The Power of Darkness

It was an enthusiastic send-off. Half the students from her atelier
were there, and twice as many more from other studios. She had been
the belle of the Artists' Quarter in Montparnasse for three golden
months. Now she was off to the Riviera to meet her people, and
everyone she knew was at the Gare de Lyon to catch the last glimpse of
her. And, as had been more than once said late of an evening, "to see
her was to love her". She was one of those agitating blondes, with the
naturally rippled hair, the rounded rose-leaf cheeks, the large
violet-blue eyes, that looked all things and meant Heaven alone knew
how little. She held her court like a queen, leaning out of the
carriage window and receiving bouquets, books, journals, long last
words, and last longing looks. All eyes were on her, and her eyes were
for all-and her smile. For all but one, that is. Not a single glance
went Edward's way, and Edward-tall, lean, gaunt, with big eyes,
straight nose, and the mouth somewhat too small, too beautiful-seemed
to grow thinner and paler before one's eyes. One pair of eyes at least
saw the miracle worked, the paling of what had seemed absolute pallor,
the revelation of the bones of a face that seemed already covered but
by the thinnest possible veil of flesh.

And the man whose eyes saw this rejoiced, for he loved her, like the
rest, or not like the rest, and he had had Edward's face before him
for the last month, in that secret shrine where we set the loved and
the hated, the shrine that is lighted by a million lamps kindled at
the soul's flame, the shrine that leaps into dazzling glow when the
candles are out and one lies alone on hot pillows to outface the night
and the light as best one may.

"Oh, goodbye; goodbye, all of you," said Rose. "I shall miss you. Oh,
you don't know how I shall miss you all!"

She gathered the eyes of her friends and her worshippers in a glance,
as one gathers jewels on a silken string. The eyes of Edward alone
seemed to escape her.

"En voiture, messieurs et dames!"

Folk drew back from the train. There was a whistle.

And then at the very last little moment of all, as the train pulled
itself together for the start, her eyes met Edward's eyes. And the
other man saw the meeting, and he knew-which was more than Edward did.

So when, the light of life having been borne away in the retreating
train, the broken-hearted group dispersed, the other man-whose name,
by the way, was Vincent-linked his arm in Edward's and asked,
cheerily:

"Whither away, sweet nymph?"

"I'm off home," said Edward. "The seven-twenty to Calais."

"Sick of Paris?"

"One has to see one's people sometimes, don't you know, hang it all!"
was Edward's way of expressing the longing that tore him for the old
house among the brown woods of Kent.

"No attraction here now, eh?"

"The chief attraction has gone, certainly," Edward made himself say.

"But there are as good fish in the sea-"

"Fishing isn't my trade," said Edward.

"The beautiful Rose!" said Vincent.

Edward raised hurriedly the only shield he could find. It happened to
be the truth as he saw it.

"Oh," he said, "of course, we're all in love with her-and all
hopelessly."