truth a very hard…working little dressmaker； and I well remember how impressed I was to sit beside you； as you plied your needle on some gown that must be finished by the evening； and meditate on the quaint contrast between your almost Puritanic industry and your innocent love of pleasure。 I don't think I ever met a more conscientious little woman than little Pauline Deschapelles。
There was but one drawback to our intercourse。 She didn't know a word of English； and I couldn't speak a word of French。 So we had to make shift to love without either language。 But sometimes Pauline would throw down her stitching in amused impatience； and； going to her dainty secretaire； write me a little message in the simplest baby Frenchwhich I would answer in French which would knit her brows for a moment or two； and then send her off in peals of laughter。
It WAS French！ I know。 Among the bric…a…brac of my heart I still cherish some of those little slips of paper with which we made international lovequestion and answer。
〃Vous allez m'oublier； et ne plus penser a moini me voir。 Les hommesegoistes menteurs； pas dire la verite 。 。 。〃 so ran the questions； considerably devoid of auxiliary verbs and such details of construction。
〃Je serais jamais t'oublier；〃 ran the frightful answers！
Dear Pauline！ Shall I ever see her again？ She was but twenty…six。 She may still live。
CHAPTER XIV
END OF BOOK THREE
So ended my pilgrimage。 I had wandered far； had loved many； but I came back to London without the Golden Girl。 I had begun my pilgrimage with a vision； and it was with a vision that I ended it。 From all my goings to and fro upon the earth； I had brought back only the image of a woman's face；the face of that strange woman of the moorland； still haunting my dreams of the night and the day。
It was autumn in my old garden； damp and forsaken； and the mulberry…tree was hung with little yellow shields。 My books looked weary of awaiting me； and they and the whole lonely house begged me to take them where sometimes they might be handled by human fingers； mellowed by lamplight； cheered by friendly laughter。
The very chairs begged mutely to be sat upon； the chill white beds to be slept in。 Yes； the very furniture seemed even lonelier than myself。
So I took heed of their dumb appeal。
〃I know；〃 I answered them tenderly；〃I too； with you； have looked on better days； I too have been where bells have knoll'd to church； I too have sat at many a good man's feast；yes！ I miss human society； even as you； my books； my bedsteads； and my side… boards；so let it be。 It is plain our little Margaret is not coming back； our little Margaret； dear haunted rooms； will never come back； no longer shall her little silken figure flit up and down your quiet staircases； her hands filled with flowers； and her heart humming with little songs。 Yes； let us go； it is very lonely； we shall die if we stay here all so lonely together； it is time； let us go。〃
So thereon I wrote to a furniture…remover； and went out to walk round the mossy old garden for the last time； and say good…bye to the great mulberry； under whose Dodonaesque shade we had sat half frightened on starry nights； to the apple…trees whose blossom had seemed like fairy…land to Margaret and me； town…bred folk； to the apricots and the peaches and the nectarines that it had seemed almost wicked to own；as though we had gone abroad in silk and velvet；to the little grassy orchard； and to the little green corner of it； where Margaret had fallen asleep that summer afternoon； in the great wicker…chair； and I had brought a dear friend on tiptoe to gaze on her asleep； with her olive cheeks delicately flushed； her great eyelids closed like the cheeks of roses； and her gold hair tumbled about her neck 。 。 。
Well； well； good…bye；tears are foolish things。 They will not bring Margaret back。 Good…bye； old garden； good…bye； I shall never see you again；good…bye。
BOOK IV
THE POSTSCRIPT TO A PILGRIMAGE
CHAPTER I
SIX YEARS AFTER
This book is like a woman's letter。 The most important part of it is the postscript
Six years lie between the end of the last chapter and the beginning of this。 Meanwhile； I had moved to sociable chambers within sound of the city clocks； and had lived the life of a lonely man about town； sinking more and more into the comfortable sloth of bachelorhood。 I had long come to look back upon my pilgrimage as a sort of Indian…summer youth； being； as the reader can reckon for himself； just on thirty…seven。 As one will； with one's most serious experiences； hastening to laugh lest one should weep； as the old philosopher said； I had made some fun out of my quest； in the form of a paper for a bookish society to which I belonged； on 〃Woman as a Learned Pursuit。〃 It is printed among the transactions of the society； and is accessible to the curious only by loan from the members； and I regret that I am unable to print any extracts here。 Perhaps when I am dead the society will see the criminal selfishness of reserving for itself what was meant for mankind。
Meanwhile； however； it is fast locked and buried deep in the archives of the club。 I have two marriages to record in the interval： one that of a young lady whom I must still think of as ‘Nicolete' to Sir Marmaduke Pettigrew； Bart。； of Dultowers Hall； and the other the well…known marriage of Sylvia Joy 。 。 。
Sylvia Joy married after all her fine protestations！ Yes！ but I'm sure you will forgive her； for she was married to a lord。 When one is twenty and romantic one would scorn a woman who would jilt us for wealth and position； at thirty； one would scorn any woman who didn't。 Ah me！ how one changes！ No one； I can honestly say； was happier over these two weddings than I； and I sent Sylvia her petticoat as a wedding present。
But it was to tell of other matters that I reopen this book and once more take up my penmatters so near to my heart that I shrink from writing of them； and am half afraid that the attempt may prove too hard for me after all； and my book end on a broken cry of pain。 Yet； at the same time； I want to write of them； for they are beautiful and solemn； and good food for the heart。
Besides； though my pilgrimage had been ended so long； they are really a part； yea； the part for which； though I knew it not； all the rest has been writtenfor they tell how I came to find by accident her whom so long I had sought of design。
How shall I tell of Thee who； first and last of all women； gave and awoke in me that love which is the golden key of the world； the mystic revelation of the holy meaning of life； love that alone may pass through the awful gates of the stars； and gaze unafraid into the blue abysses beyond？
Ah！ Love； it seemed far away indeed from the stars； the place where we met； and only by the light of love's eyes might we have found each otheras only by the light of love's eyes 。 。 。 But enough； my Heart； the world waits to hear our story；the world once so unloving to you； the world with a heart so hard and anon so soft for love。 When the story is ended； my love； when the story is ended
CHAPTER II
GRACE O' GOD
It was a hard winter's night four years ago； lovely and merciless； and towards midnight I walked home from a theatre to my rooms in St。 James's Street。 The Venusberg of Piccadilly looked white as a nun with snow and moonlight； but the melancholy music of pleasure； and the sad daughters of joy； seemed not to heed the cold。 For another hour death and pleasure would dance there beneath the electric lights。
Through the strange women clustering at the corners I took my way；women of the Moabites； Ammonites； Edomites； Zidonians； and Hittites；and I thought； as I looked into their poor painted faces；faces but half human； vampirish faces； faces already waxen with the look of the grave；I thought； as I often did； of the poor little girl whom De Quincey loved； the good…hearted little ‘peripatetic' as he called her； who had succoured him during those nights； when； as a young man； he wandered homeless about these very streets；that good； kind little Ann whom De Quincey had loved； then so strangely lost； and for whose face he looked into women's faces as long as he lived。 Often have I stood at the corner of Titchfield Street； and thought how De Quincey had stood there night after night waiting for her to come； but all in vain； and how from the abyss of oblivion into which some cruel chance had swept her； not one cry from her ever reached him again。
I thought； too； as I often did； what if the face I seek should be here among these poor outcasts；golden face hidden behind a mask of shame； true heart still beating true even amidst this infernal world！
Thus musing； I had walked my way out of the throng； and only a figure here and there in the shadows of doorways waited and waited in the cold。
It was something about one of these waiting figures；some movement； some chance posture；that presently surprised my attention and awakened a sudden sense of half recognition。 She stood well in the shadow； seeming rather to shrink from than to court attention。 As I walked close by her and looked keenly into her face； she cast down her eyes and half turned away。 Surely； I had seen that tall； noble figure somewhere before； that haughty head； and then with the apparition a thought struck mebut； no！ it couldn't be she！ not HERE！
〃It is；〃 said my soul； as I turned and walked past her again； 〃you missed her once； are you going to miss her again？〃
〃It is；〃 said my eyes； as they swept her for the third time； 〃but she had glorious chestnut hair； and the hair of this woman isgilded。〃
〃It is she；〃 said my heart； 〃thank God； it is she！〃
So it was that I went up to that tall； shy figure。
〃It must be very cold here；〃 I said； 〃will you not join me in some supper？〃
She assented； and we sought one of the many radiating centres of festivity in the neighbourhood。 She was very tired and cold； so tired she seemed hardly to have the spirit to eat； and evidently the cold had taken tight clutch of her lungs； for she had a cough that went to my heart to hear； and her face was ghastly pale。 When I had persuaded her to drink a little wine； she grew more animated and spots of suspicious c