The Great Amulet | Page 3

not rise readily to the
surface; and a certain proud sensitiveness, the cardinal weakness of big

natures, withheld him from the full expression of an emotion to which
she could not adequately respond. He was content to wait, and hope;
and in the meanwhile, he walked at her side wrapt in the mere joy of
possession; one of the strongest, yet least recognised passions of a
man's heart. From time to time he glanced at her attentively; and each
glance strengthened his faith in that which had come upon him, sudden
as an earthquake, and no less subversive of ancient landmarks, of
confirmed prejudices and convictions in regard to the woman element
in man's life.
For Quita Lenox, though far from beautiful, in the accepted sense, was
undeniably good to look at. Coils of soft hair, golden in the sun, brown
in the shade; eyes neither grey nor green, intensified by unusually large
pupils, and by brows and lashes almost black; a straight nose, low at
the root; a mouth too long, too mobile for beauty, its emotional quality
safeguarded by an uncompromising chin, completed a face whose
charm lay in no particular excellence of details; but in the vivid
spirit,--quick to see, to feel, to understand,--that informed and
harmonised a somewhat contradictory whole. An abiding sense of
humour, hovering about her lips and in her eyes, kept the world sane
and sweet for her, and leavened her whole outlook on life. A minor
quality completed her charm. By virtue of the French blood in her veins,
she imparted, even to the simplest garments, an air of distinction, of
exquisite finish, to which an Englishwoman rarely attains.
At three-and-twenty Quita Lenox was very artist, though not, as yet,
very woman. The complex Ego, which is the keystone of Art, had not
been tested and dominated by the great simple forces, which are the
keystone of life.
But her husband was in no mood to analyse her appearance, or her
charm. He wanted beyond all things to know what was passing in her
mind, and because his own thoughts were too passionate for utterance,
he waited for her to speak. But for the first time in his knowledge of her,
he waited in vain. Protracted silence on her part was a phenomenon so
unusual, that at length he turned to her definitely, a shadow of
misgiving in his clear Northern eyes.

"Are you thinking over it all very seriously . . . now that it is done past
undoing?"
He smiled in speaking, and she met his look with her accustomed
frankness.
"And if I am . . . ? Surely that service gives one food for reflection. I
had not so much as looked at it since early days when curiosity
impelled me to read it through; and weddings have never been in my
line. As a matter of fact, I was thinking just then what unaccountable
creatures we men and women are! How we ponder, and debate, and
fuss over trifles, and then plunge headlong past the big turning-points
of life, without a thought of the consequences lurking round the corner.
Which doesn't mean that you and I need spell our consequences with a
capital C, or label them tragic in advance," she added with a laugh.
"For honestly, it seems to me that a rising artist, and a rising explorer,
both devout worshippers of the eternal hills, may reasonably expect to
possess many ideas and interests in common: and those are the bricks
out of which two people build their House of Happiness, n'est-ce pas,
mon ami?"
"Yes; if you choose to leave mutual trust, and mutual devotion, out on
the doorstep."
"I don't choose: only, they are not the bricks, Eldred. One is the
foundation-stone; and the other,--the other is a great mysterious
Something, that transforms the House into an enchanted palace. But we
must be content to begin with the House,--do you see?"
"Yes--I see. I am abundantly content to begin on any terms."
Something in the man's tone impelled her to lean outward a little, so
that her shoulder rested lightly against the arm passed behind her.
"You are much too good to me, dear," she said softly. "I don't think one
could possibly live with you and fail to love you. That is why I have
dared to take the risk."

He did not answer in words, nor did he give her the kiss she half
expected; but his hand deserted the crupper, and the mule pricked a
velvet ear at the check in his progress. Then Quita straightened herself,
as if reasserting her cherished independence.
"After all, it is more interesting, in some ways, not to have everything
cut and dried from the start," she went on, striking off at a tangent, with
an innate perversity