“Good heavens, mother, they’re married!” cried Zora, staring at a telegram she had just received.

Mrs. Oldrieve woke with a start from her after-luncheon nap.

“Who, dear?”

“Why, Emmy and Septimus Dix.  Read it.”

Mrs. Oldrieve put on her glasses with faltering fingers, and read aloud the words as if they had been in a foreign language:  “Septimus and I were married this morning at the Chelsea Registrar’s.  We start for Paris by the 2.30.  Will let you know our plans.  Love to mother from us both.  Emmy.”

“What does this mean, dear?”

“It means, my dear mother, that they’re married,” said Zora; “but why they should have thought it necessary to run away to do it in this hole-and-corner fashion I can’t imagine.”

“It’s very terrible,” said Mrs. Oldrieve.

“It’s worse than terrible.  It’s idiotic,” said Zora.

She was mystified, and being a woman who hated mystification, was angry.  Her mother began to cry.  It was a disgraceful thing; before a registrar, too.

“As soon as I let her go on the stage, I knew something dreadful would happen to her,” she wailed.  “Of course Mr. Dix is foolish and eccentric, but I never thought he could do anything so irregular.”

“I have no patience with him!” cried Zora.  “I told him only a short while ago that both of us would be delighted if he married Emmy.”

“They must come back, dear, and be married properly.  Do make them,” urged Mrs. Oldrieve.  “The Vicar will be so shocked and hurt ­and what Cousin Jane will say when she hears of it ­”

She raised her mittened hands and let them fall into her lap.  The awfulness of Cousin Jane’s indignation transcended the poor lady’s powers of description.  Zora dismissed the Vicar and Cousin Jane as persons of no account.  The silly pair were legally married, and she would see that there was a proper notice put in The Times.  As for bringing them back ­she looked at the clock.

“They are on their way now to Folkestone.”

“It wouldn’t be any good telegraphing them to come back and be properly married in church?”

“Not the slightest,” said Zora; “but I’ll do it if you like.”

So the telegram was dispatched to “Septimus Dix, Boulogne Boat, Folkestone,” and Mrs. Oldrieve took a brighter view of the situation.

“We have done what we can, at any rate,” she said by way of self-consolation.

Now it so happened that Emmy, like many another person at their wits’ end, had given herself an amazing amount of unnecessary trouble.  Her flight had not been noticed till the maid had entered her room at half-past eight.  She had obviously packed up some things in a handbag.  Obviously again she had caught the eight-fifteen train from Ripstead, as she had done once or twice before when rehearsals or other theatrical business had required an early arrival in London.  Septimus’s telegram had not only allayed no apprehension, but it had aroused a mild curiosity.  Septimus was master of his own actions.  His going up to London was no one’s concern.  If he were starting for the Equator a telegram would have been a courtesy.  But why announce his arrival in London?  Why couple it with Emmy’s?  And why in the name of guns and musical comedies should Zora worry?  But when she reflected that Septimus did nothing according to the orthodox ways of men, she attributed the superfluous message to his general infirmity of character, smiled indulgently, and dismissed the matter from her mind.  Mrs. Oldrieve had nothing to dismiss, as she had been led to believe that Emmy had gone up to London by the morning train.  She only bewailed the flighty inconsequence of modern young women, until she reflected that Emmy’s father had gone and come with disconcerting unexpectedness from the day of their wedding to that of his death on the horns of a buffalo; whereupon she fatalistically attributed her daughter’s ways to heredity.  So while the two incapables were sedulously covering up their tracks, the most placid indifference as to their whereabouts reigned in Nunsmere.

The telegram, therefore, announcing their marriage found Zora entirely unprepared for the news it contained.  What a pitiful tragedy lay behind the words she was a million miles from suspecting.  She walked with her head above such clouds, her eyes on the stars, taking little heed of the happenings around her feet ­and, if the truth is to be known, finding mighty little instruction or entertainment in the firmament.  The elopement, for it was nothing more, brought her eyes, however, earthwards.  “Why?” she asked, not realizing it to be the most futile of questions when applied to human actions.  To every such “Why?” there are a myriad answers.  When a mysterious murder is committed, everyone seeks the motive.  Unless circumstance unquestionably provides the key of the enigma, who can tell?  It may be revenge for the foulest of wrongs.  It may be that the assassin objected to the wart on the other man’s nose ­and there are men to whom a wart is a Pelion of rank offense, and who believe themselves heaven-appointed to cut it off.  It may be for worldly gain.  It may be merely for amusement.  There is nothing so outrageous, so grotesque, which, if the human brain has conceived it, the human hand has not done.  Many a man has taken a cab, on a sudden shower, merely to avoid the trouble of unrolling his umbrella, and the sanest of women has been known to cheat a ’bus conductor of a penny, so as to wallow in the gratification of a crossing-sweeper’s blessing.  When the philosopher asks the Everlasting Why, he knows, if he be a sound philosopher ­and a sound philosopher is he who is not led into the grievous error of taking his philosophy seriously ­that the question is but the starting point of the entertaining game of Speculation.

To this effect spake the Literary Man from London, when next he met Zora.  Nunsmere was in a swarm of excitement and the alien bee had, perforce, to buzz with the rest.

“The interesting thing is,” said he, “that the thing has happened.  That while the inhabitants of this smug village kept one dull eye on the decalogue and another on their neighbors, Romance on its rosy pinions was hovering over it.  Two people have gone the right old way of man and maid.  They have defied the paralyzing conventions of the engagement.  Oh! the unutterable, humiliating, deadening period!  When each young person has to pass the inspection of the other’s relations.  When simpering friends maddeningly leave them alone in drawing-rooms and conservatories so that they can hold each other’s hands.  When they are on probation coram publico.  Our friends have defied all this.  They have defied the orange blossoms, the rice, the wedding presents, the unpleasant public affidavits, the whole indecent paraphernalia of an orthodox wedding ­the bridal veil ­a survival from the barbaric days when a woman was bought and paid for and a man didn’t know what he had got until he had married her and taken her home ­the senseless new clothes which brand them immodestly wherever they go.  Two people have had the courage to avoid all this, to treat marriage as if it really concerned themselves and not Tom, Dick, and Harry.  They’ve done it.  Why, doesn’t matter.  All honor to them.”

He waved his stick in the air ­they had met on the common ­and the lame donkey, who had strayed companionably near them, took to his heels in fright.

“Even the donkey,” said Zora, “Mr. Dix’s most intimate friend, doesn’t agree with you.”

“The ass will agree with the sage only in the millennium,” said Rattenden.

But Zora was not satisfied with the professional philosopher’s presentation of the affair.  She sought Wiggleswick, whom she found before a blazing fire in the sitting-room, his feet on the mantelpiece, smoking a Havana cigar.  On her approach he wriggled to attention, and extinguishing the cigar by means of saliva and a horny thumb and forefinger, put the stump into his pocket.

“Good morning, Wiggleswick,” said Zora cheerfully.

“Good morning, ma’am,” said Wiggleswick.

“You seem to be having a good time.”

Wiggleswick gave her to understand that, thanks to his master’s angelic disposition and his own worthiness, he always had a good time.

“Now that he’s married there will have to be a few changes in household arrangements,” said Zora.

“What changes?”

“There will be a cook and parlor maid and regular hours, and a mistress to look after things.”

Wiggleswick put his cunning gray head on one side.

“I’m sure they’ll make me very comfortable, ma’am.  If they do the work, I won’t raise no manner of objection.”

Zora, regarding the egoist with mingled admiration and vexedness, could only say, “Oh!”

“I never raised no objection to his marriage from the first,” said Wiggleswick.

“Did he consult you about it?”

“Of course he did,” he replied with an indulgent smile, while the light of sportive fancy gleamed behind his blear eyes.  “He looks on me as a father, he does, ma’am.  ‘Wiggleswick,’ says he, ‘I’m going to be married.’  ’I’m delighted to hear it, sir,’ says I.  ’A man needs a woman’s ‘and about him,’ says I.”

“When did he tell you this?”

Wiggleswick searched his inventive memory.

“About a fortnight ago.  ‘If I may be so bold, sir, who is the young lady?’ I asks.  ‘It’s Miss Emily Oldrieve,’ says he, and I said, ’A nicer, brighter, prettier bit of goods’ ­I beg your pardon, ma’am ­’young lady, you couldn’t pick up between here and Houndsditch.’  I did say that, ma’am, I tell you straight.”  He looked at her keenly to see whether this expression of loyal admiration of his new mistress had taken effect, and then continued.  “And then he says to me, ’Wiggleswick, there ain’t going to be no grand wedding.  You know me.’ ­And I does, ma’am.  The outlandish things he does, ma’am, would shock an alligator. ­’I should forget the day,’ says he.  ’I should lose the ring.  I should marry the wrong party.  I should forget to kiss the bridesmaids.  Lord knows what I shouldn’t do.  So we’re going up to London to be married on the Q.T., and don’t you say nothing to nobody.”

“So you’ve been in this conspiracy for a fortnight,” said Zora severely, “and you never thought it your duty to stop him doing so foolish a thing?”

“As getting married, ma’am?”

“No.  Such a silly thing as running away.”

“Of course I did, ma’am,” said Wiggleswick, who went on mendaciously to explain that he had used every means in his power to prevail on his master to submit to the orthodox ceremony for the sake of the family.

“Then you might have given me a hint as to what was going on.”

Wiggleswick assumed a shocked expression.  “And disobey my master?  Orders is orders, ma’am.  I once wore the Queen’s uniform.”

Zora, sitting on the arm of a chair, half steadying herself with her umbrella, regarded the old man standing respectfully at attention before her with a smile whose quizzicality she could not restrain.  The old villain drew himself up in a dignified way.

“I don’t mean the government uniform, ma’am.  I’ve had my misfortunes like anyone else.  I was once in the army ­in the band.”

“Mr. Dix told me that you had been in the band,” said Zora with all her graciousness, so as to atone for the smile.  “You played that instrument in the corner.”

“I did, ma’am,” said Wiggleswick.

Zora looked down at the point of her umbrella on the floor.  Having no reason to disbelieve Wiggleswick’s circumstantial though entirely fictitious story, and having by the smile put herself at a disadvantage, she felt uncomfortably routed.

“Your master never told you where he was going or how long he was likely to be away?” she asked.

“My master, ma’am,” replied Wiggleswick, “never knows where he is going.  That’s why he wants a wife who can tell him.”

Zora rose and looked around her.  Then, with a sweep of her umbrella indicating the general dustiness and untidiness of the room: 

“The best thing you can do,” said she, “is to have the house thoroughly cleaned and put in order.  They may be back any day.  I’ll send in a charwoman to help you.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Wiggleswick, somewhat glumly.  Although he had lied volubly to her for his own ends, he stood in awe of her commanding personality, and never dreamed of disregarding her high behests.  But he had a moral disapproval of work.  He could see no nobility in it, having done so much enforced labour in his time.

“Do you think we need begin now, ma’am?” he asked anxiously.

“At once,” said Zora.  “It will take you a month to clean the place.  And it will give you something to do.”

She went away femininely consoled by her exercise of authority ­a minor victory covering a retreat.  But she still felt very angry with Septimus.

When Clem Sypher came down to Penton Court for the week-end, he treated the matter lightly.

“He knew that he was acceptable to your mother and yourself, so he has done nothing dishonorable.  All he wanted was your sister and the absence of fuss.  I think it sporting of him.  I do, truly.”

“And I think you’re detestable!” cried Zora.  “There’s not a single man that can understand.”

“What do you want me to understand?”

“I don’t know,” said Zora, “but you ought to understand it.”

A day or two later, meeting Rattenden again, she found that he comprehended her too fully.

“What would have pleased you,” said he, “would have been to play the soeur noble, to have gathered the young couple in your embrace, and magnanimously given them to each other, and smiled on the happiness of which you had been the bounteous dispenser.  They’ve cheated you.  They’ve cut your part clean out of the comedy, and you don’t like it.  If I’m not right will you kindly order me out of the room?  Well?” he asked, after a pause, during which she hung her head.

“Oh, you can stay,” she said with a half-laugh.  “You’re the kind of man that always bets on a certainty.”

Rattenden was right.  She was jealous of Emmy for having unceremoniously stolen her slave from her service ­that Emmy had planned the whole conspiracy she had not the slightest doubt ­and she was angry with Septimus for having been weak enough to lend himself to such duplicity.  Even when he wrote her a dutiful letter from Paris ­to the telegram he had merely replied, “Sorry; impossible” ­full of everything save Emmy and their plans for the future, she did not forgive him.  How dared he consider himself fit to travel by himself?  His own servant qualified his doings as outlandish.

“They’ll make a terrible mess of their honeymoon,” she said to Clem Sypher.  “They’ll start for Rome and find themselves in St. Petersburg.”

“They’ll be just as happy,” said Sypher.  “If I was on my honeymoon, do you think I’d care where I went?”

“Well, I wash my hands of them,” said Zora with a sigh, as if bereft of dear responsibilities.  “No doubt they’re happy in their own way.”

And that, for a long time, was the end of the matter.  The house, cleaned and polished, glittered like the instrument room of a man-of-war, and no master or mistress came to bestow on Wiggleswick’s toil the meed of their approbation.  The old man settled down again to well-earned repose, and the house grew dusty and dingy again, and dustier and dingier as the weeks went on.

It has been before stated that things happen slowly in Nunsmere, even the reawakening of Zora’s nostalgia for the Great World and Life and the Secrets of the Earth.  But things do happen there eventually, and the time came when Zora found herself once again too big for the little house.  She missed Emmy’s periodical visits.  She missed the regulation of Septimus.  She missed her little motor expeditions with Sypher, who had sold his car and was about to sell “The Kurhaus, Kilburn Priory.”  The Cure seemed to have transformed itself from his heart to his nerves.  He talked of it ­or so it appeared to her ­with more braggadocio than enthusiasm.  He could converse of little else.  It was going to smash Jebusa Jones’s Cuticle Remedy to the shreds of its ointment boxes.  The deepening vertical line between the man’s brows she did not notice, nor did she interpret the wistful look in his eyes when he claimed her help.  She was tired of the Cure and the Remedy and Sypher’s fantastic need of her as ally.  She wanted Life, real, quivering human Life.  It was certainly not to be found in Nunsmere, where faded lives were laid away in lavender.  For sheer sensations she began to tolerate the cynical analysis of the Literary Man from London.  She must go forth on her journeyings again.  She had already toyed with the idea when, with Septimus’s aid, she had mapped out voyages round the world.  Now she must follow it in strenuous earnest.  The Callenders had cabled her an invitation to come out at once to Los Angeles.  She cabled back an acceptance.

“So you’re going away from me?” said Sypher, when she announced her departure.

There was a hint of reproach in his voice which she resented.

“You told me in Monte Carlo that I ought to have a mission in life.  I can’t find it here, so I’m going to seek one in California.  What happens in this Sleepy Hollow of a place that a live woman can concern herself with?”

“There’s Sypher’s Cure ­”

“My dear Mr. Sypher!” she laughed protestingly.

“Oh,” said he, “you are helping it on more than you imagine.  I’m going through a rough time, but with you behind me, as I told you before, I know I shall win.  If I turn my head round, when I’m sitting at my desk, I have a kind of fleeting vision of you hovering over my chair.  It puts heart and soul into me, and gives me courage to make desperate ventures.”

“As I’m only there in the spirit, it doesn’t matter whether the bodily I is in Nunsmere or Los Angeles.”

“How can I tell?” said he, with one of his swift, clear glances.  “I meet you in the body every week and carry back your spirit with me.  Zora Middlemist,” he added abruptly, after a pause, “I implore you not to leave me.”

He leaned his arm on the mantelpiece from which Septimus had knocked the little china dog, and looked down earnestly at her, as she sat on the chintz-covered sofa behind the tea-table.  At her back was the long casement window, and the last gleams of the wintry sun caught her hair.  To the man’s visionary fancy they formed an aureole.

“Don’t go, Zora.”

She was silent for a long, long time, as if held by the spell of the man’s pleading.  Her face softened adorably and a tenderness came into the eyes which he could not see.  A mysterious power seemed to be lifting her towards him.  It was a new sensation, pleasurable, like floating down a stream with the water murmuring in her ears.  Then, suddenly, as if startled to vivid consciousness out of a dream, she awakened, furiously indignant.

“Why shouldn’t I go?  Tell me once and for all, why?”

She expected what any woman alive might have expected save the chosen few who have the great gift of reading the souls of the poet and the visionary; and Clem Sypher, in his way, was both.  She braced her nerves to hear the expected.  But the poet and the visionary spoke.

It was the old story of the Cure, his divine mission to spread the healing unguent over the suffering earth.  Voices had come to him as they had come to the girl at Domremy, and they had told him that through Zora Middlemist, and no other, was his life’s mission to be accomplished.

To her it was anticlimax.  Reaction forced a laugh against her will.  She leaned back among the sofa cushions.

“Is that all?” she said, and Sypher did not catch the significance of the words.  “You seem to forget that the rôle of Mascotte is not a particularly active one.  It’s all very well for you, but I have to sit at home and twirl my thumbs.  Have you ever tried that by way of soul-satisfying occupation?  Don’t you think you’re just a bit ­egotistical?”

He relaxed the tension of his attitude with a sigh, thrust his hands into his pockets and sat down.

“I suppose I am.  When a man wants something with all the strength of his being and thinks of nothing else day or night, he develops a colossal selfishness.  It’s a form of madness, I suppose.  There was a man called Bernard Palissy who had it, and made everybody sacrifice themselves to his idea.  I’ve no right to ask you to sacrifice yourself to mine.”

“You have the right of friendship,” said Zora, “to claim my interest in your hopes and fears, and that I’ve given you and shall always give you.  But beyond that, as you say, you have no right.”

He rose, with a laugh.  “I know.  It’s as logical as a proposition of Euclid.  But all the same I feel I have a higher right, beyond any logic.  There are all kinds of phenomena in life which have nothing whatsoever to do with reason.  You have convinced my reason that I’m an egotistical dreamer.  But nothing you can do or say will ever remove the craving for you that I have here “ ­and he thumped his big chest ­“like hunger.”

When he had gone Zora thought over the scene with more disturbance of mind than she appreciated.  She laughed to herself at Sypher’s fantastic claim.  To give up the great things of the world, Life itself, for the sake of a quack ointment!  It was preposterous.  Sypher was as crazy as Septimus; perhaps crazier, for the latter did not thump his chest and inform her that his guns or his patent convertible bed-razor-strop had need of her “here.”  Decidedly, the results of her first excursion into the big world had not turned out satisfactorily.  Her delicate nose sniffed at them in disdain.  The sniff, however, was disappointingly unconvincing.  The voices of contemptible people could not sound in a woman’s ears like the drowsy murmuring of waters.  The insane little devil that had visited her in Clem Sypher’s garden whispered her to stay.

But had not Zora, in the magnificence of her strong womanhood, in the hunger of her great soul, to find somewhere in the world a Mission in Life, a fulness of existence which would accomplish her destiny?  Down with the insane little devil and all his potential works!  Zora laughed and recovered her serenity.  Cousin Jane, who had had much to write concerning the elopement, was summoned, and Zora, with infinite baggage in the care of Turner, set sail for California.

The New World lay before her with its chances of real, quivering, human Life.  Nunsmere, where nothing ever happened, lay behind her.  She smiled graciously at Sypher, who saw her off at Waterloo, and said nice things to him about the Cure, but before her eyes danced a mirage in which Clem Sypher and his Cure were not visible.  The train steamed out of the station.  Sypher stood on the edge of the platform and watched the end buffers until they were out of sight; then he turned and strode away, and his face was that of a man stricken with great loneliness.