What Dreams May Come | Page 2

all day and writes poetry--which I detest. I shall bring up my son
to be a statesman."
"So that his wife may see more of him?" said Sir Dafyd, laughing.
"You are quite capable of making whatever you like of him, however,
for you are a clever woman--if you are not poetical. But it is hard that
you should be so much alone, Catherine. Why are not you and Sionèd
more together? There are so few of you here, you should try and amuse
each other. Diplomatists, like poets, see little of their wives, and Sionèd,
I have no doubt, is bored very often."
Dinner was announced at the moment, and Mrs. Dartmouth stood up
and looked her companion full in the eyes. "I do not like Sionèd," she
said, harshly. "She, too, is poetical."
For a moment there was a suspicion of color in Sir Dafyd's pale face,
and the shadow on his mouth seemed to take shape and form. Then he
bowed slightly, and crossing the room offered his arm to the wife of the
Russian Ambassador.
* * * * *

The sun sank lower, Constantinople's richer tints faded into soft opal
hues, and the muezzin called the people to prayer. From a window in a
wing of the Embassy furthest from the banqueting hall, and
overlooking the city, a woman watched the shifting panorama below.
She was more beautiful than any of her neglected guests, although her
eyes were heavy and her face was pale. Her hair was a rich, burnished
brown, and drawn up to the crown of her head in a loose mass of short
curls, held in place by a half-coronet of diamonds. In front the hair was
parted and curled, and the entire head was encircled by a band of
diamond stars which pressed the bronze ringlets low over the forehead.
The features were slightly aquiline; the head was oval and admirably
poised. But it was the individuality of the woman that made her beauty,
not features or coloring. The keen, intelligent eyes, with their
unmistakable power to soften, the spiritual brow, the strong, sensuous
chin, the tender mouth, the spirited head, each a poet's delight, each an
artist's study, all blended, a strange, strong, passionate story in flesh
and blood--a remarkable face. Her neck and arms were bare, and she
wore a short-waisted gown of yellow satin, which fell in shining lines
from belt to hem.
Pale as she was she assuredly did not look ill enough to justify her
desertion of her guests. As a matter of fact she had forgotten both
guests and excuse. When a woman has taken a resolution which flings
her suddenly up to the crisis of her destiny she is apt to forget state
dinners and whispered comment. To-morrow state dinners would pass
out of her life, and they would go unregretted. She turned suddenly and
picked up some loose sheets of manuscript which lay on a table beside
her--a poem which would immortalize the city her window overlooked.
A proud smile curved her mouth, then faded swiftly as she pressed the
pages passionately to her lips. She put them back on the table and
turning her head looked down the room with much of the affection one
gives a living thing. The room was as Oriental as any carefully
secluded chamber in the city below. The walls were hung with heavy,
soft Eastern stuffs, dusky and rich, which shut out all suggestion of
doors. The black marble floor was covered with a strange assortment of
wild beasts' skins, pale, tawny, sombre, ferocious. There were deep,
soft couches and great piles of cushions, a few rare paintings stood on
easels, and the air was heavy with jasmine. The woman's lids fell over

her eyes, and the blood mounted slowly, making her temples throb.
Then she threw back her head, a triumphant light flashing in her eyes,
and brought her open palm down sharply on the table. "If I fall," she
said, "I fall through strength, not through weakness. If I sin, I do so
wittingly, not in a moment of overmastering passion."
She bent suddenly forward, her breath coming quickly. There were
footsteps at the end of the marble corridor without. For a moment she
trembled from head to foot. Remorse, regret, horror, fear, chased each
other across her face, her convulsed features reflecting the emotions
which for weeks past had oppressed heart and brain. Then, before the
footsteps reached the door, she was calm again and her head erect. The
glory of the sunset had faded, and behind her was the short grey
twilight of the Southern night; but in her face was that magic light that
never was on sea or land.
The heavy portière at the end of the room was thrust aside and