In the Wilderness | Page 5

"I remember you
denouncing its noise and its dirt, and the mongrel horrors of Pera, to
my guardian in the hotel where we made friends. And he put in a plea
for Stamboul."
"Yes, I exaggerated. But Constantinople stood to me for all the uproar
of life, and Greece for the calm and beauty and happiness, the great
Sanity of the true happiness."
He looked at her with yearning in his dark eyes.
"For all I want in my own life," he added.
He paused; then an expression of strong, almost hard resolution made
his face look suddenly older.
"You told me at Burstal, on the Chilton Downs, after your debut in
'Elijah,' that you would give me an answer soon. I have waited a good
while--some weeks----"
"Why did you ask me just that day, after 'Woe unto them'?"
"I felt I must," he answered, but with a slight awkwardness, as if he
were evading something and felt half-guilty. "To-day I decided I would
ask you again, for the last time."
"You would never----"

"No, never. If you say 'Wait, and come later on and ask me,' I shall not
come."
She got up restlessly. She was obviously moved.
"Dion, I can't tell you to-day."
"Why not?"
"I don't know. I just feel I can't. It's no use."
"When did you mean to tell me?"
"I don't know."
"Did you mean ever to allude to the matter again, if I hadn't?"
"Yes, I should have told you, because I knew you were waiting. I--I--
often I have thought that I shall never marry any one."
She looked into the fire. Her face had become almost mysterious.
"Some women don't need--that," she murmured.
The fire played over her pale yellow hair.
"Abnormal women!" he exclaimed violently.
She turned.
"Hush! You don't know what you are saying. It isn't abnormal to wish
to dedicate----"
She stopped.
"What?" he said.
"Don't let us talk of these things. But you must not judge any woman
without knowing what is in her heart. Even your own mother, with

whom you have lived alone ever since your father's death--do you
know very much of her? We can't always show ourselves plainly as we
are. It may not be our fault."
"You will marry. You must marry."
"Why--must?"
He gazed at her. As she met his eyes she reddened slightly,
understanding his thought, that such a woman as she was ought not to
avoid the great vocation of woman. But there was another vocation, and
perhaps it was hers. She felt confused. Two desires were struggling
within her. It was as if her nature contained two necessities which were
wholly irreconcilable the one with the other.
"You can't tell me?" he said, at last.
"Not now."
"Then I am going, and I shall never ask you again. But I shall never be
able to love any one but you."
He said nothing more, and went away without touching her hand.
Words of Dante ran in Rosamund's head, and she repeated them to
herself after Dion had gone.
"/La divina volontate/!" She believed in it; she said to herself that she
trusted it absolutely. But how was she to know exactly what it was?
And yet, could she escape from it even if she wished to? Could she
wander away into any path where the Divine Will did not mean her to
set foot? Predestination--free will. "If only I were not so ignorant," she
thought.
Soon after six she went up to her bedroom to put on her things for
church.
Her bedroom was very simple, and showed plainly an indifference to
luxury, a dislike of show and of ostentation in its owner. The walls and

ceiling were white. The bed, which stood against the wall in one corner,
was exceptionally long. This fact, perhaps, made it look exceptionally
narrow. It was quite plain, had a white wooden bedstead, and was
covered with a white bedspread of a very ordinary type. There was one
arm-chair in the room made of wickerwork with a rather hard cushion
on the seat, the sort of cushion that resolutely refuses to "give" when
one sits down on it. On the small dressing-table there was no array of
glittering silver bottles, boxes and brushes. A straw flagon of
eau-de-Cologne was Rosamund's sole possession of perfume. She did
not own a box of powder or a puff. But it must be acknowledged that
she never looked "shiny." She had some ivory hair-brushes given to her
one Christmas by Bruce Evelin. Beside them was placed a hideous
receptacle for--well, for anything--pins, perhaps, buttons, small
tiresomenesses of that kind. It was made of some glistening black
material, and at its center there bloomed a fearful red cabbage rose, a
rose all vulgarity, ostentation and importance. This monstrosity had