 
 Gillian and Amaryllis followed behind. 
 
 "He reminds me," said Miss Porter with a little 
 giggle, "of Hengist. He's got the cut of a soldier, 
 but he's better-looking than Hengist really. And 
 what nice blue eyes did you notice them, Jill?" 
 
 Gillian offered some commonplace reply. The 
 little scene had amused her, and the young man had 
 certainly directed more than one glance of humour- 
 ous sympathy towards her. They pursued their way 
 almost in silence, and Gillian was getting tired long 
 before the grey buildings of the famous hermitage 
 clinging to that steep ravine came into view. She 
 was glad to rest on arrival in the quiet little chapel. 
 Mrs. Porter, also somewhat exhausted, kept her 
 company, while Amaryllis and Mr. Frazer dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 "I can't think how it is, Jill," said Mrs. Porter 
 in the sibilant whisper of one who addresses another 
 in church, "but wherever Ammy goes young men 
 seem to spring out of the ground! I assure you it 
 has often made me very anxious, and I shall be glad 
 when she is safely married to Hengist, and then 
 I shan't be there to see them spring and feel wor- 
 ried about itl Still, he was really very civil and 
 helpful, this Mr. Frazer, wasn't he? And not at 
 all afraid of the mule. In fact, I could see that the
 
 194 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 mule was a little afraid of him he never tried on 
 a single one of his tricks I" 
 
 Gillian paid little attention to the rather pur- 
 poseless and inconsequent conversation of Mrs. Por- 
 ter. The atmosphere of the place was slowly pos- 
 sessing her; she felt almost as if in some indefinable 
 way it were claiming her. This remote hermitage 
 perched high on the rocky slopes of Monte Subasio 
 was informed with a spirit that was new and strange 
 to her. She did not all at once connect it with that 
 Church which, as she had told the Marchesa with 
 passion, she had learnt to hate the Church that 
 had separated her so arbitrarily from Giacomo. She 
 knew only that the Carceri was a place where men 
 were content to live, perhaps to die, bound by strict 
 rule, fulfilling hard, monotonous, and often distaste- 
 ful tasks, day after day, year in, year out, for the 
 love of God. They had laid aside all prosperity 
 and material comfort and fortune; their life was 
 bounded by these narrow walls so that they might 
 pray the better, serve God the better, living very 
 close to Him in their self-imposed solitude. Only 
 the absolute necessities of life were theirs, scant 
 food, rough lodging, coarse attire. What did they 
 receive in exchange? 
 
 She asked herself that question now as she knelt 
 in the little rude chapel with her face hidden in 
 her hands. What had it to offer this service of 
 which she was still so ignorant? More self-sacri- 
 fice, more renunciation, undertaken joyfully, nay, 
 eagerly that was apparent even to her. These 
 men had entered a jealous service that admitted no 
 rival. In her ears she could hear the Marchesa's 
 words, sounding stern but kind: "I shall pray 
 always that you may find your way to that aoor, 
 which is ever open." Could it be that love and 
 tenderness awaited her where she had believed only
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 195 
 
 to find harsher laws? The answer seemed to lie 
 in the figure of Christ hanging upon the Cross, 
 scarred, bleeding, suffering. 
 
 Paul and Giacomo passed before her eyes; they 
 had loved her, they had offered her happiness. Even 
 now she could still believe that Paul Pallant was 
 obstinately waiting for her return. . . . 
 
 Figures from the past seemed to emerge from 
 their shadows in a kind of dim procession. She 
 saw her aunts and Aylmer how happy she had 
 been to feel that she need never return to the appall- 
 ing and narrow dullness of Brock Street! Lady 
 Pallant and her son and daughter, Deborah Ven- 
 ning with her cold green eyes, then lastly, Giacomo 
 and his mother. In all their lives she had played 
 a part, and now she was outside in the cold, 
 estranged as it were from all their interests. She 
 was kneeling here in the worn, dark chapel trying 
 to pray, with her face hidden and the tears drop- 
 ping through her fingers. How terrible life was 
 ... so long ... so very lonely. Twice she had 
 seen happiness snatched from her; twice she had 
 been repudiated, flung back into the dust. She felt 
 soiled as if she had been really wicked. Yet other 
 women had acted as she had done and no one had 
 blamed them. . . . 
 
 She did not notice that Mrs. Porter had quietly 
 withdrawn. She was feeling rested and had gone 
 in anxious search of her daughter. When Gillian 
 went outside into the little courtyard she found 
 them all assembled there talking to a lay brother 
 by the well. Amaryllis was quaffing a glass of the 
 ice-cold water. She held out the glass to her. "Do 
 have some, Jill," she said, "it's simply topping!" 
 
 Gillian was rather glad of the refreshment; she 
 accepted a biscuit too from Mrs. Porter's bag. 
 
 "Do take Mrs. Driscoll round the place," said
 
 196 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 Amaryllis to Mr. Frazer, "she hasn't seen it yet. 
 And I've knocked my head against those low doors 
 enough for one day!" 
 
 Mrs. Driscoll? Ian Frazer glanced at Gillian's 
 ungloved hand and noticed her wedding-ring for the 
 first time. 
 
 "Please let me have that pleasure," he said; "I 
 know every inch of the place. I'm often here," 
 he added as they moved away, "you see, I'm a 
 Franciscan tertiary." 
 
 "I'm afraid I'm frightfully ignorant about these 
 things," said Gillian. "Does it mean you are a 
 Catholic?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, that comes first. And with me the 
 other seemed to follow as a natural course." 
 
 "Do you live up here?" 
 
 "Yes not far from where I met you this morn- 
 ing. I've turned an old farm-house into quite a 
 respectable villa. It does very well for me. I'm 
 a writer." 
 
 Gillian was scarcely listening. "Did you become 
 a Catholic, Mr. Frazer?" she asked. 
 
 His face showed a little surprise at the question. 
 
 "Yes I'm a convert," he answered. 
 
 "Is it very difficult?" 
 
 "I didn't find it so. I wanted to be one most 
 awfully when I was still at Eton." His voice grew 
 suddenly grave. "They've cut me off with a penny 
 in consequence. Or, rather without the penny I" 
 And now he smiled with an enchanting radiance in 
 his eyes. 
 
 "And don't you mind that frightfully?" Gillian 
 asked. She found it easy to talk to this stranger 
 with his sympathetic eyes and voice. 
 
 "Being poor? Not a little bit! I've enough to 
 eat, I've the loveliest view to look at all day long. 
 I have peace and tranquillity, and luckily lots of
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 197 
 
 work to do. And I'm in love with my own little 
 hermitage. You must come and see it if you are 
 staying on in Assisi. Persuade Miss Porter to 
 come up with you one day." He dropped his voice. 
 "I'd rather meet her there than here. I'd rather 
 meet her in a foursome at golf than anywhere! 
 But here she doesn't seem to fit in. She made fun 
 of everything. She simply screamed with laughter 
 at the beautiful old stories I You," he looked at 
 her quietly, "you fit in quite beautifully, Mrs. Dris- 
 coll." 
 
 A faint wave of colour mounted to Gillianl's 
 brow. They were standing on the bridge that hangs 
 across the gorge whose torrent was once miracu- 
 lously dried. Ilex trees cast a dark shadow across 
 the place, shielding them from the hot sunlight. 
 She looked up at him wondering. 
 
 "Do I?" she said. "I don't feel as if I fitted in 
 at all. It's so strange and new and overpowering. 
 I never felt like this before even in Rome." 
 
 When she looked up at him like that it seemed to 
 him that her eyes held a profound sadness, as if 
 they had gazed upon unendurable griefs. 
 
 "Ah," he said sympathetically, "many people feel 
 like that upon coming to Assisi for the first time. 
 It's wonderful how the Saint's aura if I may use 
 such an expression hangs still over the place. I 
 hope you are going to stay here for a bit?" 
 
 "I haven't made any plans," said Gillian quietly. 
 "I should be glad," she added timidly, "if you would 
 come one day and see me." 
 
 "I don't often come down to Assisi," he acknowl- 
 edged frankly, "but then I don't often have such 
 an inducement." 
 
 He showed her then the tiny cells that were still 
 visible, especially that one carved out of the rock
 
 198 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 where St. Francis had slept with a log of wood for 
 his only pillow. The doorways were so low that 
 she had to bend her head to pass beneath them. But 
 each cupboard-like cell or chapel possessed some 
 memory, some relic of the Saint who had sojourned 
 in this abode that was as remote and solitary as an 
 eagle's eyrie. 
 
 When they had explored every permissible nook 
 and cranny they returned to Mrs. Porter and Ama- 
 ryllis, and rested a little till it was time to start 
 once more upon their homeward way. The Porters 
 had been partaking of some refreshment in the 
 shape of sandwiches which they had brought with 
 them, and insisted upon Gillian's doing likewise. She 
 ate one to please them, but she did not feel hungry. 
 They started off, and Mrs. Porter with considerable 
 obstinacy insisted upon walking the first part of the 
 way home. She invited Mr. Frazer to accompany 
 them back to luncheon. 
 
 Before accepting he glanced at Gillian. But in 
 her tranquil, composed face there was nothing to 
 suggest encouragement or the reverse. Amaryllis 
 was, however, frankly and eagerly persuasive. He 
 therefore smilingly accepted. 
 
 He walked on ahead with Miss Porter, their two 
 tall, well-set-up British figures looking singularly 
 striking and well-matched. 
 
 "He seems really quite taken with Ammy," mur- 
 mured Mrs. Porter. "Did you notice how he jumped 
 at the idea of coming back with us?" 
 
 "I'm not surprised. Ammy's looking charming," 
 replied Gillian conventionally. But the little speech 
 delighted Ammy's mother. 
 
 "Yes isn't she?" It's wonderful how a success- 
 ful love affair improves a girl's looks. Still, I do
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 199 
 
 hope she will tell this Mr. Frazer that she is en- 
 gaged!" 
 
 Ammy was not reticent and loved to proclaim her 
 engagement from the house-tops, so Gillian thought 
 it was more than probable that she had already 
 confided it to Mr. Frazer. But she did not say so 
 aloud.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 DURING the next few days it was borne in upon 
 Mrs. Porter that she had made an initial mis- 
 take with regard to Ian Frazer. It was not Ammy 
 who offered that magnet for his frequent descents 
 to the town; it was Mrs. Driscoll. 
 
 "That young man," she announced to her daugh- 
 ter one day about a week after the expedition to 
 the Carceri, "is falling in love with Gillian." 
 
 Amaryllis gave one of her hearty bursts of 
 laughter. 
 
 "You're wrong there, Mum I Mr. Frazer is a 
 Catholic, and he couldn't marry Jill if he wanted 
 to!" 
 
 "Well, they've gone out together. I saw them 
 start." 
 
 "Oh, there's nothing in that," replied Amaryllis, 
 who had wished to be invited to accompany them, 
 but in spite of the broadest of hints had failed to 
 attain her object. "They've gone down to the 
 Tescio. I'm sure he'll have to haul Jill up the hill. 
 They'll have such a nice serious conversation all the 
 way all about Giotto and St. Francis and the fres- 
 coes." She yawned. "There's absolutely nothing 
 to do in Assisi, is there, now we've seen all the 
 churches?" 
 
 It was her invariable speech preliminary to sug- 
 gested departure if a place bored her. She added 
 then with a laugh, "And Jill's cut me out with the 
 only young man here !" 
 
 "My dear Ammy," said her mother in a tone of 
 shocked disapproval, "you mustn't forget you are 
 engaged. I wish you took it more seriously. When 
 I was engaged to your dear father I scarcely spoke 
 to any other young man." 
 
 200
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 201 
 
 "How dull it must have been," said Ammy. 
 "Hengist would never be so selfish. He likes me 
 to have a good time. I wonder, though, what men 
 see in Jill? She's so quiet, isn't she? And she 
 seems so old not like a girl. I suppose she's fret- 
 ting about that scoundrel Aylmer. And she's not 
 really pretty now no style about her!" 
 
 "Those quiet women," said Mrs. Porter with an 
 air of superior wisdom, "are often the most danger- 
 ous. And then, Jill is very well off that always 
 counts with men! I suppose this young Frazer 
 knows that she has divorced her husband?" 
 
 "Oh yes I told him myself the first day," said 
 Ammy complacently; "he seemed for the moment 
 quite shocked. Catholics, you see, disapprove of 
 divorce." 
 
 "Still he comes to see her. He comes nearly 
 every day," objected Mrs. Porter. 
 
 "Oh yes, he comes all right!" replied Miss Porter 
 cheerfully. 
 
 "Well, Jill must manage her own affairs," said 
 Mrs. Porter in a resigned tone. "That marriage 
 of hers was a great mistake. I told Matty Stan- 
 way so at the time. I suppose Lady Pallant engi- 
 neered it. Gillian was hardly more than eighteen, 
 and she looked a perfect child. It ought never to 
 have been allowed!" 
 
 But Amaryllis fell back upon her old statement. 
 
 "I always said that Aylmer was a bad egg," she 
 remarked, "and I'm not at all sure that Jill's friend 
 Deborah Venning wasn't a worse one!" 
 
 "Deborah? What nonsense, my dear Ammy! 
 She is the most devoted daughter imaginable to that 
 wretched hyppchondriacal old man! She is a per- 
 fect slave to his whims and fancies. There has never 
 been a word against Deborah Venning!" 
 
 "That's more from good luck than from good
 
 202 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 guidance," said Amaryllis, who had once observed 
 Aylmer and Deborah lounging in a canoe on a 
 Thames backwater, but who had kept the knowl- 
 edge to herself with most unusual discretion. She 
 had never since then been in the least deceived by 
 the innocent pursuits of Deborah the gardening, 
 the photography, the tireless devotion to an aged 
 invalid father. She had wondered sometimes if Gil- 
 lian knew anything, and if so why she was so obsti- 
 nately silent. 
 
 Meanwhile Mr. Frazer and Gillian were walking 
 slowly down the steep and dusty road, beyond the 
 Porta San Francesco, which skirts the foot of the hill 
 above which the convent stands like some mighty 
 fortress. On one side of the road a high wall was 
 thickly covered with masses of ivy, brambles, wild 
 clematis, and cistus ; on the other the olive orchards 
 dipped down to the river. The sun shone on the 
 sharply silhouetted grey foliage of the olives, en- 
 hancing their strange silveriness. Gillian thought 
 that they looked like moonlight trees, just as the 
 ilexes at the Villa Meldola had seemed to belong to 
 the twilight. Across the green valley, filled with 
 vines and corn, the white roads dipped and rose like 
 twisted shining ribands, while the broad almost 
 waterless sandy bed of the Tescio cut a wider cleft 
 through the landscape. Sometimes they passed a 
 humble little grey cottage, beneath whose penthouse 
 roof was sheltered the fading yet exquisite fresco of 
 a Madonna and Child. What hand had put it 
 there, dedicating time and talent and skill to the 
 decoration of that forlorn little dwelling? Rather 
 had it not been done perhaps as a labour of love, 
 and for the beautiful and simple reason that passers- 
 by might thus be stayed for one moment's recollec- 
 tion upon their way, one moment's joyful prayer as.
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 203 
 
 if in recognition of the old saying so often inscribed 
 upon the wayside shrines of the south: 
 
 C'e un' allcgria 
 Incontrar la Madonna in sua via. . . . 
 
 Now above their heads the church with its fine 
 belfry was almost completely hidden, and the im- 
 pregnable creamy-brown walls of the convent looked 
 more than ever like a mighty fortress perched on 
 the very edge of the precipice whose sides were 
 covered with verdure, with dwarf acacias deliciously 
 emerald, with grass and bramble bushes and gnarled 
 olive trees. A little path to the right took them 
 down to the river bed, and they walked on under 
 the shade of the trees. It was very quiet and silent 
 and peaceful. Here and there little farms stood 
 out greyly, pale among the olives, or an old watch- 
 tower lifted its small but massive shape. The hills to- 
 wards Perugia were painted like fading violets in 
 the afternoon haze; the nearer ones stood up grey 
 and bare. Against the severe austerity so charac- 
 teristic of the Umbrian landscape the vivid emerald 
 tints of the early summer foilage made a contrast 
 that was violent and arresting. 
 
 "Don't you see, Mrs. Driscoll," Ian Frazer was 
 saying, "that it may have been to save you from 
 taking any decisive step that you came to Italy?" 
 
 "Just lately I have thought it might be so," Gil- 
 lian confessed. 
 
 He was the first person to whom she had confided 
 the story of the last few months. She had indeed 
 told him the whole of it, without any reserve. The 
 divorce, Paul Pallant's wish to marry her, which 
 would inevitably meet with the disapproval of his 
 mother, supported by the opinion of the Reverend 
 Mark Reynolds; her arrival in Rome, her meeting 
 with Giacomo, their brief engagement with its
 
 204 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 abrupt termination. She had not even spared her- 
 self the recital' of that interview with Marchesa 
 della Meldola, which had scorched her heart with 
 very shame. It had not been easy to confess how 
 weakly she had acted towards both these men who 
 had loved her, and how swiftly she had consented 
 to Giacomo's wish for an engagement. But it had 
 been an enormous relief to speak of these events, 
 and in doing so something of their sting seemed to 
 have been removed. 
 
 "And now I suppose I shall marry Paul," she 
 added simply. It was this admission which had 
 prompted lan's remark. 
 
 "You see I'm hoping you won't marry," he said 
 after a short pause, his blue eyes fixed upon the 
 horizon. 
 
 "Why should you hope that?" she asked. 
 
 His face was set. "Hasn't it ever occurred to 
 you that there must have been some very definite rea- 
 son to make the Meldolas behave like that?" 
 
 "Oh, they're Catholics," she said. "Of course 
 things are different for them. They are obliged to 
 obey laws that are now antiquated and cruel." 
 
 They had come to the bridge of Santa Croce that 
 traverses the Tescio near the grouped buildings of 
 a little farm. There was a shrine there with a cruci- 
 fix. Frazer stood before it, reverently uncovering 
 his head. Then he turned to her and there was a 
 strange light in his blue eyes. 
 
 "And isn't that antiquated and cruel?" he said. 
 
 She was silent. It was very still there, very silent. 
 They seemed quite alone with the grey mountains 
 watching them. . . . 
 
 "Yet in this sign we conquer," Frazer said coldly; 
 "any sacrifice we can make seems trivial and paltry 
 in comparison with that." 
 
 Gillian flushed.
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 205 
 
 "You think I should remain alone, without love 
 and without ties, all my life because my husband was 
 unfaithful to me? I am not yet twenty-three." 
 
 There was protest as well as anger in her voice. 
 
 "If you were a Catholic that is precisely what you 
 would have to do, unless your husband died," he 
 said. 
 
 "Thank heaven I'm not one then!" said Gillian 
 violently. 
 
 She turned her eyes away from the crucifix. She 
 could not at that moment bear to look at it. It 
 seemed to her to be making an appeal to her, pas- 
 sionate although inarticulate. There was something 
 in that rude presentment of the suffering Christ that 
 did definitely speak to her soul. She felt it in every 
 nerve of her body. She shrank away, piteously, 
 helplessly. 
 
 Then she looked timidly at Frazer as if to see 
 whether her violent words had shocked him. His 
 lips moved; she thought he must be praying. The 
 strange stern lines of his face were oddly empha- 
 sised. 
 
 "What a cruel, horrible religion 1" she said, stifling 
 a sob. 
 
 "If this world were all it might seem cruel. As 
 it is, our vision should be fixed upon the eternal re- 
 ward, offered after what is almost an absurdly brief 
 probation." 
 
 He looked at her then almost compassionately as 
 if she had been a little child rebelling against its 
 first experience of pain. 
 
 She said quickly: 
 
 "There's nothing in the world to prevent my 
 marrying Paul. We should be quite independent of 
 Lady Pallant. I hate being alone. I'm not one 
 of those women who can occupy themselves with all 
 sorts of little petty concerns from morning till night.
 
 206 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 I am siclc to death of my present life. I don't love 
 Paul, it is true, but I'm very fond of him and he 
 adores me. I was afraid that I might be bored 
 but now I seem to want the very peace and security 
 he can give me !" 
 
 "Please don't think I'm blind to your point of 
 view," said Frazer more gently; "don't think I am 
 unimaginative of the kind of sacrifice that would be 
 demanded of you." 
 
 They had moved away now and were walking 
 slowly up the steep hill towards Assisi. Gillian was 
 moving on a little ahead of him. Every now and 
 then he caught a glimpse of her white troubled face. 
 
 She said at last, facing him : 
 
 "I couldn't, couldn't do it! Not even if I were a 
 Catholic. I tell you I've never been able to under- 
 stand Giacomo. I can only believe that he didn't 
 really care." 
 
 "If you were a Catholic you would understand," 
 he said quietly, "and you would find it less hard. 
 Discipline always makes things easier when tempta- 
 tion comes. That is why we train the soldier in 
 time of peace. The dull monotonous daily drill and 
 daily obedience prepare us until to conform be- 
 comes a habit of the soul. And then it isn't so easy 
 to break the habit when it's been instilled into us 
 day by day over a very long period of time. It be- 
 comes easier to obey than to disobey, easier to do 
 violence to the body than to the soul." 
 
 He spoke with a kind of rapt earnestness. Gil- 
 lian felt the sincerity of his words, although she 
 rebelled against them. 
 
 "I'm sure we were intended to be happy I" she 
 exclaimed. 
 
 "Isn't that," he pursued, "the doctrine of an 
 ignorant child? The Catholic finds no happiness 
 apart from conformity to the will of God. To dis-
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 207 
 
 obey gives not happiness but torment, separating the 
 soul from God. This is a much stronger, fiercer 
 pain than can be produced by any crucifixion of the 
 physical senses." 
 
 Gillian felt bewildered and confused. The man 
 beside her was young; at most he could be five or 
 six and twenty, yet he spoke of sacrifice as if it were 
 a right rather than a burden. Not a hard thing to 
 be eluded, but the right claimed by the soul in its 
 earnest striving after God; the right to suffer as 
 Christ had suffered; the right of the Christian^ to 
 take up his cross daily in imitation of the Divine 
 example, and bleed and bend beneath that sorrow- 
 ful load. . . . 
 
 "Oh," he said suddenly, "I wish I could make you 
 see clearly!" 
 
 She was silent, and hurried on a little with her 
 face averted. Against her will his words were in- 
 fluencing her, in spite of her fierce desire to oppose 
 and combat them. 
 
 "You find it all so easy, then?" she said at last, 
 pausing, for the path was steep and she was begin- 
 ning to feel a little tired. They stood facing each 
 other. There was no one else in sight. 
 
 "I have not always found it easy. But the daily 
 drill is beginning to do its work. I'm afraid I'm not 
 a very malleable person, and the Hand of the Potter 
 hurts, you know, when one has to be made into 
 another vessel. It hasn't been easy to hammer me 
 into some sort of shape." 
 
 "But you're content?" She flung the word at 
 him almost with contempt. 
 
 "Very much so," he answered, smiling. 
 
 "Why, you're little better than a slave!" 
 
 "Wasn't St. Paul proud to call himself the pris- 
 oner of Christ? he who was born free, the citizen 
 of no mean city?"
 
 208 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 She struck in: "What has that got to do with 
 us here now in the twentieth century?" 
 
 "Exactly as much as it had to do with St. Paul in 
 the first!" he answered, and his face broke into a 
 smile. 
 
 "I can't believe it. Things change. They have 
 to be adjusted to the times in which we live to the 
 needs of a newer generation." 
 
 "The Church doesn't change," he reminded her, 
 "she keeps the Word inviolate." 
 
 He looked up towards the brown tower of St. 
 Francesco. On that bright June afternoon its belfry 
 arches framed spaces of almost unbelievable 
 blue 
 
 "Oh," he said, "I don't want to offend you, Mrs. 
 Driscoll, but perhaps I hope and pray at least that 
 it may be so you have come to Assisi to learn . . . 
 here where St. Francis made his great renunciation 
 and became the Little Poor Man of God!" 
 
 His voice with its cold and passionless eloquence 
 stirred Gillian in spite of herself. She said nothing, 
 but side by side they walked through the Porta S. 
 Giacomo back into the town. Women sat upon the 
 doorsteps knitting; children and dogs and chickens 
 played about in the dusty roadway. Men lounged 
 idly, smoking the cheap black Italian cigars, and 
 cast curious glances at the English couple as they 
 passed. At the door of the hotel they parted. Gil- 
 lian felt as if there were something at once wistful 
 and compassionate in the look he bestowed upon 
 her as he said good-bye.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 WHEN Gillian went up to her room she found 
 two English letters waiting for her. One was 
 from Miss Letitia, and the other from Paul Pal- 
 lant. The sight of his handwriting at that moment 
 was a little unwelcome to her, jarring upon her 
 nerves after the conversation she had had with Ian 
 Frazer that afternoon. She laid it aside rather 
 impatiently and opened her aunt's letter. Miss 
 Letitia used thin foreign paper of the old-fashioned 
 slippery kind and her writing was rather shaky and 
 indistinct. But Gillian very soon grasped the gist 
 of the letter. Miss Matty was decidedly worse, and 
 although she still insisted upon getting up at the 
 usual hour and coming downstairs every day she was 
 looking dreadfully thin and ill. Aunt Letty ac- 
 knowledged that she felt anxious and uneasy about 
 her. She wished that Gillian were not so far away. 
 But perhaps she would be returning to England 
 soon. Items of Bath news, of no particular interest 
 to Gillian, followed, and the letter concluded a little 
 abrupty because "post is going and Matty is calling 
 me." 
 
 Gillian meditated a little upon this letter; for the 
 moment she forgot that other envelope directed in 
 Paul's handwriting that was lying close to her elbow. 
 Aunt Letty was evidently seriously anxious about 
 her sister. It was now some time since Miss Matty's 
 health had begun to fail. Last time Gillian had seen 
 her quite early in the year she had not looked at all 
 well, and she had been unable to accompany her 
 sister to town to say good-bye to Gillian just before 
 she left for Italy. She was not a woman to give in 
 very easily to failing health. Resting with her was 
 
 209
 
 210 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 "sloth." She would be certain to put up a grim 
 fight. 
 
 Then Gillian remembered Paul's letter and slowly 
 opened it. ... 
 
 He had not written to her for some weeks and 
 he seemed distressed because she had not answered 
 his former letters. From the time of her first meet- 
 ing with Giacomo, Gillian had not written to Paul. 
 When she became engaged she made up her mind to 
 break gradually with Paul, to write less and less 
 often, to teach him by degrees that he must cease 
 to hope. Then as the date of her marriage grew 
 nearer she would tell him of her intention to marry 
 Giacomo and thus sever the ties that held her to 
 England with one swift, irrevocable cutting of the 
 knot. 
 
 Since the rupture with Giacomo she had not com- 
 municated with anybody except her old aunts. Her 
 heart was too sore for letter-writing. She did not 
 wish to tell any one at home of the episode. Now, 
 in the utter loneliness and desolation that had super- 
 vened upon Giacomo's abrupt breaking of the en- 
 gagement, her thoughts had turned insensibly to- 
 wards Paul, and there was no doubt she had begun 
 to consider seriously the question of marrying her 
 cousin. In a world that seemed made up of faith- 
 lessness, perfidy, and change, she saw in Paul some- 
 thing that was unchanging as a rock. Paul would 
 always love her. He would give her the secondary 
 happiness which was all she could ever hope to 
 claim. Paul would give her the things she wished 
 for love, a place in the world, a home, perhaps 
 children. She did not love him, but she was very 
 fond of him, and she felt that in time her very grati- 
 tude would teach her to love him. Only to-day Ian 
 Frazer's words had sown in her heart all manner 
 of uncomfortable doubts and fears. Perhaps Paul's
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 211 
 
 letter might help to dispel them, to mitigate their 
 influence. 
 
 It was a long letter, full of his hopes and plans 
 for the future. He was uneasy at her silence; he 
 seemed to dread some change in her. She had not, 
 it is true, given him much hope, but then she had 
 not, on the other hand, left him quite hopeless. 
 Now he implored her to write. At the end came 
 these words: "Good-bye, most darling Gillian. Let 
 me have your answer soon. You make me fear 
 . . . when I think of all the power you have to 
 wound me in those two little beautiful hands of 
 yours." 
 
 This man wished to marry her. He told her he 
 could not wait beyond October. And what need 
 was there to wait? She turned back to the first 
 sheet and read over again: "I can't bear your 
 being so far away. Why don't you come back to 
 England ? I can't picture you in those places I have 
 
 A loud knock at the door signified the arrival of 
 Miss Porter. Gillian rose and opened it. Her let- 
 ters were still lying loose on the table. She was not 
 extremely pleased at being thus interrupted. 
 
 "Had a nice walk?" inquired Miss Porter teas- 
 ingly. 
 
 "Yes such a pretty walk," answered Gillian, 
 scarcely knowing what she said. Already the trivial 
 episode seemed to her to have been swallowed up 
 in the immense remote past. Her thoughts were full 
 of Paul Pallant, who was offering her now more 
 than he knew. Offering her indeed so much that 
 had he come into the room she thought she could 
 have fallen on her knees and thanked him. . . . 
 
 Amaryllis walked up to the window, and sitting 
 down in an armchair gazed out upon the view that
 
 212 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 was now bathed in the golden evening light. Then 
 she turned to Gillian. 
 
 "You look tired, Jill," she said; "was the con- 
 versation very strenuous?" 
 
 Gillian laughed evasively. "It defends upon 
 what you call strenuous." 
 
 "He is charming, but just a trifle heavy in hand," 
 pursued Ammy. I'm sure though he'd be a nailer 
 on the links. I dare say he could give me two up 
 and beat me ! And of course he is very good-look- 
 ing. But you mustn't let yourself fall in love with 
 him. He's a Catholic and so he couldn't possibly 
 marry you. Perhaps you don't know that, but they 
 are not allowed to marry any one who's got a di- 
 vorced husband or wife." 
 
 "Of course I know that," replied Gillian. The 
 knowledge had been veritably branded into her flesh, 
 and she was almost amazed with herself for thus 
 answering Amaryllis in a matter-of-fact tone. "You 
 need not be at all afraid I am not in the least 
 likely to fall in love with Mr. Frazer or any one 
 else." 
 
 "You've had letters, I see," said Miss Porter, sur- 
 veying the little heap of torn envelopes. 
 
 "Yes, I have heard from home. Aunt Letty says 
 that Aunt Matty is getting worse. She seems anx- 
 ious about her. And I have heard from my cousin 
 Paul Pallant. You remember the Pallants, don't 
 you, Ammy?" 
 
 "Only the old lady. But I've heard that Paul 
 would be very good-looking if he weren't so smalll" 
 "He isn't so very small," said Gillian rather re- 
 sentfully; "he is only about an inch shorter than I 
 am." 
 
 "Yes, but that's tiny for a man," said Amaryllis, 
 who boasted of six feet in her stockings. "I some- 
 times wonder who you'll marry in the end, Jill."
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 213 
 
 "Perhaps no one," said Mrs. Driscoll with a 
 strange little smile. 
 
 Was it the result of some curious process of 
 thought-transference that Amaryllis should come 
 now and speak to her of marriage? 
 
 "Oh, I know you've had a perfectly rotten experi- 
 ence," said Miss Porter pityingly, "but still all men 
 aren't like Aylmer." 
 
 "No ... I suppose not." 
 
 "I dare say we shall have all sorts of ups and 
 downs Hengist and I," continued Miss Porter, 
 "but they'll be just the ordinary commonplace ups 
 and downs that most people have. I'm not a bit 
 afraid, because I feel I can trust him. And if you 
 could meet some one who gave you that feeling it 
 would be the happiest thing for you to marry him. 
 You're too young to be alone on your own like this." 
 
 "I shall get older every year," said Gillian. 
 
 She took up Paul's letter, folded it meticulously 
 and put it back in the envelope. Was not Paul just 
 such a man as Amaryllis had described some one 
 who could be wholly trusted, and with whom the 
 ordinary ups and downs could be bravely and cheer- 
 fully faced? The comfort of his letter had brought 
 a little peace back to her heart. 
 
 Amaryllis rose; she was finding her friend a lit- 
 tle dull and uncommunicative. 
 
 "If it hadn't been for Aylmer I really believe this 
 young Frazer would have fallen in love with you," 
 she said. 
 
 "What nonsense!" said Gillian flushing; "why, I 
 don't think he even likes me !" 
 
 "Likes you? Of course he does! Do you sup- 
 pose he comes down from his eyrie six days out of 
 seven just for the good of his health?" rejoined 
 Miss Porter briskly. 
 
 She went out of the room laughing.
 
 214 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 "She is wrong," said Gillian to herself; "he only 
 comes because he thinks it is his mission to save my 
 soul." 
 
 She was aware in her intercourse with this man, 
 who did not hesitate to speak the most bitter and 
 unpalatable truths to her, that his liking for her was 
 based on a very different footing from any other 
 that had hitherto been offered to her. She had 
 had experience of the sudden passion she could 
 arouse, evinced in turn by Aylmer, Paul, and Gia- 
 como. But this man could look her coldly in the 
 eyes and tell her where he considered her wrong. 
 The process was not pleasant; it was like going to 
 school again to a severe schoolmaster who set at 
 defiance all former systems of education. Gillian 
 fought hard against the growing influence of Ian 
 Frazer. She told herself that he was a fanatic. He 
 had fanatical eyes; she could picture him going to 
 the stake with head erect and mouth grimly set, a 
 triumphant and conquering figure. He did not care 
 for her at all, but he cared very much for "the 
 pilgrim soul in her." And through it all she had the 
 uncomfortable consciousness that he might be right. 
 He was giving her scruples, her conscience was be- 
 ginning to prick her warningly, and she could only 
 combat its admonitions with a weak and nervous 
 defiance. It was not a pleasant thing to believe that 
 in the event of her remarrying she would be com- 
 mitting what a very large number of people held to 
 be a grave sin. 
 
 She sat down by the window, and leaning her head 
 on her hands looked out at the wide landscape of 
 mountain and plain. She thought she could almost 
 have drawn the view from memory. Green and 
 grey the Umbrian plain lay beautifully outspread, 
 touching the feet of those grave mountains. Perugia 
 was silhouetted against the sky; the city was in
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 215 
 
 shadow now, she could only see the massed shapes 
 of its towers. In the garden below crickets were 
 chirping shrilly and the frogs were chanting their 
 ceaseless couac couac. The little white hamlets and 
 villages down in the plain looked like pale spots 
 breaking the verdure. 
 
 Presently she rose and went downstairs and crept 
 out of the hotel. She hurried across the steep white 
 piazza and gained the Lower Church. Its soft 
 darkness seemed to touch her with a healing hand; 
 she groped her way in, and mounting the steps into 
 the chapel of the Blessed Sacrament she knelt down 
 and prayed. 
 
 Her prayer was at first formless, it was an almost 
 inarticulate appeal for guidance. The mystery and 
 sanctity of the hour quieted the fierce disturbance of 
 her thoughts and gave her an unaccustomed sense of 
 peace. She could not come here any more and 
 this fact was borne in upon her with all the illumina- 
 tion of a sudden revelation and say to herself, "I 
 don't believe I don't believe," and then go away 
 with conscience and its cruel scruples silenced. She 
 believed, and at that moment she ceased temporarily 
 to struggle and fight. If she became a Catholic she 
 must renounce all thought of marriage, all her 
 dreams of a home, of little children playing around 
 her. The thought coldly envisaged would at any 
 other time have proved unbearable ; she would have 
 dismissed it summarily. But now and here it was no 
 longer unbearable. The soul asserted its claims; 
 its eternal claims, its superior rights. Ian Frazer 
 had shown her clearly what those rights were. He 
 had taught her the truth almost brutally and she 
 had been compelled to look at it. And with that 
 steady envisagement it had lost already something 
 of its terror. She did not actually fear it nor shrink 
 from it any more. It could not make her heart sink,
 
 2i6 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 her limbs tremble. She could face it undismayed. 
 Even the figure of Ian Frazer had drifted beyond 
 her thoughts. He was only a machine, an instru- 
 ment, a messenger. . . . 
 
 Not always is the soul aware of any definite post 
 passed in its individual spiritual development. 
 Normally that development is a slow, tentative 
 process, subject to innumerable conditions that op- 
 pose and thwart it in its purpose. But Gillian knew 
 quite definitely that on that evening she had passed 
 through a spiritual crisis that had the power to 
 change drastically her future life. And for the 
 moment the soul had triumphed, was in the as- 
 cendant, asserting arrogantly its lordship, its im- 
 mortal rights. This gave her no sense of elation, of 
 achievement; those emotions belong to the attain- 
 ment of the temporal prize. Rather it brought to 
 her a sense of exhaustion as if she had emerged 
 from some fierce physical crisis and struggle; she 
 even felt a diminution of physical strength. She 
 had, too, a feeling of absolute aridity, as if she had 
 no power to make further effort or progress. There 
 was as yet no joy in this new faith that had fought 
 its way into her heart, with a fierce persistence that 
 would not be gainsaid. It had seemed to her almost 
 like an actual physical onrush of wild waters bent 
 on overwhelming her; the waves had lifted her off 
 her feet, their strength had given her a moment of 
 terror almost great enough to kill her. No resist- 
 ance was of any avail, but then all desire to resist 
 had most strangely left her. She felt, too, as if she 
 had been pursued and captured by some violent and 
 powerful hunter that had marked her down for a 
 special quarry. . . . And after the^hase, after the 
 capture, she had seemed to lie for just one inde- 
 scribable moment in welcoming arms that sur- 
 rounded and comforted her. . The wild waves
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 217 
 
 had become a serene sea whereon she could lie 
 dreamily floating; the fierce captor had suddenly as- 
 sumed the guise of a friend bent upon saving her 
 from some unimagined peril. . . . 
 
 When she left the church dusk was falling, draw- 
 ing soft misty purple veils over the plain. Only the 
 mountains were clearly outlined against a serene 
 sky. She could see Perugia's ring of gleaming lights 
 from her little terrace. Westward the sky was 
 painted brilliantly with scarlet and crimson as 
 if the colours of a lavish palette had been 
 spilled thereon. . . . 
 
 Limp and exhausted Gillian crept into bed.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 IN the early hours of the morning she scribbled a 
 little note to Ian Frazer: "Don't come. I can- 
 not see you to-day. G. D." She gave it to the 
 maid who brought her early coffee, and asked that 
 it should be sent up at once to that remote abode in 
 the hills. 
 
 At nine o'clock Amaryllis marched into the room. 
 
 "Lazy beggar," she admonished, stooping down 
 and kissing Gillian. "What on earth are you lying 
 in bed for this lovely morning? My word though 
 you are looking washed out! What's up?" 
 
 She contemplated Gillian with interested eyes. 
 
 "I've had a very bad night and I feel a most 
 awful wreck," said Mrs. Driscoll, flushing a little 
 under the friendly scrutiny. 
 
 "I've had a telegram from Hengist," said 
 Amaryllis; "he's got leave sooner than he thought, 
 and he wants us to meet him at Marseilles. I've 
 just got mother to agree, but it wasn't an easy job. 
 She can't bear having new plans sprung on her the 
 first thing in the morning. We shall have to start 
 to-day, as of course I want to get there before he 
 does." 
 
 "Of course you do," agreed Gillian. "And will 
 that mean you'll be married soon, Ammy dear?" 
 
 "I expect that's what he'll want," returned Miss 
 Porter complacently, but .with a sudden access of 
 colour. 
 
 Gillian felt a pang of envy at her friend's hap- 
 piness. "I'm so glad, Ammy," she said quietly; 
 "I'm sure you'll be very happy. You deserve to 
 be." 
 
 "Oh well, I shan't grumble whatever happens," 
 218
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 219 
 
 said Miss Porter. "I've told Hengist I'm ready to 
 
 in the 
 look- 
 howl 
 
 when the road's rough. You have to be jolly fond 
 of a man to feel like that, I can tell you, Jill!" 
 
 "I'm sorry you are going away," said Gillian. She 
 began to feel that she would be more than ever 
 lonely when the Porters had taken their departure. 
 
 "Shall you stay on here?" inquired Miss Porter. 
 
 "For a little. I haven't made any plans. And 
 I'm getting to like the place." 
 
 "Won't you find it very dull?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't think so." 
 
 "Don't let Mr. Frazer bore you too much," said 
 Amaryllis tea singly. 
 
 "Oh, I shan't let him bore me." 
 
 Amaryllis looked at her with increased attention. 
 A sudden consciousness that something was terribly 
 awry in the life of this woman who was so little 
 older than herself stirred her to a sudden pity. 
 
 "I say," she blurted out, "are you very miserable, 
 Jill?" 
 
 "I am not very happy," said Gillian with an 
 effort. 
 
 "You ought to marry. You're at such a loose 
 end rotting about these foreign places alone." 
 
 "I don't think I want to marry," said Gillian 
 vaguely. 
 
 A month ago she had been passionately rebellious 
 because she could not marry Giacomo della Meldola, 
 and now even that episode was fading a little from 
 her mind. She was in a passive state, receiving new 
 impressions and suggestions that disturbed and tor- 
 mented her, even while they were subtly changing 
 and moulding her. So must the passive clay be 
 twisted and tormented, beaten into its destined
 
 220 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 shape. Had not Ian Frazer said that the Hand of 
 the Potter hurt as it wrought its work upon the 
 wheel ? She could feel the pain of that new shaping 
 in every nerve of her body. Just for the moment 
 she was not rebellious, she had surrendered herself 
 limply but entirely to the process of that moulding. 
 She was suffering, but not as a child suffers, without 
 comprehension; she resembled more a person who 
 has deliberately submitted his body to the sharp 
 torture of the surgeon's knife for a definite purpose, 
 careless of the suffering if by this means the end can 
 be achieved. How long this condition of mind 
 would last with her she could not tell. It might be 
 that old influences would arise and re-assert their 
 dominion over her. It might be that this was only 
 a passing phase of emotion to which she had tem- 
 porarily yielded herself. But whatever its character 
 the new influence had the upper hand of her at the 
 moment. She was too weak to struggle. Last night 
 she had felt sheltered and comforted; to-day she 
 felt only a despairing aridity of soul. 
 
 She became aware that Amaryllis was speaking. 
 
 "Depend upon it," she was saying with conviction, 
 "that when you feel about a man as I do about 
 Hengist you've spotted a winner, you have got hold 
 of a dead cinch as they say in America. In fact, 
 it's It. I want you to get hold of a dead cinch, too, 
 Jill!" 
 
 Gillian said slowly: "I believe it's the fate of 
 some women never to get hold of a a dead cinch, 
 Ammy." The unaccustomed expression brought a 
 smile to her lips, but there were tears in her eyes. 
 
 When Amaryllis had left her she still made no 
 attempt to get up and dress. The window was open 
 and the soft morning air, refreshed by heavy night 
 dews and mists, touched her forehead languorously. 
 She tried to read, but found that it was impossible
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 221 
 
 to fix her attention. The actual crisis had passed, 
 and now a little reaction had set in. Last night 
 even early this morning everything had seemed 
 comparatively easy; she had been as it were uplifted 
 upon wings, an exaltation that was rather imposed 
 than desired. But now fresh doubts began to creep 
 into her heart. She had yielded, there could be no 
 doubt, to a passing fugitive emotion, very strong, 
 very compelling, but surely of no permanent influ- 
 ence. It had threatened to take possession of her, 
 change her life, condemn her to what amounted to 
 martyrdom in so far as earthly happiness was con- 
 cerned. 
 
 As she recognised this a little hot sense of rebel- 
 lion came into her heart. She would not yield. She 
 had allowed herself to be unduly influenced by Ian 
 Frazer. He had made her superstitiously afraid of 
 taking her life into her own hands and shaping it as 
 she would, extracting from it something of temporal 
 peace and pleasure. Why should she be less fortu- 
 nate than Amaryllis? a God can't want me to be 
 unhappy," she said to herself. When Ian Frazer's 
 words came back to her memory she put them from 
 her resolutely. Catholics, he had said, could find 
 no happiness apart from comformity with the Will 
 of God. Why should she listen to this man with his 
 dismal teaching? She rose at last, dressed herself 
 with an almost feverish haste, and went down to 
 luncheon, partaking of this meal in the company of 
 the Porters. She afterwards accompanied them to 
 the station and witnessed their departure. She was 
 genuinely sorry that they had gone; she felt that 
 Assisi would seem a little lonely without them. And 
 she knew that she would be rather at the mercy of 
 Ian Frazer she almost dreaded meeting him again. 
 
 Fate, however, intervened, for on the following 
 morning when she was sitting writing letters in her 
 room a knock at the door disturbed her.
 
 222 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 In answer to her "Avanti!" a servant entered 
 bringing her a telegram. It was from her aunt, 
 and ran as follows : 
 
 "Matty seriously ill. Come at once. LETITIA 
 STANWAY." 
 
 Gillian scribbled her reply, "Coming immediately. 
 GILLIAN," and gave it to the maid. Then almost 
 mechanically she rose and began to do her packing. 
 One thought filled her mind. The message had 
 seemed to her almost like a sign. She would shake 
 herself free of Assisi, of all that she had learned 
 there. She would not see Ian Frazer again; he 
 would know nothing of her departure until after she 
 had gone. She was going back to England ; she was 
 going to see Paul. Her journey seemed infinitely 
 less concerned with Aunt Matty's illness than with 
 Paul. 
 
 July wrapped Italy in a lovely golden embrace as 
 the train passed northward; the liquid gold of that 
 summer light lay beautifully upon the vineyards and 
 olive orchards, on the stacks of corn that had just 
 been reaped. In Switzerland, however, it was rain- 
 ing and the rain followed her through France; she 
 felt chilled and cold and rather desolate. She, 
 reached town on the afternoon of the second day, 
 and caught an express from Paddington to Bath. 
 She wondered what news awaited her. As the train 
 sped through the quiet and familiar beauty of the 
 Thames valley she remembered suddenly, almost in- 
 consequently, that she had never answered Paul's 
 letter. She had put it aside intending to write to 
 him, and then in her hurried departure had found 
 no time to do so. 
 
 The news revealed itself in her first glimpse of 
 the little grey house where her girlhood had been 
 spent. It was night, and no lights were visible in any 
 of the windows. The blinds were all drawn down,
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 223 
 
 giving that blank look to the windows as of blind 
 unseeing eyes. The cab stopped and the door was 
 flung open without delay. In the hall Aunt Letty 
 flung her arms around her sobbing, "You're too late, 
 dear. She passed away last night." Gillian, 
 startled and bewildered, bent down and kissed the 
 wet withered cheek in mute sympathy. Then she 
 followed her aunt upstairs. 
 
 It was when they had left Miss Martha's room 
 that Aunt Letty, still clasping Gillian's arm, said 
 wistfully: "I'm thankful to have you back, my 
 dear. And I thought perhaps now that we were 
 both alone, you would stay and make your home 
 with me. Oh, I know it's too early to make plans 
 but Matty was all my world, and I shall feel so lost 
 without her. You know how clever she was, and 
 how she used to keep me from saying and doing 
 foolish things." It was thus she charitably envisaged 
 that past tyranny against which she had never re- 
 belled. She looked pitifully at Gillian. "I'm sure 
 I don't know what I shall do without her." 
 
 Her weak old face was distorted with grief. Gil- 
 lian kissed her. That so recent contact with death 
 had chilled her, and she was shivering a little and 
 could hardly control her voice as she said: "As you 
 say, it's too soon to make plans. But at any rate 
 I'm not going to run away just yet." She was angry 
 with herself because she felt no grief, only a strange 
 excitement at finding herself back in England with 
 a prospect that could not be delayed of seeing Paul 
 again. Only she wanted most dreadfully to be left 
 alone, and Miss Letty showed no signs of leaving 
 her. She found herself compelled to listen, even at 
 this late hour when she was so tired, to all the de- 
 tails of that last illness. It was a story of grim 
 endurance, of unimaginable physical suffering, and 
 it invested that strange, grim little figure lying now
 
 224 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 so quietly asleep in its coffin with something of 
 heroism. Gillian could well believe in that uncon- 
 quered, valiant fortitude. It corresponded with all 
 her previous knowledge of her aunt. If she had 
 been a hard taskmaster, rigid, unpitying, and exact- 
 ing, she had ever imposed upon herself the same 
 stern discipline. And as she had lived so she had 
 died. Actuated by other and widely different stand- 
 ards she had known the value of what Ian Frazer 
 had called the daily drill and daily discipline in time 
 of peace. 
 
 The funeral took place at the end of the week. 
 Gillian, supporting her weeping aunt, had just turned 
 away from the grave-side when she became conscious 
 of a man standing near her with bowed uncovered 
 head. Her eyes met his, and she was thankful that 
 the thick mourning veil she was wearing concealed 
 the deep flush that mounted to her cheek at the 
 sight of him. 
 
 It was Paul Pallant. He accompanied her and 
 Miss Stanway to the carriage and opened the door 
 for them. Then he said quietly to Gillian : 
 
 "When may I come and see you?" 
 
 From his lips the words sounded more like a de- 
 mand than a request. She answered coldly: "This 
 evening if you like. Come about six." 
 
 He lifted his hat as they drove away. 
 
 "My dear, who is that young man? He seemed 
 very kind and attentive," said poor Miss Letty, 
 burying her face in a black-edged handkerchief and 
 blowing her nose violently. 
 
 "That is Cousin Janet's son Paul Pallant," said 
 Gillian. 
 
 She was angry to find that the sudden meeting 
 had made her tremble in every limb. She had be- 
 lieved herself to be perfectly indifferent to Paul. . . .
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 PAUL had wandered round the Royal Crescent and 
 back again into the Circus, waiting with ill-con- 
 cealed impatience for the hour to strike. His feet 
 trod restlessly that circular pavement. He found 
 himself looking up at the great solid houses, deep 
 grey in colour, for the Bath stone becomes almost 
 black in the passing of years. The charming frieze 
 in stone moulding that decorated every house with 
 a conventional design pleased him. He remembered 
 having heard somewhere that no two patterns were 
 alike in design. In the centre of the Circus there 
 was a round turfed space planted with immense 
 plane trees. Their foliage was parched and dusty, 
 and the grass beneath them was burnt into a dry 
 brown. The quiet of the place, broken only by a 
 rare vehicle passing over the cobbled stones of the 
 roadway, soothed his nerves. He was longing yet 
 dreading to see Gillian again. 
 
 July had come, and now in a few weeks she would 
 be free. He did not dare hope that she would con- 
 sent to be married before at least another three 
 months had passed; he felt that he ought scarcely 
 to desire that it should take place sooner, but he did 
 wish to obtain some definite promise from her, to 
 establish between them an engagement. Then he 
 would return home and inform his mother of the 
 progress of events. She was still perfectly in ignor- 
 ance of his devotion to Gillian, indeed he had felt 
 that it would be useless to inform her of it until 
 something were definitely settled. The dregs of the 
 cup promised to be bitter, for he was perfectly 
 aware of her views on the subject. He knew, too, 
 that after the divorce his mother had even been 
 
 225
 
 226 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 averse to the continuance of Joan's intimacy with 
 Gillian. 
 
 But Paul had inherited his mother's obstinate 
 nature. Joan was amiably weak, as their father had 
 been except upon the subject of his food yield- 
 ing almost at the first hint of opposition; even if 
 she ardently desired anything, she could easily be 
 alarmed into a show of submission and renunciation. 
 Paul, on the other hand, had, even as a child, taken 
 what he wanted defiantly and fearlessly. 
 
 Two minutes after the hour he turned into Brock 
 Street, with head thrown back and lips grimly set. 
 At the far end of the street he came to the house 
 which from time immemorial had been occupied by 
 the Stanways. He had already passed it in his rest- 
 less walk, had noted its exact position, had even re- 
 garded its dull exterior with a sense of wonder that 
 anything so perfectly beautiful as Gillian should 
 have emerged from such an unpromising venue. The 
 little grey street seemed to him almost sad in its 
 sombre, stolid respectability. His heart beat more 
 quickly as he paused for a moment on the doorstep, 
 he seemed now to have approached so closely to the 
 desire of his heart that he scarcely dared go for- 
 ward. Would he come forth this evening as a king 
 among men, or only the most wretched bankrupt of 
 fortune in the world? Suspense showed itself in 
 the unimaginable pallor of his face, in the smoulder- 
 ing fires that blazed in his eyes. When his momen- 
 tary hesitation had gone, he rang the bell and asked 
 if Mrs. Driscoll were at home in a calm firm voice 
 that held no trace of emotion. 
 
 He was shown into the drawing-room, a double 
 room the back of which looked out on to the Park 
 that offered a pleasing and shady prospect of turf 
 and shrubs and trees. The window was open, and 
 Gillian was sitting near it, She was alone and
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 227 
 
 appeared to be unoccupied, as if she were waiting 
 for him. She rose to meet him, pale, languid, as if 
 the events of the last few days had tried her a good 
 deal. It seemed to him that her manner as she 
 greeted him was a little distant, there was a new 
 aloofness in it. It was as if she were tacitly inti- 
 mating to him that if he so wished there need be no 
 reference made to their last meeting. As she had 
 left him free then, so he was to feel himself free 
 now. She might have known, he thought with bit- 
 terness, that his very seeking of her precluded the 
 possibility of his desiring that freedom. 
 
 He looked at her closely. The beloved face is 
 seldom as we picture it in absence; it would almost 
 seem as if love cruelly deprived the inward eye of 
 its power of visualising that precious and elusive 
 beauty. Yes, she was changed. He thought she 
 looked sadder than ever that was perhaps on ac- 
 count of the deep mourning she wore. And she was 
 much more assured; she had the manner of a woman 
 accustomed to complete independence of thought 
 and action. She was very different from the shy 
 silent girl who had come to his mother's house more 
 than four years ago, and who had so quickly fallen 
 under the spell of Aylmer Driscoll; she was different 
 even from the broken yet defiant woman who had 
 gone away last January to obtain rest and peace in 
 a new environment. He, apprehensive of such 
 change, began to wonder what influences had pri- 
 marily caused it. After all she had scarcely lifted 
 the veil at all from the happenings of those six past 
 months. 
 
 "It was very kind and thoughtful of you, Paul, to 
 come to poor Aunt Matty's funeral," she said; "you 
 know I didn't get here in time to see her alive." 
 
 "We hadn't heard that she was worse," said 
 Paul; "it was a great surprise to us to see her
 
 228 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 death in the paper. I'm sure you must feel it aw- 
 fully." 
 
 Gillian made no reply. She looked away from 
 him, and her eyes seemed to be attentively studying 
 the trees and the green sweep of sward beyond, the 
 faint lilac outline of the distant hills. 
 
 "I knew, of course, you would come back directly 
 you heard of it," said Paul. "I felt sure that^I 
 should find you here." His voice sounded rough in 
 his effort not to betray his emotion. "You've been 
 away an awful age, Till. What on earth kept you 
 so long out there? Did Italy offer so many attrac- 
 tions?" 
 
 "I disliked the thought of coming back even now," 
 she said; "but that had little or nothing to do with 
 the attractions of Italy." 
 
 It seemed to him that she was purposely avoiding 
 meeting his gaze. Miles and miles of space lay 
 between them and severed them. Once he had kissed 
 her her lips, her hands, that little white forehead 
 of hers just where the dark hair touched it so 
 softly. . . . 
 
 Yet the words had to be spoken. 
 
 "Dear Jill," he said at last, "I've come to ask you 
 to stay in England I wanted to welcome you my- 
 self. I'm sure you must guess why I am here. I 
 want to be engaged to you to win your promise to 
 marry me." 
 
 He stood up now ; his small rather delicate figure 
 tense and alert. Gillian turned her head a little and 
 watched him without speaking. He represented to 
 her many things of which she had need. More 
 than ever she saw in him the man who would always 
 love her, obstinately, faithfully, tenderly. A man 
 too whom she could love, for had not his very com- 
 ing caused her pulse to beat more quickly? She saw 
 in him security, safety, a rock-like reliability. If
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 229 
 
 she married him she would no longer remain sur la 
 branche, without any abiding place. 
 
 "I love you, dear Jill," he said slowly, and his 
 voice trembled a little. 
 
 "And your mother?" she said. "What would 
 your mother say, Paul?" 
 
 "I'm afraid mothers have to go to the wall a little 
 when a man makes up his mind to marry," he said. 
 "Of course she won't like it she has prejudices, as 
 you yourself once told me. But that doesn't matter. 
 Naturally I'd like everything to be smooth, but we 
 can live without her approval. I shall tell her I 
 want to tell her I'd like her to know." 
 
 Gillian relapsed into that stra'nge silence of hers 
 as if she were meditating deeply upon the situation. 
 But in reality she was thinking of Giacomo della 
 Meldola, and contrasting the two men in her mind. 
 The brief madness of her engagement which had cost 
 her so many tears and such genuine sorrow and dis- 
 appointment, rose before her accusingly. She had 
 been hurt superficially very much indeed; her heart 
 as well as her pride had been wounded. But the 
 wound had never cut deeply. She had known Gia- 
 como so little and for so short a time. Their love 
 had seemed almost like a beautiful dream that van- 
 ished when the cold light of dawn fell upon it. The 
 headlong speed with which the affair had been con- 
 ducted, the breathless excitement of it, had saved 
 her. It was over almost before she had had time to 
 realise it fully. It had no links with the past ; in its 
 brief transit it had struck no roots. She could be 
 glad now to think that it had come to nothing. Very 
 glad indeed with Paul Pallant there, speaking words 
 of love that throbbed through all her being. It was 
 always best for a woman to marry a man of her own 
 country; it made of marriage a less complicated 
 affair.
 
 230 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 But Paul mistook her silence. 
 
 "Of course if you feel you can never love me, Jill, 
 I'll go away. I'll never bother you again," he said 
 humbly. 
 
 The remembrance of Giacomo had left her. Ian 
 Frazer's words seemed to echo dully across the 
 silence that followed. How absurd to wreck one's 
 life, to forfeit a chance of real solid happiness, be- 
 cause of a few words uttered by a stranger! It was 
 thus she reviewed Ian Frazer's speech. She was 
 not going to permit herself to be influenced by it; 
 she was not going to think now of that hour, which 
 had once seemed to her so holy and so sacred, spent 
 in the Lower Church at Assisi. . . . She was not 
 going to send Paul away because of these things 1 
 Almost there was a touch of defiance informing her 
 attitude towards him. 
 
 "It is such a tremendous question," she said at 
 last. "And I don't want to injure your career, Paul. 
 Lots of people think just as your mother does. We 
 mustn't forget that. And if I marry you I shall be 
 as guilty in their eyes as as Aylmer!" 
 
 "I don't care what people say or think," said 
 Paul stubbornly; "it does not matter to me, and if 
 you love me it cannot matter to youl" He came 
 over and knelt down near her, and taking her hands 
 in his held them closely to his heart. She could feel 
 the quick but steady beating of Paul's heart, and it 
 seemed to her in that moment that he had become 
 indescribably dear to her. 
 
 "Oh, my dear my dear Gillian," he said, in a 
 voice that shook with emotion. 
 
 "Listen," said Gillian quietly, "I have something 
 to say to you, Paul. When you hear it you may not 
 wish to marry me." 
 
 He looked up startled, with sudden inquiry in his
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 231 
 
 eyes. Why must she thus spoil that beautiful mo- 
 ment? . . . 
 
 "Why what on earth is it, Jill?" 
 
 "When I was in Italy," she continued in that quiet 
 level voice of hers, "I was engaged to be married." 
 
 "You? . . . Engaged!" His face darkened. 
 
 "Yes to an Italian," she said. 
 
 Paul was silent. The colour flooded his face. He 
 had never dreamed of such a contingency. 
 
 "You were in love with him?" he demanded 
 fiercely. 
 
 "Yes. For a little while I thought I was very 
 much in love with him. I was in love, too, with the 
 thought of shutting the door upon my old life and 
 everything to do with it of starting quite fresh 
 under new conditions. Can't you understand it?" 
 
 "Then why on earth," he said, still in that strange 
 fierce voice, "didn't you marry him and shut the 
 door?" 
 
 "He broke off the engagement," answered Gil- 
 lian, and a little of that past shame seemed again to 
 envelop her. 
 
 "Broke it off?" Paul echoed incredulously. 
 
 "He found out that he couldn't marry me. He 
 thought I was a widow naturally I didn't go and 
 tell my story to every one I met. But I was always 
 meaning to tell him the truth, only I was afraid. I 
 knew it would mean losing him, Paul. Then some 
 one told him I had divorced my husband. He went 
 away I never saw him again. Afterwards his 
 mother came to explain." 
 
 The confession seemed to plunge her once more 
 into that abyss of humiliation which she had known 
 during the interview with Giacomo's mother. Surely 
 Paul, knowing all this, would have no further desire 
 to make her his wife. 
 
 "Cur!" said Paul, grinding his teeth.
 
 232 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 "He was a Catholic," pursued Gillian coldly, "and 
 Catholics can't marry divorced people. I didn't 
 know that at the time; I only thought his mother 
 would probably disapprove so much that he would 
 have to give me up. But it had really nothing to do 
 with his mother. He broke off our engagement of 
 his own will. I was very unhappy." She looked at 
 him quite steadily. 
 
 "He could never have loved you at all 1 If he had 
 loved you he would have gone through hell for 
 you I" 
 
 "Ah, that's just what he couldn't risk doing," she 
 said softly. 
 
 There was a long pause. Paul's brain was bewil- 
 dered by the unexpectedness of her confession. Then 
 another thought struck him, and its touch held 
 poison. 
 
 "But, Jill, if you loved him enough to promise to 
 marry him it means that you could never have 
 loved me?" 
 
 "Yes, I suppose it does. But I loved Giacomo dif- 
 ferently. He was so young and eager and hand- 
 some like a beautiful boy. And he fell in love with 
 me so suddenly, so violently." 
 
 Her eyes softened at the remembrance of those 
 idyllic Roman days. How far away they appeared 
 now; how far removed from the little grey house 
 in Brock Street where love was again approaching 
 her with rainbow wings! . . . 
 
 She perceived that the news had shocked him 
 deeply. Yet she had felt compelled to tell him that 
 during the interval between their last meeting and 
 this she had given her love to another man. And all 
 the time Paul had been waiting, waiting for her 
 return. . . . 
 
 "You never loved me then at all?" he said 
 harshly.
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 233 
 
 "I told you before I went away that I didn't 
 love you that I didn't want to marry you," she 
 said. 
 
 "That night when I drove home with you I 
 thought you had begun to care a little for me 1 All 
 the time you were gone I hoped and hoped. ..." 
 
 She flushed a little and then said quickly, "I was 
 sorry for you, you see. You seemed so miserable. 
 It meant nothing nothing at all. I was lonely and 
 you comforted me. And I was glad to think some 
 one still cared for me a little. I can't explain it, 
 Paul. ..." 
 
 But he was thinking of those remembered 
 kisses. . . . 
 
 "You had definitely promised to marry this man?" 
 he said, and his voice was still stern and cold. 
 
 "Yes, we had arranged to be married in October. 
 I thought that would give me time to come back 
 here and settle up things. He had a villa near Fras- 
 cati such a beautiful place. We were to spend our 
 honeymoon there." 
 
 It had been her determination to tell Paul the 
 whole truth. She wondered whether it would make 
 any difference to his love for her. Perhaps he would 
 think her a weak woman of facile affections. She 
 would like to have known then what was passing 
 in his mind. 
 
 Jealousy had clutched Paul's heart with its iron 
 claws. Joyfully could he have slain this unknown 
 rival. 
 
 "You'd actually fixed the date?" he said, more 
 than ever mystified. "You'd got the better of those 
 scruples you always served up for my benefit?" His 
 tone was indescribably bitter. 
 
 "Just for the time," said Gillian still coldly, "but 
 afterwards, when he threw me over, they came back 
 with renewed force. You see, I learned what a
 
 234 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 strong force it was that could thus separate Giacomo 
 from me when we were so happy, when we loved 
 each other so much. ..." 
 
 "He never could have loved you 1" Paul repeated. 
 
 "Paul, he did love me. But to him the marriage 
 wouldn't have been a marriage. In the eyes of his 
 world I shouldn't have been his wife at all. I think 
 it was for my sake as much as for his own that he 
 broke it all off." The sting of the shame touched 
 her anew. "I was in the dust for the second time, 
 Paul. But it made me ask myself what this Church 
 was that could dominate even a man's love." 
 
 "His love could never have been worth any- 
 thing at all," said Paul indignantly. "Do you think 
 I should ever have let anything come between us, 
 Gillian, if you had promised to be my wife? Any- 
 thing in heaven or earth, if you had loved me?" 
 His voice softened to a strange deep tenderness. 
 "All these months you have been away, my thoughts 
 have been full of you by day, and by night you 
 were always in my dreams. Why weren't you 
 honest with me? Why didn't you write and tell 
 me that you were in love with this Italian?" 
 
 She was silent. Again he observed a child-like 
 perplexed puckering of her brow. Yes, she was 
 like a child who has been set too difficult a prob- 
 lem. . . . 
 
 "But I was a fool I ought to have known, when 
 you didn't write!" he burst forth, a dull savage 
 anger in his tone. 
 
 "It lasted such a little time, and it was always 
 an absolute secret. Then some one told his mother 
 about me, and everything ended abruptly. But in 
 any case I shouldn't have told you until our mar- 
 riage was about to take place." 
 
 Her mind visualised with a strange detailed accu- 
 racy the twilit shelter of those ilex woods at Fras-
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 235 
 
 cati where they had wandered hand in hand, day 
 after day, amid the soft shadows. The memory 
 was sharp enough to evoke pain. 
 
 "Look here, Gillian !" he broke in abruptly upon 
 her thoughts. "I don't care if you love me or not. 
 Marry me, and I'll spend my life in trying to make 
 you happy. I'll teach you to forget all the cruel 
 past all the things that have hurt you !" He came 
 over and bending down put his arms round her and 
 drew her head upon his shouder. His face was 
 very close to hers; he leaned nearer to her and 
 kissed her. 
 
 Gillian made no effort to resist his embrace. It 
 comforted and consoled her to find him still un- 
 changed, in spite of all she had just told him; to 
 know, too, that across the months of separation 
 he loved her with an unchanging love and fidelity. 
 And she had need of his love. Twice love had 
 failed her, and her heart was wounded and bruised 
 by the pain. If she did not love Paul, at least she 
 loved his love. She was happy and at peace. 
 
 "Ah, don't make me love you, Paul," she said at 
 last, looking up at him with tearful yet happy eyes. 
 "It brings me la guigne." 
 
 "But I want you to love me, darling." Again he 
 kissed her. "We must be married very soon." 
 
 She was trembling now; her eyes were bright 
 with tears. 
 
 "Say that you love me," he insisted. 
 
 "I love you." The words came faintly, he could 
 scarcely hear them. 
 
 His hands strayed delicately over her hair. 
 
 "And you'll marry me?" 
 
 "Oh, Paul you must wait before I can tell you 
 that!" 
 
 Now it was Ian Frazer's stern fair face that rose 
 up before her, accusing, condemning.
 
 236 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 "I'll wait as long as you like. But . . . have 
 pity on me, Jill!" 
 
 Why was she thinking of Ian Frazer now? Why 
 did his face come like a troubling memory to dis- 
 turb her happiness? He had told her sharp, un- 
 forgettable truths. Words came back to her mind: 
 "/ went down to the potter's house and behold he 
 wrought a work on the wheels. And the vessel that 
 he made of clay was marred in the hand of the pot- 
 ter, so he made it again another vessel as seemed 
 good to the potter to make it . . . 
 
 All her soul was in revolt now against that threat- 
 ened shaping. Those hard lessons he had taught 
 her were by no means forgotten, but she flung them 
 deliberately aside. Yes, she would be Paul's wife. 
 She loved him in a tender, grateful, half-sisterly 
 fashion; she loved his devotion, his faithfulness. 
 And she would not submit to being defrauded anew 
 of her woman's rightful heritage of love and moth- 
 erhood. As if to set a seal on this resolve she drew 
 Paul's face gently towards her and kissed him. 
 Surely there could be nothing wrong, nothing wicked, 
 in this love. . . . 
 
 "You won't let anything come between us? Any 
 foolish, insensate scruples?" he said, almost as if 
 he were divining her thoughts. "You won't let any- 
 thing part us?" 
 
 "Nothing nothing," said Gillian. 
 
 He released her slowly, thoughtfully, gazing at 
 the little colourless, charming face. Yes, she was 
 beautiful, more beautiful than ever, and there was 
 something alluring and interesting, too, in that wist- 
 ful appealing look of hers. He kissed her jealously, 
 remembering that Aylmer and Giacomo had once 
 known the joys of her caress. 
 
 "Oh, Jill how I wish you'd never been mar- 
 ried never been engaged to any one else!
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 237 
 
 "Instead of which I've been engaged twice and 
 married once." She was able to laugh now at his 
 tragic tone. 
 
 "And did you really love them those other 
 two?" 
 
 "Yes I'm quite sure at least that I loved Ayl- 
 mer." She looked at him. "Paul, don't think 
 about them. I mean to love you much, much more." 
 She laughed in a soft fashion that touched him. "I 
 can depend on you. You'll always care you'll 
 never leave me." Something of the pain of those 
 past desertions informed her speech. 
 
 Paul lifted her hands to his lips and kissed them 
 almost reverently. 
 
 "Yes, you can depend upon me," he said slowly. 
 "And, Jill we are engaged now, aren't we? You 
 will marry me when you are free?" 
 
 He was insistent, as if still fearful of losing her. 
 
 "Would you wait until next year? Paul I'd so 
 much rather not marry for a whole year after the 
 divorce." 
 
 "If I must, I must," he said; "but why on earth 
 do you want to wait?" 
 
 "Because I'm quite sure it's wiser, Paul." 
 
 "But harder." His mouth was grim. 
 
 "After all, it's only a few months." 
 
 "It shall be as you wish," he said. 
 
 She felt tranquilly happy. She was forgetting 
 Ian Frazer with his stern face and voice. She 
 would forget him. She would remember only that 
 Paul loved her, and that she was learning to love 
 him, too. There was defiance in her very surrender, 
 in her passive acceptance of this proffered destiny. 
 Happiness should not for a third time elude her. 
 
 "I'm so glad I came back, Paul," she said at last. 
 
 "Are you? So am I." 
 
 "Isn't it strange I find it so difficult to envisage
 
 238 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 the future? I can't imagine myself just simply a 
 happy woman living a commonplace ordinary life." 
 She looked at him wistfully. "Reassure me, Paul. 
 Tell me I shall be just that. ..." 
 
 "You shall be happy," he said, "if it's in my power 
 to make you so. As for a commonplace ordinary 
 life isn't that asking rather a lot of the high 
 gods?" 
 
 "I suppose it is. * . . " 
 
 She was back there in the soft grey duskiness, the 
 twilight gloom of San Francesco, kneeling in the 
 shadows and praying for light the light which 
 when it came had been too sharp for her vision, 
 the light that had burnt her, threatening to con- 
 sume. She would only pray for little humble things 
 in the future; the simplest joys that the poorest 
 labourer's wife may know. . . . 
 
 Yet Ian Frazer would think she had no right to 
 pray at all, because she had wilfully separated her- 
 self from God. She struggled to free herself from 
 the tyranny of his teaching. 
 
 "Paul you must teach me to forget everything. 
 I'm young and I want to make a fresh start. ..." 
 
 "We will make it together next January," said 
 Paul
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 LADY PALLANT was sitting at her bureau writing 
 letters when her son walked unceremoniously 
 into her sanctum a day or two later. She did not 
 know he was in town, and therefore was not ex- 
 pecting a visit from him. He had given no notice 
 of his coming, which was also unusual. And just 
 because it was unusual, a slight slackening of the 
 small courtesies she inexorably exacted from her 
 grown-up son and daughter, she was displeased and 
 felt, in addition, a vague, formless anxiety. This 
 expressed itself in the slight irritation with which 
 she now accosted him. 
 
 "Why, Paul, what on earth are you doing in 
 town?" 
 
 Paul stooped and kissed her, nervously, perfunc- 
 torily. 
 
 "I wanted to see you on very particular busi- 
 ness," he said shortly. 
 
 Now that he was face to face with his mother, 
 a curious nervousness possessed him, and all his 
 careful preparation seemed to slip away from him. 
 It was not going to be easy, and he could remember 
 none of the tactful prefaces that he had endeav- 
 oured to compose and memorise in the train on his 
 way to town. He looked at her desfiantly and 
 said: 
 
 "I've come, in fact, to tell you that I'm engaged 
 to Gillian Driscoll." 
 
 Lady Pallant was far too much astonished to 
 speak. She felt for the moment as if she had been 
 the victim of some physical violence. She was 
 brought as if involuntarily to her feet. She tow- 
 ered above her son, who remained standing in front 
 of her, silent and unmoving. 
 
 239
 
 240 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 When at last the words came, they were passion- 
 ate, tempestuous. 
 
 "You shall not marry her. I utterly refuse to 
 allow such a disgraceful thing! When did you see 
 her again?" 
 
 "I went down to Bath for Miss Stanway's 
 funeral, as you know. Gillian was there. But it's 
 nothing new, mother. I've been in love with Jill 
 since I was a boy. I asked her to marry me before 
 she went to Rome in the spring. She refused me 
 then. She has accepted me now." 
 
 There was a dull triumph in his voice as of a 
 man who, after long and hopeless waiting, has sud- 
 denly attained his heart's desire. His dark eyes 
 blazed with excitement. 
 
 "You shall not marry her," Lady Pallant re- 
 peated; "if you disobey me in this, you shall never 
 enter my house again. And I will never receive 
 Mrs. Driscoll!" 
 
 "That must be, of course, as you wish, mother," 
 said Paul, with weary indifference. "I really don't 
 care much what happens as long as I can marry 
 
 "Don't be a fool, Paul," said his mother sharply. 
 "You do care. It will injure your career your so- 
 cial position. And in the future it will make a 
 great difference to you in other ways." 
 
 "I don't care about money, if you mean that. Nor 
 does Gillian. Besides, she's got heaps." 
 
 "She is a false intriguing woman. I wish I had 
 never had her in my house. She is making a fool 
 of you, Paul." Her voice rose in shrill crescendo. 
 "You may depend this is what she's been aiming 
 at all the time!" 
 
 Paul reddened. "I must ask you not to call her 
 names," he said, "or I shall go out of this house 
 and never enter it again." He set his lips. The
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 241 
 
 two faces were almost oddly alike at that moment, 
 and both were grim with determination. U I am 
 going to marry her. And she shall go nowhere 
 where she is not honourably received and wel- 
 comed." 
 
 "She won't be either honoured or welcomed 
 here," said Lady Pallant. "You know what I think 
 about divorced people remarrying. Of course she 
 wants to reinstate herself. She doesn't care for you 
 the least bit in the world." 
 
 He was silent for a moment. Then: 
 
 "I'm very sorry, of course, you should take it 
 like this. But as I said before it makes no earthly 
 difference to our engagement. I only wish she 
 would consent to being married next month, and 
 get the business over." 
 
 "Perhaps you are not aware that Gillian got her- 
 self talked about and very disagreeably talked 
 about with young Marchese della Meldola in 
 Rome this spring?" said Lady Pallant, bracing her- 
 self for a counter-attack. 
 
 Paul winced. He had never heard the surname 
 of his Italian rival before. It had never occurred 
 to him to ask for information on the point, but 
 now the very sound of it, its soft musical sound, 
 filled him with a fierce destroying jealousy that made 
 his heart sink and his throat close up. 
 
 "Oh, she's told me all about that foolish affair I" 
 he said, trying to speak lightly. 
 
 He smiled, fearing lest she might perceive his 
 wound. But Lady Pallant knew her son too well 
 to be deceived. 
 
 "He threw her over directly he knew that she had 
 a husband living a fact which she never seems to 
 have mentioned to him! She was seen everywhere 
 with him was out in his car morning, noon, and 
 night 1"
 
 242 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 Paul wondered idly how she had obtained such 
 exact information. It was almost as if she had 
 purposely had Gillian's doings watched. . . . 
 
 He said abruptly: "She was free to do as she 
 chose. If she made mistakes, we must remember 
 that she is still very young hardly older than Joan. 
 I have perfect confidence in her discretion myself." 
 
 Oh, why had she permitted this man to come 
 between them? Why had she consented to this 
 engagement so quickly, so ill-advisedly? He felt 
 through all his being the bitter humiliation to which 
 she had been subjected by the della Meldola family. 
 
 "I am delighted to hear it," said Lady Pallant 
 dryly; "I hope you may always retain this confi- 
 dence in Gillian, for you will not have much else 
 to console you. But all men would not be so com- 
 placent. You will change, of course the Pallants 
 always trample on their wives I have no doubt 
 when you are married you will also display this 
 pleasing idiosyncrasy." It gave her a sense almost 
 of pleasure to feel that this trampling awaited Gil- 
 lian. "At any rate I am sure you will have every 
 excuse for doing so. Women like Mrs. Driscoll 
 deserve all they get." 
 
 Paul flushed. His temper was stirring. Her in- 
 nuendoes pierced him like knives. There was a 
 studied insult in every one of her intemperate words. 
 
 "Of course if you think her worth the sacrifice v 
 marry her! I shall simply wash my hands of an 
 undutiful son. You must choose between us." 
 
 Lady Pallant's face had grown dark red with 
 rage. 
 
 "I have already chosen," said Paul firmly. "I'm 
 never going to give her up. It's been difficult 
 enough to win her consent." He set his lips. 
 
 Lady Pallant loved her son, and his words pierced 
 her to the heart. She had always in secret loved
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 243 
 
 him far better than Joan. He was in many ways 
 so much more like herself. 
 
 "From the day you marry her you shall 
 never set foot inside my house. Until then, I sup- 
 pose I must receive you. But I utterly refuse to 
 receive Mrs. Driscoll. I hope you understand the 
 position." 
 
 "Perfectly," said Paul. His eyes narrowed. 
 
 "I shall not permit Joan to see her, either." 
 
 "Very well, mother," he said. He was too proud 
 to make any entreaty. His small slight figure was 
 curiously erect and tense. 
 
 "I suppose Gillian accepted you now because she 
 had failed elsewhere," she pursued with the piti- 
 lessness of a woman determined to wound; "she 
 can't care for you at all she wants only what you 
 can give her money and a home. I wonder you 
 haven't more pride, when you remember how she 
 has spent the interval since her divorce!" 
 
 "You shall not insult her!" His voice was 
 scarcely raised, the words came cold and deter- 
 mined. "Remember that I love her that you are 
 speaking of my future wife!" 
 
 "You will find lots of people quite ready to criti- 
 cise Mrs. Driscoll," she reminded him dryly. 
 
 "Not in my hearing," he said; "never to me." 
 
 Lady Pallant, with nervous fingers, tore up an 
 envelope which was lying on the table, and flung 
 the pieces into the waste-paper basket. The little 
 action was significant, in that it betrayed her exas- 
 peration and agitation. 
 
 "Such a marriage which isn't a marriage at all," 
 continued Lady Pallant, "can only spell disaster 
 for you. And she has no right to sacrifice you 
 to allow you to act directly contrary to my wishes. 
 She might at least have the grace to remember 
 what she has owed to me in the past."
 
 244 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 "You mean her marriage to Aylmer Driscoll?" 
 said Paul bitterly; "if so she had better forget all 
 about it!" 
 
 Before she had time to reply, the door opened and 
 Joan came into the room. She looked willowy and 
 slender in a soft white lace dress; on her head was 
 a little blue hat that matched her eyes. She looked 
 fresh, dainty, and pretty, and rather self-conscious. 
 She was going to meet Captain Grant in the Park. 
 
 "Why, Paul," she said in a tone of surprise. 
 
 She went up to him and kissed him. Paul suf- 
 fered the embrace, but he did not attempt to return 
 it. He felt Joan's entry to be an intrusion, and her 
 trailing soft manner irritated him. It was such a 
 bad imitation of Gillian! . . . 
 
 "What's the matter?" said Joan. She looked 
 from her mother's hectic and agitated countenance 
 to Paul's white face that seemed to betray no emo- 
 tion at all. Only his unusual pallor to-day was 
 accentuated. Joan was perplexed. "What has hap- 
 pened?" she said, rather persistently. 
 
 "I won't have Joan know!" said Lady Pallant 
 furiously. 
 
 "She'd better be told," said Paul tranquilly; 
 "she'll have to know sooner or later." 
 
 "Leave the room at once, Joan," said her mother. 
 "Do you hear me?" 
 
 She moved a step towards her, almost threaten- 
 ingly. Joan turned quickly towards the door. 
 
 "Don't go, Jo," said Paul, who was now almost 
 beside himself with suppressed anger. He seized 
 her arm and held it as if in a vice. "I mean you 
 to hear. Don't be a little fool!" as Joan gave a 
 cry of pain, "I'm not going to hurt you. You cry 
 more easily than any baby," he continued in a tone 
 of disgust, as Joan's facile tears began to flow, 
 though more from terror than pain.
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 245 
 
 "Let her go at once, Paul. I forbid you to tell 
 her!" said Lady Pallant. 
 
 His grip on his sister's arm tightened. She 
 moaned, "Oh, do please let me go, Paul. You're 
 hurting me. . . . Let me go. . . .'" 
 
 "I won't hurt you if you'll stand still and not 
 struggle in that insane way!" he said impatiently. 
 
 Joan was trembling and weeping with fear. She 
 ceased to struggle, for his clutch was bruising her 
 arm through the thin sleeve. She would soon be 
 too dishevelled, too disfigured with crying, to go 
 and meet Captain Grant. Paul's white face, with 
 its blazing eyes, were close to hers; she felt that he 
 was mocking at her, as he had done when they were 
 both children, for her deplorable lack of pluck and 
 spirit. 
 
 "Listen, Jo. I'm going to marry Jill Driscoll 
 that's what all the row's about! Mother's been 
 saying things against her. She is never to be al- 
 lowed inside the house again, nor shall I be when 
 I have married her." He pelted out the words. 
 
 "You? Jill? Oh, Paul. ..." Long as she 
 had jealously suspected her brother's attachment to 
 Mrs. Driscoll, she had never for a moment enter- 
 tained the idea that Gillian could possibly return 
 it. "Do you mean that she cares for you, Paul?" 
 
 The doubt in her voice was unflattering; she 
 seemed to suggest, as his mother had done, that 
 Gillian had promised to marry him from some 
 worldly motive. And had she not all along shown 
 hesitation? It was because there was on the face 
 of it so much to support their theory that Paul 
 actually flinched at his sister's words. He felt 
 he did not care now whether he hurt her or not. 
 
 "I imagine she does," he answered dryly, "as 
 she's promised to marry me. But when she knows
 
 246 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 it will mean giving up the charms of your delightful 
 society for ever, my dear Jo !" 
 
 It was Joan's turn to flinch. 
 
 "When did you see her, Paul? When did she 
 come back to England?" Joan's voice betrayed 
 signs of distress. 
 
 "I saw her in Bath. She had very properly re- 
 turned for her aunt's funeral." 
 
 "When is she coming to town?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Paul. "But it can't affect 
 you you won't be allowed to see her. She's taboo 
 here!" 
 
 "Yes you must please understand that, Joan," 
 said Lady Pallant in a harsh commanding tone. 
 "For the future you are not to see or correspond 
 with Mrs. Driscoll. As she is bent on ruining 
 your brother's life, I forbid any intercourse between 
 you!" 
 
 "Oh, mother!" Joan's tears flowed afresh. "Oh, 
 you can't mean that! Why, I've been looking for- 
 ward so to seeing dear Jill again!" 
 
 "And when we're married you won't see or hear 
 from dear Paul either." He mimicked her almost 
 savagely. But he released his hold on her arm, 
 and giving her a little push, said: 
 
 "There, you can go! Go up and cry in your 
 room !" 
 
 Joan went sobbing towards the door. She felt 
 as if she had been plunged suddenly and without 
 warning into the midst of a most appalling night- 
 mare. At the door she paused for a moment, and 
 then turning she ran back to Paul crying, as she 
 tried unsuccessfully to kiss him, 
 
 "Oh, I shall lose you both I shall lose you 
 both!" 
 
 There was anguish in her tone.
 
 VHE ROXTER'S HOUSE 247 
 
 "There for goodness' sake don't slobber me," 
 said Paul, pushing her away not unkindly. 
 
 When the door closed upon Joan, Lady Pallant 
 sank exhausted into a chair. Paul still stood there 
 in the same inflexible attitude. 
 
 "Is this your last word, mother?" he said coldly. 
 
 "Yes," she answered harshly. "You have be- 
 haved disgracefully, you have shown yourself to be 
 a most undutiful son. I will never receive this 
 woman who has entrapped you. I will never ac- 
 knowledge her. I have suspected the existence of 
 an understanding between you ever since she dined 
 here that night last winter and you drove back with 
 her. You have been a weak fool, Paul, to allow 
 yourself to be caught by an artful, designing 
 
 woman." 
 
 Paul, without replying, moved to the door, 
 opened it and left the room noiselessly. He went 
 downstairs and straight out of the house. Joan 
 from her bedroom window watched him as he went 
 down the street, his small slight soldierly figure 
 erect and upright. At the sight of him her tears 
 flowed afresh. She had given up all thought of 
 keeping her appointment with Captain Grant.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 AUNT LETTY was a little uncertain at first how 
 to treat the matter of Gillian's engagement, 
 the announcement of which was conveyed to her as 
 a profound secret that same evening, after Paul had 
 reluctantly left the house in Brock Street. It was 
 on occasions such as these, when unable to decide 
 for herself what attitude she ought to adopt, that 
 she sorely missed the firm but guiding hand of Miss 
 Matty. Very deeply and sincerely did Miss Letty 
 mourn the lack of that restraining hand. She had 
 too long been as a slave to a despot to find any solace 
 in the prospect of freedom and liberty. 
 
 She could, however, remember with some con- 
 solation a discussion they had had with Mr. Davis, 
 the vicar of the church to which the sisters Stanway 
 always migrated on Sunday, although it was at a 
 most inconvenient distance from Brock Street, just 
 after Gillian had obtained a divorce. He had held 
 what seemed to them the very just view that Gillian 
 being perfectly innocent had every right to marry 
 again should occasion present itself. Mr. Davis had 
 even laughingly offered to perform the ceremony 
 should it be found convenient to have it in Bath. 
 Remembering this, Miss Letty was able conscien- 
 tiously though timidly to offer her congratulations 
 to Gillian, only protesting that it was "perhaps a 
 little soon for her to think of marrying again." Did 
 not widows invariably wait a year to satisfy les con- 
 venances? She thought Paul had shown almost a 
 want of delicacy in approaching Gillian so soon 
 and on the very day of darling Matty's funeral too 
 . . . before even that dreadful decree had been 
 made absolute. 
 
 "It won't be till January in any case," said Gil- 
 248
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 249 
 
 lian, who had been dreading a sentimental outburst 
 and almost welcomed the mild reproof that had 
 been offered instead. "And I shall probably go 
 abroad again in the interval, as we want to keep 
 it a secret for the present so as to avoid gossip." 
 
 "Oh, I hoped you would stay with me for a 
 little," said Aunt Letty. "You see, I've never been 
 alone, and I shall miss dear Matty so sorely." 
 
 Gillian stretched out her little white hand and 
 touched Miss Letty's wrinkled yellow one. 
 
 "Oh well, I shan't leave you I hope for a week 
 or two. I wish you would go away for a change 
 yourself, Aunt Letty. You must be sick of being 
 always here, aren't you?" 
 
 Miss Letty looked mildly shocked. 
 
 "My dear Gillian I should not dream of going 
 away now. I have all dear Matty's papers to go 
 through and a hundred things to arrange. And 
 I am never so comfortable when I am away as I 
 am at home. And now Matty's gone there's no 
 one else to look after things. . . ." 
 
 She glanced reproachfully at Gillian. 
 
 "And when you are married I hope you will settle 
 down and not always be rushing off abroad. Dear 
 Matty used to say that this deplorable restlessness 
 was one of the curses of the day ! A woman's place 
 is in her home. I am sure Mr. Pallant will tell 
 you the same thing." 
 
 She evidently considered that she had inherited 
 from her sister the right to give Gillian good advice 
 and counsel. In the eyes of Miss Letty, Gillian 
 was still the little girl they had brought up almost 
 from babyhood. And as a little girl she had re- 
 quired a good deal of very firm guidance at the 
 hands of Miss Matty. She had by no means always 
 been easy to manage, and it was quite possible that 
 she still required advice, for she was in a very
 
 250 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 lonely position. Gillian accepted the counsel with- 
 out remonstrance. She wondered idly if she had 
 always found her aunts so trying in the old days 
 when her home had been with them. But memory 
 did not serve her too well. She could only recall that 
 she had been a little afraid of Aunt Matty, and 
 that she had looked to Aunt Letty for sympathy 
 and comfort when the tyranny of the elder Miss 
 Stanway had been more than usually severe. Every- 
 thing belonging to that period seemed to form part 
 of another life; she could not reconstruct it even 
 in imagination. 
 
 "I dare say as you are engaged to her son you 
 will be going up to stay with Janet soon," said 
 Miss Letty, encouraged by the success of her mild 
 rebuke since it had provoked no answer. 
 
 "Oh, that would be very unlikely," said Gillian 
 with decision. "Paul knows exactly what his mother's 
 views on the subject are. I don't expect she will 
 even receive me." Two pink spots showed in her 
 cheeks. Yes, the very first snub would undoubtedly 
 emanate from Lady Pallant, and all her little world 
 would speedily follow suit. 
 
 "Oh, my dear, how shocking!" exclaimed Miss 
 Letty. "I hardly think you ought to be a party to 
 that young man disobeying his mother going 
 against her wishes in such an important matter as 
 his marriage!" 
 
 Miss Letty was genuinely disturbed. She began 
 even to doubt gravely the comfortable reassurances 
 offered by the Rev. Josiah Davis. 
 
 "I'm not at all sure that it would be right for you 
 to marry him under the circumstances, my dear Gil- 
 lian," she added. 
 
 "Paul has quite made up his mind to go against 
 his mother if she opposes our marriage. He will be 
 very sorry, of course, but it can't be helped." Her
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 251 
 
 face hardened a little. "Don't let us talk about it, 
 Aunt Letty. It will be quite disagreeable enough 
 when the time comes, and I am so tired of disagree- 
 able situations. I seem to have had nothing else for 
 months past." 
 
 "But it might be your duty to break off your en- 
 gagement," said Miss Letty, who now definitely felt 
 that the mantle of her elder sister had fallen upon 
 her. She spoke with quite unusual decision, for she 
 felt convinced that it was thus dear Matty would 
 have spoken under the circumstances. And then, of 
 course, dear Matty, who had had such courage, 
 would have sent for Paul and remonstrated with 
 him, and given him a liberal application of the First 
 Commandment with Promise. 
 
 "I'm not going to break off my engagement," said 
 Gillian coldly. 
 
 "I feel somehow as if the marriage wouldn't be 
 blessed unless Janet approved," murmured Miss 
 Letty. 
 
 Gillian rose from her seat. 
 
 "I'm tired, Aunt Letty. I find love-affairs dread- 
 fully fatiguing. I think I will go up to my room 
 if you will excuse me." She stooped and kissed 
 her aunt's withered cheek exactly as she had done 
 when she was a little girl. Almost instinctively she 
 turned towards the chair which had always been 
 occupied by the grim and angular form of Martha 
 Stanway, as if to bestow upon her the conventional 
 good-night embrace. 
 
 She went upstairs, feeling strangely depressed. 
 All sense of elation had curiously enough left her, 
 and she felt almost too tired to experience any satis- 
 faction in her engagement. She thought that she 
 hated Brock Street; it was so dull, so narrow. And 
 Aunt Letty had irritated her to-night. 
 
 She slept badly, tossing from side to side. She
 
 252 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 could remember how she had lain awake the first 
 night after her engagement to Aylmer, grudging 
 the hours to sleep that could be so much more profit- 
 ably employed in thinking of him and recalling his 
 tender words, his kisses. No emotion of the kind 
 filled her heart now. She was almost glad to think 
 that Paul was obliged to leave Bath by a night train 
 in order to return to Aldershot. She would not 
 have to see him again just yet not in fact until 
 he had had that momentous interview with his 
 mother. Towards morning she fell asleep, and she 
 did not wake until the maid brought in her tea 
 with some letters lying on the tray. On the top 
 envelope there was an Italian stamp. She took it 
 up curiously and saw that the address was written 
 in Ian Frazer's writing; it had been forwarded from 
 the hotel at Assisi. 
 
 Her first feeling was one of anger that he should 
 have thus written to her. She drank her tea and 
 looked at all her other letters before she opened his. 
 It was not very long and began by expressing a con- 
 ventional regret that he had not seen her before 
 her sudden departure. He had called at the hotel 
 that same day and found that she had gone. At 
 the end he added: "I was sorry that you had to 
 leave like this. It struck me once or twice lately 
 that Assisi was beginning to teach you certain things. 
 I know that this is one of the places of the world 
 where the amosphere is most likely to impress very 
 profoundly a sensitive person. How far you have 
 progressed I do not know, but I hope that now you 
 will be less inclined to take any definite dangerous 
 step that might imperil your spiritual future. For 
 this I shall always pray. ..." 
 
 Any definite dangerous step? . ..- . As she read 
 those words Gillian let the letter drop from her 
 hand. It was almost terrible that she should have
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 253 
 
 had to read them now, when only a few hours ago 
 she had promised to take just the step that Ian 
 Frazer had feared. A whole flood of memories 
 seemed to overwhelm and possess her mind. She 
 remembered that long walk she had taken with Ian 
 when he had spoken to her with such passionate 
 earnestness. She remembered, too, that powerfully 
 held by the spell of his words she had gone into the 
 Lower Church to pray. All this time she had tried 
 to put that remembrance resolutely from her mind, 
 but now it was not possible to do so any more. It 
 was too strong, it would not be gainsaid; for the 
 moment it held her in its grip. She remembered 
 how that strange and almost blinding illumination 
 had fallen upon her, overwhelming her. Vaguely 
 she had heard of supernatural graces which brought 
 to the questing soul divine guidance, and she knew 
 that in that mystical hour her own soul had thus 
 definitely received such guidance. Utterly and phys- 
 ically exhausted, she had emerged from it van- 
 quished, and for the time humbly submissive. But 
 the effects of the experience had not lasted; she 
 had determined deliberately that they should not last. 
 She would not yield her body and her soul to that 
 new shaping. She had defied the Hand that would 
 have fashioned her anew. But she had always been 
 conscious of it ever since, of its nearness, its power, 
 its intention. And most of all had she been acutely 
 aware of it in the hour when she had promised to 
 marry Paul Pallant. Her rebellion had been pre- 
 meditated and intentional. 
 
 And now Ian Frazer's letter had awakened within 
 her something that was stronger than a scruple. She 
 felt actually afraid, and as it were physically afraid, 
 lan's fine fair face, with its piercing blue eyes, rose 
 up before her. A man who had not loved her, and 
 yet who had exhibited this passionate, personal in-
 
 254 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 terest in her "spiritual future." He was afraid for 
 her. He wished at all costs to save her from a 
 peril she could hardly estimate, and which was even 
 more terrible in its nebulous formlessness than any 
 concrete and defined danger could possibly have 
 been. As she realised this fact she turned a little 
 cold and faint. Vaguely she remembered some such 
 sentence as this : "Lest haply we be fighting against 
 God." She had had that moment of mystic illumi- 
 nation, and she had recovered from the overwhelm- 
 ing power of it only to fight against it and defy it. 
 In the very face of it she had promised to be Paul 
 Pallant's wife. . . . 
 
 At that moment she felt acutely, profoundly mis- 
 erable. The whole atmosphere of Assisi seemed to 
 surround her and envelop her. She saw the pitiless 
 face of Ian Frazer; she heard his voice uttering 
 harsh and cruel warnings. All her scruples were 
 revived a thousandfold. She found herself saying 
 aloud, almost mechanically, "I won't marry Paul 
 I can't marry him. When I explain things to him 
 he will surely understand." 
 
 Her first action on rising was to scribble a little 
 hurried note to Paul. "Don't come down here yet," 
 she wrote, "I am disturbed and worried about some- 
 thing. I will write directly I can see you. I am 
 afraid we have arranged everything too hastily. 
 You must remember that I am not even technically 
 free." She folded the letter, enclosed it in an en- 
 velope and rang for the maid to post it. The little 
 precipitate action soothed her. It was a satisfac- 
 tion to have accomplished something, however 
 small. Paul must know that she was again hesi- 
 tating, again vacillating. Perhaps he would think 
 that she was capricious and changeable. But as 
 she examined her heart she knew that she was 
 prompted by something much stronger than mere
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 255 
 
 caprice. She had accepted Paul deliberately in a 
 moment of rebellion, and now Ian Frazer's letter 
 had brought back most vividly and clearly to her 
 mind the lesson she had learned at Assisi. Already 
 she was beginning to see that her engagement was 
 bringing her neither the peace nor the happiness she 
 expected. Would she be haunted always all 
 through her marriage with this intolerable thought 
 that she was fighting against the Divine Will? . . . 
 
 i 
 
 Of course, it was absurd to suppose that Paul 
 could be kept away from Bath indefinitely. He tele- 
 graphed on two successive days to know if she would 
 receive him, but on the third day, after the inter- 
 view with his mother, he appeared at Brock Street 
 late in the afternoon without warning. He was get- 
 ting by this time acutely anxious, and he felt that 
 he must know the worst. Something was evidently 
 at work with Gillian, some ulterior influence hostile 
 to himself and to which he had no clue. Gillian had 
 never mentioned Ian Frazer's name to him. She had 
 always felt that it would be impossible for her to 
 utter it with confident indifference, so greatly did 
 his opinions obsess her. She had purposely spoken 
 very little to Paul about the weeks she had spent 
 in Assisi. Obviously he was not interested at all in 
 her Italian sojourn, and the very mention of Gia- 
 como filled him with acute jealousy; it would be un- 
 necessary therefore to tell him how profoundly 
 another man a mere passing stranger had influ- 
 enced her. . . . 
 
 The two hours' journey to Bath had never seemed 
 so long to Paul as it did that hot July afternoon. 
 He scarcely bestowed a glance upon the beau- 
 tiful, peaceful, typically English scenery through 
 which the train was passing. The Thames was a 
 clear, silver-blue ribbon twisting between banks that
 
 256 THE POTTER'S HOUSE \ 
 
 were exquisitely wooded and then between fields 
 filled with the ripening harvest. Reading was passed, 
 and the train made swift passage through the lovely 
 river-places of Basildon, Pangbourne, and Goring. 
 But his thoughts were too full of Gillian for him 
 to be able to concentrate his attention elsewhere. 
 What did this new attitude of hers signify? Did 
 she intend even now to break off their brief engage- 
 ment? With dismay he recalled her words of the 
 other night: "You see, I learned what a strong 
 force it must be that could thus separate Giacomo 
 from me when we were so happy, when we loved 
 each other so much. ..." And again: "It made 
 me ask myself what this Church was that could dom- 
 inate even a man's love. ..." And in those words, 
 although he was still unaware of it, there lay the 
 clue to Gillian's hesitation, Gillian's vacillation. But 
 the remembrance of them sufficed to fill him with 
 a vague alarm. 
 
 Or was it only that disastrous past life of hers 
 that had scourged her into this cold prudence? It 
 seemed to him as if she had learned from those 
 two experiences of hers to look at love dubiously 
 and askance, suspiciously measuring its durability. 
 But must he, Paul, suffer because Aylmer and Gia- 
 como had each in turn proved perfidious? He 
 tried to think that this thought lay at the root of 
 her present mood, but in his heart he felt that this 
 was only one of many things that influenced 
 Gillian just now. It was not only because she greatly 
 feared and greatly doubted that she wavered. 
 There was something deeper than that, something 
 that sprang from a more vital source. It was the 
 sense that marriage for a woman in her position 
 was not only a mistake but a sin. He perceived 
 that this scruple had been deepened rather than 
 weakened by her sojourn in Italy. There was that
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 257 
 
 engagement of hers the passing idle folly of a 
 lonely, unoccupied woman, Paul was learning to call 
 it to himself which she appeared to have entered 
 into almost as readily and easily as her first. Yet 
 in spite of his endeavour to explain it to himself in 
 this way it was the thought of that engagement that 
 turned Paul's heart to a wilderness of cold, jealous 
 fear. This man had evidently possessed something 
 in which he himself must be pitiably lacking since 
 he had been able to pin Gillian down to a definite 
 engagement with the very month of their marriage, 
 the venue of their honeymoon, duly fixed. Giacomo 
 must have possessed, in fact, the power to persuade 
 Gillian. Had she loved him? She had admitted 
 that she had loved the things he could offer her, 
 of love and wealth and position and a new life, 
 away from all ancient and painful associations. She 
 had promised to marry him after what must have 
 necessarily been an extremely slight acquaintance. 
 Paul grit his teeth. He could, he must, envisage 
 this fact. She had been ready to become this man's 
 wife, she had, for a time, cast aside all her scruples. 
 And from that second shipwreck, less disastrous, 
 less painful, but even perhaps more humiliating than 
 the first, Gillian had emerged with her misgivings 
 unaccountably intensified. It was the very force that 
 had flung her to the ground, the very lash of the 
 whip that had struck her, that had made her pause 
 to inquire into their justice and authority. And it 
 was because the pain had been so sudden and severe 
 in those mental sufferings of hers, with love and 
 pride alike wounded to the death in the adventure, 
 that she had been provoked to a bitter examination 
 and analysis of her wound, to find out for herself 
 what necessity, what reason there had been for the 
 hand she had loved to inflict it summarily and with- 
 out warning upon her. . . . Dimly as Paul could
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 realise something of the train of events that madfe 
 it ten times more difficult for him to win Gillian 
 now than before she had left England, he was not 
 yet in possession of all the facts; he had not the 
 clue which lay in the words of Ian Frazer. . . . 
 
 He felt that he would have shielded her from all 
 pain, could he have won her promise before she 
 went away. He longed now to make her his wife 
 and chance the rest, protecting her with arms that 
 desired only to clasp and shelter her from the storm? 
 of the whole world, from any recurring advance of 
 bitter salt waves. . . . Where had he failed? Not 
 in love surely, since his love had been all Gillian's 
 since she had first come a timid, shy girl to his 
 mother's house. His love was ten thousand times 
 greater and deeper and more sincere than any that 
 Giacomo della Meldola could have offered to her. 
 It was so great that it could never have inflicted 
 any pain upon her. Once having won her he would 
 have clung to his treasure in defiance of the whole 
 world, as indeed he was now prepared to cling in 
 defiance of his mother. Gillian, when she heard 
 the terms of Lady Pallant and his own acquiescence 
 in them, must see for herself that his love had an 
 absolutely different quality from any that had hith- 
 erto been offered her, from any that Aylmer or Gia- 
 como could ever have given her. Only . . . why 
 did she seem so ready to set his claim aside? Why 
 was she still so hesitating, so evasive? . . . 
 
 Gillian was not in the drawing-room when he was 
 shown into that bleak Victorian apartment with its 
 formal arrangement of chairs, tables, cabinets, and 
 pictures. Miss Letty, of course, had changed noth- 
 ing since her sister's death. It spoke volumes for 
 the enduring tyranny of Miss Matty that Miss Letty 
 would have considered it disloyal to alter the posi- 
 tion of a single china ornament.
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 259 
 
 He stood there staring at its discomfort an or- 
 dered Spartan discomfort that was singularly ex- 
 pressive of the elder Miss Stanway. The very 
 chairs seemed to forbid you at your peril to take a 
 moment's slothful ease on their hard seats. There 
 was something repellant in that perfect symmetry 
 with which the pictures were hung upon the walls. 
 It was a room that boldly challenged all modern 
 and luxurious tendencies. 
 
 Gillian did not keep him waiting long. When 
 she came into the room looking more slight and elu- 
 sive than ever in her thin black dress, she held out 
 her hand to him almost without speaking. He 
 could not truthfully assure himself that she looked 
 in the least pleased to see him. It was something 
 that had to be done, got through, an inevitable turn 
 of the wheel. She made him feel desperately timid. 
 He was afraid to speak, afraid to utter a single one 
 of those carefully prepared speeches destined to 
 show her that Lady Pallant's word weighed not at 
 all in the ultimate balancing of the scales. 
 
 "You didn't tell me you were coming?" said Gil- 
 lian in a cold, weary voice. The touch of his hand 
 had made her heart beat, had made the pendulum 
 swing back in his favour. 
 
 "I didn't want to be stopped again," he answered 
 abruptly; "you see, I haven't much leave, and I 
 wanted to see you and tell you about my mother." 
 
 "When did you see her?" inquired Gillian, with 
 a slight access of curiosity. 
 
 "This morning." 
 
 "Only then? I suppose she is horrified?" 
 
 Gillian was again temporising with herself. She 
 was certainly going to marry Paul, but she must 
 have a little time in which to get accustomed to the 
 idea. She had, too, to strike a bargain with him 
 and she knew that to both of them it would prove
 
 26o THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 a hard one. She intended to make the condition 
 that between now and January she was to have per- 
 fect liberty of action and absolute freedom. She 
 intended to spend the whole time abroad. To begin 
 an engagement in this way did not perhaps argue any 
 great enthusiasm or intensity of feeling. But she 
 wished to be able to go where she liked without 
 harassing arguments or discussions. She could not 
 spend the six months of her engagement in dis- 
 grace, as it were, in England. And she was sure 
 of her feeling for Paul. It was love without ro- 
 mance the only kind she now assured herself which 
 could endure. The condition would not be an alto- 
 gether easy one for herself. But she wished at all 
 costs to avoid gossip. 
 
 "Oh," he said suddenly, "what have you got to 
 tell me, Jill? You don't know how your letter 
 frightened me. ..." 
 
 She met his look straightly. 
 
 "What do you want me to say?" 
 
 Perhaps her voice softened involuntarily, at any 
 rate there was something in her answer to break 
 down the barriers, to bring him with a swift sud- 
 denness to her side. Now her hands were in his, 
 and he was covering them with kisses. Soon she 
 knew that she would feel his lips on hers. She 
 shrank a little away from him. The moment was 
 beautiful; it seemed to chase away all her terrors 
 and misgivings; it stirred her heart to a new ten- 
 derness. She thrilled under his embrace, and won- 
 dered if her love for him were as destitute of ro- 
 mance as she had supposed. She stroked back the 
 black hair from his brow. 
 
 "I want you to tell me that you love me that 
 you will marry me. You've made me suffer, Gil- 
 lian. . . ." 
 
 His face was white, tormented. She thought if
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 261 
 
 she had not loved him that look of tormented misery 
 in his face would have tempted her to prevaricate 
 and say that she did. 
 
 "All that?" she said, and smiled at him as if he 
 had been a little unhappy child. 
 
 "Jill . . . Jill," said Paul. He took her in his 
 arms. 
 
 "Now tell me about Cousin Janet," she said pres- 
 ently. 
 
 "Oh well, it's just as I thought. She won't re- 
 ceive you she says when we are married I'm never 
 to enter the house again. And I really think she 
 means it. She's most awfully sick about the whole 
 thing. And Joan isn't to see you or write to you. 
 Poor girl when she heard that she ran howling 
 out of the room saying something about never see- 
 ing her dear Jill again." 
 
 "Poor Joan," said Gillian. "Isn't she engaged 
 yet?" 
 
 "Not yet she can't get used to his red hair. I 
 admit I don't care for his fuzzy pink wig myself." 
 
 "Tell me more, Paul," said Gillian. 
 
 "Oh, I don't want to talk about it. It was a 
 beastly row I haven't got over it yet." 
 
 "I shall hate feeling in disgrace . . . especially 
 with your mother. If she'd only stood by us we 
 could have endured other people's snubs so much 
 better." 
 
 "Why should there be snubs?" 
 
 "Because . . . there's Aylmer. ..." 
 
 "Oh, Jill dear let's forget him!" 
 
 "We shall never be allowed to." 
 
 "Look here," he said masterfully, "we are going 
 to do this deliberately, you and I. So we won't 
 whine about the snubs. They can't, can't, can't hurt 
 us. . . ." 
 
 His words seemed to reassure her. How foolish
 
 262 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 she had been to allow herself to fall even tempo- 
 rarily again under the influence of Ian Frazer a 
 man she cared nothing at all about. 
 
 "And we are engaged, aren't we?" he went on, 
 "there's to be no more foolish talk about breaking it 
 off. . . ." 
 
 For answer she bent down and lightly kissed his 
 forehead. 
 
 "Yes, Paul, if you really wish it we will be en- 
 gaged. Only I wish Cousin Janet approved. I'm 
 sorry you'll lose so much by marrying me." 
 
 "If you marry me I shall gain everything in the 
 world I care about!" he told her passionately. 
 
 "But even that doesn't seem right. After all, 
 your mother has claims. We can't cut ourselves 
 adrift altogether from the past." 
 
 "Life isn't a harmonious whole," said Paul; "we 
 gain something here and we almost invariably lose 
 something there to balance it. It is often only a 
 patchwork of ugly seams." He spoke bitterly, for 
 his mother's words had wounded him more deeply 
 than he had thought possible; he had seemed to 
 see in her hostile attitude the one which the ma- 
 jority of people would adopt towards Gillian. 
 
 "I used to think," she said softly, "that life was 
 beautiful or not as we chose to make it." 
 
 "The ugly things aren't always our own fault. I 
 sometimes think they would be easier to bear if 
 they were 1" 
 
 He was thinking of Aylmer, of Giacomo. .. .., >1 
 
 "But often they are," she said. 
 
 "Our marriage," he said, "must be beautiful." 
 
 "We must try and make it so." Her face hard- 
 ened a little. 
 
 He held her again, kissing her. She was begin- 
 ning to sense the protective shielding quality of his 
 love; it seemed to turn her very heart to softness,
 
 rr THE POTTER'S HOUSE 263 
 
 to break up all the hard places. She was glad that 
 Giacomo had broken off their engagement to leave 
 her free to marry Paul. Out of that past pain had 
 been born this wonderful happiness. After all, was 
 it so necessary that they should be so completely 
 separated? Why did her brain turn traitor and 
 impose this hard condition? Why did she feel con- 
 strained to act with a prudence that was cold, brutal, 
 almost unwomanly. 
 
 Her heart told her that she wished to be near 
 Paul so that she might see him as often as possible, 
 until she could be with him altogether. She wanted 
 to taste the full savour of their present happiness. 
 And his presence served most powerfully to dispel 
 those fears and scruples that obsessed her in idle 
 hours, and that even sometimes threatened to gain 
 the upper hand over her. Was she to live through 
 all those months that lay ahead seldom seeing him 
 or feeling his kiss? The thought of that coming 
 separation, of which he as yet knew nothing, made 
 her more tender and gentle to him now. He should 
 have that remembrance of her at least to comfort 
 and sustain him. 
 
 Of course he would not take it well. He would 
 argue that they would have plenty to endure and 
 suffer without adding gratuitously to its sum and 
 measure. Why should she inflict needless misery 
 upon them both ? Why couldn't she live somewhere 
 in the country in a quiet place where he could come 
 and see her? Or stay in Bath with Aunt Letty? 
 And when she did reveal her intention, little by 
 little, almost timidly, as if to try and soften it for 
 him, his fierce and angry arguments took the pre- 
 cise line her imagination had indicated. Then, find- 
 ing these fail, he fell back upon the bitter assertion 
 that she didn't love him, that she could not possibly 
 ever have loved him since she was capable of evolv-
 
 264 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 ing such a scheme expressly to make him miserable I 
 His final furious outcry was the demand: 
 
 "If you were so ready to marry this this Italian 
 in October, why can't you be ready to marry me 
 then?" 
 
 She had not expected this attack ; it fell upon her 
 like a blow. It was as if Paul were demanding 
 whether she alone possessed the right to inflict pain. 
 She had no answer ready. 
 
 "Weren't you planning as you yourself said to 
 spend your honeymoon at Frascati in October? 
 
 He was beside himself with jealous anger. Gil- 
 lian felt almost afraid of him. 
 
 "What made you promise him so much and me 
 so little?" 
 
 ,"Oh, don't let us quarrel, Paul. It would have 
 been so different marrying abroad, away from every 
 one. I do want to avoid unnecessary gossip." 
 
 "And are there no gossips in Rome?" he de- 
 manded angrily. 
 
 "Yes, but they didn't know me. Here we simply 
 can't be married before January. Then the year 
 will be up." 
 
 "You're bent on killing me," he said; "I can't 
 bear it, Jill. I've borne enough alt these long 
 months of silence. I can't go back to it, and if you 
 cared at all for me you would not wish me to." 
 
 His face wore a white, bleak look that hurt her. 
 
 "But it won't be silence, Paul dear. I shall write 
 ever so often, every day if you like. Only you 
 must let me have my way. It's the only condition 
 on which I can be engaged to you. If it's too hard 
 for you you must take the alternative and let us be 
 as we were not engaged." 
 
 "Between you and my mother I shall have a nice 
 rime," he groaned. 
 
 "It's only six months, Paul."
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 265 
 
 Again she pushed back his smooth, strong hair 
 with that caressing, comforting, beautiful gesture 
 of hers. . . . 
 
 "When do you mean to go?" he asked. "I can 
 get leave before the manoeuvres. If you were in 
 town then we could see each other." 
 
 "Yes, I'll do that, Paul. Then I will leave early 
 in August. I am sure the six months will pass very 
 quickly." 
 
 He still looked sceptical. 
 
 "You are sure quite sure that you love me, 
 Jill?" he asked. 
 
 "So sure that it hurts me to do what I know will 
 be best for us both." 
 
 "If it hurt you as it hurts me you wouldn't do it," 
 he said. 
 
 "I wonder," she answered quietly. 
 
 His anger had subsided; he looked crestfallen and 
 miserable. Aware of something that he considered 
 capricious and changeable in Gillian's disposition, 
 the condition she had offered him as well as its 
 suggested alternative had filled him with an icy fear 
 that seemed actually to impair for the moment his 
 vitality, his physical strength. She dominated him, 
 and if there were a way of dominating her he did 
 not know it. He told himself that he had to sur- 
 render and submit because a man who is in love 
 will submit almost to anything. He could run no 
 risk of losing her by any further setting forth of 
 his own claim, his own point of view. . . .
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 MISS LETTY demurred a little when Gillian first 
 suggested that Paul was hoping she might in- 
 vite him to spend a week-end in Brock Street before 
 she herself went to London. The engagement was 
 a profound secret, and it was highly necessary that 
 it should remain one. Although the decree abso- 
 lute had now been pronounced it would cause a great 
 deal of gossip and scandal if the news of Gillian's 
 engagement leaked out prematurely. Apart from 
 this more serious aspect of the case, Miss Stanway 
 was mildly flustered at the thought of entertaining 
 him; she had a nervous fear or those whom she 
 was wont to designate as "smart London people," 
 and the very fact that Paul was an officer in a cav- 
 alry regiment increased her alarm. Gillian knew 
 that the little house offered no luxuries. It was still 
 exactly as Miss Letty's father and mother Gillian's 
 own grandparents had left it. Miss Stanway in- 
 timated that what had been good enough for them 
 was good enough for herself, but one could not 
 expect young men of the present day, brought up 
 to every kind of luxury and comfort, to hold the 
 same views. 
 
 "Oh, Paul has very simple tastes. He will be 
 perfectly happy," said Gillian. She almost added 
 that in this respect he did not resemble Aylmer, 
 who after the first experience of it had refused to 
 submit himself to the Spartan regime of Brock 
 Street; but she felt that the mention of Aylmer 
 might still further perturb her aunt. 
 
 "But, my dear, people are sure to talk. It will 
 never do." Miss Letty had a wholesome fear of 
 gossip. 
 
 "No one need know he's here. We are ift \ich 
 266
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 267 
 
 deep mourning, and then every one knows the Pal- 
 lants are our cousins," said Gillian. 
 
 In the end she won her point, though not until 
 after Miss Letty had most diligently searched her 
 own heart to try and discover what her sister's 
 wishes on the subject would have been. It was 
 impossible, however, for her to come to any definite 
 decision upon this point. Miss Matty had always 
 been rather severe than indulgent towards Gillian; 
 had even thought it necessary to deprive her of 
 quite harmless pleasures as a matter of "discipline." 
 But now that she was a grown woman a married 
 woman (Miss Letty cherished a respect almost 
 amounting to reverence for the married state), it 
 was impossible to deny her anything for such a rea- 
 son; even Miss Matty would not have adopted such 
 a course. She would have been compelled to judge 
 the case on its own merits. Miss Letty finally gave 
 a timid consent, and Paul was forthwith invited. 
 
 The two spent much of their time on the river. 
 The hot weather had driven many of the inhabitants 
 of Bath to the seaside, and Miss Letty was glad to 
 think that scarcely a single one of her own friends 
 remained in the city. If, therefore, she had been 
 guilty of an imprudence in inviting Paul, no one 
 would witness or condemn that imprudence. 
 
 Bright burning July days characterised that week- 
 end Paul spent in Bath. Of the Spartan conditions 
 obtaining in Brock Street he never retained any 
 significant remembrance. The cuisine which had 
 repelled Aylmer was unnoticed by him. He was 
 with Gillian, under the same roof, and it would 
 have been churlish to the gods who had granted so 
 much and so splendidly to criticise that roof. . . . 
 
 The Avon winding between its twin rows of pol- 
 lard willows, with the distant prospect of green 
 woods and hills faintly lilac-coloured in the summer
 
 268 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 haze, was well known to Gillian Driscoll from her 
 girlhood days. She was very happy during those 
 hours they spent there, with Paul sitting opposite 
 to her lazily rowing the light boat. His shirt-sleeves 
 rolled back beyond the elbows, revealed his lean 
 and muscular brown arms. She liked to watch the 
 measured rhythmic movements of those arms. She 
 herself undertook to steer the boat, but performed 
 this task indifferently and negligently, for her mind 
 was preoccupied with the thought of Paul. She felt 
 that she had fallen upon a little oasis of ineffable 
 peace, welcome as the sight of a well with palms 
 must prove to the weary Saharan traveller. It was 
 a peace so perfect that one did not stop to analyse 
 it, nor even pause to call it joy; it was like an 
 atmosphere that enveloped her after fierce storms. 
 She thought she was more perfectly and more tran- 
 quilly happy than she had ever been in her life 
 before. She had no fears for the future. She 
 could picture herself going hand in hand with Paul, 
 through all the days, through all the years . . . glad 
 and sad. ... What could gladness and sadness 
 matter, so only they were together? 
 
 "Oh, Paul, isn't it deliciously peaceful?" she said 
 one golden evening when he rowed the boat under 
 the deep shade of the willows and paused contem- 
 plating her. 
 
 He nodded his head in assent. Then he shipped 
 his oars and leaned his chin on his brown hands, 
 looking up into her face. 
 
 It was very silent there. Across the placid river 
 the sun was trailing a path of primrose-coloured 
 light which made the shadows seem by contrast 
 more deep and definite. Rows of pink ragged robins 
 and clusters of blue forget-me-nots made soft 
 blots of delicate colour along the banks that were 
 clothed with long, green grasses blown back by the
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 269 
 
 wind. Swallows flew overhead. In the distance 
 they could hear the murmur of children's voices and 
 laughter. But they themselves seemed to be plunged 
 suddenly into a remote, uninhabited worm, alone 
 together in a beautiful and unimagined solitude. 
 
 "Up till now I have been almost afraid of happi- 
 ness," said Gillian. 
 
 "And now?" He looked at her smiling. His 
 own attitude towards life was simple and straight- 
 forward, but there was always something compli- 
 cated about Gillian which often baffled but always 
 delighted him. 
 
 "I am not afraid any more. You have brought 
 peace to my heart, Paul." 
 
 Yet even as she spoke she wondered if he had 
 destroyed or only stilled as with some powerful ano- 
 dyne those fears and scruples that had once held 
 her. . . . 
 
 It was not often that she ventured to utter any 
 unprovoked sentimental speech to Paul, but he ac- 
 cepted it quite simply. 
 
 "I'm glad at least to have done that, dear 
 Jill. . . ." 
 
 Gillian had taken off her hat a large shady one 
 of black tulle with a single black rose and a sun- 
 beam dribbling through the boughs touched her dark 
 hair to unsuspected gold. Paul thought she looked 
 both thin and fragile in her black dress ; he was not 
 sure that black suited her too well, and he wished 
 that she had not been obliged to wear mourning 
 now in the first days of their engagement. Her 
 face was very calm, and wore a simple almost girlish 
 expression of contentment, and it seemed to him 
 that her eyes were less sad. 
 
 "I feel that nothing can ever come between us 
 and our happiness," she added, after a moment's 
 pause.
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 "Ah," he said abruptly, "don't challenge fate like 
 that, my dear Jill! I am not superstitious . . . 
 but I feel as if the whole world were engaged in a 
 vast conspiracy to rob us of our happiness. I wish 
 you could be locked up in a tower like the princess 
 in the fairy tale until January comes." 
 
 Gillian shivered a little. His mood of unreason- 
 ing fear communicated itself to her and something 
 of the brightness of the day seemed to have dimin- 
 ished under it. She said, trying to speak lightly^ 
 
 "But even that didn't save her from her fate, 
 Paul." 
 
 She wondered why he should have these misgiv- 
 ings while she herself had come to feel so strangely 
 assured of their future happiness. 
 
 He rose gingerly, stood for a moment balancing 
 himself, then made two cautious steps towards her. 
 She felt his arms round her and closed her eyes 
 to feel his lips touching hers. They were alone 
 in the world she and Paul. Only the willows 
 watched them and whispered the secret softly to 
 each other. 
 
 At last he said with an effort: 
 
 "If you still decide to wait until January I shall 
 take second leave this year. It begins about Christ- 
 mas. We could be married in the first days of 
 January, and go straight to the South of France." 
 
 He waited for her answer. 
 
 As she did not speak he added almost violently: 
 
 "That'll be giving fate five months and a half in 
 which to do her worst!" 
 
 "Why are you so afraid of waiting, Paul?" 
 
 "I don't know. But I am afraid. ..." 
 
 "I think we might be married in the first days 
 of January," she said. "You'll see then how foolish 
 -how unnecessarily anxious you have been."
 
 EARLY in the following week Gillian went to town. 
 She stayed at a quiet hotel in Mayfair, making 
 no immediate plans for departure although she in- 
 tended vaguely to start for Switzerland in about ten 
 days, and remain there for a few weeks before go- 
 ing on to Italy. 
 
 Paul was to be in town for a few days before the 
 annual manoeuvres ; he had put in for leave, and thus 
 they would be able to see a little of each other, 
 since Miss Letty was rather averse to repeating the 
 somewhat hazardous experiment of inviting him to 
 Brock Street. His first visit had passed off almost 
 unnoticed, but a repetition might cause comment. 
 In the face of this attack of prudence Gillian 
 evolved the scheme of going to town. She was en- 
 couraged in this by the fact that Lady Pallant had 
 already left for Scotland with Joan, and the house 
 in Belgrave Square was closed. There was, there- 
 fore, no chance of meeting her. Paul intended to 
 stay at his club. 
 
 In Central Europe the cloud, no bigger than a 
 man's hand, had already gathered. . . . 
 
 Gillian had a few days alone before Paul could 
 get away. She enjoyed the solitude after those 
 weeks of Miss Letty's exhausting conversation. She 
 felt rather averse, too, to seeking out any of her old 
 friends. She seemed a stranger in this London 
 world where once she had been so well known. 
 
 One evening when she had gone out for a little 
 walk she suddenly encountered Amaryllis Porter, 
 coming from the direction of the Park and accom- 
 panied by a handsome sunburnt young man whom 
 she immediately introduced as Captain Sprot. 
 
 "My dear Jill I'd no idea you were back in 
 England. When did you leave Assisi?" 
 
 271
 
 272 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 "Oh, ages ago," said Gillian. "My aunt died and 
 I came back for her funeral. I've been staying in 
 Bath." 
 
 "Our wedding is fixed for Thursday fortnight," 
 said Amaryllis. "I'll send you a card. You must 
 be sure and come. The reception is to be at the 
 Hyde Park Hotel." 
 
 "Oh, I'll come to the church, not to the recep- 
 tion," said Gillian quickly. "It might hurt Aunt 
 Letty's feelings." She glanced at her black dress. 
 
 "Very well, just as you like, as long as you do 
 come," said Amaryllis. "By the way, I must come 
 and have a long talk with you without Hengist." 
 She glanced at him with a frank smile. 
 
 "Come to tea to-morrow then," said Gillian; 
 "perhaps Captain Sprot will look in later." 
 
 The young man smiled. "I shall be delighted," 
 he said. 
 
 He had a pleasant, open, frank face with keen 
 blue eyes and a charming smile. Tall as he was, 
 there could scarcely have been half an inch between 
 them. 
 
 Amaryllis appeared punctually on the following 
 day. She was full of her wedding, of her presents 
 and her trousseau; of the hours she had spent at 
 the dressmaker's, and of Mrs. Porter's collapse 
 under the strain of it. 
 
 "But she's sure to buck up all right when the 
 day comes," said Miss Porter with unimpaired 
 cheerfulness. "We're going to have a long honey- 
 moon as Hengist doesn't have to be back in Egypt 
 until the end of September. We shall go north and 
 spend most of the time playing golf." 
 
 Gillian leaned her chin on her hand and looked 
 at Amaryllis almost wistfully. The future seemed 
 to her so clear, so serene and straightforward, just 
 as her own had promised to be in the days when she 
 was engaged to Aylmer Driscoll.
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 273 
 
 She said impulsively: 
 
 "I've got something to tell you, Ammy. But it's 
 a great secret. You must promise you won't tell 
 any one, even Captain Sprot." 
 
 "Of course I promise," said Amaryllis easily; 
 "what is it, Jill? It isn't anything bad, is it?" she 
 added, suddenly realising that Gillian was looking 
 both unhappy and perplexed. 
 
 "Oh no, it isn't bad, Ammy." But her smile 
 even now was not altogether successful. "I'm going 
 to be married again." 
 
 "Married? Well, that is good news, Jill I Who 
 is it? Any one I know?" 
 
 "I'm going to marry my cousin, Paul Pallant," 
 said Gillian gravely. "We don't want any one to 
 know till much nearer the time. His mother is very 
 angry about it she won't receive me." 
 
 She had the feeling that in some way Amaryllis 
 would help to dispel some of her own doubts and 
 difficulties which always sprang up in such abundance 
 whenever Paul was absent. 
 
 "What beastly hard lines !" said Miss Porter sym- 
 pathetically. "However, I hope you're not bother- 
 ing your head about that, Jill. I always said that 
 she was a cantanky old woman!" 
 
 She rose and bestowed upon Gillian two smacking 
 kisses, one on each cheek. "I'm most awfully glad 
 to hear the news," she said heartily. "I hope you're 
 going to be married soon." 
 
 "Oh, certainly not before January," said Gillian. 
 "I told Paul that I thought we ought to wait until 
 the year is up." 
 
 "Don't wait," said Amaryllis; "why, you might 
 both be deadl Six months is an awful age. . . . 
 And whose feelings do you want to spare? Not 
 Aylmer's surely?" 
 
 "The world's," said Mrs. Driscoll, who was
 
 274 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 already beginning to feel braced by her friend's 
 bright, normal, and wholesome manner of looking 
 at things. She was deriving the precise kind of 
 comfort she had hoped for from her. 
 
 Amaryllis gave a snort of contempt. 
 
 "I don't care that for the world!" she said, 
 snapping her long sunburnt fingers with the happy 
 air of one who has never felt the sting of malicious 
 tongues; "what does Mr. Pallant say?" 
 
 "Of course he wants it to be sooner. But then, 
 men always want to get married directly, when they 
 are once engaged," said Gillian. 
 
 "Well, I think myself his scheme's the sound one ! 
 Get married you will be ever so much happier than 
 hanging round waiting for six months." 
 
 "I shan't hang round. I'm going abroad again." 
 
 "What back to Italy?" cried Miss Porter in as- 
 tonishment. "And what does Mr. Pallant say to 
 that?" 
 
 "He doesn't like it much, of course," confessed 
 Gillian, "but I wouldn't be engaged under any other 
 condition." She set her lips. 
 
 "It seems to me from your own account, Jill, that 
 you're giving that poor man an uncommonly thin 
 time." 
 
 "Am I?" Her smile conveyed no hint of mirth. 
 
 "By the way," said Ammy, "did you see much 
 more of Mr. Frazer after we left Assisi?" 
 
 "Not not very much." Gillian felt the blood 
 mounting to her forehead and was angry with her- 
 self for this display of emotion. 
 
 "Does he write to you?" 
 
 "I heard from him once," she admitted reluc- 
 tantly. "I didn't answer the letter." 
 
 "I always thought he was in love with you," ob- 
 served Miss Porter complacently. 
 
 "I am sure he was nothing of the kind I I don't 
 believe he even liked me," said Gillian warmly.
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE; 275 
 
 "He was an uncommonly decent sort," said 
 Ammy, "but I expect I should find more to say to 
 him at North Berwick than I ever did at Assist. 
 Stuffy little place, wasn't it, Jill? Oh, you can call 
 me a Philistine if you like, but I felt simply choked 
 there. Choked by the atmosphere or whatever you 
 call it it seemed to catch you by the throat!" 
 ^ "Oh, did you feel like that?" said Gillian inter- 
 fested. 
 
 But Amaryllis switched off the conversation, and 
 resumed a more congenial topic. 
 : "Oh, by the way, I saw Patience Ferrard the 
 other day and heard some Roman gossip from her. 
 That young brother-in-law of Imogen's the Mar- 
 chese della Meldola is engaged to Grace Widness. 
 You remember the American girl who cut Patience 
 out?" 
 
 "Oh yes, quite well," said Gillian, flushing a little. 
 She wondered if Patience had imparted anything 
 further about Giacomo, but she did not dare ask. 
 She had learned now to be heartily ashamed of the 
 whole affair. But it had left certain impressions 
 upon her mind that she knew could never be effaced; 
 perhaps that was why she hated to be reminded of it. 
 
 "Mrs. Widness will be delighted," she added 
 guardedly, "and so will the old Marchesa." 
 
 She pictured Grace, the happy and delighted 
 little handmaid, trotting dutifully around after her 
 mother-in-law, accompanying her in her innumerable 
 works of charity. But the thought caused her no 
 envy. 
 
 "Patience declares he's not the least bit in love 
 with her. But then we all know the grapes are 
 sour," said Amaryllis with her buoyant laugh. 
 "They are to be married almost at once, I believe." 
 
 Presently Hengist appeared to fetch his fiancee. 
 He accepted a cup of tea from Gillian, and then 
 asked permission to smoke.
 
 276 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 The two women presented a marked contrast, but 
 he congratulated himself that Amaryllis was not 
 delicate and fragile-looking like Mrs. Driscoll. "I 
 should never have dared take a woman of that type 
 to a bad climate," he thought to himself. 
 
 When he had lighted his cigarette he said quietly: 
 
 "By Jove it really looks this evening as if 
 there would be a scrap!" 
 
 "A scrap!" said Gillian bewildered. 
 
 "Between Austria and Servia," he explained. 
 
 "What tosh I Of course it will be settled all right. 
 There won't be war!" said Amaryllis confidently. 
 
 The words awakened a very disagreeable and 
 almost forgotten memory in Gillian's mind. She 
 had been a little child, less than eight years old, 
 when the South African War broke out, but she 
 could very perfectly remember Miss Matty uttering 
 those same four words in reply to a timid remark of 
 Miss Letty's that "things were looking bad in the 
 Transvaal." "There won't be war. . . ." She was 
 for the moment back in the dining-room at Brock 
 Street, a small child sitting at the breakfast-table 
 between her two aunts, and she could hear Miss 
 Matty saying those words in a tone almost of con- 
 tempt. And her childish belief in the infallibility of 
 her elder aunt had sustained a rude shock by the 
 events that so swiftly followed. There was war 
 a long war, a sad war, and it was possible that many 
 lives were still darkened by its shadow. Something 
 of its sadness had dimmed Gillian's childhood. Her 
 nurse had talked freely in front of her, and she, 
 alert and intelligent, had gathered that there were 
 black days of anxiety, of defeat, of ill-success in 
 the winter that followed. She could remember the 
 troops marching through the streets of Bath, stal- 
 wart men khaki-clad. She could remember going 
 with her nurse to the station, to see them pass amid
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 277 
 
 enthusiastic crowds who had assembled to give them 
 a send-off. And among that crowd were women and 
 girls who wept and refused to be comforted. But 
 on the whole it had been just at first a stirring, dra- 
 matic, hopeful time, full of an excitement that 
 seemed a little unreal because it was so unaccus- 
 tomed. Afterwards Gillian, who was always sensi- 
 tive to atmosphere, caught from her elders some- 
 thing of the profound gloom, the depression, and 
 discouragement that hung like a dismal pall over 
 the black, dark winter days. She remembered a 
 little later that a girl at her school after a few weeks' 
 absence returned wearing a black frock trimmed 
 heavily with crape. Her brother, a youth of eight- 
 een fresh from Woolwich, had been killed on Spion 
 Kop. Many, many people had worn mourning in 
 those days. . . . 
 
 It was all still so fresh in her memory that she 
 wondered how Amaryllis could have forgotten it 
 so completely as to be able to say now with such 
 confidence, "Oh, there won't be war." How could 
 people still cherish the comfortable belief that war 
 had become impossible? Captain Sprot's words had 
 filled her heart with a fear that was inherited from 
 those childish days. . . . 
 
 "Anyhow, England wouldn't have to come in," 
 said Amaryllis. 
 
 In the silence that followed, a curious little inci- 
 dent occurred. Gillian observed that her friend's 
 bright, good-natured face became suddenly grave as 
 if a shadow had passed over it; she turned and 
 looked at Hengist with an expression in her eyes that 
 Mrs. Driscoll had never seen in them before. It 
 was an expression of great tenderness mingled with 
 a strange terror. It made Gillian think of the 
 shadow of fear passing for the first time over the 
 serene face of love.
 
 27$ 'THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 Hengist Sprot kept his eyes rigorously averted, 
 yet something in the expression of his face informed 
 Gillian that he was intuitively aware of Ammy's 
 scrutiny. 
 
 The pause that followed was not quite a normal 
 one; it seemed tense and expectant. 
 
 "I'm not at all sure about that," Hengist an- 
 swered at last, and speaking rather as if the words 
 had been dragged from him. 
 
 "Oh, you've been listening to those horrible old 
 pessimists at your club," said Amaryllis impatiently, 
 "the ones who've always got their terrified eyes on 
 Germany !" 
 
 "They're pretty sound men, some of them," said 
 Hengist. His face wore an anxious expression. 
 
 A gloom had suddenly fallen upon the little party. 
 Captain Sprot had finished his cigarette, and per- 
 ceiving this Amaryllis rose to go. 
 
 She stooped and kissed Gillian. "Good-bye, my 
 dear Jill," she said, "and don't forget Thursday 
 fortnight. But you must come round and dine with 
 us one night." 
 
 Gillian watched them from the window as their 
 two tall figures moved quickly down the street. 
 Their long steps seemed to march in unison. 
 
 He turned to her and said: 
 
 "Charming woman your friend, Mrs. Driscoll." 
 But Ammy only said : 
 
 "You don't really think there will be war, do 
 you?" 
 
 And she looked at him again with that strange 
 new expression in her face. For the first time per- 
 haps in her life Amaryllis Porter's eyes were bright 
 with fear. . , ,
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 THEY had not been gone more than half an hour 
 when Gillian heard a motor stop abruptly out- 
 side. She looked out, more from curiosity than 
 from any other motive, and saw to her surprise 
 Paul's slight figure emerge from the car. 
 
 She had not been expecting him until Saturday, 
 and this sudden unannounced appearance of his 
 three days before he was due increased that vague 
 anxiety which Captain Sprot's words had awakened 
 within her heart. 
 
 He came into her sitting-room a few minutes 
 later, looking preoccupied and rather perturbed as 
 if he had just heard either bad or very important 
 news. And he kissed her, still in that preoccupied 
 way. He was silent, and seemed to be waiting for 
 her to speak. 
 
 Gillian sat down and asked him if he would have 
 some tea. 
 
 "No, thanks," said Paul, "it's too near dinner- 
 time. You must dine with me to-night, Jill; it'll 
 have to be early, because I must get back." 
 
 "I can come at any time," said Gillian tranquilly. 
 "I've just had Ammy Porter and her fiancee Captain 
 Sprot to tea." She paused a moment and then said: 
 "He seemed to think the news was serious." 
 
 "So it is serious," said Paul abruptly; "they've 
 stopped all leave. I came to tell you I shan't get off 
 on Saturday. There's something queer about Ger- 
 many's attitude. 
 
 Gillian drew in her breath sharply. 
 
 "Would it affect us in England?" She looked at 
 him almost pitifully as she spoke. 
 
 "That remains to be seen. But if Germany 
 marches through Belgium to attack France we shall 
 have to come in." 
 
 279
 
 280 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 Both were silent. The cloud was growing larger. 
 Already it was assuming grave proportions; already 
 could be heard as if from afar the steady marching 
 of leviathan armies, the booming thunder of mam- 
 moth guns. . . . 
 
 "You must give up all thought of going abroad, 
 Jill," said Paul in a tone of almost rough authority 
 that, strangely enough, she had now not the slightest 
 inclination to resent. "It wouldn't be safe, even if 
 it were possible. You mightn't be able to get back 
 when you wanted to. Perhaps I shall be the one to 
 go, so you'll have your wish, we shall be separated 
 all right." His tone was light, but she felt that he 
 was acting a part. 
 
 "You mean that you you would have to go?" 
 she said. 
 
 It cost her an effort to steady her voice as she 
 spoke. 
 
 "If there's war we should be among the first," 
 he answered. 
 
 She put out her hands and touched his sleeve. 
 
 "Paul, what do you think yourself?" 
 
 "I think if it comes it'll be the most appalling war 
 the world has ever seen. It will be ... Armaged- 
 don. I wish we had more men." 
 
 Gillian shivered involuntarily and drew her hand 
 away. She saw herself again, a little child clinging 
 to her nurse's hand watching the khaki-clad troops 
 march past on their way to the station at Bath. All 
 along the street women stood sobbing. . . . She 
 had cried a little herself from sheer sympathy, 
 though she understood so little what it all meant. 
 
 "It will mean simply this that Germany's ready, 
 her preparations must be complete. Her only weak- 
 ness is in her fleet." His face clouded. "I shan't 
 be up next week I have to go north on special 
 duty. Jill, if it comes to war we shall be fighting for
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 281 
 
 our lives, don't make any mistake about that." He 
 came near her then, and putting his arms around her 
 drew her to him and kissed her. "I wish it were 
 October, my dear. I don't believe that you'd say 
 no to me now. One or two of our chaps have de- 
 cided to get married at once." 
 
 The sense of unreality deepened in Gillian. She 
 felt as if she had been called upon suddenly and 
 without warning to contemplate an approaching 
 catastrophe which it had been made impossible to 
 avert. It was like watching a train making headlong 
 speed towards the edge of a frightful precipice. 
 
 Scarcely a week ago she had spent happy, peace- 
 ful, indolent days with Paul on the Avon; it seemed 
 then as if nothing could part them or come between 
 them and their ultimate happiness. Now the threat- 
 ened frustration came like a dark shadow between 
 them. She clung to Paul's hand. 
 
 "It's the worst of luck for me that we can't be 
 married now," he said quietly. 
 
 Suddenly she recognised what it might mean for 
 her if the worst came to the worst and war should 
 be declared. It seemed to her already as if Paul 
 were slipping from her grasp. Already he was a 
 little further away. She had spoken confidently of 
 marrying him in January ; it came into her mind now 
 that the ordering of human affairs was a less easy 
 thing to accomplish than she had supposed. One 
 might hope and plan and prepare, but the future lay 
 wrapped in obscurity. Perils, obstacles emerged 
 from the obscurity to defeat those plans, destroying 
 them as if they had been frail houses built of cards. 
 And as her mind pursued this train of thought a 
 sick cold feeling of actual physical fear came over 
 her. Had she fought for her happiness and fought 
 in vain? Was she going to lose Paul, not through 
 his infidelity as she had lost Aylmer, nor through his
 
 282 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 stubborn religious principles as she had lost Giaco- 
 mo, but through a mightier power the Angel of 
 Death who reaps men as with a scythe ? She turned 
 sharply away from Paul and a sob broke from her. 
 H.e took her hand in his, stroking it gently, trying to 
 soothe and quiet her by this simple action. 
 
 "My mother's taken fright," he said presently; 
 "I've had a wire from her she's coming back to 
 town. She's asked me to go there. Joan is com- 
 ing too." 
 
 He had been a little suprised at receiving this 
 invitation from his mother; since the disclosure of 
 his engagement they had not communicated. 
 
 "Oh, shall you see her?" said Gillian. 
 
 "If I can get up again to-morrow I'm going to 
 see her," he said; "she says she's got important news 
 to tell me." 
 
 "Important news? I wonder what it can be?" 
 said Gillian. 
 
 "Something to do with Alastair Grant and Joan, 
 I expect," said Paul. "They've been staying near 
 his people in Scotland. I shouldn't wonder if Joan 
 had made up her mind to marry him at last." 
 
 "Ammy's going to be married on Thursday fort- 
 night," said Gillian; "she asked me to go to the 
 wedding." 
 
 As she spoke she recalled with a sinking of the 
 heart the look she had intercepted that afternoon 
 the look that Miss Porter had bestowed upon Hen- 
 gist. Love shadowed by fear . . . love shadowed 
 by fear . . . love the conqueror trembling and 
 afraid because for the time he sees as in some 
 obscure vision the dark waters of Charon's dim 
 flood, across which each lonely soul must pass. . . . 
 
 There was no long suspense. In less than a week 
 the first blow had fallen. The first paralysis had
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 283 
 
 been succeeded by a strange energy. The world was 
 suddenly transformed. A loyal Ireland displayed 
 a sudden tranquillity in the face of the approaching 
 storm. The outrages of the Suffragettes, which had 
 for so long irritated and perplexed the nation, 
 ceased. No one spoke of anything but war. No 
 one read anything but the dreadful newspapers. 
 Wild and extravagant stories of victory and defeat 
 were circulated only to be contradicted. Troops 
 were moved mysteriously, stealthily, across the 
 Channel. There were no demonstrations of fare- 
 well such as Gillian remembered nearly fifteen years 
 before, no frantic send-offs, no enthusiasm of de- 
 parture. Bands and bugles were hushed. Some- 
 times there were not even individual farewells, there 
 was no time. The railway service was dislocated by 
 the movements of the troops. A profound mystery 
 drew a thick curtain across those movements. 
 Everything was accomplished swiftly and secretly. 
 Gillian experienced in those first days a nerveless, 
 helpless paralysis of mind and body which possessed 
 many women at that time. She sat in her room 
 nearly all day, eating mechanically a few scraps of 
 the meals that were brought to her with such terrible 
 regularity. She felt incapable of action and envied 
 her more fortunate sisters who had flung themselves 
 whole-heartedly into an orgy of work, of knitting 
 and sewing and Red Cross classes. 
 
 One morning she received a note from Amaryllis 
 Porter. "We have decided not to risk waiting," the 
 letter ran; "we shall be married at nine o'clock on 
 Saturday morning and there will be no reception. 
 Come if you can, dear Jill." 
 
 She envied Ammy. . . . 
 
 The note was quickly followed by one from Paul, 
 dated from his mother's house in Belgrave Square : 
 
 "Alastair and Joan have fixed it up. I'm to give 
 her away if I can next Monday."
 
 284 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 She felt bewildered. There was something tragic 
 about these marriages, as of women marrying dying 
 men. . . . 
 
 From time to time Paul came to see her; his visits 
 were brief and generally unexpected. She hardly 
 dared leave the house for fear of missing him or a 
 message from him. The telephone bell made her 
 start and tremble. Her nerves were jarred by the 
 inertia, the suspense. When Paul came he seemed 
 to her changed. He was eager and full of ardour 
 for the coming campaign. She felt as though she 
 no longer occupied the first place in his life, in his 
 thoughts. When he came to say good-bye to her 
 she could not cry ; her heart seemed turned to stone. 
 He told her that he would be leaving in two days. 
 It was a great secret. People were forbidden to 
 speak of the movements of the troops; it might en- 
 danger their safe transit to France. He would write 
 to her when he got across. She was stunned and be- 
 wildered by the awful upheaval . . . she kissed 
 Paul and received his kisses uncomprehendingly. A 
 sudden vision of her little school-friend in Bath rose 
 before her eyes . . . she could see the very way in 
 which the black frock had been fashioned with a 
 deep hem of crape that gave a curious air of mature 
 dignity to the childish small figure. Yes that was 
 the kind of thing that happened in war. . . . She 
 might never see Paul again. Why had she ever 
 felt so sure of their happiness? It had been so close 
 to them, theirs almost for the taking . . . surely 
 it could not now be cruelly frustrated? . . . She 
 put out two groping, clinging hands, as if to hold 
 him back from all the dangers that encompassed 
 him. . . . 
 
 "Paul Paul what does it mean?" she cried. 
 Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. 
 
 He tried to calm her.
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 285 
 
 "We shall want all our courage, my darling," he 
 said, taking her in his arms with a kind of passion- 
 less tenderness. "It isn't going to be easy for any 
 of us for women as well as for men. Women who 
 lost their husbands in South Africa may have to 
 give their sons now. Sons who were perhaps too 
 little to remember their fathers' faces ..." 
 
 She looked at him then as if trying to photograph 
 his face for ever upon her mind the smooth black 
 hair that grew so thickly against his forehead, the 
 striking and unusual pallor of his face with its heavy- 
 lidded, melancholy eyes and thinly pencilled black 
 eyebrows, his smile that was at once rare and singu- 
 larly attraciive. He had become in those days most 
 passionately dear to her. It was as if a gigantic 
 mirror had been held up before the whole nation 
 wherein each individual beheld the secrets of his own 
 heart in due proportion and without possibility 
 of evasion. The false gods fell in that hour. The 
 sifting of the wheat was accomplished as it were 
 automatically. Each heart knew in the reflection of 
 that gigantic mirror the thing that in all the world 
 was most dear, most precious. . . . There was no 
 escaping that knowledge. 
 
 And for Gillian the whcle world had become sud- 
 denly empty; it held only herself and Paul. . . . 
 She felt as if only now had she learned what love 
 could mean. . . .She did not understand the 
 Gillian who had once treated that love so lightly, 
 had tried to put another in its place, had thought 
 and spoken carelessly of repudiating it. 
 
 It was only after he had gone that evening that 
 she was able to cry.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 GILLIAN had never at any time a detailed remem- 
 brance of the first days of the Great War. 
 Events followed each other too rapidly, so quickly 
 that their outlines blended one with another. Noth- 
 ing stood out sharply or distinctly; all was blurred 
 and confused as if it had taken place in the dark. 
 She seemed to lose all sense of the passing of time. 
 
 She was one of those people who in times of very 
 acute anxiety require to be alone. She therefore 
 moved into a little furnished house in Chelsea near 
 the Embankment. It was in a very quiet road, and 
 its shady garden made a pleasant refuge in those 
 September days. But those first weeks were to her 
 like an eternity of torment, formless and nebulous. 
 
 The world held its breath watching with eyes of 
 anguish the fierce and pitiless grinding underfoot of 
 Belgium, followed by the mad rush of the enemy 
 Paris-wards. The people of France were on their 
 knees; their churches were open day and night, re- 
 ceiving vast throngs of men, women, and little chil- 
 dren. A hundred thousand candles were piously lit 
 that week in the Church of Our Lady of Victories. 
 It seemed impossible that Paris should be saved. 
 When the German strategy failed suddenly and com- 
 pletely within sight of its objective it seemed as if an 
 audible sob of relief went up from the throats of 
 those kneeling worshippers. There was a, hint, 
 spoken of guardedly in some quarters, openly in 
 others, of miraculous intervention at the Battle of 
 the Marne. Paris was safe. . . . 
 
 Before he left for France, Paul and his mother 
 were completely reconciled. It was indeed a time of 
 general reconciliation. In the face of that one 
 great enemy, ever nearing the gate, all lesser enmities 
 were set aside; there was no longer any room for 
 
 286
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 287 
 
 them. People forgot their feuds. Hatchets of quite 
 respectable antiquity were suddenly buried. The 
 hardest hearts softened. The most miserly gave 
 abundantly; there was a spontaneous emanation of 
 love, sympathy, and altruism. Many prayed to 
 whom the habit of prayer had long been unknown. 
 Golden lads flocked to the recruiting stations. The 
 very face of England was changed. . . . 
 
 Gillian spent the time for the most part alone. 
 She shrank from her fellow-creatures, afraid to dis- 
 close her pain. She was like a stricken animal that 
 creeps away to hide its hurt. To many proud natures 
 there is something shameful and degrading in suffer- 
 ing, whether it be physical or mental; it seems to 
 impose humiliation upon soul and body. It is a thing 
 to be hidden at all costs. Those who pray for it and 
 welcome it in deep submission belong already per- 
 haps to the ranks of the Saints. . . . 
 
 Sometimes Joan came to see her a hurried visit 
 between two meetings. Mrs. Grant was a fully 
 qualified Red Cross nurse, and was eagerly awaiting 
 the hour when her qualifications should be put to a 
 practical test. If Gillian had been capable of smiling 
 in those days she would have smiled at the immense 
 change that had come over Joan. There was a new 
 assertiveness about her, a disposition to criticise 
 others, a determination to impose her own point of 
 view upon the world in general. She had been only 
 too ready to accept her husband's estimate of her 
 own absolute infallibility. From this pedestal to 
 which he had raised her Joan had learnt in these days 
 to look down upon Mrs. Driscoll. As a happy wife 
 she was able to feel a little contemptuous disdain for 
 the woman who had so conspicuously failed in her 
 own marriage. 
 
 She found Jill one afternoon sitting out idly in 
 the garden, with a book lying open in her lap.
 
 288 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 "I can't think how you can be so idle, Jill, at such 
 a time," she remarked reprovingly. 
 
 "Can't you?" said Gillian listlessly. 
 
 "Alastair likes me to be busy; he wouldn't care 
 to think I was mooning about all day with my hands 
 in my lap!" 
 
 "You are quite right, my dear Joan, to do what 
 your husband wishes," said Gillian. 
 
 "You might at least knit I" 
 
 Mrs. Grant's tone was becoming exasperated. Of 
 what use to prick when your victim gives no sign 
 of pain? 
 
 "I don't know how," confessed Gillian. 
 
 "Oh, I could soon teach you ! Have you got some 
 pins and wool?" 
 
 "Not now, thank you, my dear Joan," said Mrs. 
 Driscoll quickly. "I'm really paying lots of people 
 to knit, if you must know!" 
 
 "Still one wants to feel one's doing something I" 
 said Joan. 
 
 She wondered now at her own old extravagant ad- 
 miration of all that Gillian did and said. Alastair 
 had openly confessed that he did not admire women 
 of "that type," and thought Paul was making a very 
 great mistake, one that he might possibly live to 
 repent. Thus was the old idol summarily dethroned 
 and dispossessed by the new. "And of course she 
 is appallingly useless," Joan thought to herself. "A 
 national crisis like this shows people up in their true 
 colours !" 
 
 "Do you sit out here all day long?" she inquired, 
 glancing around the garden. 
 
 "Not all day, but whenever I feel like it." 
 
 "I suppose Paul writes to you?" 
 
 "I've had one postcard with everything scratched 
 out except that he was quite well one of those 
 printed things."
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 289 
 
 "Oh, yes, mother had one too. I have had two 
 letters from Alastair," said Joan proudly. 
 
 A servant emerged from the house and ap- 
 proached them. 
 
 "Please, ma'am, Mrs. Sprot wants to speak to 
 you on the telephone," she said. 
 
 Gillian got up and ran indoors without stopping 
 to make an apology to Joan for leaving her. 
 
 She took up the receiver. It seemed to her that 
 already she knew what Ammy had to tell her. 
 
 "Are you there? Is that Ammy?" 
 
 She waited. Then: 
 
 "Come and see me, dear Jill. You will come at 
 once, won't you? Mother's away and I've had a 
 telegram. Oh, you understand, don't you? It's 
 about Hengist. Yet, yes, it's really that. Do come 
 as soon as you can. ..." 
 
 Gillian's face was as white as a sheet when she 
 went back into the garden. 
 
 "I'm awfully sorry, Joan," she began, "but I'm 
 going round to see Mrs. Sprot at once . . . she's 
 had bad news. ..." Her words came pitifully. 
 Joan sprang up, and it was the old Joan, a meek, 
 tender-hearted, tearful girl who stood before her. 
 
 "Oh, Jill dear, you don't mean that?" The tears 
 were in her blue eyes. She put her arms round 
 Gillian's neck and kissed her. "Oh, poor thing 
 she was only married two or three days before we 
 werel Let me take you there in the motor. I'm 
 not going anywhere this afternoon." 
 
 Gillian went upstairs and put on her hat. She 
 and Joan started off in the motor without delay. 
 They scarcely spoke a word on the way to Albemarle 
 Street, where Ammy and her mother had taken 
 rooms. Even Joan saw the necessity for silence. 
 
 There are killed and wounded by war of whom 
 no returns reach Downing Street. ... ... .,_
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 When Gillian first saw Amaryllis she remembered 
 those words from the poignant little history of Jack- 
 anapes. She knew that she was in the presence of 
 one of the innumerable uncounted wounded in war 
 of whom no official record is ever kept. It was 
 pitiable to see her. Her brave cheery manner 
 seemed to Gillian the saddest thing of all. The tele- 
 gram, a few hours old, lay in her hand. 
 
 "Dear Jill, how simply sweet of you to come. Of 
 course I always knew it was going to happen . . . 
 but I didn't think it would be so soon." Ammy's 
 blue eyes were quite clear and tearless. She stood 
 up looking very tall and erect. "These have been 
 awful days, haven't they? You see he was almost 
 one of the first." Her voice dropped a little. 
 
 Gillian laid her slim white hand on Mrs. Sprot's 
 big sunburnt one. 
 
 "Dear," dear Ammy," she said, "how glad you 
 must be now that you were his wife. ..." 
 
 "It's just two months since we were married," 
 said Amaryllis, twisting her wedding ring. "Yes 
 I'm very, very glad I was his wife. I wish I could 
 have seen him before he died. . . . I'm sure he 
 was splendid." She stopped, and raised the hand 
 with the ring on it to her lips. "When we got en- 
 gaged in Egypt last winter we thought we should 
 have a long, long life together. ... I suppose every 
 one thinks that. . . . And we had less than a week 
 together. ..." She looked pitifully at Gillian. 
 "Couldn't you stay with me ? There's mother's room 
 she won't be back till to-morrow." 
 
 "But of course I'll stay with you, Ammy dear," 
 said Gillian. "I'll just run home and get a few 
 things, and leave my address in case any message 
 
 comes." 
 
 "Ah, that's the dreadful part of it," said Ama- 
 ryllis; "one doesn't dare to go out for a few hours
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 291 
 
 without leaving an address. And now I shall miss 
 my rack. ..." Her voice held for the first time 
 a queer catch in it as if her throat were closing. 
 "You won't be long, will you, Jill?" 
 
 "No, I won't be long," said Gillian; "have you 
 had tea, Ammy? You ought to have some. Give 
 me a cup before I go. ..." 
 
 When the tea came she made Ammy rest on the 
 sofa while she poured it out. Mrs. Sprot was 
 soothed by the silent friendliness of Gillian, her care 
 for her comfort. She drank the tea, for she had 
 eaten nothing all day not since the arrival of the 
 fatal telegram. 
 
 As she lay there Gillian glanced from time to 
 time at her. It seemed to her that in some obscure 
 manner Amaryllis had found a source of consola- 
 tion that was supporting her in her hour of supreme 
 trial. She wondered what it could be, for on the 
 face of it her friend's life was utterly shipwrecked. 
 Through all her absence of sentimentality Gillian 
 could perceive that she had given her whole heart 
 to the man she had married. She had known it 
 ever since the days they had spent at Assisi together, 
 when Amaryllis had spoken to her so openly of her 
 engagement. What could she see ahead of her now 
 to give her that look of tranquil hope in the midst 
 of this desolation? 
 
 At last Amaryllis looked up. 
 
 "I meant to make our marriage such a splendid 
 thing, Jill. I felt I could bear anything as long as I 
 had him with me. I meant never to complain or 
 grouse as so many women do when things go a bit 
 wrong, or when they have to live in places they 
 don't like." 
 
 Gillian said softly: 
 
 "Many women will envy you very much, Ammy, 
 because you had that week's happiness. ..."
 
 292 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 She knew for herself that if she had been Paul's 
 wife her own rack would have lost something of its 
 fierce power to wrench her heart. She could have 
 faced her lot more bravely. Now as she sat there 
 she could not help thinking, "If Paul were to 
 die. ..." Amaryllis was the first of her friends 
 to suffer bereavement, and the event had brought 
 the war most forcibly home to her. Although she 
 had only seen Captain Sprot one or twice, she felt 
 something of the sorrow of a personal loss. He had 
 been so young and strong, so splendidly alive and 
 eager. 
 
 "You mustn't think me a hard-hearted brute not 
 to cry," continued Amaryllis after a pause, "but you 
 know I've never been much of a hand at it, and I 
 simply can't cry now, I only wish I could, I should 
 feel better then. I think my tears have all dried up. 
 I daren't break down, Jill, yet my heart is one big 
 raw wound." 
 
 "I'm sure it is, Ammy dear," said Gillian softly, 
 stroking her friend's hand. 
 
 The caressing gesture seemed to soothe Amaryllis, 
 who lay back against the cushions, and for a few 
 minutes closed her eyes. In repose she looked fear- 
 fully tired, with the fatigue that only a great grief 
 can give. She had been in suspense all these last 
 weeks, and now the sword had fallen, swiftly, with- 
 out warning. . . . 
 
 Suddenly she opened her eyes and stretched out 
 her arms, drawing Gillian's face down to hers. 
 
 "I want to tell you something, Jill darling," she 
 said. 
 
 She whispered a few words into her ear. 
 
 When Gillian drew back her head her own face 
 was wet with tears. 
 
 "Oh, Ammy, I am glad, I am glad!" she said 
 tenderly.
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 293 
 
 "Yes if God gives me Hengist's son I shall have 
 so much, so much to be thankful for. That's why 
 I mustn't break down or make myself ill. That's 
 why I must go on being brave. I can't think of my- 
 self, Jill! My son must be worthy of his father." 
 
 She was already beginning to learn that the war 
 was an easier thing to bear for those women who 
 had children, and who possessed a stake in that 
 future generation for whom the present was being 
 sacrificed. It seemed to form then but a part of the 
 maternal sacrifice which comes naturally to those 
 who have children, a part of that immense unselfish- 
 ness which is to be found throughout nature. It was 
 the blood from the breast of the pelican. . . .
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 ONE day to Gillian's surprise Lady Pallant came 
 to see her. In the national crisis she had for- 
 given Paul, and now she was prepared, temporarily 
 at any rate, to forgive Gillian. The spirit of recon- 
 ciliation was abroad, and had claimed her. Though 
 she had resisted it at first she found herself longing 
 to do something to please her son. She thought it 
 would make him happy if she wrote and told him 
 that she had seen Gillian. His devotion to Mrs. 
 Driscoll was unfortunate, but it was not a thing of 
 yesterday, was no passing and fleeting passion, and 
 he had displayed in this regard an obstinate faith- 
 fulness that was characteristic of the Pallants. 
 
 Lady Pallant was feeling lonely too. She had 
 never spent the month of September in town be- 
 fore, and she found the atmosphere with its stuffy 
 sense of used-up air very trying. Joan had slipped 
 insensibly out of her control through the path of 
 matrimony. She even refused to regard Belgrave 
 Square as her home, preferring to put up at an hotel 
 and thus savour the full joy of her newly acquired 
 liberty. It must be said that at this stage Lady 
 Pallant found her daughter more than a little try- 
 ing. Her thoughts were so completely concentrated 
 upon Alastair that she seemed practically to have 
 forgotten Paul's existence ; she confessed to no anx- 
 iety upon her brother's account. Joan had devel- 
 oped of late on quite new lines; she had become 
 alarmingly prudent, resourceful, and independent. 
 She was critical and contemptuous, and immersed in 
 work of all kinds. She spoke frequently and dis- 
 dainfully of Mrs. Driscoll, whom she visited oc- 
 casionally out of pity, though professing impatience 
 towards her idle uselessness. To hear her one 
 
 294
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 295 
 
 could only picture Gillian as surrendering to an 
 otiose insensibility. A course of this soon drove 
 poor Lady Pallant into the opposite camp, and thus 
 she descended upon Gillian one wet evening early 
 in October. 
 
 When she alighted at the green door of the little 
 house in Chelsea and rang the bell, it was still rain- 
 ing heavily. The door swung back to admit her, 
 and she walked up the little path of wet flags be- 
 tween the remains of what had until lately been a 
 pretty and gay herbaceous border. Only a few 
 Michaelmas daisies and chrysanthemums remained 
 to display blots of soft indefinite colour. The trees 
 in the garden showed diminishing foliage of a sad 
 and rusty brown, and the grass was sodden. Lady 
 Pallant shivered a little as she gazed upon the au- 
 tumnal scene. "What a bore a garden must be in 
 London," she thought; "so much effort and trouble, 
 and so little to show for it all." 
 
 She wondered why Gillian had elected to bury her- 
 self in Chelsea, a picturesque locality no doubt with 
 its pleasant views of the river, but a very incon- 
 venient neighbourhood unless one possessed a motor. 
 
 She had not announced her intention of coming, 
 for she had rather shrunk from committing her 
 reasons to paper. And in these days the world was 
 so changed one did not have to stop and consider 
 whether one would be welcome or not, one took it 
 for granted that one would be. If it were not the 
 millennium it at least resembled it in this respect, 
 that the lion could for the moment lie down with 
 the lamb without unduly alarming that helpless, 
 nervous, and innocent animal. Yet in spite of these 
 reflections, Lady Pallant did feel a moment's acute 
 apprehension as she followed the servant across the 
 little hall into the drawing-room. 
 
 The day was gloomy and a small electric lamp
 
 296 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 burnt on the table by Gillian's side. She rose quickly 
 as her cousin came into the room and went forward 
 to meet her, wondering a little as to her errand, but 
 profoundly convinced that it must be of a pacific 
 nature. Else why should she have come? But 
 another thought a terrible, paralysing thought 
 succeeded the first one. Was she the messenger 
 of bad news? Had she come to tell her that some- 
 thing had happened to Paul? For a second Gillian's 
 heart stood still with terror, but Lady Pallant's first 
 words removed v .his apprehension. 
 
 "My dear Gillian, I have been wishing to pay 
 you a visit for some time past. I hope I have not 
 chosen an inconvenient moment !" 
 
 "Oh no, Cousin Janet I am delighted to sec 
 you. Do sit down and have some tea. It's only 
 just come in." 
 
 Lady Pallant loosened her coat and sat down in 
 the chair indicated by Mrs. Driscoll. She glanced 
 round the room. 
 
 "What a charming nest you have here, by dear," 
 she said. 
 
 "Yes, isn't it pretty?" said Gillian. "I was in 
 luck to get it. Of course it's tiny, but it's quite big 
 enough for me." 
 
 She gave Lady Pallant some tea and then poured 
 out a cup for herself. 
 
 "I suppose," said Lady Pallant without delay, 
 "that you have had news of Paul." 
 
 "Yes, I have had several letters and some post- 
 cards." 
 
 At the mention of Paul her face flushed a little. 
 
 "He seems well, and wonderfully cheerful," said 
 Lady Pallant. 
 
 "Yes," said Gillian. 
 
 Her face softened and Lady Pallant observed the 
 changed expression. It had seemed to her when
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 297 
 
 she first came into the room that Gillian, despite her 
 studied politeness, her careful welcome, had been 
 ever so slightly on the defensive. Perhaps it was 
 only natural, for she must have known through Paul 
 how very strongly his mother had objected to their 
 engagement, even to the point of forbidding him the 
 house should he ever marry her. But Lady Pallant 
 had been prepared for a certain manifestation of 
 prickliness, and she had come to smoke a pipe of 
 peace, for the sake of her son. She stretched out her 
 hand and touched Gillian's. 
 
 "My dear, I am sure you must be feeling very 
 anxious. Ought you to be so much alone?" 
 
 This sudden flourishing of the flag of truce took 
 Gillian a little by surprise. But she returned the 
 pressure of Lady Pallant's hand and said, 
 
 "Yes, of course I am anxious, Cousin Janet. We 
 all are, aren't we? One wakes in the morning with 
 such a dark cloud hanging over one, and at first one 
 can't remember what it is. I can't think why we 
 weren't all deliriously happy before the war . . . 
 our troubles must have been such very little ones. 
 But I'm so used to being alone I don't find that makes 
 much difference." 
 
 "I hope you will come and see me whenever you 
 can," said Lady Pallant, who was determined to per- 
 form her task thoroughly. 
 
 "Thank you very much, Cousin Janet." 
 
 "I am often lonely myself. Joan comes in every 
 day, of course, but generally for such a hurried visit I 
 And she's so wrapped up in Alastair. Of course it 
 is only natural, but I should like to feel that she was 
 not entirely indifferent to her own brother. I do 
 not," confessed Lady Pallant, "find Joan an alto- 
 gether sympathetic companion just now." 
 
 Gillian could not repress a smile. 
 
 "She seems very busy," she observed.
 
 298 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 "Busy? She's out morning, noon, and night. Red 
 Cross, Belgian refugees, soldiers' wives, and I do 
 not know what besides. I am sure it would be far 
 better for her to concentrate upon one thing. But 
 she has her finger in every pie. I can hardly believe 
 it's the same girl who used to be so lazy and loll 
 about half the day." 
 
 "Were you not astonished at her engagement?" 
 inquired Mrs. Driscoll, who secretly sympathised 
 most profoundly with Lady Pallant, for had she 
 not also suffered from Joan's vigorous energy? She 
 had only just been able to stop her from going to 
 urge Amaryllis to join some committee. "Work 
 will keep her thoughts off," Mrs. Grant had con- 
 fidently affirmed. "It's the worst thing in the world 
 for her to be moping alone." Gillian had been com- 
 pelled to speak very plainly and Joan had gone away 
 in a huff. 
 
 "Oh no, I was not at all astonished," said Lady 
 Pallant, helping herself to some cake. "I always 
 knew she meant to have him. Joan could never do 
 anything simply, she always liked to appear mys- 
 terious and evasive, and she enjoyed keeping him on 
 tenter-hooks. No doubt it is very good for a man 
 if you are quite sure of him. But you must be very 
 sure. . . . When she told me of her engage- 
 ment she assured me that she had been in love with 
 him all the time." Something of irritation crept into 
 her manner. The old Joan had been tiresome 
 enough, but she had been at least submissive, if one 
 put one's foot down, and amenable to discipline. But 
 the new Joan was both tiresome, wilful, and opin- 
 ionated, refusing to recognise any authority but the 
 absent Alastair's. 
 
 "Did you notice any change in Joan?" Lady 
 Pallant inquired after a moment's pause. 
 
 "Oh, she was a little inclined to to give me good 
 advice," replied Gillian with a smile.
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 299 
 
 "I hope you snubbed her well," said Lady Pallant. 
 
 "Oh no, I didn't snub her. She is very pleased 
 with herself just now. I didn't want to spoil her 
 pleasure. I just let her go on," said Gillian. She 
 added, "She hasn't been here very lately. I am 
 afraid I annoyed her by not letting her go and see 
 poor Ammy Sprot, who has just lost her husband." 
 
 "You were quite right," said Lady Pallant ap- 
 provingly; "she ought never to have suggested it." 
 
 She looked at Gillian a little curiously as she 
 spoke. It was the first time she had seen her since 
 her engagement to Paul, and she found herself 
 trying to look at her with her son's eyes, endeavour- 
 ing to discover what there could be in this woman to 
 inspire a devotion at once so obstinate and so pas- 
 sionate. The thought that Paul had been ready to 
 submit for her sake to that harsh sentence of exile 
 from his mother's house pierced Lady Pallant's 
 heart as with a sword. Gillian held him with chains. 
 . . . Proud and cold to every one else, Paul was 
 her slave, prepared to endure all things for her sake^ 
 He had made no advances to his mother after the 
 rupture between them; he had never sued her for- 
 giveness nor attempted any reconciliation. She had 
 herself made the first advance by summoning him 
 home; she had gratuitously granted the forgiveness 
 he had neither asked nor sought. But for the tragic 
 accident of the war she would still have been steel- 
 ing her heart, shutting her doors, against him. 
 These reflections held bitterness, and as she looked 
 at Gillian, the cause of it all, that bitterness insen- 
 sibly deepened. Gillian it was who had robbed her 
 of Paul. Paul would have sacrificed the whole world 
 for this one woman. ... As she looked at her 
 Lady Pallant tried to discover wherein this attrac- 
 tion lay. Of course she was pretty, and in an un- 
 usual way, but she was no longer in the first fresh-
 
 300 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 ness of her youth ; those past experiences of hers had 
 made her look more than her twenty-three years, 
 had given her a maturity of outlook, a grave as- 
 surance. Numbers of girls were far prettier. . . . 
 But she had something. Lady Pallant did not deny 
 it. There was a grace about her, a charm elusive 
 but permanent, a suggestion of suffering. Her eyes 
 were beautiful and held a curious sadness. 
 
 Lady Pallant was so immersed in these reflections 
 that she was quite startled when Mrs. Driscoll said 
 suddenly : 
 
 "Did you know that Aylmer had married again?" 
 
 "Married again? How shocking! Of course I 
 had not heard it. Whom has she married?" 
 
 "Deborah Venning," said Gillian slowly. 
 
 "Deborah Venning? Impossible! Your own 
 friend?" Lady Pallant's words were jerked out in 
 a series of staccato notes. 
 
 Gillian flushed a little ; her eyes were fixed on the 
 pattern of the carpet. 
 
 "Yes, my own friend," she said with a bitter- 
 ness she could not control. 
 
 "My dear, it is incredible! Did you know?" 
 
 "Not at first not for a long time. I hadn't a 
 suspicion even," Mrs. Driscoll spoke deliberately 
 but reluctantly. She added quietly, "I hear that 
 Aylmer has gone as a dispatch rider. You see, he 
 was too old to enlist." 
 
 "I wonder Mr. Venning allowed his daughter 
 to make such a marriage," said Lady Pallant severe- 
 
 ly 
 
 Gillian said: "He thinks everything Deborah 
 does quite perfect." 
 
 She remembered Deborah's fear of his eyes be- 
 ing opened. The thought brought a bitter little 
 smile to her lips. 
 
 Lady Pallant broke in abruptly, "I wanted to
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 301 
 
 speak to you about your own engagement, Gillian. 
 Of course you know that I do object very strongly 
 to it. But my objection has nothing personal in it. 
 I disapprove on religious grounds. I hope you have 
 always understood that?" 
 
 "Perfectly, Cousin Janet." There was a hint of 
 prickliness in the brief answer. 
 
 "It is very difficult to reconcile one's religion with 
 one's feelings," pursued Lady Pallant with a sigh. 
 "Of course I forgave Paul before he went abroad. 
 I considered it my duty." 
 
 "I was very, very glad to hear it, Cousin Janet," 
 said Gillian earnestly. "I have always been sorry 
 that I came between you." 
 
 "You've no scruples yourself on the point?" asked 
 Lady Pallant, looking at her with penetrating eyes. 
 "You can't see any reason why you shouldn't marry 
 him?" 
 
 She had no idea that her words touched a raw 
 spot. She knew nothing of Gillian's past struggle, 
 of her rebellion against the Hand that would have 
 moulded her anew, of her shrinking from the pain 
 that that new shaping must have inflicted upon her 
 . . . when she first felt the touch of that Hand 
 which Ian Frazer had warned her would hurt. . . . 
 
 The little face hardened. Gillian said evasively: 
 
 "I know that many people have scruples. But I 
 cannot see that they concern Paul and myself," she 
 added in a curiously controlled voice. 
 
 "When do you think of getting married?" asked 
 Lady Pallant. 
 
 "We spoke of January. I wished to wait until a 
 year had passed. Paul always had a misgiving a 
 kind of presentiment against waiting, even before 
 there was any thought of war. I am free now, and 
 if he wished to have it in October. ..." She
 
 302 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 paused. Her eyes met Lady Pallant's. She won- 
 dered how she would receive this information. 
 
 "He is sure to want it to take place the first 
 moment he can get leave," said Lady Pallant. "I 
 feel positive he will not wait until January." She 
 knew her son's disposition; it was the kind that wears 
 away a stone. "I wonder if you will be able to hold 
 out." She looked at Gillian as if trying to measure 
 her capacity for resistance. 
 
 "Of course it's more difficult now. The war has 
 altered things one wants to do everything one can 
 for them." 
 
 "I quite understand. You mustn't think me hard- 
 hearted and unfeeling. I have been simply torn in 
 two, between my love for Paul and my principles. 
 If everything had been smooth and en regie I should 
 have been the first to welcome you, to urge you not 
 to delay. I want Paul to be happy. It hurt me to 
 see his face at Joan's wedding I knew so well what 
 was passing in his mind." 
 
 When she rose to go she kissed Gillian on both 
 cheeks. 
 
 "Good-bye, my dear take care of yourself. You 
 are looking very pale, and thinner than I like." She 
 paused and then said: "Once I wanted to come and 
 see you and entreat you to give Paul up for my sake 
 as well as for your own. But I can't ask you to do 
 that now, for I know it would break his heart. Don't 
 delay your marriage, Gillian, for anything that I 
 may have said or done in the past. I see that I 
 must give way to Paul in this. And if you make 
 him happy, I shall forgive you everything!" She 
 kissed her again. 
 
 "Thank you, Cousin Janet," said Gillian simply. 
 
 But there were tears in her eyes. She guessed 
 dimly at the great fear which had dominated Lady 
 Pallant to such a point that it had made her haul
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 303 
 
 down her flag and capitulate. The fear seemed to 
 communicate itself to her own heart. She thought 
 of Amaryllis and trembled. 
 
 "And if he does get leave next month?" said 
 Lady Pallant. 
 
 She looked wistfully at Gillian, She seemed to 
 be waiting for her to speak. 
 
 "I can't say anything definite now, Cousin Janet," 
 said Mrs. Driscoll. 
 
 "But you will remember that I have completely 
 and utterly withdrawn my opposition?" said Lady 
 Pallant. 
 
 "Yes, thank you, Cousin Janet." 
 
 It was a relief when Lady Pallant had gone. Her 
 presence disturbed Gillian, though at first she had 
 felt flattered by the unexpected visit, the waving of 
 the flag of truce. Gillian had ever feared those fu- 
 ture snubs, and their effect upon Paul. No man likes 
 to see his wife slighted. . . . She was glad to think 
 that at least his mother's house would not be closed 
 to them. But Lady Pallant's words had revived 
 and re-awakened other thoughts in Gillian's mind. 
 That point-blank question as to whether she pos- 
 sessed no scruples on the point herself had been a 
 chance but well-directed arrow, piercing her to the 
 heart. A whole flood of memories engulfed her. 
 She could see Ian Frazer's face, she could hear his 
 words. She> remembered, too, the impassioned 
 speeches of the Marchesa della Meldola. The 
 impression made upon her by these events was a 
 permanent one. They seemed to touch hands with 
 things that were not temporal but divine. That 
 was why they were so strong, so fierce and merciless 
 in their strength. Once they had flung her in the 
 dust. She had lain there for a moment of incredible 
 humiliation, feeling; as if she could never! again 
 arise and look the world in the face. And she had
 
 304 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 found salve for her wounds in Paul's love. Paul's 
 love had healed her with a beautiful tenderness, 
 evoking her passionate gratitude. She could never 
 be grateful enough to Paul. 
 
 But if the national crisis, the presence of a hither- 
 to unimagined peril had served to slacken Lady 
 Pallant's scruples, it had only intensified Gillian's. 
 She fought against them, believing that as she had 
 conquered them before so she would conquer them 
 now. Paul was hers hers to love and marry. 
 Every day of tragic anxiety made him seem more 
 passionately hers. It was not the moment to think 
 of offering sacrifice before that altar which once 
 had seemed to claim its human victim. . . . 
 
 Gillian sat down and wrote a long letter to Paul 
 to tell him of his mother's visit. He would, she 
 knew, be delighted to hear of it. Although he had 
 been doggedly determined to oppose her in this mat- 
 ter of his marriage he had been deeply wounded by 
 her hostile attitude. But there was one thing she 
 did not mention that final appeal of Lady Pallant's 
 that when he did return home he should not be 
 denied. About their future marriage Gillian said 
 nothing. She seemed to be groping in darkness, 
 trying with helpless hands to push apart the dark 
 clouds that enveloped her. For once she had looked 
 upon the light that lay beyond, and it had threatened 
 to dazzle and blind her eyes with its fierce and 
 cruel brilliancy. . . . She craved only for a dim 
 twilight safe and secure, where she might go hand 
 in hand with Paul.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 IT was a wet warm evening in October. Road and 
 pavement were shining black with rain. Over- 
 head the clouds travelled swiftly, pushed on their 
 way by a westerly wind that threatened to become 
 a gale as night advanced. 
 
 The tense sense of expectancy still reigned in a 
 London that strained its ears only to hear the boom- 
 ing of the guns in Flanders and in France. In the 
 last few weeks it had seemed as if all the horrible 
 prophecies of past years, proclaimed in book, pam- 
 phlet, and novel, had materialised, become incarnate, 
 with grim and deadly fulfilment. 
 
 Gillian had not been out all day. It was one of 
 those days when she preferred to remain restlessly 
 indoors. Throughout the day a succession of news- 
 papers was brought to her; she read each one super- 
 ficially, glanced at the telegrams, at the awful lists, 
 and then flung them aside. Life was horrible. She 
 envied Joan her capacity for work; she envied even 
 Amaryllis for all that the future held for her. . . . 
 
 After tea when it was growing dusk and the lamps 
 were already lit she put on a coat and hat and went 
 down the garden path to the gate. She could see 
 the lights gleaming on the Embankment with a sub- 
 dued and altered brilliancy; there was something 
 furtive about London now, she thought, as of a city 
 trying to hide its own immensity. The wind blew 
 in her face as she stood there irresolutely; then she 
 closed the gate behind her and walked quickly west- 
 ward. 
 
 Once in her walks she had passed a little Catholic 
 church hidden away down a small street ; it occurred 
 to her now that she would like to go there and pray. 
 Lately she had been afraid to pray. She felt as if 
 
 305
 
 306 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 that fierce, hidden, interior rebellion of hers must 
 militate against the efficacy of those prayers. 
 
 It was a poor little church; the pictures were 
 modern; the statues tawdry and ill-coloured. The 
 building was almost in darkness, except for the red 
 lamp burning before the Tabernacle and some 
 candles that were fixed on to a triangular stand be- 
 fore a statue of Our Lady. There was little here 
 to appeal to the senses, to the eye. Yet, as Gillian 
 entered, a sense of oppression, of suffocation that 
 was not altogether physical, came over her. She 
 crept into one of the back benches and kneeling down 
 hid her face in her hands. 
 
 No service was in progress, but quite a number of 
 people were kneeling there in prayer. There were 
 men as well as women, young as well as old. Some- 
 times could be heard across the deep and reverent 
 silence a half-suppressed sob. The candles burning 
 before Our Lady's altar made a little patch of light 
 in the twilight gloom; the effect was almost abrupt. 
 . . . As Gillian knelt there she deliberately 
 yielded herself to those influences which she had 
 once known in the Lower Church at Assisi. She saw 
 again the immense cool grey spaces of the Basilica 
 with its glimpses of delicate and subdued gold show- 
 ing themselves from the haloes of frescoed Madon* 
 nas and saints and angels in a jewel-like beauty. 
 She could hear the monotonous burring of the friars 
 as they chanted their office a sound like the hum- 
 ming of innumerable bees. Here there was nothing 
 of beauty to make its appeal to the eye. The bare 
 walls of the little church seemed to reveal a humble 
 but proud poverty. The flowers on the altar were 
 of a cheap and common kind, and they were even 
 supplemented by artificial ones of rather a dreadful 
 appearance. Gillian scarcely noticed these details 
 in that moment when she lifted her head and made
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 307 
 
 a brief survey of her surroundings. But she looked 
 more attentively and with a little wonder at those 
 other worshippers. Probably the majority of them 
 were Catholics, and if so it was possible that across 
 their passionate prayers could be heard that most 
 poignant and necessary one of all : Fiat voluntas tua. 
 But her attention was not long diverted from the 
 urgent business she had in hand. She knew that 
 she had come here to-night for a definite purpose, 
 and it must be accomplished. Every soul has its 
 Hour in the Garden, when only submission and re- 
 nunciation can avail. . . . 
 
 There was no long space of time between her and 
 that evening at Assisi. The past stretched out hands 
 and touched the present, as if it were clasping it. 
 Gillian was merged once more in that hour of sur- 
 render and submission, complete, unquestioning as 
 a child's. And to her heart, strangely stirred within 
 her and alert to receive impressions, there came a 
 thought, a conviction of more than vital significance. 
 She felt that she was not only the suppliant but the 
 one to whom a mystic supplication was being mad$. 
 She felt as if a Voice from the tabernacle were call- 
 ing to her audibly, actually; pleading with her for 
 that surrender which she had for so long consciously 
 and defiantly withheld and withdrawn. . . . 
 
 All capacity for vocal prayer seemed to leave her 
 then. She was immersed once more in those waves, 
 but they were not, as they had once been at Assisi, 
 wild, stormy, and overwhelming ones. They were 
 suave and gentle and welcoming, and lifted her 
 above the fret of earthly happenings. She saw as 
 it were in that hour her own soul and Paul's things 
 of flame, white, ardent, eternal. And there was 
 born within her a new and deep sense of respon- 
 sibility towards Paul. He was hers, to raise up. . . . 
 to drag down. . . . She loved him, but she had
 
 3 o8 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 come in contact with a Power greater than human 
 love, a Supreme Power, jealous, imperious, that de- 
 manded the surrender of her whole self in one single 
 act of sacrifice and renouncement. It was claiming 
 possession of her, but not fiercely and violently, only 
 as it were with a persistent and irresistible appeal 
 . . . as of one who should call a reluctant child 
 gently and persuasively, but leaving it quite free to 
 follow or not if it chose. Must it be always that 
 those with great possessions should ever be the most 
 reluctant to lay them down the most sorrowful in 
 yielding to the Voice of the Beloved? Oh, how 
 much better to lay them willingly at the Wounded 
 Feet, and follow, free and detached and unbur- 
 dened I . . . 
 
 As this knowledge filled Gillian's thoughts she 
 found that earthly claims were growing sensibly 
 weakened. The act of unquestioning surrender to 
 the Divine Will, which she had made almost uncon- 
 sciously, had brought the immediate and direct grace 
 of an increased strength. She felt no longer isolated 
 and broken-hearted but supported and infinitely con- 
 soled. She had flung down her nets, and had risen 
 to follow. . . . She had willingly placed herself 
 in those Hands which desired to shape and fashion 
 her anew. And instead of the torment and suffering 
 she had experienced at Assisi she was sensible of that 
 healing touch which soothes even while it exquisitely 
 wounds. . . . Gillian was beyond all resistance. 
 It seemed to her then that her whole life had been 
 tending towards the immense act of voluntary resig- 
 nation that was now so inevitable, so essential, so 
 inescapable. Everything had crystallised towards 
 this central point. The way thither had been paved 
 with sharp swords that had cruelly hurt her feet. 
 But each sword had possessed an immense signifi- 
 cance and meaning; not one had been unnecessary or
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 309 
 
 superfluous. In this hour of renewed and intensified 
 illumination she saw that she had been guided step 
 by step, personally, individually. Her first rough 
 awakening had been when Giacomo had pitilessly 
 broken off their engagement. It had been cruelly 
 done, but she had not been able to blind herself to 
 the urgency of his motives. Then had come Assisi 
 and the chance stranger, Ian Frazer, who had sup- 
 plemented so much of her little knowledge, had flung 
 the searchlight of truth upon dark places. Yes, 
 that had been one of the swords that had hurt her 
 most, with its strong effort to deprive the future of 
 human happiness. . . . 
 
 For the rest there had been no human agency at 
 work to persuade, to compel. She had seemed in 
 these last weeks quite alone, almost bitterly alone. 
 Tormented with anxiety and suspense, the unrest of 
 her own heart had been perhaps the most unbearable 
 thing of all. That spiritual unrest gave her little 
 peace ; it left her always with the sense as of a task 
 unaccomplished. Even now the utter dying down of 
 rebellion, the complete unquestioning surrender, had 
 not destroyed her terror of the step involved and 
 of the pain it could inflict. For it was on the face 
 of it an irrevocable one. There could be no going 
 back, no recrudescence of defiance. And with her 
 fear there was paradoxically a fury to accomplish 
 this thing which she still dreaded although she pas- 
 sionately desired it. Definite and certain beyond 
 all the confused issues that spun webs in her mind 
 there stood out the fact that she must become a 
 Catholic. She must openly profess the faith she 
 had received. She must herself raise the barrier, 
 obdurate, impassable, permanent, that was to divide 
 herself from Paul. Paul was her "great posses- 
 sion," more dear, more precious, than any tem- 
 poral possession of wealth could ever be. He was
 
 310 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 to her all that made life worth the living. This love 
 stood out as true in the midst of the false gods of 
 the past. It was a possession whose worth she dared 
 not measure, and once the thought of it had caused 
 her to turn sorrowfully away in the face of the 
 divine appeal. She must herself take the sword and 
 pierce her own heart as well as Paul's. 
 
 When Gillian rose and left the church she genu- 
 flected as she had seen other people do, she even 
 dipped her hand into the stoup of holy water and 
 crossed herself. These little actions seemed to set 
 a kind of seal upon her resolve, linking her with 
 those other worshippers, making her prayers one 
 with theirs. As she walked westward towards her 
 home she could feel the rain and wind beating softly 
 in her face. The night promised to be wild as well 
 as wet, but the air was warm and reviving. Just at 
 the end of the street a tall figure emerged suddenly 
 from the gloom. Gillian looked up and was scarcely 
 surprised to find herself face to face with Ian Frazer. 
 
 "Why, Mrs. Driscoll? _ What luck!" he said 
 eagerly. "I've been wondering how I could get news 
 of you. You went away giving me no address, and 
 I've often wondered how you were faring in these 
 ill days." 
 
 "I've been faring like every one else," said 
 Gillian, with a wan smile. 
 
 "You're very thin," he said abruptly, looking down 
 at the slight black figure. 
 
 "Am I? But the kind of thing we've been living 
 through lately isn't very fattening." 
 
 "You're not married?" he hazarded, wondering 
 a little that despite her thinness, her look almost of 
 illness, Gillian's face should be so full of a subdued 
 and triumphant happiness. 
 
 "No, I'm not married." She paused. "I am en-
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 gaged to my cousin Paul Pallant. He is in France 
 
 now." 
 
 He made no comment on the information thus 
 vouchsafed except to say, 
 
 "Where I shall be myself soon, I hope." 
 "You?" She looked at him in some surprise. 
 
 "Yes, I came back as soon as I could and it 
 wasn't an easy job, I can tell you and I've been 
 putting my house in order. To-morrow I shall en- 
 list, unless they think me too much of a crock, which 
 isn't likely!" 
 
 "Ah, it's all so easy and simple for a man," said 
 Gillian almost enviously. 
 
 "Well, I think myself it's easier." 
 
 "Won't you come back with me now?" said Gil- 
 lian. "I live not far from here. Perhaps you will 
 stay to dinner with me? There isn't much to eat, 
 but it's war-time, so you mustn't mind." 
 
 "I'll come with pleasure," he answered. 
 
 "Because there is something I want very particu- 
 larly to say to you," she said. 
 
 "Is there?" he said, wondering what it could be 
 and whether it would satisfactorily explain that ex- 
 traordinary, illuminative radiance which had seemed 
 to him to inform her face just now. 
 
 "I think of almost all the people in the world you 
 were the one I most wanted to see just now " 
 
 "Oh, but that's awfully flattering to me, you 
 know," he said, smiling. "I'm quite keen to know 
 what it's about." 
 
 They walked on in silence till they reached Gil- 
 lian's green gate. She stopped, took out a key and 
 unlocked it, disclosing the little white house that 
 stood at the other end of the flagged path. 
 
 "Looks like a little Italian villino," he said. 
 
 "Yes, doesn't it? And there are vines too, but
 
 3 i2 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 they don't ripen. I think unripe grapes look so mel- 
 ancholy." She led the way into the house. 
 
 She left Ian Frazer in the drawing room while 
 she went upstairs and slipped on a black tea-gown 
 very simply made. He was sitting over the fire 
 idly glancing at the newspapers when she rejoined 
 him. He looked up as she entered the room. 
 
 "How are your friends, the Porters?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh, hadn't you heard? Ammy is Mrs. Sprot 
 now, they were married just a few days before the 
 war, and he was killed last month. Isn't it cruel?" 
 
 "Very cruel. How is she bearing it? She was 
 made of good stuff she had any amount of pluck." 
 
 "Oh, she's bearing it simply beautifully," said 
 Gillian with tears in her eyes. "She was devoted to 
 him, you know. And she's had letters such letters 
 telling her how splendid he was. I suppose the 
 same thing could be said of them all out there. Such 
 courage, such forgetfulness of self, such indifference 
 to personal danger." 
 
 "How changed everything is from a year ago," 
 he said thoughtfully. "I've only been back a week, 
 and it takes a little time to get accustomed. France 
 is even more changed you feel there that you're up 
 against the real thing. I've been working for the 
 Red Cross in Paris, but lately I didn't feel I was do- 
 ing enough. When I go back to France it'll be to 
 the trenches." 
 
 She waited until the dinner was over before she 
 attempted to tell Ian Frazer why she had wished to 
 see him so particularly this evening that his coming 
 had seemed almost providential. It was a little diffi- 
 cult to approach the subject and he did not try to 
 give her a lead. After what she had just told him 
 of her engagement she could have no news to give 
 him that would tell him his prayers for her had been 
 answered. Indeed he had felt a little shocked and
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 313 
 
 bewildered at her simple announcement of her en- 
 gagement to one who she knew held very decided 
 views on the subject of her re-marriage. 
 
 She took up some sewing after dinner while he lit 
 a cigarette and began to smoke. Presently she 
 looked up and said: 
 
 "You have never congratulated me." 
 
 "No," he said roughly, "you could hardly expect 
 that, could you? You can't have forgotten what I 
 said to you on the subject at Assisi." 
 
 "No, I haven't forgotten," said Gillian, very tran- 
 quilly. 
 
 She looked at him. His fine fair face was singu- 
 larly immovable ; it had grown in the interim a little 
 harder and more relentless. 
 
 "I wonder you even troubled to tell me about it," 
 he said. 
 
 "I told you," said Gillian, "because when I met 
 you to-night I had just come to a decision a very 
 difficult decision. I wanted your help." 
 
 "My help?'' he echoed astonished. 
 
 "When I was at Assisi," she pursued, still in that 
 calm voice. "I saw quite clearly that I oughtn't to 
 marry again. I had learnt several hard lessons while 
 I was in Italy. But I rebelled against that one. I 
 made up my mind that if Paul again asked me to be 
 he wife I would marry him at all costs. I felt that 
 I had been cheated of so much that I had a right to 
 that happiness. Almost directly after I came home 
 I saw Paul and he asked me to marry him. He had 
 loved me, he said, since I was a girl. I told him 
 about my engagement in Rome and why it was 
 broken off. Even when he found that his mother 
 refused to receive me it made no difference to him. 
 I knew I could always count on his love for me 
 on his fidelity. Paul is just like a rock nothing can 
 change him. I knew I should feel secure and safe as
 
 3H THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 his wife." She paused and her dark eyes regarded 
 him steadfastly. "But I have never felt at peace in 
 my soul," she continued presently. "I knew ever 
 since I first became engaged to him that I ought to 
 be a Catholic and that in resisting this duty I was 
 wilfully and deliberately fighting against God. I 
 couldn't plead ignorance any more, but I was de- 
 termined to marry him. I felt an almost fierce and 
 violent determination, because I felt that I had been 
 cheated in the past!" 
 
 Ian Frazer listened in silence. He shrank a little 
 before this relentless confession, feeling perhaps that 
 he had little right to listen. Only had she not said 
 that he could help her? 
 
 "I wanted to pray for Paul," she went on, still 
 in those quiet, level, emotionless tones, "but I could 
 not pray for him. I felt that I had no right to pray, 
 that my prayers did not deserve to be heard. Some- 
 times I remembered what you told me once that 
 the Catholic does not know any happiness apart 
 from conformity to the Divine Will. That to sep- 
 arate oneself from God by wilful and premeditated 
 sin is the one unhappiness. To-night I have learned 
 that I cannot so separate myself. When you met me 
 I was coming away from a Catholic church. I had 
 been there to pray. And when I was there I felt 
 that not only was I asking something from God but 
 that He was asking something from me." 
 
 Now he knew why her face had seemed to him al- 
 most as if it were transfigured, illuminated. 
 
 "And you," he said slowly, searching her face 
 with eyes that held the sharp glint of a sword, "you 
 have given what was asked of you?" 
 
 "Yes," she said, "I have given it. I want you to 
 help me to give it more completely. I am not bound 
 yet." She looked at him with unflinching eyes. 
 "Help me to bind myself."
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 315 
 
 "Do you know what it means what it involves?" 
 he said to her sternly. "Have you counted the 
 cost?" 
 
 "I have counted the cost." 
 
 "And this man this man who you say loves 
 you?" 
 
 "I am responsible for his soul as well as for my 
 own. Do not make any mistake, Mr. Frazer. I 
 love him it was my love for him that made me 
 rebel. But this is something stronger than even 
 my love " 
 
 "What do you want me to do?" he said at last. 
 
 "I thought you could tell me of a priest who could 
 help me. Isn't the first thing for me to learn to 
 be a Catholic? I don't want to delay." 
 
 She seemed to him as one who goes forward will- 
 ingly, even gladly, to martyrdom. But the evidence 
 of past suffering was in her eyes. She had never 
 seemed noble to him before; now he could have 
 knelt at her feet. Once he had prayed for this soul 
 so bent on elusion and evasion, now he could scarce- 
 ly bear to look upon the hurt heart of her. And she 
 was not a child who renounces without knowledge; 
 she knew well the measure and worth and meaning 
 of the things she was giving up. 
 
 "I will speak to a priest a friend of mine," he 
 said. "I think perhaps he would help you better 
 than any one. Be as frank with him as you have been 
 with me." He stood up. He felt that he must go' 
 away; that he must leave her. "Good-night, Mrs. 
 Driscoll. I will write to-morrow " 
 
 He put out his hand. Gillian took it in hers. 
 
 "Thank you very much," she said. "I knew you 
 would help me. You seemed to me very cruel at 
 Assisi you hurt me very much. But now I am 
 grateful for that hard saying." Her eyes met his 
 frankly. "Pray for me."
 
 316 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 "Always always," said Ian Frazer earnestly. 
 "The hardest part still lies in front of me," she 
 said. 
 
 He knew she was thinking of Paul. 
 
 "Strength will be given to you," he said quietly. 
 
 He raised her hand to his lips.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 DURING the next few weeks Gillian spent the 
 greater part of each afternoon with Amaryllis. 
 Every morning she went to a convent not far from 
 her own house where she had placed herself under 
 instruction at the hands of a nun who had been 
 recommended to her by the priest to whom Ian 
 Frazer had introduced her. Gillian followed this 
 course of instruction very devoutly and submissive- 
 ly; she was indeed like a child in the hands of her" 
 new director, and she liked the nun to whom the task 
 of teaching her had been entrusted. There had 
 been a certain precocity about her spiritual growth, 
 the result of the rather unusual circumstances which 
 had promoted it, but so far she had very little real 
 and solid knowledge of the faith. It had been a 
 disappointment to her to find that she could not be 
 received into the Church immediately and without 
 delay. Gillian was always rather precipitate in her 
 actions; she liked to move forward on the wings of 
 the first buoyant impulse. But she was no longer her 
 own master. She was obliged to obey, and she sur- 
 rendered herself to the task of learning with a curi- 
 ous and submissive eagerness. Her intention was 
 a profound secret, known only to herself, her in- 
 structors, and Ian Frazer. 
 
 That trustiest of trusty friends had enlisted, and 
 was doing his training in the Artists' Rifles as a 
 simple private. Before leaving town he had paid 
 a farewell visit to Gillian. 
 
 "Well, how are you getting on?" he asked her. 
 
 "It isn't easy," she confessed, "and there's a lot 
 to learn. And when I think about the future . . . 
 it hurts." 
 
 His face was grim as he answered her. 
 317
 
 318 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 "Of course it hurts to be beaten into a new shape." 
 
 "I wish the awful part were over . . . and that 
 Paul knew." 
 
 "Don't be too much afraid. You don't realise yet 
 what help you will have. This time of probation is 
 awfully trying for you." 
 
 "Supposing I find that I can't persevere?" 
 
 "You must believe me when I tell you that you've 
 put your hand to the plough and you wouldn't go 
 back now if you could!" 
 
 His hard bright eyes softened a little. 
 
 But in spite of his hopeful words there were hours 
 in those solitary evenings spent alone when she did 
 deliberately envisage what the future held for her, 
 when she did shrink a little from the prospect of- 
 fered. She counted the cost, and knew that she was 
 called upon to make no small payment. She was 
 sorrowful as she thought of her great possessions. 
 Paul's letters, beautiful tender letters, made her 
 tremble for her own perseverance. 
 
 There was, however, no real hesitation on her 
 part after the momentous night when her final de- 
 cision had been made. That vision she had had of 
 Paul's soul hers to make or mar had left a per- 
 manent impression as of a printed picture upon her 
 mind. She saw it in reference to the Eternity to 
 which it belonged. It was precious because of its 
 very immortality, because of its immortal rights. 
 . . . And she felt in a certain sense responsible 
 for it. 
 
 She and Amaryllis were close friends, but Gillian 
 had never mentioned her resolve to her. She guessed 
 that Amaryllis with her calm commonplace outlook 
 would have but little sympathy with violent and com- 
 plicated spiritual questions. The crisis through 
 which she had passed was not a thing which could 
 be very well understood by Amaryllis. Gillian
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 319 
 
 hardly knew if she perfectly understood it herself 
 when she reviewed it in the cold light of reason. 
 Although she had submitted generously to that new 
 shaping she felt the sharp pain and hurt of it in every 
 nerve. She had hoped that sense of spiritual exal- 
 tation would have deprived her of the suffering en- 
 gendered. But she was learning that she was to be 
 spared nothing of pain. . . . 
 
 It cheered her in a sense to be with Amaryllis. It 
 was Mrs.Sprot's brave endurance, her refusal to give 
 way, that appealed to her with its frank courage. A 
 day seldom passed but the two women met. By a 
 kind of tacit consent Paul's name was never men- 
 tioned. Gillian had never been over-anxious to dis- 
 cuss her engagement, and now she displayed even 
 less desire to speak of him. She had told Amaryllis 
 of her meeting with Ian Frazer, and when she in- 
 formed her that he had enlisted, Mrs. Sprot made a 
 characteristic comment: "He isn't one who'd be 
 likely to suffer from cold feet!" 
 
 Amaryllis in spite of her resolves had fallen into 
 a weak ailing condition of health. The tree that 
 refuses to bend before the storm too often snaps in 
 two. Amaryllis, brave, enduring, unbending, show- 
 ing always a brave face to the world, became so ill 
 physically that she was compelled to remain in bed. 
 Lying there very white with great blue eyes that had 
 somehow become too large for her face, she looked 
 a shadow of her former buoyant self. Gillian was 
 really anxious about her. She spent a great deal of 
 her time in Albemarle Street, and kept her friend's 
 room cheerful and bright with fresh flowers. Ama- 
 ryllis seldom now mentioned her young dead hus- 
 band; it was of the coming child that she spoke 
 continually. 
 
 "Gillian, you're late this evening. I expected you
 
 320 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 to tea," was Amaryllis' greeting one evening in No- 
 vember. "And I can't ask you to dine up here with 
 me in my bedroom." 
 
 "Oh, I couldn't have stayed, thank you, Ammy." 
 Gillian came across the room and kissed Mrs. Sprot 
 as she lay there. "I'm sorry I'm so late, but I've had 
 a very long day." 
 
 Amaryllis stretched out a brown hand that had be- 
 come woefully thin and looked incapable of wielding 
 a golf-club, and switched on the electric light that 
 was by her bedside. "There that's better," she 
 remarked, "I can see you now, Jill. Why what's 
 happened? Have you had good news? Is is Cap- 
 tain Pallant coming back?" 
 
 "I I haven't had any news at all," said Gillian 
 slowly, looking at her. "But, Ammy I have got 
 something to tell you. It's a very great secret and 
 just at present no one must know it. I've taken a 
 very important step to-day one that is going to 
 change my whole life." 
 
 "Has Captain Pallant come back? Have you 
 married him?" cried Amaryllis breathlessly. 
 
 Was it only her fancy or did a shadow pass swiftly 
 across Gillian's face at the mention of Paul? Why 
 was she always so curiously silent and reserved upon 
 the subject of Paul Pallant? 
 
 Amaryllis was sitting up in bed, her cheeks flushed, 
 her eyes shining like flames. 
 
 "Dear, dear Jill do tell me 1" she cried. 
 
 "It is nothing half so thrilling as that," said 
 Gillian thoughtfully. "I'm afraid you will be disap- 
 pointed when you hear it, Ammy. I can never marry 
 Paul now. What I have done to-day has made it 
 quite impossible. I have known for some time past 
 that I couldn't marry him that is why I haven't 
 talked about him. ..." 
 
 "Do you mean you've married some one else?"
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 321 
 
 cried Amaryllis in a tone of incredulous amazement. 
 Somehow it had never entered her head to question 
 Gillian's feeling for Paul. "Or has he ?" 
 
 Gillian shook her head. "Oh no it isn't that." 
 
 "Have you broken off your engagement?" de- 
 manded Amaryllis. 
 
 "I haven't done so yet," answered Gillian; "that'll 
 be the hard part." 
 
 "Oh Jill how changeable you arel Why, I 
 thought you adored him !" 
 
 "It has nothing to do with my love for him," said 
 Gillian, almost as if she were speaking to herself, 
 "except that I think I love him more than I did if 
 that were possible." 
 
 She saw again the silver reaches of the river with 
 its groups of willow trees, its blossoming banks; she 
 saw herself again in those twilit shadows listening to 
 Paul's voice, feeling the touch of his hands, of his 
 kiss. . . . Had she not told him then that nothing 
 could ever come between them and their love for 
 each other? And he had been the one to doubt to 
 be afraid. . . . 
 
 "Then what on earth do you mean, Jill?" cried 
 Amaryllis, "or have you gone stark, staring mad?" 
 
 "I have become a Catholic, Ammy," said Gillian 
 quietly. "I was received into the Church this morn- 
 ing. As a Catholic I cannot marry again as long as 
 Aylmer is alive. It's my own doing that I've sep- 
 arated myself from Paul." 
 
 Ammy's excited, brilliant eyes searched Gillian's 
 face with a look of almost fierce anger. 
 
 "Oh, how could you be so wicked so cruel so 
 selfish wow?" 
 
 Gillian winced and turned pale. She had not ex- 
 pected this immediate and furious condemnation. 
 
 "If you had cared for him at all you would have 
 put him first, before everything!" pursued Ama- 
 ryllis remorselessly.
 
 322 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 "And if I tell you that I have put him first?" 
 
 "What by chucking him now?" 
 
 Gillian was silent. Would all the world blame 
 her? Would all the world, including Paul, under- 
 stand her as little as did Amaryllis? . . . 
 
 Mrs. Sprot continued to speak excitedly: 
 
 "I wasn't sure when we were at Assisi that you 
 weren't beginning to get these notions into your head. 
 Only I thought you were too hard-headed not to be 
 quite safe ! You used to spend such an unconscion- 
 able time in the Lower Church, or out with Mr. 
 Frazer, who is of course a fanatic and wants to con- 
 vert every one! Is it Mr. Frazer's doing, Jill?" 
 
 "No it isn't any one's doing but my own. I had 
 begun to think about it before I went to Assisi 
 before I left Rome. It was brought almost violently 
 to my notice while I was there. Mr. Frazer did try 
 and teach me when I was at Assisi, and I began to 
 learn . . . and then I rebelled and made up my mind 
 to come home and marry Paul. Oh, I had resolved 
 to defy that other teaching. Don't blame me, 
 Ammy. It hasn't been easy. I didn't tell you till 
 after I had taken the step because I knew all the 
 arguments you would use. I haven't told any one 
 yet, and I don't want any one else to know until I 
 have told Paul." 
 
 "I don't envy you the job of telling Captain Pal- 
 lant," said Ammy with a touch of her old boyish 
 brusquerie. "How shall you do it? You won't 
 write, of course it wouldn't be a very encouraging 
 kind of letter to receive in the trenches. It might 
 make him think there were worse places than the 
 firing line !" 
 
 "Oh, don't, Ammy," said Gillian pitifully. "Of 
 course I can't write it. But there's a chance of his 
 coming home on leave." 
 
 "When he will probably be counting upon having
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 323 
 
 the wedding at once," said Amaryllis mercilessly. 
 "Jill, I simply can't understand you. You look 'so 
 soft and in reality you are hard as nails ! But per- 
 haps you never cared for him, and you've taken this 
 short cut out of a difficult situation. I dare say that 
 explanation will occur to him too." Mrs. Sprot's 
 words were harsh, condemning. "You never could 
 have loved him, Jill it's quite out of the question." 
 
 Gillian left Amaryllis that evening feeling utterly 
 miserable; she was indeed thankful when she could 
 escape from Albemarle Street and return to the soli- 
 tude of her own home. She wished she had not 
 spoilt the day, which had been for her such a thrilling 
 and beautiful one, by going to see her friend and con- 
 fiding the secret to her. Now she felt that Paul as 
 little as Ammy would be able to understand her mo- 
 tive. He also would imagine that she had never 
 cared, and that repenting of her promise to marry 
 him she had taken the path that promised a perma- 
 nent escape. She had never felt any heroism or 
 exaltation or spiritual pride in her act of renuncia- 
 tion ; she had simply succumbed to forces that were 
 stronger than herself ; she had scarcely even stopped 
 to ask herself whether she had emerged from that 
 tremendous conflict the victor or the vanquished. 
 The struggle had left its exhausting physical effects 
 upon her, just as if she had been beaten to her knees. 
 And now Ammy had relentlessly shown her exactly 
 what the world would think of her action. Ammy 
 represented the sane, normal, worldly point of view 
 which takes little cognisance of complicated spiritual 
 questions. And it was thus perhaps she would be 
 judged by Paul. 
 
 He would think her capricious and vacillating, and 
 fickle. He would remember her extreme reluctance 
 to bind herself to any engagement; he had always 
 been aware of her hesitation, and she had given him
 
 324 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 no clue as to the reason of it. Now he would only 
 suppose, as Ammy did, that her love had failed. She 
 despaired of making him understand. 
 
 But solitude was to be denied to her this evening. 
 As she opened the garden gate and walked quickly up 
 the little flagged pathway she noticed that there was 
 a light in the drawing-room ; she could see it shining 
 through the blinds that were drawn across the win- 
 dow. At the door she paused for a moment, won- 
 dering who could have come to see her at this hour. 
 She had so few friends who intruded upon her at 
 unconventional hours. Unnerved, she could almost 
 have persuaded herself that Paul had returned and 
 was waiting for her there; the thought made her 
 tremble a little. Overhead the leafless trees lifted 
 boughs that seemed like waving arms against the 
 uniform and starless gloom of the night sky. Al- 
 though it was so quiet in the little Chelsea garden 
 she seemed to sense the throbbing pulse of the great 
 city that lay at her doors. She could hear as it were 
 the beating of that great heart, that seemed to-night 
 to hold a sound as of tears ... as of many tears . . . 
 as of Rachel weeping anew for her children. . . . 
 
 Gillian turned the key in the door and quietly 
 entered the hall. Beside the fire in the drawing-room 
 she beheld Lady Pallant reading the evening papers, 
 and evidently awaiting her return. 
 
 Lady Pallant rose and approached Gillian eagerly, 
 almost effusively. 
 
 "My dear such a joyful surprise! I've had a 
 telegram from Paul saying he will be home early in 
 the week. I see there is one for you, too perhaps 
 that is from Paul." 
 
 Gillian then noticed for the first time the buff- 
 colored envelope lying on the table. She took it up 
 and opened it with fingers that shook and trembled. 
 A mist swam before her eyes and she could not at
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 325 
 
 first read the words. When at last she was able to 
 make them out she felt as if they conveyed no signi- 
 fication at all to her brain. "Returning Monday, 
 week's leave. Please make arrangements for our 
 immediate marriage." 
 
 The pinkish slip of paper fell to the ground, and 
 Gillian did not attempt to pick it up. She stood there 
 facing Lady Pallant, trying to smile and aware that 
 it was an impossible feat to accomplish. 
 
 Struck by her white and frightened look Lady 
 Pallant exclaimed : 
 
 "My dearest Gillian I am sorry I told you so 
 abruptly ... it has been too much for you. Do sit 
 down here and I will ring for some water for you." 
 
 She thought to herself: "Gillian never used to be 
 so nervous. The war is destroying all our nerves. . . . 
 Still, she ought to be careful not to give way." 
 
 Gillian sat down on the sofa and obediently drank 
 some water from the glass Lady Pallant held to her 
 lips. 
 
 When at last she was able to speak the words came 
 wildly : 
 
 "Oh, you must stop him I Don't let him come. . . . 
 I can't marry him !" 
 
 Lady Pallant was for a moment speechless with 
 a very natural amazement. What in the world did 
 Gillian mean? Why did she receive news that was 
 so joyful in this fashion? Her astonishment over, 
 she felt more than a little annoyed. 
 
 "Dear Gillian I know you are feeling unstrung. 
 We have all been going through a time of terrible 
 anxiety. One is really quite afraid of any happiness. 
 But in this matter may I say that I hope you will do 
 whatever Paul wishes? If he wants to have the 
 wedding at once I hope with all my heart you will 
 not refuse. I take back all my opposition, my objec- 
 tions. I only ask you to make my son happy "
 
 326 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 Her words, which sounded even to herself a little 
 magnanimous, fell meaninglessly on Mrs. Driscoll's 
 ears. She said only: "It is too late . . . it is too 
 late ... I can't marry him." Her voice trailed 
 weakly over these broken sentences. 
 
 Lady Pallant began to fear a little for Gillian's 
 sanity. A dreadful misgiving seemed to take posses- 
 sion of her heart. What did Mrs. Driscoll mean by 
 saying it was too late? Why did she reiterate the 
 assertion that she could not marry Paul? She had 
 hoped at first that the words were only the outcome 
 of a little hysterical nervousness, very naturally pro- 
 duced by the sudden unexpected news of Paul's re- 
 turn. But Gillian had uttered them as if they were 
 informed with some definite and sinister truth. Yet 
 if she had not intended to marry Paul, why had she 
 waited to say so until the question of their marriage 
 had become a matter for immediate decision? 
 
 Gillian pointed with her finger to the fallen tele- 
 gram, as if indicating by this gesture her desire that 
 Lady Pallant should also become acquainted with its 
 contents. That lady, nothing loth, stooped and 
 picked it up. She glanced at it hastily. Then she 
 said in a very firm tone as if she were speaking to a 
 recalcitrant child: 
 
 "I am sure when you have recovered from the 
 shock you will see how more than unkind it would 
 be to Paul to make him the victim of any capricious 
 feeling just now. Our men require all the help we 
 can give them. You must remember that your are 
 his promised wife, and I hope you will yield to his 
 wishes. He is not a man that will stand being played 
 fast and loose with!" 
 
 The words were intended doubtless to have a 
 bracing effect, to bring Gillian to her senses, and for 
 the moment the rather authoritative little speech did 
 help her to control her shattered nerves. That feel-
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 327 
 
 ing of sudden faintness, so terrifying to one unused 
 to it, had passed away. Gillian was able to raise her 
 eyes that were still unnaturally bright and answer al- 
 most calmly : 
 
 "I am sorry, Cousin Janet ... to have been so 
 foolish. Please forgive me. The sudden news upset 
 
 me. As you say the war one's nerves " She 
 
 broke off, for the lump in her throat threatened to 
 choke her. 
 
 "That's right, my dear," said Lady Pallant en- 
 couragingly. "I knew you would agree with me that 
 this isn't the moment to think of one's own feelings. 
 It is a time when we have need of all our unselfish- 
 ness. Paul has been through a very arduous time and 
 he has a right to be considered. If I can be of any 
 assistance " 
 
 But Gillian only shrank a little away and an- 
 swered : 
 
 "Oh no, thank you, Cousin Janet. I can't really 
 decide anything at all until I've seen Paul again." 
 
 Lady Pallant went away feeling a little worried 
 about Gillian, and acknowledging to herself that she 
 was utterly in the dark. She had expected her to 
 maintain her usual calmness; she had awaited no 
 extravagant manifestation of joy or emotion that 
 was not Mrs. Driscoll's way. She was much too 
 sophisticated to betray her feelings even to the 
 mother of the man she was engaged to marry. Still 
 Lady Pallant had expected her to receive the news 
 with some sign of pleasure and perhaps relief. But 
 Gillian had shown no such sign. She had been over- 
 come, overwhelmed, almost to the point of fainting, 
 but through her broken utterances there seemed to 
 run a thread of live fear. And though she had at 
 last pulled herself together, not without a very ob- 
 vious effort, it had been only to control most assidu- 
 ously any further display of feeling. She had
 
 328 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 attempted no explanation of her first attitude, nor 
 had she proclaimed any intention of marrying Paul 
 upon his return. It was not to be wondered at that 
 Lady Pallant should feel dissatisfied and a little anx- 
 ious and irritable. She wished she had not invited 
 Joan to dinner. It had been her intention to invite 
 Gillian also, to have a cosy little family party to 
 celebrate the joyful news of Paul's forthcoming re- 
 turn. . . . Now she felt that she did not at all wish 
 to expose herself to the cross-examination to which 
 Joan would inevitably subject her. 
 
 "Why, I thought you meant to bring Jill back with 
 you," was Joan's greeting as her mother entered the 
 drawing-room unaccompanied. "Why couldn't she 
 come?" 
 
 "I ... I forgot to ask her," replied Lady Pallant, 
 sinking into a chair in an attitude suggesting exhaus- 
 tion. During that hectic interview with Gillian she 
 had utterly forgotten her intention of inviting her to 
 dinner. 
 
 Joan looked frankly puzzled. 
 
 "But you saw her? You found her in?" she ques- 
 tioned. "She never goes anywhere nowadays except 
 to see her dear Mrs. Sprot!" 
 
 "Yes, I saw her," said Lady Pallant almost reluc- 
 tantly. What account could she give Joan of the 
 interview? 
 
 "Had she heard?" 
 
 "She found the telegram when she came in. She 
 wasn't at home when I first got there I suppose she 
 had gone to see Mrs. Sprot. I was waiting for her. 
 I told her the news first before she opened her own 
 telegram. ..." 
 
 Joan looked at her mother curiously. 
 
 "You didn't renew your old objections, did you, 
 mother?" she inquired. "Paul wouldn't thank you if 
 you put a spoke in his wheel at the eleventh hour 1"
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 329 
 
 Joan's manner was disagreeably assertive and dis- 
 dainful. 
 
 "On the contrary I told her quite plainly that I 
 withdrew all my old objections and opposition," she 
 answered. 
 
 "Then what's the matter?" said Joan. 
 
 Lady Pallant had risen wearily and was moving 
 towards the door as if to escape from her daughter's 
 censorious examination. But she stopped half way 
 and the two women stood and faced each other. 
 Under the sharp glare of the electric light Lady 
 Pallant's face looked a little aged and agitated. 
 
 "It's Gillian," she said, "I don't understand what's 
 come to Gillian. She seemed so dreadfully upset 
 when she heard the news. She never used to be at all 
 hysterical, but I assure you she spoke very wildly 
 indeed. It is Gillian I'm not sure of " She fin- 
 ished the sentence abruptly. 
 
 The mother and daughter stared helplessly at each 
 other in silence. ...
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 GILLIAN lay awake that night unable to sleep. She 
 pictured Paul's return until it assumed the pro- 
 portions of a nightmare. If only his telegram had 
 not come just that day the very day of her recep- 
 tion into the Church. She had wished to set it apart, 
 to consecrate it, to her new and high resolve, to gain 
 from it all the strength and courage she could where- 
 with to face the future. Instead of which after a 
 few short hours of rest and peace she had been 
 roughly compelled to envisage close at hand and with 
 no merciful perspective of distance the consequences 
 that must inevitably ensue. Ammy's words had 
 caused the first shadow, so much so that she had 
 quickly repented of her impulse to confide in her. 
 Hard upon the consciousness that she had accom- 
 plished the difficult task that had been so clearly 
 indicated to her by such a multiplicity of signs, had 
 come the necessity of adjusting her future life in ac- 
 cordance with its harsh demands. She had herself 
 raised the barrier between herself and Paul, but his 
 presence was the one thing she feared. She knew 
 of old its power to weaken her resolve. 
 
 It seemed to her as if her courage must give way; 
 she longed to escape to some place where she might 
 never see him again. She told herself she could not 
 face so soon a meeting with him. She wondered why 
 she had so little strength to endure the first sharp 
 plunge of the knife into her heart. She had counted 
 upon some miraculous supernatural strength, and in- 
 stead of this there had come upon her a new and 
 increased desolation. She felt horribly alone. And 
 what seemed to her the worst thing of all was her 
 utter inability to pray, to derive any consolation or 
 comfort from that spiritual gain of hers. All sen- 
 
 330
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 331 
 
 sible supernatural comfort had been so completely 
 withdrawn that she could almost have believed she 
 had never known it at all. She had been warned of 
 that almost inevitable "dryness" which comes to even 
 the most devout souls, and of the fiery trial which it 
 offers. But she had not thought to find herself so 
 suddenly aghast at her own action. She felt cold, 
 trembling, and frightened. She seemed to have gone 
 forward quite heedlessly all these past weeks, tem- 
 porarily indifferent and even blind to the conse- 
 quences which must wait upon her action. Now she 
 had the feeling of being flung back roughly and vio- 
 lently to earth, to shift for herself in a position of 
 unprecedented difficulty, with an increased power of 
 suffering and a diminished physical strength. . . . 
 
 Paul was coming back and there was only one 
 thing she could tell him. 
 
 In the days that followed Gillian closed her doors 
 upon the Pallant family. She was always out when 
 they called. She would not risk the possibility of 
 another breakdown before Lady Pallant; she wanted 
 to keep her in the dark as to the real state of affairs 
 until she had herself told Paul the truth. No idle 
 rumor must reach his ears beforehand. She reserved 
 to herself the right of telling him. It would have 
 been the action of a coward to try and escape that 
 task. From Joan's callous criticisms and question- 
 ing she shrank even more. She refused to see either 
 mother or daughter, leaving them to draw what con- 
 clusions they might. 
 
 She sent a little note to Belgrave Square so that 
 Paul might receive it immediately upon his return. 
 It was quite ordinary and non-committal, asking him 
 to come and see her as soon as he could. She made 
 no reference to their marriage, hoping this omission 
 might strike him as curious and perhaps prepare him 
 a little.
 
 332 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 She had declined Lady Pallant's invitation to 
 luncheon, and to accompany them to the station 
 afterwards to meet Paul. She preferred, she wrote, 
 that he should come and see her, adding that she dis- 
 liked intensely waiting about in cold stations for 
 trains that were always late. Lady Pallant consid- 
 ered that this excuse betrayed more common sense 
 than ardour. Joan made an adverse comment: "I 
 don't believe she cares a straw about him. She's 
 only marrying him to rehabilitate herself. Of course 
 it is an awful position for a young woman like Jill. 
 But she's too nervy ever to make a good wife." 
 
 Joan's novel characteristics included a robust rea- 
 sonableness. She was extremely impatient with any 
 display of nerves or temperament. Lady Pallant 
 thought she was growing more like Alastair every 
 day. It was wonderful how rapidly she had assim- 
 ilated his points of view. 
 
 Lady Pallant and Joan were standing on the plat- 
 form when Paul's train came in. In the crowd of 
 khaki-clad men that emerged from the quickly 
 opened doors it was at first a little difficult to dis- 
 cover him. Little was said until they found them- 
 selves in the motor on their way back to Belgrave 
 Square. They had only just time to exchange em- 
 braces and words of greeting. But both his mother 
 and sister had noticed that he had turned his head 
 quickly as if to see if Gillian were with them, and 
 though his face expressed no disappointment he be- 
 came suddenly silent. 
 
 In the motor Lady Pallant put Gillian's note into 
 his hand. She watched him as he tore it open and 
 glanced at its contents. He thrust it into his pocket 
 without further comment. But it seemed to his mother 
 that having read it his expression became slightly 
 more gloomy. She glanced at him furtively every 
 now and then. Evidently he was pre-occupied, and
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 333 
 
 she guessed that all his thoughts were rigidly con- 
 centrated upon Gillian. It re-assured her to see that 
 he looked in excellent health, in spite of the countless 
 privations through which he must have passed. He 
 had been gone rather more than three months, and 
 he was now so sunburnt from exposure that he had 
 utterly lost that characteristically black and white 
 effect; his pallor was concealed beneath this new 
 dark tint, and he looked consequently less delicate. 
 But his eyes with their heavy lids and dark rings 
 were slightly more hollow, and held a new restless 
 expression. 
 
 "Paul is more than ever packed up," was Joan's 
 inward comment on the chill coldness of his reserve 
 and manner. 
 
 "I was with Gillian when she received your tele- 
 gram," said Lady Pallant, anxious to show him in- 
 directly that she was on terms of friendship once 
 more with Mrs. Driscoll. 
 
 He frowned a little, too proud to question. 
 
 "Oh, were you?" he said carelessly. 
 
 "She said it was impossible to make any arrange- 
 ments until she'd seen you." 
 
 His face lightened a little. 
 
 "I suppose you will go there at once?" 
 
 "As soon as I've had a clean-up." 
 
 He felt ill, choked with suspense. That note had 
 said so little so little. 
 
 "I am afraid you'll find Gillian nervous," pursued 
 Lady Pallant "nervous and unstrung." 
 
 She wanted to prepare him for a mood of per- 
 haps unconscionable caprice. 
 
 "No wonder!" thrust in Joan, "she does noth- 
 ing absolutely nothing from morning till night I I 
 couldn't get her to join a single one of my commit- 
 tees. As far as I can see she isn't interested in any 
 of the war charities."
 
 334 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 He remarked quietly, "I've never regarded Jill 
 as an example of boisterous activity. She's not that 
 type." A gleam of the old sarcasm flashed in his 
 eyes. Yet even he, unacquainted with the march of 
 events, felt a slight astonishment at his sister's frank 
 criticism of her ancient idol. 
 
 "There is a medium between boisterous activity 
 
 and absolute indolence," said Joan tartly. "Alastair 
 
 * 
 
 But Paul was looking out of the window and by 
 the absent look in his face she perceived with some 
 mortification that he was not paying the slightest 
 attention to her. The ipse dixit of Alastair left him 
 obviously quite cold. She said, nose in air : 
 
 "Of course if you can get her out of that apathetic 
 state you'll be doing her an immense service 1" 
 
 Nervous, apathetic, unstrung, indolent. ... In turn 
 they had applied these adjectives to Gillian Driscoll 
 as if to try and prepare him for some perceptible 
 and untoward change in her. He pondered over 
 them in silence. For Joan's criticisms and opinions 
 he had nothing but contempt, and yet these epithets 
 served to deepen the fears that lay around his heart 
 like a wall of ice fears that had been engendered 
 by everv letter he had received of late from Gillian 
 Driscoll. Had the pendulum swung back again 
 this time not in his favour? If so there would be 
 little time in one week's leave to woo and win her 
 over again. So far he had always been ultimately 
 successful in imposing his will upon hers, but in- 
 variably there had been some initial difficulty, some 
 hesitancy of hers to be broken down, some unex- 
 pressed objection to be conquered. He had hoped 
 and hoped that this time she would yield to his en- 
 treaties, his prayers, and marry him before he re- 
 turned to France. He wanted to feel that she was 
 indeed his, his own wife bearing his name, before
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 335 
 
 he went back to those scenes across the Channel 
 scenes of which he was resolved never to speak to 
 her. 
 
 Instinctively he dreaded that first sight of her. 
 . . . There had been nothing in the speeches of Lady 
 Pallant and Joan to reassure him. 
 
 It was dark when he drove up to the green gate 
 that soon swung back to admit him when he had 
 rung the bell. He stumbled up the flagged path- 
 way and saw that a light was shining in the hall and 
 that a maid was waiting on the threshold to admit 
 him. He was evidently expected, and was shown 
 into the drawing-room without delay. 
 
 There was no one there, and in spite of the 
 warmth of the room he felt a sudden chill sense of 
 disappointment. He had hoped to find Gillian wait- 
 ing for him. It seemed that he had waited so long 
 he could not endure these few unnecessary last mo- 
 ments of suspense ; they were intolerable. Then he 
 glanced round the room. A bright fire blazed on 
 the hearth. On a little table were books and news- 
 papers, slightly disordered as if they had only re- 
 cently been abandoned. He saw and recognised 
 lying there Gillian's little blue silk work-bag. This 
 intimate possession of hers spoke to him eloquently 
 of her; he took it up and kissed it. Oh, why was 
 she not there? Why did she not come down? His 
 heart was crying out for her. . . . 
 
 Ten minutes passed. Gillian upstairs was on her 
 knees praying; she felt incapable of rising and going 
 down now that she knew Paul had indeed arrived. 
 Paul wandered restlessly around the little room, 
 examining the pictures quite mechanically, looking 
 at the photographs, the titles of the books. Not one 
 of them made the slightest impression on his mind 
 and memory. Under pain of death he could never
 
 336 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 afterwards have given any account of them. Why 
 did she not come? 
 
 The door opened at last to admit her. Paul had 
 been prepared for a change all women were 
 changed, it seemed to him, though perhaps not to 
 the point of such a complete metamorphosis as Joan I 
 Even his mother had acquired new and less arbitrary 
 standpoints in the great upheaval. But this change 
 was physical. Gillian was very pale; her thinness 
 bordered on emaciation, she looked ill, and as if 
 she had not slept. He had often assured himself 
 that she could never be as beautiful in reality as in 
 those visualised presentments of her when she had 
 seemed to haunt his trench and make it the loveliest 
 place in the world. Now he told himself that she 
 was infinitely more beautiful than any of those exqui- 
 site and imagined visions had ever been. . . . He 
 went up to her with eyes shining and arms held out. 
 And across his joy it seemed to him that she stood 
 there like a cold and unresponsive statue, neither 
 encouraging nor repulsing that embrace. His lips 
 touched hers there was again that simple acquies- 
 cence and submission to the caress proffered. She 
 did not speak nor smile, and if any one had told 
 him that this was not Gillian but some pale revenant 
 masquerading in her guise he would have had little 
 difficulty in believing them. 
 
 "Jill Jill ... my dear ... my darling," he 
 said. 
 
 There was no use in delay ; he must know the best 
 or the worst at once. His days in England were 
 numbered. 
 
 "Jill," he whispered, "will you marry me this 
 week?" 
 
 His voice was stern now and not tender; it was 
 controlled and steady and authoritative. There was 
 much more demand than entreaty in his tone. But
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 337 
 
 it awoke Gillian from her lifelessness. She freed 
 herself from his clasp and moved a little away from 
 him. 
 
 "I shall never marry you, Paul," she said. 
 
 There was a tense pause. Under the tan of the 
 sunburn Paul's face was livid. 
 
 "You don't mean it you can't mean it, Jill, my 
 darling! You can't break my heart now." 
 
 He came over and knelt at her feet, kissing 
 them. . . . 
 
 "Paul don't kneel. I have something to say 
 to you. Oh, try and listen and bear it ... and don't 
 reproach me !" 
 
 His words, his touch had diminished her vitality; 
 she felt almost faint as she had done when she had 
 first heard the news of his approaching return. Her 
 very life seemed to be ebbing from her. Can a heart 
 bleed to death inwardly she wondered? For that 
 was the impression she had now of her own heart 
 in its fierce pain. . . . 
 
 "You don't love me then?" he said. His eyes 
 were sunken, lustreless. "You've never loved me? 
 Is that what you're trying to tell me?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "I love you, Paul," she said quietly. "I love you 
 more than anything in the world. But it is impos- 
 sible for me to marry you now for a reason I am 
 going to tell you." She looked at him with eyes that 
 held a sadness beyond all words. "I have no right 
 to take what you offer me I have never had the 
 right. I have been fighting against God." She put 
 out both hands and held his as if she were clinging 
 to him for that human support needed on account 
 of her curiously diminishing physical energy. Yet 
 even in that moment of weakness the strength of her 
 new purpose seemed to have increased immeasurably. 
 "I have become a Catholic, Paul. I have been fight-
 
 338 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 ing against it all these weeks and months. I could 
 not believe that God really required all the sacrifice 
 of my happiness I could not believe that with 
 my own hands I was called upon to build this barrier 
 between us. Then one night suddenly I was pray- 
 ing, and I knew that these things were required of 
 me, and for your sake as well as my own." 
 
 But Paul stood there looking at her silent and 
 speechless. He told himself that this thing had 
 always been between them ever since her return from 
 Italy in the summer, and that even in the early days 
 of their engagement it had divided them. He had 
 been sensible always of some withdrawal in Gillian, 
 of some place in her heart which he in spite of all 
 his great love had failed to occupy; of some influence 
 which from the first had been sharply militating 
 against that love. . . . 
 
 "Does that mean," he said at last, "that you can 
 never marry me?" 
 
 "While Aylmer is alive never." 
 
 He had the sense of a loss so great that it utterly 
 shattered and destroyed all other issues. He had 
 lost Gillian, and he felt that it had happened in the 
 moment when he was least able to bear it, when 
 such a calamity could produce within his heart the 
 maximum of pain. He had lost her. . . . Yet in 
 strange contradiction he had never before felt so 
 completely convinced of her love, as in this moment 
 when she definitely set aside its claims. She was suf- 
 fering too. He felt the presence within her of some- 
 thing spiritually triumphant and magnificent. 
 
 "Did you do this," he said at last in a strange 
 hoarse tone, "because you were afraid of the risk 
 for me?" 
 
 "For you for me for us both," she answered 
 tranquilly.
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 339 
 
 He felt her tears dropping on his hands; they 
 were, he thought, as warm drops of blood. 
 
 She added quietly, "If you knew all that I know 
 you would understand that I am offering you a final 
 proof of my love." 
 
 She was grateful to him that he made no violent 
 outcry against the fate she had imposed upon him 
 that he made in fine no attempt at argument, recrim- 
 ination, reproach. Deeply rooted in his nature there 
 was an unselfishness that triumphed now. He could 
 not war against that delicate conscience of hers. If 
 this thing gave her happiness, let her have it at what- 
 ever cost. But he knew that it was not a question 
 of mere happiness. It lay quite beyond and outside 
 of human issues. Even if they had married it would 
 certainly have arisen to divide them. Had she not 
 said that she had fought against it? Paul was not 
 a man to think lightly of spiritual issues. In the life 
 and death conflict in which he had been engaged of 
 late, his reverence for them had been immensely 
 strengthened. 
 
 He put out his arms and drew Gillian to him ; his 
 lips touched hers. "Dear Jill," he said brokenly 
 "dear Jill, I know you haven't done this hastily or 
 unadvisedly. I have felt there was something be- 
 tween us all the time. It is a rival a man mustn't 
 be too jealous of." His eyes were very bright now; 
 they had a look in them as of unshed tears. "I 
 know I have no other rival in your heart." 
 
 "You may be sure of that always always, 
 Paul." 
 
 When he left he turned back for a second at the 
 door, pausing to look at her as if to register that 
 last impression the more perfectly upon his mind 
 and heart. She looked beautiful more beautiful 
 than he had ever seen her, he thought; the saints of 
 old must surely have worn that mien as they went
 
 340 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 to their martyrdom. He felt more strongly and 
 deeply than ever before that that outward beauty 
 of hers was but the reflection of a spiritual loveli- 
 ness that had augmented and increased within her 
 all these months as she went step by step towards 
 the consummation of her sacrifice. How could he 
 ever have hoped to make her his to imprison that 
 soul of hers in the fastnesses of an earthly love- . . .
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 PAUL went straight up to his room on his return. 
 - He felt so stunned and bewildered that he had 
 some difficulty in believing in the reality of the scene 
 through which he had just passed. Gillian's letters 
 as well as his own formless fears and presentiments 
 had, it is true, prepared him for a change in her, 
 but nothing had ever suggested that it would be an 
 irremediable one. Always before his presence had 
 been quick to re-awaken within her the love she un- 
 doubtedly had for him; thus when they were apart 
 he had been able to reassure himself with the con- 
 viction of his own power over her. Only once or 
 twice had it occurred to him that her elusiveness had 
 been founded upon something more solid than mere 
 caprice. Now she had torn all the veils away. She 
 had shown him the truth with a splendid courage. 
 For the moment it had blinded him. Now with her 
 presence withdrawn the magnitude of his so sudden 
 loss was overwhelming. 
 
 He had accepted it all very simply. He had been 
 determined not to add to the sum of her suffering 
 by exposing the measure of his own. His considera- 
 tion for her, always meticulously delicate, had spared 
 her as far as possible all additional pain. Looking 
 back on their interview Paul was able to assure him- 
 self of this with a heart-broken pride. Gillian be- 
 longed to him in a manner and sense that no human 
 tie could have deepened. And in this case the human 
 tie, at war with her conscience in a dreadful interior 
 conflict, must certainly in the end have thrust them 
 utterly apart. 
 
 The hurt to his pride was slighter than he could 
 have imagined possible, for had he not every possi- 
 ble assurance of Gillian's abiding love? He had 
 
 341
 
 342 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 not been dispossessed by any human rival. She had 
 succumbed to forces against which she had for a 
 long time and most passionately rebelled. He began 
 to wonder now why he had felt so little curiosity as 
 to the details of the matter; he still had no idea 
 where or when she had been received into the 
 Church, or by whom. He had accepted her sim- 
 ple statement and had not paused to make any in- 
 quiries. There was a latent envy within him now 
 of those unknown ones who had supported her, be- 
 friended her, in the hour of final sacrificial surren- 
 der. 
 
 Paul set his teeth grimly as he went down to din- 
 ner that evening. He shrank from meeting his 
 mother and sister, aware that the moment of their 
 enlightenment could not be delayed. They must be 
 prevented from discussing his approaching marriage 
 with their friends, so the sooner they knew the truth 
 the better. The few days' leave that lay in front 
 of him, which had once seemed too short, too inad- 
 equate to hold the cup of so much joy, now stretched 
 out like some grey vision of an unhappy eternity. 
 He was practically bound to spend the time at home 
 in London almost within sound and sight of Gillian. 
 There was torture in the thought. . . . He longed to 
 be back in the thick of the conflict, working as he had 
 never worked before. Nothing seemed so difficult 
 as this intimate evening that lay immediately before 
 him. 
 
 Dinner had been fixed for half-past eight, and it 
 was understood that he should be alone with his 
 mother and sister. Gillian had refused Lady Pal- 
 lant's invitation to be present. His mothej: and 
 Joan were already in the drawing-room when he 
 appeared punctually at the half-hour. 
 
 Joan, attired in a straight and simple black dress 
 of very severe cut the erstwhile loose and flowing
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 343 
 
 draperies a la Gillian having been disdainfully dis- 
 carded looked up and smiled at him as he came in. 
 Lady Pallant, who was writing, laid down "her pen 
 and said, "Well, Paul?" 
 
 He stooped and kissed her, then smiled at Joan. 
 His face was like an iron mask, so rigid was its con- 
 trol. He had himself well in hand. But he was 
 disagreeably conscious of his sister's attitude of 
 her sharp unsympathetic curiosity. Perhaps neither 
 she nor his mother would be extremely sorry to hear 
 that his engagement had been broken off at the elev- 
 enth hour. 
 
 They went down to dinner. At any other time 
 Joan's chatter would have got on his nerves, now he 
 felt almost grateful to her for dissipating the silence 
 that must otherwise have ensued. He began to 
 realise that Miss Pallant and Mrs. Grant were two 
 very different people, and he detected in Joan's as- 
 sertive conversation that she desired to acquaint him 
 with the change. She wished him to recognise the 
 fact that she had become a very important person, 
 and could no longer be snubbed and made to appear 
 ridiculous. 
 
 It was only when dessert was on the table and the 
 servants had left the room that he looked up and 
 said: 
 
 "Gillian has definitely broken off our engagement. 
 We shall not be married " He spoke mechan- 
 ically, emotionlessly, like one who repeats a sentence 
 he has learnt by heart. 
 
 But even to his own ears his voice sounded rough 
 and unnaturally loud. 
 
 Joan dropped a pear she was in the act of peel- 
 ing; Lady Pallant put down the glass of port wine 
 she was just raising to her lips. 
 
 "I always felt certain she would 1" said Joan vin- 
 dictively.
 
 344 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 She wondered if there would be time to-night to 
 write and tell Alastair this important news. 
 
 "Broken off her engagement?" cried Lady Pal- 
 lant. "Why what reason can she have, after all 
 these months, for treating you so so infamously?" 
 
 She remembered those sobbing broken utterances : 
 "Don't let him come. I can't marry him. . . ." 
 What had happened? What did it mean? 
 
 "She hasn't married any one else, has she?" cried 
 Lady Pallant, struck by a sudden thought. "Not 
 that Italian she got so talked about with when she 
 was in Rome last spring?" 
 
 Paul's eyes flashed with indignation. 
 
 "That affair lasted only a very short time. The 
 man has since married an American heiress." His 
 tone suddenly became more cold and temperate. 
 "Gillian's reasons for refusing to marry me are such 
 that I have been obliged to accept them without 
 remonstrance." He glanced from one to the other, 
 wondering a little at his mother's indignant aston- 
 ishment. She seemed to have quite forgotten her 
 own early opposition to the proposed marriage, and 
 to blame Gillian as deeply for breaking off the en- 
 gagement as she had originally blamed her for enter- 
 ing upon it. 
 
 "I don't see what reason she can possibly have 
 unless she has married some one else," said Joan. 
 
 "She has become a Catholic," said Paul gravely; 
 "and as long as Aylmer Driscoll is alive the laws of 
 her Church forbid her to marry." 
 
 This second piece of information startled them 
 even more than the first. Joan was the first to break 
 the little pause that followed. 
 
 "I should have thought she might have found a 
 way of escape that wouldn't have entailed burning 
 all her boats !" she said, with a dry little laugh. 
 
 The taunt in her words made Paul flush under-
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 345 
 
 neath the dark tan of his face, but he did not reply. 
 This aspect of the situation had never occurred to 
 him, nevertheless he now felt that it was an interpre- 
 tation many people might reasonably place upon Gil- 
 lian's action. 
 
 "Gillian a Roman Catholic!" said Lady Pallant 
 in a shocked and pained voice. "I can hardly imag- 
 ine such a thing to be possible. I had no idea that 
 she had any religious sense at all. She never seemed 
 to care about going to church. I wonder what put 
 it into her head. Perhaps some one in Italy. . . . 
 I always disapproved of such a young woman going 
 off like that, quite alone, to foreign countries." 
 
 "Oh, she'll never stick to it," said Joan, "Jill 
 hates any kind of discipline. She doesn't know what 
 she's in for, I am quite sure. It is all part of that 
 very excitable, emotional, nervous condition of hers. 
 It is only a new pose." 
 
 "She had everything to lose by taking such a step 
 from a human point of view," said Paul, "you must 
 at least give her that credit. And if you see Gillian 
 I beg that you will not reproach her. She has suf- 
 fered very much." 
 
 "Paul, how extraordinary you are! You actually 
 seem to approve," said Joan irritably; "you take 
 everything Jill sees fit to give you absolutely lying 
 down!" Her voice held scorn. Why did he per- 
 mit himself to be treated thus, without remonstrance, 
 with no display of proper pride? It was inconceiv- 
 able that he should endure with meekness the im- 
 mense caprice of Gillian! 
 
 "I do approve," he said with perfect calmness, 
 "as far as I can approve of her taking any step that 
 has such far-reaching consequences upon her future 
 as well as upon my own. But I could never ask of 
 her that she should go against her own conscience
 
 346 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 in such an important matter, even if it were not too 
 late for such a demand to be futile." 
 
 What a fool he was about this woman, thought 
 Joan with increased irritation. How blinded he was 
 by his love for her ! She had played with him as a 
 cat plays with a mouse. And at the last she had 
 thrown him over, and in such a fashion that he bore 
 her no ill-will but even defended her action, regard- 
 ing it as one imposed by her conscience. 
 
 "I can't imagine why under the circumstances she 
 ever promised to marry you at all," said Lady Pal- 
 lant severely ;"she had no scruples in the beginning, I 
 am quite sure. There must be another motive behind 
 it all, Paul one that you have never penetrated," 
 Her words conveyed the belief that a worse and 
 more violent awakening lay in front of him. She 
 could not yet assimilate his view as to the delicate 
 conscience of Mrs. Driscoll. Gillian had caught him 
 originally with a wholly unscrupulous dexterity, well 
 aware how she his mother would utterly disapprove 
 of such a marriage for her only son. ohe began to 
 regret most bitterly those advances she had made to 
 recover Gillian's friendship; she felt as if she had 
 humbled herself for nothing. 
 
 But her words had hurt Paul deeply. For the 
 first time his cast-iron pride seemed to melt in the 
 face of the attack. He looked at Joan. 
 
 "Jo, can't you say something in defence of your 
 old friend?" he pleaded pitifully. 
 
 Mrs. Grant answered coldly : 
 
 "My friendship with Jill is a thing of the past. 
 I can't understand now how I could ever have put 
 up with her whims and caprices, I have so little 
 patience with them now. There's nothing stable or 
 solid about Gillian. You can never be sure of her 
 from day to day." She uttered the little condemning 
 phrases without remorse. "Everything with her is a
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 347 
 
 pose. And now that she has treated you so very 
 badly I shall never bother my head about her again. 
 Alastair always said it was a thousand pities you 
 should ever have got engaged to herl" 
 
 Joan knew she had gone too far, but she had prac- 
 tically lost control of her tongue. It was immensely 
 agreeable to have this opportunity of enunciating 
 her own opinion of Gillian to Paul. She revelled in 
 her little triumph. 
 
 Paul did not reply. He rose and without another 
 word went out of the room. 
 
 "My dear you shouldn't," said Lady Pallant re- 
 provingly, "and his first night at home too." 
 
 "But he asked for it, didn't he?" said Joan. "I 
 can't understand this new move of Gillian's, can you? 
 It's so very unlike anything she's ever done before. 
 Some one has been influencing her some one we 
 have never heard of. She's done this on purpose 
 to put a barrier between herself and Paul in such 
 a way that people can't blame her." 
 
 "Still, you should have been more careful what 
 you said to Paul about her. You know what his 
 temper is. I'm dreadfully sorry there should have 
 been this unpleasantness so soon after his return. 
 He will begin to regret that he came home at all." 
 
 "You had better blame Gillian then, not me," 
 said Joan sharply, "it is her doing. Why on earth 
 couldn't she write and tell him instead of letting 
 him come back so full of hope? She is a very de- 
 signing, artful, intriguing woman." 
 
 It was not sufficient for Joan to have discovered 
 the clay feet of her idol; the whole world must share 
 in the discovery. 
 
 "Alastair always disliked her," she added, as if 
 this put the final seal upon the downfall and con- 
 demnation of Gillian Driscoll.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 "D EFORE Ian Frazer left for France he paid a visit 
 ** to an old and dear friend of his, a Mrs. Car- 
 rington, who lived in a dark brown house in Curzon 
 Street. He wished to enlist her sympathy in this 
 new convert, and he was by no means deterred by 
 the knowledge that Mrs. Carrington was in deep 
 mourning as she had just lost her only son, who 
 was also her only child, in France. He had fallen 
 while gallantly leading his company. . . . 
 
 Mrs. Carrington was an elderly woman, but she 
 was still extremely beautiful with dark iron-grey hair 
 that grew thickly against her forehead in soft waves, 
 and dark eyes that were neither brown nor grey. 
 She was in her way quite a personality, and had one 
 of those houses where people delight to go, not only 
 certain of their welcome but assured too that they 
 will meet there other charming and agreeable per- 
 sons, in a pleasant and sympathetic atmosphere. 
 
 Just now the house was closed against all but her 
 most intimate friends. Mrs. Carrington's suffering 
 had been very intense, for as far as a very devout 
 woman could do so, she had idolised her boy. But 
 Ian was among her most intimate friends. She had 
 helped him in all kinds of ways during the critical 
 time of his own conversion, and the bonds thus 
 forged between them had never been relaxed. He 
 was about the same age as her own son, and the two 
 men had also been friends. 
 
 Judging Gillian's present position to be extremely 
 desolate and surrounded by no common danger, he 
 had resolved to beg Mrs. Carrington to come to the 
 rescue and befriend her. 
 
 It was a wet windy evening in November when he 
 found himself ushered into the large rather old- 
 
 348
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 349 
 
 fashioned drawing-room which ran from front to 
 back of the house in the usual London fashion. Mrs. 
 Carrington was sitting wrapped in a shawl by the 
 fireplace. She looked up as he came in. 
 
 "How nice you look in khaki, Ian," she said, hold- 
 ing out her hand to him without rising. 
 
 "I don't feel like myself in it," said Ian smiling. 
 "I got very slack about dress at Assisi." 
 
 He sat down and looked at her with his bright 
 steel-like eyes. 
 
 "I've got a good work for you to do, my dear 
 Madrina," he said. She was not really his god- 
 mother, but she had helped him so much when he 
 had been received that he had bestowed this name 
 upon her out of gratitude and affection. 
 
 "I cannot undertake any good works just now," 
 said Mrs. Carrington, "it's really quite impossible. 
 I'm going over to Les Sables on Wednesday week 
 to start my hospital." 
 
 "So you have just ten days by your own showing 
 in which to do what I want," replied Ian calmly. 
 
 "My time between this and then is fully occupied. 
 It's no small matter starting even a little hospital 
 in France." 
 
 "I only want you to come with me one day and 
 see a friend of mine, Mrs. Driscoll. She is a very 
 recent convert in fact, she was only received last 
 week." 
 
 "Who is Mrs. Driscoll? I never heard you speak 
 of her." 
 
 "I first met her in Assisi last summer. She is 
 quite young and very pretty " 
 
 "And living apart from her husband of course," 
 she observed sapiently. 
 
 "How cynical you are," said Ian, "but it is even 
 worse than that. She has divorced him, and was 
 about to make a second marriage when," he paused,
 
 350 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 "when it just happened. She struggled for a while, 
 of course, and very nearly gave in. But thanks be 
 to God " He bowed his head reverently. 
 
 Mrs. Carrington was interested in spite of her- 
 self. 
 
 "Did anybody use their influence with her?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "At the time of her decision she was quite alone. 
 I had a shot at it last summer when she told me 
 something of her history. And some woman in 
 Rome had told her what the Catholic Church teaches 
 about the re-marriage of divorced persons." 
 
 "And this man she thought of marrying?" 
 
 "He's at the front now," said Ian. "He seems to 
 have taken it most awfully well. He has been de- 
 voted to her for years, and is very unselfish about 
 her. But she's awfully alone, Madrina mia. She 
 doesn't know any Catholics at all except a priest 
 and a few nuns and myself. Do come and see her 
 with me." 
 
 "I don't see what good I can do. And I'm 
 much too busy to attend to my old work of looking 
 after converts." 
 
 "But just this one," he pleaded. "She is really 
 very charming. I'm sure you'll like her." 
 
 "It seems to me that you are very deeply inter- 
 ested in this woman, Ian," said Mrs. Carrington in 
 a tone that was almost severe. 
 
 "Oh, but I am," said Ian frankly, and meeting 
 her look without the slightest embarrassment. "I 
 don't know when I've been so interested in any one. 
 It's been such a wonderful thing, you see, to watch 
 a soul a little weak, helpless, insignificant soul 
 being pursued and hunted and captured. Even the 
 best of us seem such worthless quarry," he added. 
 "I want you to be kind to her because she has been 
 through a good deal. By the way, she is quite well 
 off s he might help you with your hospital."
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 351 
 
 "I don't want pecuniary help," said Mrs. Carring- 
 ton, "and I am not going to have any untrained 
 women working there. The wounded have quite 
 enough to endure without that." 
 
 "Well, do just come and see her. I'm sure you'll 
 take an immense fancy to her," said Ian confidently. 
 
 Mrs. Carrington allowed herself to be persuaded, 
 principally because she seldom refused Ian Frazer 
 anything, and secondly because the little account he 
 had given her of Mrs. Driscoll had aroused her sym- 
 pathetic interest. On the following afternoon she 
 drove to Chelsea with him. Gillian had already been 
 informed of their intended visit and she felt a little 
 curious to see this woman of whom Ian thought so 
 much. 
 
 He was nervously anxious about the success of his 
 little plan ; for while he felt quite certain that Mrs. 
 Carrington would like Gillian he felt much less cer- 
 tain about Gillian herself. 
 
 But Gillian received them both in such a simple 
 and friendly fashion that after a very short time 
 Ian was able to go away and leave them together, 
 feeling thoroughly assured of the success of the ex- 
 periment. 
 
 Mrs. Carrington, already disposed to like Gillian, 
 took an immense fancy to the pretty, delicate-looking 
 woman who had been through such strange and 
 stormy experiences. Her heart went out to her. 
 
 "My dear," she said very kindly, after Ian Frazer 
 had departed, "Ian has told me so much about you 
 that I feel as if we were quite old friends. It is 
 quite lately, he tells me, that your miracle took 
 place." 
 
 Miracle? Gillian both looked and felt puzzled. 
 
 "To me every conversion is such a wonderful 
 miracle," said Mrs. Carrington. 
 
 "My conversion was forced upon me," said Gil-
 
 352 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 lian. "Nothing was further from my mind when I 
 went abroad last spring than the thought of relig- 
 ion. It was forced upon me," she repeated. 
 
 Encouraged by the kindly interest Mrs. Carring- 
 ton was displaying she related some of her experi- 
 ences, as far as she was able to express these in 
 words, especially those that had come to her in the 
 Church of San Francesco at Assisi, and afterwards 
 in the little church at Chelsea. Mrs. Carrington 
 listened with deep attention. Nothing perhaps inter- 
 ested her so profoundly as the history of a conver- 
 sion. For no two are alike; to every soul there is 
 something exceptional and individual in the path that 
 leads to the goal. The sum of sacrifice demanded 
 differs in every case. Sometimes it is so little ; some- 
 times the hard commandment of "Sell whatsoever 
 thou hast and come, follow Me," is given, a sacri- 
 fice that is almost too great to be made. Gillian had 
 paid the full price, conscious that it was inevitable. 
 
 It was very pleasant to her to find herself in an 
 atmosphere of sympathy and approval. Lately she 
 had had much to bear of condemnation, disdain, and 
 disapproval from her friends and acquaintances. 
 Only Paul, who had suffered most, had never re- 
 proached her. It was the power of understanding 
 her that he had evinced which had been of such im- 
 mense consolation to her. 
 
 "I do not know if Mr. Frazer has told you that 
 I am just starting a little hospital at Les Sables," 
 said Mrs. Carrington presently; "I am going there 
 next week with four trained nurses. But if you liked 
 to come with me I am sure that you would find plenty 
 to do. You could help me with the housekeeping 
 and in looking after the linen things that most 
 women who have had a house of their own under- 
 stand. I wanted some one, but I didn't want to take 
 a girl. I think you would be the very person "
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 353 
 
 "Oh, I should like it so much," said Gillian quite 
 eagerly. "I have been very idle all this time and 
 have done nothing to help." 
 
 "My dear, you have been busy about other 
 things," said Mrs. Carrington gently; "sometimes 
 God requires all our time for Himself. Do you 
 think you can be ready as soon as next week?" 
 
 "I feel as if I could be ready now," said Gillian. 
 
 "I hope to start on Wednesday week and get 
 things in thorough order by the end of the month. 
 We might travel together. But I shall see you again 
 before then. I am not receiving at all just now, but 
 I should be very glad if you would come and have 
 luncheon with me on Sunday." 
 
 She rose to take her departure, and moved by 
 a sudden impulse she kissed Gillian on both cheeks. 
 "Good-bye, my dear. I cannot tell you how happy 
 it has made me to make your acquaintance. I shall 
 not let you overwork yourself at Les Sables. You 
 don't look at all strong." 
 
 As she went away she thought to herself: 
 
 "What a child she looks to have gone through so 
 much ! And such a fragile child too. I must write 
 and tell Ian what we have arranged." 
 
 The letter was written that same evening. "I've 
 quite fallen in love with your little friend. She is 
 coming to Les Sables with me. Of course I know 
 this is what you always intended, you intriguing per- 
 son." 
 
 Ian Frazer chuckled over the letter. This project 
 had certainly been in his mind from the very be- 
 ginning, but he had not imagined that it would mate- 
 rialise so rapidly. Now he felt that he could go away 
 knowing that Gillian was in safe hands. 
 
 Amaryllis was dreadfully aggrieved at the pros- 
 pect of Gillian's departure. She was not at all well ;
 
 354 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 the weather was bad, and she could not even go for 
 drives; she depended very greatly upon Mrs. Dris- 
 coll's daily visits. 
 
 She had recovered almost immediately from her 
 momentary anger at hearing Gillian had become a 
 Catholic; had even written a humble little note of 
 apology, full of promise of amendment, the same 
 evening. "We mustn't quarrel, Jill dear," she wrote, 
 "and of course I know you think you are doing your 
 duty. I simply can't do without you now." 
 
 But when Gillian came and disclosed her new 
 plan of going to Les Sables poor Amaryllis was so 
 aghast at the thought of losing her that she began 
 to cry weakly. 
 
 "Oh, Jill, how unkind of you! I do want you 
 so much. Mother fusses so and I simply hate 
 other people about. You've been with me all the 
 time, you see." 
 
 Gillian tried to comfort her. "But I've been hor- 
 ribly idle, and now this work's been offered to me 
 I don't like to refuse, Ammy. And Mrs. Carring- 
 to n " 
 
 At the sound of this unknown name Amaryllis 
 lifted her head and regarded Gillian resentfully. 
 
 "Who in the world is Mrs. Carrington? I never 
 heard you speak of her before." 
 
 "She is a friend of Ian Frazer's. He introduced 
 us to each other because he thought I ought to have 
 a Catholic friend." 
 
 "Very kind and thoughtful of him," said Mrs. 
 Sprot in a tone of disdain. "Jill, why do you let 
 people interfere with you so? You let yourself be 
 chivied about from pillar to post," she added with 
 what was to Gillian a welcome touch of her old argot. 
 "Why should you allow this woman to drag you off 
 abroad just because she's a Holy Roman?" 
 
 "Oh, she's not dragging me. I was quite delighted
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 355 
 
 at the prospect of going to Les Sables. And she has 
 lost her only son in Flanders she looks very sad," 
 said Gillian gently. 
 
 "I didn't think you'd desert me now, Jill, for any 
 new friend. I thought I could count upon you," 
 said Amaryllis. "It will be hateful when you have 
 gone." 
 
 "Dear Ammy, I do want to help. And perhaps 
 I shan't be gone many weeks." She bent down and 
 kissed her friend. "I hope you won't miss me so 
 much, Ammy, directly you are feeling a little better 
 and can go out for drives again." 
 
 Even Mrs. Sprot could not keep her in London. 
 She was eagerly looking forward to the day when 
 she should start for France with Mrs. Carrington. 
 She felt almost excited at the prospect. Only the 
 thought of Amaryllis made her feel a little guilty 
 as if she were acting selfishly. Was Ammy right 
 in saying she allowed herself to be too readily in- 
 fluenced by other people? Perhaps that always hap- 
 pened to a woman alone, without ties, without any 
 one to restrict her. Ever since her divorce she had 
 been inundated from all quarters with advice good 
 and bad. It was difficult to know what to do for the 
 best, but she had consulted her confessor and he had 
 approved of the plan of her accompanying Mrs. Car- 
 rington abroad. 
 
 She wished Amaryllis had not needed her so much. 
 And one evening she encountered Mrs. Porter just 
 as she was leaving, and took fresh alarm at the sight 
 of that lady's anxious and worried face. 
 
 "I am so very sorry you are going abroad, Gil- 
 lian. Poor Ammy's dreadfully upset about it." 
 
 She spoke so reproachfully that Gillian flushed. 
 "I am very sorry to leave Ammy, too, Mrs. Porter. 
 I had no idea when I promised to go that she needed 
 me so much."
 
 356 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 "I am anxious," said Mrs. Porter in a sepulchral 
 voice, "about Ammy." 
 
 "Anxious?" echoed Gillian. 
 
 Considering the painful circumstances she had not 
 thought there was anything abnormal about Mrs. 
 Sprot's state of health. 
 
 "You must see for yourself how terribly changed 
 she is," continued Mrs. Porter. "Oh, I know she 
 has been very brave and all that, but I sometimes 
 think she was too self-controlled, too determined 
 not to give way at the beginning. She's a mere skel- 
 eton, and I know she's just fretting to death." 
 
 Gillian wondered why these facts had impressed 
 her so little. Perhaps it was because she had seen 
 Ammy every day that she had been so slow to note 
 the change that had taken place in her. She was 
 painfully thin, and her face had an odd, wasted, 
 drawn look. She had always been gay and cheerful 
 by temperament, and now one was apt to take it for 
 granted and not realise what a strain that very gaiety 
 and cheerfulness must be to her now. 
 
 "I wish you weren't going," continued Mrs. 
 Porter, "she depends on you, you cheer her. I'm too 
 anxious and I only worry her. But then she's my 
 only child and she's all I've got in the world." The 
 tears stood in her eyes. 
 
 Gillian could only say as she had done to Ama- 
 ryllis: "Perhaps I shall not stay away many weeks. 
 And if you really think she wants me to come back 
 you must send for me." 
 
 "I wish you were not going," repeated Mrs. Porter 
 in a melancholy tone, "Ammy clings to you somehow. 
 When I think how splendidly strong she's always 
 been it breaks my heart to see her now !" 
 
 Gillian drove round to Belgrave Square that same 
 evening for the purpose of taking leave of the Pal- 
 lants. Although neither Lady Pallant nor Joan had
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 357 
 
 taken any notice of her since the rupture of her en- 
 gagement to Paul, nevertheless Gillian thought it 
 would be more polite to go and see them and inform 
 them of her impending departure. In the drawing- 
 room she found Joan sitting with her mother. Both 
 were knitting vigorously. 
 
 "I've come to say good-bye," said Gillian. "I'm 
 going to France on Wednesday to help Mrs. Car- 
 rington with her little hospital." She felt nervous 
 as she made this speech in a hurried almost inaudible 
 voice. 
 
 Lady Pallant said, just as Amaryllis had done : 
 
 "Who in the world is Mrs. Carrington?" 
 
 "She she was introduced to me by a friend," 
 said Gillian, flushing a little. "She is a Catholic, 
 and as she was just starting this hospital she asked 
 me to go and help her." 
 
 "Well, I am glad to hear that you are going to 
 do something useful at last, Jill," said Mrs. Grant 
 in a firm tone of voice, exactly as if she were speak- 
 ing to a child. 
 
 But Lady Pallant was occupied with quite another 
 issue. 
 
 "One hears that always about Roman Catholics," 
 she said, "that they cling together. Where does 
 she live?" 
 
 "In Curzon Street," said Gillian. 
 
 "Oh, I think I've heard of her," said Lady Pal- 
 lant, "quite a fanatic, I believe, in her own line. It 
 was she who persuaded Lady Ida Middleford's girl 
 to become a Catholic. It caused quite a family feud 
 and no end of trouble and worry, but then they never 
 seem to take people's feelings into account." 
 
 "Jill is very lucky to be taken up by such a rich, 
 powerful woman," pronounced Joan with a touch of 
 malicious asperity in her voice; "of course if you get 
 into the exclusive Catholic set through her you will
 
 358 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 do very well. You will find it a great improvement 
 upon the Upper Bohemia you used to have at your 
 house when you were first married. You must try 
 and manage it somehow." 
 
 "I don't think we shall see much society of any 
 kind at Les Sables," said Gillian dryly. 
 
 "What a pity you haven't been through any 
 course," continued Joan; "now if you had only fol- 
 lowed my advice and example and got your Red 
 Cross certificates, you would have been of far more 
 use in a hospital." 
 
 "I am not going to nurse Mrs. Carrington is 
 only employing trained women. I'm to help her with 
 the housekeeping and the linen," said Gillian. 
 
 Even she was a little astonished at the definite 
 hostility of Joan's manner. But it gave her a pre- 
 text for shortening her visit. 
 
 "I shall be so glad to feel I'm doing something," 
 she said brightly as she got up to go. "I have been 
 a drone so long." 
 
 Paul's name was not mentioned. She longed to 
 ask if they had had news of him, for since he went 
 away he had not once written to her. Perhaps it was 
 better so, but she had somehow hoped they would 
 speak of him. 
 
 When she had gone Joan said to her mother: 
 
 "What an extraordinarily lucky woman Jill is. 
 She always falls on her feet. People really nice 
 people too take such fancies to her. I can't under- 
 stand it." 
 
 Lady Pallant at any other time would have smiled 
 acidly at the shortness of her daughter's memory. 
 
 "This Mrs. Carrington will soon find out how 
 utterly incompetent she is," continued Joan disdain- 
 fully. Then, after a pause during which Lady Pal- 
 lant continued to knit vigorously, she inquired: 
 "Shall you tell Paul that she's going to Les Sables?"
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 359 
 
 "I haven't made up my mind," said Lady Pallant. 
 "But I should think she would tell him herself." 
 
 "Oh, do you think they still write to each other?" 
 said Joan. 
 
 Lady Pallant shook her head. 
 
 "One can never tell with Paul," she said, "he's 
 devoted to her, and nothing she can ever do or say 
 will change him. I dare say he goes on hoping against 
 hope."
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 p HE winter the first terrible winter of the Great 
 * War dragged on with seemingly interminable 
 length. Gillian spent it at Les Sables, a place which 
 she had visited long ago with Aylmer when they had 
 spent a few weeks there for sea-bathing and golf, 
 and which was now transformed out of all recog- 
 nition. All the huge hotels as well as the little villas 
 and painted chalets were turned into ambulances. 
 No longer a place of pleasure, it could have rivalled 
 one of Dante's grim circles of Hell as an abode of 
 pain. The hordes of rich people who had been ac- 
 customed to invade it during the summer months 
 were elsewhere employed; the surviving men fighting 
 gallantly in the trenches, the women tending the 
 wounded, the sick, and the children. 
 
 Sea and sands, pine-woods and pale blanched lines 
 of sand-dunes where the dark coarse grass waved 
 like long hair combed back by the wind, made up the 
 desolate winter landscape. Often the grey sea was 
 veiled and shrouded with mist; often it was stirred 
 to violent fury by the storms that beat upon the coast. 
 At night the wind sobbed at the windows of the little 
 chalet-hospital, like a desolate and stricken soul 
 pleading for admission. 
 
 Looking back upon that long winter those who 
 suffered from anxiety and bereavement and there 
 were many who bore uncomplainingly the double 
 cross might well wonder how they could have lived 
 through a time of such profound and poignant 
 anguish. The very flower of England fought and 
 fell upon the fields of Flanders and France. . . . 
 
 Gillian became more and more busy as the days 
 went on. Mrs. Carrington was ill for some weeks 
 during the month of January, and she left things 
 
 360
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 361 
 
 almost entirely in Gillian's hands. She had acquired, 
 too, sufficient knowledge and experience to give a 
 good deal of assistance in the wards. She seemed 
 to herself in those days to have become completely 
 detached from her old life and to have made a fresh 
 start. She received very few letters from England, 
 for Lady Pallant never wrote, and Miss Letty, who 
 knew without doubt what her sister would have said 
 had she lived to see their niece become a Catholic, 
 only occasionally sent her a formal and stiff little 
 note to show her that she was not forgotten although 
 she was still in disgrace. 
 
 It was not till May that she returned to London, 
 summoned thither by Mrs. Porter. Ammy's son 
 had made his appearance, and the accounts of Mrs. 
 Sprot were unsatisfactory. She had begged that Gil- 
 lian might be sent for. 
 
 "Do go for a few days," Mrs. Carrington had 
 said. "I can look after things perfectly for a week 
 or so, and you really need a holiday." 
 
 As soon as possible after her arrival Gillian went 
 round to the flat in Knightsbridge which Mrs. Porter 
 had inhabited ever since January with her daughter. 
 The back windows had a pleasant view over the 
 Park and it was in one of these rooms that Gillian 
 found Mrs. Porter sitting alone. She looked tired 
 out, and as if she had had no sleep for weeks. 
 
 "Oh, my dear Jill!" said Mrs. Porter, and burst 
 into tears. She sobbed unrestrainedly for some min- 
 utes. At last she looked up and her face was dis- 
 figured with the sudden weeping. 
 
 "You shall see her presently," said Mrs. Porter, 
 choking back her sobs with a great effort, "she's 
 frightfully weak, but the doctor hasn't given up 
 hope. . . ." She looked at Gillian piteously. 
 
 Before Mrs. Driscoll could answer the door 
 opened and the nurse came into the room carrying
 
 362 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 a white bundle in her arms. Gillian uncovered the 
 tiny crumpled face. The baby was asleep. There 
 was a curiously marked resemblance to his father, 
 as is so often the case with a posthumous child. 
 
 She took him in her arms and kissed him so 
 lightly on the forehead that he never stirred in his 
 sleep. ... A whole flood of reminiscences surged 
 back to her heart. She envied Ammy. . . . 
 
 Mrs. Porter went quickly out of the room with a 
 pale and now controlled face. Gillian guessed that 
 she had gone back to her daughter. She turned to 
 the nurse. 
 
 "I'm very sorry to hear such a bad account of 
 Mrs. Sprot. Shall I be allowed to see her to-day?" 
 
 "She is very weak indeed, Mrs. Driscoll," said 
 the nurse, "but you are to see her if she asks for 
 you, and I don't think it can do her any harm. 
 You know how brave she's been all along. It was 
 only after the baby was born that her courage seemed 
 suddenly to leave her. I know she had tried to keep 
 up for the child's sake and it was perhaps too great 
 a strain. She bore up splendidly all the time. But 
 now " 
 
 She made a gesture as if to convey to Gillian that 
 Mrs. Sprot's wonderful vitality had vanished. "I've 
 told her that the baby needs her now more than ever. 
 I've told her she ought to try and get better because 
 of him. But it's always the same answer : T'm too 
 tired.' " 
 
 Mrs. Porter came back and standing on the 
 threshold beckoned to Gillian. 
 
 "She is asking for you she wanted to know if 
 you had come." 
 
 The nurse said: "Try and say something to cheer 
 her. She's awfully changed of course. ..." 
 
 Gillian followed Mrs. Porter down the passage 
 and into a room at the end. It was partially dark-
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 363 
 
 ened, but the sharp May sunshine stole through a 
 chink of the shutters and made a long slanting line 
 of gold across the pink carpet. Gillian went softly 
 towards the bed. She had worked so hard in the 
 wards in France that she felt almost like a profes- 
 sional nurse. As her eyes became accustomed to the 
 dim light she was able to distinguish the details of 
 Ammy's forlorn appearance. 
 
 She thought she had never seen any one so piti- 
 ably changed. Ammy's round, sunburnt, boyish little 
 face had become drawn and thin, and in color it was 
 of a curious transparent waxen hue, neither yellow 
 nor white. Her eyes were sunken and were sur- 
 rounded by heavy dark circles. She looked like a 
 dying woman. 
 
 There are killed and wounded by war of whom no 
 returns reach Downing Street. 
 
 The words rushed back irresistibly to Gillian's 
 mind ; she knew that Arnmy was dying of her wounds 
 just as surely as those mutilated soldiers she had 
 tended in the hospital at Les Sables. . . . 
 
 She bent over her. 
 
 "Ammy dear," she said gently 
 
 But Ammy did not seem to hear. 
 
 "Dear Ammy it's Jill. I've come to see 
 you. ..." 
 
 Amaryllis turned restless and sunken eyes to- 
 wards her. 
 
 "I ... wanted you " she said. 
 
 But her face wore a puzzled expression as if she 
 knew that she had wanted Gillian but could not re- 
 member why. 
 
 Gillian sat down by the bedside and stroked the 
 thin and wasted hand that lay so still upon the coun- 
 terpane. The little caress seemed to soothe Ama- 
 ryllis; her face became more calm, less puzzled and 
 anxious-looking.
 
 364 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 Presently Gillian said : 
 
 "I've seen the baby, Ammy. What a beautiful 
 little boy he is 1 You must feel very proud of your 
 son." 
 
 Ammy opened her eyes again and fixed them 
 steadily but languidly upon Mrs. Driscoll. 
 
 "Not now ..." she said almost as if she were 
 talking to herself, "not now. ..." She smiled 
 the queer remote smile of dying people who are in- 
 stinctively aware that they are passing away from 
 the fret of temporal things, the joys, the sorrows, the 
 hopes and the dreadful fears. "Too tired," she 
 added below her breath. She spoke the last two 
 words so low that Gillian only caught them with 
 difficulty. 
 
 "Yes, you are tired now and no wonder, Ammy. 
 But in a few days, dear, when you begin to get bet- 
 ter " Gillian's heart sank even as she uttered 
 
 the brave, hopeful, commonplace words. 
 
 A curious look of effort came over Ammy's wasted 
 face. Her lips opened. She was trying to speak, to 
 collect her thoughts. Gillian waited in silence. 
 
 "You tell him about Hengist " Amaryl- 
 lis said at last. "Don't let him forget. ... I 
 want him to know when he is old enough how his 
 father died why he died. ... I kept all the 
 letters. Don't let him forget." 
 
 She spoke the sentences in an abrupt jerky manner 
 as if she had scarcely strength to utter the words. 
 
 "He's been christened Hengist " she added 
 
 after a little pause. Her sunken blue eyes, which had 
 been fastened upon Gillian's face, now closed drow- 
 sily. 
 
 The nurse came back into the room. After one 
 glance at her patient she laid the infant in his cradle 
 and went away. Ammy, disturbed by the little inter- 
 ruption, turned her head restlessly; she seemed to be
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 365 
 
 looking for something. Gillian fetched the baby and 
 laid him very gently by his mother's side. She 
 guessed the working of that wandering mother-mind. 
 The baby slept on, making little grunts in his sleep, 
 beautifully unconscious of the tragedy that was being 
 enacted. Ammy opened her eyes again. 
 
 "When he gets old enough tell him." 
 
 The nurse returned accompanied by Mrs. Porter 
 and the doctor. Gillian crept away to make place for 
 them. The doctor laid his finger on Ammy's pulse 
 but made no comment. He took a case from his 
 pocket and thrust something into her arm. Even 
 the sharp prick failed now to arouse her. Her 
 eyes were closed; the waxen yellow-whiteness of her 
 face had become a little grey. She looked like an 
 elderly faded woman. 
 
 Gillian again joined the little group by the bedside. 
 The doctor looked very grave. Mrs. Porter, who 
 seemed to have guessed the truth, was stifling her 
 sobs. The baby still lay sleeping on his mother's 
 arm. When Ammy opened her eyes again she fixed 
 them almost fiercely upon Gillian. 
 
 "Don't forget to tell him " Her lips 
 
 framed rather than uttered the words. Her face 
 was quite grey with a kind of livid unnatural pallor. 
 
 She never spoke again. Her head fell back on 
 the pillow. The baby awoke and began to cry ; the 
 nurse took him in her arms and rocked him softly. 
 Mrs. Porter's sobs burst forth unrestrained. She 
 cried out : "Ammy my darling my darling child 1" 
 
 Gillian turned away, the tears smarting in her eyes. 
 She remembered Amaryllis's words spoken soon af- 
 ter the news of Hengist's death had reached her: 
 "I shall teach him that his father's blood helped to 
 pay for that freedom that unsullied honour. ..." 
 And his mother? Had she not paid too? . . .
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 GILLIAN remained with Mrs. Porter for more 
 than a week, for she had entreated her not to 
 desert her until after the funeral, when she herself 
 intended to leave London for the summer, taking 
 the baby with her. Gillian was very tired after being 
 for so many months on uninterrupted duty, and the 
 rest was welcome to her. 
 
 She had gone out one evening to take a little walk 
 in the Park and was going towards Kensington, when 
 on the opposite side of the road she saw a little 
 group of three people advancing. As they drew 
 nearer Gillian recognized them they were indeed 
 Joan and Paul and the pretty fair-haired Lady 
 Blanche Ethan whom Lady Pallant had once wished 
 that her son might marry. They did not see her, 
 and Gillian hurried on, thankful to have passed un 
 observed. She had hardly dared to look at Paul, 
 fearing that he would see her. She had not told the 
 Pallants of her return, and now she felt thankful that 
 she had not ventured to visit them. 
 
 But why was Paul back again at home? Had he 
 been wounded? She had never seen his name in 
 those terrible lists which every day seemed to become 
 more long and terrible, bringing desolation to so 
 many homes. Perhaps he had been ill. She turned 
 back once and looked after them. Lady Blanche 
 was walking between Joan and Paul. They were 
 going rather quickly, and from this fact she gathered 
 that Paul was not an invalid. For the moment her 
 heart had beat so fast she could scarcely breathe. 
 Now she felt a little cold and faint. It was the sud- 
 denness, the unexpectedness of it, that had been al- 
 most overwhelming. Perhaps her nerves had suffered 
 during the past months of strenuous work, as well 
 
 366
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 367 
 
 as from the shock of poor Ammy's sudden death. 
 If Paul had seen her. . . . Her thoughts turned to 
 Lady Blanche. Was he going to marry her? Had 
 he recognised that barrier Gillian had herself raised 
 between them was an insurmountable one? She 
 turned and hurried back to Mrs. Porter's abode in 
 a disturbed and agitated frame of mind. 
 
 All night she was haunted by the pale stern beauty 
 of his face, the dark melancholy, reproachful eyes, 
 the cold pride of his manner. It seemed to her now 
 as if a whole world separated them. She was for- 
 gotten by Paul. . . . While the thought of his un- 
 failing love and tender fidelity had helped her 
 through the worst hours of their enforced separa- 
 tion he had been slowly forgetting her. No word 
 had broken the silence that was now more than 
 seven months old. She had never felt so completely 
 separated from him during all that long and tragic 
 winter as she did now after seeing him again almost 
 face to face. Gillian sobbed herself to sleep that 
 night. Her only consolation lay in the fact that she 
 knew Paul to be safe in London. 
 
 She was glad when the day came for her to return 
 to Les Sables. Although Mrs. Carrington had writ- 
 ten to beg her to take a longer holiday she insisted 
 upon going back on the day she had originally fixed. 
 Her eagerness to leave London was intense. She 
 could not face leisure and idleness that brought to 
 her only thoughts of Paul. Her salvation lay in hard 
 physical work, producing such bodily fatigue as left 
 her with little choice when the day was done but to 
 fall asleep, and sleep heavily till morning came. She 
 was not often on night duty, for Mrs. Carrington 
 judged her to be too delicate for the more arduous 
 side of a nurse's career. 
 
 If she had ever had any hope that, being free, 
 Paul would marry her, that hope had suddenly died.
 
 368 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 It was as if a new and even more impregnable bar- 
 rier had arisen between herself and Paul. Once 
 looking idly through the pages of a book she had 
 come 'upon these words: "All my thoughts run to 
 your service, they seem to hear you call, only to find 
 locked doors." They expressed her own condition 
 of mind with a detailed and poignant exactitude that 
 was almost heart-breaking. She had never before 
 felt so sensible of those locked doors deliberately 
 locked against her. 
 
 She came to lean more and more upon the support 
 offered her by her religion. Mrs. Carrington had ar- 
 ranged an altar in the largest ward, and there Mass 
 was said daily. Gillian very seldom failed to be 
 present. And she was never so tired but that she 
 contrived to say her rosary for Paul's safety before 
 she fell asleep. And always upon first awakening 
 she prayed to his angel-guardian to "enlighten and 
 guide, protect and direct him," through the day that 
 was just born. 
 
 Gillian learned, too, something of the inherent 
 piety of the French soldier. Scarcely a man was 
 brought thither who did not display suspended round 
 his neck the badge or medal of the Sacred Heart. 
 In those days spent in the hospital the realities of 
 her faith were brought home to her. She knew what 
 it could do for the living, the dying, and the dead. 
 There was no kind of anguish, physical or mental, 
 which its divine consolations could not assuage. She 
 felt that if she had not already been a Catholic her 
 experiences in France must have made her one. She 
 had been told that there had been many conversions 
 among the English troops, both officers and men, 
 and the news scarcely surprised her. When the his- 
 tory of the war came to be written it was said that 
 the French soldier-priests would have stories to tell 
 that were at once beautiful and strange.
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 369 
 
 "Gillian, you are working much too hard. And I 
 don't think you take enough rest," Mrs. Carrington 
 said to her one day. "I wish you would lie down this 
 afternoon. I never meant you to do the work of 
 two women when I asked you to come." 
 
 "Nurse Thomas isn't well," answered Gillian with 
 an attempted briskness, "her hand's bad. I'm afraid 
 it's poisoned and she's got a temperature. I'm going 
 to do duty for her, and help with changing the panse- 
 ments." 
 
 "Some day I shall insist upon your going for a 
 proper holiday," said Mrs. Carrington, "I don't 
 want you to knock yourself up and lose your pretty 
 looks, Gillian." 
 
 Gillian smiled. There was perfect sympathy be- 
 tween the two women, and though they had not 
 known each other long they had been thrown to- 
 gether in an intimacy which made them feel as if they 
 were very old friends. Indeed their relations might 
 almost have been those of mother and daughter. It 
 was strange that this new friend should have so fully 
 and beautifully supplied all Gillian's need of friend- 
 ship and sympathy, giving her exactly what she re- 
 quired as if in delicate compensation for the loss of 
 that great love she had been compelled to sacrifice. 
 
 Mrs. Carrington had noticed the change that had 
 taken place in her during the short time of her stay 
 in England. She felt that something had happened, 
 something that was not connected with the very 
 natural grief she Had felt at Mrs. Sprot's death. All 
 the hope seemed to have died out of her face, leaving 
 it almost pathetically sad. Every moment of her 
 day was occupied. She worked as people do who 
 refuse to allow themselves leisure for thought. 
 
 Once Ian Frazer paid them a visit on his way 
 home. He had been given a commission for bravery 
 in the field, but he was suffering from rheumatism,
 
 370 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 and was returning home for a few weeks' sick leave. 
 He was, however, full of hope at the prospect of an 
 early return to the trenches. 
 
 "I don't say they're nice places," he said to Gillian 
 with a smile, "but I do say that no man ought to 
 feel happy or satisfied anywhere else." 
 
 He was shocked at the news of Ammy's death 
 which had not reached him. Gillian told him about 
 it. Scarcely a year had passed since they had all 
 been together at Assisi, and humanly speaking it had 
 certainly seemed that Ammy with her splendid 
 health and physique had many years of happy life 
 in front of her. No shadow of the tragedy had ap- 
 peared then to darken the serene horizon. Europe 
 had lain basking in a peace that held no presage of 
 coming calamity. Ammy and her husband had been 
 but two insignificant victims in the gigantic sum of 
 dead. They had been simply swept away in the very 
 fulness of their youth and strength, as young trees 
 are flung to earth and uprooted by the advancing 
 storm. 
 
 "Poor Mrs. Porter seemed very devoted to the 
 baby," said Gillian. "I hope it may comfort her to 
 look after him. She has left London on purpose 
 that he may have country air." 
 
 "And you yourself, Mrs. Driscoll? I hope you're 
 not overdoing it. You're looking rather pale and 
 thin." 
 
 "Oh, I'm never very fat," said Gillian, flushing 
 a little. 
 
 "I'm sure Mrs. Carrington takes care of you?" 
 he said. 
 
 "She is most awfully kind and thoughtful for 
 every one but herself. We are great friends," Gil- 
 lian answered. 
 
 "Ah, I thought you would be," he said. "I felt 
 sure you would get on together. One often makes
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 371 
 
 mistakes about these things, I know, but I did feel 
 pretty sure about this." 
 
 He went away feeling quite satisfied about Gillian. 
 There was no least touch about her now of that old 
 rebellion. She had been severely, even sharply, han- 
 dled in the House of the Potter, had submitted to the 
 agony of that new shaping with a resignation and 
 patience he could not but perceive with admiration. 
 He thought she had emerged from that fiery ordeal 
 more beautiful than ever. 
 
 Summer had come to Les Sables, and with it calm 
 seas and softer airs. The gorse had broken into gold 
 in the pine-woods and upon the dunes. A few bathers 
 were sometimes to be seen, women and children who 
 had come to spend the summer as usual at Les Sables. 
 But there was none of the gaiety in the scene that 
 there had been in past years. Even the children 
 played their games in a quiet, subdued fashion. Some 
 of them wore black frocks and suits that spoke of 
 personal tragedy. Gillian watched them sometimes 
 with aching heart. 
 
 One evening she had gone alone for a walk on the 
 shore. It was a beautiful June evening, nearing the 
 hour of sunset. Already the wide stretch of sand 
 was becoming a glimmering space of gold, almost as 
 luminous and fluid-looking as the turquoise and silver 
 sea that lay beyond. The pine-woods lay like dark 
 shadows beyond the pallor of the dunes. The day 
 had been hot, but now a cool brackish air had sprung 
 up. It revived Gillian, who had been on duty for 
 many hours in the wards, for a new batch of wounded 
 had come in that day, and their hands had all been 
 full. It was a relief to come out and breathe the 
 fresh and sweet summer air. Gillian walked on 
 briskly, pausing from time to time to watch the little 
 blue and white waves breaking and tumbling over
 
 372 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 each other with white cascades of foam that shone 
 like snow as they touched the yellow 'sand. Over 
 there to the west the sun was setting behind the 
 hidden English cliffs. 
 
 There were little pools in the sand ; here and there 
 a tress of red seaweed lay like wet hair on the golden 
 ribbed surface; the waves creeping stealthily shore- 
 wards sent little curling lace-like fringes to encircle 
 the dark gleaming rocks. 
 
 Gillian looked at her watch. It was growing late, 
 and she turned to retrace her steps. She had thought 
 she was quite alone ; there had seemed no one at all 
 about; now she was aware that the figure of a man, 
 blackly silhouetted against the gold and blue, was 
 coming slowly towards her. A slight spare figure, 
 most familiar, and most dear. 
 
 It was Paul Pallant. . . . 
 
 Gillian stood quite still and her limbs trembled as 
 he came towards her. Her first feeling was one of 
 anger and indignation that he should have dared to 
 come and seek her at Les Sables after those months 
 of silence. Perhaps he had come to tell her definitely 
 of his approaching marriage to Blanche Ethan. She 
 felt certain that only the stress of some great and 
 urgent necessity could have brought him hither. Yet 
 why had he not written? Surely it would have been 
 easier to write news of that kind than to come in 
 person to disclose it. ... 
 
 Now he was quite close to her; he could see that 
 she recognized him, but still he did not speak. He 
 stood and looked at her with an expression in his 
 eyes that she felt she could never forget a look of 
 love and most patient longing that touched her heart. 
 Had he come, in spite of all things, because he could 
 not stay away any longer? Had all his resolutions 
 broken down? If that were the reason he had no 
 right to subject her also to this torture.
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 373 
 
 In the silence that followed they could hear the 
 sleepy murmur of those breaking baby-waves, the 
 low sighing of the wind in the pine trees, the sharp 
 shrill, frightened cries of the sea-gulls that swept and 
 circled above their heads. 
 
 Often and often he had come to her thus in her 
 dreams; now the splendid cruel reality seemed 
 scarcely less phantom-like. She drew a little away, 
 shrinking from the arms he suddenly outstretched. 
 
 "Oh, Paul why have you come? I was trying to 
 
 forget you " Her voice was hoarse with the 
 
 effort she was making to keep back her sobs. 
 
 "Jill . . . Jill . . . beloved . . ."he said. He 
 put his arms round her, for now she was swaying a 
 little, as if to support her. Her darling head was 
 against his shoulder; their lips met. 
 
 And his voice was whispering strange, passionate, 
 incomprehensible, unbelievable words in her ear. 
 
 "Jill Jill you are mine now. Do you hear that, 
 my darling? There's nothing between us any 
 more. . . . You are free, and you are mine. . . . 
 I've come here to claim my darling bride. . . ." 
 He uttered softly again and again words of the same 
 purport, as if determined that she should realise and 
 understand. "Darling speak to me. Say that you 
 do love me still. Say that these months of separa- 
 tion haven't changed your heart. ..." 
 
 She moaned again: "Oh, why have you come? 
 You must be mad to come back like this. You must 
 never try to see me again. ..." 
 
 "Then you don't love me?" He loosened his hold 
 of her. He stood in front of her, dark, stern, re- 
 proachful. "All those reasons you gave me last 
 autumn for not marrying me were only excuses to 
 hide the fact that you'd ceased to care?" 
 
 "My reasons still hold good," she said coldly; "it
 
 374 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
 
 can make no difference whether I care for you or not. 
 I cannot marry you." 
 
 "Is it possible," he said, "that you haven't heard?" 
 
 She was conscious now that he was looking at her 
 with a very strange and curious expression. 
 
 Some dim suspicion of the truth was awakened 
 within her mind. It fluttered there, indeterminate, 
 formless. 
 
 "That I have not heard?" she said. 
 
 "Aylmer is dead," he said gravely. "I thought of 
 course you knew. He was smashed up on his motor- 
 cycle last week while carrying dispatches. He died 
 on Saturday at Boulogne." 
 
 "Was was Deborah with him?" she asked. Her 
 face was very white. He could see that the news 
 had shocked her profoundly. 
 
 "No she said that she couldn't leave her father. 
 But it seems he told the doctor whom I have seen 
 that his wife couldn't stand horrors, and that he was 
 afraid she would refuse to come. Can you believe 
 any woman could be so utterly selfish as all that?" 
 
 "Did he suffer very much?" she asked. 
 
 The past, remote now but still irrevocable and 
 dominating, held her in its grip. 
 
 "At first but they kept him under morphia. He 
 was full of pluck, they said, very anxious about his 
 dispatches, which were luckily quite safe." 
 
 Paul took Gillian's hands in his and wondered 
 why they were so cold. 
 
 "Jill dear," he said, "I felt I must come to-day and 
 there was no time to write. I saw Mrs. Carrington 
 for a moment and she told me you had gone for a 
 walk along the shore." He looked at her wistfully. 
 "I've just got a fortnight's leave. At any other time 
 I shouldn't dare ask you to marry me I know it's 
 too soon and all that. But now . . . We have 
 waited a long time, haven't we, Jill? I want you to
 
 THE POTTER'S HOUSE 375 
 
 come back to England with me to-morrow. . . ." 
 His eyes searched her face. 
 
 All the barriers had melted away. She could feel 
 pity for the dead man who had once loved her and 
 who had died, abandoned and deserted by the woman 
 for whom he had left her. She was free now to 
 love and marry Paul. She moved a step nearer to 
 him and her face in the evening light seemed to him 
 almost transfigured. 
 
 "I will come, Paul," she said softly. 
 
 THE END 
 
 PRINTED BY BEXZIGER BROTHERS, NEW YORK
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL UHWRYFACIUTY 
 
 A 000718842 8