The physical man, Routledge, all men had found excellent in those good days before the mystery. His endurance and bravery had formed many classics for his craft. He had always bewitched her father. Incidentally, her life among the many friends of her father—soldiers, seamen, and civilian campaigners—had taught her that man’s judgment for man is best.... But it was not Routledge, the fearless and tireless; not Routledge, the male, who called her so ardently this night. At least, it was less the male than the mind; and less the mind than the mystic.... It would be the idlest affectation to assert that actual marriage with Routledge was beyond the pale of her thoughts; and yet this was not her ultimate passion. To be with him in great wanderings of gentle purport; to meet the suns and storms with calmness and cheer; constantly to toil together, helping, meditating, always together on the world’s highways, always looking toward God’s Good Hope, with thoughts in the stars, but not so lost in the stars that they missed the sorrowing by the roadside;—wandering grateful for life together, having a tear for the helpless, a smile for the beautiful, and a love for each other so vast and pure that it must needs love the world and reflect the love of God.... Such was Noreen Cardinegh’s dream of the fullness of days—so great a gratitude to the Most High for the presence of her lover, that it would manifest itself in eternal services to those who could not be so happy—services that faltered before no pain, quailed before no horrent spectacle, and retained their sweet savor in the lowliest haunts of men.

Marriage.... It might come. In some garden of the world, there might be a halting, when the full tides of life swelled together. No fixed date, exterior formality; no words uttered by a Third could release these two for triumphant nuptial flight!... She had seen too much mangling of this intimate and portentous moment between man and woman, by a stranger, the member of a paid profession—how often the mere licensed liberator of lusts. A signal from him, as to runners set for a Marathon—the spirit of chastity already a ghost....

If she should some time turn in the day’s journey and meet in the eyes of Cosmo Routledge that challenge which startled her into full-length a woman—with old Nature’s anthem flooding her vein and brain—then of all times, in their incarnation, would there be but the hand of the conqueror to lead her to the place the earth-gods had made ready!... After that, the formalities, the blessings—and the law which, being good for the many, is necessary for all....

She leaned against the mantel and closed her eyes, trying to find her lover’s lodge this night in the wilderness of the world.

“Nor—Noreen!”

The voice, rough, charged with fright in itself, shook the woman to the very roots of her life. Her whole psychic force had winged away to find the mate; only her body was in the silent room in Cheer Street. There is a thrilling hurt in the sudden intrusion of physical force upon such contemplation. She ran to her father’s room.

“Eh, Gawd! I—I was dreaming, child,” he mumbled, as she entered the dark where he lay.

FOURTEENTH CHAPTER
ROUTLEDGE IS ASSURED OF A WOMAN’S LOVE—THOUGH HE SHOULD LEAD THE ARMIES OF THE WORLD TO BURN LONDON

Hai, Johnny Brodie of Bookstalls, there’s a sweet lady looking for you! Possibly you know it, scamp, and are tricking from doorway to doorway behind her carriage, and grinning because those of whom she inquires don’t know a little maverick like you.... You think she is out to do harm to the Man; and you won’t be caught with her elbows on your knees again, and her great gold-brown eyes boring into your hard head where the Man’s sacred secrets are!... Perhaps you will, after all, Johnny Brodie, but it will be after this narrative (when there are lights again in that room of mystery and enchantment across the hall), and the Man is back in Bookstalls, there being no further need of secrets.... The Hate of London will never change direction by reason of gossip of yours, Johnny Brodie, because “the best fellows in this world are those strong enough to hold their tongues at the right time.” You learned that lesson, Manikin. Did you learn the other so well—about it not being good to do a thing alone, which you wouldn’t do if the one you liked best in the world were watching? That’s a harder lesson.... No, it won’t be your revelation of that impregnable night which brings the outcast into love and laurels, but so badly have you frightened a poor old man that he is about to rush half around the world to avoid meeting you again—instead of dying in Cheer Street.... Your short-trousered part in these events ended with the slam of the Cheer Street door, Johnny Brodie—but God love you, little boy, and Johnny Brodies everywhere!...