They roamed about, from one country to another—Belgium, Holland, France, Germany, Italy, the Tyrol, taking by preference untrodden paths, putting up at quiet country inns, enjoying the study of peasant life. Lilith declared that she was tired of cities, had seen enough show places to last her life; now she needed a rest. How badly Lowther himself had needed a rest was proved by his altered appearance after a few weeks of a leisurely life passed in fresh, pure air. Never again had the subject of morphia been mentioned between himself and his wife, but the doses were steadily diminishing. There had been one whole day when he had taken no injection at all! He wondered at the coincidence which had made Lilith so tender on that day! If it had not been for her tenderness, for the clasp of that small, warm hand, he doubted if he could have lasted out. He was no longer so sure that he did not love his wife. He was grateful to her for her tact and forbearance. He was beginning to look forward to her rare tenderness; as a reward for which it were worth while to endure.
Both Lowther and his wife were clever linguists, and he was amused to discover that, quiet as was her nature, she possessed the rare gift of making friends with the humble folk of the different countries through which they passed, and of drawing forth their confidence. Many an evening was spent in conversation with “mine host” as he enjoyed his leisurely smoke at the end of the day’s work, and “mine host” was an interesting talker, with his tales of the country side, from the lordly baron in his rock-bound castle, to the humblest tenant upon his land. Many talks were held also during the day-time, with the labourers in the fields, with the farmers who supplied milk and bread, and who beamed in appreciation of the largesse bestowed by the English milord and his wife. There were charming stories to be told—stories of affection and kindliness between the tenants and the lord of the soil, of a simple, feudal loyalty which sounded like a page from a fairytale of old, but there were tragedies also—stories of injustice and tyranny, of suffering and want. They were simple people, and they told their tales simply and well, delivering themselves in conclusion, of a pathetic apology. “It was a pity... Things were not as bad as they had been. In England, of course, it was different. The peasants in England had no such trials to endure!”
Lilith sat listening while her husband explained that England had her own land troubles. Her sleepy eyes expressed but little interest; but now and again she would put a searching question which cut to the very heart of the matter, and set him talking afresh. Wherever they went the same subject recurred, and fresh differences were discussed; but these conversations were but incidents in the day’s doings. From private conversation politics were banished.
At the end of the honeymoon Mr and Mrs Hereward Lowther returned to town and took up their abode in a small flat in Westminster. The choice was made by Lilith, as indeed was every choice in those days of Lowther’s weakness. She confessed to an affection for Westminster, for the quaint, old-fashioned nooks and corners which still remain, tucked behind the busy thoroughfares; for the picturesque precincts of the Abbey. Westminster was at once central, convenient, and old-world. She was eloquent on the subject of its advantages as a dwelling-place, but she never alluded to the vicinity of Saint Stephen’s.
After his return to town Lowther passed through a somewhat severe relapse. Pace to face with the old conditions he grew nervous and despondent, and had more frequent recourse to his drug, but there was this great difference between his present condition and the past, that whereas he had been indifferent, now he was penitent, remorseful, utterly ashamed. Lilith never reproached him for his lapses, she nursed him assiduously through the subsequent weakness; she checked him when he would have made faltering apologies.
“We won’t talk about it. It is not worth while. It will pass!” she said quietly, and as she spoke, her strange, expressionless eyes gazed into his, and he found himself murmuring in agreement. “Yes, it will pass!” Never once, so far as he could discover, did any doubt concerning the future enter his wife’s head. She must certainly have heard that when a man takes to drugs it is almost a miracle if he is enabled to break the habit, yet her confidence remained unshaken. Throughout the darkest day, throughout the bitterest disappointment, she remained serenely unmoved. Always, in speaking of the future, she envisaged Lowther as strong, confident, successful, until by degrees the image printed itself on his own brain, and the old distrust began to disappear.
The House opened, a week passed by, and Lowther made no sign of taking his seat. Lilith remained silent; it seemed the result of accident that engagements lessened more and more, so that he found himself unoccupied, sitting in the little flat, listening to the chimes of Big Ben, following in imagination the doings within the Second Chamber, while hour by hour, day by day, a mysterious power seemed forcing him onward, urging him to arouse himself from his stupor, and go forth once more into the arena.
One evening husband and wife sat alone together in the little drawing-room of the flat. Lowther was smoking, and making a pretence of reading a review, Lilith sat by the open window, her hands folded on her lap. She had none of the nervous, fidgety movements to which most women are subject in moments of idleness, but could remain motionless as a statue for half an hour on end, her lids drooped over her quiet eyes. It was no interruption on his wife’s part which caused Lowther’s increasing restlessness; even when the book was thrown down, and he took to pacing hurriedly up and down, she remained passive and immovable.
Suddenly Lowther drew up by her side, laid a hand on her shoulder.
“Lilith! I’m going... To the House. Would you come? I think it would help me if you would come too.”