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Reginald in Russia and Other Stories

Cross Currents
Vanessa Pennington had a husband who was poor, with few extenuating circumstances,
and an admirer who, though comfortably rich, was cumbered with a sense of honour. His
wealth made him welcome in Vanessa's eyes, but his code of what was right impelled
him to go away and forget her, or at the most to think of her in the intervals of doing a
great many other things. And although Alaric Clyde loved Vanessa, and thought he
should always go on loving her, he gradually and unconsciously allowed himself to be
wooed and won by a more alluring mistress; he fancied that his continued shunning of the
haunts of men was a self-imposed exile, but his heart was caught in the spell of the
Wilderness, and the Wilderness was kind and beautiful to him. When one is young and
strong and unfettered the wild earth can be very kind and very beautiful. Witness the
legion of men who were once young and unfettered and now eat out their souls in
dustbins, because, having erstwhile known and loved the Wilderness, they broke from her
thrall and turned aside into beaten paths.
In the high waste places of the world Clyde roamed and hunted and dreamed, death-
dealing and gracious as some god of Hellas, moving with his horses and servants and
four-footed camp followers from one dwelling ground to another, a welcome guest
among wild primitive village folk and nomads, a friend and slayer of the fleet, shy beasts
around him. By the shores of misty upland lakes he shot the wild fowl that had winged
their way to him across half the old world; beyond Bokhara he watched the wild Aryan
horsemen at their gambols; watched, too, in some dim-lit tea-house one of those beautiful
uncouth dances that one can never wholly forget; or, making a wide cast down to the
valley of the Tigris, swam and rolled in its snow-cooled racing waters. Vanessa,
meanwhile, in a Bayswater back street, was making out the weekly laundry list, attending
bargain sales, and, in her more adventurous moments, trying new ways of cooking
whiting. Occasionally she went to bridge parties, where, if the play was not illuminating,
at least one learned a great deal about the private life of some of the Royal and Imperial
Houses. Vanessa, in a way, was glad that Clyde had done the proper thing. She had a
strong natural bias towards respectability, though she would have preferred to have been
respectable in smarter surroundings, where her example would have done more good. To
be beyond reproach was one thing, but it would have been nicer to have been nearer to
the Park.
And then of a sudden her regard for respectability and Clyde's sense of what was right
were thrown on the scrap-heap of unnecessary things. They had been useful and highly
important in their time, but the death of Vanessa's husband made them of no immediate
The news of the altered condition of things followed Clyde with leisurely persistence
from one place of call to another, and at last ran him to a standstill somewhere in the
Orenburg Steppe. He would have found it exceedingly difficult to analyse his feelings on
receipt of the tidings. The Fates had unexpectedly (and perhaps just a little officiously)
removed an obstacle from his path. He supposed he was overjoyed, but he missed the