Part I.

I

All her life Miss Elizabeth Dwarris had been a sore trial to her relations. Awoman of means, she ruled tyrannously over a large number of impecuniouscousins, using her bank balance like the scorpions of Rehoboam to chastisethem; and, like many another pious creature, for their souls’ good makingall and sundry excessively miserable. Nurtured in the Evangelical ways currentin her youth, she insisted that her connections should seek salvation accordingto her own lights, and with harsh tongue and with bitter gibe made it herconstant business to persuade them of their extreme unworthiness. She arrangedlives as she thought fit, and ventured not only to order the costume andhabits, but even the inner thought of those about her; the Last Judgment couldhave no terrors for any that had faced her searching examination. She invitedto stay with her in succession various poor ladies who presumed on a distanttie to call her Aunt Eliza, and they accepted her summons, more imperious thana royal command, with gratitude by no means unmixed with fear, bearing theservitude meekly as a cross which in the future would meet due testamentaryreward.

Miss Dwarris loved to feel her power. During these long visits—for in away the old lady was very hospitable—she made it her especial object tobreak the spirit of her guests, and it entertained her hugely to see themildness with which were borne her extravagant demands, the humility with whichevery inclination was crushed. She took a malicious pleasure in publiclyaffronting persons, ostensibly to bend a sinful pride, or in obliging them todo things which they peculiarly disliked. With a singular quickness fordiscovering the points on which they were most sensitive, she attacked everyweakness with blunt invective till the sufferer writhed before her raw andbleeding; no defect, physical or mental, was protected from her raillery, andshe could pardon as little an excess of avoirdupois as a want of memory. Yetwith all her heart she despised her victims, she flung in their face insolentlytheir mercenary spirit, vowing that she would never leave a penny to such apack of weak fools; it delighted her to ask for advice in the distribution ofher property among charitable societies, and she heard with unconcealedhilarity their unwilling and confused suggestions.

With one of her relations only Miss Dwarris found it needful to observe acertain restraint—for Miss Ley, perhaps the most distant of her cousins,was as plain-spoken as herself, and had besides, a far keener wit, whereby shecould turn rash statements to the utter ridicule of the speaker. Nor did MissDwarris precisely dislike this independent spirit; she looked upon her, infact, with a certain degree of affection and not a little fear. Miss Ley,seldom lacking a repartee, appeared really to enjoy the verbal contests, fromwhich, by her greater urbanity, readiness, and knowledge, she usually emergedvictorious; it confounded, but at the same time almost amused, the elder ladythat a woman so much poorer than herself, with no smaller claim than others tothe coveted inheritance, should venture not only to be facetious at herexpense, but even to carry war into her very camp. Miss Ley, really not grievedto find someone to whom without prickings of conscience she could speak herwhole mind, took a grim pleasure in pointing out to her cousin the poor logicof her observations or the foolish unreason of her acts. No cherished opinionof Miss Dwarris was safe from satire; even her Evangelicism was laughed at, andthe rich old woman, unused to argument, was easily driven toself-contradiction; and then—for the victor took no pains to conceal hertriumph—she grew pale and speechless with rage. The quarrels werefrequent, but Miss Dwarris, though it was a sharp thorn in her flesh that thefirst advances must be made by her, in the end always forgave. Yet at last itwas inevitable that a final breach should occur. The cause thereof,characteristically enough, was very trivial.

Miss Ley, accustomed, when she went abroad for the winter to let her littleflat in Chelsea, had been obliged by unforeseen circumstances to return toEngland while her tenants were still in possession, and had asked Miss Dwarriswhether she might stay with her in Old Queen Street. The old tyrant, much asshe hated her relatives, hated still more to live alone; she needed someone onwhom to vent her temper, and through the illness of a niece, due to spend Marchand April with her, had been forced to pass a month of solitude. She wroteback, in the peremptory fashion which even with Miss Ley she could not refrainfrom using, that she expected her on such and such a day by such and such atrain. It is not clear whether there was in the letter anything to excite inMiss Ley a contradictory spirit, or whether her engagements really preventedit, but at all events she answered that her plans made it more convenient toarrive on the day following and by a different train. Miss Dwarris telegraphedthat unless her guest came on the day and at the hour mentioned in her lettershe could not send the carriage to meet her, to which the younger lady repliedconcisely: “Don’t!”

“She’s as obstinate as a pig,” muttered Miss Dwarris, readingthe telegram, and she saw in her mind’s eye the thin smile on hercousin’s mouth when she wrote that one indifferent word. “I supposeshe thinks she’s very clever.”

Her hostess greeted Miss Ley, notwithstanding, with a certain grim affabilityreserved only for her; she was at all events the least detestable of herrelations, and, though neither docile nor polite, at least was never tedious.Her conversation braced Miss Dwarris, so that with her she was usually at herbest, and sometimes, forgetting her overbearing habit, showed herself asensible and entertaining woman of not altogether unamiable disposition.

“You’re growing old, my dear,” said Miss Dwarris when theysat down to dinner, looking at her guest with eyes keen to detect wrinkles andcrow’s-feet.

“You flatter me,” Miss Ley retorted; “antiquity is the onlyexcuse for a woman who has determined on a single life.”

“I suppose, like the rest of them, you would have married if anyone hadasked you.”

Miss Ley smiled.

“Two months ago an Italian Prince offered me his hand and heart,Eliza.”

“A Papist would do anything,” replied Miss Dwarris. “Isuppose you told him your income and he found he’d misjudged the strengthof his affections.”

“I refused him because he was so virtuous.”

“I shouldn’t have thought at your age you could afford to pick andchoose, Polly.”

“Allow me to observe that you have an amiable faculty for thinking of onesubject at one time in two diametrically opposed ways.”

Miss Ley was a slender woman of middle size; her hair, very plainly arranged,beginning to turn gray, and her face, already much wrinkled, by its clearprecision of feature indicating a comfortable strength of character; her lips,thin but expressive, mobile, added to this appearance of determination. She wasby no means handsome, and had certainly never been pretty, but her carriage wasnot without grace nor her manner without fascination. Her eyes were verybright, and so shrewd as sometimes to be almost disconcerting: without wordsthey could make pretentiousness absurd; and most affectations, under thatsearching glance, part contemptuous, part amused, willingly hid themselves.Yet, as Miss Dwarris took care to remind her, she was not without her ownespecial pose, but it was carried out so admirably, with such a restrained,comely decorum, that few observed it, and such as did found not the heart tocondemn: it was the perfect art that concealed itself. To execute this æstheticgesture, it pleased Miss Ley to dress with the greatest possible simplicity,usually in black, and her only ornament was a Renaissance jewel of suchexquisite beauty that no museum would have disdained to possess it: this shewore around her neck attached to a long gold chain, and she fingered it withpleasure, to show, according to her plain-spoken relative, the undoubted beautyof her hands. Her well-fitting shoes and the elaborate open-work of her silkstockings suggested also a not unreasonable pride in a shapely foot, small andhigh of instep. Thus attired, when she had visitors, Miss Ley sat in an Italianstraight-backed chair of oak, and delicately carved, which was placed betweentwo windows against the wall; and she cultivated already a certain primness ofmanner which made very effective the audacious criticism of life wherewith shewas used to entertain her friends.

Two mornings after her arrival in Old Queen Street, Miss Ley announced herintention to go out. She came downstairs with a very fashionable parasol, apurchase on her way through Paris.

“You’re not going out with that thing?” cried Miss Dwarris,scornfully.

“I am indeed.”

“Nonsense; you must take an umbrella. It’s going to rain.”

“I have a new sunshade and an old umbrella, Eliza. I feel certain it willbe fine.”

“My dear, you know nothing about the English climate. I tell you it willpour cats and dogs.”

“Fiddlesticks, Eliza!”

“Polly,” answered Miss Dwarris, her temper rising, “I wishyou to take an umbrella. The barometer is going down, and I have a tingling inmy feet, which is a sure sign of wet. It’s very irreligious of you topresume to say what the weather is going to be.”

“I venture to think that meteorologically I am no less acquainted withthe ways of Providence than you.”

“That, I think, is not funny, but blasphemous, Polly. In my house Iexpect people to do as I tell them, and I insist on your taking anumbrella.”

“Don’t be absurd, Eliza!”

Miss Dwarris rang the bell, and when the butler appeared ordered him to fetchher own umbrella for Miss Ley.

“I absolutely refuse to use it,” said the younger lady, smiling.

“Pray remember that you are my guest, Polly.”

“And therefore entitled to do exactly as I like.”

Miss Dwarris rose to her feet, a massive old woman of commanding presence, andstretched out a threatening hand.

“If you leave this house without an umbrella, you shall not come into itagain. You shall never cross this threshold so long as I am alive.”

Miss Ley cannot have been in the best of humours that morning, for she pursedher lips in the manner already characteristic of her, and looked at her elderlycousin with a cold scorn most difficult to bear.

“My dear Eliza, you have a singularly exaggerated idea of yourimportance. Are there no hotels in London? You appear to think I stay with youfor pleasure rather than to mortify my flesh. And really the cross is growingtoo heavy for me, for I think you must have quite the worst cook in theMetropolis.”

“She’s been with me for five-and-twenty years,” answered MissDwarris, two red spots appearing on her cheeks, “and no one has venturedto complain of the cooking before. If any of my guests had done so, I shouldhave answered that what was good enough for me was a great deal too good foranyone else. I know that you’re obstinate, Polly, and quick-tempered, andthis impertinence I am willing to overlook. Do you still refuse to do as Iwish?”

“Yes.”

Miss Dwarris rang the bell violently.

“Tell Martha to pack Miss Ley’s boxes at once, and call afour-wheeler,” she cried, in tones of thunder.

“Very well, Madam,” answered the butler, used to hismistress’ vagaries.

Then Miss Dwarris turned to her guest, who observed her with irritatinggood-humour.

“I hope you realize, Polly, that I fully mean what I say.”

“All is over between us,” answered Miss Ley mockingly, “andshall I return your letters and your photographs?”

Miss Dwarris sat for a while in silent anger, watching her cousin, who took uptheMorning Post and with great calmness read the fashionableintelligence. Presently the butler announced that the four-wheeler was at thedoor.

“Well, Polly, so you’re really going?”

“I can hardly stay when you’ve had my boxes packed and sent for acab,” replied Miss Ley mildly.

“It’s your own doing; I don’t wish you to go. If you’llconfess that you were headstrong and obstinate, and if you’ll take anumbrella, I am willing to let bygones be bygones.”

“Look at the sun,” answered Miss Ley.

And, as if actually to annoy the tyrannous old woman, the shining rays dancedinto the room and made importunate patterns on the carpet.

“I think I should tell you, Polly, that it was my intention to leave youten thousand pounds in my will. This intention I shall, of course, not nowcarry out.”

“You’d far better leave your money to the Dwarris people. Upon myword, considering that they’ve been related to you for over sixty years,I think they thoroughly deserve it.”

“I shall leave my money to whom I choose,” cried Miss Dwarris,beside herself; “and if I want to, I shall leave every penny of it incharity. You’re very independent because you have a beggarly five hundreda year, but apparently it isn’t enough for you to live without lettingyour flat when you go away. Remember that no one has any claims upon me, and Ican make you a rich woman.”

Miss Ley replied with great deliberation.

“My dear, I have a firm conviction that you will live for another thirtyyears to plague the human race in general, and your relations in particular. Itis not worth my while, on the chance of surviving you, to submit to thecaprices of a very ignorant old woman, presumptuous and overbearing, dull andpretentious.”

Miss Dwarris gasped and shook with rage, but the other proceeded without mercy.

“You have plenty of poor relations—bully them. Vent your spite andill-temper on those wretched sycophants, but, pray, in future sparemethe infinite tediousness of your conversation.”

Miss Ley had ever a discreet passion for the rhetorical, and there was acertain grandiloquence about the phrase which entertained her hugely. She feltthat it was unanswerable, and with great dignity walked out. No communicationpassed between the two ladies, though Miss Dwarris, peremptory, stern, andEvangelical to the end, lived in full possession of her faculties for nearlytwenty years. She died at last in a passion occasioned by some triflingmisdemeanour of her maid; and, as though a heavy yoke were removed from theirshoulders, her family heaved a deep and unanimous sigh of relief.

They attended her funeral with dry eyes, looking still with silent terror atthe leaden coffin which contained the remains of that harsh, strong,domineering old woman; then, nervously expectant, begged the family solicitorto disclose her will. Written with her own hand, and witnessed by two servants,it was in these terms:

“I, Elizabeth Ann Dwarris, of 79 Old Queen Street, Westminster, spinster,hereby revoke all former wills and testamentary dispositions, made by me, anddeclare this to be my last will and testament. I appoint Mary Ley, of 72 EliotMansions, Chelsea, to be the executrix of this my will, and I give all my realand personal property whatsoever to the said Mary Ley. To my great-nephews andgreat-nieces, to my cousins near and remote, I give my blessing, and I beseechthem to bear in mind the example and advice which for many years I have giventhem. I recommend them to cultivate in future strength of character and anindependent spirit. I venture to remind them that the humble will never inheritthis earth, for their reward is to be awaited in the life to come, and I desirethem to continue the subscriptions which, at my request, they have so long andgenerously made to the Society for the Conversion of the Jews and to theAdditional Curates Fund.
    “In witness whereof, I have set my hand to this my will the 4th dayof April, 1883.

“Elizabeth Ann Dwarris.”

To her amazement, Miss Ley found herself at the age of fifty-seven inpossession of nearly three thousand pounds a year, the lease of a pleasant oldhouse in Westminster, and a great quantity of early Victorian furniture. Thewill was written two days after her quarrel with the eccentric old woman, andthe terms of it certainly achieved the three purposes for which it wasdesigned: it occasioned the utmost surprise to all concerned; it heaped coalsof fire on Miss Ley’s indifferent head; and caused the bitterestdisappointment and vexation to all that bore the name of Dwarris.

II

It did not take Miss Ley very long to settle in her house. To its new owner,who hated modernity with all her heart, part of the charm lay in its quaint oldfashion: built in the reign of Queen Anne, it had the leisurely, spaciouscomfort of dwelling-places in that period, with a hood over the door that was apattern of elegance, wrought-iron railings, and, to Miss Ley’s especialdelight, extinguishers for the link-boys’ torches.

The rooms were large, somewhat low-pitched, with wide windows overlooking themost consciously beautiful of all the London parks. Miss Ley made no greatalterations. An epicurean to her finger-tips, for many years the passion forliberty had alone disturbed the equanimity of her indolent temper. But tosecure freedom, entire and absolute freedom, she was ever ready to make anysacrifice: ties affected her with a discomfort that seemed really akin tophysical pain, and she avoided them—ties of family or of affection, tiesof habit or of thought—with all the strenuousness of which she wascapable. She had taken care never in the course of her life to cumber herselfwith chattels, and once, with a courage in which there was surely somethingheroic, feeling that she became too much attached to herbelongings—cabinets and exquisite fans brought from Spain, Florentineframes of gilded wood and English mezzotints, Neapolitan bronzes, tables andsettees discovered in out-of-the-way parts of France—she had soldeverything. She would not risk to grow so fond of her home that it was a painto leave it; she preferred to remain a wayfarer, sauntering through life with aheart keen to detect beauty, and a mind, open and unbiassed, ready to laugh atthe absurd. So it fitted her humour to move with the few goods which shepossessed into her cousin’s house as though it were but a furnishedlodging, remaining there still unfettered; and when Death came—a paganyouth, twin brother to Sleep, rather than the grim and bony skeleton ofChristian faith—ready to depart like a sated reveller, smilingdauntlessly and without regret. A new and personal ordering, the exclusion ofmany pieces of clumsy taste, gave Miss Ley’s drawing-room quickly a moregraceful and characteristic air: theobjets d’art collected sincethe memorable sale added a certain grave delicacy to the arrangement; and herfriends noticed without surprise that, as in her own flat, the straight, carvedchair was set between two windows, and the furniture deliberately placed sothat from it the mistress of the house, herself part of the æsthetic scheme,could command and manipulate her guests.

No sooner was Miss Ley comfortably settled than she wrote to an old friend anddistant cousin, Algernon Langton, Dean of Tercanbury, asking him to bring hisdaughter to visit her new house; and Miss Langton replied that they would bepleased to come, fixing a certain Thursday morning for their arrival. Miss Leygreeted her relatives without effusion, for it was her whim to discouragemanifestations of affection; but notwithstanding the good-humoured, politecontempt with which it was her practice to treat the clergy in general, shelooked upon her cousin Algernon with real esteem.

He was a tall old man, spare and bent, with very white and a pallid, almosttransparent, skin; his eyes cold and blue, but his expression singularlygentle. There was a dignity in his bearing, and at the same time an infinitegraciousness which reminded you of those famous old ecclesiastics whose nameshave cast for ever a certain magnificent renown upon the English Church; he hada good deal of the polished breeding which made them, whatever their origin,gentlemen and courtiers, and, like theirs, his Biblical erudition was perhapsless noteworthy than his classical attainments. And if he was a little narrow,unwilling to consider seriously modern ways of thought, there was an æstheticquality about him and a truly Christian urbanity which attracted admiration,and even love. Miss Ley, a student of men, who could observe with interest themost diverse tendencies, (for to her sceptical mind no way of life nor methodof thought was intrinsically more valuable than another,) was pleased with hisstately, candid simplicity, and used with him a forbearance which was notcustomary to her.

“Well, Polly,” said the Dean, “I suppose now you are a womanof property you will give up your wild-goose chase after the unattainable. Youwill settle down and become a respectable member of society.”

“You need not insist that my hair is grayer than when last you saw me,and my wrinkles more apparent.”

At this time Miss Ley, who had altered little in the last twenty years,resembled extraordinarily the portrait-statue of Agrippina in the museum atNaples. She had the same lined face, with its look of rather scornfulindifference for mundane affairs, and that well-bred distinction of mannerwhich the Empress had acquired through the command of multitudes, but Miss Ley,more finely, through the command of herself.

“But you’re right, Algernon,” she added, “I am growingold, and I doubt whether I should have again the courage to sell all mybelongings. I do not think I could face the utter loneliness in which Irejoiced when I felt I had nothing I could call my own but the clothes on myback.”

“You had quite a respectable income.”

“For which the saints be praised! No one can think of freedom who hasless than five hundred a year; without that, life is a mere sordid struggle fordaily bread.”

The Dean, hearing that luncheon would not be ready till two, went out, and MissLey was left alone with his daughter. Bella Langton had reached that age whenshe could by no stretch of courtesy be described as a girl, and her father butlately, somewhat to her dismay, had composed a set of Latin verses on herfortieth birthday. She was not pretty, nor had she the graceful dignity whichmade the Dean so becoming a figure in the cathedral chapter: somewhat squarelybuilt, her hair, of a pleasant brown, was severely arranged; her features weretoo broad and her complexion rather oddly weather-beaten, but her gray eyeswere very kindly, and her expression singularly good-humoured. Followingprovincial fashions in somewhat costly materials, she dressed with theserviceable plainness affected by the pious virgins who congregate in cathedralcities, and the result was an impression of very expensive dowdiness. She wasobviously a capable woman who could be depended upon in any emergency.Charitable in an unimaginative, practical way, she was a fit and competentleader for the philanthropy of Tercanbury, and, fully conscious of herimportance in the ecclesiastical hierarchy, ruled her little clerical circlewith a firm but not unkindly hand. Notwithstanding her warm heart and trulyChristian humility, Miss Langton had an intimate conviction of her own value;for not only did her father hold a stately office, but he came from good countystock of no small distinction, whereas it was notorious that the Bishop was aman of no family, and his wife had been a governess. Miss Langton would havegiven her last penny to relieve the sick wife of some poor curate, but wouldhave thought twice before asking her to call at the Deanery; her charitablekindness was bestowed on all and sundry, but the ceremonies of polite societyshe practised only with persons of quality.

“I’ve asked various people to meet you at dinner to-night,”said Miss Ley.

“Are they nice?”

“They’re not positively disagreeable. Mrs. Barlow-Bassett isbringing her son, who pleases me because he’s so beautiful. Basil Kent iscoming, a barrister; I like him because he has the face of a knight in an earlyItalian picture.”

“You always had a weakness for good-looking men, Mary,” answeredMiss Langton, smiling.

“Beauty is quite the most important thing in the world, my dear. Peoplesay that the masculine appearance is immaterial, but that is because they arefoolish. I know men who have gained all the honour and glory of the earthmerely through a fine pair of eyes or a well-shaped mouth. . . . Then I haveasked Mr. and Mrs. Castillyon; he is a member of Parliament and very dull andpompous, but just the sort of creature who would amuse you.”

While Miss Ley spoke a note was brought in.

“How tiresome!” she cried, having read. “Mr. Castillyonwrites to say he cannot leave the House to-night till late. I wish theywouldn’t have autumn sessions. It’s just like him to think such anonentity as himself is indispensable. Now I must ask someone to take hisplace.”

She sat down and hurriedly wrote a few words.

“My dear Frank,
    “I beseech you to come to dinner to-night at eight, and since whenyou arrive your keen intelligence will probably suggest to you that I have notasked nine people on the spur of the moment, I will confess that I invite youmerely because Mr. Castillyon has put me off at the last minute. But if youdon’t come I will never speak to you again.

“Yours ever,
“Mary Ley.”

She rang the bell, and told a servant to take the letter immediately to HarleyStreet.

“I’ve asked Frank Hurrell,” she explained to Miss Langton.“He’s a nice boy—people remain boys till they’re fortynow, and he’s ten years less than that. He’s a doctor, and by wayof being rather distinguished; they’ve lately made himassistant-physician at St. Luke’s Hospital, and he’s set up inHarley Street waiting for patients.”

“Is he handsome?” asked Miss Langton, smiling.

“Not at all, but he’s one of the few persons I know who reallyamuses me. You’ll think him very disagreeable, and you’ll probablybore him to extinction.”

With this remark, calculated to put the younger woman entirely at her ease,Miss Ley sat down again at the window. The day was warm and sunny, but thetrees, yellow and red with the first autumnal glow, were heavy still with therain that had fallen in the night. There was a grave, sensuous passion aboutSt. James’s Park, with its cool, smooth water just seen among the heavyfoliage, and its well-tended lawns; and Miss Ley observed it in silence, with avague feeling of self-satisfaction, for prosperity was a comfortable thing.

“What would be a suitable present for a poet?” asked Miss Langtonsuddenly.

“Surely a rhyming dictionary,” answered her friend, smiling.“Or a Bradshaw’s Guide to indicate the æsthetic value ofcommon-sense.”

“Don’t be absurd, Mary, I really want your advice. I know a youngman in Tercanbury who writes poetry,”

“I never knew a young man who didn’t. You’re not in love witha pale, passionate curate, Bella?”

“I’m in love with no one,” answered Miss Langton, with theshadow of a blush. “At my age it would be ridiculous. But I should liketo tell you about this boy. He’s only twenty, and he’s a clerk inthe bank there.”

“Bella!” cried Miss Ley, with mock horror. “Don’t tellme you’re philandering with a person who isn’tcounty. Whatwould the Dean say? And for heaven’s sake take care of poetical boys; atyour age a woman should offer daily prayers to her Maker to prevent her fromfalling in love with a man twenty years younger than herself. That is one ofthe most prevalent diseases of the day.”

“His father was a linen-draper at Blackstable, who sent him to RegisSchool, Tercanbury. And there he took every possible scholarship. He was goingto Cambridge, but his people died, and to earn his living he was obliged to gointo the bank. He’s had a very hard time.”

“But how on earth did you make his acquaintance? No society is so rigidlyexclusive as that of a cathedral town, and I know you refuse to be introducedto anyone till you have looked him out in theLanded Gentry.

Miss Ley, singularly unprejudiced, ridiculed her cousin hugely for thisveneration of the county family; and though her own name figured inBurke’s portentous she concealed the fact as something ratherdiscreditable. To her mind the only advantage of a respectable ancestry wasthat with a whole heart she could ridicule the claims of blood.

“He was never introduced to me,” answered Bella unwillingly.“I made friends with him by accident.”

“My dear, that sounds very improper. I hope at least he rescued you in acarriage accident, which appears to be one of Cupid’s favourite devices.He always was an unimaginative god, and his methods are dreadfully commonplace.. . . Don’t say the young man accosted you in the street!”

Bella Langton could not have told Miss Ley the whole story of her acquaintancewith Herbert Field, for the point of it lay to some extent in her own state ofmind, and that she but vaguely understood. She had arrived at thatembarrassment which comes to most unmarried women, when youth is already passedand the monotonous length of middle age looms drearily before them. For sometime her round of duties had lost its savour, and she seemed to have doneeverything too often: the days exasperated her in their similarity. She wasseized with that restlessness which has sent so many, nameless or renowned,sailing like stout Cortez across unknown seas, and others, no fewer, onhazardous adventures of the spirit. She looked with envy now at the friends,her contemporaries, who were mothers of fair children, and not withoutdifficulty overcame a nascent regret that for her father’s sake, alone inthe world and in all practical concerns very helpless, she had foregone thenatural joys of women. These feelings much distressed her, for she had dweltalways in a world of limited horizon, occupied with piety and with good works;the emotions that tore her heart-strings seemed temptations of the devil, andshe turned to her God for a solace that came not. She sought to distract hermind by unceasing labour, and with double zeal administered her benevolentinstitutions; books left her listless, but setting her teeth with a sort ofangry determination, she began to learn Greek. Nothing served. Against her willnew thoughts forced themselves upon her; and she was terrified, for it seemedto her no woman had ever been tormented by such wild, unlawful fancies. Shereminded herself in vain that the name of which she was so proud constrainedher to self-command, and her position in Tercanbury made it a duty, even in herinmost heart, to serve as an example to lesser folk.

And now Miss Langton took no pleasure in the quiet close where before she haddelighted to linger; the old cathedral, weather-beaten, gray and lovely, nolonger gave its accustomed message of resignation and of hope. She took towalking far into the country, but the meadows, bespangled with buttercups inspring, the woods, with their autumnal russet, but increased her uneasiness;and most willingly she went to a hill from which at no great distance could beseen the shining sea, and for a moment its immensity comforted her restlessheart. Sometimes at sundown over the slate gray of the western clouds wasspread a great dust of red gold that swept down upon the silent water like thetrain of a goddess of fire; and presently, thrusting through sombre cumuli,like a Titan breaking his prison walls, the sun shone forth, a giant sphere ofcopper. With almost a material effort it seemed to push aside the throngingdarkness, filling the whole sky with brilliancy; and then over the placid seawas stretched a broad roadway of unearthly fire, upon which might travel themystical, passionate souls of men, endlessly, to the source of the deathlesslight, Bella Langton turned away with a sob and walked back slowly the way shecame. Before her in the valley the gray houses of Tercanbury clustered aboutthe tall cathedral, but its ancient beauty pressed her heart with bands ofpain.

Then came the spring: the fields were gay with flowers, a vernal carpet whereonwith delicate feet might walk the angels of Messer Perugino, and she could bearthe agony no longer; in every hedgerow, on every tree, the birds sang withinfinite variety, singing the joy of life and the beauty of the rain and theglorious sunshine. They told her one and all that the world was young andbeautiful, but the time of man so short that every hour of it must be lived asthough it were the last.

When a friend asked her to spend a month in Brittany, sick of her inaction, sheaccepted eagerly. To travel might ease her aching heart, and the fatigue of thejourney allay that springing of the limbs which made her feel apt for hazardousundertakings. Alone the two ladies wandered along that rugged coast. Theystayed at Carnac, but the mysterious antique stones suggested only thenothingness of life; man came and went, with hope and longing, and left thesigns of his dim faith to be a mystery to succeeding ages; they went to LeFaouet, where the painted windows of the ruined church of Saint Fiacre gleamlike precious stones: but the restful charm of these scenes had no message fora heart thirsting for life and the love that quickens. They passed to thefamous calvaries of Plougastel and Saint Thégonnec; and those grim crosses,with their stone processions, (the effort at beauty of a race bowed down by thesense of sin), oppressed her under that gray western sky with dismay: theysuggested only death and the grave’s despair, but she was full ofexpectation, of longing for she knew not what. It seemed to her as though, sheknew not how, she were sailing on that dark silent sea of which the mysticsspeak, where the common rules of life availed not. Travel gave her nothing thatshe sought, but increased rather her unquiet; her hands itched for work to do,and she went back to Tercanbury.

III

At last, one afternoon of that very summer, after the vesper service in thecathedral. Miss Langton, wandering listlessly towards the door, saw a young manseated at the back of the nave; it was late, so that he and she seemed topossess that vast building by themselves. With glowing eyes he stared intovacancy, as though his own thoughts blinded him to the Gothic loveliness abouthim, and his eyes were singularly dark. His hair was fair, and his face,womanlike in its transparent delicacy of skin, was thin and oval. Presently averger went to him saying that the attention cathedral would be closed, and ashe rose, paying no other attention to the man’s words, he passed within ayard of Bella, but in his abstraction saw her not. She thought no more of him,but on the following Saturday, going, as her habit, to the afternoon service,she saw the youth again, seated as before in the furthermost part of the nave,well away both from sightseers and from devout. A curiosity she did notunderstand impelled her to remain there rather than go into the choir,separated from the nave by an elaborate screen, where by right of her dignity aseat was reserved for her not far from her father’s decanal stall.

The boy, for he was little more, this time was reading a book, which shenoticed was written in verse; now and again, with a smile, he threw back hishead, and she imagined he repeated to himself a line that pleased him.

The service began, softened by distance so that the well-known forms gained anew mystery; the long notes of the organ pealed reverberating along the vaultedroof, or wailed softly, like the voice of a young child, among the loftycolumns. At intervals the choir gave a richer depth to the organ music, and itwas so broken and deadened by obstructing stone that it sounded vaguely likethe surging of the sea. Presently this ceased, and a tenor’s voice, thepride of the cathedral, rang out alone; and as though the magic sound had powerover all material obstacles, the melody of the old-fashioned anthem—herfather loved the undecorated music of a past age—rose towards heaven in asobbing prayer. The book fell from the young man’s hand, and an eagerlook came into his face as he drank in the silver harmonies; his face wastransfigured with ecstasy so that it resembled the face of some pictured saintglorified by a mystic vision of the celestial light. And then, falling on hisknees, he buried his face in his hands, and Bella saw that with all his soul heprayed to a God that gave men ears to hear and eyes to see the beauty of theworld. What was there in the sight that made her own heart beat with a newemotion?

And when he sat once more on his chair there was a look in his face ofexquisite content, and a smile of happiness trembled on his lips, so that Bellaturned sick with envy. What power was there in his soul that gave a magiccolour to things that left her, for all her striving, still untouched? Shewaited till he walked slowly out, and, seeing him nod to the verger at thedoor, asked who he was.

“I don’t know, miss,” was the answer; “he comes hereevery Saturday and Sunday regular. But he never goes into the choir. He justsits there in the corner where no one can see him, and reads a book. Idon’t interfere with him, because he’s very quiet andrespectful.”

Bella could not tell why she thought so often of the fair-haired youth who hadnever so much as noticed her presence, nor why, on the Sunday that followed,she went again to the nave awaiting his appearance. Observing him more closely,she noticed the slimness of his figure and the shapely length of his hands,which seemed to touch things with a curious delicacy; once their eyes met, andhis were blue like the summer sea in Italy, and deep. A somewhat nervous woman,she would never have ventured to address a stranger, but the candid simplicityof his expression, in which strangely there was also a certain appealingpathos, overcame her shyness, overcame also her sense of the impropriety ofmaking friends with a person about whom she knew nothing. Some hidden intuitiontold her that she was arrived at a turning-point in her life, and courage nowwas needed to seize with both hands a new happiness; and as though the verystars were favourable there had occurred to her a way to scrape acquaintance.Excited, for it seemed very adventurous, she waited impatiently for Saturday,and then, asking her favourite verger for his keys, after the service wentboldly to the youth whose name even she did not know.

“Would you like me to take you over the cathedral?” she askedwithout a word of introduction. “We can go round alone, and it’svery pleasant without the chatter of vergers and the hurry of a crowd.”

He blushed to the very roots of his hair when she spoke, but then smiledcharmingly.

“It’s very kind of you,” he answered; “I’vewanted to do that always.”

His voice was pleasant and low, and he showed no surprise whatever; but all thesame Bella, now somewhat startled by her own audacity, thought it needful toexplain why she ventured the suggestion.

“I’ve seen you here very often, and it struck me that you wouldlike to see the cathedral at its best. But I’m afraid you must put upwith me.”

He smiled again, and appeared now to take note of her for the first time.Bella, looking straight in front of her, felt his eyes rest thoughtfully on herface, and suddenly she seemed to herself old and lined and dowdy.

“What book is that you have?” she asked, to break the silence.

Without speaking he gave it her, and she saw it was a little collection,evidently much read, for the binding scarcely held the leaves together, ofShelley’s lyrical poems.

Bella unlocked the gate that led into the apse, and locked it again behind her.

“Isn’t it delightful to feel one’s self alone here?” hecried, and with springing step and smiling eyes walked forwards.

At first he was a little shy, but presently the spirit of the place, with itsdark chapels and stone knights recumbent, the tracery of its jewelled windows,loosened his tongue, and he poured forth his boyish enthusiasm with a passionthat astonished Bella. His delight communicated itself to her so that she founda new enchantment in the things she knew so well; his glowing poetic fervourseemed to gild the old walls with magic sunshine; and, as if those prisonedstones were strangely thrown open to heaven, they gained something of the outerfreshness of green lawns and flowers and leafy trees: the warm breath of thewest wind stole among the Gothic columns, lending a new splendour to theancient glass, and to the groinery a more living charm. The boy’s cheekswere flushed with excitement, and Bella’s heart beat as she listened,enchanted with his pleasure; he gesticulated a good deal, and under themovements of his long exquisite hands, (her own, for all her well-bredancestry, were short, thick-set and ungraceful,) the past of the mighty churchrose before her, so that she heard the clank of steel when knights in armourmarched over the still flags, and saw with vivid eyes that historic scene whenthe gentlemen of Kent in gally hose and doublet, the ladies with ruff andfarthingale, assembled to praise the God of storm and battle because Howard ofEffingham had scattered the armada of King Philip.

“Now let’s go into the cloister,” he said eagerly.

They sat on a stone parapet looking out on the cool green sward where in timepast Augustine monks had wandered meditative; there was a dainty gracefulnessabout the arcade, with the slender columns, their capitals delicately carved,recalling somewhat the cloisters of Italy, which, notwithstanding theircypress-trees and their crumbling decay, suggest a peaceful happiness ratherthan the Northern sense of stricken sin. The boy, though he knew the magic ofthe South only from books and pictures, was quick to catch the impression, andhis face expressed a rather pitiful longing. When Bella told him she hadtravelled in Italy, he questioned her eagerly, and his young enthusiasm gave awarmth to her answers which with any other, fearing to be ridiculous, she wouldcarefully have suppressed. But the scene before them was very lovely; inmassive splendour the tall central tower looked down upon them, and its statelybeauty entered their souls, so that the youth, though he had never seen themonasteries of Tuscany, was comforted. They sat for a while in silence.

“You must be a very important person,” he said at last, turning toher, “or we should never be allowed to remain so long.”

“I dare say to a verger I am,” she answered, smiling. “Itmust be late.”

“Won’t you come and have tea with me?” he asked. “Ihave rooms just opposite the cathedral gate.” Then, catchingBella’s look, he added with a smile: “My name is Herbert Field, andI’m eminently respectable.”

She hesitated, for it seemed odd to drink tea with a youth whom she had neverseen before, but she was mortally afraid of seeming prudish; and a visit to hisrooms, whereby she might learn more about him, would add a finish to theadventure. Finally her sense decided her that living life, not mere existence,for once lay under her hand.

“Do come,’ he said; “I want to show you my books.”

And with a little persuasive motion he touched her hand.

“I should like it very much.”

He took her to a tiny room over a chemist’s shop, simply furnished as astudy, with a low ceiling and panelled walls: these were decorated with a fewphotographs of pictures by Pietro Perugino, and there were a good many books.

“It’s rather poky, I’m afraid, but I live here, so that I canalways see the gateway. I think it’s one of the finest things inTercanbury.”

He made her sit down while he boiled water and cut bread-and-butter. Bella, atfirst somewhat intimidated by the novelty of the affair, was a little formal;but the boy’s manifest delight in her presence affected her so that shebecame gay and light-hearted. Then he displayed a new side of his character:the rather strenuous passion for the beautiful was momentarily put aside and heshowed himself quite absurdly boyish. His laughter rang out joyously, and,feeling less shy now that Miss Langton was his guest, he talked unrestrainedlyof a hundred topics that sprang up one after another in his mind.

“Will you have a cigarette?” he asked when they had finished theirtea, and, on Bella’s laughing refusal: “You don’t mind if Ismoke, do you? I can talk better.”

He drew their chairs to the open window, so that they could look at the massivemasonry before them, and, as though he had known Bella all his life, chatteredon. But when at last she rose to go, his eyes grew suddenly grave and sad.

“I shall see you again, shan’t I? I don’t want to lose younow I’ve found you so strangely.”

Really he was asking Miss Langton to make an assignation, but by now theDean’s daughter had thrown all caution to the winds.

“I dare say we shall meet sometime in the cathedral.”

Womanlike, though she meant to grant all he desired, she would not give in tooquickly.”

“Oh, that won’t do,” he insisted. “I can’t wait aweek before seeing you again.”

Bella smiled at him while he looked eagerly into her eyes, holding her handvery firmly, as though till she made promise he would never let it go.

“Let’s take a walk in the country to-morrow,” he said.

“Very well,’ she replied, telling herself that there could be noharm in going with a boy twenty years younger than herself, “I shall beat the Westgate at half-past five.”

But the evening brought counsels of prudence, and Miss Langton wrote a note tosay that she had forgotten an engagement, and was afraid she could not come.Yet it left her irresolute, and more than once she reproached herself becausefrom sheer timidity she would cause Herbert Field the keenest disappointment.She told herself sophistically that perhaps, owing to the Sunday delivery, theletter had not reached him, and, fearing he would go to the Westgate and notunderstand her absence, persuaded herself that it was needful to go there andexplain in person why she could not take the promised walk.

The Westgate was an ancient, handsome pile of masonry which in the old days hadmarked the outer wall of Tercanbury, and even now, though on one side houseshad been built, a road to the left led directly into the country. When Bellaarrived, somewhat early, Herbert was already waiting for her, and he lookedpeculiarly young in his straw hat.

“Didn’t you get a note from me?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered, smiling. “Then why did you come?”

“Because I thought you might change your mind. I didn’t altogetherbelieve in the engagement. I wanted you so badly that I fancied youcouldn’t help yourself. I felt you must come.”

“And if I hadn’t?”

“Well, I should have waited. . . . Don’t be horrid. Look at thesunshine calling us. Yesterday we had the gray stones of the cathedral; to-daywe’ve got the green fields and the trees. Don’t you feel the westwind murmuring delicious things?”

Bella looked at him, and could not resist the passionate appeal of his eyes.

“I suppose I must do as you choose,” she answered.

And together they set off. Miss Langton, convinced that her interest was noless maternal than when she gave jellies to some motherless child, knew notthat Dan Cupid, laughing at her subterfuge, danced gleefully about them andshot his silver arrows. They sauntered by a gentle stream that ran northward tothe sea, shaded by leafy willows; and the country on that July afternoon wasfresh and scented: the cut hay, drying, gave out an exquisite perfume, and thebirds were hushed.

“I’m glad you live in the Deanery,” he said; “I shalllike to think of you seated in that beautiful garden.”

“Have you ever seen it?”

“No; but I can imagine what it is like behind that old wall, the shadylawns and the roses. There must be masses of roses now.”

The Dean was known as an enthusiast for that royal flower, and his blossoms atthe local show were the wonder of the town. They went on, and soon, halfunconsciously, as though he sought protection from the hard world, Herbert puthis arm in hers, Bella blushed a little, but had not the heart to withdraw; shewas strangely flattered at the confidence he showed. Very discreetly shequestioned him, and with perfect simplicity he told of his parents’ longstruggle to give him an education above their state.

“But, after all,” he said “I’m not nearly so wretchedas I thought I would be. The bank leaves me plenty of time, and I have my booksand I have my hopes.”

“What are they?”

“Sometimes I write verse,” he answered, blushing shyly.

“I suppose it’s ridiculous, but it gives me great happiness; andwho knows?—someday I may do something that the world will not willinglylet die.”

Later on, when Bella rested on a stile and Herbert stood by her side, he lookedup at her, hesitating.

“I want to say something to you, Miss Langton, but I’m ratherafraid. . . . You won’t drop me now, will you? Now that I’ve founda friend, I can’t afford to lose her. You don’t know what it meansto me having someone to talk to, someone who’s kind to me. Often I feeldreadfully alone. And you make all the difference in my life; this last weekeverything has seemed changed.”

She looked at him earnestly. Did he think he made no difference in hers? Shecould not tell what stirred her when those blue appealing eyes asked soirresistibly for what she was most willing to give.

“My father is going into Leanham on Wednesday,” she answeredpresently. “When your work is over, will you come and have tea in theDeanery garden?”

She felt herself ten times rewarded by the look of pleasure that flashed acrosshis face.

“I shall think of nothing else till then.”

And Miss Langton found that her restless anxiety had strangely vanished; lifenow was no longer monotonous, but sparkled with magic colour, for an absorbinginterest had arisen which made the daily round a pleasure rather than a duty.She repeated to herself all the charming inconsequent things the boy had said,finding his conversation agreeably different from the clerical debates to whichshe was used. They cultivated a refined taste in the chapter, and theArchdeacon’s second wife had written a novel, which only her exaltedstation and an obvious moral purpose saved from excessive indecency. The MinorCanons talked with gusto of the Royal Academy. But Herbert spoke of books andpictures as though art were a living thing, needful as bread and water to hisexistence; and Bella, feeling that her culture, somewhat ostentatiously pursuedas an element of polite breeding, was very formal and insipid, listened withcomplete humility to his simple ardour.

On Wednesday, almost handsome in summer muslin and a large hat, she went intothe garden, where the tea-things were laid under a leafy tree. Miss Ley wouldhave smiled cruelly to notice the care with which the Dean’s daughterarranged her position to appear at her best. The privacy, the garden’srestful beauty, brought out all Herbert’s boyishness, and his pleasantlaughter rang across the lawns, rang like silver music into Bella’sheart. Watching the shadows lengthen, they talked of Italy and Greece, of poetsand of flowers; and presently, weary of seriousness, they talked sheerlight-hearted nonsense.

“You know, I can’t call you Mr. Field,” said Bella, smiling.“I must call you Herbert.”

“If you do I shall call you Bella.”

“I’m not sure if you ought. You see, I’m almost an oldfossil, and it’s quite natural that I should use your Christianname.”

“But I won’ t let you assume any airs of superiority over me, Iwant you to be absolutely a companion, and I don’t care twopence ifyou’re older than I am. Besides, I shall always think of you asBella.”

She smiled again, looking at him with tender eyes.

“Well, I suppose you must do as you like,” she answered.

“Of course.”

Then quickly he took both her hands, and, before she realized what he wasabout, kissed them.

“Don’t be foolish,’ cried Bella, withdrawing them hurriedly,and she reddened to her very hair.

When he saw her discomfort, boylike, he burst into a shout of laughter.

“Oh, I’ve made you blush.”

His blue eyes sparkled, and he was delighted with his little wickedness. He didnot know that afterwards, in her room, Bella, the kisses still burning on herhands, wept bitterly as though her heart would break.

IV

When Miss Ley entered her drawing-room she found the punctual Dean alreadydressed for dinner, very distinguished in silk stockings and buckled shoes, andpresently Bella appeared, attired with sombre magnificence in black satin.

“I went to Holywell Street this morning to look round thebook-shops,” said the Dean, “but Holywell Street is pulled down.London isn’t what it was, Polly. Each time I come I find old buildingsgone and old friends scattered.”

With melancholy he thought of the pleasant hours he had spent fingeringsecond-hand books, and the scent of musty volumes rose to his nostrils. The newshops to which the Jewish vendors had removed no longer had the old dustynonchalance, the shelves were too spick and span, the idle lounger apparentlyless welcome.

Mrs. Barlow-Bassett and her son were announced. She was a tall woman ofhandsome presence, with fine eyes and a confident step; her gray hair, abundantand curling, recalled in its elaborate arrangement the fashion of theeighteenth century, and her manner of dress, suggested by the modes of thattime, gave her somewhat the look of a sitter for Sir Joshua Reynolds. Hermovements were characterized by a kind of obstinate decision, and she boreherself with the fine uprightness of a woman bred when deportment was still apart of maidenly education. She was immensely proud of her son, a tallstrapping fellow of two-and-twenty, with black hair no less fine than hismother’s, and with singularly beautiful features. Big-boned butunmuscular, very dark, his large brown eyes, straight nose and olive skin, hisfull sensual mouth, made him a person of striking appearance; and of this hewas by no means unconscious. He was a good-humoured, lazy creature, languid asan Oriental houri, unscrupulous, untruthful, whom his mother by an exactingadoration had forced into insincerity. Left a widow of means, Mrs.Barlow-Bassett had devoted her life to the upbringing of this only son, and waspleased to think that hitherto she had kept him successfully from all knowledgeof evil. She meant him to and in her a friend and confidant as well as amother, and boasted that from her he had never kept a single action nor asingle thought.

“I want to talk to Mr. Kent this evening, Mary,” she said.“He’s a barrister, isn’t he? And we’ve just made up ourminds that Reggie had better go to the Bar.”

Reggie, who, notwithstanding the attraction of a splendid uniform, had noinclination for the restraints of a military career, and disdained thecommercial walk in which his father had earned a handsome fortune, was quitecontent to put up with the more gentlemanly side of the law. He knew vaguelythat a vast number of dinners must be eaten, a prospect to which he lookedforward with equanimity; and afterwards saw himself, becomingly attired in wigand gown, haranguing juries to the admiration of the world in general.

“You’re going to sit next to Basil,” answered Miss Ley;“Frank Hurrell is to take you down.”

“I’m sure Reggie will do well at the Bar, and I can keep him withme in London. You know, he’s never given me a moment’s anxiety, andsometimes I do feel proud that I’ve kept him so good and pure. But theworld is full of temptations, and he’s so extraordinarilygood-looking.”

“He is very handsome,” returned Miss Ley, pursing her lips.

She thought her knowledge of character must be singularly at fault if Reggiewas the virtuous creature his mother imagined. The sensuality of his facesuggested no great distaste for the sins of the flesh, and the slyness of hisdark eyes no excessive innocence.

Basil Kent and Dr. Hurrell, meeting on the doorstep, came in together. It wasFrank Hurrell whom Miss Ley, somewhat exacting in these matters, had describedas the most amusing person she knew. His breadth of shoulder and solid buildwere too great for his height, and he had reason to envy Reggie Bassett’slength of leg; nor was his face handsome, for his brows were too heavy and hisjaw too square, but the eyes were expressive, mocking sometimes or hard, atothers very soft, and there was a persuasiveness in his deep resonant voice ofwhich he well knew the power. A small black moustache concealed the play of awell-shaped mouth and the regularity of his excellent teeth. He impressed youas a strong man, of no very easy temper, who held himself in admirable control.Silent with strangers, he disconcerted them by an unwilling frigidity ofmanner, and though his friends, knowing that at all times he could be dependedupon, were eager in his praise, acquaintance often accused him ofsuperciliousness. To be popular with all and sundry he took no sufficient painsto conceal his impatience of stupidity, and though Miss Ley thought hisconversation interesting, others to whom for some reason he was not attractedfound him absent and taciturn.

An extremely reserved man, few knew that Frank Hurrell’s deliberateplacidity of expression masked a very emotional temperament. In this herecognised a weakness and had schooled his face carefully to betray no feeling;but the feeling all the same was there, turbulent and overwhelming, and heprofoundly mistrusted his judgment which could be drawn so easily from thenarrow path of reason. He kept over himself unceasing watch, as though adangerous prisoner were in his heart ever on the alert to break his chains. Hefelt himself the slave of a vivid imagination, and realized that it stoodagainst the enjoyment of life which his philosophy told him was the only end ofexistence. Yet his passions were of the mind rather than of the body, and hisspirit urged his flesh constantly to courses wherein it found nothing butdisillusion. His chief endeavour was the search for truth, and somewhat to MissLey’s scorn, (for she rested easily in a condition of satisfied doubt,her attitude towards life indicated by a slight shrug of the shoulders,) hestrove after certainty with an eagerness which other men reserve for love orfame or opulence. But all his studies were directed at the last to another end;convinced that the present life was final, he sought to make the completest useof its every moment; and yet it seemed preposterous that so much effort, suchvast time and strange concurrence of events, the world and man, should tendtowards nothing. He could not but think that somewhere a meaning must bediscernible, and to find this examined science and philosophy with an anxiouspassion that to his colleagues at St. Luke’s, worthy craftsmen who saw nofurther than the slide on their microscope’s, would have seemedextraordinary and almost insane.

But it would have required an imaginative person to discover in Dr. Hurrell atthat moment trace of a conflict as vehement as any passionate disturbance ofmore practical people. He was in high good-humour, and while they waited forthe remaining guests talked to Miss Ley.

“Isn’t it charming of me to come?” he asked.

“Not at all,” she replied; “it’s very much nicer for agreedy person like you to eat my excellent dinner than to nibble an ill-cookedchop in your own rooms.”

“How ungrateful! At all events, as a stopgap I have no duties to myneighbour, and may devote myself entirely to the pleasures of the table.”

“Like a friend of mine—people weren’t so polite forty yearsago, and much more amusing—who, when his neighbour made some very foolishremark, shouted at her: ‘Go on with your soup, madam!’”

“Tell me who else is coming,” said Frank.

“Mrs. Castillyon, but she’ll be monstrously late. She thinks itfashionable, and theCounty in London has to take so many precautionsnot to seem provincial. Mrs. Murray is coming.”

“D’you still want me to marry her?”

“No,” replied Miss Ley, laughing, “I’ve given you up.Though it wasn’t nice of you to abuse me like a pickpocket because Ioffered you a handsome widow with five thousand a year.”

“Think of the insufferable bore of marriage, and in any case Heaven saveme from an intellectual wife. If I marry at all, I’ll marry mycook.”

“I wish you wouldn’t make my jokes, Frank. . . . But as a matter offact, unless I’m vastly mistaken, Mrs. Murray has made up her mind tomarry our friend Basil.”

“Oh!” said Frank.

Miss Ley noticed a shadow cross his eyes, and examined his expression sharply.

“Don’t you think it would be a very suitable thing if shedid?”

“I have no views on the subject,” returned Frank.

“I wonder what you mean by that. Basil is poor and handsome and clever,and Mrs. Murray has always had an inclination for literary men. That’sthe worst of marrying a cavalryman—it leads you to attach so muchimportance to brains.”

“Was Captain Murray an absolute fool?”

’My dear Frank, you don’t ask if a guardsman has intelligence, butwhether he can play polo. Captain Murray did two wise things in his life: hemade a will leaving his wife a large fortune, and then promptly departed to aplace where stupidity is apparently no disadvantage.”

Miss Ley, for Bella’s peculiar edification, had invited also the mostfashionable cleric in London, the Rev, Collinson Farley, Vicar of All Souls,Grosvenor Square, and it amused her to see the look of Frank Hurrell, whodetested him, when this gentleman was announced. Mr. Farley was a man of middlesize, with iron-gray hair carefully brushed, and a rather fine head; hiswell-manicured hands were soft and handsome, adorned with expensive rings. Hewas an amateur of good society, and could afford, such were his fascinations,to be very careful in his choice of friends; a coronet no longer dazzled a manwho realized how hollow was earthly rank beside earthly riches. Poverty hecould excuse only in a duchess, for there is in the strawberry leaves, evenwhen, faded and sere, they wreathe the wrinkled brow of a dowager, somethingwhich inspires respect in the most flippant. His suave manner and intelligentconversation had gained him powerful friends when he was but a country rector,and through their influence the opportunity came at last to move to a spherewhere his social talents met their due appreciation. Ecclesiastical dignity,like the sins of the fathers, may descend to the third and fourth generation,and obviously a man whose grandfather was a bishop could not lack decorum;something was surely due to a courteous person who had been actually born in anepiscopal palace.

Mrs. Castillyon, as her hostess predicted last to arrive, at length appeared.

“I hope I’m not late, Miss Ley,” she said, putting out bothhands with a pretty little gesture of appeal.

“Not very,” replied her hostess. “Knowing that you make apoint of being unpunctual, I took care to ask you for half an hour earlier thananyone else.”

In solemn procession the company marched down to the dining-room, and Mr.Farley surveyed the table with satisfaction.

“I always think a well-dressed table one of the most truly artisticsights of our modern civilization,” he remarked to his neighbour.

And his eyes wandered round the dining-room, in the furniture of which heobserved a comforting but discreet opulence. Mr. Farley had known the house inMiss Dwarris’ lifetime, and noticed now that a portrait of her no longerhung in its accustomed place.

“I see you have removed that excellent picture of the former occupant ofthis house, Miss Ley,” he said, with a graceful wave of his white andjewelled hand.

“I couldn’t bear that she should watch me eat three meals aday,” replied his hostess. “I have a vivid recollection of herdinners: she fed me on husks and acorns, like the prodigal son, and regaled mewith accounts of the torment that awaited me in an after-life.”

The Dean smiled gravely. He looked upon Miss Ley with a kind of affectionatedisapproval; and though often he rebuked her for the books she read or for theflippancy of her conversation, took always in good part the irony with whichshe met his little sermons.

“You’re very uncharitable, Polly,” he said. “Of courseEliza was a difficult person to live with, but she exacted no more from othersthan she exacted from herself. I always admired her strong sense of duty; itwas very striking at the present time when everyone lives entirely forpleasure.”

“We may not be so virtuous as our fathers, Algernon,” answered MissLey, “but we’re very much easier to live with. After all, fortyyears ago people were positively insufferable: they spoke their minds, which isa detestable habit; their temper was abominable, and they drank more than wasgood for them. I always think my father was typical of his period. When he flewinto a passion he called it righteous anger, and when I did anything to whichhe objected he suffered from—virtuous indignation. D’you know thattill I was fifteen I was never allowed to taste butter, which was thought badboth for my figure and my soul? I was brought up exclusively on dripping andJeremy Taylor. The world was a hazardous path beset with gins and snares; andat every turn and corner were immature volcanoes from which arose sulphurousfumes of hell-fire.”

“It was an age of tyranny and vapours,” said Frank. “of oldgentlemen who were overbearing and young ladies who swooned.”

“I’m sure people aren’t so good as they used to be,”said Mrs. Bassett, glancing at her son, who was much engrossed in aconversation with Mrs. Castillyon.

“They never were,” answered Miss Ley.

“The perverseness of men would have made an infidel of me,” addedthe Dean, in his sweet grave voice, “but for the counteracting impressionof Divine providence in the works of Nature.”

Meanwhile Reggie Bassett enjoyed his dinner far more than he expected. He foundhimself next to Mrs. Castillyon, and on sitting down proceeded to examine herwith some effrontery. A rapid glance had told her that the boy was handsome,and when she saw what he was about, to give him opportunity at his leisure toobserve her various graces, she began to talk volubly with her other neighbour.But presently she turned to Reggie.

“Well, is it satisfactory?” she asked.

“What?”

“Your inspection.”

She smiled brightly, flashing a quick, provoking look into his fine dark eyes.

“Quite,” he answered, with a smile, not in the least disconcerted.“My mother is already thinking that Miss Ley oughtn’t to have letme sit by you.”

Mrs. Castillyon was a vivacious creature, small and dainty like a shepherdessin Dresden china, excitable and restless, who spoke with a loud, shrill voice;and with a quick, nervous gesture, constantly threw herself back in her chairto laugh boisterously at what Reggie said. And finding he could venture veryfar indeed without fear of offence, the model youth told her little scabrousstories in a low, suave voice, staring meanwhile into her eyes with theshameless audacity of a man conscious of his power. It is the fascination-lookof the lady-killer, and its very impudence appears to be half its charm; therake at heart feels that here modest pretences are useless, and with unhiddenjoy descends from the pedestal upon which the folly of man has insisted onplacing her. Mrs. Castillyon’s face was thin and small, overpowdered,with rather high cheek-bones, her hair, intricately dressed, had an unnaturalfairness; but this set Reggie peculiarly at his ease, for he had enoughexperience of the sex to opine that women who used such artifices were alwayseasier to get on with than the others. He thought his neighbour quite pretty,notwithstanding her five-and-thirty years; and the somewhat faded look of athin blonde was counterbalanced by the magnificence of her jewels and thesplendour of her gown: this was cut so low that Bella from the other side ofthe table naïvely wondered how on earth it was kept on at all.

When the men were left to smoke, Reggie, helping himself to a third glass ofport, drew his chair to Hurrell’s.

“I say, Frank,” he exclaimed, “that was a nice little womannext to me, wasn’t it?”

“Had you never met Mrs. Castillyon before?”

“Never! Regular ripper, ain’t she? By Jove! I thought this dinnerwould be simply deadly—politics and religion, and all that rot. The materalways makes me come, because she says there’s intellectual conversation.My God!”

Frank laughed at the idea of Mrs. Barlow-Basset combining instruction withamusement for her son at Miss Ley’s dinner-table.

“But Mrs. Castillyon’s a bit of all right, I can tell you. Littlebaggage! And she don’t mind what you say to her. . . . Why, sheisn’t like a lady at all.”

“Is that a great recommendation?”

“Well, ladies ain’t amusing, are they?” You talk to ’emof the Academy and all that sort of rot, and you’ve got to take care youdon’t swear. Ladies may be all very well to marry, but upon my soul, forgiving you a good time I prefer them a bit lower in the scale.”

A little later, on the stairs, when they were going up to the drawing-room,Reggie slipped his arm through Frank’s.

“I say, old man, don’t give me away if my mater thanks you forasking me to dinner on Saturday.”

“But I haven’t. Neither have I the least desire that you shoulddine with me on that day.”

“Good Lord! d’you think I want to come—and talk about bugsand beetles all the evening? Not much! I’m going to dine with a littlegirl I know—typewriter, my boy, and a real love touch. Stunning littlething, I can tell you.”

“But I don’t see why, because you wish to entertain a young personconnected with typewriting, I should imperil my immortal soul.”

Reggie laughed.

“Don’t be an ass, Frank; you might help me. You don’t knowhow utterly rotten it is to have a mother like mine who wants to keep me tiedto her apron-strings. She makes me tell her everything I do, and of course Ihave to fake up some yarn. The only thing in it is that she’ll swallowany damned lie I tell her.”

“You can tell her lies till you’re blue in the face,” saidFrank, “but I don’t see why the devil I should.”

“Don’t be a beast, Frank. You might help me just this once. Itwon’t hurt you to say I’m grubbing with you. The other night, byJove! I nearly gave the show away. You know she always waits up for me. I toldher I should be working late with my crammer, and went to the Empire. Well, Imet a lot of chaps there and got a bit squiffy. There would have been a shindyif she’d noticed it, but I managed to pull myself together a bit, andsaid I’d got the very deuce of a headache. And next day I heard her tellsomeone that I was next door to a teetotaler.”

They reached the drawing-room and Frank found himself close to Mrs. Bassett.

“Oh, Dr. Hurrell,” she said, “I want to thank you so much forasking Reggie to dinner on Saturday. He’s been working so hard that Ithink a little relaxation will do him good. And his tutor keeps him sometimestill past eleven—it can’t be good for him, can it? The night beforelast he was so tired when he came in that he could scarcely get up thestairs.”

“I’m delighted that Reggie should care to come and dine with mesometimes,” answered Frank, somewhat grimly.

“I’m always glad to think he’s with you. It’s soimportant that a young man should have really trustworthy friends, and I feelsure your influence is good for him.”

Reggie, listening to this, gave Frank a very slow and significant wink, thenwent off with a light heart to resume his conversation with Mrs. Castillyon.

V

Presently all Miss Ley’s guests, except Frank Hurrell, bade hergood-night, and he showed no intention of following their example.

“You don’t want to go to bed yet, do you?” she asked theDean. “Let us go into the library.”

Here Frank took from a drawer his pipe, and helping himself from a tobacco-jarplaced in readiness, sat down. Miss Ley, noticing Bella’s slight look ofsurprise, explained.

“Frank keeps a pipe here and makes me buy his favourite tobacco.It’s one of the advantages of old age that you can sit into the smallhours of the morning and talk with young men.”

But when he too was gone, Miss Ley, an old-fashioned hostess solicitous for herguests’ comfort, accompanied Bella to her room.

“I hope you enjoyed my little party,” she said.

“Very much,” replied Bella. “But why do you ask Mrs.Castillyon? She’s dreadfully common, isn’t she?”

“My dear,” answered Miss Ley ironically, “her husband is amost important person—in Dorsetshire, and her own family has a whole pagein theGentleman’s Bible or theLanded Gentry.”

“I shouldn’t have thought she was county,” said Bellaseriously; “she seemed to me very vulgar.”

“She is very vulgar,” answered Miss Ley, “but it’s thesort of vulgarity which is a mark of the highest breeding. To talk too loud andto laugh like a bus-driver, to use the commonest slang and to dressoutrageously, are all signs of thegrande dame. Often in Bond Street Isee women with painted cheeks and dyed hair dressed in a manner which even acourtesan would think startling, and I recognise the leaders of London fashion.. . . Good-night. Don’t expect to see me at breakfast; that is a mealwhich only the angels of heaven should eat in company.”

Miss Langton sat down as though she had no wish to go to bed.

“Don’t go just yet. I want to know all about Mr. Kent.” MissLey, following her friend’s example, made herself comfortable in anarmchair. Once Miss Dwarris asserted that a virtuous person as a matter ofdiscipline should do every day two things which he disliked, whereupon Miss Leyanswered flippantly that then she must be on the direct road to everlastinghappiness, for within the twenty-four hours she invariably performed a brace ofactions which she thoroughly detested: she got up, and she went to bed. Now,therefore, in no hurry to go to her own room, she proceeded to tell MissLangton what she knew of Basil Kent. In truth it was not strange that he hadattracted Bella’s attention, for his appearance was unusual; he managedto wear the conventional evening dress of an Englishman with becoming grace,but one felt, such was his romantic air, he should by rights have borne thearmour of a Florentine knight. His limbs were slender and well made, his handswhite and comely, and his brown curly hair, worn somewhat long, set off thefine colour of his face; the dark eyes, thin cheeks, and full sensual mouthwere set into a passionate wistfulness of expression which recalled again thosefaces in early Italian pictures wherein the spirit and the flesh seem ever tofight a restless battle—to them the earth is always beautiful, rich withlove and warfare, with poetry and deep blue skies, but yet everywhere isdisillusion also, and the dark silence of the cloister, even amid the paintedturbulence of court or camp, whispers its irresistible appeal. None looking atBasil Kent could imagine that any great ease of life awaited him; through hisbrown eyes appeared a soul at the same time sensual and ascetic, impulsive andchivalrous, yet so sensitive that the storms and buffets of the world, to whichinevitably he exposed himself, must assault him with double violence.

“Well, he’s the son of Lady Vizard,” said Miss Ley.

’What!” cried Bella, “you don’t mean the woman aboutwhom there was that dreadful case five years ago?”

“Yes. He was then at Oxford, where Frank and he were bosom friends. Itwas through Frank that I first knew him. His father, a cousin of the presentKent of Ouseley, died when he was a child, and Basil was brought up by hisgrandmother, for his mother married Lord Vizard very shortly after herhusband’s death. Even now she’s a beautiful woman. In those daysshe was perfectly gorgeous; her photograph was in all theshop-windows—her prime coincided with the fashion for young men to buythe portraits of celebrated beauties they did not know, and the chastest womenthought it no shame for their pictures to be exposed in every stationer’sshop or to decorate the chimneypiece of a platonic counter-jumper. At that timeLady Vizard’s doings were minutely chronicled in the papers that concernthemselves with such things, and her parties were thronged with all the fashionof London. She was to be seen at every race-meeting surrounded by admirers; ofcourse she had a box at the opera, and at Homburg attracted the most augustattention.”

“Did Mr. Kent ever see her?” asked Bella.

“He used to spend part of his holidays with her, and she dazzled him asshe dazzled everyone else, Frank told me that Basil simply worshipped hismother; he has always had a passion for beauty, and was immensely proud of hermagnificent appearance, I used at one time occasionally to meet her at parties,and she struck me as one of the most splendid, majestic women I ever saw; onefelt that something like that most have looked Madame de Montespan.”

“Was she fond of her son?”

“In her way. Naturally she didn’t want him bothering around her.She kept her youth marvellously. Lord Vizard was younger than herself, and shedidn’t much care to produce a boy who was very nearly grown up. So shewas quite pleased that old Mrs. Kent, whom she detested, should look after him.But when he came to stay she filled his pockets with money, took him to theplay every night and thoroughly amused him. I dare say she too was pleased withhis good looks, for at sixteen he must have been more beautiful than a Greekephebe. But if ever he showed any signs of inconvenient attachment, I doubtwhether Lady Vizard encouraged him. From Harrow he went to Oxford, and Frank,who is a very acute observer, told me that then Basil was a peculiarly innocentboy, absurdly open and frank, who never kept a secret from anybody, and saidwithout thinking, ingenuously, everything that came into his head. Of coursescandal for a good many years had been busy with Lady Vizard; her extravagancewas notorious, and Vizard was known to be neither rich nor generous; but hiswife did everything that cost a great deal of money, and her emeralds wereobviously worth a fortune. Even Basil cannot have helped seeing how manymasculine friends she had, though perhaps when he was spending with her theoccasional week to which he looked forward so intensely, she took pains thatnothing too flaunting should come to his eyes; and when strange gentlemenslipped sovereigns into his hand he pocketed them under the impression that hisown merit had earned them. And now I must go to bed.”

Miss Ley, with a tantalizing smile, rose from her chair, but Bella stopped her.

“Don’t be cattish, Mary. You know I want to hear the rest of thestory.”

“Are you aware that it’s past one o’clock?”

“I don’t care, you must finish it now.”

Miss Ley, having created this small diversion, sat down again, proceeding, notat all against her will, with the recital.

“Basil’s only vanity was his mother, and he talked of herincessantly, taking a manifest pride in her social success and the admirationwhich everywhere she excited; he would have staked his life on her immaculatecharacter, and when the crash came he was simply overwhelmed. You remember thecase; it was one of those in which a prudish English public takes keen delight.Every placard announced in huge letters that for the especial delectation ofthe middle classes a divorce in high life was being fought at the Law Courts inwhich there were no less than four co-respondents. It appeared that LordVizard, chiefly because he was frightened of his wife’s extravagance, hadat last filed a petition in which he named Lord Ernest Torrens, Colonel Roome,Mr. Norman Wynne and somebody else. The pair evidently had not for some timeenjoyed great connubial felicity, for Lady Vizard brought a counter-petition,accusing her husband of philandering with her own maid and with a certain Mrs.Platter, a lady who inhabited a flat in Shaftesbury Avenue. The case was foughton both sides with the greatest acrimony, and a crowd of witnesses testified tobehaviour which one at least hopes is unusual in the houses of the great. Butof course you read the details in theChurch Times, Bella.”

“I remember it was reported in theStandard,” answered MissLangton, “but I read nothing.”

“Virtuous creature!” said Miss Ley, with a thin smile. ’Theaverage Englishman would never keep his respect for titled persons if thereports of proceedings in the Divorce Court did not periodically give him someinsight into their private life. . . . Anyhow, the things of which Lord andLady Vizard accused one another were enough to make the hair of a suburbanpaterfamilias stand right on end.”

Miss Ley paused for a moment, and then with calm deliberation, as though shehad given this matter the attention of a lifetime and carefully weighed allsorts, proceeded.

“A divorce, you know, can be managed in two ways—respectably, whenboth parties are indifferent or afraid and no more is said than is essentialfor the non-intervention at a subsequent stage of that absurd gentleman, theKing’s Proctor; and vindictively, when in their eagerness to bespatterthe person whom at some previous period they solemnly vowed to love to the endof their days, they care not how much mud is thrown at themselves. Lady Vizardmade a practice of detesting her husbands, and she loathed the second far morebecause he had not the grace to die like the first, four years after themarriage. His penuriousness, ill-temper, insobriety were dragged into the lightof day; and he brought servants to testify to his wife’s most privatehabits, produced letters which he had intercepted, and subpœnaed tradesmen toswear by whom accounts for jewellery and clothes had been settled. Lord Vizardengaged the cleverest criminal lawyer of the time, and for two days his wifewith unparalleled wit, courage, and resource bore a cross-examination whichwould have ruined a weaker woman. It was partly on this account, because theyadmired the good fight she made, partly because it seemed impossible that suchan imposing creature should have done the quite odious things of which thehusband accused her, but still more because they thought there was preciouslittle to choose between kettle and pot, that the jury found the charges notproven; and Lady Vizard in a manner remained mistress of the position. The restyou can guess for yourself.”

“No, I can’t, Mary. Go on.”

“No word had reached Basil that proceedings were to be taken, and hisfirst knowledge of the affair came with the morning paper and his eggs andbacon. He could scarcely believe his eyes, and he read the report withincredulity changing quickly to dismay and horror. The news dazed and crushedhim. A hundred trifles he had seen but never noticed came to his mind, and heknew that his mother was no better than the painted harlot who sells her bodyfor a five-pound note.”

“But how d’you know all this, Mary?” asked Bella doubtfully.“You’re not inventing it, are you?”

“I read the papers,” answered Miss Ley, with some asperity.“Frank told me a good deal, and my common-sense the rest. I flattermyself I have a certain knowledge of human nature, and if Basil didn’tfeel what I tell you, he should have. But I shall never finish my story if youkeep on interrupting me.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Bella humbly. “Pray go on.”

“Frank, you know, is somewhat older than Basil, and at that time was inOxford, taking his M.B. He found the poor boy overcome with shame, anxious likea stricken beast to hide himself from all strange eyes. But Frank is made ofsterner stuff; he persuaded him to go about as though nothing had happened, andeven to dine in hall as usual. What for the one would not have been so verydifficult to the other was unendurable. Basil imagined that everyone stared athim as though he were a thing unclean; he had bragged a good deal of hiswonderful parent, and he thought now that all his words must be scornfullyrepeated. The papers continued their edifying story; witnesses told shamefulthings; and Basil, haggard and sleepless, could not conceal his torment. Frankhad set him an ordeal beyond his strength, and without a word to anyone he fledto London. After the trial he went to see Lady Vizard, but what happened then Ido not know. He never returned to Oxford. At that time they were recruiting forthe Imperial Yeomanry, and Basil, passing by chance through St. James’sPark, saw the men drilling. He wished to get out of England, where everyoneseemed to point at him with scorn, and here was an opportunity; he enlisted,and a month later sailed for South Africa.”

“As a trooper?” asked Miss Langton.

“Yes. I believe he distinguished himself, for they offered him acommission, but this he refused and was given instead the Medal forDistinguished Conduct in the Field. He remained there three years, and did notreturn to England till the last batch of Yeomanry was brought home. Then hesettled down to read for the Bar, and was called last year.”

Does he ever see his mother, d’you know?”

I believe never. He has a small income, about three hundred a year, and on thatin a modest way is able to live. I think he has only gone to the Bar as a sortof form, for he means to write. You probably never saw the little book of SouthAfrican sketches which he brought out last year—impressions of sceneryand studies of character. It had no particular success, but to my mind showed agood deal of promise; I remember an account of some battle about which therewas an uncommon swing and dash. He’s working at a novel now, and I daresay some day will write a very clever book.”

“D’you think he’ll ever be famous?”

Miss Ley shrugged her shoulders.

“You know, to achieve great success in literature you must have a certaincoarseness in your composition, and that I don’t think Basil has. Reallyto move and influence men you must have complete understanding, and you canonly get that if you have in you something of the common clay of humanity. . .. But now I really must go to bed. You’re such a chatterbox, Bella, Ibelieve you would keep me up all night.”

This was somewhat hard on Miss Langton, who for an hour had barely opened hermouth.

VI

But while the two ladies thus discussed him, Basil Kent stood on the bridgeover the ornamental water in St. James’s Park, and looked thoughtfully atthat scene than which perhaps there is none more beautiful in the mostbeautiful of all cities, London: the still water, silvered by the moon, thefine massing of the trees, and the Foreign Office, pompous and sedate, formed acomposition as perfect and no less formally elaborate than any painted byClaude Lorrain. The night was warm and balmy, the sky clear; and the quiet wasso delightful, notwithstanding the busy hum of Piccadilly, where, at that hour,all was gaiety and frolic, that it reminded Basil of some restful,old-fashioned town in France. His heart beat with a strange elation, for heknew at last, without possibility of doubt, that Mrs. Murray loved him. Before,though he could not be unaware that she saw him with pleasure and listened tohis conversation with interest, he had not the audacity to suppose a warmerfeeling; but when they met that evening he surprised a blush while she gave herhand, and this had sent the blood running to his own cheeks. He took her downto dinner, and the touch of her fingers on his arm burnt him like fire. Shespoke but little, yet listened to his words with a peculiar intensity as thoughshe sought in them some hidden meaning, and when his eyes met hers seemed toshrink back almost in fear. But at the same time her look had a strange,expectant eagerness, as though she had heard the promise of some excellentthing, and awaited it vehemently, yet half afraid.

Basil recalled Mrs. Murray’s entrance into the drawing-room, and hisadmiration for the grace of her bearing and the fine sweep of her long dress.She was a tall woman, as tall as himself, with a certain boyishness of figurethat lent itself to a sinuous distinction of line; her hair was neither darknor fair, the eyes gray and tender, but her smile was very noticeable for apeculiar sweetness that marked an attractive nature. And if there was noprecise beauty in her face, its winsome expression, the pallor of her skin,gave it a fascinating grave sadness reminiscent of the women of SandroBotticelli: there was that same inscrutable look of melancholy eyes whichsuggested a passionate torment repressed and hidden, and she had that verygrace of gesture which one is certain was theirs. But to Basil Mrs.Murray’s greatest charm was the protecting fondness, as though she wereready to shield him from all the world’s trouble, which he felt in her;it made him at once grateful, proud, and humble. He longed to take in his ownthose caressing hands and to kiss her lips; he felt already round his neck thelong white arms as she drew him to her heart with an affection half maternal.

Mrs. Murray had never looked handsomer than that night when she stood in thehall, holding herself very erect, and spoke with Basil while waiting for hercarriage. Her cloak was so beautiful that the young man remarked on it, andshe, flushing slightly with pleasure because he noticed, looked down at theheavy brocade as splendid as some material of the eighteenth century.

“I bought the stuff in Venice,” she said, “but I feel almostunworthy to wear it. I couldn’t resist it because it’s exactly likea gown worn by Catherine Cornaro in a picture in one of the galleries.”

“Only you could wear it,” answered Basil, with flashing eyes.“It would overwhelm anyone else.”

She smiled and blushed, and bade him good-night.

Basil Kent was much changed from the light-hearted youth whom Frank had knownat Oxford, for at that time he gave himself carelessly, like a leaf to thewind, to every emotion; and a quick depression at the failure of something inwhich he was interested would be soon followed by a boisterous joy. Life seemedvery good then, and without after-thought he could rejoice in its variouscolour, in its ceaseless changing beauty; it was already his ambition to writebooks, and with the fertile, rather thin invention of youth, he scribbledincessantly. But when he learned with shame and with dismay that the world wassordid and vile, for his very mother was unchaste, he felt he could never holdup his head again. Yet, after the first nausea of disgust, Basil rebelledagainst his feeling; he loved that wretched woman better than anyone, and nowhis place was surely by her side. It was not for him to judge nor to condemn,but rather in her shameful humiliation to succour and protect. Could he notshow his mother that there were finer things in life than admiration andamusement, jewels and fine clothes? He made up his mind to go to her and takeher away to the Continent, where they could hide themselves; and perhaps thismight be a means to draw closer together his mother and himself, for,notwithstanding his blind admiration, Basil had suffered a good deal because hecould never reach her very heart.

Lady Vizard still inhabited her husband’s house in Charles Street, and itwas thither on the day after the case had been dismissed that Basil hurried. Heexpected to find her cowering in her room, afraid of the light of day, haggardand weeping; and his tender heart, filled only with pity, bled at the thoughtof her distress. He would go to her and kiss her, and say: “Here am I,mother. Let us go away together where we can start a new life. The world iswide and there is room even for us. I love you more than ever I did, and I willtry to be a good and faithful son to you.”

He rang the bell, and the door was opened by the butler he had known for years.

“Can I see her ladyship at once, Miller?” he said.

“Yes, sir. Her ladyship is still at luncheon. Will you go into thedining-room.”

Basil stepped forward, but caught sight of several hats on the hall-table.

“Is anyone here?” he asked with surprise.

But before the butler could answer there was a shout of laughter from theadjoining room. Basil started as though he had been struck.

“Is her ladyship giving a party?”

“Yes, sir.”

Basil stared at the butler with dismay, unable to understand; he wished toquestion him, but was ashamed. It seemed too monstrous to be true. The verypresence of that servant seemed an outrage, for he too had given evidence atthe hateful trial. How could his mother bear the sight of that unctuous,servile visage? Miller, seeing the horror in the young man’s eyes and thepallor of his cheek, looked away with a vague discomfort.

“Will you tell her ladyship that I am here, and should like to speak toher? I’ll go into the morning-room. I suppose no one will comethere?”

Basil waited for a quarter of an hour before he heard the dining-room dooropen, and several people, talking loudly and laughing, walk upstairs. Then hismother’s voice rang out, clear and confident as ever it had been:

“You must all make yourselves comfy, I’ve got to see somebody, andI forbid anyone to go till I come back.”

In a moment Lady Vizard appeared, a smile still on her lips, and the suspicionwhich Basil during that interval had vainly combated now was changed to nakedcertainty. Not at all downcast was she nor abashed, but alert as ever, neitherless stately nor less proud than when last he saw her. He expected to find hismother in sackcloth and ashes, but behold! she wore a gown by Paquin, theflaunting audacity of which only she could have endured. Very dark, with greatflashing eyes and magnificent hair, she had the extravagant flamboyance, theopulence of colour of some royal gipsy. Her height was unusual, her figuresplendid, and holding herself admirably, she walked with the majesty of anEastern queen.

“How nice of you to come, dear boy!” she cried, with a smileshowing her beautiful teeth. “I suppose you want to congratulate me on myvictory. But why on earth didn’t you come into the dining-room? It was soamusing. And you really should begin todécrasser yourself alittle.” She put forward her cheek for Basil to kiss, (this was surely asmuch as could be expected from a fond though fashionable mother,) but hestepped back. Even his lips grew pale.

“Why didn’t you tell me that this action was coming?” heasked hoarsely.

Lady Vizard gave a little laugh, and from a box on the table took a cigarette.

“Voyons, mon cher, I really didn’t think it was yourbusiness.”

Lighting a cigarette, she blew into the air two neat smoke-rings, and watchedher son with somewhat contemptuous amusement.

“I didn’t expect to find you giving a party to-day.”

“They insisted on coming, and I had to do something to celebrate mytriumph.” She laughed lightly. “Mon Dieu! you don’tknow what a narrow shave it was. Did you read my cross-examination? It was thatwhich saved me.”

“Saved you from what?” cried Basil sternly, two lines of angerappearing between his brows. “Has it saved you from shameful dishonour?Yes, I read every word. At first I couldn’t believe it was true.”

“Et après?” asked Lady Vizard calmly.

“But it was true; there were a dozen people to prove it. Oh God, howcould you! I admired you more than anyone else in the world. . . . I thought ofyour shame, and I came here because I wanted to help you. Don’t youunderstand the horrible disgrace of it? Oh, mother, mother, you can’t goon like this! Heaven knows I don’t want to blame you. Come away with me,and let us go to Italy and start afresh. . . .”

In the midst of his violent speech he was stopped by the amusement of LadyVizard’s cold eyes.

“But you talk as if I’d been divorced. How absurd you are! In thatcase it might have been better to go away for a bit, yet even then I shouldhave faced it. But d’you think I’m going to run away now?Pas sibête, mon petit!”

“D’you mean to say you’re going to stay here when everyoneknows what you are—when they’ll point at you in the street, andwhisper to one another foul stories? And however foul they are, they’llbe true.”

Lady Vizard shrugged her shoulders.

“Oh, que tu m’assomes!” she said scornfully, justlyproud of her French accent. “You know me very little if you thinkI’m going to hide myself in some pokey Continental town, or add anothertarnished reputation thedeclassée society of Florence. I mean to stayhere. I the opera, at the races, everywhere. I’ve got some good friendswho’ll stick to me, and you’ll see in a couple of years I shallpull through. After all, I’ve done little more than plenty of others, andif thebourgeois knows a good deal about me that he didn’t knowbefore—je m’en bats l’oeil. I’ve got rid of mypig of a husband, and, for that the whole thing was almost worth it. After all,he knew what was going on; he only rounded on me because he was afraid I spenttoo much.”

“Aren’t you ashamed?” asked Basil, in a low voice.Aren’t you even sorry?”

“Only fools repent, my dear. I’ve never done anything in my lifethat I wouldn’t do over again—except marry the two men Idid.”

“And you’re just going to remain here as if nothing hadhappened?”

“Don’t be foolish, Basil,” answered Lady Vizardill-temperedly. “Of course, I’m not going to stay in thisparticular house. Ernest Torrens has rather a nice little shanty vacant inCurson Street, and he’s offered to lend it me.”

“But you wouldn’t take it from him, mother. That would be tooinfamous. For God’s sake, don’t have anything more to do with thesemen.”

“Really, I can’t throw over an old friend just because my husbandmakes him a co-respondent.”

Basil went up to her, and placed his hands on her shoulders.

“Mother, you can’t mean all you say. I dare say I’m stupidand awkward—I can’t say what I have in my mind. Heaven knows, Idon’t want to preach to you, but isn’t there something in honourand duty and cleanliness and chastity, and all the rest of it? Don’t beso hard on yourself. What does it matter what people say? Leave all this andlet us go away.”

“T’es ridicule, mon cher, said Lady Vizard, her browdarkening. “If you have nothing more amusing to suggest than that, wemight go to the drawing-room. . . . Are you coming?”

She walked towards the door, but Basil intercepted her.

“You shan’t go yet. After all, I’m your son, and you’vegot no right to disgrace yourself.”

“And what will you do, pray?”

Lady Vizard smiled now in a manner that suggested no great placidity of temper.

“I don’t know, but I shall find something. If you haven’t thehonour to protect yourself, I must protect you.”

“You impudent boy, how dare you speak to me like that!” cried LadyVizard, turning on him with flashing eyes. “And what d’you mean bycoming here and preaching at me? You miserable prig! I suppose it runs in yourfamily, for your father was a prig before you.”

Basil looked at her, anger taking the place of every other feeling; pity nowhad vanished, and he sought not to hide his indignation.

“Oh, what a fool I was to believe in you all these years! I would havestaked my life that you were chaste and pure. And yet when I read those papers,although the jury doubted, I knew that it was true.”

“Of course it was true!” she cried defiantly. “Every word ofit, but they couldn’t prove it.”

“And now I’m ashamed to think I’m your son.”

“You needn’t have anything to do with me, my good boy. You’vegot money of your own. D’you think I want a lubberly, ill-bred oafhanging about my skirts?”

“I know what you are now, and you horrify me. I hope I shall never seeyou again. I would sooner my mother were a wretched woman on the streets thanyou!”

Lady Vizard rang the bell.

“Miller,” she said when the butler appeared, as though she hadforgotten Basil’s presence, “I shall want the carriage atfour.”

“Very well, my lady.”

“You know I’m dining out to-night, don’t you?”

“Yes, my lady.”

Then she pretended to remember Basil, who watched her silently, pale andscarcely able to contain himself.

“You can show Mr. Kent out. Miller. And if he happens call again you cansay that I’m not at home.”

With scornful insolence she saw him go, and once again remained mistress of thesituation.

Then came three years at the Cape, for Basil, unwilling to return to England,stayed after the expiration of the year for which he had enlisted. At first hisshame seemed unendurable, and he brooded over it night and day; but when thedistance increased between him and Europe, when at length he set foot onAfrican soil, the load of dishonour grew lighter to bear. His squadron wasquickly sent up-country, and the hard work relieved his aching mind; thedrudgery of a trooper’s lot, the long marches, the excitement and thenovelty, exhausted him so that he slept with a soundness he had never knownbefore. Then came the sheer toil of war and its dull monotony; he suffered fromhunger and thirst, from heat and cold. But these things drew him closer to thecompanions from whom at first he had sought to hide himself; he was touched bytheir rough good-humour, their mutual help, and the sympathy with which theyused him in sickness; his bitterness towards mankind in general diminished whenhe saw human good-fellowship face to face with actual hardship; and when atlast he found himself in battle, though he had looked forward to it withhorrible anxiety, fearing that he might be afraid, Basil felt a greatexhilaration which made life most excellent to live. For then vice and squalorand ugliness vanished away, and men stood before one another in primevalstrength, the blood burning in their veins, and Death walked between contendinghosts; and where Death is there can be nothing petty, sordid, nor mean.

But finally the idea came to Basil that it was not brave to remain there inconcealment. For such talents as he had the Cape offered no scope, and he madeup his mind to return to London, holding up his head proudly, and there showwhat stuff he was made of. He felt more self-reliant because he knew he couldwithstand cheerfully fatigue and want; and the medal on his breast proved thathe lacked not courage.

Back at length in London, he entered his name at Lincoln’s Inn, and whilearranging for publication a little series of sketches he had written during thewar, worked hard at law. Though the storm through which he passed had left himsomewhat taciturn, with a leaning towards introspection, at bottom Basil was noless open-hearted and sanguine than before, and he entered upon this new phasewith glowing hopes. But sometimes his chambers in the Temple seemed verylonely. He was a man who yearned for domestic ties; a woman’s handsbusied about him, the rustle of a dress or the sound of a loving voice werenecessities of his nature. And now it seemed the last bitterness of his lifewould be removed, for Mrs. Murray offered just that affection which he needed,and still somewhat distrustful of himself, he looked for support to herstrength.

Then, in the midst of his thought, Basil frowned, for on a sudden there hadarisen in his mind a form which in his new-born joy he had momentarilyforgotten. Leaving the bridge, he wandered to the greater darkness of the Mall,his hands behind him; and for a long time walked up and down beneath the trees,perplexed and downcast. It was very late, and there was scarcely a soul about;on the seats homeless wretches lay asleep, huddled in grotesque attitudes, anda policeman stealthily crept along behind them.

Some months before, Basil, instead of lunching in hall, went by chance into atavern in Fleet Street, and there saw behind the bar a young girl whose extremebeauty at once attracted his attention. Her freshness was charming in thattawdry place, gray with London smoke notwithstanding the gaudiness of itsdecoration; and though not a man to gossip with barmaids over his refreshment,in this case he could not resist a commonplace remark. To this the girlanswered rather saucily, (a public-house is apparently an excellent school forrepartee,) and her bright smile gave a new witchery to the comely face.Interested and a little thrilled, for there was none on whom sheer beauty madea greater impression, Basil told Frank Hurrell, then resident physician at St.Luke’s, that he had found in Fleet Street of all places the loveliestwoman in London, The doctor laughed at his friend’s enthusiasm, and oneday when they were passing, Basil, to justify himself, insisted on going againto theGolden Crown. Then once or twice he went alone, and the barmaid,beginning to recognise him, gave a little friendly nod of greeting. Basil hadever something of a romantic fancy, and his quick imagination decked the prettygirl with whimsical conceits: he dignified her trade by throwing back the date,and seeing in her a neat-footed maid who gave sack to cavaliers andmen-at-arms; she was Hebe pouring nectar for the immortal gods; and when hetold her this with other fantastic inventions, the girl, though she did notaltogether comprehend, reddened as the grosser compliments of the usualfrequenters of the bar—accredited admirers—had no power to makeher. Basil thought he had never seen anything more captivating than that blush.

And then he began to visit theGolden Crown more frequently—attea-time, when there were fewest people. The pair grew friendly; and theydiscussed the weather, the customers, and the news of the day. Basil found thathalf an hour passed very pleasantly in her company, and perhaps he was a littleflattered because the barmaid set greater store on his society than on that ofthe other claimants to her attention. One afternoon, going somewhat later thanusual, he was delighted with the bright look that lit her face like sunshine onhis appearance.

“I was afraid you weren’t coming, Mr. Kent.”

By now she used his name, and hers he found was Jenny Bush.

“Would you have minded if I hadn’t?”

“A bit.”

At that moment the second barmaid of theGolden Crown came to her.

“It’s your evening out to-night, isn’t it, Jenny?”

“Yes, it is.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” said Jenny; “I haven’t made anyplans.”

A customer came in, and Jenny’s friend shook hands with him.

“Same as usual, I suppose?” she said.

“Would you like to come to the play with me?” asked Basil lightly.“We’ll have a bit of dinner first, and then go wherever youlike.”

The suggestion flashed across his mind, and he spoke the words withoutthinking. Jenny’s eyes sparkled with pleasure.

“Oh, I should like it. Come and fetch me here at seven, will you?”

But then came in a somewhat undersized young man, with obviously false teethand a jaunty air. Basil vaguely knew that he was engaged to Jenny, and on mostdays he might be seen making sheep’s eyes across the bar, and drinkinginnumerable whiskies-and-soda.

“Coming out to dinner, Jenny?” he said. “I’ll stand youa seat at the Tivoli if you like.”

“I’m afraid I can’t to-night, Tom,” she answered,blushing slightly. “I’ve made other arrangements.”

“What arrangements?”

“A friend has promised to take me to the theatre.”

“Who’s that?” answered the man, with an ugly look.

“That’s my business, isn’t it?” answered Jenny.

“Well, if you won’t tell me, I’m off.”

“I’m not stopping you, am I?”

“Just give me a Scotch-and-soda, will you? And look sharp aboutit.”

The man spoke impudently, wishing to remind Jenny that she was there to carryout his orders. Basil reddened, and with some sharpness was about to say thathe would be discreet to use greater politeness, when Jenny’s eyes stoppedhim. Without a word she gave the clerk what he asked for, and the three of themremained silent.

Presently the new-comer finished his liquor and lit a cigarette. He glancedsuspiciously at Basil, and opened his mouth to make an observation, butcatching the other’s steady look, thought better of it.

“Good-night then,” he said to Jenny.

When he was gone Basil asked her why she had not thrown him over; it would havebeen better than to vex her lover.

“I don’t care,” cried Jenny; “I’m about sick ofthe airs he gives himself. I’m not married to him yet, and if hewon’t let me do as I like now he can just take himself off.”

They dined at a restaurant in Soho, and Basil, in high spirits over the littleadventure, was amused with the girl’s delight. It did his heart good tocause such pleasure, and perhaps his satisfaction was not lessened by theattention which Jenny’s comeliness attracted. She was rather shy, butwhen Basil strove to entertain her laughed very prettily and flushed: the ideacame to him that he would much like to be of use to her, for she seemed to havea very agreeable nature; he might give her new ideas and a view of the beautyof life which she had never known. She wore a hat, and he morning dress, sothey took seats in the back-row of the dress circle at the Gaiety; but eventhis was unwonted luxury to Jenny, accustomed to the pit or the upper boxes. Atthe end of the performance she turned to him with dancing eyes.

“Oh, I have enjoyed myself,” she cried. “I like going outwith you much more than with Tom; he’s always trying to savemoney.”

They took a cab to theGolden Crown, where Jenny shared a room with theother barmaid.

“Will you come out with me again?” asked Basil.

“Oh, I should love to. You’re so different from the other men whocome to the bar. You’re a gentleman, and you treat me—as if I was alady. That’s why I first liked you, because you didn’t go on as ifI was a lump of dirt: you always called me Miss Bush. . . .”

“I’d much rather call you Jenny.”

“Well, you may,” she answered, smiling and blushing. All thosefellows who hang about the bar think they can do anything with me. You nevertried to kiss me like they do.”

“It’s not because I didn’t want to, Jenny,” answeredBasil, laughing.

She made no reply, but looked at him with smiling mouth and tender eyes; hewould have been a fool not to recognise the invitation. He slipped his armround her waist and touched her lips, but he was astonished at the franksurrender with which she received his embrace, and the fugitive pressure turnedinto a kiss so passionate that Basil’s limbs tingled. The cab stopped attheGolden Crown, and he helped her out.

“Good-night.”

Next day, when he went to the public-house, Jenny blushed deeply, but shegreeted him with a quiet intimacy which in his utter loneliness was verygratifying. It caused him singular content that someone at last took aninterest in him. Freedom is all very well, but there are moments when a manyearns for someone to whom his comings and goings, his health or illness, arenot matters of complete indifference.

“Don’t go yet,” said Jenny; “I want to tell yousomething.”

He waited till the bar was clear.

“I’ve broken off my engagement with Tom,” she said then.“He waited on the other side of the street last night and saw us go outtogether. And this morning he came in and rounded on me. I told him if hedidn’t like it he could lump it. And then he got nasty, and I told him Iwouldn’t have anything more to do with him.”

Basil looked at her for a moment silently.

“But aren’t you fond of him, Jenny?”

“No; I can’t bear the sight of him. I used to like him well enough,but it’s different now. I’m glad to be rid of him.”

Basil could not help knowing it was on his account that she had broken off theengagement. He felt a curious thrill of power, and his heart beat with elationand pride, but at the same time he feared he was doing her some great injury.

“I’m very sorry,” he murmured. “I’m afraidI’ve done you harm.”

“You won’t stop coming here because of this?” she asked,anxiously watching his doubtful face.

His first thought was that a sudden rupture might be best for both of them, buthe could not bear that on his account pain should darken those beautiful eyes,and when he saw the gathering tears he put it aside hastily.

“No, of course not. If you like to see me I’m only too glad tocome.”

“Promise that you’ll come every day.”

“I’ll come as often as I can.”

“No, that won’t do. You must come every day.”

“Well, I will.”

He was touched by her eagerness, for he must have been a dolt not to see thatJenny cared a good deal for him, but introspective though he was, never askedhimself what were his own feelings. He wished to have a good influence on her,and vowed she should never through him come to any harm. She was very unlikehis notion of the ordinary barmaid, and he thought it would be simple to leadher to some idea of personal dignity; he would have liked to take her away fromthat rather degrading occupation, placing her where she could learn moreeasily: her character, notwithstanding three years at theGolden Crown,was very ingenuous, but in those surroundings she could not for ever remainunspoilt, and it would have seemed a justification of his friendship if hecould put her in the way to lead a more beautiful life. The most obvious resultof these deliberations was that Basil presently made it a practice to takeJenny on her free evenings to dinner and to the play.

As for her, she had never known anyone like the young barrister who impressedher by the courtesy of his manner and the novelty of his conversation: thoughoften she did understand the things he said, she was flattered nevertheless,and, womanlike, simulated a comprehension which made Basil think her lessuneducated than she really was. At first she was intimidated by the gravestateliness of his treatment, for she was accustomed to less respect, and hecould not have used a duchess with more polite decorum; but insensiblyadmiration and awe passed into love, and at last into blind adoration of whichBasil not for a moment dreamed. She wondered why since that first night he hadnever kissed her, but at parting merely gave his hand; in three months she hadadvanced only so far as to use his Christian name.

At length the spring came. Along Fleet Street and the Strand flower-womenoffered for sale gay vernal blossoms, and baskets gave a dash of colour to theCity’s hurrying gray. There were days when the very breath of thecountry, bland and generous, seemed to blow down the crowded thoroughfare,uplifting weary hearts despondent with long monotonous toil: the sky was blue,and it was same sky that overhung green meadows and trees bursting into leaf.Sometimes towards the west bevies of cloud, dazzling in the sunshine, werepiled upon one another, and at sundown, all rosy and golden, would fill thestreet with their effulgence, so that the smoky vapours took a gorgeousopalescence, and the heart beat with sheer delight of this goodly London town.

One balmy night in May, when the air was suave and fragrant, so that the heavystep was lightened and the tired mind eased by a strange sad gaiety, Jennydined with Basil at the little restaurant in Soho where now they were wellknown. Afterwards they went to a music-hall, but the noise and the glare onthat sweet night were unendurable; the pleasant darkness of the streets calledto them, and Basil soon proposed that they should go from that place of tedium.Jenny agreed with relief, for the singers left her listless, and an unquietemotion, which she had never known, made her heart throb with indescribableyearning. As they passed into the night she looked at Basil for a moment withwide-open eyes, in which, strangely mingled, were terror and the primitivesavagery of some wild thing.

“Let’s go on the Embankment,” she whispered.“It’s quiet there.”

They looked at the silent flowing river and at the warehouses of the Surreyside, uneven against the starlit sky. From one of these gleamed like amalevolent eye one solitary light, and it gave mystery to that square mass ofdingy brick, suggesting some grim story of lawless passion and crime. It waslow-tide, and below the stone wall was a long strip of shining mud; butWaterloo Bridge, with its easy arches, was oddly dapper, and its lights, yellowand white, threw gay reflections on the water. Near at hand, outlined vaguelyby their red lamps, were moored three barges; and there was a weird magic aboutthem, for, notwithstanding their present abandonment, they spoke of strenuouslife and passion and toil; for all their squalid brutality there was romance inthe hard, strong men who dwelt there on the widening river, travelling on aneternal pilgrimage to the salt sea and the open.

They wandered slowly towards Westminster Bridge, and the lights of theEmbankment in their sinuous line were strangely reflected, so that a forest wasseen on the river of fiery piles on which might have been built a mystic,invisible city. But the short walk wearied them, though the night was sweetwith the savour of springtime, and their limbs were heavy as lead.

“I can’t walk back,” said Jenny; “I’m tootired.”

“Let us take a cab.”

Basil hailed a passing hansom, and they got in. He gave the address in FleetStreet of theGolden Crown. They did not speak, but the silence toldthem things more significant than ever words had done. At last, in a voice nother own, as though speech were dragged from her, Jenny broke the oppressivestillness.

“Why have you never kissed me since that first night, Basil?”

She did not look at him, and he made no sign that he heard, but she felt thetrembling of his limbs. Her throat grew hot and dry, and a horrible anxietyseized her.

“Basil!” she said hoarsely, insisting on an answer.

“Because I didn’t dare.”

She could count now the throbbing of that torturer in her breast, and thecabman seemed to drive as for a wager. They sped along the Embankment, and itwas very dark.

“But I wanted you to,” she said fiercely.

“Jenny, don’t let us make fools of ourselves.”

But as though his words were from the mouth only, and a stronger power masteredhim, even as he spoke he sought her lips; and because he had resisted so longtheir sweetness was doubly sweet. With a stifled gasp like a wild beast, sheflung her arms about him, and the soft fragrance of her body drove away allthoughts but one: mindless of the passers-by, he pressed her eagerly to hisheart. He was mad with her fair, yielding beauty and the passion of hersurrender, mad with that never-ending kiss, than which in his whole life he hadnever known a greater rapture. And his heart trembled like a leaf tremblingbefore the wind.

“Will you come back to my rooms, Jenny?” he whispered.

She did not answer, but drew herself more closely to him. He lifted the trap inthe roof of the hansom and told the cabman to drive to the Temple.

For a week, for a month even, feeling stronger and braver because this womanhad given him her love, Basil enjoyed a very ecstasy of pride; he faced theworld with greater assurance, and life possessed a spirit and a vigour whichwere quite new to him. But presently the romantic adventure gained the look ofa somewhat vulgar intrigue, and when he recalled his ideal of an existence,spotless and pure, given over to noble pursuits, he was ashamed. This love ofhis was nothing more than a passing whim of which the knell sounded with itsgratification, and he saw with dismay that Jenny had given herself to him bodyand soul: on her side it was a deathless passion compared with which hisattachment was very cold. Each day fanned the flames in her heart, so that hebecame a necessity of her existence, and if by chance he was too busy to seeher an anxious letter came, pitiful in its faulty spelling and clumsyexpression, imploring him to visit her. Jenny was exacting, and he resignedhimself to going every day to theGolden Crown, though that bar grewever more distasteful. The girl was quite uneducated, and the evenings theyspent together—for now, instead of going to a theatre, Jenny passed herleisure in Basil’s rooms—went rather heavily; he found it sometimeshard work to make conversation. He realised that he was manacled hand and footwith fetters that were only more intolerable because they consisted of nothingmore substantial than the dread of causing pain. He was a man who bore uneasilyan irregular attachment of this sort, and he asked himself what could be theend; a dozen times he made up his mind to break with Jenny, but coming to thepoint, when he saw how dependent she was upon his love, had not the courage.For six months, degraded to a habit, the connection went on.

But it was only by reminding himself constantly that he was not free that Basilabated his nascent love for Mrs. Murray, and he imagined that his feelingtowards her was different from any he had known before. His desire now wasoverwhelming to break from the past that sullied him, and thenceforward to leada fresher, more wholesome life: cost what it might, he must finish with Jenny.He knew that Mrs. Murray meant to winter abroad, and there was no reason whyhe, too, should not go to Italy; there he might see her occasionally, and atthe end of six months, with a free conscience, ask her to be his wife.

Thinking he saw the way more clearly before him, Basil ceased his lonelypromenade and walked slowly into Piccadilly. After the stir and restlessmovement of the day, the silence there, unnatural and almost ghostly, seemedbarely credible; and the great street, solemn and empty and broad, descended ina majestic sweep with the tranquillity and ease of some placid river. The airwas pure and limpid, but resonant, so that a solitary cab on a sudden sent thewhole place ringing, and the emphatic trot of the horse clattered with longreverberations. The line of electric lights, impressive by their regularity,self-asserting and staid, flung their glare upon the houses with an indifferentviolence, and lower down threw into distinctness the straight park railing andthe nearer trees, outlining more sombrely the leafy darkness beyond. Andbetween, outshone, like an uneven string of discoloured gems twinkled theyellow flicker of the gas-jets. Everywhere was silence, but the houses, whiteexcept for the gaping windows, had a different silence from the rest; for intheir sleep, closed and bolted, they lined the pavement helplessly, disorderedand undignified, as though without the busy hum of human voices and thehurrying of persons in and out they had lost all significance.

VII

On the following Sunday Basil Kent and Hurrell lunched with Miss Ley, and theremet Mr. and Mrs. Castillyon, who came early in the afternoon. The husband ofthis lively lady was a weighty man, impressive by the obesity of his person andthe commonplace of his conversation; his head was bald, his fleshy faceclean-shaven, and his manner had the double pomposity of a landed proprietorand a member of Parliament. It seemed that Nature had taken a freakish revengeon his dulness when she mated him with such a sprightly person as his wife,who, notwithstanding his open adoration, treated him with impatient contempt.Mr. Castillyon might have been sufferable had he been as silent as he wastedious; but he had an interminable flow of conversation, and now, finding thecompany somewhat overwhelmed by his appearance, seized the opportunity to airopinions which should more properly have found utterance in that last refuge ofdullards and bores, the House of Commons.

But in a little while, at the butler’s heels, Reggie, with thestealthiness of a sleek cat, slouched into the room. He was pale afterSaturday’s amusement, but very handsome. Miss Ley, rising to welcome him,intercepted a glance at Mrs. Castillyon, and, seeing in that lady’s eye amalicious twinkle, was convinced that the pair had arranged this meeting. Butthough it amused the acute woman that an assignation should be made in herhouse, she would not have given Mrs. Castillyon further occasion to exerciseher wiles if the member of Parliament had not bored her into a bad temper. Andreally Emily Bassett exaggerated the care she took of her son; it irritatedMiss Ley that anyone should be so virtuous as Reggie was thought to be.

“Paul,” said Mrs. Castillyon, “Mr. Bassett has heard thatyou’re going to speak in the House to-morrow, and he would so much liketo hear you. . . . My husband—Mr. Barlow-Bassett.”

“Really! How did you hear that?” asked Mr. Castillyon, delighted.

It was part of Reggie’s ingenuity that he never lied in haste to repentat leisure. For one moment he meditated, then fixed his eyes firmly on Frank toprevent a contradiction.

“Dr. Hurrell told me.”

“Of course I shall be delighted if you’ll come,” pursued theorator. “I shall speak just before dinner. Won’t you dineafterwards? I’m afraid the dinner they give you is very bad.”

“He won’t mind that after he’s heard you speak, Paul,”said Mrs. Castillyon.

A faint smile flickered on her lips at the success of this manœuvre. Mr.Castillyon turned blandly to Miss Ley, with the little shake of his whole bodywhich announced a display of eloquence. Frank and Basil immediately jumped upand bade Miss Ley farewell; they walked together towards the Embankment, andfor awhile neither spoke.

“I wanted to talk to you, Frank,” said Basil at last.“I’m thinking of going abroad for the winter.”

“Are you? What about the Bar?”

“I don’t mind about that. After all, I have enough to live on, andI mean to have a shot if I can do any real good as a writer. Besides, I want tobreak with Jenny, and I can think of no kinder way to do it.”

“I think you’re very wise.”

“Oh, I wish I hadn’t got into this mess, Frank. I don’t knowwhat to do. I’m afraid she’s grown a good deal fonder of me than Iever thought she would, and I don’t want to cause her pain. I can’tbear it when I think of the wretchedness she’ll suffer—and yet wecan’t go on as we are.”

Frank remained silent, with compressed lips and a stern look on his face. Basildivined the unspoken censure, and burst out passionately.

“Oh, I know I oughtn’t to have given way. D’you thinkI’ve not bitterly regretted? I never thought she’d take it any moreseriously than I did. And, after all, I’m a man like any other. I havepassions as other men have. I suppose most men in my place would have done as Idid.”

“I didn’t venture to reproach you, Basil,” said Frank dryly.

“I meant to do only good to the girl. But I lost my head. After all, ifwe were all as cool at night as we are in the morning. . . .”

“Life would be a Sunday-school,” interrupted Frank.

At that moment they were near Westminster Bridge, and a carriage passed them.They saw that in it sat Mrs. Murray, and she bowed gravely; Basil reddened andlooked back.

“I wonder if she’s on the way to Miss Ley.”

“Would you like to go back and see?” asked Frank coldly.

He looked sharply at Basil, who flushed again, and then threw off his momentaryhesitation.

“No,” he answered firmly; “let us go on.”

“Is it on account of Mrs. Murray that you wish to throw overJenny?”

“Oh, Frank, don’t think too hardly of me. I hate the ugly sordidvulgarity of an intrigue. I wanted to lead a cleaner life than most men becauseof my—because of Lady Vizard; and when I’ve been with JennyI’m disgusted with myself. If I’d never seen Mrs. Murray, I shouldstill do all I could to finish.”

“Are you in love with Mrs. Murray?”

“Yes,” answered Basil, after a moment’s pause.

“D’you think she cares for you?”

“The other night I felt sure of it, but now again I’m doubtful. Oh,I want her to care for me. I can’t help it, Frank, this is quite adifferent love from the other; it lifts me up and supports me. I don’twant to seem a prig, but when I think of Mrs. Murray I can’t imagineanything unworthy. And I’m proud of it because my love for her is almostspiritual. If she does care for me and will marry me, I think I may do somegood in the world. I fancied that if I went away for six months Jenny wouldgradually think less of me—I think it’s better to drift apart thanjust to break cruelly at once.”

“It would certainly be less painful to you,” said Frank.

“And when I’m free I shall go to Mrs. Murray, tell her the wholestory, and ask her to marry me.”

Basil lived in a pleasant court of the Temple to which, notwithstanding thesordid contentions of its daily life, the old red houses and the Londonplane-trees, with their leafy coolness, gave a charm full of repose. His rooms,on the top floor, were furnished simply, but with the taste of a man who caredfor beautiful things. The ladies of Sir Peter Lely, with their sweet artificialgrace, looked down in mezzotint from the panelled walls, and the Sheratonfurniture gave a delicate austerity to the student’s room.

Frank filled his pipe, but they had not been long seated, when there came aknock at the door.

“I wonder who the dickens that is?” said Basil. “Idon’t often have visitors on Sunday afternoon.”

He went into the tiny passage and opened. Frank heard Jenny’s voice.

“Can I come in, Basil? Is anyone there?”

“Only Frank,” he answered, leading the way in.

Jenny was arrayed in Sabbath garments, the colours of which to thedoctor’s eye seemed a little crude; the bright bow in her black hatcontrasted violently with a fawn jacket, but her beauty was such as to overcomeall extravagance of costume. She was rather tall, handsomely made, with therounded hips and full breasts of a passionate woman; her features werechiselled with the clean perfection of a Greek statue, and no duchess couldhave had a shorter lip or a more delicate nose; her pink ears were moreexquisite than the shells of the sea. But it was her wonderful colouring whichchiefly attracted notice, with the rich magnificence of her hair, the brillianteyes, and the creamy perfection of her skin. Her face had a girlish innocencewhich was very captivating, and Frank, observing her with critical gaze, couldnot deny that Mrs. Murray by her side, notwithstanding all the advantages ofdress and manner, would have been reduced to insignificance.

“I thought you were going home this afternoon,” said Basil.

“No, I couldn’t manage it. I came here immediately after we closedat three, but you weren’t in. I was so afraid that you wouldn’tcome before six o’clock.”

It was very clear that Jenny wished to talk with Basil, and Frank, deliberatelyknocking out the ashes of his pipe, rose to go. His host accompanied himdownstairs.

“Look here, Basil,” said Frank; “if I were you I’d takethis opportunity to tell Jenny that you’re going away.”

“Yes, I mean to. I’m glad she’s come. I wanted to write toher, but I think that would be funking it. Oh, I hate myself because I mustcause her so much pain.”

Frank walked away. Disposed at first to envy Basil his good fortune, he hadcursed his fate because pretty girls never fell desperately enamoured of him:it would certainly have been a bore, and to him more than to another aninsufferable slavery, but yet the marked abstention was not flattering. Now,however, on his way to the club, wanted by no one, with no claims on him of anysort, he congratulated himself cynically because fair ladies kept their smilesfor persons more fascinating than himself.

When Basil returned to his room, he found that Jenny had not, as usual, takenoff her hat, but stood by the window looking at the door. He went to kiss her,but she drew back.

“Not to-day, Basil. I’ve got something to say to you.”

“Well, take off your things first, and make yourself comfortable.”

It occurred to him that Jenny had perhaps quarrelled with her employer at theGolden Crown, or wished to reproach him because for a couple of days hehad not seen her, and, lighting his pipe, he answered with careless gaiety. Hedid not see that she looked at him strangely, but when she spoke there was suchtragic anguish in her tone that he was startled.

“I don’t know what I should have done if I’d not found you into-day.”

“Good heavens, Jenny! what’s the matter?”

Her voice broke with a sob.

“I’m in trouble, Basil.”

The tears cut his heart, and very tenderly he put his arms round her; but againshe withdrew.

“No, please don’t sit near me, or I shall never have the courage totell you.”

She stood up, drying her eyes, and walked up and down.

“I wanted to see you this morning, Basil. I came to your door, and then Iwas afraid to knock. So I went away again. And then this afternoon, when Icouldn’t make you hear, I thought you’d gone away, and Icouldn’t have borne another night of it.”

“Tell me quickly what it is, Jenny.”

A horrible fear seized him, and his cheeks grew pale as hers. She watched himwith anxious eyes.

“I’ve not been feeling very well these last few days,” shewhispered, “and yesterday I went to the doctor. He told me I was going tohave a child.”

And then, hiding her face, she sobbed bitterly, Basil’s heart sank withinhim, and when he looked at that wretched girl, bowed down with fear and shame,he was filled with remorse. If he had never regretted before, he regretted now,with all his soul.

“Don’t cry, Jenny; I can’t bear it.”

She looked up hopelessly, and the ugliness of that fair face, pain-distraught,tortured him. He was all confused, and many an impulse madly skeltered throughhis brain: he, too, feared, but at the same time, above all and overmastering,was a wonderful elation because he would be the father of a living child. Hispulse throbbed with pride, and like a miracle a sudden love mysteriously burntop his heart; he took Jenny in his arms and kissed her more passionately thanhe had ever done before.

“Oh, don’t, for God’s sake; it’s nothing to you,”she cried, trying to tear herself away. “But what about me? I wish I wasdead. I’d always been straight till I knew you.”

He could bear her agony no longer, and the thought which had come to himimmediately now grew irresistible. There was one way to dry those tears, oneway alone to repair that wrong, and a rising flood of passion made it veryeasy. His whole soul demanded one definite course, uplifting him and crushingevery nascent objection; but his heart beat painfully when he spoke, for he wastaking an irretrievable step, and God only knew what would be the end.

“Don’t cry, darling; it’s not so bad as all that,” hesaid. “We’d better get married at once.”

With a little gasp Jenny’s sobs were stilled, and quite motionless,looking down, she clung to Basil like a thing from which all life was gone. Thewords sank into her mind slowly, and she puzzled over them as though they weresaid in a language she barely understood; and then, still silent, she began totremble.

“Say that again, Basil,” she whispered, and after a pause:“Did you mean it? Can you bring yourself to marry me?”

She stood up and looked at him, dishevelled and beautiful, a tragic figure inwhose unutterable woe was a most noble pathos.

“I’m only a barmaid, Basil.”

“You’re the mother of my child, and I love you,” he answeredgravely. “I’ve always longed to have children, Jenny, andyou’ve made me very proud and very happy.”

Her eyes shone with tears, and into her anxious, terror-stricken face came alook of such ecstatic happiness that Basil felt himself ten times rewarded.

“Oh, Basil, you are good. You do mean it, don’t you? And I shall bewith you always?”

“Did you think so badly of me as to suppose I would throw you overnow?”

“Oh, I was afraid. You’ve cared for me less of late, and I’vebeen so unhappy, Basil, but I didn’t dare show it. At first Ihadn’t the courage to tell you, because I thought you’d be angry. Iknew you wouldn’t let me starve, but you might just have given me moneyand told me to go.”

He kissed her hands, aflame as never before with her radiant beauty.

“I didn’t know I loved you so much,” he cried.

She sank into his arms with a sob, but it was a sob now of uncontrollablepassion, and avid of love she sought his lips.

Basil had in his passage a little gas-stove, and presently, with a charminghousewifely grace, Jenny set about making the tea: languorous and happy, shewas proud to do things for him, and insisted, while she prepared, that heshould sit still and smoke.

“I wish we needn’t keep a servant, Basil, so as I might wait onyou.”

“You mustn’t go back to that beastly bar.”

“I can’t leave them in a hole, you know. I shall have to give aweek’s notice.”

“Then give it at once, and as soon as you’re free we’ll bemarried.”

“Oh, I shall be so happy!” she sighed with rapture.

“Now, look here: we must be sensible and talk over things. You knowI’m not very well-to-do. I’ve only got three hundred a year.”

“Oh, that’s lots,” she cried. “Why, dad has never hadmore than three-ten a week.”

Basil smiled doubtfully, for his tastes were expensive, and he had never beenable satisfactorily to make ends meet. But he persuaded himself that twopersons could live more economically than one; he would give serious attentionto his law, and had no doubt that in time he would earn an income. While hewaited for briefs he might write. They could afford a little house in thesuburbs at Barnes or Putney, and, so as not to be extravagant, for theirhoneymoon would merely go to Cornwall for a fortnight. After that he must setto work immediately.

“Ma will be surprised when I tell her I’m going to getmarried,” said Jenny, laughing. “You must come down and seethem.”

Though a brother in the City sometimes came to theGolden Crown, Basilhad never made acquaintance with any of Jenny’s relations; he knew thatthey lived at Crouch End.

“I wouldn’t have gone back to them if you hadn’t saidyou’d marry me, Basil. Ma would have turned me out of doors. I wasfrightened to go down to-day in case she suspected something.” Suddenly,a doubt rising in her mind, she turned to him quickly. “You do mean it,don’t you? You won’t go back on me now?”

“Of course not, you foolish child. Don’t you think I shall be proudto have so beautiful a wife?”

Jenny was obliged to go a little before six, at which hour theGoldenCrown opened its doors to thirsty Christians; and Basil, having accompaniedher thither, walked on to consider this new state of his affairs. The capacityto stand quite alone, careless of praise or censure, is very rare among men,and he, temperamentally lacking confidence in himself, felt at that moment amost urgent need for advice and sympathy; but Frank was inaccessible, and hecould not disturb Miss Ley again that day. He went to his club and wrote a noteasking if he might see her the following morning.

He slept uneasily, and getting up later than usual, had scarcely finishedbreakfast, when an answer came to say that she would be pleased to walk withhim at eleven in St. James’s Park. He fetched her punctually. Theysauntered for a while, looking at the wild-fowl, and Basil, hesitating, spokeof indifferent subjects; but Miss Ley, noting his unusual gravity, surmisedthat he had a difficult communication to make.

“Well, what is it?” she asked point-blank, sitting down.

“Only that I’m going to be married.”

Her thoughts at once went to Mrs. Murray, and she wondered when Basil couldhave found opportunity for his declaration.

“Is that all?” she cried, smiling. “It’s a very properproceeding for young things, but surely you need not look so serious overit.”

“I’m going to marry a Miss Bush.”

“Who on earth is she? I’ve never heard of her,” answered thegood lady, turning to him with surprise; but a dim recollection flashed acrossher mind. “Wasn’t it a certain Jenny Bush that Frank told me youhad discovered somewhere and vowed was the loveliest creature in theworld?” She gave him a long and searching look. “I supposeyou’re not going to marry a barmaid from a public-house in FleetStreet?”

“Yes,” he answered quietly.

’But why?”

“Presumably because I’m in love with her.”

“Nonsense! A susceptible youth falls in love with a dozen girls, but in acountry where monogamy is enforced by Act of Parliament, it is impracticable tomarry them all.”

“I’m afraid I can give you no other reason.”

“You might really have made that interesting announcement byletter,” returned Miss Ley dryly.

He looked down with a discouraged air, and for a while was silent.

“I must talk it over with someone,” he burst out at length.“I’m so utterly alone, and I have no one to help or advise me. . .. I’m marrying Jenny because I must I’ve known her for sometime—the whole thing was sordid and hateful—and yesterday after Ileft you she came to my rooms. She was half hysterical, poor thing, she hardlyknew what she was saying, and she told me . . . .”

“What you very well might have foreseen,” interrupted Miss Ley.

“Yes.”

Miss Ley meditated, slowly drawing her initials with the point of her parasolin the gravel, and Basil stared at her anxiously.

“Are you sure you’re not making a fool of yourself!” sheasked finally. “You’re not in love with her, are you?”

“No.”

“Then you have no right to marry her. Oh, my dear boy, you don’tknow how tiresome marriage is sometimes, even with persons of the same classand inclinations. I’ve known so many people in my life, and I’mconvinced that marriage is the most terrible thing in the world unless passionmakes it absolutely inevitable. And I hate and abhor with all my soul thosefools who strive to discredit and ignore that.”

“If I don’t marry Jenny she’ll kill herself. She’s notlike an ordinary barmaid. Until I knew her she was perfectly straight. It meansabsolute ruin to her.”

“I think you exaggerate. After all, it’s not much more than a veryregrettable incident due to your—innocence; and there’s no need fordesperate courses or histrionics. You will behave lite a gentleman, and takeproper care of the girl. She can go into the country till the whole thing isover, and when she comes back no one will be the wiser nor she very much theworse.”

“But it isn’t a matter of people knowing; it’s a matter ofhonour.”

“Isn’t it rather late in the day to talk of morality? I don’tsee where precisely the honour came in when you seduced her.”

“I dare say I’ve been an utter cad,” he answered humbly;“but I see a plain duty before me, and I must do it.”

“You talk as though such things had never happened before,” pursuedMiss Ley.

“Oh yes, I know they happen every day. If the girl gives way, so much theworse for her; it’s no business of the man’s. Let her go on thestreets, let her go to the devil, and be hanged to her.”

Miss Ley, pursing her lips, shrugged her shoulders. She wondered how heproposed to live, since his income was quite insufficient for the necessitiesof a family, and he was peculiarly unsuited to the long drudgery of the Bar.She knew the profession termed “literary” well enough to be awarethat in it little money could be earned. Basil lacked the journalisticquickness, and it took him two years to write a novel for which he wouldprobably not get more than fifty pounds; and his passion for the analysis ofmental states offered small chance of lucrative success. Besides, he wasextravagant, and would hate to pinch and spare: nor had he occasion ever tolearn the difficult art of getting a shilling’s-worth of goods for twelvecoppers.

“I suppose you’ve realized that people will cut your wife,”Miss Ley added.

“Then they will cut me too.”

“But you’re the last man in the world to give up these things.There’s nothing you enjoy more than dinner-parties and visits to countryhouses. Women’s smiles are all important to you.”

“You talk of me as if I were a tame cat,” he returned, smiling.“After all, I’m only trying to do my duty. I made an awful mistake,and heaven knows how bitterly I’ve regretted it. But now I see the wayclearly before me, and whatever the cost, I must take it.”

Miss Ley looked at him sharply, and her keen gray eyes travelled over his facein a minute examination.

“Are you sure you don’t admire a little too much your heroicattitude?” she asked, and in her voice was a stinging coldness at whichBasil winced. “Nowadays self-sacrifice is a luxury which few have thestrength to deny themselves; people took to it when they left off sugar becauseit was fattening, and they sacrifice themselves wantonly, from sheer love ofit, however worthless the object. In fact, the object scarcely concerns them;they don’t care how much they harm it so long as they can gratify theirpassion.”

“When I asked Jenny to marry me, and saw the radiant joy in her poor,tear-stained face, I knew I’d done the right thing. Ah, what does itmatter if I’m wretched, so long as I can make her happy!”

“I wasn’t thinking of your wretchedness, Basil. I was thinking thatyou had done that girl harm enough already without marrying her. . . .D’you think she’ll be anything but utterly miserable? You’reonly doing this from selfishness and cowardice, because you love yourself-esteem and you’re afraid to give pain.”

This point of view was new to Basil, but it seemed unreasonable. He put ithastily aside.

“All this time you’ve not thought of the child, Miss Ley,” hesaid slowly. “I can’t let the child skulk into the world like athief. Let him go through life with an honest name; it’s hard enoughwithout marking him with a hideous stigma. And, after all, I’m proud tobe the father of a living child. Whatever I suffer, whatever we both suffer, itwill be worth it for that.”

“When are you to be married?” asked Miss Ley, after a pause.

“I think this day week. You won’t abandon me, Miss Ley, willyou?”

“Of course not?” she answered, smiling gently. “I thinkyou’re a fool, but then most people are. They never realize that theyhave only one life, and mistakes are irreparable. They play with it as thoughit were a game of chess in which they could try this move and that, and whenthey get in a muddle, sweep the board clear and begin again.”

“But life is a game of chess in which one is always beaten. Death sits onthe other side of the board, and for every move he has a counter-move, for allyour deep-laid schemes a parry.”

They walked back to Old Queen Street, both occupied with their thoughts, and ather door Miss Ley gave Basil her hand. He hesitated a little, but forcedhimself to speak.

“There’s one thing more. Miss Ley: I fancied—that Mrs. Murray. . . . I dare say I was wrong, but I shouldn’t like her to think too illof me.”

“I’m afraid you must put up with that,” replied Miss Leysharply. “There was nothing in the way of an engagement betweenyou?”

“Nothing.”

“I shall see her in a day or two, and I’ll tell her thatyou’re going to be married.”

“But what will she think of me?”

“I suppose you don’t want her to know the truth?”

“No. I told you only because I felt I must talk it over with someone. Ofall persons, I least wish Mrs. Murray to know.”

“Then you must let her think as she chooses. Good-bye.”

“Have you nothing more to say to me than that?” he askeddespairingly.

“My dear, if you can suffer all things, you may venture allthings.”

VIII

Miss Ley found the Dean alone in the library, for the Langtons returned toTercanbury that afternoon, and Bella was spending her last morning at theStores.

“You know, Algernon, in this world it’s the good who do all theharm,” remarked Miss Ley, sitting down. “The bad carry off theirwrong-doing with a certain dash which lessens the iniquity, and common-senserobs their vice of sting; but there’s no reasoning with a man consciousof his own rectitude.”

“That is a very subversive doctrine,” answered the Dean, smiling.

“Only the wicked should sin, for experience teaches them moderation, andlittle hurt befalls. But when the virtuous slip from the narrow path theyflounder hopelessly, committing one error after another in the effort to rightthemselves by the methods of virtue. Under like circumstances they injure allconcerned far more desperately than the entirely vicious, because theywon’t face the fact that a different code is applicable.”

“Pray tell me the reason of this harangue.”

“A young friend of mine has done a foolish thing, and means to cap itwith another. He came to me just now ostensibly for advice, but in reality thatI might applaud his magnanimity.”

Without giving names, Miss Ley told her cousin Basil’s story.

“My first curacy was at Portsmouth,” the Dean said when shefinished, “and I was then very intolerant of evil, very eager to rightthe wrong. I remember one of my parishioners got into a similar trouble, andfor the child’s sake as well as for the woman’s I insisted that theman should marry. I practically dragged them to the altar by the hair of theirheads, and when I had properly legalized the position felt I had done a goodday’s work: six months afterwards the man cut his wife’s throat andwas duly hanged. If I hadn’t been so officious two lives might have beenspared.”

“Mrs. Grundy is a person of excellent understanding, who does not in theleast deserve the obloquy with which she is now regarded. She does not mind ifa man is a little wild, and if he isn’t thinks him rather a milksop; butwith admirable perspicacity she realizes that for the woman a straighter ruleis needed: ifshe falls Mrs. Grundy, without the smallest qualm, willgive the first push into the pit. Society is a grim monster, somnolentapparently, so that you think you can take every kind of liberty; but all thetime he watches you, he watches slily, and when you least expect it puts out aniron hand to crush you.”

“I hope Bella won’t be late,” said the Dean; “wehaven’t too much time after luncheon to catch our train.”

“Society has made its own decalogue, a code just fit for middling people,who are neither very good nor very bad; but the odd thing is it punishes youjust as severely if you act above its code as if you act below.”

“Sometimes it makes a god of you when you’re dead.”

“But it takes precious good care to crucify you when you’re alive,Algernon.”

Soon after this Bella came in, and when the Dean went upstairs, told Miss Leythat on her bookseller’s advice she had purchased for Herbert Field thetwo portly tomes of Dowden’sLife of Shelley.

“I hope soon he’ll have enough poetry to make a littlevolume,” said Bella, “and then I shall ask him if I may arrange forpublication. I wonder if Mr. Kent will help me to find a publisher.”

“You will find a bank balance your best friend there, my dear,”answered Miss Ley.

Basil announced the approaching marriage to his solicitor, for his smallfortune was held in trust, and his mother’s signature was needed forvarious documents. In a day or two the following letter reached him.

“CHER ENFANT.
    “I find that you mean to be married, and I desire to give you mymaternal blessing. Do come to tea to-morrow and receive it in due form. Youhave sulked with me quite long enough, and the masculine boudeur is always atrifle ridiculous. In case it has escaped your memory I venture to remind youthat I am—your mother.

“Yours affectionately,
    “MARGUERITE VIZARD.”

“P.S.—It is one of the ironies of nature, that though a man, if hisfather is canaille, may console himself with the thought that this relationshipis always a little uncertain, with regard to his mother he can lay no suchflattering unction to his soul.”

Lady Vizard was shrewd when she prophesied that a couple of years would sufficefor her to regain the place in society due to her beauty, wealth, anddistinction. None knew better that her position after the trial was precarious,and it required much tact to circumvent the many pitfalls. She was aware thatthe two best stepping-stones for social aspirants are philanthropy and theChurch of Rome, but the astute creature did not think her state so desperate asto need conversion, and a certain assiduity in charitable pursuits offered allthat was requisite. Lady Vizard made a dead-set for respectability in theperson of a tedious old lady, whose rank and opulence gave her unlimited creditwith the world, and whose benevolence made her an easy tool. Lady EdwardStringer was a little old woman with false teeth and a bright chestnut wig,always set awry; and, though immensely dull, managed to assemble in herdrawing-rooms everyone in London of real importance. A relation of Lord Vizard,she had quarrelled with him desperately, and it was but natural that his wifeshould pour her troubles into a willing ear. Now, when she chose, Lady Vizardcould assume a manner so flattering that few could resist it: she had an agiletongue and so good a memory for the lies she told that she was never caughttripping; she unfolded the story of her matrimonial unhappiness with suchpathetic skill that Lady Edward, touched, promised to do everything to helpher. She appeared at the old lady’s parties, was seen with her in allplaces where fashion congregates; and presently the world concluded it couldwell afford to know an amusing woman who suffered from no lack of money.

When Basil arrived, obedient to her summons, he found his mother seated in thatfavourite attitude in which she had been painted; and the portrait, by itsdaring colour the sensation of its season, hung behind her to show how littlein ten years the clever woman had changed. By her side were the inevitablecigarettes, smelling-salts, and a French novel which on its appearance latelyhad excited a prosecution. Lady Vizard held a stall at a forthcoming bazaar,and it was not altogether without satisfaction that she read at that moment theprospectus in which her name figured on a list whereof the obviousrespectability was highly imposing.

Tall and statuesque, she wore her gowns with a flaunting extravagance ratherthan with the simplicity, often bordering on slovenliness, of most of hercountrywomen. She had no desire to conceal from masculine gaze the sinuousoutlines of her splendid figure, and dressed, with the bold effrontery of thesensual woman, to draw attention to her particular anatomy rather than toconceal it. Nor was she strange to the intricate art ofmaquillage: theaverage Englishwoman who paints her face, characteristically feeling it a firststep in the descent to Avernus, paints it badly. She can never avoid the ideathat cosmetics are a little wicked or a little vulgar, and a tiny devil,cloven-footed and betailed, lurks always at the bottom of her rouge-pot. Then,perversely, the plunge once taken, to reassure herself she very distinctlyexaggerates. Lady Vizard used all the artifices known to the wise, but socleverly that the result was admirable: even her hair, which to most of her sexis a block of stumbling, was dyed in complete harmony with her eyes andcomplexion, so that the gross male intelligence was often deceived. Hereyebrows were perfect, and the pencilled line at her eyelashes gave herflashing eyes a greater intensity; the cosmetic on her lips was applied with anartist’s hand, and her mouth was no less beautiful than Cupid’sbow.

Lady Vizard had not seen her son for five years, and she noted the change inhim with interest but without emotion.

“Let me give you some tea,” she said. “By the way, whydidn’t you come and see me on your return from the Cape?”

“You forget that you gave Miller orders not to admit me.”

“You shouldn’t have taken thatau grand serieux; I dismissmy maid every time she does my hair badly, but she’s been with me foryears. I forgave you in a week.”

Their eyes met, and they realized that the position between them was unchanged.Lady Vizard shrugged her shoulders.

“I asked you to come to-day because I thought you might have grown moretolerant in five years. Apparently you are one of those men who neverlearn.”

Even a year before Basil would have answered that he hoped never to growtolerant of dishonour, but now, ashamed, he sat in silence. His effort was toassume the air of polite indifference which his mother used so easily. Heforesaw her next question, and it tortured him that he must expose part atleast of his secret to that scornful woman; yet, just because it was sodistasteful, he meant to answer openly.

“And whom are you going to marry?”

“No one you have ever heard of,” he answered, smiling.

“Do you wish to make a secret of the fortunate creature’sname?”

“Miss Bush.”

“That doesn’t sound very distinguished, does it? Who is herfather?”

“He’s in the City.”

“Rich?” ’

“Very poor.”

Lady Vizard looked at her son keenly, then with a peculiar expression leanedforward.

“Pardon me if I ask, but is she what your tedious grandmother called agentlewoman?”

“She’s a barmaid in Fleet Street,” he answered defiantly.

Without hesitation came the next question, in a ringing voice.

“And when do you expect theaccouchement?”

A blow could not have taken him more aback. The blood rushed to his cheeks, andhe sprang to his feet. Her eyes rested on him with cool scorn, and confoundedby her penetration, he found nothing to say.

“I’m right, am I? Virtue has had a fall, apparently. Ah,moncher, I’ve not forgotten the charming things you said to me fiveyears ago. Have you? Don’t you remember the eloquence with which youspoke of chastity and honour? And you called me a name—whichwell-conducted sons don’t usually apply to their mothers; but I take ityour wife will have no fewer claims to it than I?”

“If I have lust in my blood, it’s because I have the misfortune tobe your son,” he cried fiercely.

I can’t help admiring you when I remember the unctuous rectitude withwhich you acted the upright man, you were playing your little game all thetime. But,franchement, your little game rather disgusts me. Idon’t like these hole-and-corner tricks with barmaids.”

“I dare say I did wrong, but I mean to make amends.”

“Of all fools, the saints preserve me from the fool who repents. If youcan’t sin like a gentleman, you’d really better be virtuous. Agentleman doesn’t marry a barmaid because he’s seducedher—unless he has the soul of a counter-jumper. And then you dared cometo me with your impudent sermons!”

At the recollection her eyes flashed, and she stood over Basil like somewrathful, outraged goddess.

“What do you know of life and the fiery passion that burns in my veins?You don’t know what devils tear at my breast. How can you judge me? Butwhat do I care! I’ve had a good time in my day, and I’m notfinished yet; and after all, if you weren’t such a prig, you’d seethat I’m a better sort than most women, for I’ve never deserted afriend nor hit an enemy that was down.”

This she said with an angry vehemence, fluently as though she had often utteredthe words to herself, and now at last found the opportunity for which she hadwaited. But quickly she regained that cutting irony of manner which she wellknew was most effective.

“And when I grow old I shall go into the Catholic Church and finish mydays in the odour of sanctity.”

“Have you anything more to say to me?” asked Basil coldly.

“Nothing,” she replied, shrugging her shoulders. “You wereborn to make a fool of yourself. You’re one of those persons who aredoomed to mediocrity because you haven’t the spirit to go to the devillike a man. Go away and marry your barmaid. I tell you that you disgustme.”

Blind with rage, his hands clenched, Basil turned to the door, but before hereached it the butler announced Lord de Capit, and a tall fair youth entered.Basil gave him an angry glare, for he could well imagine what were therelations between his mother and the wealthy peer. Lord de Capit looked afterhim with astonishment.

“Who is that amiable person?” he asked.

Lady Vizard gave a little, irritated laugh.

“A foolish creature. He doesn’t interest me.”

“One of my predecessors?”

“No, of course not,” answered Lady Vizard, amused. “Give me akiss, child.”

Profoundly despondent, Basil walked back to the Temple, and when he came to hisdoor it was opened by Jenny. He remembered then that she had promised to comethat afternoon to hear the final arrangements for their marriage, which was totake place at a registry office.

“I met my brother Jimmie in the Strand, Basil,” she said,”“and I’ve brought him up to see you.”

Going in, he found a weedy youth seated on the table, with dangling legs. Hehad sandy hair, a clean-shaven, sharp face, and pale eyes. Much commoner thanhis sister, he spoke with a pronounced Cockney accent, and when he smiled,showing small, discoloured teeth, had an expression of rather odious cunning.He was dressed in the height of fashion—for City sportsmen, with a rakishbowler, a check suit, and a bright violet shirt: he flourished a thin bamboocane.

“How do?” he said, nodding to Basil. “Pleased to make youracquaintance.”

“I’m afraid I’ve kept you waiting,”

“Don’t apologize,” Mr. Bush answered cheerfully. “Ican’t stay long, because I’m a business man, but I thoughtI’d better just pop in and say ’ow d’ye do to my futurebrother-in-law. I’m a chap as likes to be cordial.”

“It’s very kind of you,” said Basil politely.

“My! He was surprised when I told him I was going to marry you,Basil,” cried Jenny, with a little laugh of pleasure.

“Now then, don’t mind me,” said James. “Give ’ima slobber, old tart.”

“Go on, Jimmie; you are a caution!”

“Oh, I see you re bashful Well, I’ll be toddling.”

“Won’t you have some tea before you go?” asked Basil.

“Bless you, I don’t want to disturb you canary birds. And I’mnot much of an ’and at tea; I leave that to females. I like somethingstronger myself.”

“That’s Jimmie all over,” cried his sister, amused.

“I have some whisky, Mr. Bush,” said Basil, raising his eyebrows.

“Oh, blow the Mister and blow the Bush. Call me Jimmie. I can’tstand ceremony. We’re both of us gentlemen. Now mind you, I’m not afeller to praise myself, but I will say this—I am a gentleman.That’s not self-praise, is it?”

“Dear me, no. Mere statement of fact.”

“It’s a thing you can’t ’elp, so what’s the goodof being proud about it? If I meet a chap in a pub, and he wants to stand me adrink, I don’t ask ’im if he’s a lord.”

“But you just take it.”

“Well, you’d do the same yourself, wouldn’t you?”

“I dare say. May I offer you some whisky now?”

“Well, if you are so pressing. My motto is: Never refuse a gargle. Theysay it’s good for the teeth.”

Basil poured out.

“Hold hard, old man,” cried James. “You needn’t be toogenerous with the soda. Well, ’ere’s luck!”

He emptied his glass at a gulp and smacked his lips.

“There are no flies about that, I lay. Now I’ll be toddling.”

Basil did not press him to stay, but by way of speeding the parting guest,offered a cigar. James took and examined it.

“Villar y Villar!” he exclaimed. ’That’s allright. How much do they run you in a ’undred?”

“I really don’t know what they cost. They were given to me.”Basil struck a match. ’Won’t you take the label off?”

“Not if I know it,” said James, with much decision. I don’tsmoke aVillar y Villar every day, and when I do I smoke it with thelabel on. . . . Well, so long. See you later, old tart.”

When he was gone Jenny turned to her lover.

“Kiss me. . . . There! Now I can sit down quietly and talk. Howd’you like my brother?”

“I scarcely know him yet,” answered Basil cautiously.

“He’s not a bad sort when you do, and he can make you laugh.He’s just like my mother.”

“Is he?” cried Basil, with some vivacity. “And is your fatherlike that too?”

“Well, you know, pa’s not had the education that Jimmie’shad. Jimmie was at a boarding-school at Margate. You were at a boarding-school,weren’t you?”

“Yes, I was at Harrow.”

“Ah, you don’t get the fine air at Harrow that you do atMargate.”

“No,” said Basil.

“Come and sit by me, ducky. . . . I’m so glad we’re I alone.I should like to be alone with you all my life. You do love me, don’tyou?”

“Yes.”

“Much?”

“Yes,” he repeated, smiling.

She gave him a long, searching glance, and her eyes suddenly darkened. Shelooked away.

“Basil, I want to say something to you, and it’s dreadfullyhard.”

“What is it, darling?”

He put his arm round her waist and drew her towards him.

“No, don’t do that,” she said, getting up and moving away.“Please stay where you are. I can’t say it if I look at you.”

He paused, wondering what was in her mind. She spoke brokenly, as though by aneffort almost beyond her strength.

“Are you sure you love me, Basil?”

“Quite sure,” he answered, trying to smile.

“Because I don’t want to be married out of pity or anything likethat. If you’re only doing it because you think you ought, I’drather go on as I am.”

“But why d’you say this now, Jenny?”

“I’ve been thinking it over. The other day when you offered tomarry me I was so happy I couldn’t think it out. But I love you so muchthat I’ve seen things quite differently since then. I don’t want tohurt you. I know I’m not the sort of woman you ought to marry, and Ican’t help you to get on.”

Her voice trembled, but she forced herself to continue, and Basil, motionless,listened to her gravely. He could not see her face.

“I want to know if you really care for me, Basil. If you don’t,you’ve only got to say so, and we’ll break it off. After all,I’m not the first girl that’s got into trouble; I could easilymanage, you know.”

For one moment he hesitated, and his heart beat painfully. Miss Ley’scold advice, his mother’s scorn, recurred to him: the girl herselfoffered an opportunity, and would it not, after all, be best to seize it?

His freedom stood before him, and he exulted; a few easy words might destroythat horrible nightmare, and he could start life afresh, wiser and better. ButJenny turned round, and in her sad, beautiful eyes he saw a mortal anxiety; inthe sickening anguish of her expectation she could scarcely breathe. He had notthe strength to speak.

“Jenny, don’t torture yourself,” he said brokenly. “Andyou torture me, too. You know I love you, and I want to marry you.”

“Straight?”

“Yes.”

She sighed deeply, and heavy tears fell down her cheeks. For a while sheremained silent.

“You’ve saved my life, Basil,” she said at last. “Imade up my mind that if you didn’t want to marry me I’d do awaywith myself.”

“What nonsense you talk!”

“I mean it. I couldn’t have faced it. I’d fixed it all up inmy head—I should have waited till it was dark, and then I’d havegone over the bridge.”

“I will do my best to be a good husband to you, Jenny,” he said.

But when Jenny left him, Basil, utterly bowed down, surrendered himself to anuncontrollable depression. It came to his mind that Miss Ley had likenedexistence to a game of chess, and now bitterly he recalled each move that heshould have played differently: again and again the result hung as on abalance, so that if he had acted otherwise everything would have gone right;but each time the choice appeared to matter so little one way or the other, andit was not till afterwards that he saw the fateful consequence. Every move wasirretrievable, but at the moment seemed strangely unimportant; it was not afair game, for the issue was hidden constantly by a trivial mask. And then itappeared to him as though, alter all, he had never had a choice in the matter;he felt himself powerless in the hand of a greater might, and Fate, for oncegrown ghastly visible, directed each step as though he were a puppet. Now lifebefore him loomed black and cheerless, and even his child, the thought of whichhad been his greatest strength, offered no solace.

“Oh, what shall I do?” he moaned—“what shall Ido?” He remembered with a shudder Jenny’s threat of suicide, and heknew that she would have carried it out, unhesitating; a sudden impulse seizedhim in just such a manner to finish with all that doubt and misery. But then,setting his teeth, he sprang up.

“I won’t be such a funk,” he cried savagely. “Alterall, I’ve made my bed and I must lie on it.”

IX

A few days later Basil was married, and Frank, who had assisted him in therather sordid proceedings of the registry office, going back to his rooms,found Reggie Bassett comfortably lounging in an armchair, with his long legs onanother. By his side were Frank’s cigarettes and the whisky-and-soda.

“I see you make yourself at home, my friend.”

“I was passing this way and I hadn’t got anything particular to do,so I thought I’d look in: my mamma thinks your society good for me. Gotyour wedding over?”

“What do you know about it?” asked Frank sharply.

“More than you think, my boy,” answered Reggie, with a grin.“The mater told me as a solemn warning. She says Kent’s married abarmaid, and it’s the result of keeping bad company and going to pubs.What did he do it for?”

“If I were you I’d mind my own business, Reggie.”

“If it’s because she’s in the family way, he’s a ballyass. If I got in a mess like that, I’d see the lady shot before I marriedher.”

“I have some work to do, my friend,” said Frank shortly. “Youwould show discretion if you took yourself off.”

“All right! I’ll just have another drink,” he answered,helping himself to the whisky. “I’m going out to tea with Mrs.Castillyon.”

Frank pricked up his ears, but said nothing. Reggie looked at him, smiled withgreat self-satisfaction, and winked.

“Smart work, ain’t it—considering I’ve only known her afortnight. But that’s the right way with women—rush ’em, Isaw she was smitten the first time we met, so I made a dead-set for her. I knewshe was all right, so I just told her what I wanted; by Jove, she is a littlebaggage! I’ve come to the conclusion I like ladies, Frank; youdon’t have to beat about the bush. You just come to the point at once,and there’s no blasted morality about them.”

“You’re a philosopher, Reggie.”

“You think I’m rotting, but I’m not. I’ll read you theletter she wrote me. By the way, I’m going to give her youraddress—in case the mater stops anything.”

“If letters come for you here, my friend, they shall be promptly returnedto the postman.”

“You are a low blackguard; it wouldn’t hurt you,” said Reggiecrossly. “But if you think that’ll stop her writing, itwon’t, as I shall just have them sent to my crammer’s. I say, Imust read you this; it’s rather funny.”

Reggie took from his pocket a letter on which Frank recognised Mrs.Castillyon’s large writing.

“Don’t you think it’s playing it rather low down to show theprivate letters which a woman has written you?”

“Rot!” cried Reggie, with a laugh. “If she didn’t wantanyone to see them, she oughtn’t to have written.”

With manifest pride he read parts of an epistle which would have left thePresident of the Divorce Court few doubts as to the relations between the happypair. The wretched woman’s love tickled his vanity, and to him thepleasure lay chiefly in boasting of it: he uttered with rolling emphasiscertain expressions of endearment.

“‘Yours till death,’” he finished. “Good Lord,what rot women write! and the funny thing is that it’s always the samerot. But there’s not much doubt about this, is there? She’s as fargone as she can be.”

“Amiable youth!” said Frank. “Does your mother know that youhave struck up an acquaintance with Mrs. Castillyon?”

“Rather! At first the mater thought her a bit vulgar, but she looked herup in theLanded Gentry, and when she found out her grandfather was alord she thought it must be all right. The mater’s a bit of a snob, youknow—her governor was in the City, and she’s got it into her headthat the Castillyons will ask us down to Dorsetshire. By Gad, if they doI’ll make things hum.”

Reggie looked at his watch.

“I shall have to be scooting, or I shall be late for tea.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be working?”

“Yes, but I can let that wait. You see, I’m not going up for theexam next time. The mater gave me the fees, and I blued them, so I shall justtell her that I’ve got through. It’ll be all right in theend.”

“Isn’t that very dishonest?”

“Why?” asked Reggie, with surprise. “She keeps me so devilishshort, and I must have money somehow. It’ll all be mine when she pegsout, so it can’t matter, you know.”

“And what about the little lady you dined with on Saturday?”

“Oh, I’ve chucked her. I think Mrs. Castillyon will be moreeconomical. She’s got lots of tin, and I’m blowed if I see why aman should always be expected to fork out for women.”

“You’re trying to reconcile two contradictory things, myboy—love and economy.”

Reggie marched off to Bond Street, and finding that Mrs. Castillyon was not yetarrived, began to walk up and down; but having waited half an hour, he grewannoyed, and it was with no smiling countenance that he met the pretty littlelady when at length she drove up. “Have I kept you waiting?” sheasked airily.

“Yes, you have,” he answered.

“It’s good for you.”

She tripped in, and they ordered tea.

“I can’t possibly eat those cakes,” she said. “Tellthem to bring some more.”

The next plateful was as little to her taste, and she called for a third.

“I think I like the first lot best, after all,” she said, whenthese were produced.

“You might have taken one of them straight away, instead of disturbing thewhole place,” exclaimed Reggie, very peevish himself, but peculiarlyimpatient of that defect in others.

“That woman has nothing else to do: why shouldn’t I disturb her?And she was very impudent; I have a good mind to report her.”

“If you do, I shall go and say that she was nothing of the sort.”

“This is a disgusting place; I can’t think why you suggested it.Anyhow, I’ll have some sweets to make up.”

Looking round, she saw a box of chocolates, elaborately decorated with ribandsand artificial violets.

“You can get those for me, I love sweets—don’t you?”

“Yes, when somebody else pays for them.”

She threw back her head and laughed boisterously, so that people turned roundand looked. Reggie grew vexed.

“I wish you wouldn’t make such a row. Everyone’s staring atyou.”

“Well, let them! Give me a cigarette.”

“You can’t smoke here.”

“Why not? There’s a woman over there smoking.”

“Yes, but she’s no better than she should be.”

“Nonsense! It’s Lady Vizard. It’s only your friends inPiccadilly who are always thinking of propriety; they’re so afraid of notbehaving like ladies, and you can always tell them because they’re soprim.”

Mrs. Castillyon, powdered and scented, was dressed in the most outrageoustaste, but no one could have been more fashionable; and she displayed uncommonsagacity when she said that her flaunting manners alone distinguished her frompersons of easy virtue. She looked across at Lady Vizard, no less strikinglyattired, but with a sort of flamboyant discretion which marked the woman ofcharacter: she sat with the young Lord de Capit, and Mrs. Castillyon toldReggie the latest scandal about the pair.

“You know she’s Mr. Kent’s mother, don’t you? By theway, is it true he married a creature off the streets?”

“Yes,” said Reggie. “Silly ass!”

He gave a vivid account of the affair according to his lights. Unaccountably,for Frank and Miss Ley, both highly discreet, alone knew the circumstances,Basil’s adventure in a very elaborate form was current among all hisfriends.

“I say, Reggie, will you come to the play to-morrow? LadyPaperleigh’s got a box forThe Belle of Petersburg, andshe’s asked me to bring my man.”

“Am I your man?” asked Reggie.

“Why not?”

“It sounds bally vulgar. I should have thought it meant yourvalet.”

At this Mrs. Castillyon laughed as she spoke at the top of her voice, so thatpeople, to Reggie’s confusion, again turned round.

“How prim you are! Is it your mamma’s bringing-up, Reggie?She’s rather an old frump, you know.”

“Thanks!”

“But I intend to ask her down to Jeyston for Christmas. We’re goingto have a house-party, and I mean to get Miss Ley and Dr. Hurrell. Idon’t like him much, but Miss Ley won’t come without him. Pityshe’s not younger, isn’t it? They could talk philosophy to morepurpose then. They say she has a passion for young men; I wonder what she doeswith them. D’you think she was very gay in her youth?”

“She’s a regular ripper, I know that,” answered Reggie,remembering the frequent tips which in his school-days the generous creaturehad slipped into his hand.

“I’m sure there was something,” expostulated Mrs. Castillyon,“or she wouldn’t have lived so long in Italy.”

“My mother thinks her about the straightest woman she’s everknown.”

“I wish you wouldn’t keep thrusting your mother down my throat,Reggie. It’s bad enough having to put up with Paul’s, withoutgetting yours as well. I suppose I shall have to ask that old cat forChristmas: she’s awful, as rich as they make ’em, and she’llget on with your mother first-rate. Let’s go; I’m sick of thishole.”

When Reggie asked for the bill, he found the box of chocolates cost fifteenshillings, and preferring to spend his money exclusively on himself, wasconsequently none too pleased. Mrs. Castillyon had kept the cab, and offered to drive her cavalier to Grosvenor Gardens, where she was going for a second tea.

’I’ve had a good time,” she said, when they arrived.“You’d better give the driver five bob. Good-bye, Reggie. Mindyou’re not late to-morrow. Where shall we dine?”

“I don’t mind as long as it’s cheap,” he said, ruefullyhanding the cabman five shillings.

“Oh, I’ll stand you a dinner,” said Mrs. Castillyon.

“All right,” he answered, his face brightening. “Let’sgo to theCarlton, then.”

Mrs. Castillyon skipped into the house, and Reggie, who hated walking, to savemoney trudged sulkily home to Sloane Gardens: Frank showed much wisdom when heasserted that love and economy went seldom hand-in-hand.

“It’s cost me over a quid,” he muttered. “I could havedined Madge three times for that, and I’m blowed if she’s so damnedvulgar as that little baggage.”

But next day he met her in theCarlton vestibule, and they sat down todinner. The waiter brought him a wine-card.

“What would you like to drink?” he asked.

“Something fizzy.”

This entirely agreed with Reggie’s ideas, and since he was not to pay thebill, he took care to order the champagne he liked best, which was by no meansthe least expensive. Flattering himself on his educated palate, he drank thewine with added satisfaction because the price was high. Mrs. Castillyon,overpowdered, with somewhat the look of a faded rose arranged under carefullights in a shop window to delude the purchaser that it had still its firstfreshness, was in high spirits: pleased with her own appearance and with thatof the handsome youth in front of her, languid and sensual as the waking Adamof Michaelangelo, she talked very quickly in an excessively loud voice.Reggie’s spirits rose with the intoxicating liquor, and his doubtswhether an amour with a woman of distinction was quite worth while, were soondissipated; looking at the costly splendour of her gown, the boy’s fleshtingled, and his eyes rested with approval on the diamonds about her neck andin her yellow hair. It was a new sensation to dine with a well-dressed, richwoman in a crowded restaurant, and he felt himself with pride a very gayLothario.

Handing something, he touched her fingers.

“Don’t,” she said, “you give me the shivers;” andseeing the effect she created, Mrs. Castillyon displayed all her arts andgraces.

“Confound this theatre! I wish we weren’t bound to go to it.”

“But we are. Lady Paperleigh is going with her man, and we’ve gotto chaperon her.”

It pleased Reggie to sit in a box with a person of title, and he knew it wouldgratify his mother.

“Why don’t they make your hubby a Baronet?” he askedingenuously.

“My mother-in-law won’t fork out. You see, Paul ain’t whatyou might call a genius—he’d love a handle to name, but the pricehas gone up lately, and a baronetcy is one of the few things you have to payfor money down.

Reggie’s appetite was large, and he went through the long dinner withhuge satisfaction. When they arrived at dessert, he lit a cigarette and gave asigh of contented repletion.

“Yet people say the pleasures of the intellect are higher than thepleasures of the table,” he sighed.

He looked at Mrs. Castillyon with heavy eyes, and since, like most men, lovearose in his heart as an accompaniment to the satisfactory process ofdigestion, he gave her a peculiarly sensual smile.

“I say, Grace, don’t you think you could come away for a week-endsomewhere?”

“Oh, I couldn’t risk it. It would be too dangerous.”

“Not if we go somewhere quiet. It would be a beano!”

Her heart beat quickly, and under those handsome, lazy eyes she felt a curiousdefaillance; his hand rested on the table, large, soft and smooth, and thesight of it sent through her an odd thrill.

“Paul’s going up to the North to speak next month,” she said.“That’s our chance, isn’t it?”

The risk fascinated her, and the whim for Reggie grew on a sudden to an ardentpassion for which she was willing to venture all things.

“I say, I’ve got an idea,” she whispered, with sparklingeyes. “Let’s go to Rochester. Don’t you remember, Basil Kentspoke of it the other day? I could easily say I was going down to see the viewor whatever it is. I believe it’s a dull hole, and nobody goes there butAmericans.”

“All right,” he said. “That’ll do A1.”

“Now we must be getting off. Call for the bill.”

Mrs. Castillyon felt for her pocket; then, throwing back her head, gave alittle shriek of laughter.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’ve forgotten my purse. You’ll have to pay, after all.D’you mind?”

“Fortunately the mater gave me a fiver this morning,” he answered,without enthusiasm, and when he doled out the shining sovereigns, added tohimself: “By Jove, I’ll punish her for this some time.”

Arriving at the theatre, they found Lady Paperleigh was not yet come and sincethey did not know the number of her box, were obliged to wait in the entrance.They waited for nearly half an hour, during which Mrs. Castillyon grew everymoment more peevish.

“It’s perfectly disgusting and awfully rude of her,” shecried for the tenth time. “I wish I hadn’t come, and I wish togoodness you wouldn’t stand there looking bored. Can’t you saysomething to amuse me?”

“I should have thought you could wait for a few minutes without gettinginto a beastly temper.”

“I shall take care to serve that woman as she has served me. I supposeshe’s eating somewhere with her wretched man. Why don’t you pay forthe box so that we can go in?”

“Why should I? They’ve asked us, and we must hang about till theychoose to turn up.”

“If you cared for me the least bit, you wouldn’t refuse to dothings I asked you.”

“If you’ll ask for something reasonable I’ll do it.”

Reggie had a very pretty little temper of his own, which his fondmother’s upbringing had never taught him to restrain; and seeing thatMrs. Castillyon raged with impatience, he assumed an exaggerated calm which wasfar more irritating than if he had fussed or fumed. The lady busied herselfwith sharp tongue to pierce his thick hide of indifference, and abused himroundly. In a little while without more ado he answered her in kind.

“If you’re not satisfied with me I’ll go. D’you thinkyou’re the only woman in the world? I’m about sick of your vixenishtemper. Good Lord, if this is what a married man has to put up with, God saveme from marriage!”

They sat without speaking, and through her powder Mrs. Castillyon’scheeks glowed angrily; but when at length Lady Paperleigh appeared, accompaniedby a strapping youth with military airs, Mrs. Castillyon greeted her withsmiles and soft words, vowing that they had only that very moment arrived.Reggie, less accustomed to the ways of polite society, could not conceal hisill-humour, and shook hands in sulky silence.

After the performance Reggie put Mrs. Castillyon into a cab, but he would notshake hands, and there was a malevolent scowl on his handsome face whichsingularly disturbed her; for what at first had seemed but a passing fancy wasnow unaccountably changed into a desperate passion. She had the soul of atrollop, and for years had flirted more or less seriously with one man afteranother; but it was chiefly admiration she sought and someone to go about withher and pay for little extravagances; and though several had taken the matterin earnest, she always kept her head, and was careful to drop them when theygrew troublesome. But now, driving away alone, there was a dull and hungry painin her heart; she was tormented by the anger of those handsome eyes, andremembered sorrowfully the hurried kiss he had given her the day before in thecab.

“Supposing he doesn’t come back,” she whispered, with apainful sob.

She was a little frightened also, knowing herself in the power of a dissolute,selfish boy who cared nothing for her. Any woman would have served his purposeas well, for she saw with bitter clearness that he was merely dazzled by herwealth and her diamonds. He liked to dine at her house, and it pleased hisvanity to embrace a woman in expensive clothes. But she had not the temperamentto make a fight for freedom, and gave herself up to this love weakly, carelessinto what abyss of shame and misery it led. Going to her room, she wrote apitiful letter to Reggie, and those with whom in time past she had cruellyplayed, seeing this utter abasement, might have felt abundantly revenged.

“Don’t be angry with me, darling; I can’t bear it. I love youwith all my heart and soul. I’m sorry that I was horrid this evening, butI couldn’t help it, and I will try to keep my temper. Write and say youforgive me, because my head is throbbing and my heart is aching for you.
    “I love you—I love you—I love you.

“GRACE.”

She folded the letter, and was about to put it in an envelope, when an ideacrossed her mind. For all her flippancy, Mrs. Castillyon had a good deal ofobservation; it had not escaped her notice that Reggie hated to spend money.She went to a drawer and took out a ten-pound note, which with a postscript sheenclosed.

“I’m sorry I hadn’t my purse to-night, and I’ve onlygot this note here. Please take what I owe you out of it, and with the changeyou might buy yourself a tie-pin. I wanted to give you a little present, butI’m afraid of getting something you won’t like. Please sayyou’re not cross with me for asking you to see about it yourself.”

The youth read the letter with indifference, but when he came to the last linesblushed, for his mother had instilled into him certain rules of honour, andagainst his will, he could not escape the notion that it was the mostdiscreditable thing possible to accept money from a woman. For a moment he feltsick with shame, but the note was crisp and clean and inviting. His fingersitched.

His first impulse was to send it back, and he sat down at his writing-table.But when he came to put the note in an envelope, he hesitated and looked at itagain.

“After all, what with the dinner and tea yesterday, she owes me a gooddeal of it, and I shall spend it on her if I keep it. She’s so rich, itmeans nothing to her.”

Then he had an inspiration.

“I’ll put the balance on a horse, and if it comes in I’llgive her the tenner back. If it doesn’t—well, it’s not myfault.”

He pocketed the note.

X

The Kents spent their honeymoon in a fisherman’s cottage at Carbis Water,the very name of which, romantic and muflical, enchanted Basil’s ear; andfrom their window the cliff, grown over with odorous broom, tumbled lazily tothe edge of the coloured sea. There was an amiable simplicity about the old manfrom whom they hired rooms, and Basil delighted to hear his long stories of thepilchard fishery, of storms that had strewn the beach with wreckage, and offierce battles fought between the fishers of St. Ives and the foreigners fromLowestoft. He told of the revivals which burned along the countryside, callingsinners to repentance, and how himself on a memorable occasion had foundsalvation; now he confessed his late-found faith with savage ardour, butnotwithstanding made the most he could out of the strangers in his house! Andthe tall, gaunt figure of that ancient seaman, with furrowed cheeks and eyesbleared with long scanning of the sea, seemed a real expression of thatcountry—wild with its deserted mines, yet tender; barren, yet with thedelicate colour of a pastel. To Basil, weary with the conflicting emotions ofthe last month, it had a restful charm unrivalled by the distincter glories ofmore southern lands.

One afternoon they walked up a hill to see the local curiosity, a gravestonewhich crowned its summit, and Basil wandered on while Jenny, indifferent andtired, sat down to test. He sauntered through the furze, saffron and green, andthe heather rich with the subdued and decorous richness of an amethyst: somechild had gathered a bunch of this and thrown it aside, so that it lay on thegrass dying, faded purple, like a symbol of the decay of an imperial power. Fora reason that escaped him, it recalled to Basil’s mind that most poeticalof prose-writers, the divinely simple weaver of words, Jeremy Taylor, and herepeated to himself that sad, passionate phrase used in theHoly Dying:“Break the beds, drink your wine, crown your head with roses and besmearyour curled locks with nard; for God bids you to remember death.”

Standing on the brink, he overlooked the valley of the sea—Hale in thedistance, with its placid river, like some old Italian town coloured and gayeven under that sombre heaven. The sky was gray and overcast, and the clouds,pregnant with rain, swept over the hill-top like the gauzy drapery of somedying pagan spirit, lingering solitary among the grotesque shapes of Christianlegend. There was a line of dead trees on the crest of the hill, and Basil,visiting this place earlier in the year, had found them then incongruous withthe summer, a hideous darkness against the joyous colour of the Cornish June.But now all Nature drew into harmony with them, and they stood, gnarled andleafless, with a placid silence, as though in a sense of the eternity of thingsthey felt a singular content. The green leaves and the flowers were vanity,ephemeral as the butterflies and the light breeze of April, but they werechangeless and constant. Dead ferns lay all about, brown as the earth, and theywere the first of the summer plants to go, chilled to death by the mild wind ofSeptember. The silence was so great that Basil seemed to hear the wings of therooks as they beat the air, flying overhead from field to field, and in hismind, curiously, he listened to the voice of London calling. Basil peculiarlyenjoyed his solitude, for he was used to be much alone, and the constantcompanionship since his marriage at times proved irksome. He began to plan outhis future. There was no reason why Jenny should not be induced to a wider viewof things than she then possessed; she was by no means a fool, and little bylittle, with patience on his side, she might gain interest in the things thatinterested him: it would be wonderful to disclose a human soul to its ownbeauty. But his enthusiasm was short-lived, for, walking down the hillside, hefound Jenny asleep, her head thrown back and her hat slouched over one eye, hermouth open. His heart sank, for he saw her as he had never seen her before:amid the soft grace of that scene her clothes looked tawdry and crude, and withkeen eyes he detected, under her beauty, the commonness of nature for whichalready he loathed the brother.

But, fearing it would rain, he woke her and proposed that they should go home.She smiled at him lovingly.

“Have you been looking at me asleep? Had I got my mouth open?”

“Yes.”

“I must have looked a sight.”

“Where did you buy your hat?” he asked.

“I made it myself. Don’t you like it?”

“I wish it weren’t so very bright.”

“Colours suit me,” she answered. “They always did.”

The Cornish drizzle hovered over the earth, all-penetrating like human sorrow,and at length, with the closing day, the rain fell. In the mist and in thenight the country sank into darkness. But in Basil’s heart was a greaterdarkness, and already, after one short week, he feared that the task he hadconfidently undertaken was beyond his strength.

On their return to London Basil moved such furniture as he possessed into thelittle house he had taken in Barnes. He liked the old-fashioned High Street ofthat place because it had preserved a certain village simplicity, and thecommon made up for the dreary look of the long row of villas in which was hisown: the builder, careful of his invention, had placed on each side fifty smallhouses so alike that they were distinguishable only by their numbers and thegrandiloquent names on the fanlight. For two or three weeks the young couplewere engaged in putting things to rights, and then Basil settled to themonotonous life he liked because it gave most opportunity for work. He wentaway every morning early to chambers, where he devilled for the“silk” in whose room he sat, waiting for briefs that came not, andabout five took the train back to Barnes; then followed a stroll along thetow-path with Jenny, and after dinner he wrote till bed-time. Basil felt now acertain quiet satisfaction in his marriage; his affairs settled for good, andhe could surrender himself to his literary ambition. Apparently there was amagic in the nuptial tie, since there arose within him by degrees a sober butdeep affection for Jenny; he was flattered by her adoration, and touched atthe humility wherewith she did his bidding. With all his heart he lookedforward to the birth of their child. They talked of him incessantly for bothwere convinced that it must be a son, and they never tired of discussing whatto do with him, how he should wear his hair, when be breeched, and where go toschool. When Basil pictured the beautiful woman nursing her child—and shehad never been lovelier than then—his pulse throbbed with thankfulnessand pride; and he chid himself because he had ever hesitated to marry her orfor a moment during the honeymoon bitterly regretted his rashness.

Jenny was radiantly happy. She was of indolent temper, and it delighted her,after the bondage of theGolden Crown, to do nothing from morning tillnight. It was very amusing to have at her beck and call a servant who calledher “ma’am,” and hugely satisfactory to watch her work whileshe sat idly. She was proud also of the little house and the furniture, anddusted the pictures with greater complacency because she thought them ratherugly; Basil said they were very beautiful, and she knew they cost a lot ofmoney. In the same way Jenny admired her husband all the more because sheneither understood his ideas nor sympathized with his ambitions. She worshippedhim like a dog his master. It was a daily torment when he went to town, andinvariably she accompanied him to the door to see the last of him: when he wasdue to return, she listened with held breath for his step on the pavement, andsometimes in her impatience walked to meet him.

Basil had not the amiable gift of taking people as they are, asking no morefrom them than they can give; but rather sought to mould after his own ideasthe persons with whom he came in contact. Jenny’s taste was deplorable,and the ignorance which had not been unbecoming to the pretty barmaid in thewife was a little distressing. In accordance with a plan of unconsciouseducation whereby, like powder in jam, Jenny might acquire knowledge withoutrealizing it, Basil gave her books to read; and though she took themobediently, his choice, perhaps, was not altogether happy, for alter a diligentquarter of an hour she would mostly drop the volume, and for the rest of themorning chat familiarly with the maid-of-all-work. If, however, at any time sheyearned for literary pabulum, she much preferred to buy a novelette at thestation bookstall, but took care to hide it when Basil came in; and once hefound by chance a work entitledRosamund’s Revenge, explained thatit belonged to the servant. For one penny Mrs. Kent could get a long andblood-curdling romance, the handsome, aristocratic hero of which bore anunusual similarity to Basil, while the peerless creature for whom doughty deedswere so fearlessly performed was none other than herself; under the mattress inthe spare bedroom she kept her favourite story, wherein a maid of high degreenobly sacrificed herself, and Jenny’s heart beat fast when she thoughthow willingly under similar circumstances she would have risked her life forBasil. Ignorant of all this, Kent talked frequently of the books himself hadgiven her, but in his enthusiasm was apt to be so carried away as not to noticehow small her knowledge thereof remained.

“I wish you’d read me your book, Basil,” she said oneevening. “You never tell me anything about it.”

“It would only bore you, darling.”

“D’you think I’m not clever enough to understand it?”

“Of course not! If you’d like me to, I shall be only too pleased toread you bits of it.”

“I’m so glad you’re a novelist. It’s so uncommon,isn’t it? And Ishall be proud when I see your name in the papers.Read me some now, will you?”

No writer, however violent his protests, really dislikes being asked to read anunpublished book; it is the child of his heart, and has still the glamourwhich, when it is coldly set up in type and bound in cloth, will be utterlydestroyed. Basil especially needed sympathy, for he was distrustful of himself,and could work better when someone expressed admiration for his efforts. It hadbeen his ardent hope that Jenny would take interest in his writing, and it wasonly from diffidence that hitherto he had said little about it.

The idea of his novel, the scene of which was Italy in the early sixteenthcentury, came to him one day in the National Gallery soon after his return fromSouth Africa, when his mind, fallow after the long rest from artistic things,was peculiarly sensitive to the impression of beauty. He wandered among thepictures, visiting old favourites, and the sober quiet of that place filled hissoul with a greater elation than love or wine; he recalled the moment often forits singular happiness, spiritual and calm, yet very fruitful. At last he cameto that portrait of an Italian nobleman by Moretto, which to an imaginativemind seems to express the whole spirit of the later Renaissance. It fitted hismood strangely. He thought that to make lovely patterns was the ultimate end ofthe painter’s art, and noticed with keen appreciation the decorativeeffect of the sombre colouring and of the tall man, leaning, melancholy andlanguid, in that marble embrasure. Nameless through the ages, he stood in anattitude that was half weariness and half affectation; and his restraineddespair was reflected by the tawny landscape of the background, blank like thedesert places of the spiritual life; the turquoise sky even was cold and sad.The date was given, 1526, and he wore the slit sleeves and hose of the period;(the early passion for the New Birth was passed already; or Michaelangelo wasdead, and Cæsar Borgia rotted in far Navarre;) the dark cerise of hisparti-coloured dress was no less mournful than the black, but against itgleamed the delicate cambric of his shirt and ruffles. One hand, ungloved,rested idly on the pommel of his long sword, the slender, delicate hand, whiteand soft, of a gentleman and student. On his head he wore a strange-shaped hat,part buff, part scarlet, with a medallion on the front of St. George and theDragon.

The face haunted Basil, paler by reason of the dark beard; and out of it lookedwistfully the eyes, as though sight were weariness and the world had naught tooffer but disillusion. Presently, brooding over the character which seemedthere expressed, he invented a story, and to work it out for some months,steeping himself in the poets and historians of the period, spent much time inthe British Museum. At last he began actually to write. Basil wished todescribe Italian society at that time, its profound disenchantment after thevigorous glow with which it had welcomed the freedom of mind when the fall ofConstantinople threw open to the human intellect a new horizon; and devised aman who waged life as though it were a battle, vehemently, seeking to enjoyevery moment, and now, finding all things vain, looked back with despairbecause the world had nothing more to offer. Acquainted with the courts ofprinces and the tents of condottieri, he had experienced every emotion, foughtbloodily, loved and intrigued, written poetry and talked platonism. Theincidents of this career were stirring, but Basil referred to them only so muchas was necessary to explain the state of mind, for he desired to show his scornof commonplace by eschewing sensation and giving merely detailed analyses of aspiritual condition.

His theme gave opportunity for the elaborate style Basil affected, and he beganto read, emphasizing the rhythm of his sentences and rejoicing in their music.His vocabulary, chosen from the Elizabethans, was rich and sonorous, and thebeauty of certain words intoxicated him. But at last he stopped suddenly.

“Jenny?” he said.

No answer came, and he saw that she was fast asleep. Taking care not to disturbher, he put aside the book and rose from his chair. It was not worth while toask him to read if she could not keep awake, and with some vexation he went tohis desk. But his sense of humour came the rescue.

“What a fool I am!” he cried, with a laugh. “Why should Ithink it would interest her?”

Yet Mrs. Murray had listened to that same chapter with most flatteringattention, and afterwards was loud in its praise. Basil remembered that Molièreread comedies to his cook, and if she was not amused rewrote them. By that testhe should have destroyed his novel; but then impatiently he told himself thathe wrote, not for the many, but for a chosen few.

No longer feeling him near her, Jenny presently awoke.

“Well, I never! I haven’t been to sleep, have I?”

“Snoring!”

“’ I am sorry. Did I disturb you?”

“Not at all,”

“I couldn’t help it. I felt so drowsy with you reading. I did enjoyit, Basil.”

“It’s something to write a book which is a soporific,” heanswered, smiling grimly.

“Do read me some more, I’m wide awake now, and it wasbeautiful.”

“I think, if you don’t mind, I’ll do a little work.”

A few days later Jenny’s mother, who had seen neither Basil nor thehouse, paid them a visit. She was a stout woman with a determined manner, andwore a black satin dress so uneasily as to suggest it was her Sunday best; itgave her a queer feeling that the days had got mixed, and a Sabbath comesomehow in the middle of the week. Against Basil’s will, Jenny insistedon keeping for special occasions their nicest things, and when they were alonemade tea in an earthenware pot.

“You don’t mind if I don’t get out the silver teapot,ma?” she asked, when they sat down. “We don’t use it everyday.”

“No more do I come and see you every day, my dear,” answered Mrs.Bush, gloomily stroking her black satin.

“But I suppose I’m nobody now you’re married. Don’t yousit down at table for tea?”

“Basil likes to have it in the drawing-room,” answered Jenny,pouring milk in the bottom of each cup.

“Well, I think it’s messy. My tea is my best meal; you know that,Jenny.”

“Yes, ma.”

“I always say it looks mean just to have a few pieces of bread-and-butterput on a plate, with the butter just scraped on so as you can’t seeit.”

“Basil likes it like that.”

“In my ’ouse I ’ave things my own way. Don’t begin togive way to your ’usband in the ’ouse, my dear, or he’llpresume on it.”

Basil, coming in at this moment, was introduced to the visitor, and Jenny,rather nervously, watched her to see that she behaved nicely! But Mrs. Bush,though somewhat awed by his reserved manner, took care to show that she was aperfect lady, and when she lifted her cup curled her little finger in the mostelegant and approved fashion. Basil, after a few polite remarks, lapsed intosilence, and the two women for five minutes talked difficultly of trivialsubjects. Then a carriage stopped at their door, and in a minute the maidannounced—Mrs. Murray.

“I thought you would allow me to call on you,” she said, holdingout her hand to Jenny. “I’m an old friend of your husband.”

Jenny blushed, taken aback, but Basil, delighted to see her, shook handswarmly.

“It’s awfully good of you. You’ve just come in time fortea.”

“I’m simply dying for some.”

She sat down, looking very handsome and self-possessed, and Mrs. Bushdeliberately examined her gown. But Jenny remembered that they had only thecommon teapot.

“I’ll just go and get some fresh tea,” she said.

“Fanny will get it, Jenny.”

“Oh no, I must get it myself, and I keep the tea locked up. You know Ihave to,” she added to Mrs. Murray; “these girls are sodishonest.”

She went out hurriedly, and while she was gone Basil eagerly asked Mrs. Murrayhow she had found them out.

“It was horrid of you not to write and tell me where you were. Miss Leygave me your address.”

“Don’t you think it’s an amusing place? You must go into theHigh Street. Bits of it are so odd and quaint.”

They chattered gaily, almost taming their backs on Mrs. Bush, who watched themwith lowering brows. But she often said that she was not a woman to be putupon.

“It’s a fine day, isn’t it?” she interruptedaggressively.

“Beautiful!” said Mrs. Murray, smiling.

And before Mrs. Bush could make another observation Basil asked when she wasstartling for Italy. Fortunately, at that moment Jenny came in, but her mothernoticed with indignation that she brought the silver teapot; she drew herselfup very straight and sat in mute anger, a bristling figure of outragedsusceptibility. Nor did it escape her that Basil, who till Mrs. Murray ’sarrival had scarcely spoken, now talked volubly; he gave a humorous account oftheir troubles in moving into the house, but though it appeared to amuse Mrs.Murray hugely, Mrs. Bush could see nothing at all funny in it.

At last the visitor rose.

“I really must fly. Good-bye, Mrs. Kent. You must get your husband tobring you to see me.”

She sailed out, with a rustle of silk, and Basil accompanied her downstairs.

“She’s come in a carriage, ma,” said Jenny, looking from thewindow.

“I ’ave eyes in my ’ead, my dear,” answered Mrs. Bush.

“Isn’t he aristocratic-looking?” exclaimed the admiring wife.

“Aristocratic is as aristocratic does,” returned her motherseverely.

They saw Basil at the door talk with Mrs. Murray and laugh. Then she gave anorder to the coachman, who followed them while they walked slowly down thestreet.

“Well, Jenny!” cried Mrs. Bush, in tones of surprise, horror, andindignation.

“I wonder where they’re going,” said Jenny, looking away.

“You take my advice, my dear, and keep your eyes on that young man. Iwouldn’t trust ’im too far if I was you. And you tell him that yourma can see through a brick wall as well as anyone. . . . ’Ad he ever saidanything about his lady friend?”

“Oh yes, ma, he’s spoken of her often,” said Jenny uneasily,for as a matter of fact till that day she had never even heard Mrs.Murray’s name.

“Well, you tell ’im you want to hear nothing about her. You must becareful, my dear. I ’ad a rare lot of trouble with your pa when I wasfirst married. But I put my foot down, and let ’im see I wouldn’tstand his nonsense.”

“I wonder why Basil doesn’t come back?”

“And, if you please, he never introduced me to his lady friend. I supposeI’m not good enough.”

“Ma!”

“Oh, don’t talk to me, my dear. I think you’ve treated mevery bad, both of you, and it’ll be a long day before I leave my pleasanthome in Crouch End to cross this threshold.”

At this Basil returned, and saw at once that Mrs. Bush was much disturbed.

“Hulloa, what’s up?” he asked, smiling.

“It’s no laughing matter, Mr. Kent,” answered the ruffledmatron, with dignity. “I’m put out, and I won’t deny it. I doexpect to be treated like a lady, and I don’t think Jenny ought to’ave given me my tea out of a sixpenny ’alfpenny teapot—andyou can’t deny that’s what they cost, my dear, because I know aswell as you do.”

“We’ll behave ourselves better next time,” said Basilgood-humouredly.

“It didn’t take Jenny long to get the silver teapot as soon as yourlady friend come in. But I suppose I’m not worth troubling about.”

“I believe tea always tastes much better in earthenware,” remarkedBasil mildly.

“Oh yes, I dare say it does,” returned Mrs. Bush ironically.“And to catch sparrows you’ve only got to put a little salt ontheir tails. Good-afternoon to you.”

“You’re not going yet, ma?”

“I know when I’m not wanted, and you needn’t trouble to showme out, because I know my way and I shan’t steal the umbrellas.”

Basil was in high spirits, and this display of temper vastly amused him.

“Where did you go just now, Basil?” asked Jenny, when her motherhad stalked defiantly out of the house.

“I just showed Mrs. Murray the High Street, I thought it would amuseher.”

Jenny did not answer. Basil had discussed with the unexpected visitor theprogress of his book, and thinking still of the pleasant things she said tohim, paid no attention to his wife’s silence. All the evening shescarcely spoke, but it struck her that Basil had never been more cheerful;during dinner he laughed and joked, without caring that she was irresponsive;and afterwards sat down to work. Inspiration flowed in upon him, and he wroteeasily and quickly. Jenny, pretending to read, watched him through hereyelashes.

XI

About a week after Basil’s marriage, Miss Ley found on herbreakfast-table the following letter from Bella;

“MY DEAREST MARY,
    “I have been very anxious lately about my friend Herbert Field, and Iwant you to do me a great favour. You know that he is not very strong, and sometime ago he caught a horrid cold which he seems quite unable to shake, off. Herefuses to take proper care of himself, and he looks very ill and thin. Ourdoctor has been attending him, but he grows no better, and I am dreadfullyalarmed. I don’t know what I should do if anything happened to him. Atlast I have been able to persuade him to come to London to see a specialist. Doyou think Dr. Hurrell would look at him if I brought Mr. Field up nextSaturday? Of course I would pay the ordinary fees, but there is no need thatHerbert should know this. He can manage to get away early on Saturday morning,if you will get me an appointment we would drive straight to Dr. Hurrell. Maywe come to luncheon with you afterwards?

“Yours affectionately,
“BELLA LANGTON,”

When Frank came in to tea, as was his habit whenever he had time, Miss Leyshowed him the letter, and afterwards wrote back to say that Dr. Hurrell wouldbe pleased to see the invalid at twelve on the following Saturday.

“I don’t suppose he has anything the matter with him,” saidFrank, “but I don’t mind having a look. And tell her she can keepher confounded fees.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Frank,” replied Miss Ley.

At the appointed hour Bella and Herbert were shown into his consulting-room.The youth was shy and ill at ease.

“Now, will you go into the waiting-room, Miss Langton?” said Frank.“I’ll send for you later.”

Bella, somewhat impressed by his professional manner, retired, and Frankexamined his patient’s face slowly, as though he sought the hiddensprings of character. Herbert watched with apprehension the grave man in frontof him.

“I don’t think I’ve really got anything much the matter withme; only Miss Langton was anxious.”

“Medical men would starve if they depended only on the diseased,”answered Frank. “You’d better take off your things.”

Herbert reddened at the discomfort of undressing himself before a stranger. Thedoctor noted the milky whiteness of his skin, and the emaciation of his body,which revealed the entire form of the skeleton; he took the boy’s handand looked at the long fingers with nails slightly bent over.

“Have you ever spat any blood?”

“No.”

“D’you sweat at night at all?”

“I never used to, but this last week I have a bit.”

“I believe most of your relations are dead, aren’t they?”

“All of them.”

“What did they die of?”

“My father died of consumption, and my sister also.”

Frank said nothing, but his face grew somewhat graver as he heard the badhistory. He began to percuss the boy’s chest.

“I can find nothing abnormal there,” he said.

Then he took his stethoscope and listened.

“Say ninety-nine. Now cough. Breathe deeply.”

He went over every inch carefully, but found nothing more than might be due toan attack of bronchitis. But before putting down the stethoscope he applied itagain to the apex of the lung, just above the collar-bone.

“Breathe deeply.”

Then very distinctly he heard a slight crackling sound, which the hectic flushon Herbert’s cheeks, the symptoms and the history, had led him to expect.Once more he percussed, more carefully still, and the note was dull. Therecould be little doubt about the diagnosis.

“You can put on your clothes,” he said, sitting down at his desk towrite notes of the case.

Without a word Herbert dressed himself. He waited till the doctor finished.

“Is there anything the matter with me?” he asked.

Frank looked at him gravely.

“Nothing very serious. I’ll talk to Miss Langton if you’llget her to come here.”

“I’d sooner hear myself, if you don’t mind,” saidHerbert, flushing. “I’m not afraid to be told anything.”

“You need not be very much alarmed, you know,” answered Frank in amoment, with a brief hesitation which did not escape Herbert. “You haverâles at the right apex. At first I didn’t hear them.”

“What does that mean?” A cold shiver of dread ran through him sothat his hands and feet felt horribly cold; there was a slight tremor in hisvoice when he asked a further question. “Is it the same as my father andmy sister?”

“I’m afraid it is,” said Frank.

And the shadow of Death stood suddenly in the room, patient and sinister; andeach knew that henceforward it would never leave the young man’s side; itwould sit by him at table silently, and lie in his bed at night; and when heread, a long finger would underline the words to remind him that he was aprisoner condemned. When the wind, marching through the country, sang tohimself like a strong-limbed ploughboy, Death, whistling in his ears, wouldmock the tune softly; when he looked at the rising sun which coloured the mistlike a chalcedony, purple and rosy and green, Death would snigger at hisdelight in the sad world’s beauty. An icy hand gripped his heart so thathe felt sick with dread and anguish; he could not repress the sob torn from himby bitter agony. Frank was ashamed to look at that boyish face, so frank andfair, distraught with terror, and he cast down his eyes. Then, to hide himself,Herbert went to the window and looked out: opposite, the houses were gray,ugly, and monotonous, and the heavy sky lowered as though verily it would crushthe earth; but he saw life like a pageant processioning before him, and theazure heaven more profound than the rich enamel of an old French jewel, theploughed fields gaining in the sunshine the various colour of the jasper, andthe elm-trees more sombre than jade. He was like a man in a deep chasm whoscans at noon the stars which those who live in daylight cannot see.

Frank’s voice came to him like a sound from another world.

“I wouldn’t take it too much to heart if I were you. With care youmay easily recover, and after all, plenty of people have lived to a ripe oldage with tuberculous lungs.”

“My sister was only ill four months, and my father less than ayear.”

His pale face expressed no emotion, so that Frank could only divine the fearthat made his heart sink; he had seen many take the sentence of death, and knewthat in comparison the final agony itself was small indeed. It was the mostawful moment in life, and it must have been a cruel god who was not satisfiedwith that instant of hopeless misery to punish all the sins and follies ofmankind: beside it all human suffering, the death of children or theingratitude of friends, loss of honour or of wealth, sank into insignificance.It was the bitter, bitter cup that each must drink because man had raisedhimself above the beasts.

Frank rang the bell.

“Ask Miss Langton to be so good as to come here,” he told theservant who answered.

She looked anxiously from Frank to Herbert standing at the window, his backturned; and the two men’s silence, the doctor’s grave constraint,filled her with terrified foreboding.

“Herbert, what’s the matter?” she cried. “What has hetold you?”

The boy turned round.

“Only that I shall never do anything in the world now. And I shall dielike a dog and leave behind me the sunshine and the blue sky and thetrees.”

Bella cried out, and then despair settled in her eyes, and helplessly the tearsran down her cheeks.

“How could you be so cruel?” she said to Frank. “Oh, Herbert,perhaps it’s not true. . . . What’s to be done, Dr. Hurrell?Can’t you save him somehow?”

She sank into a chair and sobbed. The boy placed his hand on her shouldergently.

“Don’t cry, dear. In my heart of hearts I knew, but I tried not tobelieve it. After all, it can’t be helped. I shall just have to gothrough with it like everyone else.”

“It seems so hard and meaningless,” she groaned. “Itcan’t be true.”

Herbert looked at her without answering, as though her anguish were a curiousthing which excited in him no emotion. In a little while, with a sigh, Bellarose to her feet and dried her eyes.

“Come away, Herbert,” she said. “Let us go back toMary.”

“D’you mind if I go by myself? I feel I can’t talk to anyonejust now. I should like to be alone for a bit to think it out.”

“You must do as you choose, Herbert.”

“Good-bye, Dr. Hurrell, and thanks.”

With eager, pain-filled eyes Bella watched him go, and she, too, felt thatsomething strange was in him, so that she dared not thwart his wish; when hespoke there was an inflexion in his voice which she had never heard before. Butpresently, with a great effort gathering herself together, she turned to Frank.

“Now, will you tell me exactly what should be done?” she said, withan attempt at the decisive manner she used in the conduct of charitableenterprises at Tercanbury.

“First of all get the fact into your head that there is no immediatecause for alarm. I’m afraid there’s no doubt that tubercle isthere, but the damage at present is very small. He wants care and propertreatment.... Is he entirely dependent for means upon his occupation?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Is it possible for him to go away? He ought to winter abroad—notonly for the climate, but also because new scenes will distract hismind.”

“Oh, I would so gladly pay for him, but he’d never accept a pennyfrom me. Is it his only chance of life?”

“I can’t say that. The human body is a machine which constantlyacts counter to expectation; sometimes with every organ diseased it stillmanages to dodder along.”

Bella did not listen, for suddenly an idea had flashed cross her mind. Sheblushed furiously, but all the same it seemed excellent; her heart beat madly,and an ecstatic happiness lifted her up. She rose from the chair.

“I dare say I can manage something, after all. I must go and talk to MissLey. Good-bye.”

She gave him her hand and left him wondering what had caused in her this suddenchange, for the depression had vanished before something which quickened hergait and rendered her step elastic.

“Well, what did Frank tell you?” asked Miss Ley, when she hadkissed Bella.

“He says that Herbert has consumption and must spend the winterabroad.”

“I’m very sorry; but is that possible?”

“Only if I take him.”

“My dear, how can you?” cried Miss Ley, astonished.

Bella hesitated and blushed.

“I’m going to ask him to marry me. It’s no good now tocounterfeit modesty and all the rest of it. It’s the only way I can savehis life, and after all, I love him better than anyone else in the world. WhenI told you a month ago that it was impossible I should care for a boy almostyoung enough to be my son, I lied. I fought against it then as somethingshameful and ridiculous, but I’ve loved him from the very first day I sawhim.”

Bella’s vehement seriousness alone prevented Miss Ley from indulging inher usual irony. She carefully repressed the smile which struggled to gainpossession of her lips.

“Your father will never consent, my dear,” she said gravely.

“I hope he will when I explain the circumstances. I’m afraidhe’ll be dreadfully distressed, but if he refuses I shall remember thatI’m a grown woman, capable of judging for myself.”

“I don’t know what he’ll do without you. He’s entirelydependent on you for all his comfort and all his happiness.”

“I’ve served him for forty years. I gave him all my youth, notbecause it was my duty, but because I loved him. Now someone needs me more thanhe does. My father is rich; he has a comfortable home, books and friends, andhealth. Herbert has nothing but me. If I take care of him, I may give him a fewmore years of life, and if he dies I can soothe his last days.”

Miss Langton spoke rapidly, with such determination that the elder woman saw itwas useless to argue; her whole mind was set on this idea, and neither thepersuasion of friends nor the entreaties of a father would hinder her.

“And what does the young man say to it?” asked Miss Ley.

“The thought has never entered his head. He looks upon me as amiddle-aged woman to whom all things of love are absurd. Sometimes he’slaughed at me because I’m so practical and matter-of-fact.”

“Where is he?”

Before Bella could answer there was a ring at the door, and they heard Herbertask the butler if Miss Langton had come in.

“There he is!” cried Bella. “Let me go to him now, Mary.He’s going up to the drawing-room. Oh, I feel so dreadfullynervous.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Bella,” answered Miss Ley, smiling.“I’ve never seen a woman about to propose marriage to the object ofher affections who was quite so self-possessed as you.”

But at the door Miss Langton stopped, and with a very piteous expression lookedat her friend.

“Oh, I wish I weren’t so old, Mary. Tell me honestly, am I awfullyplain?”

“You’ re a great deal too good for a silly young hobbledehoy, mydear,” said Miss Ley, hiding by roughness of manner something very like asob. “If he had any sense, he’d have insisted on marrying you threemonths ago.”

When Bella closed the door. Miss Ley’s eye caught the bronze statue ofNarcissus, standing on a pedestal in that eternal attitude of adorableaffectation, one long forefinger outstretched, and his listening head bentslightly to one side. She addressed him irritably.

“I wish you wouldn’t look so shocked and puzzled and self-consciousof your beauty. You ought to know that when love and self-sacrifice arecombined in the heart of a middle-aged woman, nothing on earth will prevent herfrom acting like a perfect lunatic. In your day the old maid was unknown, andyou can’t possibly understand her emotions, for, extraordinary as it mayappear, even old maids are human. And if you are scandalized at thisdisproportion of ages, know that you are an idiot, ignorant of the elementsboth of psychology and of physiology. And I myself have adored generations ofyoung men, though the relations between us have invariably remained strictlyplatonic.’

Narcissus, listening intently to the dying cries of Echo, remained indifferentto Miss Ley’s harangue, and she turned away impatiently.

Entering the drawing-room, Bella found Herbert standing at the window, and hecame towards her with a smile. She saw that already he was more collected, andthough his face was pale and grave, it bore no longer that disfigurement offear.

“You didn’t think it unkind of me to leave you to come home byyourself, did you?” he asked gently. “I was a little bothered justthen, and I felt if I weren’t alone I should make a fool ofmyself.”

She took his hand and held it.

“You know that I can never think anything you do unkind. But tell me nowif you have decided anything.” She hesitated, but it seemed futile toutter expressions of regret; for at that moment how could they comfort him?“I should like you to know that you can depend on me always.”

“It’s very good of you. I don’t know that there’sanything much to decide. I dare say I shall soon get used to the idea of notlooking into the future, but it’ll be rather hard at first, because itwas all I had at that dreary bank. I shall stay there as long as I can, andwhen I grow too ill I must try and get into the hospital. I dare say the Deanwill help me to be admitted.”

“Oh, don’t talk like that! It’s too horrible,” criedBella wretchedly. “Isn’t there anything I can do? I feel so utterlyhelpless.”

He looked at her for a while.

“Well, yes, there is,” he answered presently. “There’sone thing I wished to ask you, Bella. You’ve been an awfully good friendto me, and now I want you more than ever.”

“I’ll do anything you wish,” she said, with beating heart.

“I’m afraid it’s very selfish. But I don’t want you togo away this winter—in case anything happened. You know my sister diedthree months after the first symptoms were noticed.”

“I’d do so much more for you than that.”

She placed her hands on his shoulders, and gazed into his blue, sad eyes;searchingly she scrutinized his face, paler than ever and more exquisitelytransparent, and his soft mouth, tremulous still with the horror of death. Sheremembered his mouth and his eyes when they were merry with boyish laughter andhis cheeks flushed with excitement at his own gay rhetoric. Then she lookeddown.

“I wonder if you could bring yourself to marry me.”

Although her eyes were turned away, she knew that he blushed deeply, andhopelessly, full of shame, she dropped her hands. It seemed an intolerable timebefore he answered.

“I’m not so selfish as all that,” he whispered, his voicetrembling.

“Yes, I was afraid the thought would disgust you,” she said, with asob.

“Bella, how can you say that! Don’t you know that I should havebeen proud? Don’t you know that you’re the only woman I’veever liked? But I won’t let you sacrifice yourself for me. I’veseen people die of consumption, and I know the ghastliness of it. D’youthink I would let you nurse me and do all the odious things that are needful?And you might get ill, too. Oh no, Bella, don’t think me ungrateful, butI couldn’t marry you.”

“D’you think it would be a sacrifice to me?” she asked intragic tones. “My poor boy, you never saw that I loved you with all mysoul, and when you were so happy and careless my heart felt as though it wouldbreak because I was old and plain. You’ve forgotten that one day youkissed my hands: it was only a joke to you, but when you’d gone I criedbitterly. You’d never have done it except that you thought I was fortyand it couldn’t matter. And when you took my arm sometimes I felt sickwith love. And now, I suppose, you utterly despise me.”

She broke down, sobbing; but in a little while impatiently she brushed away hertears and faced him with a sort of despairing pride.

“After, all what am I but a middle-aged woman? I’ve never been evenpretty, and my mind is narrow because I’ve lived all my life among paltrythings, and I’m stupid and dull. Why should I think you would care tomarry me because I love you like a fool?”

“Oh, Bella, Bella, don’t say that. You break my heart.”

“And you thought it was self-sacrifice on my part! I was only asking youbecause I wanted to be with you every moment—if you fell ill, Icouldn’t bear that anyone else should touch you. I’ve been lonelyin my life, so dreadfully lonely, and I was making one last bid forhappiness.”

She sank into a chair and hid her face, but Herbert, kneeling beside her, tookher hands.

“Look at me, Bella.... I thought you only suggested it because you know Iought to leave the bank, and have someone to look after me. I never suspectedthat you really cared for me. And I’m ashamed because I was blind. Butdon’t you know that there’s nothing I should like better than to bewith you always? Then I should care nothing for my illness, because it wouldhave brought me a greater happiness than I ever dared to hope for. Bella, ifyou don’t mind that I’m poor and ill and unworthy of you, will youmarry me?”

On a sudden she stopped in the middle of her silent crying and a radiant smilechased away the sorrow. For one moment, while she realized the meaning of hiswords, she looked at him half in doubt; then, bending down, she kissed hishands.

“Oh, my dearest, you’ve made me so happy.”

When at last they went to Miss Ley, Bella’s tear-filled eyes shone withunspeakable bliss; and the elder woman, looking at Herbert, no longer wonderedat her cousin’s infatuation, for his face, so candid and sweet, was likethe face of a young beautiful saint in an old picture.

XII

It was Frank’s habit after his work at the hospital to have tea with MissLey, but when, that afternoon, he arrived at Old Queen Street she was surprisedat the pallor of his face, from which shone with unnatural brilliancy the darkeyes. They seemed larger than ever she had seen them, and his harassed looktold her that he was suffering: the square jaw was set firmly, as though withstrong deliberation he held himself in hand.

“You’re so late,” she said. “I thought youwouldn’t come.”

“I’m very tired,” he answered, in a strained voice.

She poured out tea, and while he ate and drank, to give him opportunity tocollect himself, read the evening paper. With admirable insight, she, alone ofhis friends, had divined Frank’s emotional temper; and though neverhinting at the knowledge, for she was aware it humiliated him to have so littleself-control, could in consequence handle him with very subtle skill. Presentlyfetching his tobacco, for they sat in the library, he lit his pipe; he blew thesmoke from his mouth in heavy clouds.

“Is it very comforting?” asked Miss Ley, smiling.

“Very!”

Waiting till he was ready to speak, she returned to her news-sheet, and thoughshe felt his eyes rest curiously upon her, took no notice.

“I wish to goodness you’d put that paper down,” he cried atlast irritably.

With a faint smile she did as he suggested.

“Have you had a very hard day, Frank?”

“Oh, it was awful!” he answered. “I don’t know why, butit all seemed to have a greater meaning for me than ever before. Icouldn’t get out of my head the utter misery of that poor boy when I toldhim his chest was affected.”

“I wish the whole thing weren’t so ordinary,” murmured MissLey. “The consumptive poet and the devoted old maid! It’s sofearfully hackneyed. But the gods have no originality; they always make theiræsthetic effects by confounding the tragic and the commonplace. . . . I supposeyou’re quite certain he has phthisis?”

“I found bacilli in the sputum. Where are they both now?”

“Bella took him back to Tercanbury, and I’ve promised to follow onMonday. She’s going to marry the boy!”

“What!” cried Frank.

“She wants to take him abroad. Don’t you think if he winters in theSouth Nature will have some chance with him?”

“In nine cases out of ten Nature doesn’t want to cure a man; shewants to put him in his coffin.”

Rising from his chair, Frank walked restlessly up and down the room. On asudden he stopped short in front of Miss Ley.

“D’you remember your friend Mr. Farley telling us the other daythat pain ennobles a man? I should like to conduct him through the wards of ahospital.”

“I have no doubt that when he has a tooth drawn Mr. Farley takes carethat gas should be properly administered.”

“I suppose divines can only justify pain by ascribing to it elevation ofcharacter,” cried Frank savagely. “If they weren’t soignorant they’d know it requires no justification. You might as wellassert that a danger-signal elevates a train; for, after all, pain is nothingmore than an indication by the nerves that the organism is in circumstanceshurtful to it.”

“Don’t lecture me, Frank, there’s a dear!” murmuredMiss Ley mildly.

“But if that man had seen as much pain as I have he’d know that itdoesn’t refine; it brutalizes. It makes, people self-absorbed andselfish—you can’t imagine the frightful egoism of physicalsuffering—querulous, impatient, unjust, greedy. I could name a score ofpetty vices that it engenders, but not a single virtue. . . . Oh, Miss Ley,when I look at all the misery of the world I am so thankful I don’tbelieve in God.”

As though seeking to break through the iron bars of the flesh, like a wildbeast unquietly he paced the room.

“For years I’ve toiled night and day to distinguish truth fromfalsehood; I want to be clear about my actions, I want to walk with sure feet;but I find myself in a labyrinth of quicksands. I can see no meaning in theworld, and sometimes I despair; it seems as senseless as a madman’sdream. After all, what does it tend to, the effort and the struggle, hope,love, success, failure, birth, death? Man emerged from savagery merely becausehe was fiercer than the tiger and more cunning than the ape; and nothing seemsto me less probable than that humanity advances to any ideal condition. Webelieve in progress, but progress is nothing but change!”

“I confess,” interrupted Miss Ley, “that I sometimes askmyself how it benefits the Japanese that they have assumed the tall-hat and thetrousers of Western civilization. I wonder if the Malays in their forests orthe Kanakas on their islands have cause vastly to envy the Londonslummer.”

“What does it all end in?” pursued Frank, too much absorbed in hisown thoughts to listen, “Where is the use of it? For all my labour Ihaven’t the shadow of an answer. And even yet I don’t know what isgood and what is evil, what is high and what is low; I don’t even know ifthe words have any sense in them. Sometimes men seem to me cripples everseeking to hide their deformity, huddled in a stuffy room, lit by one smokytaper; and they crowd together to keep warm, and they tremble at everyunexpected sound. And d’you think in the course of evolution it was thebest and noblest who survived to propagate their species? It was merely theshrewd, the hard, and the strong.”

“It would bore me dreadfully to be so strenuous, dear Frank,”answered Miss Ley, with a slight shrug of the shoulders. “It was a wiseman who said that, with regard to the universe, few questions could be askedand none could be answered. In the end we all resign ourselves to the fact, andwe find it possible to eat our dinner with no less satisfaction because at theback of our minds stands continually a discreet mark of interrogation. For mypart, I think there is as little justification for ascribing an end to theexistence of man as there was for the supposition of the Middle Ages, (pardonme if I seem erudite,) that the heavenly bodies moved in circles because thatwas the most perfect figure; but I assure you that my night’s rest is notin the least impaired. I, too, went through a stormy period in my youth, and ifyou’ll promise not to think me tedious I’ll tell you aboutit.”

“Please do,” said Frank.

He sat down, fixing upon her his piercing eyes, and Miss Ley, as though she hadgiven the matter frequent thought, spoke fluently, with ordered ideas andbalanced phrase.

“You know, I was reared on the strictest Evangelical principles tobelieve certain dogmas on pain of eternal damnation, but at twenty, why Iscarcely can tell, all I had learnt fell away from me. Faith presumably is amatter of temperament; good-will has nothing to do with it, and when I lookback on my ignorance I am astounded that such ill-considered reasons sufficedto destroy the prejudices of so many years. I was certain then that no Godexisted; but now I make a point of being certain of nothing: it saves trouble.Besides, each time you make up your mind you rob yourself of a subject forcogitation. But theoretically I cannot help thinking that for a quitereasonable view of life it is necessary to be convinced that no immortality ofthe soul exists.”

“How can a man lead his life uniformly on the earth if he is disturbed bythe thought of another life to come?” broke in Frank eagerly. “Godis a force throwing man’s centre of gravity out of his own body.”

“We agreed, Frank, that I was to expoundmy views,” answeredMiss Ley, with some asperity, for interruption she never suffered easily.

“Forgive me,” said Frank, smiling.

“But I agree that your remark, though ill-timed, was not withoutpoint,” she proceeded deliberately. “When man is assured that theinsignificant planet on which he lives, and the time, are everything so far ashe is individually concerned, he can look about him and order himself accordingto the surroundings. He is a chess-player with his definite number of pieces,capable of definite moves; and none asks why the castle must run straight, butthe bishop obliquely. These things are to be accepted, and with these rules,careless of what may befall when the game is finished, the wise manplays—not to win, for that is impossible, but to make a good fight of it.And if he is wise indeed he will never forget that, after all, it is but agame, and therefore not to be taken too seriously.”

Miss Ley paused, thinking it high time to give Frank opportunity for someremark, but since he remained silent she went on slowly.

“I think the most valuable thing I have learnt in my life is that thereis so much to say on both sides of every question that there is little tochoose between them. It has made me tolerant, so that I can listen with equalinterest to you and to my cousin Algernon. After all, how can I tell whetherTruth has one shape only, or many? In how many errors does she linger with asmiling face and insufficient raiment; in what contrary and irreconcilableplaces does she dwell, more wilful than April winds, more whimsical than theWill-o-the-wisp! My art and science is to live. It is an argument of weak mento say that all things are vanity because the pleasure of them is ephemeral: itmay console the beggar to look upon the tomb of kings, but then he must be afool as well. The pleasures of life are illusion, but when pessimists complainthat human delights are negligible because they are unreal, they talk absurdly;for reality none knows, and few care about: our only interest is with illusion.How foolish is it to say that the mirage in the desert is not beautiful merelybecause it is an atmospheric effect!”

“Is life, then, nothing but a voyage which a man takes, bound nowhitherand tossed perpetually upon a treacherous sea?”

“Not quite. Storms don’t rage continually, nor is the wind for everboisterous: sometimes it blows fair and strong, so that the ship leaps forwardwith animal delight; the mariner exults in his skilful power and in the joy ofthe limitless horizon. Sometimes the sea is placid like a sleeping youth, andthe scented air, balmy and fresh, fills the heart with lazy pleasure. The oceanhas its countless mysteries, its thoughts and manifold emotions. Why on earthshould you not look upon the passage as a pleasure-trip, whereon the roughweather must necessarily be taken with the smooth—looking regretlesslytowards the end, but joyful even amid hurricane or gale in the recollection ofhappy, easy days? Why not abandon life, saying: I have had evil fortune andgood, and the pains were compensated by the pleasures; and though my journey,with all its perils, has led me nowhither, though I return tired and old to theport whence with my many hopes I started, I am content to have lived.”

“And so, for all your experience, your study, and your thought,you’ve found absolutely no meaning,” cried Frank, profoundlydiscouraged.

“I invented a meaning of sorts; like a critic explaining a symbolicalpicture, or a school-boy construing a passage he doesn’t at allunderstand, I at least made the words hang sensibly together. I aimed athappiness, and I think, on the whole, I’ve found it. I lived according tomy instincts, and sought every emotion that my senses offered; I turned awaydeliberately from what was ugly and tedious, fixing my eyes with all my soul onBeauty—seen, I hope, with a discreet appreciation of the Ridiculous. Inever troubled myself much with current notions of good and evil, for I knewthey were merely relative, but strove always to order my life so that to myeyes at least it should form a graceful pattern on the dark inane.”

Miss Ley stopped, and a whimsical smile flickered across her face.

“But I should tell you that, like Mr. Shandy, who was so long about histreatise on the education of his son that by the time it was finishedTristram’s growth made it useless, I did not formulate my philosophy tillit was too late to set much of it in practice.”

“Dinner is served, madam,” said the butler, coming into the room.

“By Jove!” cried Frank, springing up, “I had no idea it wasso late.”

“But you’re going to stay? I think you’ll find a place laidfor you.”

“I’ve ordered my dinner at home.”

“I’m sure it won’t be so good as mine.”

“I never saw anyone quite so conceited as you about the excellence ofyour cook, Miss Ley.”

“Just as it is far easier for a man to be a philosopher than a gentleman,my dear, it is less difficult to cultivate a Christian disposition than goodcooking.”

They went downstairs, and Miss Ley ordered a bottle of Miss Dwarris’champagne to be opened. She had a cynical belief in the efficacy of a squaremeal to relieve most spiritual torments; but besides, heroically—for shewas an indolent woman—took pains to amuse her guest. She talked of manythings, gaily and tenderly, while Frank, the dinner finished, smokedinnumerable pipes. At last Big Ben struck twelve, and cheerful now, resigned tophilosophic doubt, he rose to his feet. Frank took both Miss Ley’s hands.

“You’re a jewel of a woman. I was quite wretched when I came, andyou’ve put new life into me.”

“Not I!” she cried. “The chocolate souffle and the champagne.I have always observed that the human soul is peculiarly susceptible to theculinary art. Personally, I never feel so spiritual as when I’ve slightlyovereaten myself. I wish you wouldn’t squeeze my hands.”

“You’re the only woman I know who’s as interesting to talk toas a man.”

“Faith, and I believe if I were twenty years younger the child wouldpropose to me!”

“You have only to say the word, and I’ll lead you to thealtar.”

“I’m a proud woman this day to get an offer of marriage in myfifty-seventh year. But where, my dear, if I married you, would you go to havetea in the afternoon?”

Frank laughed, but in his voice when he answered there was something very likea sob.

“You’re a dear, kind thing. And I’m sure I shall never behalf so devoted to any other woman as I am to you.”

The emotion must have been catching, for Miss Ley’s tones had not theirusual cold steadiness.

“Don’t be a drivelling idiot, my dear!” she answered, andwhen the door was closed behind him added to herself, half in irritation:“Bless the boy, I wish I were his mother.”

XIII

Two days later Miss Ley duly travelled down to Tercanbury, and was met at thestation by Bella, who told her that, according to their arrangement, no mentionhad yet been made of the proposed marriage. She had announced merely thatHerbert Field, whom she desired to make acquainted with her father, would cometo tea that day. The Dean welcomed Miss Ley with joy.

“It’s very gracious and charming of you to shed your light on ourprovincial darkness, my dear,” he exclaimed, taking her hand.

“Don’t hold my hand, Algernon. I had a proposal of marriage onSaturday night, and I’m palpitating still.”

“Oh, Mary, do tell us all about it,” cried Miss Langton, withdelight.

“I shan’t! I told Algernon simply because I notice the average manhas no consideration at all for a single woman unless she’smarriageable.”

“But why didn’t you bring your friend, Dr. Hurrell?” askedthe Dean. “Only to-day I bought a Latin herbary, written in theseventeenth century, which I’m sure would interest him.”

“As if he’d understand a word of it, my dear Algernon! Besides, Ithought it quite enough for you to snatch one brand at a time from theburning.”

“Ah, Polly, I shouldn’t like to stand in your shoes on the LastDay,” he answered, with twinkling eyes.

“I very much doubt if you could get into them,” replied Miss Leyquickly, protruding a small and elegant foot.

“The sin of pride, my dear!” said the Dean, shaking his finger ather. “Pride of all sorts, for not Lucifer himself was more satisfied withthe excellence of his understanding.”

“I don’t care, Algernon—if I frizzle, I frizzle,”laughed Miss Ley. “I know I’m no fool, and after all, my glovesare sixes.”

Tea was brought in, and presently Herbert Field made his appearance. The Dean,who liked all young things, shook hands with him warmly.

“I’ve heard about you from Bella. I don’t know why she hasnever before allowed me to set eyes on you.”

He talked to the boy about his old school, and finding him interested in theantiquities of Tercanbury, gave way to his own enthusiasm. He fetched from hisstudy certain lately-acquired plates of old churches in that city, and Bellawatched the pair, the youth’s fair head contrasting with herfather’s white hair and benign face, bending over them under the lamp.She was delighted with the friendship that seemed about to spring up betweenthem, and wished with all her heart that they might thus spend many charmingevenings interchanging views on books and pictures; while she sat by tendingthem as though both were her children.

“Now that you’ve broken the ice, you must come again often,”said the Dean, holding the boy’s hand, when Herbert bade him good-bye.“I must show you my library; and, if you’re fond of old books, Idare say there are some I have in duplicate which you might care tohave.”

“It’s very kind of you,” answered Herbert, flushing, for theDean’s old-fashioned courtesy was a little overwhelming, and the statelykindness hard to bear when soon he must distress him so enormously by takingaway his daughter.

When Herbert was gone, the Dean said he would return to his study to finish anarticle he was preparing for a learned magazine on one of the later Romanorators.

“Would you stay a few minutes longer, father?” said Bella; “Ihave something I wish to talk to you about.”

“Certainly, my dear,” he replied, sitting down. He turned with aquiet smile to Miss Ley. “When Bella used to announce an importantcommunication, my heart sank to my boots, for I always expected she wouldinform me of her approaching marriage; but I bear it now with equanimity,because it is invariably only to wheedle me into getting a boy into the choirwho has every qualification except a voice, or to provide a home for somedeserving widow.”

“D’you think I’m too old to marry now?” asked Bella,smiling.

“My dear, for twenty years you’ve refused the most eligibleaspirants. Shall we tell Polly about the last one?”

“She wouldn’t tell us.”

“Only two months ago one of our Canons solemnly asked me whether he mightpay his addresses to Bella, But she wouldn’t hear of it, because he hadseven children by his first wife.”

“He was a singularly dull man into the bargain,” answered Bella.

“Nonsense, my dear; he has a first edition of thePilgrim’sProgress.”

“Did you like Mr. Field?” asked Bella quietly.

“Very much,” answered the Dean. “He seems a quiet, modestyoung man.”

“I’m glad of that, father, because I’m engaged to be marriedto him.”

The Dean gasped; the shock was so great that for a moment he could not speak,and then he began to tremble. Miss Langton watched him anxiously.

“It’s impossible, Bella,” he muttered at last. “Youmust be joking.”

“Why?”

“He’s twenty years younger than you.”

“Yes, that’s true. I should never have thought of marriage only hehas consumption. I want to be his nurse more than his wife.”

“But he isn’t a gentleman,” said the Dean, looking at hergravely.

“Father, how can you say that!” cried Bella indignantly, reddening.“I’ve never met anyone with such a gentle soul. He’s allgoodness and purity.”

“Women know nothing about such things. They can never tell if aman’s a gentleman or not. What was his father?”

“His father was a tradesman. But kind hearts are more thancoronets.”

The Dean tightened his lips. He had recovered now from his surprise, and stoodbefore Bella, stern and cold.

“I dare say. But a kind heart doesn’t make a gentleman. Polly cantell you that as well as I.”

“Quite the biggest scoundrel I ever knew was Lord William Heather,”said Miss Ley reflectively. “He was a cheat and a blackmailer. He hadcommitted every crime, great and mean, and kept out of prison only by miracleand the influence of his family; yet no one for a moment could deny that to hisvery finger-tips he was a gentleman. I never saw a better in my life. Gentilityhas nothing whatever to do with the Ten Commandments.”

“Mary, don’t go against me, too,” cried Bella. “I wantyour help.” She went up to the Dean and took his hands. “Fatherdear, this isn’t a rash whim of mine. I’ve considered it gravely,and I promise you that my motives are neither low nor unworthy. I would givethe world not to cause you pain, and if I do, it’s only because I thinkmy duty here is clear. I beg you to give me your consent, and I beg you toremember that for many years I’ve devoted myself to your comfort.”

The Dean released his hands.

“I didn’t know that you looked upon it as an irksome task,”he answered frigidly, “And why do you suppose this man wants to marryyou?” He seized Bella’s arm, and with energy surprising in one ofso fragile appearance, led her to the glass. “Look at yourself. Is itnatural for a boy to wish to marry a woman old enough to be his mother?”With hard eyes he scrutinized his daughter’s face and the wrinkles abouther mouth. “Look at your hands; they’re almost the hands of an oldwoman. I was mistaken in your friend; he can be nothing better than anunscrupulous fortune-hunter.”

Bella turned away with a groan; she could not understand that her father,gentleness itself, should suddenly be so horribly cruel.

“I know I’m old and plain,” she cried, “and Idon’t think a moment that Herbert loves me. He would never have thoughtof marrying me unless I had asked him. But I can only save his life by takinghim abroad.”

For a while the Dean looked down in deep thought.

“If he’s ill and must go abroad, Bella, I will willingly give himall the money he needs.”

“But I love him, father,” she answered, with a blush.

“Do you mean that seriously?”

“Yes.”

Then heavy tears came to his eyes, and ran slowly down his cheeks; the hardnesswas gone out of his voice when he answered, and it was half choked with sobs.

“Would you leave me alone, Bella? Can’t you wait till I’mdead? I shan’t last very much longer.”

“Oh, father, don’t say that. Heaven knows I don’t want topain you. It tears my heart to think of leaving you. Let me marry him, and comewith us to Italy. We may be very happy all three of us.”

But at this the Dean drew back from Bella’s appealing hands, and brushingaway his tears, drew himself up sternly.

“No, I will never do that, Bella. I’ve tried to remember all mylife that first of all I’m a Christian minister, but pride of race is inmy blood. I’m proud of my stock, and in my small way I’ve sought toadd honour to it. By marrying this man you dishonour yourself and you dishonourme. How can you suffer to change the glorious name you bear for that of amiserable little counter-jumper! I have no right to ask you to refrain frommarriage because I’m old and helpless, and you’ve made me utterlydependent on you, but I have a right to ask you not to disgrace the name of myfamily.”

Miss Ley had never before seen such severity in the gentle Dean; an unwontedfire had driven away the delightful sweetness which was his most charmingtrait, and two red spots burned on his cheeks. His very voice was harsh, and heheld himself upright, austere and cold, like some Roman senator conscious ofhis royal responsibility. But Bella was unmoved.

“I’m very sorry, father, that you should look at it in such anarrow way. I can never think it dishonourable to take the name of the man Ilove. I’m afraid that if you won’t consent I must still do as Ithink right.”

He gave her a long and searching look.

“It’s a very grave step absolutely to disobey your father, Bella. Ithink it’s the first time in your life.”

“I realize that.”

“Then let me tell you that if you leave the Deanery to marry thiswretched tradesman, neither you nor he shall ever enter it again.”

“You must do as you think fit, father. I shall follow my husband.”

Slowly the Dean walked out of the room.

“He’ll never change his mind,” said Bella in despair, turningto Miss Ley. “He refused ever to see Bertha Ley because she married afarmer. His manner is so gentle, so sweet, that you might think his heartoverflowed with humility, but he’s right when he says pride of race is inhis blood. I think I alone know how enormous it is in him.”

“What will you do now?” asked Miss Ley.

“What can I do? It means that I must choose between Herbert and myfather; and Herbert needs me most.”

They did not see the Dean again till dinner, when he came down, dressed as washis fastidious habit, with silk stockings and buckled shoes, in the full arrayof his degree. He sat at the table silently, scarcely eating, and paid noattention to the conversation, forced and trivial, between Bella and Miss Ley.Now and then a heavy tear rolled down his cheek. He was a man of methodicalhabits, and till ten o’clock always remained in the drawing-room; on thisoccasion, therefore, as on others, he sat down and took up theGuardian,but Bella saw that he did not read, since for an hour his gaze was fixedvacantly on the same place, and now and then he drew out a handkerchief to dryhis eyes. When the clock struck he rose, and his face was worn and gray withutter wretchedness.

“Good-night, Polly,” he said. “I hope Bella has seen that youhave everything you require.”

He walked towards the door, but Miss Langton stopped him.

“You’re not going without kissing me, father? You know it cuts myheart to make you so unhappy.”

“I don’t think we need discuss the matter again, Bella,” heanswered coldly. “As you reminded me, you are of an age to decide yourown affairs. I have nothing more to say, but I shall remain steadfast to myresolution.”

He turned on his heels and closed the door behind him; they heard him lockhimself in his study.

“He’s never gone to bed without kissing me before,” saidBella painfully. “Even when he stayed out late, he used to come into myroom to bid me good-night. Oh, poor man, how frightfully unhappy I’vemade him!”

She looked at Miss Ley with anguish in her eyes.

“Oh, Mary, how hard it is that in this life you can’t do good toone person without hurting another! Duty so often points in two contrarydirections, and the pleasure of doing the one duty is so much less than thepain of neglecting the other.”

“Would you like me to speak to your father?”

“You can do no good. You don’t know what immovable determinationlies behind his meek and gentle manner.”

The Dean sat at his study table, his face buried in his hands, and when at lasthe went to bed, could not sleep, but brooded continually over the change thatmust occur in all his habits. He knew not what he should do without Bella, butcould have reconciled himself to the loss if the youth and station of HerbertField had not to his mind made the union unnatural and outrageous. He was palerthan ever next day, bowed and haggard, and went about the house restlessly,silent, avoiding Bella’s compassionate eyes: with an old man’sweakness, he could not restrain the tears of which he was ashamed, and hidhimself that he might not excite his daughter’s pity. Miss Ley attemptedto reason with him, but no good came; he was by turns obstinate and imploring.

“She can’t leave me now, Polly,” he said. “Can’tshe see how old I am, and how much I want her? Let her wait a little. Idon’t want to die alone with strange hands to close my eyes.”

“But you’re not going to die, my dear Algernon. Our family to itsuttermost branches has two marked characteristics, pig-headedness andlongevity; and you’ll live for another twenty years. After all, Bella hasdone a great deal for you. Don’t you realize that she wants to live herown life for a little? You haven’t noticed the change in her during thelast few years; she’s no longer a girl, but a woman of decided views; andwhen a spinster develops views there’s the devil to pay, my dear. Ialways think the one duty of human beings is not to hinder their neighbours infulfilling themselves. Why don’t you change your mind, and go with themto Italy?”

“I would sooner remain solitary to the end of my days,” he cried,with sudden vehemence. “The women of our family have always marriedgentlemen. You pretend to despise birth, and consider yourself in consequencebroad-minded; but I was brought up with the belief that my ancestors had handeddown to me an honoured name, and I must sooner die than disgrace it. In all thetemptations of my life I’ve remembered that, and if I’ve been tooproud of my race I ask God to forgive me.”

He was immovable; and Miss Ley, to whom the point of view seemed quiteridiculous, turned away with a shrug of the shoulders. A special license hadbeen obtained, and on the following Friday, the day fixed for the marriage,Bella with a heavy heart put on a travelling-dress. They were to take the trainimmediately after the ceremony, catch the afternoon boat to Calais, and thencetravel directly to Milan. The Dean, informed by Miss Ley of the arrangements,had said no word. Before starting for church Bella went to her father’sstudy to bid him good-bye; she wished to make one more effort to soften him andto gain his forgiveness.

She knocked at the door, but no answer came, and turning the handle, she foundit locked.

“May I come in, father?” she cried.

“I’m very busy,” he answered, in a trembling voice.

“Please open the door. I’m just going away. Let me say good-bye toyou.”

There was a pause, while Bella waited with beating heart.

“Father,” she called again.

“I tell you I’m very busy. Please don’t disturb me.”

She gave a sob and turned away.

“I think nothing makes one so hard as virtue,” she muttered.

Miss Ley was waiting in the hall, and very quietly the two women walked to thechurch where the marriage was to take place. Herbert stood at the chancel, andwhen Bella saw his bright smile of welcome she took courage; she could notdoubt that she was acting wisely. Miss Ley gave her away. It was a verymatter-of-fact ceremony, but afterwards in the vestry Herbert tenderly kissedhis bride; then she gave a little hysterical laugh to choke down her tears.

“Thank heaven it’s over!” she said.

The luggage had preceded them to the station, whither they now walked demurely;soon the train arrived, and the happy pair set off on their long journey. Butwhen the Dean knew that his daughter was gone from his house for good and all,he came out of his study; with aching heart he went to her room and noted theloneliness which seemed to fill it; he went to the drawing-room, and that wasbare and empty, too. For a while he sat down, and since none could see,surrendered helplessly to his grief; he asked himself to what he could now lookforward, and with joined hands prayed that death might soon release him fromhis utter misery. Presently, taking his hat, he walked through the cloister,thinking in the cathedral he loved so well to gain at least a measure of peace;but in the transept his eye caught the large plate of polished brass on whichwere graven the names of all the Deans his predecessors: first there werestrange Saxon names, half mythical in appearance, and then the sonorous namesof Norman priests, names of divines remembered still in the stately annals ofthe English Church, great preachers, scholars, statesmen; and lastly his own.And the fire came to his cheeks, anger inflamed him, when he thought that hisname, not a whit behind the proudest of them all in dignity and honour, musthenceforth be utterly shameful.

At luncheon the Dean, exerting himself to shake off his despondency, spoke withMiss Ley of indifferent topics. In a little while she glanced at the clock.

“Bella must be just leaving Dover now,” she said.

“I would rather you didn’t talk to me of her, Polly,” heanswered, with a shaking voice which he strove to render firm. “I musttry to forget that I ever had a daughter.”

“I believe that the most deep-rooted of human passions is that whichmakes men cut off their nose to spite their face,” she answered dryly.

Afterwards Miss Ley expressed a wish to drive over to Leanham and Court Leys,and invited the Dean to accompany her, but on his refusal ordered the carriageto be ready at three. For several years she had not seen the house wherein herancestors, since the time of George II., had been born; nor was it without adiscreet emotion that she recognised the well-known fields, the flat marshes,and the shining sea, which at that spot, to her partial eyes, had a peculiarcharm not to be found elsewhere. She drove to Leanham Church, and getting thekey, walked in to look at the stones and brasses which preserved the memory ofher forebears: a new tablet recorded the birth, death, and qualities of EdwardCraddock, and underneath a space was left for the name of his widow. She couldnot repress a sigh when she remembered that herself and Bertha, wife of thesaid Edward Craddock, would bring that long list to an end: after them thechapter of the Family of Ley would be closed for ever, and the pages of Burkeknow them no more.

“Algernon can say what he likes,” she muttered, “but theywere a dull lot. Families, like nations, only grow interesting in theirdecadence.”

Driving on, she came to Court Leys, which stood as ever white and square, asthough placed upon the ground like a house of cards. Closed since the death ofCraddock, husband to her niece, it wore a desolate and forsaken look; the trimand well-mown lawns were choked with weeds, and the flower-beds bare offlowers; the closed gates, the shuttered windows, gave it a sinisterappearance, and with a shudder Miss Ley turned away. She bade the coachman goback to Tercanbury, and deep in meditation, paid no more attention to thesurrounding scenes. She started at hearing her name called in tones ofastonishment, and noticed that Miss Glover, sister to the Vicar of Leanham, wasstaring after her. She stopped the carriage, and Miss Glover quickly walked up.

“Who ever thought of seeing you, Miss Ley? It’s quite like oldtimes.”

Now, don’t gush, my dear. I’m staying with my cousin at theDeanery, and I thought I would come over and see if Court Leys still stood inits place.”

“Oh, Miss Ley, you must be very much upset. The poor Dean, they sayhe’s quite broken-hearted! You know young Field’s father was alinen-draper at Blackstable.”

“It looks as if themésalliance were endemic in my family. Youmust never be surprised to hear that I have married my butler, a mostrespectable man.”

“Oh, but poor Edward was different, and he turned out so well. Where isBertha now? She never writes.”

“I believe she’s in Italy. I mean her to marry Frank Hurrell, theson of old Dr. Hurrell of Ferne.”

“Oh, but, Miss Ley, will she?”

“She’s never set eyes on him yet,” answered Miss Ley, smilingdryly, “But they’d suit one another admirably.”

“Doesn’t it make you feel sad to see the old house shut up?”

“My dear, I take care never to give way to regret, which is nearly assinful as repentance.”

“I don’t understand you,” answered Miss Glover. “Idon’t believe it means anything to you that, as far as ever you can see,it’s Ley land.”

“There you wrong me. I do feel a certain satisfaction in revisiting theplace; it makes me so glad that I live somewhere else. But I dare sayit’s a fine thing to be in the country on your own land, even ifyou’re only a woman. I like to feel that my roots are here. When I lookround, I can hardly resist the temptation to take off my clothes and roll in aploughed field.”

“I hope you won’t, Miss Ley,” answered Fanny Glover, somewhatshocked; “it would look so odd.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, my dear,” smiled the other.“You’re so innocent that each time I see you I expect to find wingssprouting on your shoulders.”

“I see you’re just the same as ever.”

“Pardon me, I grow distinctly younger every year. Upon my word, sometimesI don’t feel more than eighteen.”

Then Miss Glover made the only repartee of her life.

“I confess I think you look quite twenty-five, Miss Ley,” shereplied with a grim smile.

“You impudent creature!” laughed the other, and, telling thecoachman to drive on, with a wave of the hand bade good-bye to Miss Glover, thescenes of her youth, and the fields which seemed part of her very blood and herbones.

Since the Dean somewhat curtly declined her offer to stay longer with him, MissLey set out next day for London. But a curious unrest had seized her, and shebegan much to regret her determination to spend the winter in England; Mrs.Murray was already gone to Rome, and the sight of Bella leaving for theContinent had excited still more in Miss Ley’s veins the travel-fever.She pictured to herself all the little delightful bothers of the Custom House,the mustiness of hotel ’buses, the sweet tediousness of long journeys bytrain, the grateful discomforts of foreign hostelries; she thought with dazzledeyes of the dingy grayness of Boulogne, and her nostrils inhaled the well-knownodours of the port and station. Her nerves tingled with eagerness to forsakeher house, her servants, and to plunge into the charming freedom of the idletourist. But the train she was in stopped at Rochester, and her abstracted gazefixed suddenly on that scene which, she remembered, Basil Kent had once highlyextolled: the sky with its massive clouds was sombre, and its restfulness wasmirrored on the fiat surface of the Medway; tall chimneys belched windingsmoke, a sinuous pattern against the grayness, and the low factory buildingswere white with dust; to the observant there was indeed a decorative quality,recalling in its economy of line, in its subdued and careful colour, theelegance of a Japanese print.

Miss Ley sprang up.

“Give me my dressing-bag,” she said to her astonished maid.“You can go on to London. I shall stay here.”

“Alone, madam?”

“D’you think anyone will run away with me! Be quick, or I shall betaken on.”

She seized her bag, jumped out of the carriage, and when the train steamed awaygave a great sigh of relief; it quietened her nerves to be alone in a strangetown, where none knew her, and walking downstairs she felt a most curiousexhilaration. She surveyed the hotel ’buses, chose the most elaborate,and drove off.

With characteristic wilfulness, Miss Ley set no great store on the morecelebrated objects that tourists visited; she had an idea that a work of artcould arouse but a limited amount of enthusiasm, and this, with such as wereworld-renowned, seemed exhausted before ever she came to them. On theContinent, when she visited a fresh town, it was her practice to wander atrandom, watching the people, and nothing delighted her more than to discoversome neglected garden or a decorated doorway, which the good Baedeker,carefully left at home, did not mention. That afternoon, then, in thelamplight, the inhabitants of Rochester might have seen a little old woman,plainly dressed, sauntering idly down the High Street, observing with keeneyes, amused and tolerant, and upborne, evidently, by a feeling of greatself-satisfaction. At that moment the house in Old Queen Street seemed aprison, of which the faithful butler was head-gaoler; and the admirable dinner,all prepared, was more abhorrent than skilly and hard bread.

Presently, growing tired, Miss Ley returned to the hotel, and after restingwent down to the dining-room. The waiter placed her at a little table, andwhile waiting for dinner to be brought she played absently with the Renaissancejewel which never left her. It had not yet occurred to her to examine thepeople who sat in the large room, and now, slowly raising her eyes, she sawfixed upon her, with a terrified expression, those of—Mrs. Castillyon;her face was livid with anxiety. At first Miss Ley did not understand, but thenshe perceived that Reggie Bassett was there also. No sign of recognition passedbetween the two women; Mrs. Castillyon looked down, and with scarcely amovement of the lips, spoke to Reggie. He started, and instinctively was aboutto turn round, but a quick word from his neighbour prevented him. Though seatedsome way from Miss Ley, they spoke in hurried whispers, as though afraid thevery air should hear them. Miss Ley curiously glanced up once more, and oncemore Mrs. Castillyon’s eyes were hastily lowered. The ghastly pallor ofher face was such that Miss Ley thought she would faint. Reggie poured out atumbler of champagne, which Mrs. Castillyon quickly drank.

“I don’t think they’ll have a very pleasant dinner,”murmured the elderly spinster, repressing a smile. “I wonder why on earththey chose Rochester.”

Then, mentally, she abused Frank for not telling her what she felt certain hevery well knew. Indeed, Miss Ley was scarcely less confused than Mrs.Castillyon, for she had no idea there existed such a relationship between thepair as to occasion a visit to the country from Saturday to Monday. But she puttwo and two together. She pursed her lips when she remembered that PaulCastillyon was at that time in the North of England speaking at a politicalmeeting, and again smiled quietly to herself. She was devoured with eagernessto know how her neighbours would conduct themselves, for it always amused herto see in what manner people acted in untoward circumstances. She appeared notto look at them, but was able, notwithstanding, to note the hurried colloquy,followed by an uneasy silence, with which they finished their meal. It couldnot be denied that Miss Ley ate her dinner not only with equanimity, but withadded zest.

“I didn’t know they cooked so well in English hotels,” shemurmured. She called the waiter. “Can you tell me who that lady is at thefifth table from here?”

“Mrs. Barlow, madam. They only arrived this afternoon.”

“And is the gentleman her husband or her son?”

“Her husband, madam, I think.”

“Pray bring me a newspaper.”

Mrs. Castillyon and Reggie were bound to pass her on their way to the door, andMiss Ley, somewhat ill-naturedly, determined to remain where she was. Her sightwas good enough for her to notice a look of utter despair on the prettywoman’s face when aWestminster Gazette accompanied the coffee.Miss Ley arranged it in front of her, and was soon engrossed in the perusal ofa leading article.

There was no help, and Mrs. Castillyon was obliged to make the best of it.Reggie got up and strolled out, his eyes glued to the floor, with a scowl onhis handsome features which indicated that Mrs. Castillyon would suffer for themischance. But she was bolder; she walked a few steps behind him, uprightly,with a swaying movement of the hips that was habitual to her, and arriving infront of Miss Ley, stopped with a very natural cry of surprise.

“Miss Ley, of all people! How delightful to find you down here!”

She held out her hand with every appearance of joy. Miss Ley smiled coldly.

“I hope I see you well, Mrs. Castillyon.”

“Have you been dining here? How extraordinary that I didn’t seeyou! But it’s been a day of odd things for me. When I came into thehotel, the first person I ran across was Mr. Bassett. So I asked him to dinewith me. It appears he’s staying in the neighbourhood. I wonder youdidn’t see him.”

“I did.”

“Why on earth didn’t you come and speak to us? We might all havedined together.”

“What a prodigious fool you must think me, my dear!” drawled MissLey, with a mingled expression of scorn and amusement.

At this Mrs. Castillyon started, her face grew on a sudden horribly gray, andher eyes were filled with abject tenor. She had not the strength to continuethe pretence on which she had at first counted; she saw, moreover, that it wasuseless.

“You won’t give me away, Miss Ley,” she whispered, in a tonethat fear made scarcely articulate.

“I have no doubt that curiosity is my besetting sin,” answered MissLey, “but not indiscretion. Only fools discuss the concrete; theintelligent are more concerned with the abstract.”

“D’you know that Paul’s mother would give half her fortune toknow that I was down here with a man? Oh, how glad she’d be of the chanceof hounding me down! For God’s sake promise that you’ll never say aword. You don’t want to ruin me, do you?”

“I promise faithfully.”

Mrs. Castillyon gave a sigh of relief that was half a sob of pain. The room wasempty except for the waiter clearing away, but she thought he watchedsuspiciously.

“But now I’m in your power, too,” she groaned. “I wishto God I’d never come here. Why doesn’t that man go away. I feel Icould scream at the top of my voice.”

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” answered Miss Ley quietly.

Valuing nothing so much as self-restraint, she observed Mrs. Castillyon with acertain scorn, for this pitiful exhibition of shame and terror somewhatdisgusted her. None was more indifferent to convention than herself, and themarriage tie especially excited her ridicule, but she despised entirely thosewho disregarded the by-laws of society, yet lacked courage to suffer theresults of their boldness: to seek the good opinion of the world, and yetsecretly to act counter to its idea of decorum, was a very contemptiblehypocrisy. Mrs. Castillyon, divining the sense of Miss Ley’s scrutiny,watched anxiously.

“You must utterly despise me,” she moaned.

“Don’t you think you’d better come back to London with meto-night,” answered Miss Ley, fixing on the terrified woman her cold,stern gray eyes.

Mrs. Castillyon’s buoyant sprightliness had completely disappeared, andshe sat before the elder woman haggard and white, like a guilty prisoner beforehis judge. But at this proposition a faint blush came to her cheeks, and a lookof piteous anguish turned down the corners of her mouth.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “Don’t ask me to dothat.”

“Why?”

“I daren’t leave him; he’ll go after some of those women inChatham.”

“Has it come to that already?”

“Oh, Miss Ley, I’ve been so awfully punished. I didn’t meanto go so far. I only wanted to amuse myself—I was so bored; you know whatPaul is. Sometimes he was so tedious and dull that I flung myself on my bed andjust screamed.”

“All husbands sometimes are tedious and dull,” remarked Miss Leyreflectively, “just as all wives are often peevish. But he’s veryfond of you.”

“I think it would break his heart if he knew. I’m so utterlywretched. I couldn’t help myself; I love Reggie with all my soul. And hedoesn’t care two straws for me! At first he was flattered because I waswhat he calls a gentlewoman, but now he only sticks to me because I payhim.”

“What!” cried Miss Ley.

“His mother doesn’t give him enough money, and I manage to helphim. He pays all the bills with notes I give, and I pretend to thinkthere’s never any change. Oh, I hate and despise him, and yet if he leftme I think I should die.”

Hiding her face in her hands, she wept irresistibly. Miss Ley meditated. In amoment Mrs. Castillyon looked up, clenching her fists.

“And now when I go to him he’ll abuse me like a fishwife because Isuggested Rochester. He’ll say it was my fault that we came here. Oh, Iwish we’d never come; I knew it was madness. I wish I’d never seteyes on him.”

“But why did you hit upon Rochester?” asked Miss Ley.

“Don’t you remember Basil Kent talked about it? I thought no oneever came here, and Paul said wild-horses wouldn’t drag him. That settledit.”

“Basil must apply his æsthetic theories to less accessible places,”murmured Miss Ley. “For that is why I came also. You know, our place isnot far from here, and I’ve been staying at Tercanbury.”

“I forgot that.”

For a little while they remained silent. The hotel dining-room, with most ofthe lights extinguished, the tables clear but for white table-cloths, wasgloomy and depressing. Mrs. Castillyon shuddered as painfully she took in thescene, and dimly felt that this passion, which had seemed so wonderful, in MissLey’s eyes must appear most sordid and mean.

“Can’t you help me at all?” she moaned.

“Why don’t you break with Reggie altogether?” asked Miss Ley.“I know him pretty well, and I don’t think he will ever bring youmuch happiness.”

“I wish I had the strength.”

Miss Ley gently placed her hand on the thin, jewelled fingers of the unhappywoman.

“Let me take you up to London to-night, my dear.”

Mrs. Castillyon looked at her with tear-filled eyes.

“Not to-night,” she begged. “Give me till Monday, and thenI’ll break with him altogether.”

“It must be now or never. Don’t you think it had better benow?”

None would have thought that Miss Ley’s cold voice was capable of suchpersuasive tenderness.

“Very well,” said Mrs. Castillyon, utterly exhausted.“I’ll go and tell Reggie.”

“If he raises any objection, say that I make it a condition of holding mytongue.”

“Much he’ll care!” replied Mrs. Castillyon, with a sob ofanger.

She went away, but immediately returned.

“He’s gone,” she said.

“Gone?”

“Without a word. All the things are out of his room. He’s alwaysbeen a coward, and he’s just run away.”

“And left you to pay the bill. How like dear Reggie!”

“You’re right, Miss Ley: no good can come of the whole thing. Thisis the end, I’ll drop him. Take me up to London, and I promise youI’ll never see him again. I will try from now to do my duty toPaul.”

Their traps were soon collected, and they caught the last train to town. Mrs.Castillyon sat in the corner of the carriage, her face woebegone and whiteagainst the blue cushions; she looked out into the night and never spoke. Hercompanion meditated.

“I wonder what there is in respectability,” she thought,“that I should take such pains to lead back that woman to its dull,complacent paths. She’s a poor creature, and I don’t supposeshe’s worth the trouble; and I haven’t seen Rochester after all.But I must take great care, I’m becoming quite a censor of morals, andsoon I shall grow positively tedious.”

She glanced at the pretty woman, looking then so old and worn, the powder onher cheeks emphasizing their wan hollowness. She was crying silently.

“I wonder if that beast Frank knew all the time, and basely kept thesecret.”

When at last they drew near London, Mrs. Castillyon roused herself. She turnedto her friend with a sort of despairing scorn.

“You’re fond of aphorisms, Miss Ley,” she said.“Here’s one that I’ve found out for myself: One can despiseno one so intensely as the person one loves with all one’s heart.”

“Frank can say what he likes,” answered the other, “butthere’s nothing like mortal pain for making people entertaining.”

A few days later Miss Ley, who prided herself that she made plans only for thepleasure of breaking them, started for Italy.

PART II

I

Miss Ley returned to England at the end of February. Unlike the most of hercompatriots, she did not go abroad to see the friends with whom she spent muchtime at home; and though Bella and Herbert Field were at Naples, Mrs. Murray inRome, she took care systematically to avoid them. Rather was it her practice tocultivate chance acquaintance, for she thought the English in foreign landsbetrayed their idiosyncrasies with a pleasant and edifying frankness. InVenice, for example, or at Capri, the delectable isle, romance might be seizedas it were in the act, and all manner of oddities were displayed with a mostdiverting effrontery. In those places you meet middle-aged pairs, uncertainlyrelated, whose vehement adventures startled the decorum of a previousgeneration. You discover how queer may be the most conventional, how ordinarythe most eccentric. Miss Ley, with her discreet knack for extractingconfidence, after her own staid fashion enjoyed herself immensely. She listenedto the strange confessions of men who for their souls’ sake had abandonedthe greatness of the world, and now spoke of their past zeal with indulgentirony; of women who for love had been willing to break down the very pillars ofheaven, and now shrugged their shoulders in amused recollection of passion longsince dead.

“Well, what have you fresh to tell me?” asked Frank, having metMiss Ley at Victoria, when he sat down to dinner in Old Queen Street.

“Nothing much. But I’ve noticed that when pleasure has exhausted aman he’s convinced that he has exhausted pleasure; then he tells yougravely that nothing can satisfy the human heart.”

But Frank had more important news than this, for Jenny, a week before, wasdelivered of a still-born child, and had been so ill that it was thought shecould not recover. Now, however, the worst was over, and if nothing untowardbefell she might be expected slowly to regain health.

“How does Basil take it?” asked Miss Ley.

“He says very little. He’s grown silent of late, but I’mafraid he’s quite heart-broken. You know how enormously he looked forwardto the baby.”

“D’you think he’s fond of his wife?”

“He’s very kind to her. No one could have been gentler than heafter the catastrophe. I think she was the more cut up of the two. You see, shelooked upon it as the reason of their marriage—and he’s been doinghis best to comfort her.”

“I must go down and see them. And now tell me about Mrs.Castillyon.”

“I haven’t set eyes on her for ages.”

Miss Ley observed Frank with deliberation. She wondered if he knew of theaffair with Reggie Bassett, but, though eager to discuss it, would not risk todivulge a secret. In point of fact, he was familiar with all the circumstances,but it amused him to counterfeit ignorance that he might see how Miss Leyguided the conversation to the point she wanted. She spoke of the Dean ofTercanbury, of Bella and her husband; then, as though by chance, mentionedReggie. But the twinkling of Frank’s eyes told her that he was laughingat her stratagem.

“You brute!” she cried. “Why didn’t you tell me allabout it, instead of letting me discover the thing by accident?”

“My sex suggests to me certain elementary notions of honour, MissLey.”

“You needn’t add priggishness to your other detestable vices. Howdid you know they were carrying on in this way?”

“The amiable youth told me. There are very few men who can refrain fromboasting of their conquests, and certainly Reggie isn’t one ofthem.”

“You don’t know Hugh Kearon, do you? He’s had affairs allover Europe, and the most notorious was with a foreign Princess who shall benameless. I think she would have bored him to death if he hadn’t beenable to flourish ostentatiously a handkerchief with a royal crown in the cornerand a large initial.”

Miss Ley then gave her account of the visit to Rochester, and certainly made ofit a very neat and entertaining story.

“And did you think for a moment that this would be the end of thebusiness?” asked Frank, ironically.

“Don’t be spiteful because I hoped for the best.”

“Dear Miss Ley, the bigger blackguard a man is, the more devoted are hislady-loves. It’s only when a man is decent and treats women as if theywere human beings that he has a rough time of it.”

“You know nothing about these things, Frank,” retorted Miss Ley.“Pray give me the facts, and the philosophical conclusions I can draw formyself.”

“Well, Reggie has a natural aptitude for dealing with the sex. I heardall about your excursion to Rochester, and went so far as to assure him thatyou wouldn’t tell his mamma. He perceived that he hadn’t cut a veryheroic figure, so he mounted the high horse, and full of virtuous indignation,for a month took no notice whatever of Mrs. Castillyon. Then she wrote mosthumbly begging him to forgive her; and this, I understand, he graciously did.He came to see me, flung the letter on the table, and said: ‘There, myboy, if anyone asks you, say that what I don’t know about womenain’t worth knowing.’ Two days later he appeared with a goldcigarette-case!”

“What did you say to him?”

“‘One of these days you’ll come the very devil of acropper.’”

“You showed wisdom and emphasis. I hope with all my heart he will.”

“I don’t imagine things are going very smoothly,” proceededFrank. “Reggie tells me she leads him a deuce of a life, and he’sgrowing restive. It appears to be no joke to have a woman desperately in lovewith you. And then he’s never been on such familiar terms with a personof quality, and he’s shocked by her vulgarity. Her behaviour seems oftento outrage his sense of decorum.”

“Isn’t that like an Englishman! He cultivates propriety even in theimmoral.”

Then Miss Ley asked Frank about himself, but they had corresponded withdiligence, and he had little to tell. The work at Saint Luke’s went onmonotonously—lectures to students three times a week, and out-patients onWednesday and Saturday. People were beginning to come to his consulting-room inHarley Street, and he looked forward, without great enthusiasm, to the futureof a fashionable physician.

“And are you in love?”

“You know I shall never permit my affections to wander so long as youremain single,” he answered, laughing.

“Beware I don’t take you at your word and drag you by the hair ofyour head to the altar. Have I no rival?”

“Well, if you press me, I will confess.”

“Monster, what is her name?”

“Bilharzia hæmatobi.”

“Good heavens!”

“It’s a parasite I’m studying. I think authorities are allwrong about it. They’ve not got its life-history right, and the stuffthey believe about the way people catch it is sheer footle.”

“It doesn’t sound frightfully thrilling to me, and I’m underthe impression you’re only trumping it up to conceal some scandalousamour with a ballet-girl.”

Miss Ley’s visit to Barnes seemed welcome neither to Jenny nor to Basil,who looked harassed and unhappy, and only with a visible effort assumed acheerful manner when he addressed his wife. Jenny was still in bed, very weakand ill, but Miss Ley, who had never before seen her, was surprised at hergreat beauty; her face, whiter than the pillows against which it rested, had avery touching pathos, and, notwithstanding all that had gone before, thatwinsome, innocent sweetness which has occasioned the comparison of Englishmaidens to the English rose. The observant woman noticed also the painful,questioning anxiety with which Jenny continually glanced at her husband, asthough pitifully dreading some unmerited reproach.

“I hope you like my wife,” said Basil, when he accompanied Miss Leydownstairs.

“Poor thing! She seems to me like a lovely bird imprisoned by fate withinthe four walls of practical life, who should by rights sing careless songsunder the open skies. I’m afraid you’ll be very unkind toher.”

“Why?” he asked, not without resentment.

“My dear, you’ll make her live up to your blue china teapot. Theworld might be so much happier if people wouldn’t insist on acting up totheir principles.”

Mrs. Bush had been hurriedly sent for when Jenny’s condition seemeddangerous, but in her distress and excitement had sought comfort inBasil’s whisky bottle to such an extent that he was obliged to beg her toreturn to her own home. The scene was not edifying. Surmising an alcoholictendency, Kent, two or three days after her arrival, locked the sideboard andremoved the key. But in a little while the servant came to him.

“If you please, sir, Mrs. Bush says, can she ’ave the whisky;she’s not feelin’ very well.”

“I’ll go to her.”

Mrs. Bush sat in the dining-room with folded hands, doing her utmost to expresson a healthy countenance maternal anxiety, indisposition, and ruffled dignity.She was not vastly pleased to see her son-in-law instead of the expected maid.

“Oh, is that you, Basil?” she said. “I can’t find thesideboard key anywhere, and I’m that upset I must ’ave a littledrop of something.”

“I wouldn’t if I were you, Mrs. Bush. You’re much betterwithout it.”

“Oh, indeed!” she answered, bristling. “P’raps you knowmore about me inside feelings than I do myself. I’ll just trouble you togive me the key, young man, and look sharp about it. I’m not a woman tobe put upon by anyone, and I tell you straight.”

“I’m very sorry, but I think you’ve had quite enough todrink. Jenny may want you, and you would be wise to keep sober.”

“D’you mean to insinuate that I’ve ’ad more than I cancarry?”

“I wouldn’t go quite so far as that,” he answered, smiling.

“Thank you for nothing,” cried Mrs. Bush indignantly. “And Ishould be obliged if you wouldn’t laugh at me, and I must say it’svery ’eartless with me daughter lying ill in her bedroom. I’m verymuch upset, and I did think you’d treat me like a lady; but you never’ave, Mr. Kent—no, not even the first time I come here. Oh, I’aven’t forgot, so don’t you think I ’ave. A sixpenny’alfpenny teapot was good enough for me; but when your lady-friend comein out pops the silver, and I don’t believe for a moment it’s realsilver. Blood’s all very well, Mr. Kent, but what I say is, give memanners. You’re a nice young feller, you are, to grudge me a little dropof spirits when me poor daughter’s on her death-bed. I wouldn’tstay another minute in this ’ouse if it wasn’t for’er.”

“I was going to suggest it would be better if you returned to your happyhome in Crouch End,” answered Basil, when the good woman stopped to takebreath.

“Were you, indeed! Well, we’ll just see what Jenny ’as to sayto that. I suppose my daughter is mistress in ’er own ’ouse.”

Mrs. Bush started to her feet and made for the door, but Basil stood with hisback against it.

“I can’t allow you to go to her now. I don’t thinkyou’re in a fit state.”

“D’you think I’m going to let you prevent me? Get out of myway, young man.”

Basil, more disgusted than out of temper, looked at the angry creature with acold scorn which was not easy to stomach.

“I’m sorry to hurt your feelings, Mrs. Bush, but I thinkyou’d better leave this house at once. Fanny will put your thingstogether. I’m going to Jenny’s room, and I forbid you to come toit. I expect you to be gone in half an hour.”

He turned on his heel, leaving Mrs. Bush furious but intimidated. She was soused to have her own way that opposition took her aback, and Basil’smanner did not suggest that he would easily suffer contradiction. But she madeup her mind, whatever the consequences, to force her way into Jenny’sroom, and there set out her grievance. She had not done repeating to herselfwhat she would say when the servant entered to state that, according to hermaster’s order, she had packed the things. Jenny’s mother startedup indignantly, but pride forbade her to let the maid see she was turned out.

“Quite right, Fanny! This isn’t the ’ouse that a lady wouldstay in; and I pity you, my dear, for ’aving a master like my son-in-law.You can tell ’im, with my compliments, that he’s nogentleman.”

Jenny, who was asleep, woke at the slamming of the front-door.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Your mother has gone away, dearest. D’you mind?”

She looked at him quickly, divining from knowledge of her parent’scharacter that some quarrel had occurred, and anxious to see that Basil was notannoyed. She gave him her hand.

“No; I’m glad. I want to be alone with you. I don’t wantanyone to come between us.”

He bent down and kissed her, and she put her arms round his neck.

“You’re not angry with me because the baby died?”

“My darling, how could I be?”

“Say that you don’t regret having married me.”

Jenny, realizing by now that Basil had married her only on account of thechild, was filled with abject terror; his interests were so different from hers(and she had but gradually come to understand how great was the separationbetween them) that the longed-for son alone seemed able to preserve to herBasil’s affection. It was the mother he loved, and now he might bitterlyrepent his haste, for it seemed she had forced marriage upon him by falsepretences. The chief tie that bound them was severed, and though with meekgratitude accepting the attentions suggested by his kindness, she asked herselfwith aching heart what would happen on her recovery.

Time passed, and Jenny, though ever pale and listless, grew strong enough toleave her room. It was proposed that in a little while she should go with hersister for a month to Brighton. Basil’s work prevented him from leavingLondon for long, but he promised to run down for the week-end. One afternoon hecame home in high spirits, having just received from his publishers a letter tosay that his book had found favour, and would be issued in the coming spring.It seemed the first step to the renown he sought. He found James Bush, hisbrother-in-law, seated with Jenny, and, in his elation, greeted him withunusual cordiality; but James lacked his usual facetious flow of conversation,and wore, indeed, a hang-dog air, which at another time would have excitedBasil’s attention. He took his leave at once, and then Basil noticed thatJenny was much disturbed. Though he knew nothing for certain, he had an ideathat the family of Bush came to his wife when they were in financial straits,but from the beginning had decided that such inevitable claims must besatisfied. He preferred, however, to ignore the help which Jenny gave, and whenshe asked for some small sum beyond her allowance, handed it without question.

“Why was Jimmie here at this hour?” he asked, carelessly, thinkinghim bound on some such errand. “I thought he didn’t leave hisoffice till six.”

“Oh, Basil, something awful has happened. I don’t know how to tellyou. He’s sacked.”

“I hope he doesn’t want us to keep him,” answered Basil,coldly. “I’m very hard up this year, and all the money I have Iwant for you.”

Jenny braced herself for a painful effort. She looked away, and her voicetrembled.

“I don’t know what’s to be done. He’s got into trouble.Unless he can find a hundred and fifteen pounds in a week, his firm are goingto prosecute.”

“What on earth d’you mean, Jenny?”

“Oh, Basil, don’t be angry. I was so ashamed to tell you,I’ve been hiding it for a month; but now I can’t any more.Something went wrong with his accounts.”

“D’you mean to say he’s been stealing?” asked Basil,sternly; and a feeling of utter horror and disgust came over him.

“For God’s sake, don’t look at me like that,” shecried, for his eyes, his firm-set mouth, made her feel a culprit confessing onher own account some despicable crime. “He didn’t mean to bedishonest. I don’t exactly understand, but he can tell you how it allwas. Oh, Basil, you won’t let him be sent to prison! Couldn’t hehave the money instead of my going away?”

Basil sat down at his desk to think out the matter, and resting his facethoughtfully on his hands, sought to avoid Jenny’s fixed, appealing gaze.He did not want her to see the consternation, the abject shame, with which hernews oppressed him. But all the same she saw.

“What are you thinking about, Basil?”

“Nothing particular. I was wondering how to raise the money.”

“You don’t think because he’s my brother I must be tarredwith the same brush?”

He looked at her without answering. It was certainly unfortunate that hiswife’s mother should drink more than was seemly, and her brother have butprimitive ideas about property.

“It’s not my fault,” she cried, with bitter pain,interrupting his silence. “Don’t think too hardly of me.”

“No, it’s not your fault,” he answered, with involuntarycoldness. “You must go away to Brighton all the same, but I’mafraid it means no holiday in the summer.”

He wrote a cheque, and then a letter to his bank begging them to advance ahundred pounds on securities they held.

“There he is,” cried Jenny, hearing a ring. “I told him tocome back in half an hour.”

Basil got up.

“You’d better give the cheque to your brother at once. Say that Idon’t wish to see him.”

“Isn’t he to come here any more, Basil?”

“That is as you like, Jenny. If you wish, we’ll pretend he wasunfortunate rather than—dishonest; but I’d rather he didn’trefer to the matter. I want neither his thanks nor his excuses.”

Without answering Jenny took the cheque. She would have given a great deal tofling her arms gratefully round Basil’s neck, begging him to forgive, butthere was a hardness in his manner which frightened her. All the evening he satin moody silence, and Jenny dared not speak. His kiss when he bade hergood-night had never been so frigid, and unable to sleep, she cried bitterly.She could not understand the profound abhorrence with which he looked upon theincident. To her mind it was little more than a mischance occasioned byJimmie’s excessive sharpness, and she was disposed to agree with herbrother that only luck had been against him. She somewhat resentedBasil’s refusal to hear any defence, and his complete certainty that thevery worst must be true.

A few days later, coming unexpectedly, Kent found Jenny in earnest conversationwith her brother, who had quite regained his jaunty air, and betrayed no falseshame at Basil’s knowledge of his escapade.

“Well met, ’Oratio!” he cried, holding out his hand. “Ijust come in on the chance of seeing you. I wanted to thank you for thatloan.”

“I’d rather you didn’t speak of it.”

“Why, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. I ’ad a bit of badluck, that’s all. I’ll pay you back, you know. You needn’tfear about that.”

He gave a voluble account of the affair, proving how misfortune may befall thedeserving, and what a criminal complexion the most innocent acts may wear.Basil, against his will admiring the fellow’s jocose effrontery, listenedwith chilling silence.

“You need not excuse yourself,” he said at length. “Myreasons for helping you were purely selfish. Except for Jenny, it would havebeen a matter of complete indifference to me if you had been sent to prison ornot.”

“Oh, that was all kid. They wouldn’t have prosecuted. Don’t Itell you they had no case. You believe me, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“What d’you mean by that?” asked James, angrily.

“We won’t discuss it.”

The other did not answer, but shot at Basil a glance of singular malevolence.

“You can whistle for your money, young feller,” he muttered, underhis breath. “You won’t get much out of me.”

He had but small intention of paying back the rather large sum, but nowabandoned even that. During the six months since Jenny’s married life hehad never been able to surmount the freezing politeness with which Basil usedhim. He hated him for his supercilious air, but needing his help, took care,though sometimes he could scarcely keep his temper, to preserve a familiarcordiality. He knew his brother-in-law would welcome an opportunity to forbidhim the house, and this, especially now that he was out of work, he determinedto avoid. He stomached the affront as best he could, but solaced his pride withthe determination sooner or later to revenge himself.

“Well, so long,” he cried, with undiminished serenity;“I’ll be toddling.”

Jenny watched this scene with some alarm, but with more irritation, sinceBasil’s frigid contempt for her brother seemed a reflection on herself.

“You might at least be polite to him,” she said, when Jimmie wasgone.

“I’m afraid I’ve pretty well used up all mypoliteness.”

“After all, he is my brother.”

“That is a fact I deplore with all my heart,” he answered.

“You needn’t be so hard on him now he’s down. He’s noworse than plenty more.”

Basil turned to her with flaming eyes.

“Good God, don’t you realize the man’s a thief! Doesn’tit mean anything to you that he’s dishonest? Don’t you see howawful it is that a man—”

He broke off with a gesture of disgust. It was the first quarrel they had everhad, and a shrewish look came to Jenny’s face, her pallor gave way to anangry flush. But quickly Basil recovered himself. Recollecting his wife’sillness and her bitter disappointment at the poor babe’s death, he keenlyregretted the outburst.

“I beg your pardon, Jenny. I didn’t mean to say that. I should haveremembered you were fond of him.”

But since she did not answer, looking away somewhat sulkily, he sat down on thearm of her chair and stroked her wonderful rich tresses.

“Don’t be cross, darling. We won’t quarrel, will we?”

Unable to resist his tenderness, tears came to her eyes, and passionately shekissed his caressing hands.

“No, no,” she cried. “I love you too much. Don’t everspeak angrily to me; it hurts so awfully.”

The momentary cloud passed, and they spoke of the approaching visit toBrighton. Jenny was to take lodgings, and she made him promise faithfully thathe would come every Saturday. Frank had offered a room in Harley Street, andwhile she was away Basil meant to stay with him.

“You won’t forget me, Basil?”

“Of course not! But you must hurry up and get well and come back.”

When at length she set off, and Basil found himself Frank’s guest, hecould not suppress a faint sigh of relief. It was very delightful to live againin a bachelor’s rooms, and he loved the smell of smoke, the untidy litterof books, the lack of responsibility. There was no need to do anything he didnot like, and, for the first time since his marriage he felt entirelycomfortable. Recalling his pleasant rooms in the Temple, and there was aboutthem an old-world air which amiably fitted his humour, he thought of the longconversations of those days, the hours of reverie, the undisturbed ease withwhich he could read books; and he shuddered at the poky villa which was now hishome, the worries of housekeeping, and the want of privacy. He had meant hislife to be so beautiful, and it was merely sordid.

“There are advantages in single blessedness,” laughed the doctor,when he saw Basil after breakfast light his pipe, and putting his feet on thechimney-piece, lean back with a sigh of content.

But he regretted his words when he saw on the other’s mobile face a lookof singular wistfulness. It was his first indication that things were not goingvery well with the young couple.

“By the way,” Frank suggested, presently, “would you care tocome to a party to-night? Lady Edward Stringer is giving some sort of function,and there’ll be a lot of people you know.”

“I’ve been nowhere since my marriage,” Basil answered,irresolutely.

“I shall be seeing the old thing to-day. Shall I ask if I can bringyou?”

“It would be awfully good of you. By Jove, I should enjoy it.” Hegave a laugh. “I’ve not had evening clothes on for sixmonths.”

II

Lady Edward Stringer said she would be delighted to see Basil that evening, andFrank, whose toilet was finished in a quarter of an hour, with scornfulamusement watched the care wherewith the young man dressed. At last, with afinal look at the glass, he turned round.

“You look very nice indeed,” said the doctor ironically.

“Shut up!” answered Basil, reddening; but it was evident all thesame that he was not displeased with his appearance.

They dined at Frank’s very respectable club, surrounded by men of sciencewith their diverting air of middle-aged school-boys, and soon after ten droveoff to Kensington. Basil hated the economy which since his marriage he had beenforced to practise, and the signs of wealth in Lady Edward’s house werevery grateful to him. A powdered footman took his hat, another seized his coat;and after the cramped stuffiness of the villa at Barnes it pleased him hugelyto walk through spacious and lofty rooms, furnished splendidly in the worstVictorian manner. Lady Edward, her fair wig more than usually askew, dressed inshabby magnificence, with splendid diamonds round her withered neck, gave himthe indifferent welcome of a fashionable hostess, and turned to the nextarrival. Moving on, Basil found himself face to face with Mrs. Murray.

“Oh, Iam glad to see you!” he cried, enthusiastic andsurprised. “I didn’t know you were back. Come and sit down, andtell me all you’ve seen.”

“Nonsense! I’m not going to say a word. You must give me all thenews. I see your book is announced.”

Basil was astonished to find how handsome she was. He had thought of her veryfrequently, against his will, but the picture in his mind had not that radianthealth nor that spirited vitality. Rather had his imagination exaggerated thelikeness to a Madonna of Sandro Botticelli, dwelling on the sad passion of herlips and the pallid oval of her languid face. To-night her vivacity wasenchanting; the gray eyes were full of laughter, and her cheeks delightfullyflushed. He looked at her beautiful hands, recognising the rings, and at thepicturesque splendour of her gown. The favourite scent which vaguely clung toher recalled the past with its pleasant intercourse, and he remembered herdrawing-room in Charles Street where they had sat so often talking of charmingthings. His heart ached, and he knew that for all his efforts he loved her noless than that night before his marriage when he became convinced that she alsocared.

“I don’t believe you’re listening to a word I say,” shecried.

“Yes, I am,” he answered, “but the sound of your voiceintoxicates me. It has all the music of Italy, I haven’t heard it forsuch ages.”

“When did I see you last?” she inquired, remembering perfectlywell, but curious to know his answer.

“You were driving near Westminster Bridge one Sunday afternoon, butI’ve not spoken to you since the Thursday before that, I remember thecloak you wore then. Have you still got it?”

“What a memory!”

She laughed flippantly, but there was triumph in her eyes; for he seemed tohave forgotten completely the visit to Barnes, and his recollection was only oftheir mutual love.

“I often think of the long talks we used to have,” he said.“Except for you, I should never have written my book.”

“Ah, yes, before you married, wasn’t it?”

She uttered the words carelessly, with a smile, but she meant to wound; andBasil’s face grew on a sudden deathly pale, an inexpressible paindarkened his eyes, and his lips trembled. Mrs. Murray observed him with a cruelcuriosity. Sometimes in her anger she had prayed for an occasion of revenge forall the torture she had suffered, and this was the beginning. She hated himnow, she told herself—she hated him furiously. At that moment she caughtsight of Mr. Farley, the fashionable parson, and smiled. As she expected, hecame forward.

“Did you get a letter from me?” she asked, holding out her hand.

“Thanks so much. I’ve already written to accept.”

Her question was not without malice, for she wished Basil to understand thatshe had sent Mr. Farley some invitation. Unwillingly, the younger man rose fromher side, and the vicar of All Souls’ took the vacant place. As Basilsauntered away, sore at heart, she addressed the new-comer with a flattering,though somewhat unusual, cordiality.

“Tiens! There’s chaste Lucretia. How on earth did you gethere?”

Basil started, and his face grew suddenly cold and hard when at his elbow heheard his mother’s mocking voice.

“Dr. Hurrell brought me,” he answered.

“He showed discretion in bringing you to the dullest house in London,also the most respectable. How is Camberwell, and do you have high tea?”

“My wife is at Brighton,” replied Basil, feeling, as ever,humiliated by Lady Vizard’s banter.

“I didn’t expect she was here. You’re really verygood-looking. What a pity it is you’re so absurd!”

She nodded to her son and passed on. Presently she came to Miss Ley, who stoodby herself watching with amusement the various throng.

“How d’you do?” said Lady Vizard.

“I had no idea that you remembered me,” answered the other.

“I saw in the paper that you had inherited the fortune of that odiousMiss Dwarris. Haven’t you found that lots of people have remembered yousince then?” She did not wait for an answer. “Aren’t you afriend of my young hopeful? I’ve just seen him, and I can’t imaginewhy he dislikes me so much. I suppose he thinks I’m wicked, but I’mnot in the least, really. I’m not conscious of ever having committed asin in my life. I’ve done foolish things and things I regret, butthat’s all.”

“It’s very comfortable to have the approval of one’s ownconscience,” murmured Miss Ley.

Lord de Capit at that moment advanced to Lady Vizard, and Miss Ley took theopportunity to go to Mrs. Barlow-Bassett, superbly imposing as usual, who wastalking with the Castillyons.

“It’s a great comfort to me to know he’s such a goodboy,” she heard her saying. “He has no secrets from me, and I canassure you he hasn’t a thought which he needs to hide from anyone.”

“Who is this admirable person?” asked Miss Ley.

“I was thanking Mrs. Castillyon for being so good to Reggie. He’sjust of an age when the influence of a woman of the world—a goodwoman—is so important.”

“Reginald is a compendium of all the virtues,” remarked Miss Leyquietly; “and Mrs. Castillyon is a pattern of charity.”

“You overwhelm me with confusion,” cried the little woman, with thelightest laugh, but only the powder hid a crimson blush of shame.

She managed in a little while to get Miss Ley to herself, and they sat down.Mrs. Castillyon’s manner was so airy and flippant that none could haveguessed she dealt tragic issues.

“You must utterly despise me, Miss Ley,” she said.

“Why?”

“I promised you I’d never see Reggie again, and what must you havethought when you heard Mrs. Bassett!”

“At least it saved you the trouble of telling me fibs.”

“I wouldn’t have lied about it. I must have someone to whom I cantalk openly. Oh, I’m so unhappy!”

These words also she said with so expressionless a countenance that an onlookerout of earshot would have been persuaded she spoke of most trivial things.

“I did my best,” she went on, “I bore it for a month. Then Icouldn’t do without him any longer. I feel like a woman in one of thoseold stories, under some love-spell so that no power of hers could help her. Isuppose you’ll say I’m a fool, but I think Isolde or Phèdre musthave had just that same sensation. I haven’t any will and I haven’tany courage, and the worst is that the whole thing’s so absolutelydegrading. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t despise me, becauseI utterly despise myself. And Heaven knows what’ll be the end of it; Ifeel that something awful will happen. Some day or other Paul is certain tofind out, and then it means ruin, and I shall have thrown away everything forsuch a miserable, poor-spirited cur.”

“Don’t talk so loud,” said Miss Ley, for the other hadslightly raised her voice. “D’you think he’d marryyou?”

“No; he’s often told me he wouldn’t. And I wouldn’tmarry him now; I know him too well. Oh, I wish I’d never seen him. Hedoesn’t care two straws for me; he knows I’m in his power, and hetreats me as if I were a woman off the streets. I’ve been so bitterlypunished.”

Her eyes wandered across the room, and she saw Reggie talking to Mrs. Murray.

“Look at him,” she said to Miss Ley. “Even now I would givemy soul for him to take me in his arms and kiss me. I wouldn’t mind thedanger, I wouldn’t mind the shame, if he only loved me.”

Self-possessed and handsome, immaculately attired, Reggie chatted with the easeof a man of forty; his dark, lustrous eyes fixed on Mrs. Murray, his red lipssmiling sensually, indicated plainly enough that her beauty attracted him, Mrs.Castillyon watched the pair with jealous rage and with agony.

“She’s got every chance,” she muttered; “she’s awidow, and she’s rich, and she’s younger than I am. But Iwouldn’t wish my worst enemy the wretchedness of falling in love withthat man.”

“But, good heavens! why don’t you pull yourself together? Have yougiven up all thought of breaking with him?”

“Yes,” she answered desperately; “I’m not going tostruggle any more. Let come what may. It’s not I that is concerned now,but fate. I won’t leave him till he throws me aside like a toy he’stired of.”

“And what about your husband?”

“Paul? Paul’s worth ten of the other. I didn’t know his valuetill I was so unhappy.”

“Aren’t you a little ashamed to treat him so badly?”

“I can’t sleep at night for thinking of it. Every present he givesme is like a stab in my heart; every kindness is the bitterest anguish. But Ican’t help it.”

Miss Ley meditated for a moment.

“I’ve just been talking to Lady Vizard,” she said then.“I suppose there’s no one in London whom a pious person would morereadily consign to eternal flames, and yet she looks upon herself as a verygood woman indeed. Also I feel sure that our mutual friend, Reggie, has noqualms about any of his proceedings. It suggests to me that the only wickedpeople in the world are those who have consciences.”

“And d’you think I have a conscience?” asked Mrs. Castillyonbitterly.

“Apparently. I never saw any trace of it till I met you at Rochester. ButI suppose it was there in a rudimentary condition, and events have brought itto the front. Take care it doesn’t get the better of you. I see a greatdanger staring you in the face.”

“What do you mean?”

Mrs. Castillyon’s face, notwithstanding the rouge, was haggard and white.Miss Ley looked at her with piercing keenness.

“Have you never thought of confessing the whole thing to yourhusband?”

“Oh, Miss Ley, Miss Ley, how did you guess that?”

In her uncontrollable agitation she forgot her self-control, and wrung herhands with anguish.

“Take care. Remember everyone can see you.”

“I forgot.” With an effort she regained her wonted ease of manner.“It’s been with me night and day. Sometimes, when Paul is good tome, I can hardly resist the temptation. Some awful fascination lures me on, andI know that one day I shan’t be able to hold my tongue, and I shall tellhim everything.”

During the last six months Mrs. Castillyon had aged, and bitterly conscious ofher failing beauty, resorted now to a more extravagant artifice; the colour ofher hair was more obviously unnatural, she pencilled her eyebrows, and used toomuch paint on her cheeks. The unquiet of her manner had increased, so that itwas somewhat painful to be with her. She talked more than ever, more loudly,and her laughter was shriller and more frequent; but the high spirits, whichbefore were due to an entire unconcern for the world in general, now weredeliberately assumed to conceal, if possible even from herself, a most utterwretchedness. Life had been wont to go most smoothly. She had wealth to gratifyevery whim, admiration to give a sense of power, a position of someconsequence; and she had never wanted anything so desperately that it was morethan tiresome to do without it: but now, with no previous experience to guideher, she was beset on every side with harassing difficulties. This ardentpassion had swept her off her feet, and the awakening was very bitter when shelearnt that it was her turn to suffer. She had no illusions with regard toReggie. He was immeasurably selfish, callous to her pain, and she had longsince discovered that tears had no effect upon him. He meant to get his ownway, and when she rebelled gave her the truth in brutal terms.

“If you don’t like me, you can go to the devil. You’re notthe only woman in the world.”

But on the whole he was fairly good-humoured—it was his bestquality—and she had a certain hold over him in his immense love ofpleasure. She could always avoid his peevishness by taking him to the theatre;he was anxious to move in polite circles, and an invitation to some great housemade him affectionate for a week. But he never allowed her to dictate, and anoccasional display of jealousy was met with an indifferent cynicism whichnearly drove her to distraction; besides, she was afraid of him, knowing thatto save his own skin he would not hesitate to betray her. Yet, notwithstanding,she loved Reggie still so passionately that it affected her character. Mrs.Castillyon, who had never sought to restrain herself, now took care to avoidcauses of offence to the dissolute boy. She made herself complaisant so that hemight not again throw in her face her age and waning charms; in bitter miseryshe learnt a gentleness and a self-control which before she had never known. Inthe general affairs of life she exhibited a new charity, and especially withher husband was less petulant. His sure devotion was singularly comforting, andshe knew that in his eyes she was no less adorable than when first he lovedher.

III

Miss Ley took care to learn at which hotel Bella meant to stay in Milan, andwhen the pair arrived, at the beginning of their honeymoon, they found awaitingthem in their friend’s neat and scholarly writing a little ironicalletter, enclosing as wedding-present a cheque for five hundred pounds. Thisenabled them to travel more sumptuously than at first seemed possible, andmeaning to spend the worst of the winter at Naples, without fearing the expensethey could linger on their way in one charming town after another. Herbert wasfull of enthusiasm, and for a while seemed entirely to regain health. He forgotthe disease which ate away silently his living tissue, and formed extravaganthopes for the future. His energy was such that Bella had much difficulty inrestraining his eagerness to the sights of which for so many years he hadvainly dreamed. His passion for the sunshine, the blue skies, and the flowers,was wonderful to see, yet Bella’s heart ached often, though with greatestcare she trained her countenance to cheerfulness, because this singularcapacity for life to her anxious mind seemed to forebode a short continuance.He was gathering into one feverish moment all that others spread over ageneration.

In the constant companionship his character unfolded itself, and she learnt howcharming was his disposition, how sweet and unselfish his temper. Admiring himeach day more ardently, she enjoyed his little airs of masculine superiority,for he would not consent to be treated as an invalid, and somewhat resented hermotherly care. On the contrary, he was full of solicitude for her comfort, andtook upon himself all necessary arrangements, the ordering of details and soforth, of which she would most willingly have relieved him. He had ingenuousideas about a husband’s authority, to which Bella, not without a slyamusement, delighted to submit. She knew herself stronger not only in health,but in character, yet it diverted her to fall in with his fancy that she wasthe weaker vessel. When she feared that Herbert would tire himself, simulatedfatigue, and then his anxiety, his self-reproach were quite touching. He neverforgot how great was his debt to Bella, and sometimes his gratitude brought toher eyes, so that she sought to persuade him nothing at all was due. Ignorantof the world, his behaviour formed chiefly on books, Herbert used his wife withthe gallant courtesy of some Shakespearian lover, writing sonnets which to hermind rang with the very nobility of marital passion; and under the breath ofhis romantic devotion the dull years fell away from her heart, so that she feltyounger and fairer and more gay. Her sobriety was coloured by a not unpleasingflippancy, and she leavened his strenuous enthusiasm with kindly banter. But asthough the sun called out his own youth, dissipating the dark Northern humours,sometimes he was boyish as a lad of sixteen, and then, talking nonsense to oneanother, they shouted with laughter at their own facetiousness. The world, theysay, is a mirror whereon, if you look smiling, joyous smiles are reflected; andthus it seemed to them as if the whole earth approved their felicity. Theflowers bloomed to fit their happiness, and the loveliness of Nature was only aframe to their great content.

“D’you know, we began a conversation two months ago,” he saidonce, “and we’ve never come to an end yet. I find you moreinteresting every day.”

“I am a very good listener, I know,” she answered, laughing.“Nothing gives one a surer reputation for being aconversationalist.”

“It’s no good paying spiteful things to me when you look likethat,” he cried, for her eyes rested on him with the most caressingtenderness.

“I think you’re growing very vain.”

“How can I help it when you’re my wedded wife? And you’re soabsolutely beautiful.”

“What!” she exclaimed. “If you talk such rubbish to me,I’ll double your dose of cod-liver-oil.”

“But it’s true,” he said eagerly, so that Bella, though sheknew her comeliness existed only in his imagination, flushed with delight.“I love your eyes, and when I look into them I feel I have no will of myown. The other day in Florence you called my attention to someone who wasgood-looking, and she wasn’t a patch on you!”

“Good heavens, I believe the boy’s serious!” she cried, buther eyes filled with tears and her voice broke into a sob.

“Whatis the matter?” he asked, astonished.

“It’s so good to be loved,” she answered. “No one hasever said such things to me before, and I’m so ridiculously happy.”

But as though the gods envied their brief joy, when they arrived at Rome,Herbert, exhausted by the journey, fell desperately ill. The weather was cold,rainy, dismal; and each day when he awoke, and the shutters were thrown back,Herbert looked eagerly at the sky, but seeing that it remained gray and cloudy,with a groan of despair turned his face to the wall. Bella, too, watched withaching heart for the sunshine, thinking it might bring him at least somemeasure of health, for she had given up all hope of permanent recovery. Thedoctor explained the condition of the lungs. Since Frank’s examinationthe left side, which before was whole, had become affected, and the diseaseseemed to progress with a most frightful rapidity.

But at length the weather changed, and the warm wind of February, that month oflanguor, blew softly over the old stones of Rome; the sky once again was bluewith a colour more intense by reason of the fleecy clouds that swayed acrossits dome, whitely, with the grace of dancers. The Piazza di Spagna, upon whichlooked Herbert’s window, was brilliant with many flowers; the models intheir dress of the Campagna, lounged about Bernini’s easy steps; and thesavour of the country and the spring was wafted into the sick man’s room.

He grew better quickly; his spirits, of late very despondent, now becameextravagantly cheerful, and hating Rome, the scene of his illness, he wasconvinced that it only needed change of place to complete his recovery. Heinsisted so vehemently that Bella should take him down to Naples that thedoctor agreed it would be better to go, and therefore, as soon as he could bemoved, they went further South.

They arrived in Naples no longer a pair of light-hearted children, but amiddle-aged woman, haggard with anxiety, and a dying youth. Herbert’scondition betrayed itself in an entire loss of his old buoyancy, so that thenew scenes among which he found himself aroused no new emotions. The churchesof Naples, white and gold like a ballroom of the eighteenth century, fit placesof worship to a generation whose faith was a flippant superstition, chilled hisheart; the statues in the museum were but lifeless stones; and the view itself,the glorious crown of Italian scenery, left him indifferent, Herbert, whoseenthusiasm had once been so facile, now, profoundly bored, remained listless atall he saw, and discovered in Naples only its squalor and its viciousbrutality. But on the other hand a restless spirit seized him, so that he couldnot remain quietly where he was, and he desired passionately to travel stillfurther afield. With an eager longing for the country which above allothers—above Italy, even—had fired his imagination, he wishedbefore he died to see Greece. Bella, fearing the exertion, sought to dissuadehim, but for once found him resolute.

“It’s all very well for you,” he cried. “You haveplenty time before you. But I have only now. Let me go to Athens, and then Ishan’t feel that I have left unseen the whole of the beautifulworld.”

“But think of the risk.”

“Let us enjoy the day. What does it matter if I die here, in Greece, orelsewhere? Let me see Athens, Bella. You don’t know what it means to me.Don’t you remember that photograph of the Acropolis I had in my room atTercanbury? Every morning on waking I looked at it, and at night before blowingout my candle it was the last thing I saw. I know every stone of it already. Iwant to breathe the Attic air that the Greeks breathed; I want to look onSalamis and Marathon. Sometimes I longed for those places so enormously that itwas physical pain. Don’t prevent me from carrying out my last wish. Afterthat you can do what you like with me.”

There was such yearning in his voice and such despair that Bella, much as shedreaded the journey, could not resist. The doctor at Naples warned her that atany time the catastrophe might occur, and she could no longer conceal fromherself the frightful ravage of the disease. Herbert, according to the courseof his illness, was at times profoundly depressed, and at others, when the daywas fine or he had slept well, convinced that soon he would entirely recover.He thought then that if he could only get rid of the cough which racked hischest, he might grow perfectly well; and it was Bella’s greatest tortureto listen to his confident plans for the future. He wished to spend the summerat Vallombrosa among the green trees, and buying a guide-book to Spain, madeout a tour for the following winter. With smiling countenance, with humorousbanter, Bella was forced to discuss schemes which she knew Death would utterlyfrustrate.

“Two years in the South ought to put me quite right again,” he saidonce; “and then we’ll take a little house in Kent where we can seethe meadows and the yellow corn, and we’ll work together at all sorts ofinteresting things. I want to write really good poetry, not for myself anymore, but for you. I want you never to think that you threw yourself away onme. Wouldn’t it be glorious to have fame! Oh, Bella, I hope some dayyou’ll be proud of me.”

“I shall have to keep a very sharp eye on you,” she answered, witha laugh that to herself sounded like a sob of pain: “poets arenotoriously fickle, and you’re sure to philander with prettymilkmaids.”

“Oh, Bella, Bella,” he cried, with sudden feeling, “I wish Iwere more worthy of you. Beside you I feel so utterly paltry andinsignificant.”

“I dare say,” she replied ironically. “But that didn’tprevent you from writing a sonnet in Pisa about the ankles of a peasantwoman.”

He laughed and blushed.

“You didn’t really mind, did you? Besides, it was you who called myattention to the way she walked. If you like, I’ll destroy it.”

Boylike, he took her mocking seriously, and was indeed half afraid he hadannoyed her. She laughed again, more sincerely, but still her laughter rangsoftly with the tears that filled it.

“My precious child,” she cried, “when will you growup!”

“You wait till I’m well, and then you shall put on these airs atyour peril, madam.”

Next morning, the spell of health continuing, he proposed that they shouldstart at once for Brindisi, where they could wait one day, and then take theboat directly to Greece. Bella, who counted on making delay after delay till itwas too late, was filled with consternation; but Herbert gave her noopportunity to thwart his will, for he said nothing to her till he had lookedout the train, called for the bill, and given the hotel-keeper notice of hisintention. Once started, his excitement was almost painful to see: his blueeyes shone and his cheeks were flushed; a new energy seemed to fill him, and henot only looked much better, but felt it.

“I tell you I shall get quite well as soon as I set my foot on the soilof Greece,” he cried. “The immortal gods will work a miracle, and Iwill build a temple in their honour.”

He looked with beating heart at the country through which they sped, fresh andsunny in the spring, with vast green tracts spread widely on either side, onwhich browsed herds of cattle, shaggy-haired and timid. Now and again they sawa herdsman, a rifle slung across his back, wild and handsome and debonair; andfinally—the trembling of the sea.

“At last!” the boy cried. “At last!”

Next morning he was feverish and ill, and on the day after, notwithstanding hisentreaties, Bella absolutely refused to start. He stared at her sullenly, withbitter disappointment.

“Very well,” he said at length. “But next time you mostpromise to go whatever happens, even if I’m dying: you must have mecarried on the boat.”

“I promise faithfully,” answered Bella.

A certain force of will gave him an imaginary strength, so that in a couple ofdays he was on his feet again; but the elation, which during a fortnight hadupborne him, now was quite gone, and he was so silent that Bella feared he hadnot forgiven the delay on which she insisted. They were obliged to spend a weekin Brindisi, that dull, sordid, populous town, and together wandered much aboutits tortuous and narrow streets. It pleased Herbert chiefly to go down to theport, for he loved the crowded ships, loading and unloading, and dreamt oftheir long voyages over the wild waste of the sea; and he loved the loungingsailormen, the red-sashed, swarthy porters, the urchins who played merrily onthe quay. But the life which thrilled through them, one and all, caused himsometimes an angry despair; they seemed to possess such infinite power to enjoythings, and with all his heart he envied the poorest stoker because his muscleswere like iron and his breathing free. The week passed, and on the afternoonbefore their boat sailed Herbert went out alone; but Bella, knowing his habits,was presently able to find him: he sat on a little hill, olive-clad, andoverlooked the sea. He did not notice her approach, for his gaze, intent asthough he sought to see the longed-for shores of Greece, was fixed upon theblue Ægean distance, and on his wan and wasted face was a pain indescribable.

“I’m glad you’ve come, Bella: I wanted you.”

She sat beside him, and taking her hand, his eyes wandered again to the farhorizon. A fishing-boat, with a white, strange-shaped sail, sped like a fairsea-bird over the water’s shining floor. The sky was a hard, hot bluelike the lapis-lazuli, and not a cloud broke its serene monotony.

“Bella,” he said at last, “I don’t want to go toGreece. I haven’t the courage.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, enormously surprised. All histhoughts had tended to this one object, and it seemed a sign of ill omen thatwhen at length it lay within reach he should draw back.

“You thought I was angry because we didn’t start last week. I triedto be, but in my heart I was glad of the respite. I was afraid. I’ve beentrying to screw up my courage, but I can’t.”

He did not look at her, but gazed straight out to sea.

“I daren’t run the risk, Bella. I’m afraid to put my fanciesto the test of reality. I want to keep my illusions. Italy has shown me thatnothing is so lovely and enchanting as the image of it in my mind. Each timethat something hasn’t quite come up to my expectations I’ve saidmyself that Greece would repay me for everything. But now I know that Greecewill have just the same disappointments, and I can’t bear them. Let medie with the picture still in my heart of the long-beloved country as I havefancied it. What is it to me when fauns no longer scamper through the fields,and dryads aren’t in the running brooks? It’s not Greece I go tosee, but the land of my ideal.”

“But, my dearest, there’s no need to go. You know I’d muchrather not,” cried Bella.

He looked at her at length, and his glance was long and searching. It seemedthat he wished to speak, yet for some reason hesitated strangely. Then he madean effort.

“I want to go home, Bella,” he whispered. “I feel Ican’t breathe here; the blue sky overwhelms me, and I long for the grayclouds of England. I didn’t know I loved my country till I left it. . . .D’you think I’m an awful prig?”

“No, dear,” she answered, with choking voice.

“The clamour of the South tires my ears, and the colours are overbright,the air is too thin and too brilliant, the eternal sunshine blinds me. Oh, giveme my own country again. I can’t die down here; I want to be buried amongmy own people. I’ve never said a word to you, Bella, but latelyI’ve lain awake at night thinking of the fat Kentish soil. I want to takeit up in my hands, the cool, rich mould, and feel its coldness and itsstrength. When I look up at that blue fire, I think of my beautiful Kentishsky, so gray, so soft, so low; and I yearn for those rounded clouds, allpregnant with rain.”

His excitement was unbearable as the thoughts crowded upon him, and he pressedhis hands to his eyes so that nothing should disturb.

“My mouth is parched for the spring showers. D’you know,we’ve not seen a drop of rain for a month. Now at Leanham and at Fernethe elm-trees and the oaks are all in leaf, and I love their fresh young green.There’s nothing here like the green of the Kentish fields. Oh, I can feelthe salt breeze of the North Sea blowing against my cheek, and in my nostrilsare all the spring smells of the country. I must see the hedgerows once more,and I want to listen to the birds singing. I long for the cathedral with itsold gray stones, and the dark, shady streets of Tercanbury. I want to hearEnglish spoken around me; I want to see English faces. Bella, Bella, forGod’s sake take me home, or I shall die!”

There was such agony in his passionate appeal that Bella was more than everalarmed. She thought he had some mysterious premonition of the end, and it wasonly with difficulty that she brought herself to utter words of consolation andof reassurance. They settled to start at once. Herbert, in his anxiety, wishedto travel directly to London; but his wife, determined to take no risk thatcould possibly be avoided, insisted on going by very easy stages. Through thewinter she had written every week to the Dean, telling him of their doings andthe places they saw, but he had never once replied, and for news of him she hadbeen forced to rely on friends in Tercanbury. Now she wrote to him immediately.

“MY DEAREST FATHER,
    “My husband is dying, and I am bringing him home at his own wish, Ido not know how long he can continue to live, but at the most I’m afraidit can only be a question of very few months. I beg you most earnestly to putaside your anger. Let us come to you. I have nowhere to take Herbert, and Icannot bear that he should die in a stranger’s house. I beseech you towrite to me at Paris.

“Your affectionate daughter,
“BELLA.”

Her first two letters the Dean had enough resolution not to open, but he couldnot grow used to his solitude, and each day missed more acutely hisdaughter’s constant care. The house was very empty without her, andsometimes in the morning, forgetting what had happened, he expected when hewent down to breakfast to find her as ever, alert and trim, at the head of histable. The third letter he could not resist, and afterwards, though his prideforbade him to answer, looked forward intensely to the weekly communication.Once, when by some chance it was two days delayed, he was so anxious that hewent to a friend in the chapter whose wife, he knew, corresponded with Bella,and asked whether anything had been heard.

On opening this final note, the Dean was surprised to find it so short, forBella, to comfort and interest him, was used to write a sort of diary of theweek. He read it two or three times. He gathered first that Bella was on herway home, and if he liked might once more sit at his solitary table, go aboutthe house gently as of old, and in the evening play to him the simple melodieshe loved so well; but then he became aware of the restrained despair in thosefew hurried lines, and reading deeper than the words, understood for the firsttime her overwhelming love for that poor sick boy. From his daughter’sletters the Dean had come to know Herbert somewhat intimately, for with subtletenderness Bella related little traits which she knew would touch him, and forlong he had struggled with an uneasy feeling of his own injustice. Heremembered now the lad’s youth and simplicity, that he was poor and ill,and his heart went out to him strangely. Contrition seized him. A portrait ofhis wife, dead for five-and-thirty years, hung in the Dean’s study,showing her in the first year of marriage with the simpering air, the brownringlets, of a middle Victorian young lady; and though a work of no merit, tothe sorrowing husband it seemed a real masterpiece. He had often gatheredsolace and advice from those brown eyes, and now, pride and love contending inhis breast, looked at it earnestly. The face seemed to wear an expression ofreproach, and in mute self-abasement the Dean bent his head. The hungry hadcome to him, and he had given no meat; the stranger he had cast out, and thesick turned from his door.

“I have sinned against heaven and in Thy sight,” he mutteredpainfully, “and am no more worthy to be called Thy son.”

His eyes caught a photograph of Bella, which, for a while banished from theroom, now again occupied its accustomed place, and as though to take her in hisarms, he stretched his hands towards it. He smiled happily, for his mind wasmade up. Notwithstanding the words uttered in his wrath, he would go to Parisand bring home his daughter with her dying husband; and if in the last monthsof the boy’s life he could make up for past harshness, perhaps it wouldbe taken as some atonement for his cruel pride.

Announcing his intention to no one, the Dean set out at once. He had no meansto communicate with Bella, but knew the hotel to which she would go, anddetermined there to await her arrival. Finding at what hour she must reach it,he lingered in the hall, but twice was grievously disappointed. On the thirdday, however, when he began to feel the tension unbearable, a cab drove up, andtrembling with excitement, he saw Bella step out. Desirous that she should notsee him immediately, the Dean withdrew a little to one side. He noted the carewith which she helped Herbert to get out of the cab: she took his arm to leadhim in. He was apparently very weak, wrapped up to his eyes though the eveningwas warm, and while she asked for rooms he sat down in sheer exhaustion.

The Dean was very remorseful when he saw the change in him, for when last theymet Herbert Field was full of spirits and gay; and these months of anxiety hadleft their mark on Bella also, whose hair was beginning to turn quite gray. Herexpression was tired and wan. When they were gone upstairs, the Dean asked forthe number of their room, but to give them time to get off their things, forcedhimself to wait half an hour by the clock. Then, going up, he knocked at thedoor. Bella, thinking it was a maid, called out in French.

“Bella,” he said in a low voice, and he remembered how once she hadbegged to be admitted to his study and he had refused.

With a cry she flung open the door, and in a moment they were clasped in oneanother’s arms; he pressed her to his heart, but in his emotion found noword to say. She drew him in eagerly.

“Herbert, here’s my father.”

The youth was lying on the bed in the next room, and Bella led the Dean in.Herbert was too tired to rise.

“I’ve come to take you both home,” said the old man, tears ofjoy in his voice.

“Oh, father, I’m so glad. You’re not angry with me anylonger. It’ll make me so happy if you forgive me.”

“It’s not you that need forgiveness, but I, Bella. I want to askyour husband to pardon my unkindness. I’ve been harsh and proud andcruel.”

He went to Herbert and took his hand.

“Will you forgive me, my dear? Will you allow me to be your father aswell as Bella’s?”

“I shall be very grateful.”

“And will you come back to Tercanbury with me? I should like you to knowthat so long as I live my home will be yours. And I will try and make youforget that I was ever——”

The Dean broke off with a gesture of appeal, unable to finish.

“I know you’re very good,” smiled Herbert, “and you seeI have brought Bella back to you.”

The Dean hesitated a moment shyly, then bent down and very tenderly kissed thepale, suffering lad.

IV

Some days after the party at Lady Edward Stringer’s Basil went toBrighton, and was met at the station by Jenny and her sister. Sending the trapsby porter, they set out for the lodgings, but were quickly joined by a verysmart young man, introduced to Basil as Mr. Higgins, who paired off with AnnieBush, When they had gone ahead, Basil asked who he was.

“He’s Annie’s latest,” answered Jenny, laughing.

“Have you known him long?”

“We got to know him the second day we were down. I noticed him look atus, and I said to Annie: ‘There you are, my dear; there’s companyfor you when Basil comes, because I can’t stick walking three in arow.’”

“Who introduced him to you?”

“What a silly you are!” laughed Jenny. “He just came up andsaid good-evening, and Annie said good-evening, and then he began to talk. Heseems to have lots of money. He took us to a concert last night, to the bestplaces. It was nice of him, wasn’t it?”

“But, my dear child, you can’t go about with people you don’tknow.”

“You must let Annie enjoy herself, and he’s a very respectableyoung fellow, isn’t he? You see, living at home, she hasn’t theopportunity to get to know men that I had. And he’s quite agentleman.”

“Is he? I should have thought him a most awful bounder.”

“You’re so particular,” said Jenny. “I don’t seeanything wrong in him.”

Arriving at the lodging-house, Annie, engaged in lively conversation with hernew acquaintance, stopped till the others came up. She resembled Jenny as muchas it was possible for a somewhat plain woman to resemble a beautiful. She hadthe same graceful figure, but her hair, arranged with needless elaboration, wascolourless, and her complexion had not the mellow delicacy which distinguishedher elder.

“Jenny,” she cried, “he won’t come in to tea because hesays you want to be alone with your hubby. Tell him it’s allright.”

“Of course it’s all right,” said Jenny. “You come inand take a cup of tea with us, and then we’ll all go on the front.”

He was evidently a facetious person, for while Basil washed he heard the twowomen in the adjoining room shout with uproarious merriment. Presently Jennycalled out that tea was ready, and somewhat against his will, he was forced togo in. His wife, much better in health, talking and laughing loudly, was inhigh spirits; and the three had evidently enjoyed thoroughly the last twoweeks, for they were full of remembered jokes. Basil, annoyed by thestranger’s intrusion, sought not to join in the conversation, but satsilently, and after a while took up a newspaper. Annie gave him an angryglance, and Mr. Higgins looked once or twice uncertainly, but then went on withhis rapid string of anecdote. Perhaps he also had cause for irritation, sincehis best stories were heard by Basil with all the appearance of profoundboredom.

“Well, who says a stroll on the parade?” he cried at last.

“Come on, Jenny,” answered Annie Bush, and turned to Basil.“Are you coming?”

He looked up from his paper indifferently.

“No; I have some letters to write.”

Jenny preferred to remain with her husband, and, once alone, they talked for atime of domestic affairs; but there seemed a certain constraint between them,and presently Basil began to read. When Annie, after some while, came back, sheglanced at him aggressively.

“Better?” she asked.

“What?”

“I thought you didn’t seem well at tea.”

“Thanks, I’m in the best of health.”

“You might make yourself obliging, then, instead of sitting there like afuneral-mute when I have a gentleman to visit me.”

“I’m sorry my behaviour doesn’t meet with yourapproval,” he answered quietly.

“Mr. Higgins says he won’t come here till your husband’staken himself off, my dear. He says he knows where he’s not wanted, and Idon’t blame him, either.”

“Oh, Annie, what nonsense!” cried Mrs. Kent, “Basil was onlytired.”

“Yes, a journey to Brighton’s very tiring, isn’t it? I tellyou straight, Basil, I expect my friends to be treated like gentlemen.”

“You’re an amiable creature, Annie,” he answered, shrugginghis shoulders.

After supper Annie waited somewhat impatiently till the servant came in to saythat Mr. Higgins was at the door; then hurriedly put on her hat. Basilhesitated for one moment, unwilling to give offence, but decided that some wordof warning was necessary.

“I say, Annie, d’you think you ought to go out alone at night witha man you’ve picked up casually on the pier?”

“What I do is no business of yours, is it?” she answered angrily.“I’d thank you to give me your advice when I ask for it.”

“Shall I come with you, Annie?” said her sister.

“Now, don’t you interfere. I can look after myself, as you knowvery well.”

She went out, vindictively slamming the door, and Basil, without another word,a frown on his brow, returned to his book. But in a little while he heard thatJenny was crying very quietly.

“Jenny, Jenny, what’s the matter?” he exclaimed.

“Oh, nothing,” she answered, drying her eyes and doing her best tosmile. “Only I’ve been having such a good time down here; I onlywanted you to make it perfect. I did look forward so to your coming, and nowyou’ve upset everything.”

“I’m very sorry,” he sighed, with complete discouragement.

He did not know what to say nor how to comfort her, for he realized, too, thathis appearance had disturbed her enjoyment, and for all his goodwill heappeared able to bring her only unhappiness. She was most herself in thecompany of such as Mr. Higgins; her greatest pleasure was to walk on theparade, staring at the people, or to listen to nigger-minstrels’sentimental ditties; she wanted gaiety and noise and garish colour. On theother hand, things which affected him painfully left her unmoved, and she wasperfectly content in the sordid, vulgar lodging which overwhelmed him withdisgust. It seemed that he was in a labyrinth of cross-purposes wherefrom wasno issue.

Next morning occurred a trifling incident which showed Basil how his wiferegarded him. Annie, dressed for church, came downstairs in a costume which waspositively outrageous, so that one wondered at the perverse ingenuity withwhich the colours were blended; and she wore much cheap finery.

“Well, my dear, you’re never going out like that!” she cried,seeing that Jenny was no differently attired from the day before. (An antipathyto Sunday clothes was to his wife one of Basil’s most incomprehensiblefads.) “Aren’t you going to put on your new hat?”

Mrs. Kent looked somewhat uneasily at her husband.

“I saw such a smart hat in a shop, Basil, and Annie simply made me buyit. And I must say it was dirt cheap—only six and eleven.”

“This is evidently an occasion to put it on,” he smiled. In a fewminutes she came back, radiant and flushed, but Basil could not persuadehimself that her headgear was cheap at the price.

“D’you like it?” she asked anxiously.

“Very much,” he replied, wishing to please.

“There, Jenny, I knew he wouldn’t mind. If you heard all the fussshe made about your being angry and not liking it, and I don’t know whatall!”

“Basil says I look best in black,” said Jenny in self-defence.

“Men never know what’s dressy, my dear,” Annie answered.“If you went by what Basil said, you would be a dowd.”

It was rather distressing to find that his wife still somewhat feared him. Inher eyes, apparently, he was a bearish creature whose whimsical fancies must behumoured, and he thought bitterly of the confidence which he hoped would existbetween them, of the complete union in which not a thought nor an emotionshould be unshared. And knowing that his own love was long since dead, Basilsought to persuade himself that hers also was on the wane. The week-end boredhim immensely, and it was not without relief that he found himself on Mondaymorning at the station, whither his wife accompanied him.

“I’m awfully busy; I don’t know whether I can manage to comedown next Saturday,” he said tentatively.

But Jenny’s eyes filled on a sudden with tears.

“Oh, Basil, Basil, I can’t live without you! I’d rather comeup to town. If you don’t like Annie, she can go away. Promise meyou’ll come. I look forward to it all the week.”

“You’ll have a very good time without me. I’ve only made youwretched by my visit.”

“No, you haven’t. I want you so badly. I’d rather be utterlyunhappy with you than happy without. Promise me you’ll come.”

“All right. I will.”

The chains that bound him were as fast as ever. And as the train sped towardsLondon his heart beat madly because each minute he drew nearer to Hilda Murray.It was very plain now that he loved her passionately, more than ever he haddone, and with violent rage he told himself that she was lost to him foralways. Intoxicated by the ring of her voice, by the sweep of her dress, by thetender look in her eyes, he repeated every word she had said at LadyEdward’s. On Wednesday he was to dine with Miss Ley, and already he feltsick with hope at the thought of meeting Hilda. In the afternoon, leavingchambers, he went home by way of Charles Street, and like a lover of eighteen,looked up at her windows. There were lights in the drawing-room, so that heknew she was at home, but he dared not go in. Mrs. Murray had not asked him tovisit her, and he could not tell whether she had no wish to see him, or whethershe thought a call so obvious as to need no special invitation. The windowsseemed to beckon, the very door offered a mute welcome; while he lingeredsomeone came out, Mr. Farley, and wondered angrily why he should go to thathouse so often. At length with a desperate effort he walked away.

Though Basil went on Wednesday to Miss Ley almost trembling with excitement, hemanaged to ask gaily who was expected to dinner, but his heart sank when shemade no mention of Mrs. Murray. Then he wondered how to pass the dreariness ofthat evening to which he had so enormously looked forward. Since the meeting atLady Edward Stringer’s, the passion, hitherto dormant, had blazed intosuch a vehement flame that he could scarcely bear himself. It seemed impossibleto live through the week without seeing Hilda; he could think of nothing else,and foresaw with sheer horror his excursion on Saturday to Brighton. Of courseit was madness, and he knew well enough it was no use to see Mrs. Murrayagain—it would have been better if they had never met; but the soundsense which he preached to himself seemed folly, and his eagerness to see herovercame all prudence. He thought there could be no harm in speaking to herjust once more, only once, after which he vowed entirely to forget her.

Next day he walked again through Charles Street, and again saw the light in herwindows. He hesitated, walking up and down. He could not tell if she wished anylonger to know him, and feared horribly to discern on her face that heintruded, but at length in sullen anger decided to adventure. He could not loveHilda more if he saw her, and perhaps by some miracle the sight might consolehim, helping him to bear his captivity. He rang.

“Is Mrs. Murray at home?”

“Yes, sir.”

She was reading when he entered the room, and with dismay Basil fancied that avery slight look of vexation crossed her eyes. It disconcerted him so that hecould think of nothing to say. Then he imagined that his behaviour mustastonish her, and asked himself whether she knew the cause of his suddenmarriage. He listened to the polite or flippant things she said, and did hisbest to answer fittingly; but his words sounded so unnatural that he scarcelyrecognised his voice. Yet they laughed and jested as though neither had a carein the world; they spoke of Miss Ley and of Frank, of the plays then to be seenin London, of one trivial topic after another, till Basil was forced to go.

“I came in fear and trembling,” he said gaily, “because youcertainly never asked me to call.”

“I thought it wasn’t needful,” she answered, smiling; but shelooked straight into his eyes with an odd air of defiance.

Basil flushed, glancing at her quickly, for there seemed a double meaning inher words, and he knew not how to take them. He lost momentarily his urbane,courteous manner.

“I wanted so much to come and see you,” he said, in a low voice,which he strove to keep firm. “May I come again?”

“Of course!” she replied; but her tone was full of cold surprise,as though she wondered at his question and resented it.

Suddenly she found his eyes fixed upon her with such an expression of deadlyanguish that she was troubled. His face was very white, and his lips twitchedas though he sought to command himself. All through the night she thought ofthat look of utter agony; it stared at her from the darkness, and she knew thatif she needed revenge the fates had given it. But she was not pleased. For thehundredth time, unable to get it out of her head that he loved her still, sheasked herself why he had married so strangely; but she would not inquire intoher own feelings. She tightened her lips.

Knowing well that he would come again, it was Mrs. Murray’s impulse totell the butler not to admit him; but something, she knew not what, preventedher. She wished to observe once more the terrible wretchedness of his face; shewished to make sure that he was not happy in what seemed his cruel treachery.One afternoon of the following week, coming in from a drive, she found hiscard. She took it in her hand and turned it over.

“Shall I ask him to luncheon?” With a frown of annoyance she put itdown. “No; if he wants to see me, let him come again.”

Basil was bitterly disappointed that day when the servant said that Mrs. Murraywas not at home, and at first determined that there he must leave it. He waitedfor a note, but none came. He waited for a week, able to do nothing but thinkof her, restless and preoccupied. With stricken conscience he went to Brighton,and so far as possible avoided to be alone with Jenny. He took her to a playone night, to a concert the next, and insisted that Mr. Higgins, stillfaithful, should be constantly with them; but the whole thing disgusted him,and he felt utterly ashamed.

Then he made it a practice every evening to take Charles Street on his way toFrank, and ever the windows appeared to invite him. When he looked back, thewhole street beckoned, and at length he could resist no longer. He knew thatMrs. Murray was in. If the butler sent him away it must be taken as definite,for it would mean that Hilda had given orders he was not to be admitted.

This time better fortune was his, but when he saw her the many things on thetip of his tongue seemed impossible of utterance, and it was an effort to speakcommonplace. Mrs. Murray was disconcerted by the look of pain which darkenedhis face, and the constraint between them made conversation very difficult.Basil dared not prolong his visit, yet it was dreadfully hard to go leavingunspoken all that lay so heavily on his heart. Talk flagged, and presentlysilence fell upon them.

“When is your book to be published?” she asked, oppressed, she knewnot why.

“In a fortnight.... I wanted to thank you for your help.”

“Me!” she cried, with surprise. “What have I done!”

“More than you know. I felt sometimes as if I were writing for you only.I judged of everything by what I thought would be your opinion of it.”

Mrs. Murray, somewhat embarrassed, did not answer. He looked away, as thoughforcing himself to speak, but nervous.

“You know, it seems to me as though everyone were surrounded by aninvisible ring which cuts him off from the rest of the world. Each of us standsentirely alone, and each step one must judge for one’s self, and none canhelp.”

“D’you think so?” she answered. “If people only knew,they would be so ready to do anything they could.”

“Perhaps, but they never know. The things about which it’s possibleto ask advice are so unimportant. There are other things, in which life anddeath are at stake, about which a man can never say a word; yet if he could itwould alter so much.” He turned and faced her gravely. “A man mayhave acted in a certain way, causing great pain to someone who was very dear tohim, yet if all the facts were known that person might—excuse andpardon.”

Mrs. Murray’s heart began to beat, and she had some difficulty inpreserving the steadiness of her voice.

“Does it much matter? In the end everyone resigns himself. I think anonlooker who could see into human hearts would be dismayed to find how muchwretchedness there is which men bear smiling. We should all be very gentle toour fellows if we realized how dreadfully unhappy they were.”

Again there was silence, but strangely enough, the barrier between themappeared suddenly to have fallen, and now, though neither spoke, there was nodiscomfort, Basil got up.

“Good-bye, Mrs. Murray. I’m glad you let me come to-day.”

“Why on earth shouldn’t I?”

“I was afraid your servant would say you weren’t at home.”

He looked at her steadily, as though meaning to say far more than was expressedin the words.

“I shall always be very glad to see you,” she answered, in a lowvoice.

“Thank you.”

A look of deep gratitude softened away the pain on his face.

At that moment Mrs. Barlow-Bassett was announced. She shook hands with Basilsomewhat coldly, thinking that a man who had married a barmaid could be noproper companion for her virtuous son, and she determined not to renew the oldacquaintance. He went out.

“D’you know whom Mr. Kent married, and why?” asked Mrs.Murray.

The question had been often on her lips, but pride till this moment had everprevented her from making an effort to clear up a difficulty which had longpuzzled her.

“My dear Hilda, don’t you know? It’s a most shocking story. Imust say I was surprised to find him here, but of course, if you didn’tknow, that explains it. He got into trouble with some dreadfully lowcreature.”

“She’s very beautiful. I’ve seen her.”

“You?” cried Mrs. Bassett, with astonishment. “It seems therewas going to be a baby, and he was forced to marry.”

Mrs. Murray blushed to the roots of her hair, and for one moment bitter angerblazed in her heart. Again she told herself that she hated and loathed him, butremembering on a sudden the woe in his eyes, knew it was no longer true.

“D’you think he’s very unhappy?”

“He must be. When a man marries beneath him he’s always unhappy,and I must say I think he deserves it. I told my boy the whole story as awarning. It just shows what comes of not having good principles.”

Mrs. Murray’s eyes dwelt on the speaker absently, as though she thoughtof other things.

“Poor fellow! I’m afraid you’re right. He is veryunhappy.”

V

In his distress Basil could scarcely bear the thought of resuming his old lifeat Barnes, so unprofitable to the spirit, mean and illiberal; and though illable to afford it, pretexting Jenny’s health, he insisted that she shouldremain longer at Brighton than was at first intended. But at length she wasevidently quite well, and no persuasions of Basil could induce her to prolongher visit. They returned to the little house in River Gardens, and outwardlythings went very much as in the past. Yet certain differences there were. Theyseemed more strange to one another after the temporary separation, and on eachside trifles arose occasionally to embitter their relations. Basil observed hiswife now in a more critical spirit, and certain little vulgarities which beforehad escaped him now set his teeth on edge. He thought that the company of hersister for two months had affected her somewhat badly. She used expressionswhich he found objectionable, and he could not help it if her manners at tableoffended his fastidious taste. He loathed the slovenly way with which sheconducted her household affairs, and the carelessness of her dress. Though whatshe bought was ever in outrageous taste, indoors she took no pains to be eventidy, and spent most of the day a dirty dressing-gown, with bedraggled hair.But since alteration seemed impossible, Basil determined rather to ignorethings, leading his own life apart, and allowing Jenny to lead hers. When shedid anything of which he disapproved, he merely shrugged his shoulders andpursed his lips. He grew much more silent, and did not now attempt to discusswith her matters wherein he was aware she took no interest.

But he had reckoned without his wife’s passionate affection, no less thanwhen first they married. Realizing the change in him, of which the causes wereto her quite incomprehensible, Jenny was profoundly disturbed. Sometimes shewept helplessly, wondering what she had done to lose his love, and at others,conscious of his injustice, broke irritably into sharp speeches. She resentedhis reserve, and the indifference with which he put aside her questions ontopics which before he would have eagerly discussed. Brooding over all this,she concluded that only a woman could have wrought this difference, andremembered on a sudden her mother’s advice to keep a sharp eye on him.Basil one morning told her that he was dining out that day. He had accepted theinvitation before he knew she would be back.

“Who with?” asked Jenny, quickly suspicious.

“Mrs. Murray.”

“Your lady friend who came down here to see you last year?”

“She came to seeyou,” replied Basil, smiling.

“Yes, I believe that. I don’t think a married man ought to godining in the West End by himself.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve accepted the invitation, and I mustgo.”

Jenny did not answer, but when Basil came home in the afternoon watched him.She saw how restless he was. His eyes shone with excitement, and he looked athis watch a dozen times to see if it were time to dress. The moment he wasgone, determined to find out on what terms he was with Mrs. Murray, andhindered by no scruple, she went to the pockets of the coat he had just takenoff, but his pocket-book was not there. A little surprised, for he was carelessabout such things, she thought there might be a letter in the desk, and withbeating heart went to it. But it was locked, and this unaccustomed precautiondoubled her suspicions. Remembering that there was a duplicate key, she fetchedit, and on opening the drawer at once came upon a note signedHildaMurray. It began withDear Mr. Kent, and endedYoursSincerely—a mere formal invitation to dinner. Jenny glanced throughthe other letters, but they related to business matters. She replaced them inthe old order and locked the drawer. She felt sick with shame now that she hadactually done this thing.

“Oh, how he’d despise me!” she cried.

And in terror lest she had left any trace of her interference, she opened thedrawer again, and once more smoothed out and tidied everything. Basil had askedher not to wait up for him, but she could not go to bed. She looked at theclock, ticking so slowly, and with something like rage told herself that Basilall this time enjoyed himself, and never thought of her. When he came home,flushed and animated, she fancied that a look of annoyance crossed his facewhen he saw her still sitting in the armchair.

“Are you very sleepy?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you go to bed? I’m just going to have one morepipe.”

“I’ll wait till you’re ready.”

She watched him walk up and down the room, excited with his thoughts, and henever spoke to her. He seemed to have forgotten that she was present. Then rageand jealousy overcame all other feelings.

“All right, my young fellow,” she whispered to herself,“I’ll find out if there’s anything in this.”

She had taken note of Mrs. Murray’s writing, and thenceforward examinedclosely the addresses of all letters that came for him, to see if one waswritten by her. Basil had been used to leave his correspondence lying about,but now took care to lock up everything, and this convinced her that he hadsomething to conceal. But she flattered herself, with a little bitter laugh,that she was fairly sharp, and he did not know that every day after he went outshe ransacked his desk. Though she never found anything, Jenny was none theless assured that there were good grounds for her jealousy. One morning shenoticed that he was dressed in new clothes, and it flashed across her mind thatin the afternoon he meant to see Mrs. Murray. It seemed to her that if heactually went it would be a confirmation of her fears, while if not she couldput aside all these tormenting fancies. Knowing at what time he left chambers,Jenny, veiled and dressed soberly, that she might not attract his attention,took up her stand in good time on the other side of the square, and waited.Presently he came out, and she followed. She followed him sauntering down theStrand, she followed him to Piccadilly Circus, and here was obliged to come alittle closer, for fear of losing him in the throng. On a sudden he wheeledround and quickly strode up to her. She gave a stifled cry, and then, seeinghis face white with rage, was overwhelmed with shame.

“How dare you follow me, Jenny?”

“I wasn’t following you. I didn’t see you.”

He called a cab, and told her to get in, jumped up, and bade the driver go toWaterloo. They were just in time to catch a train to Barnes. He did not speakto her, and she watched him in frightened silence. He said no word during thewalk back to the house. They went to the drawing-room, and he closed the doorcarefully.

“Now will you have the goodness to tell me what you mean by this?”he asked.

She gave no answer, but looked down in sullen anger,

“Well?”

“I won’t be bullied,” she answered.

“Look here, Jenny, we had better understand one another. Why have youbeen going to my drawer and reading my letters?”

“You’ve got no right to accuse me of that. It’s nottrue.”

You leave my desk in such disorder when you’ve been to it.”

“Well, I’ve got a right to know. Where were you going,to-day?”

“That is absolutely no business of yours. I’m simply ashamed thatyou should do such horrible things. Don’t you know that nothing is sodisgraceful as to follow anyone in the street, and I’d sooner you stolethan read private letters.”

“I’m not going to stand by and let you run after other women, soyou needn’t think I am.”

He gave a laugh, partly of scorn, partly of disgust.

“Don’t be absurd. We’re married, and we must make the best ofit. You may be quite sure that I’ll give you no cause forreproach.”

“You’re always after your fine friends that I’m not goodenough for.”

“Good heavens!” he cried bitterly, “you can’t grudge mea little relaxation. It surely does you no harm if sometimes I go and see thepeople I knew intimately before my marriage?”

Jenny did not answer, but pretended to order anew flowers in a vase; then shesmoothed down cushions on the sofa and set a picture straight.

“If you’ve done preaching at me, I’ll go and take off myhat,” she said at length viciously.

“You may do exactly as you choose,” he answered, with coldindifference.

Shortly after this Basil’s novel was published. Knowing that it could notinterest her, and conscious of her small sympathy, he gave a copy to Jennysomewhat shyly, but said no more than the truth when he wrote to Mrs. Murraythat great part of his pleasure in the book’s appearance lay in the factthat he was able to send it to her. He waited for her letter of thanks with asmuch anxiety as for the first reviews. She wrote twice, first to acknowledgethe receipt and say that she had already read a chapter; then, having finished,to bestow enthusiastic praise. Her appreciation lifted him to a very heaven ofdelight. When Jenny, after an obvious struggle, reached the last page, hewaited for some criticism, but since none came, was forced to ask what shethought.

“I liked it very much,” she said.

But there was in her tone an unconcern which not a little incensed him, andthough he knew this indifference pointed to no particular fault in his book, hewas none the less profoundly humiliated. Yet a bitterer disappointment awaitedhim in the reviews which now began to come in. For the most part they wereshort, somewhat scornful, somewhat patronizing, and it appeared that this book,which he had imagined would raise him at once to a literary position of someeminence, was no more than prentice work, showing more promise thanperformance. Its merits, indeed, were not few, but scarcely such as to exciteany sudden admiration; his construction was faulty, and in parts his attentionto the environment suggested rather the essay or the treatise. The result,notwithstanding many qualities, was neither very good romance nor very goodhistory. Two literary papers at length offered salve to his wounded vanity inlong and appreciative notices, doing full justice to his passion for beauty,his measured and careful style, the clear-cut perfection of his portraits. Thefirst of these was sent him with a note of congratulation by Mrs. Murray, andhe read it with leaping heart. It gave him new confidence, and a firmerresolution to do better in future. But though careful to hand over to Jenny allunfavourable criticisms, these, which from a literary standpoint were moreimportant than all the others put together, with a kind of inverted pride heforbore to show.

The consequence of this was that Jenny gained a rather false impression of thebook’s failure, and the idea came that Basil, after all, was perhaps notsuch a wonderful person as once she fancied. She sought not to analyze herfeelings, but had she done so would have found in them a strange medley. Sheadored Basil passionately, jealously, but at the same time felt against him asort of confused irritation which made her welcome the published sneers thatwounded him so keenly; they seemed to draw him down to her, for if he was lessclever than at first she thought it lessened the distance between them. Yet thegulf which separated them grew daily greater, and quarrels were of morefrequent occurrence. Basil, hating his life at Barnes, wrapped himself in areserve which he strove to make impenetrable; he was very silent, going abouthis work methodically, and doing his best to avoid the acrimonious discussionswhich Jenny forced upon him. He tried to relieve his unhappiness with unceasingtoil, and to counter his wife’s ill-temper with philosophic indifference.It drove her to furious anger that, however she taunted, he seldom replied, andthen only with cold sarcasm. But sometimes remorse seized her. Then she went toher husband in tears, begging him to forgive and asserting again her greatlove; and this for some days would be followed by a measure of peace.

But one morning a more serious quarrel arose, for Basil, somewhat pressed formoney, had discovered that James Bush, still out of work, was steadilyborrowing from Jenny. He had begged her not to lend any more, and finding herunwilling to give a promise, was obliged somewhat peremptorily to insist thatnot another penny should go into the grasping hands of the Bush family. On bothsides there was a good deal of irritation, and finally Basil flung out of thehouse. Presently James Bush, cause of all the trouble, sauntered in.

“Where’s his lordship this afternoon?” he asked, helpinghimself to Basil’s cigarettes.

“He’s gone out for a walk.”

“That’s what he tells you, my dear,” he answered with amalevolent laugh.

“Have you seen him anywhere?” asked Jenny quickly, full ofsuspicion.

“No, I can’t say I ’ave, an’ if I ’ad Iwouldn’t boast about it.”

“What did you mean, then?” she insisted.

“Well, whenever I come here he’s out for a walk.”

He glanced at her, and then without more ado asked for the loan of a couple ofsovereigns; but Jenny, mindful of the morning’s dispute, and regretfullyconscious that herself had brought it about, firmly refused. Since he insisted,accusing her of meanness, she was forced to explain how heavy of late had beentheir expenses; the doctor had sent in a bill for fifty pounds, the visit toBrighton cost a great deal, and they would have much difficulty to make bothends meet.

“It was a wonderful fine thing you did when you married him, Jenny, andyou thought you’d done precious well for yourself too.”

“I won’t have you say anything against him,” she criedpetuously.

“All right; keep your shirt in. I’m blowed if I know whatyou’ve got to stick up for him about. He don’t care much aboutyou.”

She looked up with a quick drawing-in of the breath.

“How d’you know?”

“Think I can’t see?” He chuckled slily at his own acuteness.“I suppose you ’aven’t been crying to-day?”

“We had a little tiff this morning,” she answered. “Oh,don’t say he doesn’t care for me. I couldn’t live.”

“Go along with you,” he laughed. “Basil Kent ain’t theonly pebble on the beach.”

Jenny went to the window and looked out. She saw her husband walk slowly along,his head bent down, betraying in his whole appearance the most profounddepression, and thinking of their wretchedness, she could not restrain hertears. Everything went against them, and though loving him so tenderly, somemysterious power seemed ever to force her to anger him. With entire despair sheturned to her brother and spoke words which had long been in her heart, butwhich till then she had not uttered to a living soul.

“Oh, Jimmie, Jimmie, sometimes I don’t know which way to turn,I’m that unhappy. If the baby had only lived, I might have kept myhusband—I might have made him love me.”

She sank on a chair and hid her face, but in a moment, hearing the door close,looked up.

“He’s just come in, Jimmie. Mind you don’t say anything toput him out.”

“I’d just like to give ’im a piece of my mind.”

“Oh, Jimmie, don’t. It was my fault that we quarrelled thismorning. I wanted to make him angry, and I nagged at him.” She knew thebest way to influence her brother. “Don’t let him see thatI’ve said anything to you, and I’ll try and send you a poundto-morrow.”

“Well, he’d better not start patronizing me, because I won’tput up with it. I’m a gentleman, and every bit as good as he is, if notbetter.” At this Basil came in, noticed James, but did not speak.“’Afternoon, Basil.”

“You here again?” he remarked indifferently.

“Looks like it, don’t it?”

“I’m afraid it does.”

“Are you? I suppose I can come and see my own sister.”

“I suppose it’s inevitable. Only I should be excessively gratefulif you’d time your coming with my going, andvice versâ.”

“That means you want me to get out, I reckon.”

“You show unusual perspicacity, dear James,” said Basil, with afrigid smile.

“Look here, Basil, let me give you a bit of advice. Don’t put onquite so much side, or you’ll hurt yourself.”

“I observe that you have not acquired the useful art of being uncivilwithout being impertinent.”

There was nothing James could brook less easily than the irony and thedeliberate sarcasm with which Basil invariably answered him, and now in hisexasperation, forgetting all prudence, he jumped up.

“Look ’ere, I’ve ’ad about enough of this. I’mnot going to stand you sneerin’ and snarlin’ at me when I comehere. You seem to think I’m nobody, I should just like to know why you goon as if I was I don’t know what.”

“Because I choose,” answered Basil, looking him up and down withchilling scorn.

Jenny’s heart beat furiously as she foresaw the approaching quarrel, andin an undertone, hurriedly, she begged James to hold his tongue. But he wouldnot be restrained.

“You can bet anything you like I don’t come ’ere to seeyou.”

“It has been borne in upon me that the length of my I purse attracts youmore than the charm of my conversation. I wonder why you imagined, because Imarried your sister, I was bound to support the whole gang of you for the restof your lives? Would you have the intense amiability to inform your family thatI’m sick and tired of giving money?”

“I wonder you don’t forbid us your house while you’re aboutit,” snarled James.

Basil shrugged his shoulders.

“You may come here when I’m not at home—if you I behaveyourself.”

“I’m not good enough for you, I suppose?”

“No, you’re not,” answered Basil, with deliberation.

“I dare say you’d like to get me out of the way. But I mean to keepmy eye on you.”

“What d’you mean by that?” asked Basil, so sharply that Jamessaw he had touched him on the raw.

He pursued his advantage.

“You think I don’t know what sort of a feller you are. I can justabout see through two of you. Jenny has something to put up with, I lay.”

But Basil recovered himself quickly, and turned to Jenny with a smile ofcontempt, which, since it was undeserved, most deeply wounded her.

“Has she been telling you my numerous faults? You must have had plenty totalk about, my dear.” He saw her motion of protest, and gave a laugh.“Oh, my dear girl, if it amuses you, by all means discuss me with yourrelations. I should be so dull if I had no failings.”

“Tell him I’ve not said anything against him, Jimmie,” shecried.

“It’s not for want of something to say, I’ll be bound.”

Basil was growing bored, and saw no reason for concealing the fact. He sat downat his desk to write a letter, and took a sheet of note-paper. Jimmie watchedhim viciously, smarting under the bitter things the other had said, andwondering what the next move would be. Basil glanced at him indifferently.

“I’m getting rather tired, brother James. I’d go if I wereyou.”

“I shan’t go till I choose,” answered Bush very aggressively.

Basil looked up with a smile.

“Of course, we’re both of us Christians, dear James, andthere’s a good deal of civilization kicking about the world nowadays. Butthe last word is still with the strongest.”

“What d’you mean by that?”

“Merely that discretion is the better part of valour. They say thatproverbs are the wealth of nations.”

“That’s just the sort of thing you’d do—to ’it afeller smaller than yourself.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t hit you for worlds,” laughed Basil bitterly.“I should merely throw you downstairs.”

“I should just like to see you try it on,” cried the other, edginga little towards the door.

“Don’t be silly, James. You know you wouldn’t like it atall.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“Of course not. But still—you’re not very muscular, areyou?”

Rage driving away prudence, James shook his fist in Basil’s face.

“Oh, I’ll pay you out before I’ve done. I’ll pay youout.”

“James, I told you to get out five minutes ago,” said Basil, in amore peremptory fashion.

Jimmie looked at him for one moment, furious and impotent; then, withoutanother word, flung out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Basil smiledquietly and shrugged his shoulders. He felt almost as disgusted with himself aswith James, but supposed that as such scenes grew more frequent he wouldacquire a certain callousness. In his self-contempt he told himself thatwithout doubt the time would come when he would be proud of his triumph inrepartee over an auctioneer’s clerk. He glanced at Jenny, who sat withsewing in her hands, but without working gazed straight out of window.

“The only compensation in brother James is that he causes one a littlemild amusement,” he murmured.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” she answered.“Why d’you treat him as if he was a dog?”

“My dear child, I don’t. I’m very fond of dogs.”

“Isn’t he as good as I am? And you condescended to marry me.”

“I really can’t see that because I married you I must necessarilytake the whole of your amiable family to my bosom.”

“Why don’t you like them? They’re honest andrespectable.”

Basil gave a little sigh of fatigue. They had discussed the matter often duringthe last month, and though he did his best to curb his tongue, his patience wasnearly exhausted.

“My dear Jenny,” he said, “we don’t choose our friendsbecause they’re honest and respectable, any more than we choose thembecause they change their linen daily. But I’m willing to acknowledgethat they have every grace and every virtue, only they rather bore me.”

“They wouldn’t if they were swells.”

He looked at her curiously, wondering why she imputed to him such despicablemotives, and reflected that he could have been very good friends with hiswife’s relations if they had been simple country folk, unassuming andhonest; but the family of Bush joined the most vulgar pretentiousness to a codeof honour which could only in charity be called eccentric. Jenny brooded overhis words, and after a silence of some minutes burst out impatiently.

“After all, we’re not in such a bad position as all that. Mymother’s father was a gentleman.”

“I wish your mother’s son were,” answered Basil, withoutlooking up from the letter he wrote.

“D’you know what Jimmie saysyou are?”

“I don’t vastly care, but if it pleases you very much you may tellme.”

She shot at him an angry glance, but did not answer. Then Basil got up, andgoing to her, placed his hands on her shoulders. Making his tone very gentle,he explained that it was really not his fault if he did not care for herpeople. Could she not resign herself to the fact, and make the best of it?Surely it would be better than to make themselves miserable. But Jenny,refusing the offer of reconciliation, turned away.

“You don’t think they’re good enough for you to associatewith because they’re not in swell positions.”

“I don’t in the least object to their being grocers andhaberdashers,” he answered, with a flush of annoyance. “I only wishthey’d sell us things at cost price.”

“Jimmie isn’t a grocer or a haberdasher. He’s an auctioneersclerk.”

“I humbly apologize. I thought he was a grocer, because last time he didus the honour of calling he asked how much a pound we paid for our tea, andoffered to sell us some at the same price. But then he also offered to insureour house against fire, and to sell me a gold-mine in Australia.”

“Well, it’s better to make a bit as best one can than to moonaround like you do.”

“Really, even to please you I’m afraid I can’t go about withlittle samples of tea in my pocket, and sell my friends a pound or two when Icall upon them. Besides, I don’t believe they’d ever pay me.”

“Oh no,” cried Jenny scornfully, “you’re a gentleman,and a barrister, and an author, and you couldn’t do anything to dirtythose white hands that you’re so proud about. How do other fellows manageto get briefs?”

“The simplest way, I believe, is to marry the wily solicitor’sdaughter.”

“Instead of a barmaid?”

“I didn’t say that, Jenny,” he answered very gravely.

“Oh no, you didn’t say it. But you hinted it. You never sayanything, but you’re always hinting and insinuating till you drive me outof my senses.”

He held out his hands.

“I’m very sorry if I hurt your feelings. I promise you Idon’t mean to. I always try to be kind to you.”

He looked at her wistfully, expecting some word of regret or affection; butsullenly, with tight-closed lips, she cast down her eyes, and went on with hersewing.

With darkened brows he returned to his letters, and for an hour they remainedsilent. Then Jenny, unable any longer to bear that utter stillness, whichseemed more marked because he sat so near, hostile and unapproachable, went outto sit in her own room. Her anger was past, and she was frightened at herself.She wanted to think the matter out, and with despair remembered that there wasnone to whom she could go for advice. It would be impossible to make her ownfolk understand these difficulties, and instead of help they would give onlyfloats and cruel jibes. It crossed her mind to go to Frank, the only friend ofBasil whom she knew with any intimacy, for he came not infrequently to Barnes,and his manner, always so kind and gentle, made her think that she could trusthim; but what should he care for her misery, and what assistance could heoffer? She knew well enough the expressions of helpless sympathy he would use.It seemed that she stood quite alone in the world, weak and without courage,separated at once from those among whom her life had been spent, and from thoseinto whose class her marriage had brought her. With throbbing brain, like apuppet driven round endlessly in a circle of pain, she could not see an end toher troubles. But the very confusion, the terror and uncertainty of it, forcedher to make some desperate attempt, and she sought within herself for strengthto gain the happiness she so woefully desired. She pondered over the events ofthe last year, picturing distinctly each passing scene, and saw the gradualbitterness that darkened the bliss of the beginning; then she told herself thatsome great effort was needed, or it would be too late. She was losing herhusband’s love, and in bitter self-reproach took all the blame thereforupon her own shoulders. The only chance now was to change herself completely.She must try to be less exacting, less insanely jealous; she must at leastattempt to be more worthy of him. In an agony of repentance she reviewed allher faults. At last, with flushed cheeks and eyes still shining with tears, shewent to Basil, and laid her hand on his shoulder.

“Basil, I’ve come to beg your pardon for what I said just now. Iwas carried away, and forgot myself.”

There was a gentleness in her voice which he had almost forgotten. He stood upand took her hands, smiling brightly.

“My dear girl, what does it matter? I’d forgotten all aboutit.”

“I’ve been thinking it all over. We haven’t been getting onvery well of late, and I’m afraid I’ve been to blame. I did thingsI regret. I have been reading your letters”—she blushed deeply withintense shame—“but I swear I won’t do it any more. I will tryto be a good wife to you. I know I’m not your equal, but I want to try toget up to you. And you must be patient with me—you must rememberI’ve got a lot to learn.”

“Oh, Jenny, don’t talk like that; you make me feel such acad.”

She smiled through her tears. He spoke in just the same eager tone which intime past had so charmed her. But then a wistful look came to her face.

“You do love me still a little, Basil, don’t you?”

“My darling, you know I do.”

He took her in his arms and kissed her. She burst into tears, but they weretears of joy, for she thought, poor thing! that there ended their troubles. Thefuture would be brighter and quite different.

VI

Part of Frank’s work as assistant-physician was to make post-mortemexaminations of patients who died in the hospital, and in the performance ofthis duty, some time after Easter, he contracted a septic inflammation of thethroat. Characteristically making nothing of it till quite seriously ill, hewas at length taken to St. Luke’s in a high fever, delirious, and therefor more than a week remained in a somewhat dangerous condition. For afortnight more he found himself so languid that, though with vexation rebellingagainst his weakness, he was obliged to keep his bed; but finally convalescent,he arranged to go for a little to Ferne, near Tercanbury, where his father hada large general practice; then he meant to stay at Jeyston in Dorsetshire,where the Castillyons were giving a small house-party for Whitsun. Nor wasthere much inconvenience in his taking then a needed holiday, for the absenceduring August and September of the physician whose place in the wards he mustfill would keep him in town for the hottest months.

The night before his departure Frank dined with Miss Ley, alone as bothpreferred, and during the meal, as was their wont, they discussed the weatherand the crops. Each was sufficiently fond of his own ideas to brook nointerruption from the service of food, and chose rather to keep till afterwardsany topic that needed free discussion. But when the coffee was brought into thelibrary, Miss Ley being comfortably stretched on a sofa, and Frank, with hislegs on an armchair, lit his cigar, they looked at one another with a sigh ofrelief and a smile of self-satisfaction.

“You are going down to Jeyston, aren’t you?” he asked.

“I don’t think I can face it. As the time grows nearer, I begin tofeel more wretched at the prospect, and I’m convinced I shall haveworried myself into a dangerous illness by the appointed day. I don’t seewhy at my age I should deliberately expose myself to the tedium of ahouse-party. Paul Castillyon has notions of old-fashioned hospitality, andevery morning after breakfast asks what you would like to do; (as if anysensible woman knew at that preposterous hour what she wanted to do in theafternoon!) but it’s a mere form, because he has already mapped out yourday, and you’ll find every minute has its fixed entertainment. Then, itbores me to extinction to be affable to people I despise, andpolite—— Oh, how I hate having to be polite! A visit of two daysmakes me feel as if I should like to swear like a Billingsgate fishwife, justto relieve the monotony of good manners.”

Frank smiled, and drinking his Benedictine, settled himself still morecomfortably in his chair.

“By the way, talking of good manners, did I tell you that just before Igrew seedy I went to three dances?”

“I thought you hated them?”

“So I do, but I went with a special object. The chief thing that struckme was the execrable breeding of the people. Supper was to be ready atmidnight, and at half-past eleven they began to gather round the closed doorsof the supper-room; by twelve there was as large a crowd as at the pit-entranceof a theatre, and when the doors were thrown open they struggled and pushed andfought like wild beasts. I’m sure the humble pittite is never half soviolent, and they just flung themselves on the tables like ravening wolves.Now, I should have thought polite persons showed no excessive anxiety to befed. By Jove! they made a greater clamour than the animals at the Zoo.”

“You’re sobourgeois, dear Frank,” smiled Miss Ley.“Why do you suppose people go to a dance, if not to have a good squaremeal for nothing? But that was surely not your object.”

“No; I went because I’d made up my mind to marry.”

“Good heavens!”

“Having arrived at the theoretical conclusion that marriage is desirable,I determined to go to three dances to see whether I could find anyone with whomit was possible, without absolute distaste, to contemplate passing the rest ofmy days. I danced and sat out with seventy-five different persons, Miss Ley,ranging in age from seventeen to forty-two, and I can honestly say I’venever been so hideously bored in my life. It’s no good; I’m doomedto a career of single blessedness. I didn’t think I should falldesperately in love on the spot, but it seemed possible that one of thosefive-and-seventy blooming maidens would excite in me some faint thrill: not onedisturbed my equilibrium for a single moment. Besides, they were mostlyphthisical or anæmic or ill-developed; I hardly saw one who appeared capable ofbearing healthy children.”

For a moment they were silent, while Miss Ley, not without amusement, ponderedover Frank’s fantastic scheme for finding a wife.

“And what are you going to do now?” she asked.

“Shall I tell you?” He put aside the light manner which preventedone from seeing how much of what he said was seriously meant, and how muchdeliberate nonsense, and leaned forwards, his square strong chin on his hand,looking at Miss Ley with steady gaze. “I think I’m going to chuckeverything.”

“What on earth d’you mean?”

“I’ve been thinking of it more or less for some months, and duringthis last fortnight in bed I’ve put two and two together. I’m goinghome partly to sound my people. You know my father has toiled year after year,saving every penny he could, so that I might have the best possible medicaleducation, and take at once to consulting work without any anxiety about mybread-and-butter. He knew it entailed earning very little for a long time, buthe was determined to give me a chance; it’s a poorish practice roundFerne, and he’s never had a holiday for thirty years. I want to find outif he could bear it if I told him I intend to abandon my profession.”

“But, my dear boy, d’you realize that you wish to give up a verybrilliant career?” exclaimed Miss Ley in some consternation.

“I’ve considered it pretty carefully. I suppose no one of my yearsin the medical has quite such a brilliant chance as I. Luck has been on my sidethroughout. I fell into the post of resident at St. Luke’s by the deathof the man above me, and at the end of my time got the assistant-physicianshipat a very early age. I have friends and connections in the world of fashion, sothat I shall soon have a rich and important practice. In due course, I daresay, if I stick to it, I may earn ten or fifteen thousand a year, be appointeda royal physician, and eventually be baroneted; and then I shall die, and beburied, and leave rather a large fortune. That is the career that awaits me: Ican see myself in the future portly and self-complacent, rather bald, with thelarge watch-chain, the well-cut frock-coat, and the suave manner of the modishspecialist; I shall be proud of my horses, and fond of giving anecdotes aboutthe royal personages I treat for over-eating.”

He paused, looking straight in front of him at this imaginary Sir FrancisHurrell who strutted pompously, sleek and prosperous, under a load of honours.Miss Ley, deeply interested in all stirrings of the soul, observed keenly hislook of scorn.

“But it seems to me at the end of it I may look back, intensely boredwith my success, and say to myself that, after all, I haven’t reallylived a single day. I’m thirty now, and my youth is beginning to slipaway—callow students in their first year think I’m quitemiddle-aged—and I haven’t lived yet; I’ve only had time towork, and by Jove! I have worked—like the very devil. When myfellow-students spent their nights in revelry, at music-halls, kicking up a rowand getting drunk, or making love to pretty wantons, when they played pokerinto the small hours of the morning, reckless and light of heart, I satworking, working, working. Now, for the most part, they’ve settled downas sober, tedious general practitioners, eminently worthy members of society,and respectably married; and a fool would say I have my reward becauseI’m successful and somewhat distinguished, while they for pastdissipation must pay to their life’s end with the stupidest mediocrity.But sometimes their nerves must tingle when they look back on those good daysof high spirits and freedom; I have nothing to look back on but the steadyacquirement of knowledge. Oh, how much wiser I should have been to go to thedeuce with them! But I was just a virtuous prig. I’ve worked too much,I’ve been altogether too exemplary, and now my youth is going, andI’ve known none of its follies; my blood burns for the hot, mad riot ofthe devil-may-cares. And this medical life isn’t as I thought once, broadand catholic; it’s warped and very narrow. We only see one side ofthings; to us the world is a vast hospital of sick people, and we come to lookupon mankind from the exclusive standpoint of disease; but the wise manoccupies himself, not with death, but with life—not with illness, butwith radiant health. Disease is only an accident; and how can we lead naturallives when we deal entirely with the abnormal? I feel I never want to see sickpersons again; I can’t help it, they horrify and disgust me, I thoughtI’d busy myself with science, but that, too, seems dead to me andirksome; it wants men of different temper from mine to be scientists. There areplenty to whom the world and its glories are nothing, but I havepassions—hot, burning passions; my senses are all alert, and I want tolive. I wish life were some rich fruit, that I could take it in my hands andtear it apart, and eat it piece by piece. How can you expect me to sit down atmy microscope hour after hour when the blood is racing through my veins and mymuscles are throbbing for sheer manual labour?”

In his excitement he jumped up, and walked up and down, blowing out the smokefuriously in white clouds. The old fable of the ant and the grasshopper came toMiss Ley’s mind, and she reflected that so at the approach of autumnmight have reasoned the ant when she contemplated her store of food laboriouslycollected; perhaps she, bitterly envied the grasshopper who had spent theglorious days in idle singing, and in her heart, notwithstanding an emptylarder and the cold winter to come, felt that the careless songster had made abetter use than she of the summer-time.

“Do you think you’ll have the same ideas after a fortnight in thecountry has brought you back again your full health?” asked Miss Leymeditatively.

She was astonished at the effect of this question, for he turned on her with ananger which she had never seen in him before.

“D’you think I’m an absolute fool, Miss Ley?” he cried.“D’you think these are mere idle womanish fancies? I’ve beenthinking of this for months, and my illness has left my brain clearer than everit was. We’re all tied to the wheel, and when one of us tries to escapethe rest do all they can by jibes and sneers to hold him back.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, my son,” smiled MissLey indulgently. “You know I have a certain discreet affection foryou.”

“I beg your pardon; I didn’t mean to be so violent,” heanswered, quickly penitent. “But I feel as though chains were eating intomy flesh, and I want to get free.”

“I should have thought London offered a fairly spirited and variouslife.”

“London doesn’t offer life at all—it offers culture. Oh, theybore me to extinction, the people I go and see, all talking of the same thingsand so self-satisfied in their narrow outlook! Just think what culture is. Itmeans that you go to first-nights at the theatre and to private views at theAcademy; you rave over Eleonora Duse and read theSaturday Review; youmake a point of wading through the latest novel talked of in Paris, discussglibly the books that come out here, and occasionally meet at tea the peoplewho write them. You travel along the beaten track in Italy and France, muchdespising the Cook’s Tourist, but really no better than a vulgar tripperyourself; you’re very fond of airing your bad French, and you have asmattering of worse Italian. Occasionally, to impress the vulgar, you consentto be bored to death by a symphony concert; you go into fashionable rapturesover Wagner, collect paste buckles, and take in theMorning Post.”

“Spare me,” cried Miss Ley, throwing up her hands; “Irecognise a particularly unflattering portrait of myself.”

Frank in his vehemence paid no attention to her remark.

“And the dull stupidity of it just chokes me, so that I pant for thefresh air. I want to sail in ships, and battle with hurricane and storm; I wantto go far away among men who actually do things—to new countries, Canadaand Australia, where they fight hand to hand with primitive nature; I desirethe seething scum of great cities, where there’s no confounded policemanto keep you virtuous. My whole soul aches for the East, for Egypt and India andJapan; I want to know the corrupt, eager life of the Malays and the violentadventures of South Sea Islands, I may not get an answer to the riddle of lifeout in the open world, but I shall get nearer to it than here; I can getnothing more out of books and civilization. I want to see life and death, andthe passions, the virtues and vices, of men face to face, uncovered; I wantreally to live my life while there’s time; I want to have something tolook back on in my old age.”

“That’s all very fine and romantic,” replied Miss Ley;“but where are you going to get the money?”

“I don’t want money; I’ll earn my living as I go, I’llship before the mast to America, and there I’ll work as a navvy; andI’ll tramp from end to end picking up odd jobs. And when I know that,I’ll get another ship to take me East. I’m sick to death of yourupper classes; I want to work with those who really know life at the bottom,with its hunger and toil, its primitive love and hate.”

“That’s nonsense, my dear. Poverty is a more exacting master thanall the conventions of society put together, I dare say one voyage before themast would be interesting, and would certainly teach you the advantage of amplemeans and the comfort of useless luxuries. But remember that as soon asanything becomes a routine it ceases to be true.”

“That sounds epigrammatic,” interrupted Frank; “but does itby any chance mean something?”

Miss Ley, uncertain that it did, went on quickly.

“I assure you that no one can be free who isn’t delivered from thecare of getting money. For myself, I have always thought the philosophers talksheer silliness when they praise the freedom of a man content with little; aman with no ear for music will willingly go without his stall at the opera, butan obtuseness of sense is no proof of wisdom. No one can really be free, no onecan even begin to get the full value out of life, on a smaller income than fivehundred a year.”

Frank looked straight in front of him, without answering; his quick mind stillthrilled with the prospect his imagination offered. Miss Ley continuedreflectively.

“On the other hand, it seems to me proof of great dulness that a personof ample fortune should devote himself to any lucrative occupation, and I haveno patience with the man of means who from sheer habit or in poverty of spiritpursues a monotonous and sordid industry. I know a millionaire who makes hisonly son work ten hours a day in a bank, and thinks he gives him a usefultraining! Now, I would have the rich leave the earning of money to such as mustmake their daily bread, and devote their own energies exclusively to thespending thereof. I should like a class, leisured and opulent, with time forthe arts and graces, in which urbanity and wit and comeliness of manner mightbe cultivated; I would have it attempt curious experiments in life, and likethe Court of Louis XV., offer a frivolous, amiable contrast to the darkstrenuousness in which of necessity the world in general must exist. A deal ofnonsense is now talked about the dignity of labour, but I wonder that preachersand suchlike have ever had the temerity to tell a factory hand there isanything exalting in his dreary toil. I suppose it is praised usually becauseit takes men out of themselves, and the stupid are bored when they have nothingto do. Work with the vast majority is merely a refuge from ennui, but surely itis absurd to call it noble on that account; on the contrary, there is probablyfar more nobility in indolence, which requires many talents, much cultivation,and a mind of singular and delicate constitution.”

“And now for the application of your harangue,” suggested Frank,smiling.

“It’s merely that in this short life of ours it’s never worthwhile to be bored. I set no such value on regular occupations as to blame youif you abandon your profession; and for my part neither honours nor wealthwould tempt me to a career wherein I was imprisoned by any kind of habit, tie,or routine. There’s no reason why you should continue to be a doctor ifit irks you, but for Heaven’s sake don’t on that account despisethe fleshpots of Egypt. Now, I have a proposition to make. As you know, myincome is much greater than my needs, and if you will graciously accept it, Ishall be charmed to settle upon you five hundred a year—the smallest sum,as I have often told you, on which may be played the entertaining game oflife.”

He shook his head, smiling.

“It’s awfully good of you, but I couldn’t take it. If I canbring my father round, I shall go to Liverpool, and get on a ship as ordinaryseaman. I don’t want anybody’s money.”

Miss Ley sighed.

“Men are so incurably romantic.”

Frank bade her good-night, and next day went to Ferne. But Miss Ley consideredwhat he had said, and the morning solemnly visited her solicitor at LancasterGate—an elderly, rubicund gentleman with mutton-chop whiskers.

“I wish to make my will,” she said, “but I really don’tknow what to do with this blessed fortune of mine; no one much wants it, andnow my brother is dead there’s no one I can even annoy by leaving himnothing. By the way, can I during my lifetime settle an annuity on a personagainst his will?”

“I’m afraid you can’t force anyone to take money,”answered the solicitor, with a chuckle.

“How tiresome your laws are!”

“I should have said they applied perfectly, because a man who refuses anincome is certainly fit only for a lunatic asylum.”

Beside her house in Old Queen Street, Miss Ley had somewhat less than fourthousand a year, and the necessity of leaving it in a more or less rationalfashion had of late much tormented her.

“I think,” she said, after a moment’s thought,“I’ll just divide it into three—one part to my niece, BerthaCraddock, who won’t in the least know what to do with it; one part to mynephew, Gerald Vaudrey, who’s a scamp and will squander it in riotousliving; and one part to my friend, Francis Hurrell.”

“Very well; I’ll have it drawn out, and send it down to you.”

“Fiddlesticks! Take a sheet of paper and write it now. I’ll waittill you’re ready.”

The solicitor, sighing over this outrage to the decorum of legal delays, butaware that his client was of a peremptory nature, did her bidding, and callingin a clerk, with him witnessed her signature. She departed, feeling singularlypleased with herself, for whatever happened Frank would never suffer fromfinancial difficulties, and she thought, not without sly amusement, of hisextreme surprise when he found himself at her demise a man in comfortablecircumstances.

VII

During his fortnight at home Frank observed his father and mother with greatattention, and realized, really for the first time, how enormous were thesacrifices they had made for his sake. Every day, fine or rainy, old Dr.Hurrell drove out to visit his scattered patients, and in the afternoon trudgedround on foot. From five till seven he saw patients in the surgery, and oftenenough was called up in the middle of the night to go to a farmhouse five milesaway in the very heart of the country. To all these people he dispensed thefruits of his long experience, medical knowledge perhaps a littlerough-and-ready, but serviceable enough; and of a surety his old-fashioneddrugs, his somewhat drastic surgery, were more popular with yokel and farmerthan would have been any new-fangled methods of treatment. Besides, he gave toall and sundry good, cheery advice, and a piece of his mind when they did whatthey shouldn’t, so that it was no wonder not a practitioner for twentymiles around was so beloved and trusted. But it was a monotonous life, withoutrest, without a single break from year’s end to year’s end,ill-paid if paid at all; and for thirty years the good man and his wife hadlooked upon every sovereign earned as held in trust for their only son. Theyhad demanded economy neither at Oxford nor afterwards in London, but ratherpressed money upon him. They had received with proud enthusiasm his desire totake up consulting practice, though knowing he must for a long time still be acharge upon them, and insisted that he should rent in Harley Street the verybest rooms obtainable. The constant drudgery had been happiness unalloyed,because it gave every chance to the beloved boy whose brilliant talents seemeda thing so surprising that they could only thank God humbly for an unmeritedmercy.

“Don’t you get tired of the practice sometimes, father!”asked Frank.

“It’s a matter of habit, and it’s all I’m fitfor—a country practice. And then I have my reward, because some day youmay be at the head of the profession; and when afterwards they write your life,a chapter will be devoted to the old G.P. at Ferne, who first gave you a lovefor medicine.”

“But we shan’t work very much longer,” said Mrs. Hurrell,“for soon we shall be able to afford to retire and live close to you.Sometimes we do want to see you often, Frank. It’s very hard to beseparated from you for so long at a time.”

There was trembling in that strong even voice, so that Frank felt powerless.How could he, for reasons they would never understand, destroy that edifice ofhope on which they had spent so many years of striving? He could never causethem such bitter, bitter pain. So long as they lived he must bear the yokewhich they had put upon him, and go on with the steady, not inglorious routineof his existence in London.

“You’ve been very good to me,” he said, “and I’lltry so to live as to prove to you that I’m grateful for all you’vedone. I’ll be very ambitious, so that you may not think you’vewasted your time.”

But Frank’s humour was inclined to the satiric when he arrived atJeyston, the Castillyons’ place in Dorsetshire. Miss Ley had finallydecided that her health prevented her from indulging in any dissipation, butMrs. Barlow-Bassett with Reggie came by the same train as himself, andPaul’s mother, who with her companion made up the small party, a fewhours later.

A wizened little woman with white hair and a preposterous cap, the elder Mrs.Castillyon babbled incessantly of nothing in particular, but for the most partof her own family, the Bainbridges of Somersetshire, whereof now she was theonly living representative. Immensely proud of her stock, she took small painsto hide her contempt for all whose names figured less importantly than her ownin theLanded Gentry. Ignorant, narrow, ill-educated and ill-bred, shepursued her course through this vale of sorrow with a most comfortableassurance of her superiority to the world in general; and not only in herhusband’s time, but even now that Paul reigned in his stead, by virtue ofthe purse-strings, whereof she kept tight hold, tyrannized systematically overJeyston and all the villages surrounding. Her abominable temper, uncheckedsince in early youth she awoke to the fact that she was an heiress of oldfamily, was freely vented on Miss Johnston, her companion, a demure maiden offorty, who ate with admirable complacency the bread of servitude; but also tosome extent on her daughter-in-law, whom the old lady detested heartily, neverhesitating to remind her that it was her good money which she so lightlysquandered. Paul alone, whom she spoke of always as The Squire, had influencewith her, for it was Mrs. Castillyon’s belief, innate as the capacity ofducks to swim, that the holder of this title was God’s representative onearth, a person of super-human attributes whose word was law, and whosecommands must be obeyed; and Frank, who had seen Mr. Castillyon somewhatflouted in London as a notorious bore, was amazed to find that here he wasultimate arbiter of all questions. His judgment was unquestioned in matters ofopinion as in matters of fact; his ideas upon art or science were asnecessarily final as his political theories were the only ones an honest mancould hold. When he had spoken all was said, and it would have been as rationalto contradict him as to argue with an earthquake. But even Paul was relievedwhen his mother’s periodic visits came to an end, for her forcible andunique repartee made intercourse somewhat difficult.

“Thank GodI’m not a Castillyon,” she said habitually.“I’m a Bainbridge, and I think you’ll have some difficulty infinding a better family in this part of England. You Castillyons hadn’t apenny to bless yourselves with tillI married into you.”

At dinner on his first evening Frank attempted to join intelligently in theconversation, but soon found that nothing he could say in the least interestedthe company; he had imagined innocently that it was ill-mannered to speak ofone’s ancestors, but now learned that there were households wherein itwas the staple of conversation: this rested chiefly between the elder Mrs.Castillyon, the Squire, and his brother Bainbridge, agent for the property, anobese man with a straggling beard, rather untidy and dressed in shabby oldclothes, who talked very slowly, with a broad Dorsetshire accent, and to Frankseemed not a whit better than the farmers with whom he mostly consorted. Theyspoke besides of local affairs, of the neighbouring gentry, and of theRector’s vulgar independence. Afterwards Grace Castillyon went up toFrank.

“Aren’t they awful?” she asked. “I have to put up withthis day after day for weeks at a time. Paul’s mother rubs her money andher family into me; Bainbridge, that lout who should dine with the housekeeperinstead of with us, discusses the weather and the crops; and Paul plays atbeing God Almighty.”

But Mrs. Barlow-Bassett was somewhat impressed by the pomposity of herenvironment, and took an early opportunity again to peruse the account given bythe worthy Burke of the family whose guest she was; she found the page muchthumbed and boldly marked with blue pencil. Every article in the house had itshistory, which old Mrs. Castillyon the elder narrated with gusto, for thoughfrom her exalted standpoint despising the family into which she had married,she had no doubt they were a great deal better than anyone else. Here werebooks collected by Sir John Castillyon, grandfather of the present Squire;there the Eastern curiosities of the Admiral his great-uncle; in fine arraywere portraits of frail ladies in the time of Charles II., and of fox-hunting,red-faced gentlemen in the reign of King George. Mrs. Bassett had never so felther own insignificance.

After two days Frank retired to his room to compose a wrathful letter to MissLey.

“O Wise Woman!
    “I know now why the thought of a visit to Jeyston drove you to such astate of desperation; I am so bored that I feel perfectly hysterical, andexcept that I dare not risk to make myself ridiculous even in the privacy of mybedchamber, would fling myself on the floor and howl. It would have beencharitable to warn me, but I take it that you had a base desire I should eatthe bread of hospitable persons, and then betray to you all their secrets: togain your ends you have stifled the voice of conscience, and deafened your earsto the promptings of good feeling. It would serve you right if I discoursed forsix pages on things in general, but I so overflow with indignation that, eventhough I feel a mean swine because I abuse my hosts, I must let myself go alittle. Imagine a Georgian house, spacious and well-proportioned and dignified,filled with the most delicate furniture of Chippendale and Sheraton, portraitson the walls by Sir Peter Lely and Romney, and splendid tapestries; a park withwide meadows and magnificent trees before which you feel it possible to kneeldown and worship; all around the country is undulating, lovely and fertile; andit belongs, lock, stock, and barrel, to people who have not a noble idea, nothought above the commonplace, no emotion that is not petty and sordid. Prayobserve also that they heartily despise me because I am what they call amaterialist. It makes my blood boil to think that this wonderful place isenjoyed by a pompous ass, a silly woman, an ill-tempered harridan, and aloutish boor, all of whom, if things went by deserts, would inhabit theback-room of a grocer’s shop in Peckham Rye, Bainbridge, who willeventually come into the estate unless Mrs. Castillyon can bring herself so toendanger her figure as to produce an heir, is a curious phenomenon: he went toEton and spent a year at Oxford, from which he was sent down because he couldpass no examination, but in manners and conversation is no better than alabourer at thirteen shillings a week. He has lived all his life here, and goesto London once in two years to see the Agricultural Show. But let me not thinkof him. The day is passed by Mrs. Barlow-Bassett listening with open mouth toMrs. Castillyon’s family anecdotes, by Reggie in eating and drinking andsucking up to the Squire, by myself in desperation, I fancied that I might getentertainment from Miss Johnston, the companion, and was at some pains to makemyself amiable; but she has the soul of a sycophant. When I asked whether shewas never bored, she looked at me severely, and answered: “Oh no, Dr.Hurrell, I’m never bored by gentlefolks.” Whenever there is a pausein the conversation or Mrs. Castillyon is out of temper, she points to somepicture or ornament of which she has already heard the history a thousandtimes, and asks how it came into the family. “Fancy your not knowingthat!” cries the old lady, and breaks into an endless rigmarole aboutsome beery Squire, happily deceased, or about a simpering dame whose portraitshows that her liver from tight-lacing must have been quite out of shape. Thethings a single woman is driven to for thirty pounds a year and board andlodging! I would far sooner be a cook. Oh, how I long for the smoking-room inOld Queen Street and your conversation! I am coming to the conclusion that Ionly like two kinds of society—yours on the one hand, and that of thethird-class actor on the other: where the men are all blackguards, the womenfrankly immoral, and no fuss is made when you drop an aitch, I feel thoroughlycomfortable. I don’t think I have any overwhelming desire to omitaspirates, but it is a relief to be in company where no notice would be takenif I did.

“Yours ever,
“FRANK HURRELL.”

Miss Ley would have used her sharp eyes at Jeyston to more purpose than Frank,and seen enacted a little comedy which on one side verged somewhat to thetragic. Tired and unhappy, Grace Castillyon with all her soul looked forward toReggie’s visit as a respite from the anxiety of her life; for of latemore than ever tormented by her conscience, only the actual presence of herlover was able to make her forget how abominably she treated Paul. She hadlearnt to see the tenderness behind her husband’s pompous manner, and hiscomplete loving confidence gave a very despicable air to her behaviour; shefelt guilty before him and vile. But with Reggie by her side Grace knew shewould forget everything save her insatiable passion; she resolved only to seehis good points, and forget how ill he had used her; it seemed that she couldonly keep the bare shreds of her self-respect by holding on to his love, and ifshe lost that nothing would remain but the dark night of despair and shame. Andher heart rejoiced because at Jeyston no conflicting desires would take Reggiefrom her side; they could walk together delightfully, and in the quiet countryenjoy somewhat of that great bliss which glorified the memories of their earlyfriendship.

But to her dismay, Mrs. Castillyon found that Reggie systematically avoided tobe alone with her. The morning after his arrival she asked him to come for astroll in the park, and he accepted with alacrity; but after going upstairs toput on her hat she found that Paul and Mrs. Bassett waited for her in the hall.

“Reggie says you’ve offered to show us the park,” said Mrs.Bassett. “It’ll be so nice for us all to go together.”

“Charming,” answered Mrs. Castillyon.

She shot an angry glance at Reggie, which he sought not to elude, but tookcalmly, with a faint smile of amusement; and when they walked he dawdled so asto be well within earshot of the others. After luncheon again he remained withFrank, and it was not till the evening that Mrs. Castillyon had opportunityeven to say half a dozen words.

“Why did you ask your mother to come out with us this morning?” sheasked hurriedly, in a low voice. “You knew I wanted to talk to youalone.”

“My dear girl, we must be careful. Your mother-in-law is watching us likea cat, and I’m sure she suspects something. I don’t want to get youinto a mess.”

“Imust see you alone; I must talk to you,” cried Mrs.Castillyon desperately.

“Don’t be a fool!”

“Well, I shall wait for you here after the others have gone tobed.”

“You’ll jolly well have to wait, becauseI’m not goingto take any risks.”

She gave him a look of hatred, but could not answer, for at that moment MissJohnston joined them, and Reggie, with alertness unusual to him, engaged her inthe conversation. Grace, for the moment discountenanced, and careless if shebetrayed her distress, stared at him fixedly, wondering what was in that mindwhich revelled in crooked ways. She felt horribly powerless in his hands, andknew, though it sickened her to know it, that now he would play with hercruelly, catlike, till he was sufficiently amused, and not till then deal thefinal blow. For two days more he pursued the same tactics, more carefullystill, so that he never saw Mrs. Castillyon, even for a moment, except whenothers were present; and he appeared to take a malicious pleasure in hurtingher. He made extravagant compliments which excited Paul’s ponderoushilarity, and using her like an intimate friend with whom he was onconfidential terms, chaffed and bantered and laughed at her. Old Mrs.Castillyon, who liked to be amused, took a great fancy to him, which was no waydiminished when she discovered, with the clear vision of dislike, that herdaughter-in-law winced at these good-natured jokes. Grace bore them with asmiling face, with little shrieks of laughter; but it seemed there was a greatraw wound in her heart, which Reggie, callously joyful because he inflictedpain, probed with a red-hot knife. When she was alone and could surrender toher wretchedness, she wept bitterly, wondering, half mad with agony, why herpassionate love should be repaid by this inexplicable hatred. She had doneeverything possible to make Reggie love her, and beside giving him her wholesoul, had been very, very good to him.

“He’s found me a real brick all through,” she sobbed.“I’d have done anything to help him.”

Of late even she had sought to influence him for his own weal, persuading himto drink less and to be less extravagant. In her adoration she was capable ofany sacrifice for his sake; and the result was only that he loathed her. Shecould not understand. At length she could bear the torment no longer, and sinceReggie gave no opportunity, determined at all costs to make one. But it was thelast day of the visit, and he doubled his precautions. With an inkling thatGrace would force an interview, he took care not to be alone for one moment,and sighed with relief when, after a smiling good-night, he retired with theother men to the smoking-room. But Mrs. Castillyon was decided not to let himgo without an explanation of his behaviour; and although the danger of hercontemplated step was enormous, her frame of mind was so desperate that she didnot hesitate. When Reggie, chuckling slily because he had circumvented her,went to his bedroom, he found Grace quietly seated, waiting for him.

“Good Lord! what are you doing here?” he cried, for once startledfrom his self-possession. “Frank might very well have come in withme.”

She did not answer his question, but stood up and faced him, more haggard andpale for the magnificence of her gown and the brilliancy of her diamonds. Shesought to compose herself and to talk deliberately.

“Why have you been avoiding me all these days?” she asked. “Iwant an explanation. What are you up to?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t bring that up again! I’msick to death of it. You didn’t suppose I was coming down here to staywith your husband, and then play the fool with you? After all, I flatter myselfI’m a gentleman.”

Mrs. Castillyon gave a low angry laugh.

“It’s rather late in the day to develop honourable sentiments,isn’t it? Haven’t you got some better story to me than that?”

“What d’you take me for? Why should you always think I’mlying to you?”

“Because experience has shown me that you generally are.”

He shrugged his shoulders and lit a cigarette, then looked at Grace withdeliberation, as though meditating what he should now do.

“Haven’t you got anything to say to me at all?” she asked,her voice suddenly breaking.

“Nothing, except that you’d better go back to your own room.It’s devilish unsafe for you to be here, and I can youIdon’t want to get into a mess.”

But what does it all mean?” she cried desperately. “Don’t youcare for me any more?”

“Well, if you insist, it means that I think the whole thing had betterstop.”

“Reggie!”

“I want to turn over a new leaf, I’m going to give up racketingabout, and settle down. I’m sick of the whole thing.”

He did not look at her now, but kept his eyes away nervously. A sob caughtGrace’s throat, for what she feared was true.

“I suppose you’re gone on somebody else.”

“That’s no business of yours, is it?”

“Oh, you cad! I wonder how I could ever have been such a fool as to carefor you.”

He gave a short, dry laugh, but did not answer. She went up to him quickly andtook hold of his arms.

“You’re hiding something from me, Reggie. For God’s sake,tell me the whole truth now!”

He turned his eyes to her slowly, that sulky look of anger on his face whichshe knew so well.

“Well, if you want to know, I’m going to be married.”

“What?” For a moment she could not believe him. “Your mothernever said a word about it.”

He laughed.

“You don’t suppose she knows, do you?”

“And what if I tell her?” whispered Grace hurriedly, distracted,only knowing that this horror must be prevented. “You can’t marry;you haven’t the right to now. It’s too infamous. I won’t letyou. I’ll do anything to stop it. Oh, Reggie, Reggie, don’t leaveme! I can’t bear it.”

“Don’t be a fool! It had got to come to an end some day or other. Iwant to marry and settle down.”

Mrs. Castillyon looked at him, and despair and anger and vehement hatred chasedone another across her mobile face.

“We’ll see about that,” she whispered vindictively.

Reggie went up to her and caught her violently by the shoulders, so that shecould hardly bear the pain.

“Look here, none of your little games! If I find out that you’vebeen putting a spoke in my wheel, I’ll give you away. You’d betterhold your tongue, my dear; and if you don’t, every letter you’vewritten to me shall be sent to your mother-in-law.”

Grace turned deathly pale.

“You promised me you’d burn them.”

“I dare say, but you’re not the only woman I’ve had to dowith. I always like to have a weapon or two in my hands, and I thought it mightbe useful if I kept your letters. They’d make pretty reading,wouldn’t they?”

He saw the effect of his words on Grace, and let go; she tottered to a chair,shaken with terror. Reggie rubbed it in.

“I’m not a bad-tempered chap, but when people put my back up I knowhow to get even with them.”

For a moment she gazed straight in front of her, then looked up with a curiousexpression in her eyes. She spoke in a hoarse voice, jerkily.

“I don’t think you’d come out of it very well if there were apublic scandal.”

“Don’t you have any fear about me, my girl,” he answered.“What d’you suppose I care if I’m made a co? The mater wouldbe a bit sick, but it don’t really matter a button to a man.”

“Not if it gets known that he’s taken a good deal of money off thewoman unlucky enough to fall in his clutches? You forget that I’ve paidyou—paid you, my friend, paid you. In the last six months you’vehad two hundred pounds out of me; d’you think anyone would ever speak toyou again if they knew?”

She saw the deep blush of shame which coloured his dark cheeks, and with a ringof bitter triumph in her voice, continued.

“The first time I sent you money I never thought for a moment you’daccept; and because you did I knew what a low cur you were. I’ve gotletters, too, in which you ask for money, and letters in which you thank mebecause I sent it. I kept them, not because I wanted a weapon against you, butbecause I loved you and treasured everything you’d touched.”

She stood up, and with cold, sneering lips flung out the words; she hoped theywould rankle; she wanted to wound his self-esteem, to sear him so that heshould writhe before her.

“Make a scandal, by all means, and let all the world see thatyou’re nothing but a blackguard and a cad. Oh, I should like to see youexpelled from your club, I should like to see people cut you in the street!Don’t you know that there are laws to imprison men who get money in nofilthier a way than you?”

Reggie strode up to her, but now she was no longer frightened. She laughed athim. He thrust his face close to hers.

“Look here, get out of this, or I’ll give you such a thrashing asyou’ll never forget. Thank God, I’m done with you now. Getout—get out!”

Without a word, swiftly, she passed him, and went to the door. Not caring whomight be about, she crossed the long passage that led from Reggie’s roomto hers, her brain beating as though devils within it hammered madly; she couldnot realize what had occurred, but felt that the world was strangely coming toits end; it seemed to her the finish of life and of everything. Her wan cheekswere flushed still with anger and hatred. She had just reached her door, whenPaul walked towards her up the great staircase; for one moment she waspanic-stricken, but the danger extraordinarily cleared her mind.

“Grace, I’ve been looking for you,” he said; “Iwondered where you were.”

“I’ve been talking to Mrs. Bassett,” she answered quickly.“Where on earth did you suppose I was?”

“I couldn’t think. I’ve just been downstairs to see if youwere there.”

“I wish you wouldn’t follow me about and spy on mymovements,” she cried irritably.

“I’m very sorry, my darling; I didn’t mean to do that.”He stood at the door of her room.

“For Heaven’s sake, come in or go out,” she said; “butdon’t stand there with the door wide open.”

“I’ll just come for two minutes,” he answered mildly.

“What do you want?”

She took off her jewels, which burnt her neck like a circle of fire.

“I’ve got something I wish to talk to you about. I’m muchdistressed by a thing that has happened on the estate.”

“Oh, my dear Paul,” she cried impatiently, “forgoodness’ sake don’t worry me to-night; you know I don’t caretwopence about the estate. Why don’t you consult Bainbridge, who’spaid to look after it?”

“My love, I wanted your advice.”

“Oh, if you knew how my head was aching! I feel as if I could scream insheer agony.”

He stepped forward, full of affectionate concern.

“My poor child, why didn’t you tell me before? I’m so sorry,and I’ve been bothering you. Is it very bad?”

She looked up at him, and her mouth twitched. He was so devoted, so kind, andwhatever she did he could overlook and forgive.

“What a pig I am! she cried’ “How can you like me whenI’m so absolutely horrid to you?”

“My darling,” he smiled. “I don’t blame you for havinga headache.”

A sudden impulse seized her; she flung her arms round his neck and burst into aflood of tears.

“Oh, Paul, Paul, you are good to me. I wish I were a better wife.I’ve not done my duty to you.”

He folded his arms about her, and kissed tenderly her painted, wan, andwrinkled face.

“My darling, I couldn’t want a better wife.”

“Oh, Paul, why can’t we be alone? We seem so separated. Let’sgo away together, where we can be by ourselves. Can’t we go abroad?I’m sick of seeing people—I’m sick of society.”

“We’ll do whatever you like, my dearest.”

A great happiness filled him, and he wondered how he had deserved it. He wishedto stay by his wife, helping her to undress, but she begged him to go.

“My poor child, you look so tired,” he said, kissing her foreheadgently.

“I shall be better in the morning, and then we’ll start a new life.I’ll try and be better to you—I’ll try and deserve yourlove.”

“Good-night, darling.”

He closed the door very softly, leaving her to her thoughts.

VIII

Mrs. Castillyon passed a sleepless, unquiet night, and looking at herself inthe glass next morning, was shocked at her haggard countenance; but she wasdetermined that Reggie during this final interview should discern no sign ofher distress, and coming down to breakfast, was to all appearance in thehighest spirits. She noticed the hang-dog air with which he avoided her glance,and with angry resolution began to rally him in the somewhat obvious fashionoften mistaken by persons of her sort for wit. To conceal her poignant miseryshe kept up a flow of vapid conversation, intermingled with little shrieks oflaughter and pointed by much gesticulation; but she exaggerated her spiritlessvivacity so that the effect was somewhat hysterical, and Frank, whom this didnot escape, wondering what thus affected her, mentally prescribed a sedative.The carriage drove round before breakfast was over, and Mrs. Bassett, fearfulof missing her train, began to bid the company farewell. Mrs. Castillyon heldout her hand frankly to Reggie.

“Good-bye. You must come and see us again when you have time. I hopeyou’ve enjoyed yourself.”

“A1,” he answered.

He could not understand the smiling carelessness of her look, wherein he saw noreproach nor anger, and asked himself uncomfortably what Grace could have inmind, He pondered slowly over the harm she could possibly do him. But he wasglad of the decisive rupture, and heartily thankful the final meeting was over.He hated her the more because of the reminder that a good deal of money hadpassed from her hands to his.

“She knew I couldn’t afford to go about with her on my allowance,and I’ve spent it all on her,” he muttered to himself inextenuation.

They were in the train now, and he looked at his mother, who sat in theopposite corner of the carriage, reading theMorning Post. He would nothave liked her to know the details of the affair. Again he repeated excuses tohimself, at the end of which he settled to a sullen resentment against Gracebecause she had tempted him. Finally his thoughts went elsewhere and his heartbegan to beat more quickly.

But after the Bassetts and Frank were gone, Mrs. Castillyon was seized by agreat dismay, and shuddered as though a cold wind blew, because she must spendtwo days more under the stern eyes of Paul’s mother, who seemed to watchwith a vindictive triumph, as though she knew the abominable secret, and toreveal it only waited for an opportunity. Grace stood looking out of the windowat the wide stretch of meadow-land and the splendid trees of the park. The skywas gray, covering the earth with a certain sad monotony which answered hermood, depressed after the forced excitement of the early morning. Paul came upbehind her, and placed his arm round her waist.

“Are you very tired, darling?” he asked.

She shook her head, trying to smile, touched, as of late she had been often, bythe gentleness of his voice.

“I’m afraid you exhaust yourself. You were the life and spirit ofthe whole party. Without you we should have been almost dull.”

From force of habit an ironic and obvious repartee came to her lips, but shedid not say it. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

“I’m beginning to feel so dreadfully old, Paul.”

“Nonsense! You’ve scarcely reached your prime. You’re lookingprettier than ever.”

“D’you think so really? I suppose it’s because you care forme a little still. This morning I thought I looked a hundred and two.”

He did not answer, being more accustomed to debate than to conversation, butpressed his arm a little more closely round her waist.

“Have you never regretted that you married me, Paul? I know I’m notthe sort of wife you wanted, and I’ve never brought you anychildren.”

He was profoundly moved, for his wife had never spoken to him in such a waybefore. For once the pompousness fell away from his delivery, and he answeredin trembling tones, almost whispering.

“My darling, each day I thank God for you. I feel I’m not worthy ofthe blessing I’ve received, and I’m grateful to my Maker, verygrateful, because He has given me you to be my wife.”

Grace’s lips twitched, and she clenched her hands to prevent herself frombursting into tears. He looked at her with a fond smile,

“Grace, I bought a little present for your birthday next week. May I giveit you now instead of waiting?”

“Yes, do,” she smiled, “I knew you had something, andI’m so impatient.”

Quite jauntily he went off, and in a minute, somewhat out of breath from hishaste, returned with a diamond ornament. Mrs. Castillyon knew something ofjewellery, and her eyes glistened at the magnificence of this.

“Paul, how could you!” she cried. “How perfectly gorgeous!But I didn’t want anything half so valuable. I have so much thatyou’ve given me. I only wanted a tiny present to show that you stillcared for me.”

He beamed with satisfaction and rubbed his hands gleefully.

“As if anything was too good for my loving, faithful wife!”

“We mustn’t show it to your mother, Paul. She’d scoldawfully,” answered Grace archly.

He burst into a shout of laughter.

“No, no, hide it from her.”

Mrs. Castillyon raised her lips to his, and with ardent passion, unexpected inthat stout, complacent man, he kissed her. At that moment the dogcart came tothe door, and Paul, in some surprise, asked his wife if she needed it.

“Oh, I forgot,” she cried. “I’m going up to town forthe day. I ought to have told you. Miss Ley is much worse than she pretends,and I think I should go and see if I can do anything.”

The night’s dreary meditation had left her with a sensible resolve toconsult Miss Ley, and when the maid came to draw the blinds she had ordered thetrap to take her to the station for the train after that by which her guestswere going. Now glibly she invented an excuse for her journey, and refused tohear Paul’s remonstrance, who feared she would make herself ill; norwould she allow him to accompany her.

“I feel I mustn’t prevent you when you’re bent on an errandof mercy,” he said at length. “But come back as early as youcan.”

Miss Ley was finishing luncheon when Mrs. Castillyon was announced.

“I thought you were entertaining at Jeyston,” she exclaimed, muchsurprised to see her.

“I felt I must see you or I should go mad. Oh, why didn’t you comedown? I wanted you so badly.”

Miss Ley, evidently in robust health, could not repeat her plea ofindisposition, and therefore, instead of explaining, offered her guest food.

“I couldn’t eat anything,” cried Grace, with a shiver ofdistaste. “I’m simply distracted.”

“I surmised that you were in some trouble,” murmured Miss Ley,“for I think you’ve rather overdone the—slap. Isn’tthat the technical expression?”

Mrs. Castillyon put both hands to her cheeks.

“It burns me. Let me go and wash it off. I had to put it on this morning,I looked such an absolute wreck. May I go and bathe my face? It’ll coolme.”

“By all means,” answered Miss Ley, smiling, “and while Mrs.Castillyon was absent asked herself what could be the cause of this suddenexcursion.

Presently Grace returned and looked in the glass. Her skin, bare of rouge andpowder, was yellow and lined, and the cosmetic on her eyebrows and lashes,which water did remove, threw into more violent contrast the ghastly pallor.Instinctively she took a puff from her pocket, and quickly powdered her face;then she turned to Miss Ley.

“Didyou never make up?” she asked.

“Never. I was always afraid of making myself absurd.”

“Oh, one gets over that—but I know it’s silly; I’mgoing to give it up.”

“You say that as tragically as though you announced your intention ofgoing into a nunnery.”

Mrs. Castillyon glanced at the door suspiciously.

“Will no one come in?” she asked.

“No one; but for all that I recommend you to keep calm,” retortedthe other, who suspected that Grace wished to make a scene, and somewhatresented the infliction.

“It’s all finished between Reggie and me. He’s thrown me overlike a worn-out tie; he’s got somebody else.”

“You’re well rid of him, my dear.”

Miss Ley’s sharp eyes were intent on Mrs. Castillyon’s face,seeking therein to read the inner secret of her heart.

“You don’t care for him any more, do you?”

“No, thank God, I don’t. Oh, Miss Ley, I know you won’tbelieve me, but I am going to try to turn over a new leaf. During these lastmonths I’ve seen Paul so differently. Of course, he’s absurd andpompous and dull—I know that better than anyone—but heis sokind; even now he loves me with all his heart. And he’s honest. Youdon’t know what it means to be with a man who’s straight to thevery bottom of his soul. It’s such a relief and such a comfort!”

“My dear, it surely requires no excuses to find good qualities inone’s husband. You show a state of mind which is not only laudable, buthighly original and ingenious.”

“It makes it so much harder for me,” answered Mrs. Castillyon,woebegone and tragic; “I feel such an awful cad. I can’t bear thathe should trust me implicitly when I’ve behaved in such a disgusting way;I can’t bear his kindness. You guessed before that I was tortured by thedesire to make a clean breast of it, and now I can’t resist any longer.This morning, when he was so sweet and gentle I could hardly restrain myself. Ican’t go on; I must tell him and get it over. I would rather be divorcedthan continue with this perpetual lie between us.”

Miss Ley observed her for some while calmly.

“How selfish you are!” she murmured at length in an even, frigidvoice. “I had an idea you were beginning to care for your husband.”

“But I do care for him,” answered Mrs. Castillyon, withastonishment.

“Surely not, or you wouldn’t wish to cause him such greatunhappiness. You know very well that he dotes upon you; you are the only lightand brightness in his life; if he loses his faith in you, he loseseverything.”

“But it’s only honest to confess my sin.”

“Don’t you remember the proverb that open confession is good forthe soul? There’s a lot of truth in it—it is very good indeed forthe soul of the person who confesses; but are you sure it’s good for thelistener? When you wish to tell Paul what you have done, you think only of yourown peace of mind, and you disregard entirely your husband’s. It may beonly an illusion that you are a beautiful woman of virtuous temper, but allthings are illusion, and why on earth should you insist on destroying that ofall others which Paul holds dearest? Haven’t you done him harm enoughalready? When I see a madman wearing a paper crown under the impression that itis fine gold, I haven’t the brutality to undeceive him; let no one shakeour belief in the fancies which are the very breath of our nostrils. There arethree good maxims in the conduct of life: Never sin; but if you sin, neverrepent; and above all, if you repent, never, never confess. Can’t yousacrifice yourself a little for the sake of the man you’ve treated sobadly?”

“But I don’t understand,” cried Grace. “It’s notself-sacrifice to hold my tongue—it’s just cowardly. I want to takemy punishment; I want to start fair again, so that I can look Paul in theface.”

“My dear, you have an incurable passion for rodomontade. You’rereally not thinking of Paul in the least; you have merely an ardent desire tomake a scene; you wish to be a martyr and abase yourself in due form. Aboveall, you want to rid yourself of the burden of a somewhat guilty conscience,and to do that you are perfectly indifferent how much you make others suffer.May I suggest that if you’re really sorry for what you’ve done, youcan show it best by acting differently in the future; and if you hanker afterpunishment, you can get as much as ever you want by taking care that no word ordeed of yours lets your husband into this rather odious secret.”

Mrs. Castillyon looked down, following with her eyes the pattern of the carpet;she thought over all that Miss Ley said.

“I came to you for advice,” she moaned helplessly, “andyou’ve only made me more undecided than ever.”

“Pardon me,” answered the other, with considerable asperity:“you came with your mind perfectly made up, for me to approve yourdisinterestedness; but as I think you uncommonly stupid and selfish, I reservemy applause.”

The result of this conversation was that Mrs. Castillyon promised to hold hertongue; but on leaving Old Queen Street to catch the train back to Jeyston, shewould have been puzzled to tell whether there was in her mood more of relief orof disappointment.

Mrs. Castillyon arrived at Jeyston just in time to dress for dinner, andsomewhat tired by her journey, did not notice the gravity which affected thefamily party; she was accustomed to their dulness, and ate her food silently,wishing the meal were over. When Paul and Bainbridge came into the drawing-roomafterwards, with an effort she gave her husband a smile of welcome, and maderoom for him on the sofa whereon she sat.

“Tell me what it is you wanted to speak about last night,” shesaid; “you asked for my advice, and I was too cross to give ityou.”

He smiled, but his face quickly regained its serious look.

“It’s too late now; I had to decide at once. But I’d bettertell you about it.”

“Fetch me my cloak, then, and we’ll stroll up and down the terrace;the light tires my eyes, and I hate talking to you always in the presence ofother people.”

Paul was only too pleased to do as she suggested, and found it very delightfulto wander in the pleasant starlit night; the clouds which had darkened themorning were vanished with the setting sun, and there was a delicate softnessin the air. Grace took her husband’s arm, and her need for support madehim feel very strong and masculine.

“A dreadful thing has happened,” he said, “and I’vebeen very much upset. You remember Fanny Bridger, who went up to London lastyear in service? Well, she’s come back. It appears that she got intotrouble. . . .” He hesitated a moment in the discomfort of telling hiswife the brutal fact. “The man deserted her, and she’s returnedwith a baby.”

He felt a tremor pass through his wife, and wished that he had kept his secondresolution, to say nothing to her.

“I know you hate to speak of such things, but I must do something. Shecan’t go on living here.” Fanny Bridger’s father was anunder-gamekeeper on the estate, and his two sons were likewise employed.“I saw Bridger to-day, and told him his daughter must be sent away; Ican’t in my position connive at immorality.”

“But where is she to go?” asked Mrs. Castillyon in a voice that wasscarcely more than a whisper.

“That is no business of mine. The Bridgers have been good servants formany years, and I don’t wish to be hard on them. I’ve told the oldman that I’ll give him a week to find somewhere for his daughter togo.”

“And if he can’t?”

“If he can’t, it’ll be because he’s a stupid andobstinate dolt. He began to make excuses this afternoon; he talked a deal ofnonsense about keeping her in his care, and that it would break his heart tosend her away, and he couldn’t afford to. I thought it was no goodmincing matters, so I told him if Fanny wasn’t gone for good by Tuesdaynext I should dismiss him and his two sons.”

Abruptly Mrs. Castillyon snatched her arm from his, and a coldness seized her;she was indignant and horrified.

“We’d better go in to your mother, Paul,” she said, knowingto whom this determination of her husband was due. “We must talk this outat once.”

Surprised at the change in her tone, Castillyon followed his wife, who walkedquickly to the drawing-room and flung aside her cloak. She went up to Mrs.Castillyon the elder.

“Did you advise Paul that Fanny Bridger should be sent away?” sheasked, her eyes flaming with anger.

“Of course I did. She can’t stay here, and I’m happy to seethat Paul has behaved with spirit. People in our position have to take greatcare; we must allow no contamination to enter the parish.”

“What d’you think will happen to the wretched girl if we turn herout? The only chance for her is to remain in her family.”

Paul’s mother, by no means a patient woman, vastly resented the scornfulindignation apparent on Grace’s face; she drew herself up, and spoke withtight lips, acidly.

“Perhaps you’re not very capable of judging matters of this sort,my dear. You’ve lived so much in London that I dare say your notions ofright and wrong are not quite clear. But, you see, I’m only a countrybumpkin. I’m happy to say I think differently from you. I’ve alwaysbeen under the impression that there is something to be said for morality. Tomy mind, Paul has been absurdly lenient in giving them a week. My father wouldhave turned them out bag and baggage in twenty-four hours.”

Grace shuddered at the cruel self-righteousness of that narrow, bigoted face,and then slowly examined Paul, whose eyes were upon her, dreadfully painedbecause she was angry, but none the less assured of his own rectitude. Shepursed her lips, and saying not a word more, went to her room. She felt thatnothing could be done then, and made up her mind next morning to visit forherself the unlucky girl. Paul, disturbed because she did not speak to him, wasabout to follow further to expostulate; but his mother, sharply rapping thetable with her fan, prevented him.

“Now, don’t run after her, Paul,” she cried peremptorily.“You behave like a perfect fool, and she just turns you round her littlefinger. If your wife has no sense of morality, other people have, and you mustdo your duty, however much Grace dislikes it.”

“I dare say we might manage to find Fanny Bridger some place.”

“I dare say you’ll do nothing of the sort, Paul,” sheanswered. “The girl’s a little wanton. I’ve known her sinceshe was a child, and she always was. I wonder she had the impudence to comeback here, but if you have any sense of decencyyou won’t helpher. How d’you suppose you’re going to keep people moral if youpamper those who fall? Remember that I have some claims upon you, Paul, and Idon’t expect my wishes to be entirely disregarded.”

In her domineering way she looked round the room, and it was obvious in everyrepellent feature—in her narrow lips, in her thin nose and little sharpeyes—that she remembered how absolute was her power over the finances ofthat house. Paul indeed was the Squire, but the money was hers, if she chose,to leave every penny to Bainbridge. Next day she came in to luncheon in atowering passion.

“I think you should know, Paul, that Grace has been to Bridger’scottage. I don’t know how you expect the tenants to have any regard formodesty and decorum if your wife openly favours the most scandalousindecency.”

Grace turned on her mother-in-law with flashing eyes.

“I felt sorry for the girl, and I went to see her. Poor thing!she’s in great distress.”

She saw again that little cottage at one of the park gates—a pretty ruralplace overgrown with ivy, the tiny garden vivid with carefully-tended flowers.Here Bridger was working, a man of middle age, hard-featured and sullen, hisface tanned by exposure. He turned his back on her approach, and when she badegood-morning answered unwillingly.

“I’ve come to see Fanny,” said Mrs. Castillyon. “May Igo in?”

He faced her with a dark scowl, and for a moment did not answer.

“Can’t you leave the girl alone?” he muttered at lasthuskily.

Mrs. Castillyon looked at him doubtfully, but only for a moment. She passed byquickly, and without another word entered the house. Fanny was seated at thetable, sewing, and close to her was a cradle. Seeing Grace, she rose nervously,and a painful blush darkened her white cheeks. Once a pretty girl with freshcolours, active and joyful, deep lines of anxiety now gave a haggard look toher eyes. Her cheeks were sunken, and the former trimness of her person hadgiven way to slovenly disorder. She stood before Grace like a culprit,conscience-stricken, and for a moment the visitor, abashed, knew not what tosay. Her eyes went to the baby, and Fanny, seeing it, anxiously stepped forwardto get between them.

“Was you looking for father, mum?” she asked.

“No; I came to see you. I thought I might be of some use. I want to helpyou if you’ll let me.”

The girl looked down stubbornly, white again to her very lips.

“No, mum, there’s nothing I want.”

Facing her, Grace understood that there was something common to them both, foreach had loved with her whole soul and each had been very unhappy. Her heartwent out strangely to the wretched girl, and it was torture that she could notpierce that barrier of cold hostility. She knew not how to show that she camewith no thought of triumphing over her distress, but rather as one poor weakcreature to another. She could have cried out that before her Fanny need fearno shame, for herself had fallen lower even than she. The girl stoodmotionless, waiting for her to go, and Mrs. Castillyon’s lips quivered inhelpless pity.

“Mayn’t I look at your baby?” she asked.

Without a word the girl stepped aside, and Mrs. Castillyon went to the cradle.The little child opened two large blue eyes and lazily yawned.

“Let me take it in my arms,” she said.

Again the fleeting colour came to Fanny’s cheeks as with a softer lookshe took the baby and gave it to Grace. With curious motherly instinct Gracerocked it, crooning gently, and then she kissed it. Against her will a cry wasforced from her.

“Oh, I wish it were mine!”

She looked at Fanny with pitiful longing in her eyes all bright with tears; andher own emotion thawed at length the girl’s cold despair, for she buriedher face in her hands and burst into passionate weeping. Grace placed the childagain in the cradle, and gently leaned over Fanny.

“Don’t cry. I dare say we can do something. Do talk to me, and letme see how I can help.”

“No one can help,” she moaned. “We’ve got to go in aweek; the Squire says so.”

“But I’ll try and make him change his mind, and if I can’tI’ll see that you and the baby are well provided for.”

Fanny shook her head hopelessly.

“Father says if I go he goes, too. Oh, the Squire can’t turn usout! What are we to do? We shall starve, all of us. Father’s not so youngas he was, and he won’t get another job so easy, and Jim and Harry havegot to go, too.”

“Won’t you trust me? I’ll do whatever I can. I’m surehe’ll let you stay.”

“The Squire’s a hard man,” muttered Fanny. “When hesets his mind to anything he does it.”

And now at luncheon, looking at Paul and his mother, Bainbridge and MissJohnston, she felt a bitter enmity against them all because of their narrowcruelty. What did they know of the horrible difficulties of life, when theirself-complacency made the way so easy to their feet?

“Fanny Bridger is no worse than anyone else, and she’s veryunhappy. I’m glad I went to see her, and I’ve promised to do all Ican to help her.”

“Then I wash my hands of you,” cried the elder Mrs. Castillyonviolently. “But I can tell you this, that I’m shocked andscandalized that you should be quite dead to all sense of decency, Grace. Ithink that you should have some regard for your husband’s name, and notdegrade yourself by pampering an immoral woman.”

“I think it was unwise of you to go to Bridger’s cottage,”said Paul gently.

“You’re all of you so dreadfully hard. Have you none you pity ormercy? Haveyou never done anything in your lives that youregret?”

Mrs. Castillyon turned to Grace severely.

“Pray remember that Miss Johnston is a single woman, and unaccustomed tohearing matters of this sort discussed. Paul has been very lenient. If he weremore so, it would seem as if he connived at impropriety. It’s the duty ofpeople in our position to look after those whom Providence has placed in ourcare. It’s our duty to punish as well as to reward. If Paul has any senseremaining of is responsibilities, he will turn out neck and crop the wholeBridger family.”

“If he does that,” cried Grace, “I shall go too.”

“Grace!” cried Mr. Castillyon, “what do you mean?”

She looked at him with shining eyes, but did not answer. They were too manyagainst her, and she knew it useless to attempt anything more till next day,when Paul’s mother departed. Yet it was almost impossible to hold hertongue, and she was desperately tempted to cry out before them all the story ofher own shameful misery.

“Oh, these virtuous people!” she muttered to herself.“They’re never content unless they see us actually roasting inhell! As if hell were needed when every sin brings along with it its own bitterpunishment. And they never make excuses for us. They don’t know how manytemptations we resist for the one we fall to.”

IX

But Grace found her husband more obstinate than ever before, and though sheused every imaginable device he remained unmoved; by turns she was caressingand persuasive, scornful, bitter, and angry, but at length, because of hisunperturbed complacency, was seized with indignant wrath. He was a man whoprided himself on the accomplishment of every resolve he formed, and hisdetermination once made, that the Bridgers at the end of their week’swarning should go, no appeals to his reason or to his emotion would induce himto another mind. Though it hurt him infinitely to thwart his wife, though itwas very painful to feel her cold antagonism, his duty seemed to point clearlyin one direction, and the suffering it caused made him only more resolute to doit. Paul Castillyon had a very high opinion both of the claims his tenants hadupon him and of his great responsibilities towards them; and he never imaginedfor a moment that their private lives could be no concern of his: on thecontrary, convinced that a merciful Providence had given him a trust of muchconsequence, he was fully prepared to answer for all who were thus committed tohis charge; and he took his office so seriously that even in London he wascareful to inform himself of the smallest occurrences on his estate. To allthese people he was a just and not ungenerous master, charitable in their need,sympathetic in their sickness, but arrogated to himself in return fullauthority over their way of life. In this instance his moral sense wassincerely outraged; the presence of Fanny Bridger appeared a contamination, andwith the singular prudery of some men, he could not think of her case without anausea of disgust. It horrified him somewhat that Grace not only could defend,but even visit her; it seemed to him that a pure woman should feel only disdainfor one who had so fallen.

The week passed, and Grace had been able to effect nothing; bitterlydisappointed, angry with her husband and with herself, she made up her mindthat no pecuniary difficulties should add to Fanny’s distress; if she hadto go, at least it was possible so to provide that some measure of happinessshould not be unattainable. But here she was confronted by Bridger’sobstinate determination not to be separated from his daughter; he had got itinto his slow brain that the trouble came only because she had gone away, andno argument would convince him that in future little need be feared; somehow,also, he was filled with sullen resentment against the Squire, and, himself noless self-willed, refused to yield one inch. He repeated over and over that ifthe girl went, he and his sons must go too.

Late in the afternoon of the day before that on which Fanny was to leave forever the village of her birth, Mrs. Castillyon sat moodily in the drawing-room,turning over the pages of a periodical, while Paul, now and then glancing ather anxiously, read with difficulty a late-published Blue-Book. A servant camein to say that Bridger would like to speak with the Squire. Paul rose to go tohim, but Mrs. Castillyon begged that he might come there.

“Send him in,” said the Squire.

Bridger entered the room somewhat timidly, and stood at the door cap in hand;it was raining, and the wet of his clothes gave out an unpleasant odour. Therewas a certain grim savagery about the man, as though his life spent among wildthings in the woods had given him a sort of fawnlike spirit of the earth.

“Well, Bridger, what do you want?”

“Please, Squire, I came to know if I was really to go to-morrow?”

“Are you accustomed to hear me say things I don’t mean? I told youthat if you did not send away your daughter within a week I should dismiss youand your sons from my service.”

The gamekeeper looked down, revolving these words in his mind: even then hecould not bring himself to believe that they were spoken in grim earnest; hefelt that if only he could make Mr. Castillyon understand how impossible waswhat he asked, he would surely allow him to stay.

“There’s nowhere Fanny can go. If I send her away, she’ll goto the bad altogether.”

“You doubtless know that Mrs. Castillyon has promised to provide for her.I have no doubt there are homes for fallen women where she can be lookedafter.”

“Paul,” cried Grace indignantly, “how can you saythat!”

Bridger stepped forward and faced the Squire; he looked into his eyes withsurly indignation.

“I’ve served you faithfully, man and boy, for forty years, and Iwas born in that there cottage I live in now. I tell you the girl can’tgo; she’s a good girl in her heart, only she’s ’ad amisfortune. If you turn us out, where are we to go? I’m getting on inyears, and I shan’t find it easy to get another job. It’ll mean theworkus.”

He could not express himself, nor show in words his sense of the intolerableinjustice of this thing; he could only see that the long years of loyal servicecounted for nothing, and that the future offered cold and want and humiliation.Paul stood over him cold and stern.

“I’m very sorry,” he said. “I can do nothing for you.You’ve had your chance, and you’ve refused to take it.”

“I’ve got to go to-morrow?”

“Yes.”

The gamekeeper turned his cap round nervously, and to his face came anexpression of utter distress; he opened his mouth to speak, but no words came,only an inarticulate groan. He turned on his heel and walked out. Then Gracewent up to Paul desperately,

“Oh, Paul, you can’t do it,” she cried. “You’llbreak the man’s heart. Haven’t you any pity? Haven’t you anyforgiveness?”

“It’s no good, Grace. I’m sorry that I can’t fall inwith your wishes. I must do my duty. It wouldn’t be fair to the otherpeople on the estate if I let this go by without notice.”

“How can you be so hard!”

He wouldn’t see, he couldn’t see, that it was out of the questionto drive Bridger away callously from the land he loved with all his soul; inone flash of inspiration she realized all that his little cottage signified tohim, the woods and coverts, the meadows, the trees, the hedges: with all thesethings his life was bound up; like a growing thing, his roots were in the earthwhich had seen his birth and childhood, his marriage, and the growth of hischildren. She took hold of her husband’s arms and looked up into hisface.

“Paul’ don’t you know what you’re doing? We’vecome nearer to one another of late. I’ve felt a new love grow up in myheart for you, and you’re killing it. You won’t let me love you.Can’t you forget that you’re this and that and the other, andremember that you’re only a man, weak and frail like the rest of us? Youhope to be forgiven yourself, and you’re utterly pitiless.”

“My darling, it’s for your sake also that I must be firm with thisman. It’s because you are so good and pure that I dare not belenient.”

“What on earth d’you mean?”

She disengaged herself roughly from his arms and stepped back. Her face,without powder or rouge, was ashen gray, and in her eyes was a look of panicfear.

“I can’t allow that creature to live in the same place as you.Because you’re a virtuous and a good woman, it’s my duty to protectyou from all contact with evil. It horrifies me to think that you may meet heron your walks—her and her child.”

Mrs. Castillyon’s cheeks flamed with red, and there was such a catchingat her throat that she put her hand to it.

“But I tell you, Paul, that compared with me that woman is innocent andvirtuous.”

“Nonsense, my dear,” he laughed.

“Paul, I’m not what you think. That woman sinned because she wasignorant and unhappy, but I knew what I was doing. I had everything I wanted,and I had your love; there were no excuses for me. I was nothing better than awanton.”

“Don’t be absurd, Grace! How can you talk such rubbish?”

“Paul, I’m talking perfectly seriously. I’ve not been a goodwife to you. I’m very sorry. It’s best that you should know.”

He stared at her incredulously.

“Are you mad, Grace? What do you mean?”

“I’ve been—unfaithful.”

He said nothing, he did not move, but a trembling came over his fleshy limbsand his face turned deathly white. Still he could scarcely believe. She went onwith dry throat, forcing out the words that came unwillingly.

“I’m unworthy of the love and confidence that you gave me.I’ve deceived you shamefully. I’ve committed—adultery!”

The word hit him like a blow, and with a cry of rage he stepped forward to hiswife, cowering before him, and seized her shoulders. He seized her roughly,cruelly, with strong hands, so that she set her teeth to repress the cry ofpain.

“What d’you mean? Have you been in love with someone else? Tell mewho it is.”

She did not answer, looking at him in terror, and he shook her angrily; he wasblind with rage now, in a condition which she had never seen before.

“Who is it?” he repeated. “You’d better tell me.”

She shrank away from him, but he held her fast with ruthless hands, and hetightened them so that she could have screamed with pain.

“Reggie Bassett,” she cried at last.

He released her roughly, so that she fell against a table.

“You dirty little beast!” he cried.

Mrs. Castillyon’s breath came quickly. She felt about to faint, andsteadied herself against the table; she was trembling still with the pain shehad suffered; her shoulders ached from the violence of his bands. He faced her,looking as though even now he scarcely understood what she had said; he passedhis hands over his face wearily.

“And yet I loved you with all my heart; I did everything I could to makeyou happy.” Suddenly he remembered something. “The other night whenyou kissed me and said we must come closer together, what did you mean?”

“I’d just broken with Reggie for ever,” she gasped.

He laughed savagely.

“You didn’t come back to me till he’d thrown you over.”

She stepped forward, but he put out his hands to prevent her.

“For God’s sake, don’t come near me, or I shall hityou.”

She stopped dead, and for a moment they confronted one another strangely. Thenagain he passed his hands across his face, as though he wished to push awaysome horrible thing before him.

“Oh God, oh God! what shall I do?” he moaned.

He turned away quickly, and sinking in a chair, hid his face and burst intotears. He sobbed uncontrollably, with all the agony and the despair of a manwho has cast shame from him.

“Paul, Paul, for Heaven’s sake don’t cry; I can’t bearit.” She went up to him, and tried to take away his hands.“Don’t think of me now; you can do what you like with meafterwards. Think of these wretched people. You can’t send them awaynow.”

He pushed her away more gently, and stood up.

“No, I can’t send them away now. I must tell Bridger that he andthe girl can stay.”

“Go to them at once,” she implored. “The man’s heart isbreaking, and you can give him happiness. Don’t let them wait a minutelonger.”

“Yes, I’ll go to him at once.”

Paul Castillyon seemed now to have no will of his own, but acted as thoughunder some foreign impulse. He went to the door, walking heavily as if grownsuddenly old, and Grace saw him go out into the rain, and disappear into themist of the approaching night. She stood at the window wondering what he woulddo, and imagined with a shiver of dismay the shame of proceedings for divorce;she looked at the great trees of Jeyston as though for the last time, and triedto picture to herself the life that awaited her. Reggie would make no offer ofmarriage, nor, if he did, would she accept, since no trace remained of hervehement passion, and she thought of him merely with loathing. She hoped thecase, going undefended, would excite small attention; and afterwards she wasrich enough in her own right to live on the Continent as she chose. At allevents, peace of sorts would be hers, and she could drag out somehow the restof her years; she was thankful now that she had no child from whom separationwould be unendurable. Wearily Grace pressed her eyes.

“What a fool I’ve been!” she cried.

Quickly the events of her life marshalled themselves before her, and she lookedback with shame and horror on her old self, flippant and egoistic, worthless.

“Oh, I hope I’m not like that now.”

The minutes passed like hours, so that she was surprised because Paul did notreturn; she glanced at the clock, and found that half an hour had gone. TheBridgers’ cottage was not more than five minutes’ walk from thehouse, and it was incomprehensible that Paul delayed so long. She was seizedwith fear of impending disaster, and the mad thought came that the gamekeeper,without waiting for his master’s words, in his rage and grief hadcommitted some horrible deed. She was on the point of sending a servant to seewhat had become of her husband. Suddenly she saw him running along the drivetowards the house; dusk had set in, and she could not see plainly. At first shethought herself mistaken, but it was Paul. He ran with little quick steps, likea man unused to running, and his hat was gone; the rain pelted down on him.Quickly she flung open the glass doors that led into the garden, and came in.

“Paul, what’s the matter?” she cried.

He stretched out his hands to support himself against a chair; he was soaked tothe skin, muddy and dishevelled; his large white face was set to an expressionof sheer horror, and his eyes started out of his head. For a moment he pressedhis hand to his heart, unable to speak.

“It’s too late,” he gasped; and his voice was raucous andstrange. It was a dreadful sight, this pompous man, ordinarily soself-composed, all disarrayed and terror-struck. “For God’s sake,get me some brandy!”

Quickly she went into the dining-room, and brought him a glass and thedecanter. Though by habit so temperate that he drank little but claret andwater, now with shaking hand he poured out half a tumbler of neat spirit, andhastily swallowed it. He took a handkerchief, and wiped his face, streamingwith rain and sweat, and sank heavily into the nearest chair. Still his eyesstared at her as though filled with some ghastly sight; he made an effort tospeak, but no words came; he gesticulated with aimless hands, like a madman; hegroaned inarticulately.

“For Heaven’s sake, tell me what it is,” she cried.

“It’s too late! She threw herself in front of the Londonexpress.”

She stepped forward impulsively, and then some strange power seemed to pluckher back. She threw up her hands, and gave a loud cry of horror.

“Be quiet, be quiet!” he cried angrily. Then words came to him, andhe uttered his story rapidly, voluble and hysteric; he was all out of breath,and did not think of what he spoke. “I went down to the cottage, andBridger wasn’t there. He was at the public-house, and I went on. A manmet me, running, and said there’d been an accident on the railway; I knewwhat it was. I ran with him, and we came to them just when they were taking heralong. Oh God, oh God! I saw her.”

“Oh, Paul, don’t tell me! I can’t bear it.”

“I shall never get it out of my eyes.”

“And the child?”

“The child’s all right; she didn’t take it.”

“Oh, what have we done, Paul—you and I?”

“It’s my fault,” he cried—“only mine!”

“Have you seen Bridger?”

“No; they went to tell him, and I couldn’t bear it any more. Oh, Iwish I could get it out of my eyes.”

He looked at his hands and shuddered; then he got up.

“I must go and see Bridger.”

“No, don’t do that. Don’t see him now when he’s madwith drink and rage. Wait till to-morrow.”

“How are we going to spend the night, Grace? I feel I shall never sleepagain.”

Next day, when Mr. Castillyon came downstairs, his wife saw that he had sleptas badly as herself; for though dressed now very carefully in the rough tweedsof the country gentleman, his face was drawn and white, his eyes heavy withwatching. He advanced to kiss her as usual, but on a sudden stopped, and aflush rapidly darkened his cheek; he drew back, and without a word sat down tobreakfast. Neither could eat, and after a decent interval, meant to impress theservants that nothing very unusual had happened, Paul rose heavily to his feet.

“Where are you going?” she asked. “You’d better not goto Bridger’s; he’s been drinking hard all night, and he might hurtyou. You know he’s violent-tempered.”

“D’you think I should care if he killed me?” he answeredhoarsely, his face distorted by a look of dreadful pain,

“Oh, Paul, what have I done!” she cried, breaking down.

“Don t talk of that now.”

He moved towards the door, and she sprang up.

“If you are going to see Bridger, I must come, too, I’m soafraid.”

“Would you mind if anything happened to me?” he asked bitterly.

She looked at him with utter pain.

“Yes, Paul.”

He shrugged his massive shoulders, and together in silence they walked alongthe drive. The fine weather of the last three weeks was gone, and the day waschilly, and an east wind blew. A low white mist lay over the park, and thedripping trees were very cheerless. No sign of life was seen at Bridger’scottage, but the little garden, usually so trim and neat, was trampled andtorn, as though many men had gone carelessly over the beds. Paul knocked at thedoor and waited, but no answer came; he lifted the latch, and followed byGrace, walked in. Bridger, seated at the table, was looking straight in frontof him, stupefied still with grief and liquor. He gazed vacantly at theintruders, as though he recognised them not.

“Bridger, I’ve come to tell you how dreadfully sorry I am for theawful thing that has happened.”

The sound of the voice seemed to bring the man to his senses, for he gave a lowcry and lurched forward.

“What d’you want? What ’ave you come here for? Couldn’tyou leave me alone?” He stared at Paul, rage gradually taking possessionof him. “D’you still want me to go—me and the boys? Give ustime, and we’ll clear.”

“I hope you’ll stay. I want to do everything I can to make up foryour horrible loss. I can’t tell you how deeply I blame myself. I wouldgive anything that this dreadful thing hadn’t occurred.”

“She killed ’erself so as I shouldn’t be turned off.You’re a hard master—You always was.”

“I’m very sorry. In future I will try to be gentler to you all. Ithought I only did my duty.”

Mr. Castillyon, that man so conscious of his dignity, had never before spokento his inferiors in apologetic tones. Apt to take others to account, he hadnever dreamed that some day himself might need to make excuses.

“She was a good girl, after all,” said Bridger. “In her heartshe was as good as your wife, Squire.”

“Where’s the child?” asked Grace, almost in a whisper,

He turned upon her savagely.

“D’you want that, too? Aren’t you satisfied yet? Has thechild got to go, too, before we stay?”

“No, no!” she cried hastily. “You must keep the child, andwe’ll do all we can to help you.”

Paul looked at the man.

“Won’t you shake hands with me, Bridger? I should like you to tellme you forgive me.”

Bridger drew back his hands and shook his head. Paul saw that no good couldcome of staying, and turned to the door. The gamekeeper’s eye, followinghim, caught sight of his gun, which leaned against a chair; he stretched outhand and took it. Grace gave a start, but managed to repress her cry of alarm.

“Squire!” he called.

“Well?”

Paul turned round, and when he saw that the man held that weapon in his hand hestraightened himself; he looked at him steadily.

“Well, what do you want?”

Bridger stepped forward, and roughly gave the gun into his master’s hand.

“Take it and keep it, Squire. I swore last night I’d blow yourbloody brains out, and swing for it. I’m not fit to have this gun yet.Keep it, or if I get in drink I’ll kill you.”

An indescribable look of pride came into Paul’s face, and the humiliationand shame were banished. Grace’s heart beat fast when she saw what he wasabout to do, and a sob broke from her. He gave back the gun.

“You’ll need it for your work,” he said coldly. “Idon’t think I’m afraid. I will take my chance of your wanting toshoot me.”

The man looked with wonder at his master, and then violently flung the gun intothe corner of the room.

“By God!” he said.

Paul waited for one moment to see if Bridger had anything more to say, thengravely opened the door for his wife.

“Come, Grace.”

He walked with long steps back to the house, and for the first time in her lifeGrace admired her husband; she felt that, after all, he was not unworthy of hisauthority. She touched his arm.

“I’m glad you did that, Paul. I felt very proud.”

He removed his arm quickly, so that she shrank away.

“Did you think I was likely to be afraid of my gamekeeper?” heanswered disdainfully.

“What are you going to do about me?” she asked.

“I don’t know yet. I must think it over. All that you told me lastnight was true?”

“Quite true.”

“Why did you tell me?”

“It was the only way to save those people. If I’d had the courageto do it a couple of hours earlier, that poor girl wouldn’t have killedherself.”

He said no more, and silently they reached the house.

For some days Paul made no reference to his wife’s confession, but wentabout the work of his estate, his Parliamentary labours, with stolid method,and only Grace’s new sympathy discerned the awful torment from which hesuffered. He took care to speak naturally before the servants and his brother,but avoided to be alone with her. His back seemed strangely bent, and he walkedwith a listless torpor, as though his large limbs were grown suddenly too heavyto bear; his fleshy face was drawn and sallow, his eyelids puffy from want ofsleep, and his eyes dim. At length Grace could stand her misery no longer; shewent to the library, where she knew he was alone, and softly opened the door.He sat at the table with Blue-Books and paper spread in front of him, strivingindustriously to fit himself for the duties which he took so seriously; but hedid not read: he rested his face on his hands, staring straight in front ofhim. He started when his wife entered, and looked at her with harassed eyes.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Paul, but we can’t go on muchlonger in this way. I want to know what you’re going to do.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I wish to do my duty.”

“I suppose you’re going to divorce me.”

He gave a groan, and pushing back his chair, stood up.

“Oh, Grace, Grace, why did you do it? You know how I worshipped you; Iwould have given my life to save you a moment’s uneasiness. I trusted youwith all my soul.”

“Yes, I know all that, I’ve repeated it to myself a thousandtimes.”

He looked at her so helplessly that she could not restrain her pity.

“Would you like me to go away? Your mother can easily come down to you,and you can talk it over with her.”

“You know what she’d advise me to do,” he cried.

“Yes.”

“D’youwant me to divorce you?”

She gave him a look of utter agony, but would not allow the gathering tears tofall from her eyes; with fierce self-reproach, she wished to excite in him noatom of commiseration. He glanced away, with a certain shame of his nextquestion.

“D’you still care for—Reggie Bassett?”

“No,” she cried exultantly; “I loathe and detest and despisehim. I know he’s not worth a quarter of you.”

He threw up his hands helplessly.

“Oh God! I wish I knew what to do. At first I could have killed you, andnow—I feel we can’t go on as we are, ought to do something; Ican’t forget the whole thing. I ought to hate you, but I can’t;notwithstanding everything, I love you still. If you go, I think I shalldie.”

She looked at him thoughtfully, divining in some measure the emotions whichtore him in sundry directions. It seemed due to his honour that he shoulddivorce the errant wife, and yet he had not the heart to do it; anger and shamewere banished by utter sorrow; and then, he could not bear the scandal and thepublic disgrace. Paul Castillyon was a man of old-fashioned ideas, and itseemed to him proper for a gentleman to keep his name out of the newspapers.Nor did he like the modern notion that the wronged husband cuts a somewhatheroic figure; he remembered vividly his disgust when a member of his club,divorcing his wife, had sought in the smoking-room to excite sympathy bynarration of the lady’s infidelities. He was proud of his name, and couldnot bear that it should be covered with ridicule; the very thought shamed him,so that he could scarcely face his wife.

“I leave myself entirely in your hands,” she said at length.“I will do whatever you wish.”

“Can’t you give me a little more time to think it over? Idon’t want to do anything hastily.”

“I think we’d better decide at once. It’ll be much better foryou to settle it; you’re making yourself ill. I can’t bear to seeyou so awfully unhappy.”

“Don’t think about me; think about yourself. What will you doif——” He stopped, unable to continue.

“If you divorce me?”

“No, I can’t do that,” he cried quickly. “I dare sayI’m a doting, weak fool, and you’ll despise me even more than youdo; but I can’t lose you altogether. Oh, Grace, you don’t want meto divorce you?”

She shook her head.

“It would be very generous if you could spare me that. Will you besatisfied if I go and live abroad? I promise that you’ll have no cause toblame me again. We need tell people nothing; they’ll think it’s asort of amicable separation.”

“I dare say that would be the best thing,” he said quietly.

“Then, good-bye.”

She stretched out her hand to him, and the tears in her eyes made everythingdim about her. He took it silently.

“I want to tell you once more, Paul, how bitterly I regret all theunhappiness I’ve caused you. I was never a good wife to you. I hope withall my heart that you’ll be happier now.”

“How can I be happy, Grace? You were all my happiness. I can’t helpit; all these days I’ve fought against it, I’ve done all I could,but still even now—now that I know you’ve never cared for me atall, and the rest—I love you with all my heart.”

The tears ran down her wasted, colourless cheeks, and for awhile she could notspeak. She withdrew her hand, and stood in front of him with head bent down.

“I don’t ask you to believe me, Paul. I’ve lied to you andbetrayed you, and you have the right to take my words as worthless. But Ishould like to tell you this before I go: I do love you now honestly. Duringthese last months of wretchedness I’ve understood how kind and good youwere, and I’ve been awfully touched by your great love for me; you mademe utterly ashamed of myself. Oh, I’ve been worthless and selfish;I’ve sacrificed you blindly to all my whims, I’ve never tried tomake you happy; but if I’m less of a cad than I was, it’s becauseof you. And the other day, when you gave that man his gun, I was so proud ofyou, and I felt such a poor mean creature I could have fallen on my kneesbefore you and kissed your hands.”

She took her handkerchief and dried her eyes; then, forcing a smile, for onemoment she flashed at him a gay look such as she had been accustomed to give.

“Don’t think too badly of me, will you?”

“Oh, Grace, Grace,” he cried, “I can’t bear it!Don’t go. I want you so badly. Let us try again.”

The colour rushed to her face, and she went to him quickly.

“Paul, d’you think you ever can forgive me? I tell you I love youas I never loved you before.”

“Let us try.”

He opened his arms, and with a cry of joy she flung herself into them; shelifted her lips to him, and when he kissed her she pressed more closely to him.

“My darling husband,” she whispered.

“Oh, Grace, let us thank God for His mercy to us.”

X

The summer passed, and Miss Ley went her way as usual, going industriously,with the vivacity of a young girl, to the various entertainments offered by theseason. She had a knack for extracting amusement from functions which othersfound entirely tedious, and with sprightly, good-natured malice related heradventures conscientiously to the faithful Frank.

He, of course, remained in London, but once a fortnight went to see HerbertField at Tercanbury. His visits, though himself knew they were useless, were ofsingular consolation to the Deanery household; his kindly humour and hissympathy had so endeared him that all looked forward with the keenest pleasureto his arrival; and he had a way of arousing confidence so that even Bella feltnothing more could be done for her husband than Frank did. On reaching homefrom Paris, they had settled down very quietly, and though at first the Deanfelt some uneasiness in Herbert’s presence, this was soon replaced by avery touching affection; he learnt to admire the unflinching spirit with whichthe youth looked forward to inevitable death, the courage with which he borepain. When the weather grew warmer, Herbert lay all day in the garden,rejoicing in the green leaves and the flowers and the singing of the birds; andforsaking his erudite studies, the Dean sat with him, talking of ancientauthors or of the roses he loved so well. They played chess interminably, andBella loved to watch them, the sun, broken into patches of green and yellow bythe leaves, colouring them softly; it amused her to see the little smile oftriumph with which her father looked up when he made a move to puzzle hisopponent, and the boyish laugh of Herbert when he found a way out of thedifficulty. They both seemed her children, and she could not tell which wasdearer to her.

But cruelly the disease progressed, and at length Herbert was confined to bed;a terrible hæmorrhage exhausted him, so that Frank could not conceal from Bellahis fear that at length the end was coming.

“For months he’s been hanging on a thread, and the thread isbreaking. I’m afraid you must prepare yourself for the worst.”

“D’you mean it can only be a question of weeks?” she askedwith agony.

He hesitated for a while, but decided it was better to tell her the truth.

“I think it’s only a question of days.”

She looked at him steadily, but her face by now was so trained to self-commandthat no expression of horror or of pain disturbed its steadfast gravity.

“Can nothing be done at all?” she asked.

“Nothing. I can be of no more use to you; but if it will comfort you atall, you’d better wire for me if he has another hæmorrhage.”

“It will be the last?”

“Yes.”

When she went back to Herbert he smiled so brightly that it seemed impossibleFrank’s gloomy judgment could be true.

“Well, what does he say?”

“He says you keep your strength wonderfully,” she answered,smiling. “I hope soon you’ll be able to get up again.”

“I feel as well as possible. In another fortnight we can go to theseaside.”

Each knew that the other hid his real thought, but neither had the heart to putaside the false hopes with which they had so long tried to reassure themselves.Yet to Bella the strain was growing unendurable, and she besought Miss Ley tocome and stay with them. Her father was grown so fond of Herbert that she darednot tell him the truth, and desired Miss Ley to distract his attention. Shecould not unaided continue much longer her own cheerfulness, and only thepresence of someone else might make it possible to preserve a certain soberhilarity. Miss Ley consented, and forthwith arrived; but perceiving that it washer part to add some gaiety to that last act of life, she felt it a littlegruesome; it was as though she were invited to some grim festival to watch thepoor boy die. However, with unusual energy she exerted herself to amuse theDean, and having an idea that her powers of conversation were not altogethercontemptible, took pains to be at her best; it did Herbert infinite good tohear her talk with the old man, bantering him gently, playing about his wordswith the agility of a light-winged butterfly, propounding hazardous theorieswhich she defended with all possible ingenuity. The Dean took pleasure in thecontest, and opposed her with all the resources of his learning and hiscommon-sense; with questions apparently guileless, he strove to lure her toself-contradiction, but when he managed this it profited him little, for shewould extricate herself with a verbal quip, a prance, a flourish, and a caper;or else, since the only importance lay in the æsthetic value of a phrase,assert her utter indifference to the matter of the argument. To prove acommonplace, she would utter paradox after paradox—to make the fantasticobvious, would argue with the staid logic of Euclid.

“Man has four passions,” she said—“love, power, food,and rhetoric; but rhetoric is the only one that is proof against satiety,ennui, and dyspepsia.”

A fortnight passed, and one morning Herbert Field, alone with Bella, hadanother attack of hæmorrhage, so that for awhile she thought him dying. Hefainted from exhaustion, and in terror she sent for the local doctor. Presentlyhe was brought round to consciousness, but it was obvious that the end hadcome; from this final attack he could never rally. Yet it seemed impossiblethat human skill should have no further power; surely there must be some lastdesperate remedy for which the moment was now at hand, and Bella asked Miss Leywhether Frank might be sent for.

“Anyhow, we shall never trouble him again,” she said.

“You don’t know Frank,” answered Miss Ley. “Of coursehe’ll come at once.”

A telegram was despatched, and within four hours Frank arrived, only to seethat Herbert’s condition was hopeless. He hovered between life and death,kept alive by constant stimulants, and they could do nothing but sit and wait.When Bella repeated to her father, from whom so far as possible she had hiddenher husband’s desperate state, that the boy could scarcely outlast thenight, he looked down for a moment, then turned to Frank.

“Is he strong enough for me to administer the Holy Sacrament?”

“Does he want it?”

“I think so. I have talked to him before, and he told me that he wishedto take it before he died.”

“Very well.”

Bella went to prepare her husband, and the Dean assumed the garments of hisoffice. Frank also went into the bedroom to be at hand if needed, and stood bythe window apart from those three who performed the sacred mystery; it seemedto him as though the Dean were invested strangely with a greater, morebenignant dignity. A certain majesty had descended upon the minister of God,and while he read the prayers a light shone on his face like, that on the faceof a pictured saint.

“Verily, verily I say unto you. He that heareth My word, and believethon Him that sent Me, hath everlasting life, and shall not come intocondemnation; but is passed from death unto life.”

Bella knelt at the bedside, and Herbert Field, emaciated and extraordinarilyweak, his sombre eyes shining unnaturally from his white and wasted face,listened attentively. There was no fear now, but only resignation and hope; itcould be seen that with all his heart he believed those promises of lifeeverlasting and of pardon for sins past; and Frank, storm-tossed on the sea ofdoubt, envied that undisturbed assurance.

“The Body of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was given for thee, preservethy body and soul unto everlasting life: Take and eat this in remembrance thatChrist died for thee, and feed on Him in thy heart by faith andthanksgiving.”

The dying man took the bread and wine which should mystically prepare theChristian soul for her journey to the life beyond, and they seemed to give apeace ineffable; the tortured body was marvellously eased, and a new serenitydescended upon the mind.

The Dean read the last solemn lines of the service, and rising from his knees,kissed the boy’s forehead. Herbert was too weak to speak, but thefaintest shadow of a smile crossed his lips. Presently he dozed quietly. It waslate in the afternoon now, and Frank suggested that he should take the Deaninto the fresh air.

“There is no immediate danger, is there?” asked the old man.

“I don’t think so. He will probably live till the morning.”

They went out from the Deanery garden into the precincts. There was a largepatch of green upon which boys of Regis School played cricket at nets, but theywere away for the holidays, and only the cawing rooks, flying heavily about theelm-trees, disturbed the stillness. On one side was the cathedral, adorablygray in the rosy light of evening, and the stately magnificence of the centraltower rose towards heaven like a strong man’s ideal turned to stone. Allround were the houses of the Canons. The day had been hot and cloudless, butnow a very light breeze fanned the cheeks of those two slowly sauntering. Itwas a spot which breathed a peace so exquisite that Frank wished dreamily hislife had been cast in such pleasant ways. At intervals the cathedral bells rangout the quarters. Neither spoke, but they walked till the setting sun warnedthem that it grew late. When they returned to the house Miss Ley said thatHerbert was awake, asking for the Dean; she proposed they should eat something,and then go to his room. He seemed slightly better, that she asked Frank if anyhope remained.

“None. It can only be a question of a few hours more or less.”

When they went into the bedroom, Herbert greeted the with a smile, for his mindat the end seemed to regain a greater lucidity. Bella turned to them.

“Father, Herbert would like you to read to him.”

“I was going to suggest it,” answered the Dean.

The night was fallen, and all the stars shone out with a vehement splendour;through the casements, wide open, entered the fresh odours of the garden, suaveand unwearied. Frank sat in a window, his face in shadow, so that none couldsee, and watched the lad lying so still that one might have thought him deadalready. Then Bella so arranged the lamp that the Dean might be able to read;and when he sat down the light fell on his face wonderfully, and it seemedtransparent as alabaster.

“What shall I read, Herbert?”

“I don’t mind,” the boy whispered.

The Dean took the Bible which lay at his hand, and thoughtfully turned thepages; but a strange idea came to him, and he put it down. The perfume of thenight, of the leaves and of the roses, the savour of the dew, filled that roomwith a subtle delicacy, as though some light spirit of a poet’s fancy hadtaken possession of it; and by instinct he felt that the boy, who through lifehad loved so passionately the world’s sensuous beauty, must desire otherwords than those of Hebrew prophets. His great love and sympathy lifted himfrom the common level of his calling to a plane of higher charity, and theknowledge came what reading would give Herbert the most delectable comfort;bending forward, he whispered to Bella, who gave a look of utter astonishment,but none the less rose to do his bidding. She brought him a small book bound inblue cloth, and slowly he began to read.

“Courting Amaryllis with song I go, while my she-goats feed on thehill, and Tityrus herds them. Ah, Tityrus, my dearly beloved, feed thou thegoats, and to the well-side lead them, Tityrus. . . .”

Miss Ley looked up with amazement, and even at that moment could not suppressan inward ironical laughter, for she recognised an idyl of Theocritus. Verygravely, dwelling on the pictures called up to his mind stored with classicallearning, the good Dean read through the charming dialogue recountingpreciously, with the elaborate simplicity of a decadent age, the amours ofSicilian shepherds. Herbert listened with quiet satisfaction, a happy smile setlightly on his pallid lips; and he too, his imagination curiously quickened byapproaching death, saw the shady groves and babbling streams of Sicily, heardthe piping of love-lorn goatherds, the coy responses of fair maids refusing thekisses so sweet to give only that surrender at length might be the morecomplete. Even in the translation a breath of pure poetry was there, and thespirit was preserved of a life consciously free from the artifice ofcivilization, wherein sunshine and shade, spring and summer, the perfume offlowers, offered satisfying delights.

The Dean finished, and closed the book; and silence fell upon them all, andthey sat through the night. The words whereto they had listened seemed to haveleft with them a singular tranquillity, so that all the stress and passion ofthe world were banished; and even to Bella, though her husband lay a-dying,there came a strange sense of gratitude for the fulness and the beauty of life.The hours passed marked by the deep-tongued chiming of the cathedral bells;every quarter they pealed their warning, ominous, yet not terrifying, and toall it seemed that the parting soul waited only for the day to take her flight.

The silence was extraordinary, more lovely than sweet music; it seemed a livingthing that filled the chamber of death with peace unspeakable; and the nightwas dark, for the stars now were vanished before the full moon, but the goddessspared the room her frigid brilliancy, and left the garden tenebrous. No breathof wind touched the trees, and not a rustle of leaves disturbed the stillycalm; the muteness of the sleeping town seemed all about them, so profound thatone felt some spirit had descended thereon, throwing over all things, toemphasize the wakefulness of those who watched, a shroud of death. Then a soundstole through the air, so gradual and delicate a sound that none could tell howit began; one might have thought it born miraculously of the very silence; itwas a silvery, tenuous note that travelled through the stillness like lightthrough air, and all at once, with a suddenness that startled, broke intopassionate, vehement song. It was the nightingale. The placid night rang like asounding-board, and each breath of air took up the tremulous magic; the birdsang in a hawthorn-tree below the window, and its rapture rang through thegarden, rang into the large room to the ears of the dying youth. He startedfrom his sleep, and it seemed as though he were called back from death. Nonestirred, all fascinated and imprisoned by that miracle of song. Passion andanguish and exultation, rising and falling in perpetual harmony, sometimes thebeauty was hardly sufferable, (as though was reached at length theheart’s limit of endurance,) so that one could have cried out with thesorrow of it. The music was poured upon the listening air,—trembling andthrobbing with pain; joyous, triumphant, and conscious of might; it hesitatedlike a lover who knows that his love is hopeless; it was like the voice of adying child lamenting the loveliness it would never know; it was the mockinglaughter of a courtesan for whose sake a man has died; it wept and prayed, andgloried in the joy of living; it was all sweetness and tenderness, offeringpardon for sins past, and charity and peace and the rest that ever endures; itexulted in the sweet scents of the earth, the multicoloured flowers, the gentleairs, the dew, and the white beam of the moon. Inhuman, ecstatic, defiant, thenightingale warbled, drunk with the beauty that issued from his throat. ToHerbert, curiously alert, all his senses gathered to one last effort ofappreciation, it recalled the land which he had never seen: Hellas—Hellaswith its olive-gardens and its purling streams, its gray rocks all rosy in thesetting sun, and its sacred groves, its blithe airs and its sonorous speech.Passed through his mind Philomel chanting for ever her distress, and Pan thehappy shepherd, and the fauns and the flying nymphs; all the lovely thingswhereof he had read and dreamed appeared before him in one last passionatevision of a glory that was long since set. At that moment he was happy to die,for the world had given him much, and he had been spared the disillusion of oldage. But to Frank the nightingale sang of other things—of the birth whichfollows ever on the heel of death, of life ever new and desirable, of thewonder of the teeming earth and the endless cycle of events. Men came and went,and the world turned on; the individual was naught, but the race continued itsblind journey toward the greater nothingness; the trees shed their leaves andthe flowers drooped and withered, but the spring brought new buds; hopes weredead before the desired came about; love perished, the love that seemedimmortal; one thing succeeded another restlessly, and the universe was everfresh and wonderful. He, too, was thankful for his life. And then, suddenly, inthe very midst of his song, when he seemed to gather his heart for a finalburst of infinite melody, the nightingale ceased, and through all the gardenpassed a shudder, as though the trees and the flowers and the taciturn birds ofthe day were distraught because they awoke suddenly to common life. For aninstant the night quivered still with the memory of those heavenly notes, andthen, more profoundly, the silence returned. Herbert gave a low sob, and Bellawent to him quickly; she bent down to hear what he said.

“I’m so glad,” he whispered—“I’m soglad.”

Again the cathedral bells rang out, and the watchers counted the deliberatestriking of the hour. They sat in silence. And then the darkness was insensiblydiminished; as yet there was no light, but they felt the dawn was at hand. Achilliness came into the room, the greater cold of the departing night, and thevelvet obscurity took on a subtle hue of amethyst. A faint sound came from thebed, and the Dean went over and listened; the end was very nearly come. Heknelt down, and in a low voice began to repeat the prayers for the dying.

“Almighty God, with whom do live the spirits of great men madeperfect, after they are delivered from their earthly prisons: We humbly commendthe soul of this Thy servant, our dear brother, into Thy hands, most humblybeseeching Thee that it may be precious in Thy sight. Wash it, we pray Thee, inthe blood of that Immaculate Lamb, that was slain to take away the sins of theworld; that whatsoever defilements it may have contracted in the midst of thismiserable world, through the lusts of the flesh or the wiles of Satan, beingpurged and done away, it may be presented pure and without spot beforeThee.”

Miss Ley stood up and touched Frank’s arm.

“Come,” she whispered; “you and I can do no more good. Let usleave them.”

He rose silently, and following her, they stole very gently from the room.

I want to walk in the garden,” she said, her voice trembling. But once inthe open air, her nerves, taut till then by a great effort of will, gave way ona sudden, and the strong, collected woman burst into a flood of tears. Sinkingon a bench, she hid her face and wept uncontrollably. “Oh, it’s tooawful,” she cried. “It seems so horribly stupid that people shouldever die.”

Frank looked at her gravely, and in a reflective fashion filled his pipe.

“I’m afraid you’re rather upset; you’d better let mewrite you out a little prescription in the morning.”

“Don’t be a drivelling idiot,” she cried. “What do youthink I want with your foolish bromides!”

He did not answer, but deliberately lit his pipe; and though Miss Ley knew itnot, his words had the calming effect he foresaw. She brushed away the tearsand took his arm. They walked up and down the lawn slowly; but Miss Ley, unusedto give way to her emotions, was shaken still, and he felt her trembling.

“It’s just at such times as these that you and I are so utterlyhelpless. When people’s hearts are breaking for a word of consolation,when they’re sick with fear because of the unknown, we can only shrug ourshoulders and tell them that we know nothing. It’s too awful to thinkthat we shall never see again those we have loved so deeply; it’s tooawful to think that nothing awaits us but cold extinction. I try to put deathfrom my thoughts—I wish never to think of it; but it’s hateful,hateful. Each year I grow older I’m more passionately attached to life.After all, even if the beliefs of men are childish and untrue, isn’t itbetter to keep them? Surely superstition is a small price to pay for thatwonderful support at the last hour, when all else fades to insignificance. Howcan people have the heart to rob the simple-minded of that greatcomfort?”

“But don’t you think most of us would give our very souls tobelieve? Of course we need it, and sometimes so intensely that we can hardlyhelp praying to a God we know is not there. It’s very hard to stand aloneand look forward—without hope.”

They wandered still, and the birds began to sing blithely; Nature awoke fromher sleep, slowly, with languid movements. The night was gone, and yet the daywas not come. The trees and the flowers stood out with a certain ghostlydimness, and the air in those first moments of dawn was fresh and keen: allthings were swathed in a strange violet light that seemed to give new contoursand new hues. There was a curious self-consciousness about the morning, and theleaves rustled like animate beings; the sky was very pale, cloudless, gray, andamethystine; and then suddenly a ray of yellow light shot right across it, andthe sun rose.

“D’you know,” said Frank, “it seems to me that just asthere is an instinct for life there must be an instinct for death also; somevery old persons, here and there, long for the release, just as the majoritylong for existence. Perhaps in the future this will be more common; and just ascertain insects, having done their life’s work, die willingly, withoutregret, from sheer cessation of the wish to live, so it may happen that men,too, will develop some such feeling. And then death will have no terrors, forwe shall come to it as joyfully as after a hard day we go to our sleep.”

“And meanwhile?” asked Miss Ley, with a painful smile.

“Meanwhile we must have courage. In our sane moments we devise a certainscheme of life, and we must keep to it in the hour of trouble. I will try tolive my life so that when the end comes I can look back without regret, andforward without fear.”

But now the sun flooded the garden with its magnificence, and there was abeauty in the morning that told more eloquently than human words the goodlesson that life is to the living and the world is full of joy. Still the birdssang their merry songs—throstle and merle, and finch and twitteringsparrow—and the flowers defiant, squandered their perfume. There wereroses everywhere, and side by side were the buds and the full-blown blossomsand the dead, drooping splendours of yesterday; the great old trees of theDeanery garden were fresh and verdant as though they had not bloomed and fadedfor a hundred years; the very air was jocund and gay, and it was a delightmerely to stand still and breathe.

But while they walked Miss Ley gave a cry, and leaving Frank’s arm,stepped forward; for Bella was seated on a bench under a tree, with the sunshining full on her face; she stared in front of her with wide-open eyes,unblinded by the brilliance, and the lines of care were suddenly gone from herface. Her expression was radiant, so that for a moment she was a beautifulwoman.

“Bella, what is it?” cried Miss Ley. “Bella!”

She lowered her eyes and passed her hand over them, for now they were dazzledwith shining gold. An ecstatic smile broke upon her lips.

“He died when the sun came into the room; a bridge of gold was set forhim, and he passed painlessly into the open.”

“Oh, my poor child!”

Bella shook her head and smiled again.

“I’m not sorry; I’m glad that his suffering is over. He diedso gently that at first I didn’t know it. I could hardly believe he wasnot asleep. I told father. And then I saw a lovely butterfly—a goldenbutterfly such as I’ve never seen before—hover slowly about theroom. I couldn’t help looking at it, for it seemed to know its way, andthen it came into the sunbeam and floated out along it—floated into theblue sky; and then I lost it.”

A week later Miss Ley was in London, where she meant to stay through August,partly because it bored her to decide where to spend that holiday season,partly because Mrs. Barlow-Bassett had been forced to go to a private hospitalfor an operation; but still more because Frank’s presence gave her thecertainty that she would have someone to talk to whenever she liked. That monthvastly amused her, for London gained then somewhat the air of a foreigncapital, and since few of her acquaintance remained, she felt free to dowhatever she chose without risk of being thought wilfully eccentric. Miss Leydined with Frank in shabby little restaurants in Soho, where neither the linennor the frequenters were of a spotless character; but it entertained her muchto watch bearded Frenchmen languishing away from their native land, and tooverhear the voluble confidences of ladies whose position in society wasscarcely acknowledged. They went together to music-halls over the river ordrove on the tops of ’buses, and discussed interminably the weather andeternity, the meaning of life, the foibles of their friends, Shakespeare, andtheBilharzia hæmatobi.

Miss Ley had left Bella and the Dean at Tercanbury. The widow never for amoment lost her grave serenity. She attended the burying of her husband withdry eyes, absently as though it were a formal ceremony that had no particularmeaning to her; and the Dean, who could not understand her point of view, wasdismayed, for he was broken down with grief, and it was his daughter who soughtto console him. She repeated that Herbert was there among them now; and thefurniture of the house, the roses of the garden, the blue of the sky, gained acurious significance, since he seemed to be in all things, partaking of theircomfortable beauty, and adding to theirs a more subtle loveliness.

Soon Miss Ley received from her friend a letter, enclosing one from Herbert,scribbled in pencil but a few days before his death. She said:

“This is apparently for you, and though it is the last thing he everwrote, I feel that you should have it. It seems to refer to a conversation thatyou had with him, and I am glad to have found it. My father keeps well, and Ialso. Sometimes I can scarcely realize that Herbert is dead, he seems so neartome. I thought I could not live without him, but I am singularly content, andI know that soon we shall be united, and then for ever.”

The letter was as follows:

“DEAR MISS LEY,
    “You wanted to ask me a question the other day, and were afraid, incase you pained me; but I guessed it, and would have answered very willingly.Did you not wish to know whether, notwithstanding poverty and illness andfrustrated hopes and the prospect of death, I was glad to have lived? Yes,notwithstanding everything. Except that I must leave Bella, I am not sorry todie, for I know at last well enough that I should never have been a great poet;and Bella will join me soon. I have loved the world passionately, and I thankGod for all the beautiful things I have seen. I thank God for the green meadowsround Tercanbury, and the elm-trees, and the gray monotonous sea. I thank Himfor the loveliness of the cathedral on rainy afternoons in winter, and for thejewelled glass of its painted windows, and for the great clouds that swayacross the sky. I thank God for the scented flowers and the carolling birds,for the sunshine and the spring breezes, and the people who have loved me. Ohyes, I am glad to have lived; and if I had to go through it all again, with thesorrows and disappointments and the sickness, I would take it willingly, for tome at least the delight of life has been greater than the pain. I am very readyto pay the price, and I would wish to die with a prayer of thanksgiving on mylips.”

The letter broke off thus abruptly, as though he had meant to say much more,but wanted opportunity. Miss Ley read the letter to Frank when next he came.

“Do you notice,” she asked, “that every one of the things hespeaks of appeals to the senses? Yet the only point upon which philosophers anddivines agree is that this is the lower part of us, and must be resolutelycurbed. They put the intellect on an altogether higher plane.”

“They lie in their throats. And you can prove that really they believenothing of the kind by comparing the concern with which they treat theirstomachs, and the negligence with which they use their minds. To make theirfood digestible, nourishing, and wholesome, enormous trouble is taken, but theywill stuff into their heads any garbage they come across. When you contrast theheedlessness with which people choose their books from Mudie’s, and thecare with which they order their dinner, you can be sure, whatever theirprotestations, that they lay vastly more store on their bellies than on theirintellects.”

“I rather wish I’d said that,” murmured Miss Leyreflectively.

“I have no doubt you will,” he returned.

XI

Mrs. Barlow-Bassett, who cultivated the fashion with the assiduity of a womannot too well assured of her position in society, was preparing to spend Augustin Homburg, when a sudden illness prostrated her, and it was found that animmediate operation was needful. She went into a private hospital with thepresentiment that she would never recover, and her chief sorrow was that shemust leave Reggie, so ill-prepared for the mundane struggle, to go his wayalone just when a mother’s loving care was most needed for his guidance.Her heart ached to keep him continually by her side, but she had trainedherself to sacrifice every amiable tenderness, and when he told her of anarrangement to read in the country with his tutor, would not hear of its beingdisturbed. Her possible demise made it all the more necessary that he should bestanding on his own feet as a professional man, and resolutely she crushed, notonly her natural inclinations, but also all evidence of anxiety for her owncondition; she made light of the approaching ordeal, so that his attentionshould be in no way diverted from his work. Reggie promised to write every day,and went so far (a trait which touched her deeply) as to insist on remaining inLondon till after her operation; he would not be able to see her, but at leastcould inquire how she had borne it. Mrs. Barlow-Bassett drove to Wimpole Streetwith her son, and bade him a very tender farewell; at the end, just before heleft, her courage partly failed, and she could not prevent a cry of distress.

“And if something happens, Reggie, and I don’t recover, you will bea good boy, won’t you? You will be honest and straightforward andloyal?”

“What doyou think?” answered Reggie.

She folded him in her arms, and with a firmness not becoming her appearance,fashioned somewhat in the grand style, let him go with dry eyes and withsmiling lips. But Mrs. Bassett had exaggerated a little the perils of hercondition; she bore the operation admirably, and after the first two daysproceeded without interruption to complete recovery. Reggie wrote withconsiderable regularity from Brighton, where it appeared the tutor hadestablished himself for the summer, and gave his mother accounts of the work hedid; he went into considerable detail, and, indeed, seemed so industrious thatMrs. Bassett was minded to remonstrate with his tutor. After all, it washoliday time, and scarcely fair that Reggie’s goodwill should be thustaken advantage of. Towards the end of the month she was well enough to moveback to her own house, and the morning after her return came downstairs in avery contented frame of mind, rejoicing in her new health and in the splendidsummer weather. Carelessly she opened herMorning Post, and as usual ranher eye down the announcements of birth, death, and marriage. Suddenly itcaught her own name, and she read the following intelligence:

BARLOW-BASSETT—HIGGINS,—Onthe 30th ult., at St. George’s, Hanover Square, W., Reginald, only son ofthe late Frederick Barlow-Bassett, to Annie (Lauria Galbraith), second daughterof Jonathan Higgins, of Wimbledon.

For a moment Mrs. Bassett did not understand, and she read the paragraph twice,hopelessly mystified, before she realized that it announced to the world ingeneral the marriage of her son. The date of the occurrence was the day afterher operation, and on that very morning Reggie had called at Wimpole Street toinquire after her. The butler was still in the room, and helplessly Mrs.Bassett handed him the paper.

“D’you know what this means?” she asked.

“No, madam.”

Her first thought was that it must be a practical joke; and then, what was themeaning of that second name in parentheses—Lauria Galbraith? She rang forthe servant, and told him at once to send a wire, which she directed to Reggieat Brighton, asking for an explanation of the extraordinary announcement; afterbreakfast she telegraphed to her solicitor and to the tutor’s Londonaddress. The tutor’s reply came first, to the effect that he had not seenReggie since July; and in answer to her second question, he added that himselfhad been in London all the summer. At length Mrs. Bassett began to understandthat something awful had happened. She went into Reggie’s room, andcoming upon a locked drawer, had it broken open; she found in it awriting-case, and with horror and indignation turned out a motley collection ofbills, pawn-tickets, and letters. She examined them all carefully, and firstdiscovered that accounts for which she had given money were unpaid, and thatothers, enormous to her economical view, existed of which she knew nothing;then from the pawntickets she learned that Reggie had pledged hisfather’s watch, all his own trinkets, a dressing-case she had given him,and numberless other things. For an instant she hesitated at the letters, butonly for an instant; it seemed her right now to know the worst, and little bylittle it dawned upon her that hitherto she had lived in a strange fool’sparadise. First there came epistles from duns, polite, supplicatory, menacing;then a couple of writs, smacking inexperienced eye of prison bars andunimagined penalties; letters from women in various writings, most of themill-spelt, and the cheap stationery betrayed the sender’s rank. Withfrowning brow she read them, horrified and aghast; some were full of love,others of anger, but all pointed distinctly to Reggie’s polygamoustendency. At length came a bundle whereof the paper was quitedifferent—thick, expensive, scented; and though not at once recognisingthe hand when she opened the first, Mrs. Bassett cried out; on the left side,at the top, in little letters of gold, surrounded by a scroll, was the nameGrace, and though there was no address she knew that they were from Mrs.Castillyon. She read them all, and her dismay tamed to abject shame and anger.It appeared that this woman had given Reggie cheques and bank-notes. One lettersaid, “I hope you can change the cheque”; another,“So sorry you’re hard up; here’s a fiver to go onwith”; a third, “What a pig-dog your mother is to be somean! What on earth does she spend her money on?” At first they werewith passion, but soon began to complain of unkindness or cruelty, and oneletter after another was filled with bitter reproaches.

Mrs. Bassett took the whole contents of the writing-case, and locked them inher own cabinet, then hurried to Reggie’s tutor. Here she discovered thatwhat she already suspected was true. She went home again, and called the upperservants. It humiliated her enormously that she must catechize them on theconduct of her son, but now she had no scruples. At first they would saynothing, but by dint of promise and threat she extracted the full story of howReggie had lived during the last two years. At length, as a final blow, came anepistle from Reggie himself.

“371, Vauxhall Bridge Road.

“MY DEAR MATER,
    “You will have seen in this morning’sPost that I wasmarried at the end of last month to Miss Higgins, professionally known asLauria Galbraith, and we are now staying at the above address. I am sure youwill like Lauria, who is the best woman in the world, and has saved me fromgoing to the dogs. You might let us have a line to say when we can come and seeyou. Lauria is most anxious to make your acquaintance, I should tell you that Ihave decided to chuck the Bar, and I am going on the stage. Lauria and I havegot an engagement for the autumn tour ofThe Knave of Hearts, and wehave come up to town for rehearsals. I am sure this will meet with yourapproval, because law is a rotten profession, awfully overcrowded, and asLauria says, on the stage there is always room for talent. I know I shall geton, and Lauria and I hope in a few years to run our own company. I am workingvery hard, for although I’m only walking on in this drama, (Iwouldn’t have accepted the offer, only Lauria has a ripping part, and, ofcourse, as I hadn’t been on the stage before, I had to take what I couldget,) I am learningHamlet. Lauria and I think of giving somerecitations of that andRomeo and Juliet in town next spring.

“Your affectionate son,
“REGGIE.

“P.S.—You needn’t worry about the money, because on the stageI can earn far more than I ever should have done at the Bar. An actor-managersimply makes thousands.”

Mrs. Bassett burst into tears, for she had never imagined that Reggie could beso callous, so inanely flippant; but rage succeeded all other emotions in herbreast, and she wrote angrily, telling her son never again to show his face ather house, or the servants would throw him into the street—telling himthat no farthing of her money should ever be his; then silence seemed moredignified, and she determined merely to leave unanswered that impudent letter.But it was necessary to express her indignation to someone, and she sent anurgent note to Miss Ley, begging her at once to come.

When the good lady, obedient to the summons, arrived, she found Mrs. Bassett ina very hysterical condition, walking up and down the room excitedly; and in thedisorder of her majestic manner she reminded her somewhat of a middle-agedbacchante.

“Thank God you’ve come!” she cried. “Reggie’smarried an actress, and I’ve disinherited him. I won’t ever see himagain, and for all I care he may starve.”

Miss Ley made no movement of surprise, merely noting the fact that herself wasa woman of prevision. All she had expected was come about.

“I’ve been utterly deceived in him. He’s not passed a singleexamination, and the servants have told me that he often came home at nighttipsy. He’s lied to me systematically; he’s deceived me in everypossible way; and all the time I flattered myself he was a good, honest boy,he’s been leading the life of a rip and a libertine.”

Her words were interrupted by a fit of crying, while Miss Ley watched herreflectively. Presently Mrs. Bassett recovered herself.

“I confess the marriage surprises me,” murmured Miss Ley.“Your daughter-in-law must be a woman of character and tact, Emily; butall the rest has been known to your friends for the last year.”

“D’you mean to say you knew he was a drunken sot, and little betterthan a thief and a liar?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought you’d find out quite soon enough; and really, Emily,you’re such a fool you would probably have only made things worse.”

Mrs. Bassett was too much crushed to resent this plain speech.

“But you don’t know everything. I’ve found a lot of lettersfrom women. It’s they who’ve led him astray. And d’you knowwhose are the worst?”

“Mrs. Castillyon’s?”

“Did you know that, too? Did everyone know my shame, and that my boy wasbeing ruined, and did no one warn me? But I’m going to pay her out. Ishall send every one to her husband. It’s she who’s done themischief.”

She took from a drawer the bundle of letters, and excitedly gave them to MissLey.

“Is this all?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Miss Ley had with her a black satin bag, in which she kept her handkerchief andher purse, and swiftly opening it, she put the letters in.

“What are you doing?”

“My dear, don’t be a fool! You’re not going to send theseletters to anyone, and as soon as I get home I mean to burn them. Reggie was adissolute rip before ever he met Grace Castillyon, and the only woman whoruined him is—yourself! You were very angry when I told you once that thegreatest misfortune which could befall a man was to have a really affectionatemother, but I assure you, except for your bad influence, Reggie would have beenno worse a boy than any other.”

Mrs. Bassett turned livid.

“I think you must be mad, Mary. I’ve done all I could by exampleand precept to make him a gentleman. I’ve devoted my life to hiseducation, and I’ve sacrificed myself to him absolutely from the day hewas born. I can honestly say that I’ve been a good mother.”

“Pardon me,” answered Miss Ley coolly, “you’ve been avery bad mother, a very selfish mother, and you’ve systematicallysacrificed him to your own whims and fancies.”

“How can you talk to me like that when I want sympathy and help?Haven’t you any pity for me?”

“None! All that has happened you’ve brought entirely on yourself.You made him a liar by compelling him to tell you his most private affairs, youdrove him to deception by expecting from him an impossible purity, you warnedhim of temptation so as to make it doubly attractive. You never let him have afree will or a natural instinct, but insisted on his acting and feeling like amiddle-aged and rather ill-educated woman. You thwarted all inclinations, andforced upon him yours. Good heavens! you couldn’t have been more selfish,cruel, and exacting if you’d detested the boy!”

Mrs. Bassett stared at her, overwhelmed.

“But I only asked common honesty and truthfulness, I only wanted to keephim from spot and stain, and I only expected the morality which religion andeverything else enforces upon us.”

“You starved his instincts—the natural desire of a boy for gaietyand amusement, the natural craving of youth for love. You applied to him thestandards of a woman of fifty. A wise mother lets her son go his own way, andshuts her eyes to youthful peccadillos; but you made all these peccadillos intodeadly sins. After all, moralists talk a deal of nonsense about the frailty ofmankind. When you come to close quarters with vice, it’s not really sodesperately wicked as all that. A man may be a very good fellow though he doessit up late and occasionally drink more than is discreet, gamble a little andphilander with ladies of doubtful fame. All these things are part of humannature, when youth and hot blood are joined together, and for some of themforeign nations, wiser than ourselves, have made provision.”

“I wish I’d never had a son!” cried Mrs. Bassett. “Howmuch luckier you are than I!”

Miss Ley got up, and a curious expression came over her face.

“Oh, my dear, don’t say that! I tell you, that even though I knowReggie to be idle and selfish and dissolute, I would give all I have in theworld if he were only mine. There’s not a soul on this wide earth thatcares for me—except Frank, because I amuse him—and I’m sodreadfully lonely. I’m growing old. Often I feel so old I wonder how Ican continue to live, and I want someone so badly to whom it’s not amatter of absolute indifference if I’m well or ill, dead or alive. Oh, mydear, thank God for your son!”

“I can’t now I know he’s wicked and vicious.”

“But what is vice, and what is wickedness? Are you sure we know? Isuppose I have been a virtuous woman. I’ve done nobody any harm;I’ve helped a good many; I’ve done the usual moral things thatwomen do; and when anything was possible that I particularly wanted, I’vewithstood because it was ingrained in me that nice things were naughty. Butsometimes I think I’ve wasted my life, and I dare say I should be abetter woman if I hadn’t been so virtuous. When I look back nowit’s not the temptations I fell to that I regret, but the temptations Iresisted. I’m an old woman, and I’ve never known love, andI’m childless and forsaken. Oh, Emily, if I had my time over again Ipromise you I wouldn’t be so virtuous. I would take all the good thatlife offered, without thinking too much of propriety. And above all things Iwould have a child.”

“Mary, what are you saying?”

Miss Ley shrugged her shoulders, and was silent; her voice was broken, and shecould not trust herself to speak. But Mrs. Bassett’s thoughts went backto the injury which Reggie had done her, and she gave Miss Ley his letter toread.

“There’s not a word of regret in it. He seems to have no shame andno conscience. He was married on the very day of my operation, when I mighthave died any moment. He must be absolutely heartless.”

“D’you know what I would do if I were you?” asked Miss Ley,pleased to get away from her own emotions. “I would go to him, and askforgiveness for all the harm you’ve done him.”

“I? Mary, you must be mad! What need have I for forgiveness?”

“Think it over. I have an idea that presently it will occur to you thatyou never gave the boy a chance. I’m not sure whether you don’t owehim a good deal of reparation; anyhow, you can’t undo the marriage, andit’s just possible it may be the saving of him.”

“You’re not going to ask me to receive an actress as mydaughter-in-law?”

“Fiddledidee! She’ll make your son a much better wife than aduchess.”

When Mrs. Barlow-Bassett showed her friend Reggie’s letter. Miss Leycarefully noted the address, and next day, in the afternoon, proceeded to callupon the new-married couple. They lived in a somewhat shabby lodging-house inthe Vauxhall Bridge Road—that long, sordid street—and Miss Ley wasshown into an attic which served as sitting-room. It was barely fitted withtawdry furniture, much the worse for wear, but to give a homelike airphotographs were pinned on the wall, each with a sprawling flourish for asignature, of persons connected with the stage, but unknown to fame. When MissLey entered, Reggie, dressed in a suit of somewhat pronounced pattern, with aHomburg tweed hat on his head, was reading theEra, while his wife stoodin front of the glass doing her hair. Notwithstanding the late hour, she stillwore a dressing-gown of red satin, covered with inexpensive lace, which wascertainly neither very new nor very clean. Miss Ley’s appearance causedsome embarrassment, and it was not without awkwardness that Reggie made thenecessary introduction.

“Excuse me being in such a state,” said Mrs. Reggie, gathering upher hairpins, “but I was just going to dress.”

She was a little woman, plainly older than her husband, and to Miss Ley’sastonishment, by no means pretty; her eyes were handsome, used with fullknowledge of their power, and her black hair very fine; but chiefly noticeablewas a singular determination of manner, a shrewishness about the mouth, whichsuggested that if she did not get her own way someone would suffer. She lookedrather suspiciously at Miss Ley, but treated her with sufficient cordiality toindicate a readiness to be friendly if the visitor did not prove hostile.

“I only heard you were married yesterday,” Miss Ley hastened to sayas affably as possible, “and I was anxious to make your wife’sacquaintance, Reggie.”

“You’ve not come from the mater?” he asked.

“No.”

“I suppose she’s in a hell of a wax.”

“Reggie, don’t swear; I don’t like it,” said his wife.

Miss Ley shrugged her shoulders and smiled vaguely. Since she was not offered achair, she looked round for the most comfortable, and sat down. Mrs. Reggieglanced uncertainly from her husband to Miss Ley, and then at her owndisarranged dress, hesitating whether to leave the pair alone or to sacrificeher appearance.

“I am untidy,” she said.

“Good heavens! it’s so refreshing to find someone who doesn’tdress till late in the day. When I take off my dressing-gown I put oninvariably a sense of responsibility. Do sit down and tell me all about yourplans.”

Miss Ley had the art of putting people at their ease, and the bride succumbedat once to the elder woman’s quiet but authoritative way. She glanced ather husband.

“Reggie, take off your hat,” she said peremptorily.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot.”

When he removed this headgear Miss Ley noticed that his hair was very long,worn with a dramatic flamboyance. His speech was deliberate, with a certaindeclamatory enunciation which vastly amused his old friend; his nails were nonetoo clean, and his boots needed polish.

“What does the mater think of my going on the stage?” he asked,passing his hand with a fine gesture through his raven locks. “It’sthe best thing I could do, isn’t it, Lauria? I feel that I’ve foundmy vocation. Nature intended me for an actor. It’s the only thingI’m fit for—an artistic career. Tell my mother that I willsacrifice everything to my art. I hope you’ll come and see meplay.”

“It will give me great pleasure.”

“Not in this piece. I only—walk on, don’t you know. But inthe spring Lauria and I are going to give a series of recitations.”

He rose to his feet, and standing in front of the fireplace, stretched out onedramatic hand.

“‘To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them?’”

He bellowed the words at the top of his voice, uttering each syllable withprofound and dramatic emphasis.

“By Jove!” he said, “what a part! They don’t writeparts like that now. An actor has no chance in a modern play, wherethere’s not a speech more than two lines long.”

Miss Ley looked at him with astonishment, for it had never occurred to her thatsuch a development could possibly be his; then, glancing quickly at Lauria, shefancied that a slight ironical smile trembled on her lips.

“I tell you,” said Reggie, beating his chest, “I feel that Ishall be a great actor. If I can only get my chance, I shall just staggercreation. I must go and see Basil Kent, and ask him to write a play for us,Lauria.”

“And are you going to stagger creation too?” asked Miss Ley,blandly turning to Mrs. Reggie.

The young woman restrained her merriment no longer, but burst into such ahearty peal of laughter that Miss Ley began to like her.

“Will you stay to tea, Miss Ley?”

“Certainly; that is why I came.”

“That’s fine. I’ll make you some tea in less than no time.Reggie, take the can, and go out and get half a pint of milk.”

“Yes, my dear,” he replied obediently, putting on his tweed hatwith a rakish swagger, and taking from a table littered with papers, articlesof apparel, and domestic utensils a small milk-can.

“How much money have you got in your pocket?”

He pulled out some coppers and one silver coin.

“One and sevenpence halfpenny.”

“Then, you’ll have one and sixpence halfpenny when you come home.You can buy a packet of straighters for threepence, and mind you’ re backin ten minutes.”

“Yes, dear.”

He walked out meekly, and closed the door behind him. Mrs. Reggie went to thedoor and looked out.

“His mother brought him up very badly,” she explained, “andhe’s not above listening at keyholes.”

Miss Ley, shaking with inward laughter, had listened to the scene withamazement. Lauria continued her apologetic explanations.

“You know, I have to keep a sharp eye on his money because he’srather inclined to tipple. I’ve got him out of it, but I’m alwaysafraid he’ll drop into a pub if I don’t look out. His mother mustbe about the biggest fool you’ve met, isn’t she?”

Mrs. Reggie glanced at a box of cigarettes, and the other, noticing the yellowon her forefinger, concluded she was an eager smoker; it was easy to put her incomfort.

“Would you give me a cigarette?”

“Oh, d’you smoke?” cried Lauria, with a bright look ofpleasure. “I was simply dying for a fag, but I didn’t want to shockyou.”

They lit up, and Miss Ley drew towards her another chair.

“D’you mind if I put my feet up? I always think that onlyquadrupeds should keep their longer extremities constantly dangling.”

With a faint smile, she essayed to make smoke-rings.

“You’re all right,” said Lauria, with a little nod.“I’m glad you came. I wanted to have a talk with someone who knewReggie’s mother. I suppose she’s in a fury. I wanted him to tellher beforehand, but he didn’t dare. Besides, he never does a thingstraightforwardly if he can do it crooked. And as for lying—well,he’s worse than a woman. You can tell his mother it’ll take me allmy time to make a gentleman of her son.”

Miss Ley smiled dryly.

“I have seldom seen a newly-married woman so keenly alive to the defectsof her husband’s character.”

“Reggie’s not a bad boy really,” answered his wife, shruggingher shoulders, “but he wants licking into shape.”

“I wonder why you married him?” asked the other, reflectively,knocking off the ash of her cigarette.

Lauria looked at her sharply, hesitating, then made up her mind to speakopenly.

“You seem a good sort and a woman of the world; and, after all, I’mmarried, and you’ll just have to make the best of me. Reggie’sgood-looking, isn’t he?” She glanced at a photograph which stood onthe chimneypiece. “And I like him. You know, I’ve been on the stageeight years; I went on when I was sixteen. How much does that make me!”

“Twenty-seven, I should say,” answered Miss Ley with deliberation.

Lauria smiled good-naturedly.

“Nasty people say I’m twenty-eight; but, anyhow, I’m sick todeath of the stage, and I want to get off it.”

“I thought you were going to play Juliet to Reggie’s Romeo.”

“Yes, I can see myself! For one thing, I’m quite sure Reggiecan’t act for nuts, and when they start they all want to play Hamlet.Why, I never knew a super who carried a banner in a panto who didn’tthink that if he got his opportunity he’d be another Irving. Oh,I’ve heard it so often! Every girl I know has come to me and said:“Lauria, I feel I’ve got it in me, and I only want a chance.”I’m sick of the whole thing. I don’t want to go traipsing about theprovince’s, working like a nigger all the week, and travelling onSundays, living in dingy apartments, and all the rest of it. I just let Reggiegas away, and it keeps him out of mischief to learn plays. I thought it wouldtake his mother three months to come round, and by that time he’ll besick of it. I like Reggie, and when I’ve had him in hand for a few monthsI shall make a decent boy of him; but I don’t pretend for a momentI’d have married him if I hadn’t known that his mother hadmoney.”

“You’re a wise woman. In the first place, I can’t think howyou got him to marry at all. I never thought he’d do it.”

“My dear Miss Ley, I thought you were a woman of the world. Don’tyou know that if a girl of my age makes up her mind to marry a man, he must beawfully cute to save himself?”

“I confess I had often suspected it,” smiled Miss Ley.

“Of course, you have to choose your man. I saw Reggie was gone on me, andI led him a dance. You know, we’ve got a reputation for being wrong unson the stage, but that’s all rot. We’re no worse than anyone else,only we’ve got more temptation, and when anything happens the papers takeit up just because we’re professional. But I’ve known how to takecare of myself, and I just let Reggie understand that I wasn’t going tobe made a fool of. I played up to him for a fortnight, and then told him Iwouldn’t see him any more, and by that time he was fairly stage-struck,and so he asked me to marry him.”

“It sounds very simple. And how did you manage to tame him?”

“I just let him see that if he wanted to have a decent time he’dgot to be nice to me, and he very soon tumbled to it. You wouldn’t thinkit, but I’ve got a nasty temper when I’m roused. He looks up to melike anything, and he knows I don’t mean to stand any nonsense. Oh,he’ll be all right in six months.”

“And what do you want me to tell his mother?”

“Just tell her not to interfere. We’re all right with regard tomoney, and when she calms down she can make us an allowance. Six hundred a yearwill do, and we’ll take a house at Bournemouth. I don’t want tolive in London till I’m sure of Reggie.”

“Very well,” answered Miss Ley. “I’ll say that, andI’ll say besides that she ought to thank her stars Reggie has found adecent woman. I have no doubt in a little while you’ll make him intoquite a respectable member of society.”

“Here he comes with the milk!”

Reggie entered, and together they began to make tea. When Miss Ley departedLauria sent him downstairs to show her out.

“Ain’t she a ripper?” he exclaimed. “And I tell youwhat, Miss Ley, she’s a real good sort. Tell the mater that she’snot beneath me at all.”

“Beneath you! My dear boy, she’s worth six of you. And I dare sayunder her charge you’ll turn into a very passable imitation of agentleman, after all.”

Reggie looked at her with tragic countenance, flung back his head, and pressedboth hands to his manly bosom.

“‘Oh, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!’” hecried.

“For goodness’ sake, hold your tongue!” she interruptedquickly.

She gave him her hand, and while pressing it he leaned forward confidentiallyand exclaimed:

“‘I’ll have grounds
More relative than this. The play’s the thing
Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.’”

XII

Meanwhile things with Basil and Jenny had gone from bad to worse. There hadbeen no power in their reconciliation to pacify the Fates, and presentlyanother violent quarrel proved that under no circumstances could they livewithout discord. Basil, training his tongue to silence whatever theprovocation, maintained over himself the most careful restraint; but it wasvery irksome, and in his breast there arose gradually a blind and angry hatredfor Jenny because she made him suffer such unspeakable torture. They had sofallen out of sympathy that he never realized how ardent her love for him stillwas, and that she tormented him only on this account. So passed the summer, forBasil, crippled with debts, felt bound to remain in chambers through thevacation on the chance of picking up a stray brief which no one else was onhand to take.

A profound depression settled upon him, and he brooded hopelessly over thefuture. What had it to offer but a continuance of this unceasing pain? Helooked into the years dragging out their weary length, and it seemed to himimpossible to live under such conditions. Only his passion for Hilda Murraysupported him, for therein he seemed to find strength to face the world, and atthe same time resignation. He had learnt to ask for little from the gods, andwas content to love without hope of reward. He was immensely grateful for herfriendship, and felt that she understood and sympathized with his distress.Mrs. Murray spent the summer abroad, but wrote often, and her letters made himhappy for days. In his solitary walks he analyzed his feelings endlessly,telling himself that they were very pure; and just because he thought of her somuch it seemed to him that he grew better and simpler. In October she returned,and two days later Basil called upon her, but was grievously disappointed tofind Mr. Farley already on the scene. Basil detested the Vicar ofAllSouls, detecting in him a rival who lay under no such disadvantage ashimself. Mr. Farley was still a handsome man, with the air and presence of aperson of importance. His conversation smacked of the diner-out who coulddiscuss urbanely all the topics used at the tables of the cultured. He wasdiverting and easy, knowing well the discreet thing to say; and about hismanner towards Mrs. Murray was a subtle but significant flattery. Basil washugely annoyed by the familiarity with which he used the woman whom himselfcould only treat quite formally. They appeared to have little understandingswhich made him furiously jealous. Hilda had busied herself in certaincharitable concerns of the Vicar ofAll Souls, and with much laughterthey discussed the various amusing things to which these had given rise.

Basil went home sullen and resentful, thinking through the whole evening ofHilda, whom he had left with Mr. Farley, and when he went to bed gained norepose. He heard the hours strike one after the other, and turned from side toside restlessly, striving to get a little sleep; his love now wasuncontrollable, and he was mad with grief and pain. He tried not to think ofHilda, but each subject he forced upon his brain gave way to her image, and inhopeless woe he asked himself how he could bear with life. He tried to reason,saying that this height of passion could only be temporary, and in a very fewmonths he would look upon the present madness with scorn; he tried to soothehis aching heart by turning his emotion to literary uses, and set himself todescribe his agony in words, as though he were going to write it in a novel.But nothing served. When the clock struck five he was thankful that only threehours remained before he could reasonably get up. He thought to read, but hadnot the heart to do anything which should disturb the bitter-sweet of hiscontemplation. Next morning at breakfast Jenny noticed that his eyes were heavywith want of rest, his mouth drawn and haggard, and with jealous intuitionguessed the cause. She sought to make him angry, and the opportunity coming,made some spiteful remark; but he was listless; he looked up wearily, tooexhausted to reply. They ate breakfast in silence, and then with heavy heart heset out for his daily work.

So things continued through the autumn, and with November the winter set incold, dark, and wet. Coming home in the evenings, Basil’s heart sank whenhe entered the street in which was his house; he felt sick with the sordidregularity of all those little dwellings exactly like one another. Miss Ley,perhaps ironically, had once remarked that life in a suburb must be quiteidyllic; and Basil laughed savagely when he thought that only the milk-cart andthe barrel-organ disturbed the romantic seclusion. He loathed his neighbours,with whom he knew Jenny discussed him, and shuddered with horror at theirnarrow lives, from which was excluded firmly all that made existence comely andurbane.

It was inevitable that quarrels should occur between the pair, notwithstandingBasil’s determination to avoid friction, and of late these on both sideswere grown more bitter. On a certain occasion, taking up his letters, noticedthat one had already been opened, and then somewhat clumsily fastened down; heglanced at Jenny, who was watching him, but she quickly dropped her eyes. Hersuspicions had been aroused evidently because of the pink paper;Privatewas written above the address, and on the back was a golden initial. It wasmerely an offer from a money-lender to accommodate him with any sum betweenfive pounds and five thousand, and he could not help a little laugh of scornbecause Jenny, on steaming it open, had found nothing but an impudent circular:when she heard this she coloured furiously. She waited for him to speak, buthe, only wondering why she had not the sense altogether to suppress thatcommunication, said nothing. In a minute or two he gathered up hiscorrespondence, and taking some paper, walked towards the door.

“Where are you going?” she asked abruptly, “Can’t youwrite in here?”

“Certainly, if it pleases you, but I have some rather bothering letters,and I want to be perfectly quiet.”

She flung aside the work on which she was engaged, and faced him angrily, stungto the quick by the indifference of his tone and manner.

“I suppose you have no objection to my talking to you when I want to saysomething? You seem to think only fit to see after the house and mend yourclothes, after that I can go and sit in the kitchen with the servant.”

“D’you think it’s worth while making a scene? We seem to havesaid all this before so many times.”

“I want to have it out.”

“We’ve been having it out twice a week for the last sixmonths,” he answered, bored to extinction, “and we’ve nevergot anywhere yet.”

“Am I your wife or not, Basil?”

“You have your marriage lines carefully locked up to prove it.” Helooked at her reflectively, putting back the letters in his desk. “Theysay the first year of marriage is he worst; ours has been bad enough, in allconscience, hasn’t it?”

“I suppose you think it’s my fault?”

She spoke aggressively, with a sort of brutal sneer, but somehow it seemed nolonger to affect him; he was able in a manner to look on this scene with acurious detachment, as though he were a spectator at a theatre watching playersacting their parts.

“After all, I tried my best to make you happy.”

“Well, you haven’t succeeded very well. Did you think I was likelyto be happy when you left me alone all day and half the night for the swellfriends for whom I’m not good enough?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“You know very well that I scarcely ever see any of my oldfriends.”

“Except Mrs. Murray, eh?” she interrupted.

“I’ve seen Mrs. Murray a dozen times in the last year.”

“Oh, you needn’t tell me that; I know it. She’s a lady,isn’t she?”

Basil stared coolly at his wife; though asking himself why that name hadoccurred to her, it never dawned on him that she could suspect how violent washis passion. But he meant to ignore the charge.

“My work takes me away from you,” he said. “Think how boredyou’d be if I were always here.”

“A precious lot of good your work does,” she cried scornfully.“You can’t earn enough money to keep us out of debt.”

“We are in debt, but we share that very respectable condition with halfthe nobility and gentry in the kingdom.”

“All the neighbours know that we’ve got bills with thetradesmen.”

Basil flushed and tightened his lips.

“I’m sorry that you shouldn’t have made so good a bargain asyou expected when you married me,” he replied acidly.

“I wonder what you do succeed in. Your book was very successful,wasn’t it? You thought you were going to set the Thames on fire, and itfell flat, flat, flat!”

“That is a fate which has befallen better books than mine,” heanswered, with a laugh.

“It deserved it.”

“I didn’t expect you to appreciate it. Unfortunately, it’snot given to all of us to write about wicked earls and beautifulduchesses.”

“The papers praised it, didn’t they?”

“The unanimity of their blame was the only thing that consoled me. Ioften wonder if the reviewer who abuses you realizes what pleasure he causes tothe wife of your bosom.”

It was Basil’s apparent indifference to her taunts, his disdain andbitter sarcasm, that made Jenny lose all restraint. Often she could not see thepoint of his replies, but vaguely felt that he laughed at her; and then herpassionate wrath knew no limits.

“Oh, I’ve learnt to know you so well since the baby died,”she said, clenching her hands. “You’ve got no cause to set yourselfup on a pedestal. I know what you are now; I was such a fool as to think you ahero. You’re merely a failure. In everything you try you’re amiserable failure.”

He faced her steadily, but a look of complete despair came into his eyes, forshe had voiced with sufficient emphasis the thought which for so many monthshad wormed its way into his soul, destroying all his energy; he saw the futurelike a man condemned to death, for whom the beauty of life is only bitterness.

“Perhaps you’re right, Jenny,” he replied’ “Idare say I’m only a rotten failure.”

He walked up and down the room, reflecting bitterly, and then stared out of thewindow at the even row of houses, somehow more sordid than ever in the dimlight of gas-jets. He shuddered when he looked round this parlour, so common,so uninteresting; and like a sudden rush of water overwhelming, came therecollection of all the misery he had suffered within those four walls. Jennyhad again taken up her sewing, and was hemming dusters; he sat down beside her.

“Look here, Jenny, I want to have a rather serious talk with you. Ishould like you to listen quietly for a few minutes, and I want to put away allpassion and temper, so that we may discuss the matter quite reasonably. Wedon’t seem able to get on very well, and I see no chance of things goingany better. You’re unhappy, and I’m afraid I’m not veryhappy, either; I don’t want to seem selfish, but I can’t do anywork or anything while this sort of thing continues. And I feel that all thesequarrels are so awfully degrading. Don’t you think it would be better forboth of us if we lived apart for a bit? Perhaps later on we might tryagain.”

While he spoke Jenny had watched with startled eyes, but, though vaguelyalarmed, did not till quite the end understand to what his words tended. Thenshe could scarcely answer.

“D’you mean to say you want to separate? And what’ll youdo?”

“I should go abroad for awhile.”

“With Mrs. Murray?” she cried excitedly. “Is that it! Youwant to go away with her. You’re sick of me. You’ve had all youwant out of me, and now I can go. The fine lady comes along, and you send meaway like a housemaid. D’you think I can’t see that you’re inlove with her? You’d sacrifice me without a thought to save her amoment’s unpleasantness. And because you love her you hate me.”

“How can you talk such nonsense! You’ve got no right to say thingslike that.”

“Haven’t I? I suppose I must shut my eyes and say nothing.You’re in love with her. D’you think I’ve not seen it inthese months? That’s why you want to leave me.”

“It’s impossible for us to live together,” he answereddesperately. “We shall never agree, and we shall never be happy. ForGod’s sake, let us separate and have done with it.”

Basil was standing up now, and Jenny went up to him, close, so that they stoodface to face.

“Look here, Basil: will you swear that you’re not in love with thatwoman?”

“Certainly,” he answered scornfully.

“It’s a lie. . . . And she’s just as much in love with you asyou are with her.”

“What d’you mean by that?” he cried, the blood running to hishead and his heart beating painfully. He seized her wrists. “Whatd’you mean, Jenny?”

“D’you think I haven’t got eyes in my head? I saw it that dayshe came here. D’you suppose she came to see me? She despises me becauseI’m not a lady. She came here to please you; she was polite to me toplease you; she asked me to go and see her to please you.”

“It’s absurd. Of course she came. She was an old friend ofmine.”

“I know that sort of friend. D’you think I didn’t see the wayshe looked at you, and how she followed you with her eyes? She simply hung onevery word you said. When you smiled she smiled; when you laughed she laughed.Oh, I should think she was in love with you; I know what love is, and I feltit. And when she looked at me, I knew she hated me because I’d robbed herof you.”

“Oh, what a dog’s life it is we lead!” he cried, unable tocontain himself. “We’ve both been utterly wretched, and itcan’t go on. I do my best to hold myself in, but sometimes I feelit’s impossible. I shall be led to saying things that we shall bothregret. For Heaven’s sake, let us part.”

“No. I won’t consent.”

“We can’t go on having these awful quarrels. It was a horriblemistake that we ever married. You must see that as well as I. We’reutterly unsuited to one another, and the baby’s death removed the onlynecessity that held us together.”

“You talk as if we only remained together because it I wasconvenient.”

“Let me go, Jenny; I can’t stand it any more,” he criedpassionately. “I feel as if I shall go mad.” He stretched out hishands, appealing. “I did my best for you a year ago. I gave you all I hadto give; it was little enough, in all conscience. Now I ask you to give me backmy freedom.”

She was perfectly distracted; it had never occurred to her for a moment thatthings would go so far.

“You only think of yourself!” she exclaimed. “What’s tobecome of me?”

“You’ll be much happier,” he answered eagerly, thinking shewould yield. “It’s the best thing for both of us.”

“But I love you, Basil.”

“You!” He stared at her with dismay and consternation. “Why,you’ve tortured me for six mouths beyond all endurance. You’ve madeall my days a burden to me. You’ve made my life a perfect hell.”

She stared at him, sheer panic in her eyes; each word was like a death-blow,and she gasped and shuddered. Like a hunted thing, she looked this way and thatfor means of escape, but nothing offered; and then, groping strangely, seekingto hide herself, she staggered to the door.

“Give me time to think it over,” she said hoarsely.

Next morning at breakfast Basil, with elaborate politeness, spoke of trivialthings, but Jenny noticed that he kept his eyes averted, and it cut her to thequick because he used her as he might a chance acquaintance. It seemed thenthat even stony silence would have been more easy to endure. Rising from thetable, he asked whether she had considered his proposal.

“No; I didn’t think you really meant it.”

He shrugged his shoulders, and did not answer. He made ready to go out, and shewatched him with trembling heart, hoping with most sickening anguish that hewould say one kind word to her before he left.

“You’re going very early this morning,” she remarked.

“I’ve got to devil a case at eleven, and I want to see someonebefore I go into court.”

“Who?”

He coloured and looked away.

“My solicitor.”

This time it was she who kept silence; but when he went out into the street shewatched him from the window, carefully, so that he should not see her if helooked up. But he never turned back. He walked slowly with bowed shoulders, asthough he were very tired; then she gave way to her bitter sorrow and weptuncontrollably. She did not know what to do, and more than ever before neededadvice. On a sudden she made up her mind to see Frank Hurrell; for during thesummer he had come fairly often to Barnes, and she had been always grateful forhis sober kindness; him at least she could trust, and unlike the others, hewould not scorn her because she was of mean birth. Part of her difficultiesarose from the fact that of late she had grown quite out of sympathy with herown people, seeing things from a different standpoint, so that it impossible toappeal to their sympathy; she was a stranger to all the world, disaccustomednow to her own class, and still outside that into which she had married.Desperately she fancied that the very universe stood against her, and itappeared vaguely that she struggled like a drowning man against theoverwhelming waters of humanity.

Jenny hurriedly dressed, and took the train to Waterloo. She did not know atwhat time Frank went out, and was terrified at the thought of missing him. Buther training prevented her from taking a cab, and she got into a ’bus. Itseemed to crawl along, and the minutes were hours; each stoppage drove her tosuch a pitch of nervous exasperation that she could scarcely sit still, andonly persuaded herself with difficulty that, however slowly it went, theomnibus must go faster than she could walk. Arrived at length, Jenny to hergreat relief found that Frank was in, but he was so obviously surprised to seeher that for a moment, disconcerted, she knew not how to explain her visit.

“May I speak to you for a few minutes? I won’t keep youlong.”

“By all means. Where is Basil?”

He made her sit down, and tried to take from her the umbrella which she heldfirmly; but she refused to be parted from it, and sat on the edge of the chair,ill at ease, with the awkward formality of a person unused to drawing-rooms. ToFrank, seeking to make her comfortable, she seemed like a housekeeper applyingfor a situation.

“Can I trust you?” she broke out abruptly, with an effort“I’m in awful trouble. You’re a good sort, and you’venever looked down on me because I was a barmaid. Tell me I can trust you.There’s no one I can speak to, and I feel if I don’t speak I shallgo off my head.”

“But, good heavens! what’s the matter?”

“Everything’s the matter. He wants to separate. He’s gone tohis solicitor to-day. He’s going to turn me out in the street like aservant; and I shall kill myself—I tell you I’ll killmyself.” She wrung her hands, and the tears rolled down her cheeks.“Before you we’ve always kept up appearances, because he wasashamed to let you see how he regrets having married me.”

Frank knew well enough that for some months things had not gone very smoothlywith the pair, but it had never occurred to him that they were come to such apass. He did not know what to say nor how to reassure her.

“It’s nonsense. It can only be a little passing quarrel. After all,you must expect to have those.”

“No, it isn’t. I shouldn’t mind if I thought he loved me, buthe doesn’t. He calls it a dog’s life, and he’s right.”She hesitated, but only for an instant. “Will you tell me the truth if Iask you something—on your honour?”

“Of course.”

“Is there anything between Basil and Mrs. Murray?”

“No, certainly not!” he cried emphatically. “How can such anidea have come to you!”

“You wouldn’t tell me if there was,” she answereddistractedly; and now the words, which before had come so hardly, poured out ina disordered torrent. “You’re all against me because I’m nota lady. . . . Oh, I’m so unhappy! I tell you he’s in love with Mrs.Murray. The other day he was going to dine there, and you should have seen him!He was so restless he couldn’t sit still; he looked at his watch everyminute. His eyes simply glittered with excitement, and I could almost hear hisheart beating. He was there twice last week, and twice the week before.”

“How d’you know?”

“Because I followed him. If I’m not ladylike enough for him, Ineedn’t play the lady there. You’re shocked now, I suppose?”

“I wouldn’t presume to judge you,” he answered quietly.

“He never loved me,” she went on, feverish and overwrought.“He married me because he thought it was his duty. And then, when thebaby died—he thought I’d entrapped him.”

“He didn’t say so.”

“No,” she shouted hysterically, “he never says anything; butI saw it in his eyes.” She clasped her hands passionately, rocking to andfro. “Oh, you don’t know what our life is. For days he never says aword except to answer my questions. And the silence simply drives me mad. Ishouldn’t mind if he blackguarded me; I’d rather he hit me thansimply look and look. I could see he was keeping himself in, and I knew it wasgetting towards the end.”

“I’m very sorry,” said Frank helplessly.

Even to himself the words sounded formal and insincere, and Jenny broke outvehemently.

“Oh, don’t you pity me, too. I’ve had a great deal too muchpity; I don’t want it. Basil married me from pity. Oh, God, I wish hehadn’t! I can’t stand the unhappiness.”

“You know, Jenny, he’s a man of honour, and he’d never doanything that wasn’t straight.”

“Oh, I know he’s a man of honour,” she cried bitterly.“I wish he had a little less of it; one doesn’t want a lot at finesentiments in married life—they don’t work.” She stood up andbeat her breast. “Oh, why couldn’t I fall in love with a man of myown class? I should have been so much happier. I used to be so proud that Basilwasn’t a clerk or something in the City. He’s right—we shallnever be happy. It isn’t a matter of yesterday, or to-day, or to-morrow.I can’t alter myself. He knew I wasn’t a lady when he married me.My father had to bring up five children on two-ten a week. You can’texpect a man to send his daughters to a boarding-school at Brighton on that,and have them finished in Paris. . . . He doesn’t say a word when I dosomething or say something a lady wouldn’t, but he purses up his lips andlooks. Then I get so mad I do things just to aggravate him. Sometimes I try tobe vulgar. One learns a good deal in a bar in the City, and I know so well thethings that’ll make Basil curl up. I want to get a bit of revenge out ofhim sometimes, and I know exactly where he’s raw and where I can hurthim. You should see the way he looks when I don’t eat properly, or call aman a Johnny.”

“It opens up endless possibilities of domestic unhappiness,”answered Frank dryly.

“Oh, I know it isn’t fair to him, but I lose my head. I can’talways be refined. Sometimes I can’t help breaking out; I feel I must letmyself go.”

Her cheeks were flaming, and she breathed rapidly. Never before had shedisclosed her heart so completely to anyone, and Frank, watching her keenly,could not understand this curious mingling of love and hate.

“Why don’t you separate, then?” he asked.

“Because I love him.” Her voice, hard and metallic before, grewsuddenly so tender that the change was extraordinary; the bitterness went outof her face. “Oh, you don’t know how I love him! I’d doanything to make him happy; I’d give my life if he wanted it. Oh, Ican’t say it, but when I think of him my heart burns so that sometimes Ican hardly breathe. I can never show him that he’s all in the world tome; I try to make him love me, and I only make him hate me. What can I do toshow him? Ah, if he only knew, I’m sure he’d not regret that hemarried me. I feel—I feel as if my heart was full of music, and yetsomething prevents me from ever bringing it out.”

For awhile they sat in silence.

“What is it you wish me to do?” asked Frank at last.

“I want you to tell him I love him. I can’t; I always make a messof it. Tell him he’s all in the world to me, and Iwill try to bea good wife to him. Ask him not to leave me, and say that I mean everything forthe best.” She paused and dried her eyes. “And couldn’t yougo to Mrs. Murray and tell her? Ask her to have mercy on me. Perhaps shedoesn’t know what she’s doing. Ask her not to take him away fromme.”

She seized his hands in appeal, and he had no power to resist.

“I’ll do my best. Don’t be too downhearted. I’m sureit’ll all come right and you’ll be very happy again.”

She tried to smile through her tears and to thank him, but her voice refused tohelp her, and she could only press his hands. With a sudden impulse she bentdown and kissed them; then quickly, leaving him strangely moved, went out.

XIII

Jenny had not given Frank a very easy task, and when she was gone he cursed herirritably—her father, mother, husband, and all her stock. He knew Mrs.Murray fairly well, had treated her in illness, and also gone somewhatfrequently to the house in Charles Street; but, for all that it was awkward toattack her on a subject of so personal a nature, and he was aware that he layhimself open to an unpleasant rebuke. He shrugged his shoulders, making up hismind to call on her that afternoon and say his say.

“She can snub me till she’s blue in the face,” he muttered.

Ignorant of what was in store, Hilda Murray, coming in from luncheon, went intoher drawing-room, and since the day was wet and dismal, ordered the curtains,to be drawn, the lights to be turned on. She relished enormously the warm andcomfortable cosiness of that room, furnished pleasantly, with a good deal oftaste, if without marked originality; there were dozens of such apartments inMayfair, with the same roomy, chintz-covered chairs, Chippendale tables andmarquetry cabinets, with the same pictures on the walls. Wealth was therewithout ostentation, art without eccentricity; and Mr. Farley, the Vicar ofAll Souls, who came early, recognised with sleek content that a womanwho dwelt in such a room must possess a due sense of the proprieties and agratifying belief in the importance of the London clergy. Meeting her for thefirst time a year before in Old Queen Street, the amiable parson had quicklygrown intimate with Hilda. The robust common-sense of Protestantism has made itlawful for the clerical bosom to be affected in due measure by the charms offair women, and the Vicar ofAll Souls had ever looked upon a goodmarriage as the culmination of his parochial activities. Hilda was handsome,rich, and sufficiently well born to be the equal of a minister of Christ whostayed with Duchesses for three days at a time; nor could he think she wasquite indifferent to his attentions. Mr. Farley determined to abandon theimperfect state of single blessedness, falling like a ripe apple at the feet ofthis comely and opulent widow; and as Othello, making love to Desdemona, pouredinto her astonished ears brave tales of pillage and assault, of hairbreadth’scapes and enterprises perilous, the Rev. Collinson Farley spoke ofcharities and sales of work, encounters with churchwardens, and theregeneration of charwomen. Hilda took great interest inAll Souls, andwillingly presented the church with an entire set of hassocks, so that, as theVicar said, the pious should have no excuse for not kneeling at their prayers;somewhat later she consented to take a stall at a bazaar for getting a neworgan; and then, the Rubicon of philanthropy once crossed, her efforts wereuntiring. These things brought them constantly together and afforded endlessmatter for conversation; but Mr. Farley flattered himself he was a brillianttalker, and it would have been contrary to all his principles to allow theirintercourse to be confined to affairs of business. The claims of culture werenot forgotten. He lent Hilda books, and went with her to picture-galleries andto exhibitions; sometimes they read Tennyson together, at others visited thetheatre and discussed the moral aspects of the English drama; on fine morningsthey frequently studied the Italian masters in Trafalgar Square or the Elginmarbles at the British Museum. Mr. Farley had a vast fund of information, andcould give historic details or piquant anecdotes about every work of art; andHilda, with a woman’s passion for being lectured, found him inconsequence an entertaining and instructive friend. But it had never occurredto her that any warmer feeling agitated the heart which lay beneath hisimmaculate silk waistcoat, and it was not without alarm that now she found theconversation verging to topics that before they had never touched upon. Mr.Farley had at length made up his mind, and since he was not a man to hesitatefrom feelings of diffidence, went straight to the point.

“Mrs. Murray,” he said, “I have a matter of some importancewhich I desire to impart to you.”

“More charities, Mr. Farley?” she cried. “You’ll ruinme.”

“You are a veritable angel of mercy, and your purse is ever open to theneeds of the parish; but on this occasion it is of a more personal matter thatI desire to speak.” He stood up and went to the fireplace, against whichhe stood so that no heat should enter the room at all. “I feel it my dutyto preface the question I am about to ask by some account of my position and ofmy circumstances. I think it better to run the risk of being slightly tediousthan to fail to make myself perfectly clear.”

Certainly Hilda could not help seeing to what his words tended, and after thefirst moment of consternation was seized with an almost irresistible desire tolaugh. Perhaps because her love for Basil was so great, she had never dreamedthat another man could desire her; and Mr. Farley in this connection had notfor a moment occupied her thoughts. When she looked at him now, well dressed,his gray hair carefully done, his hands manicured, with his easy assurance andhis inclination to obesity, the Vicar ofAll Souls seemed a profoundlyridiculous object. Gravely, with deliberation, he set out the advantages of hisstate, and not without decorum explained that he was no pennilessfortune-hunter. It was a fair exchange that he offered, and many women wouldhave been grateful, Hilda knew she should stop him, but had not the readiness;nor was she without a malicious desire to know in what precise terms he wouldmake the proposal. He paused abruptly, smiled, and stepped forward.

“Mrs. Murray, I have the honour to ask you to be my wife.”

Now she was confronted by the necessity to answer, and with all her heartwished she had possessed strength of mind to prevent the man from going so far.

“I’m sure I feel enormously flattered,” she repliedawkwardly. “It never struck me that you—cared for me in thatway.”

He put out a deprecating hand,

“I don’t want an immediate answer, Mrs. Murray. It’s a matterthat requires grave consideration, and we’re neither of us children toplunge into marriage recklessly. It’s a great responsibility that we areproposing to take on ourselves, but I should like you to reflect on the realgood that you could do as my wife. Do you remember that beautiful passage inTennyson: ‘And hand in hand we will go towards higherthings’?”

The door opened, and the Vicar ofAll Souls was able to conceal hisannoyance only because he was a very polite man; but Hilda, enormouslyrelieved, turned to Frank Hurrell, the incoming visitor, with the greatestcordiality. Frank had been to Basil’s chambers, but not finding him, wascome to Charles Street resolved, whatever the cost, to speak with Mrs. Murrayabout Jenny. It looked, however, as though the opportunity would not presentitself, for other callers appeared, and the conversation became general. In alittle while Basil was announced, and Frank saw Mrs. Murray’s hurried,anxious glance. With one sweep of her eyes she took in his whole person, hisharassed air, his stem pallor and deep depression. She spoke laughingly, but hescarcely smiled, gazing at her with such an expression of anguish that herheart was horribly troubled. It was very painful to see his utter wretchedness.At length Frank found himself with Hilda out of earshot of the others.

“Basil looks very ill, doesn’t he? His wife came to see me thismorning. I dare say you remember that he was married about a year ago.”

Mrs. Murray coloured, and stared at Frank with cold suspicion. She tightenedher lips, wondering what he had in mind.

“I went down to see her,” she answered frigidly. “She seemedto me vulgar and pretentious. I’m afraid I can take no great interest inher.”

“She loves Basil with all her heart, and she’s desperatelyunhappy.” He looked steadily at Mrs. Murray, and dropped his voice, sothat it seemed no sound issued from his mouth; but Hilda heard every word soemphatically that it struck her heart as though with a hammer. “She askedme to give you a message. She knows that Basil—loves you, and she begsyou to have mercy on her.”

For a moment Hilda could not reply.

“Don’t you think it’s rather impertinent of you to say suchthings to me?” she returned, uttering the words disjointedly, as thoughshe forced them out one by one.

“Excessively,” he answered. “And I wouldn’t haveventured only she told me her love was like music in her heart, and somethingprevented it from ever coming out. It seemed to me that for a rather stupid,narrow, common woman to have got hold of a thought like that she must have gonethrough a perfect hell of suffering. And I was sorry.”

“And d’you think I’ve not suffered?”

Hilda could not preserve that mask of cold decorum. The question thrilled fromher, and she had no power to leave it unasked.

“Are you very fond of him?”

“No, I’m not fond of him. I worship the very ground he treadson.”

Frank held out his hand to say good-bye.

“Then you must do as you think fit. You’re playing the mostdangerous game in the world; you’re playing with human hearts. . . .Forgive me for what I’ve said.”

“I’m very glad—for now I know better what to do. I’dforgotten his wife.”

Frank went away, and presently Mr. Farley, despairing to stay the others out,rose also. Shaking hands with Hilda, he asked when he might come again. In theagitation of her talk with Frank she had completely forgotten his proposal; butnow, with a sudden passion for self-sacrifice, it seemed neither grotesque norimpossible. Indeed, if she accepted, it would solve many difficulties, and shedetermined not to put aside the offer, as at first she intended, but to thinkit over. At least, she must do nothing rashly.

“I will write to you to-morrow,” she answered gravely,

He smiled and pressed her hand affectionately, already with somewhat thefervour of an accepted lover. Mrs. Murray was left alone with Basil. He turnedover the pages of a book, and the trivial action, indicating to her excitedtemper a callousness which was not his, filled her with anger, so that for aninstant, on account of all the pain he caused her, she hated him furiously.

“Is that a very interesting work?” she asked coldly.

He flung it aside with impatience.

“I thought that man was never going. It makes me angry each time I seehim here. Are you very much attached to him?”

“What an extraordinary question!” she answered coolly. “Iwonder why on earth you ask it?”

“Because I love you,” he burst out impulsively, “and I hateanyone else to be with you.”

She stared at him with the utmost calm, and some icy power seized her, so thatshe felt absolutely no emotion.

“It may interest you to know that Mr. Farley has asked me to marryhim.”

“And what are you going to say?”

His face had suddenly fallen ashen gray, and his voice was hoarse.

“I don’t know—perhaps yes.”

“I thought you loved me, Hilda.”

“It’s because I love you that I shall marry Mr. Farley.”

He sprang forward passionately and seized her hands.

“Oh, but you can’t, Hilda. It’s absurd. You don’t knowwhat you’re doing. Oh, don’t do that, for God’s sake!You’ll make both of us utterly miserable. Hilda. I love you; Ican’t live without you. You don’t know how unhappy I’ve been.For months I’ve dreaded going home. When I saw my house as I walkedalong, I almost turned sick. You don’t know how fervently I wished thatI’d got killed in the war. I can’t go on.”

“But you must,” she said; “it’s your duty.”

“Oh, I think I’ve had enough of duty and honour. I’ve used upall my principles in the last year. I know I brought the whole thing on myself.I was weak and stupid, and I must take the consequences. But I haven’tthe strength; I don’t love—my wife.”

“Then, don’t let her ever find it out. Be kind to her, and gentle,and forbearing.”

“I can’t be kind and gentle and forbearing day after day for weeksand months and years. And the worst of it is there’s no hope for me.I’ve tried honestly to make the best of things, but it’s no good.We’re too different, and it’s impossible that we should continue tolive together. Everything she says, everything she does, jars upon me sofrightfully. A man, when he marries a woman like that, thinks he’s goingto lift her up to his own station. The fool! It’s she who drags him downto hers.”

She walked from end to end of the room distracted, and mingled feelings toreher breast. She knew how overwhelming was her own love, and knew that his wasno less; she could not bear to think that he was unhappy. She stopped, andlooked at him with tear-filled eyes.

“If it weren’t for you I couldn’t have lived,” he wassaying, and his voice played upon her heart-strings as though they were somestrange living instrument. “It was only by seeing you that I gatheredcourage to go on with it. And each time I came here I loved you morepassionately.”

“Why did you come?” she whispered.

“I couldn’t help it. I knew it was poison, but I loved the poison.I would give my whole soul for one look of your eyes.”

It was the first time he had said such things to her, and they were very, verysweet; but she tried to be strong.

“If you care for me at all, do your duty like a brave man, and let merespect you. You’re only making our friendship impossible. Don’tyou see that you’re preventing me from ever having you here again?”

“I can’t help it. Even if I see you never again, I must tell younow that I love you. For months it’s been burning my tongue, andI’ve scarcely known sometimes how to prevent myself. I made you suffer, Iwas blind; but I love you with all my heart, Hilda. I can’t live withoutyou.”

He stepped forward, but quickly, with a cry of anguish, she sprang back.

“For God’s sake, don’t say such things! I can’t bearthem. Don’t you see how weak I am? Have mercy on me.”

“You don’t love me.”

“You know I love you,” she cried vehemently, angrily; “butbecause of my great love I beseech you to do your duty.”

“My duty is to be happy. Let us go where we can love oneanother—away from England, to some place where love isn’t sinfuland ugly.”

“Oh, Basil,” she cried earnestly, stronger now because she hadthrown herself on his charity; “oh, Basil, let us try to walk straight.Think of your wife, who loves you also—as much as I do. You’re allin the world to her; you can’t treat her so shamefully.”

She sank in a chair and dried her eyes. Her agony had calmed the man’sardent passion, and it wrung his heart that she should weep.

“Don’t cry, Hilda; I can’t bear it.”

He was standing over her, and very gently she took his hand.

“Don’t you understand that we could never respect ourselves againif we did that poor creature such a fearful wrong? She would always be betweenus with her tears and her sorrows. I tell you I couldn’t bear it. Havemercy on me—if you love me at all.”

He did not answer, and very brokenly she went on.

“I know it’s better to do our duty. For my sake, dearest, go backto your wife, and don’t let her ever know that you love me. It’sbecause we’re stronger than she that we must sacrifice ourselves.”

“A profound discouragement seized him, and silence fell upon them both.At last he released her hand.

“I don’t know any longer what’s right and what’s wrong.It all seems confused. It’s very hard.”

“It’s just as hard for me, Basil.”

“Good-bye, then,” he said broken-heartedly. “I dare sayyou’re right, and perhaps I should only make you very unhappy.”

“Good-bye, my dearest.”

She got up and gave him both her hands, and he bent down and kissed them. Shecould hardly stand the pain, and when he turned away and walked towards thedoor all resolution left her. She could not bear him to go—at all events,not thus coldly, not yet. She thought that perhaps this was the last time shewould ever see him, and her passion, so long restrained, rose up andoverpowered her, and it seemed that nothing mattered but love.

“Don’t go, Basil,” she cried. “Don’t go!”

With a cry of joy he turned, and she found herself in his arms; he kissed herviolently, he kissed her mouth and her eyes and her hair; and she wept with theextremity of her desire. She cared now for nothing. All might go, and the veryheavens fall; nothing in the world signified but this divine madness.

“Oh, I can’t bear it,” she moaned. “I won’t loseyou. Basil, say you love me.”

“Yes, yes: I love you with all my heart and soul.”

He sought her lips again, and she nearly fainted with the rapture; she yieldedherself to his strong, encircling arms, and felt that there she could happilydie.

“Oh, Basil, I want your love—I want your love badly.”

“Now nothing can separate us. You belong to me for ever.”

He passed his hands over her face, and his eyes were flaming. She exulted inhis ardent passion, proud that a man on her account should be thus frenzied.

“Say again that you love me,” she whispered.

“Oh, Hilda, Hilda, at last! We’ll go to a land where the wholeearth speaks only of love, and where only love and youth and beautymatter.”

“Let’s go where we can be together always. We have so short a time;let’s snatch all the happiness we can.”

He kissed her again, and in her ecstasy she burst into tears. They talked madlyof their love and past anguish, making venturesome plans for the future,forgetting all but the passion that devoured them. At that moment only thepresent existed, and they wondered how it had been possible to live so longapart. She pressed his hands joyfully when he said that nothing now couldseparate them, for they belonged to one another for ever and always; and itsignified not if they lost their souls, for they gained the whole world. Butsuddenly Hilda sprang up.

“Take care! There’s somebody coming.”

And the words were scarcely out of her mouth when the butler came in, followedimmediately by Jenny. Basil gave a cry of surprise. The servant closed thedoor, and for one moment, embarrassed, Hilda did not know what to say. Basilrecovered himself first.

“I think you know my wife, Mrs. Murray.”

“Oh yes, I know her; you needn’t introduce me,” Jenny burstout with a loud and angry voice. She went up quickly to Hilda.“I’ve come for my husband.”

“Jenny, what are you saying?” cried Basil, foreseeing a hideousscene. He turned to Hilda. “Would you mind leaving us alone?”

“No, I want to speak to you,” interrupted Jenny. “Idon’t want any of your society shams. I’ve come here to speak out.I’ve caught you at last. You’re trying to get my husband fromme.”

“Be quiet, Jenny. Are you mad? For God’s sake, leave us, Mrs.Murray; shell insult you.”

“You think of her—you don’t think of me. You don’t carehow much I suffer.”

Basil took his wife’s arm, trying to get her away, but vehemently sheshook him off. And Hilda stood before her pale and conscience-stricken; thatsudden irruption showed her the sordid ugliness of what she had meant to do,and she was horrified. She motioned to Basil that he was to allow his wife tosay what she would.

“You’re stealing my husband from me!” exclaimed Jennythreateningly. “Oh, you. . . .” She was at a loss for words violentenough, and she trembled with impotent rage. “You wicked woman!”

Hilda forced herself to speak.

“I don’t want to make you unhappy, Mrs. Kent. If you like,I’ll promise never to see your husband again.”

“Much good your promises will do me. I wouldn’t believe a word yousaid. I know what society ladies are. We know all about them in theCity.”

Basil stepped forward, and again begged Hilda to leave them. He opened thedoor, and his glance was so appealing that she could not stay; but thoughkeeping her eyes averted, she felt that his besought her not to be angry forthe hateful, odious scene to which she had been exposed.

“She’s frightened of me,” Jenny hissed savagely. “Shedaren’t stand up to me.”

He closed the door, and then turned to his wife. He was pale with rage, but sheheeded not.

“What d’you mean by coming here and behaving like this?” hesaid violently. “You had no right to come at all. What d’youwant?”

“I want you. D’you think I didn’t guess what was going on?I’ve been waiting here for hours. I saw people come in, and I saw them goout, and at last I knew you were alone with her.”

“How did you know?”

“I gave the butler a sovereign, and he told me.”

An icy shiver of disgust passed through Basil, and she laughed bitterly whenshe saw his profound scorn. Then she caught sight of a photograph of Basilwhich stood on a table near the window, and before he could prevent her, seizedit and flung it on the floor, and viciously dug her heel into it.

“She’s got no right to have your photo here. Oh, I hate her, I hateher!”

“You drive me perfectly mad. For God’s sake go.”

“I shan’t go till you come with me.”

He watched her for a moment, trying to command the hatred, the passionatevindictive hatred, which now welled up uncontrollably within him. He strode upto her and seized her arm.

“Look here, until to-day I swear to you before God that I’ve neverdone anything or said anything that you couldn’t have known. I’vetried to do my duty, and I’ve done my best to make you happy. I’vestruggled with all my might to love you. And now I don’t wish to deceiveyou. It’s best that you should know exactly what has happened. Thisafternoon I told Hilda that I loved her. . . . And she loves me, too.”

Jenny gave a cry of rage, and impulsively with her umbrella gave him a swingingblow on the face. He snatched it from her, and in blind anger broke it acrosshis knee and threw it aside.

“You’ve brought it on yourself,” he said. “You made metoo unhappy,”

He looked at Jenny as he might at some strange woman whom he saw for the firsttime. She stood before him, panting and bewildered, trying to control herself.

“And now it’s the end,” he went on coldly. “The life weled was impossible. I tried to do something that was beyond my power. I’mgoing away. I can’t and I won’t live with you any longer.”

“Basil, you don’t mean that,” she cried, feeling suddenlythat he spoke in deadly earnest. Before she had fancied that he threatened onlywhat he did not mean to perform. “You’ve got me to count with. Iwon’t let you go.”

“What more d’you want?” he asked bitterly. “Isn’tit enough that you’ve ruined my whole life?”

“You don’t love me?”

“I never loved you.”

“Why did you marry me?”

“Because you made me.”

“You never loved me?” she repeated, entirely crushed now, tremblingand faint with fear. “Even at the beginning?”

“Never. It’s too late now to keep it in. I must tell you and havedone with it. You’ve been having it out for months—now it’smy turn.”

“But I love you, Basil,” she cried passionately, going to him toput her arms round his neck. “I’ll make you love me.”

But he shrank away.

“For God’s sake, don’t touch me! . . . Oh, Jenny, let usfinish with it. I’m very sorry. I don’t wish to be unkind to you,but you must have seen that—that I didn’t care for you.What’s the good of going on hum-bugging and pretending and makingourselves utterly miserable?”

She faced him, humbled, shaken with sobs which she would not allow to come, andstared at Basil with eyes preternaturally large.”

“Yes, I’ve seen it,” she cried hoarsely. “But Iwouldn’t believe it. When I’ve put my hand on your shoulderI’ve seen that you could hardly help shuddering; and sometimes whenI’ve kissed you I’ve seen you put out all your strength to preventyourself from pushing me away.”

After all, he was tender-hearted, and now that his first anger was gone couldnot help being touched by the dreadful anguish of her tone.

“Jenny, I can’t help it if I don’t love you. I can’thelp it if I—if I love someone else.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked, dazed and cowed.

“I’m going away.”

“Where?”

“God knows!”

They stood for a while in silence, while Jenny sought to collect and order herthoughts, which throbbed horribly in her brain, like raving maniacs dancingsome tumultuous, distracted measure. The butler came in softly and handed anote to Basil, saying that Mrs. Murray had ordered him to bring it. Basil didnot open this till the servant was gone, and then, having read, gave it withouta word to Jenny.

“You may tell your wife that I’ve made up my mind to marry Mr.Farley, I will never see you again.—H. M.”

“What does it mean?” asked Jenny.

“Isn’t it clear? Someone has asked her to marry him, and she meansto accept.”

“But you said she loved you.”

He shrugged his shoulders and did not answer. Then a ray of hope shot throughJenny’s heart, and with outstretched hands, tenderly, anxiously, she wentto him.

“Oh, Basil, if it’s true, give me another chance. She doesn’tlove you as I love you. I’ve been selfish and quarrelsome and exacting,but I’ve always loved you. Oh, don’t leave me, Basil. Let me tryonce more if I can’t make you care for me.”

“I’m very sorry,” he returned, looking down.“It’s too late.”

“Oh God! what shall I do?” she cried. “And even thoughshe’s going to marry somebody else, you care for her better than anyoneelse in the world?”

He nodded.

“And even if she does marry that other man, she’ll love you still.There’s no room for me between you, and I can go away like a dischargedservant. Oh God, oh God! what have I done to deserve it?”

“I’m very sorry to make you so unhappy,” he whispered, deeplymoved by her utter misery.

“Oh, don’t pity me! D’you think I want your pity now?”

“You’d better come away, Jenny,” he said gently.

“No. You’ve told me you don’t want me any more. I shall go myown way.”

He looked at her, hesitating, and shrugged his shoulders.

“Then good-bye.”

He went out, and Jenny followed him with her eyes. At first she could hardlybelieve that he was gone. It seemed that he must turn back and take her in hisarms; it seemed that he must come up the stairs again and say that he loved herstill. But he did not come, and from the window she watched him walk down thestreet.

“He’s so glad to go,” she whispered.

Then, heart-broken, she sank to the door, and burying her face in her hands,broke into a passion of tears.

XIV

But presently she got up and walked downstairs. She let herself out quietlyinto the street. Though much exhausted, Jenny’s instinctive economyprevented her from taking a cab, and with heavy steps she set out on foot toWaterloo. The night was cold and dark, and the November drizzle soaked herclothes, but in extreme distress of mind she noticed nothing. She went, staringstraight in front of her, a set despair upon her face, and her eyes saw neitherhouses nor people: she walked through the crowd of Piccadilly as though throughan empty street. Muffled, with umbrellas up, folk hurried to their homes, or,notwithstanding the inclement weather, aimlessly sauntered. Sometimes shesobbed brokenly, and then on a sudden scalding, painful tears ran down hercheeks. The way seemed endless, and her strength rapidly failed; her limbs,heavier than lead, ached terribly; but she would not drive, for the pain ofmotion was less than the pain of immobility. She crossed Westminster Bridge,and at length, scarcely realizing it, found herself at Waterloo. In so dazed amanner that the porter thought she had been drinking, Jenny asked when therewould be a train, and sat down to wait. The glitter of electricity difficultlypierced the humid night, and the spaces of the station in that uncertain lightseemed vast and cavernous. It was a mysterious place, sordid and horrible,which stretched weirdly to an infinite distance: people came and went, porterspassed with luggage, trains arrived and departed; and the whole scene impresseditself on her tortured brain with a hideous, cruel intensity.

Having reached Barnes at length, Jenny felt no relief, but if possible, agreater wretchedness, for she remembered how often in summer, under soft blueskies, she had wandered across the common, clinging to Basil’s arm; andnow it was dark and ugly, and the broom, all charred and bedraggled, even undercover of night had a dismal, squalid look. She came to the little pokey villa,let herself in, and went upstairs, vaguely hoping that Basil, after all, hadcome back, for it seemed impossible that she would never see him again. But hewas nowhere. Now her agony grew too great for tears, and she walked through thehouse like one demented, mechanically setting straight things which were not intheir usual place. In her bedroom she looked in the glass, comparing herselfwith Mrs. Murray, and noted with a certain bitter pride the splendour of herhair, the brilliancy of her eyes, the dazzling perfection of her skin:notwithstanding all she had gone through, Jenny was conscious of a beautygreater than Mrs. Murray’s. She was younger, too, and when she recalledthe admiration which in the old days at theGolden Crown had been hers,could not understand how it was that with Basil she was so powerless. Other menhad cared for her passionately, other men had been willing humbly to do herbidding; some, devouring her with their eyes, had trembled when they touchedher hand; others turned pale with desire when she smiled upon them. Her beautyhad been dinned into her ears, and Basil alone was insensible to it. Then,confusedly, with somewhat of that puritanic instinct which is ever in Englishblood, Jenny asked herself how she had merited such bitter punishment. She haddone her best: she had been a good and faithful wife to Basil, and sought inevery way to please him; and yet he loathed her. It seemed that God Almightywas against her, and she stood helpless before a vindictive power.

Still hoping against hope, she waited, and knowing at what hour each train wasdue, spent in agonised expectation the time which must elapse between itsarrival and the walk of a passenger from station to house. The evening passed,and one train came after another, but Basil never; and then the last train wasgone, and despair seized her, for he would not come that night. She understoodthat this was really the end, and abandoned utterly that shred of hope whichalone had upborne her. She saw again the look of hatred with which he had flungat her the bitter words of scorn; his passion, long pent up, burst forth inthat moment of uncontrollable irritation, and when she thought of it shequailed still. With all her heart Jenny wished she had closed her eyes to hisdoings, for now she would be thankful to keep him even without his love; shewould have given worlds not to have forced from him the avowal of his passionfor Mrs. Murray; the suspicion which had tortured her before was infinitelypreferable to this horrible certainty. She would have borne anything ratherthan lose him altogether; she would have been grateful even for a look now andthen; but never to see him at all! She would far sooner die.

Her heart gave a sudden throb. She would far sooner die. . . . That was thesolution of it all. It was impossible to live with this aching pain; theunhappiness was too frightful—how much better it would be to be dead, tofeel nothing!

“They’ve got no room for me,” she repeated. “I’monly in the way.”

Perhaps by dying she would do Basil a last service, and he might be sorry forher. He might regret what he had said, and wish he had been kinder and moreforbearing. Living, she knew it was impossible to regain his love, but whocould tell what miracle her death might work? The temptation seized her, andpossessed her, and mastered her. A great excitement filled the wretched woman,and gathering together the remains of her strength, without hesitation, she gotup, put on her hat, and went out. She went swiftly, upborne strangely by thisresolve which attracted her with an intense fascination, for she expected peacefrom all trouble and safety from this anguish which rent her heart as nophysical pain had ever done. She came to the river which flowed silent and darkin the dark and silent night, with heavy flood, menacing and chill; but in herit inspired no terror: if her heart beat quickly, it was with fearful joybecause she was about to end her torment. She was glad that the night wassombre, and thanked God for the rain that kept loiterers away. She walked alongthe tow-path to a place she knew—the year before a woman had there thrownherself in because it was deep and the bank shelved suddenly, and Jenny hadoften passed the spot with a little shudder: once, half laughing, she said shewas walking over her grave. A man came towards her, and she hid in the shadowof the wall, so that he went by without noticing that anyone was there; thetrees in the garden above dripped heavily. She came to the spot she sought, andlooked about to see that none was near; she took off her hat and laid it on theground under the wall, so that it should get as little wet as possible; then,without hesitation, went to the river-bank. She felt no fear at all. For onemoment she looked at the torpid, unmerciful water, and then boldly flungherself in.

Basil, on leaving Mrs. Murray’s, went to Harley Street, but finding Frankout, proceeded to his club, where he spent the evening in morose despair,heart-rent because Hilda had signified her intention to marry the Vicar ofAll Souls, and repentant already of the pain he had caused his wife. Atfirst he meant to pass the night in town, but the more he thought of it, themore necessary it seemed to return to Barnes; for though fully minded to partfrom Jenny, on account of all that had gone before, he could not part in anger.But he felt it impossible to see her again immediately, and determined to gethome so late that she would be in bed. There was in him an absoluteimpossibility of sleep, and he so dreaded the long wakefulness that, thinkingto tire himself out, he set out to walk. It was nearly two when he came to hislittle house in River Gardens, and when he turned to enter Basil was muchsurprised to see a policeman ringing the bell.

“What d’you want, constable?” he asked.

“Are you Mr. Basil Kent? Will you come down to the station? There’sbeen an accident to your wife.”

Basil gave a cry, and with horror already upon him, asked the man what hemeant. But the policeman simply repeated that he was to come at once, andtogether with haste they strode off. An inspector broke the news to him.

“You’re wanted to identify your wife. A man saw her walk along thetow-path and throw herself in. She was drowned before help could be got.”

Unable to understand the full meaning of those words, Basil stared stupidly,aghast and terror-struck. He opened his mouth to speak, but only gaspedunintelligibly. He looked from one to another of those men, who watched himwith indifference. The whole room turned round, and he could not see; he felthorribly faint, and then it seemed as though someone cruelly tore apart thesutures of his skull. He stretched out his hands aimlessly, and the inspector,understanding, led him to where Jenny lay. A doctor was still with her, but itseemed all efforts to restore life had been stopped.

“This is the husband,” said Basil’s guide.

“We could do nothing,” murmured the doctor. “She was quitedead when she was got out.”

Basil looked at her and hid his face. He felt inclined suddenly to scream atthe top of his voice. It seemed too ghastly, too impossible.

“D’you know at all why she did it?” asked the doctor.

Basil did not answer, but gazed distraught at the closed eyes and the lovelyhair disarranged and soaking wet.

“Oh, God! what shall I do? Can nothing be done at all?”

The doctor looked at him, and told a constable to bring some brandy; but Basilpushed it aside with distaste.

“What do you want me to do now?”

“You’d better go home. I’ll walk along with you,” saidthe doctor.

Basil stared at him with abject fear, and his eyes had an inhuman blackness,shining horribly out of the death-pale face.

“Go home? Can’t I stay here?”

The other took his arm and led him away. There was not far to go, and at thedoor the doctor asked if he could manage by himself.

“Yes. I shall be all right. Don’t trouble.”

He let himself in and went upstairs, and somehow a terror had seized him, sothat when he stumbled against a chair he cried out in sheer fright. He sat downtrying to gather his thoughts, but his mind seethed, so that he feared he wouldgo mad, and ever there continued that appalling torture in his head whichseemed to combine the two agonies of physical and of mental pain. Then therefell upon his consciousness the scene at the police-station, which before hadbeen confused and dim. Now strangely, with keen minuteness, he saw eachdetail—the bare stone walls of the mortuary, the glaring light with itsviolent shadows, the countenances of those men in uniform, (every feature, theplay of expression, was immensely distinct,) and the body! That sight tore intothe inmost recesses of his soul, so that he nearly fainted with horror and withremorse. He groaned in his anguish. He never knew it was possible to suffer sodreadfully.

“Oh, if she’d only waited a little longer! If I’d only comeback sooner, I might have saved her.”

With the same unnatural clearness he remembered the events of the afternoon,and he was absolutely aghast at his own cruelty. He repeated his words andhers, and saw the pitiful look on her face when she begged him to give her onemore chance. Her voice trembled still in his ears, and the dreadful pain of hereyes daunted him. It was his fault, all his fault.

“I killed her as surely as though I’d strangled her with my ownhands.”

His imagination violently excited, he saw the scene at the riverside, the dreadof the murky heavy stream, the pitiless cold of it. He heard the splash and thescream of terror. He saw the struggle as the desire of life grew for one momentall-powerful. His head reeled with the woman’s agony of fear as the waterseized on her, and he felt the horrible choking, the vain effort for breath. Heburst into hysterical tears.

Then he remembered the love which she had lavished upon him, and his owningratitude. He could only reproach himself bitterly because he had neverreally tried to make the best of things. The first obstacles had discouragedhim, so that he forgot his duty. She had surrendered herself trustfully, and hehad given sorrow instead of the happiness for which she was so brightly born, adreadful death instead of the life which for his sake she loved so wonderfully.And at last it seemed that he could not go on living, for he despised himself.He could not look forward to the coming day and the day after. His life wasfinished now, finished in misery and utter despair. How could he continue, withthe recollection of those reproachful eyes searing his very soul, so that hefelt he could never sleep again? And the desire came strongly upon him tofinish with existence as she had finished, thus offering in some sortreparation for her death, and at the same time gaining the peace for which shehad given so much. A hideous fascination urged him, so that like a manhypnotized he went downstairs, out into the street, along the tow-path, andstood at the very place where Jenny had thrown herself in. He knew it well. Andnotwithstanding the darkness of the night, he could see that something hadhappened there; the bank was beaten and trodden down. But looking at the water,he shuddered with dismay. It was too bitterly cold, and he could not bear thelong agony of drowning. Yet she had done it so easily. It appeared that sheflung herself in quite boldly, without hesitating for a moment. Sick withterror, loathing himself for this cowardice, Basil turned away and walkedquickly from that dreadful spot. Presently he broke into a run, and reachedhome trembling in every limb. That way, at all events, he could not face death.

But still he felt it impossible to continue with life, and he took from thedrawer of his writing-desk a revolver, and loaded it. It needed but a slightpressure of the trigger, and there would be an end to the intolerable shame, tothe remorse, and to all his difficulties. He stared at the little weapon, sodaintily fashioned, and fingered it curiously, as though he were bewitched, butthen, with vehement passion, flung it from him. He could not finish with thelife which, after all, he loved still, and he shuddered with horror of himselfbecause he was afraid. Tet he knew that the pain of a wound was small. Duringthe war he had been hurt, and at the moment scarcely felt the tearing, burningbullet. The clock struck three. He did not know how to bear the rest of thatunendurable night. Nearly five hours must pass before it was light, and thedarkness terrified him. He tried to read, but his brain was in such a turmoilthat he could make no sense of the words. He lay down on the sofa and closedhis eyes to sleep, but then with vivid and ghastly distinctness sawJenny’s pale face, her clenched hands and dripping hair. The silence ofthat room was inhuman. His eye caught some work of Jenny’s on a littletable, left carelessly when she went out, and he appeared to see her, seated,as was her habit, over her sewing. His anguish was insufferable, and springingup, he took his hat and went out. He must have someone with whom to speak,someone to whom he could tell his bitter, bitter sorrow. He forgot the hour,and walked rapidly towards Hammersmith. The road was very lonely, so dark inthat cold, starless night that he could not see a step before him; and never ahuman soul passed by, so that he might have traversed desert places. At length,crossing the bridge, he came to houses. He walked on pavements, and therecollection of the crowds which in the daytime thronged those streets easedhim a little of that panic fear which drove him on. His steps, which had beendirected without aim, now more consciously took him to Frank. From someone hemust get help and advice how to bear himself. In his exhaustion he went moreslowly, and the way seemed endless. There were signs at last that the City wasawaking. Now and again a cart trundled heavily by with produce for CoventGarden; here and there a milk-shop blazed with light. His heart went out tothose early toilers whose busy activity seemed to unite him once more withhuman kind. He stood for a moment in front of a butcher’s, where brawnyfellows, silhouetted by the flaring gas, scrubbed the floor lustily.

At last—it seemed hours since he left Barnes—Basil found himself inHarley Street, and staggered up the steps. He rang the night-bell and waited.No answer came, and with anguish it crossed his mind that Frank might have beencalled out. Where could he go, for he was exhausted and faint, so that he couldnot walk another step? Since midnight he had trudged a good sixteen miles. Herang again, and presently heard a sound. The electric light was put on in thehall, and the door opened.

“Frank, Frank, for God’s sake, take me in! I feel as if I weredying.”

With amazement Frank saw his friend, dishevelled, without a great-coat, wet,splashed with mud; his face was ghastly pale, drawn and affrighted, and hiseyes stared with the unnatural fixedness of a maniac. He asked no questions,but took Basil’s arm and led him into the room. Then the remains of hisstrength gave way, and sinking into a chair, he fainted.

“Idiot!” muttered Frank.

He seized him by the scruff of the neck and bent his head firmly till he forcedit between the knees; and presently Basil regained consciousness.

“Keep your head down till I get you some brandy.”

Frank was not a man to be disconcerted by an unexpected occurrence, andmethodically poured out a sufficient quantity of neat spirit which he madeBasil drink. He told him to sit still for a moment and hold his tongue; thentook his own pipe, filled and lit it, sat down quietly, wrapping himself up asbest he could, and began to smoke. The nonchalance of his movements had amarvellous effect on Basil, for it was impossible to remain in that strainedatmosphere of unearthliness when Frank, apparently not in the least surprisedby his strange irruption, went about things in so stolid and unemotional a way.This unconcern exerted a kind of hypnotic influence, so that he felt oddlyrelieved. At last the doctor turned to him.

“I think you’d better take those things off. I can let you havesome pyjamas.”

The sound of his voice suddenly called Basil back to the horrible events of hislife, and with staring eyes and hoarse voice, cut by little gasps of anguish,he poured out incoherently the whole dreadful story. And then, breaking downagain, he hid his face and sobbed.

“Oh, I can’t bear it—I can’t bear it!”

Frank looked at him thoughtfully, wondering what he had better do.

“I tried to kill myself in the night.”

“D’you think that would have done anyone much good?’

“I despise myself. I feel I haven’t the right to live; but Ihadn’t the pluck to do it. People say it’s cowardly to destroyone’s self: they don’t know what courage it wants. I couldn’tface the pain. And yet she did it so easily—she just walked along thetow-path and threw herself in. And then, I don’t know what’s on theother side. After all, it may be true that there’s a cruel avenging Godwho will punish us to all eternity if we break His laws.”

“I wouldn’t high-falute if I were you, Basil. Supposing you cameinto the next room and went to bed. You’d be all the better for a fewhours’ sleep.”

“D’you think I could sleep?” cried Basil.

“Come on,” said Frank, taking his arm.

He led him into the bedroom, and, Basil unresisting, took off his clothes andmade him lie down. Then he got his hypodermic syringe.

“Now give me your arm and stop still. I’m only going to prickyou—it won’t hurt.”

He injected a little morphia, and after a while had the satisfaction of seeingBasil fall comfortably asleep.

Frank put away his syringe with a meditative smile.

“It’s rather funny,” he muttered, “that the mosttempestuous and tragic of human emotions are no match against a full dose ofmorphinæ hydrochlor.”

That tiny instrument could allay the troubled mind; grief and remorse losttheir vehemence under its action, the pangs of conscience were stilled, andpain, the great enemy of man, was effectually vanquished. It emphasized thefact that the finest-strung emotions of the human race depended on the matterwhich fools have stigmatized as gross. Frank, in one wide-embracing curse,expressed his whole-hearted abhorrence of dualists, spiritualists, ChristianScientists, quacks, and popularizers of science; then, enveloped in a rug,settled down comfortably in an armchair to await the tardy dawn.

Two hours later he found himself at Barnes, gathering at the police-stationmore precise details of Jenny’s tragic death than Basil had been able togive him. Frank told the inspector that Kent was in a condition of absolutecollapse and able personally to attend to nothing, then gave his own address,and placed himself for all needful business at the disposal of the authorities.He discovered that the inquest would probably be held two days later, andguaranteed that Basil would then be well enough to attend. After this he wentto the house and found the servant amazed because neither master nor mistresshad slept in bed, told her what had happened, and then wrote to James Bush someaccount of the facts. He promised the maid to return next morning, and wentback to Harley Street.

Basil was up, but terribly depressed. All day he would not speak, and Frankcould only divine the frightful agony he suffered. He went over in his mindeternally that scene with Hilda and his bitter words to his wife; and always hesaw her in two ways: appealing for one last chance, and then—dead.Sometimes he felt he could scream with anguish when he recalled thosepassionate words of his to Hilda, for it seemed that final surrender was thecause of the whole catastrophe.

Next day, when Frank was about to go out, he turned to Basil, who was lookingmoodily into the fire.

“I’m going to Barnes, old chap. Is there anything you want?”

Basil began to tremble violently, and his pallor grew still more ghastly.

“What about the inquest? Have I got to go through that?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“And the whole story will come out. They’ll know it was my fault,and I shall never be able to hold up my head again. Oh, Frank, is there no wayout of it?”

Frank shook his head, and Basil’s mouth was drawn to an expression ofhopeless despair. He said nothing more till the other was on the point ofleaving the room; then he jumped up.

“Frank, there’s one thing you must do for me. I suppose you thinkme a cad and a brute. Heaven knows I despise myself as much as anyone else cando—but because we’ve been friends for such ages do one thing morefor me. I don’t know what Jenny said to her people, and they’llwelcome a chance of hitting me now I’m down—Mrs. Murray’sname must be kept out of it at any cost.”

Frank stopped and meditated for a moment.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he replied.

On his way to Waterloo the doctor went round to Old Queen Street and found MissLey breakfasting.

“How is Basil this morning?” she asked’

“Poor devil! he’s in rather a bad way. I scarcely know what to dowith him. I think as soon as the inquest is over he’d better goabroad.”

“Why don’t you let him stay here till then? I’ll feed himup.”

“You’d only fuss. He’s much better by himself. He’lljust brood over it till his mind is exhausted, and then things will getbetter,”

Miss Ley smiled at the scorn with which he refused her suggestion, and waitedfor him to go on.

“Look here, I want you to lend me some money. Will you pay two hundredand fifty pounds into my bank this morning?”

“Of course I will,” she answered, delighted to be asked.

She went to her desk to get a cheque-book, while Frank looked at her with alittle smile.

“Don’t you want to know what it’s for?”

“Not unless you wish to tell me.”

“You brick!”

He shook her hand warmly, and glancing at his watch, bolted off to Waterloo.When he arrived at River Gardens, Fanny, the servant, who opened the door, toldhim that James Bush was waiting to see him. She said he had been telling herall he meant to do to ruin Basil, and had been through the house to find papersand letters. Frank congratulated himself on the caution with which he hadlocked up everything. He walked upstairs softly, and opening the door, foundJames trying various keys on the writing-table. He started away when Frankentered, but quickly recovered his coolness.

“Why are all these drawers locked up?” he asked impudently.

“Presumably so that curious persons should not examine theircontents,” answered Frank, with great amiability.

“Where’s that man? He’s murdered my sister. He’s ablackguard and a murderer, and I’ll tell him so to his face.”

“I was hoping to find you here, Mr. Bush. I wanted to have a talk withyou. Won’t you sit down?”

“No, I won’t sit down,” he answered aggressively. “Thisain’t the ’ouse that a gentleman would sit down in. I’ll beeven with ’im yet. I’ll tell the jury a pretty story. He deservesto be strung up, he does.”

Frank looked sharply at the auctioneer’s clerk, noting the keensuspicious eyes, the thin lips, and the expression of low cunning. Wishing toprevent a scandalous scene at the inquest, for Basil was ill enough andwretched enough without having to submit to cross-examination on his domesticaffairs, Frank thought it would not be difficult to bring James Bush to theframe of mind he desired; but the distaste with which this person inspired himled the doctor to use a very brutal frankness. He felt with such a man it wasbetter not to mince matters, and unnecessary to clothe his meaning withflattering euphemisms.

“What d’you think you’ll get out of making a row at theinquiry?” he said, looking fixedly into the other’s eyes.

“Oh, you’ve thought of that, ’ave you? Did Master Basil sendyou to get round me? It won’t work, young feller, I mean to make it as’ot for Basil as I can. I’ve ’ad something to put up with, I’ave. He’s simply treated me like dirt. I wasn’t good enoughfor ’im, if you please.”

He hissed the words with the utmost malevolence, and it was possible to imaginethat he cared little for his sister’s death, except that it gaveopportunity for paying off the score which had so long rankled with him.

“Supposing you sat down quietly and listened to me without interruptionfor five minutes.”

“You’re trying to bamboozle me, but you won’t. I can seethrough you as if you was a pane of glass. You people in the West End—youthink you know everything!”

Frank waited calmly till James Bush held his offensive tongue.

“What d’you think the furniture of this house is worth?” heasked deliberately.

The question surprised James, but in a moment he replied.

“It’s a very different thing what a thing’s worth and whatit’ll fetch. If it was sold by a man as knew his business, it mightfetch—a hundred pounds.”

“Basil thought of giving it to your mother and sister—on thecondition, of course, that nothing is said at the inquest.”

James burst into a shout of ironical laughter.

“You make me laugh. D’you think you can gag me by giving a housefulof furniture to my mother and sister?”

“I had no such exalted opinion of your disinterestedness,” smiledFrank icily. “I come to you now. It appears that you owe Basil a gooddeal of money. Can you pay it?”

“No.”

“Also it appears there was some difficulty with your accounts in yourlast place,”

“That’s a lie,” James interrupted hotly.

“Possibly,” retorted Frank, with the utmost calm. “I merelymention it to suggest to your acute intelligence that we could make ituncommonly nasty for you if you made a fuss. If dirty linen is going to bewashed in public, there’s generally a good deal to be said on bothsides.”

“I don’t care,” cried the other vindictively; “I meanto get my own back. If I can get my knife into that man, I’ll take theconsequences.”

“I understand it is your intention to unfold to a delighted jury thewhole story of Basil’s married life.” Frank paused and looked atthe other. “I’ll give you fifty pounds to hold your tongue.”

The offer was made cynically, and James actually coloured. He jumped upindignantly, and went over to Frank, who remained seated, watching withsomewhat amused indifference.

“Are you trying to bribe me? I would ’ave you know that I’m agentleman; and, what’s more, I’m an Englishman, and I’m proudof it. I’ve never ’ad anyone try and bribe me before.”

“Otherwise you would doubtless have accepted,” murmured Frankgently.

The doctor’s coolness greatly disconcerted the little clerk. He feltvaguely that high-flown protestations were absurd, for Frank had somehow takenhis measure so accurately that it was no use to make any false pretences.

“Come, come, Mr. Bush, don’t be ridiculous. The money willdoubtless be very useful to you, and you’re far too clever to allowprivate considerations to have any effect on you where business isconcerned.”

“What d’you think fifty pounds is to me?” cried James, alittle uncertainly.

“You must have mistaken me,” said Frank, after a quick look.“The sum I mentioned was a hundred and fifty.”

“Oh!” He coloured again, and a curious look came over his face.“That’s a very different pair of shoes.”

“Well?”

Frank observed the struggle in the man’s mind, and it interested him tosee some glimmering of shame. James hesitated, and then forced himself tospeak; but it was not with his usual self-assurance—it was almost in awhisper.

“Look ’ere, make it two ’undred and I’ll saydone.”

“No,” answered Frank firmly. “You can take one fifty or go tothe devil.”

James made no reply, but seeing that he agreed, Frank took a cheque from hispocket, wrote it out at the desk, and handed it.

“I’ll give you fifty now, and the rest after the inquest.”

James nodded, but did not answer. He was curiously humbled. He looked at thedoor, and then glanced at Frank, who understood.

“There’s nothing you need stay for. If you’re wanted foranything, I’ll let you know.”

“Well, so long.”

James Bush walked out with somewhat the air of a whipped cur. In a moment theservant passed through the room.

“Has Mr. Bush gone?” asked Frank.

“Yes. And good riddance to bad rubbish.”

Frank looked at her reflectively.

“Ah, Fanny, if there were no rogues in the world, life would really betoo difficult for honest men.”

XV

Six months went by, and again the gracious airs of summer blew into MissLey’s dining-room in Old Queen Street. She sat at luncheon with Mrs.Castillyon wonderfully rejuvenated by a winter in the East; for Paul,characteristically anxious to combine self-improvement with pleasure, hadsuggested that they should mark their reconciliation by a journey to India,where they might enjoy a second, pleasanter honeymoon, and he at the same timestudy various questions which would be to him of much political value. Mrs.Castillyon, in a summer frock, had all her old daintiness of a figurine inDresden china, and her former vivacity was more charming by reason of an addedtenderness. She emphasized her change of mind by allowing her hair to regainits natural colour.

“D’you like it, Mary?” she asked. “Paul says it makesme look ten years younger. And I’ve stopped slapping up.”

“Entirely?” asked Miss Ley, with a smile.

“Of course, I powder a little, but that doesn’t count; and youknow, I never use a puff now—only a leather. You can’t think how weenjoyed ourselves in India, and Paul’s a perfect duck. He’s beenquite awfully good to me. I’m simply devoted to him, and I think we shallget a baronetcy at the next Birthday honours.”

“The reward of virtue.”

Mrs. Castillyon coloured and laughed.

“You know, I’m afraid I shall become a most awful prig, but thefact is it’s so comfortable to be good and to have nothing to reproachone’s self with.... Now tell me about everyone. Where did you pass thewinter?”

“I went to Italy as usual, and my cousin Algernon with his daughter spenta month with me at Christmas.”

“Was she awfully cut up at the death of her husband?”

There was really a note of genuine sympathy in Mrs. Castillyon’s voice,so that Miss Ley realized how sincere was the change in her.

“She bore it very wonderfully, and I think she’s curiously happy;she tells me that she feels constantly the presence of Herbert.” Miss Leypaused. “Bella has collected her husband’s verses and wishes topublish them, and she’s written a very touching account of his life anddeath by way of preface.”

“Are they any good?”

“No; that’s just the tragedy of the whole thing. I never knew a manwhose nature was so entirely poetical, and yet he never wrote a line which isother than mediocre. If he’d only written his own feelings, his littlehopes and disappointments, he might have done something good; but he’sonly produced pale imitations of Swinburne and Tennyson and Shelley. Ican’t understand how Herbert Field, who was so simple and upright, shouldnever have turned out a single stanza which wasn’t stilted and forced. Ithink in his heart he felt that he hadn’t the gift of literaryexpression, which has nothing to do with high ideals, personal sincerity, orthe seven deadly virtues, for he was not sorry to die. He only lived to be agreat poet, and before the end realized that he would never have becomeone.”

Miss Ley saw already the pretty little book which Bella would publish at herown expense, the neat type and wide margin, the dainty binding; she saw thescornful neglect of reviewers, and the pile of copies which eventually Bellawould take back and give one by one as presents to her friends, who would thankher warmly, but never trouble to read ten lines.

“And what has happened to Reggie Bassett?” asked Grace suddenly.

Miss Ley gave her a quick glance, but the steadiness of Mrs. Castillyon’seyes told her that she asked the question indifferently, perhaps to show howentirely her infatuation was overcome.

“You heard that he married?”

“I saw it in theMorning Post.”

“His mother was very indignant, and for three months refused to speak tohim. But at last I was able to tell her that an heir was expected; so she madeup her mind to swallow her pride, and became reconciled with herdaughter-in-law, who is a very nice, sensible woman.”

“Pretty?” asked Grace.

“Not at all, but eminently capable. Already she has made Reggie intoquite a decent member of society. Mrs. Bassett has now gone down toBournemouth, where the young folks have taken a house, to be at hand when thebaby appears.”

“It’s reassuring to think that the ancient race of theBarlow-Bassetts will not be extinguished,” murmured Grace, ironically.“I gathered that your young friend was settling down because one day hereturned every penny I had—lent him.”

“And what did you do with it?” asked Miss Ley.

Grace flushed and smiled whimsically.

“Well, it happened to reach me just before our wedding-day so I spent itall in a gorgeous pearl pin for Paul. He was simply delighted.”

Mrs. Castillyon got up, and, when she was gone, Miss Ley took a letter that hadcome before luncheon, but which her guest’s arrival had prevented herfrom opening. It was from Basil, who had spent the whole winter on MissLey’s recommendation in Seville. She opened it curiously, for it was thefirst time he had written to her since, after the inquest, he left England.

“MY DEAR MISS LEY,
    Don’t think me ungrateful if I have left you without news of me, butat first I felt I could not write to people in England. Whenever I thought ofthem everything came back, and it was only by a desperate effort that I couldforget. For some time it seemed to me that I could never face the world again,and I was tormented by self-reproach; I vowed to give up my whole life to theexpression of my deep regret, and fancied I could never again have a peacefulmoment or anything approaching happiness. But presently I was ashamed to findthat I began to regain my old temper; I caught myself at times laughingcontentedly, amused and full of spirits; and I upbraided myself bitterlybecause only a few weeks after the poor girl’s death I could actually beentertained by trivial things. And then I don’t know what came over me,for I could not help the thought that my prison door was opened; though Icalled myself brutal and callous, deep down in my soul arose the idea that theFates had given me another chance. The slate was wiped clean, and I could startfresh. I pretended even to myself that I wanted to die, but it was sheerhypocrisy—I wanted to live and to take life by both hands and enjoy it. Ihave such a desire for happiness, such an eager yearning for life in itsfulness and glory. I made a ghastly mistake, and I suffered for it: Heavenknows how terribly I suffered and how hard I tried to make the best of it. Andperhaps it wasn’t all my fault—even to you I feel ashamed of sayingthis; I ought to go on posing decently to the end—in this world,we’re made to act and think things because others have thought them good;we never have a chance of going our own way; we’re bound down by theprejudices and the morals of all and sundry. For God’s sake let us befree. Let us do this and that because we want to and because we must, notbecause other people think we ought. And d’you know the worst of thewhole thing? If I’d acted like a blackguard and let Jenny go to the dogs,I should have remained happy and contented and prosperous, and she, I daresay,wouldn’t have died. It’s because I tried to do my duty that allthis misery came about. The world held up an ideal, and I thought they meantone to act up to it; it never occurred to me that they would only sneer.
    “Don’t think too badly of me because I say these things; theyhave come to me here, and it was you who sent me to Seville; you must haveknown what effect it would have on my mind, tortured and sick. It is a land offreedom, and at last I have become conscious of my youth. How can I forget thedelight of wandering in the Sierpes, released from all imprisoning ties,watching the various movements as though it were a stage-play, yet half afraidthat a falling curtain would bring back the unendurable reality. The songs, thedances, the happy idleness of orange-gardens by the Guadalquivir, the gayturbulence of Seville by night: I could not long resist it, and at last forgoteverything but that time was short and the world was to the living.
    “By the time you get this letter I shall be on my way home.

“Yours ever,          
“BASIL KENT.”

Miss Ley read this letter with a smile and gave a little sigh.

“I suppose at that age one can afford to have no very conspicuous senseof humour,” she murmured.

But she sent Basil a telegram asking him to stay, with the result that threedays later the young man arrived, very brown after his winter in the sunshine,healthy, and better-looking than ever. Miss Ley had invited Frank to meet himat dinner, and the pair of them, with the cold unconcern of anatomists,observed what changes the intervening time had wrought on the impressionablenature. Basil was in high spirits, delighted to come back to his friends; but adiscreet soberness, underlying his vivacity, suggested a more composedtemperament. What he had gone through had given him perhaps a solid store ofexperience on which he could rest himself. He was less emotional and moremature. Miss Ley summed up her impressions next time she was alone with Frank.

“Every Englishman has a churchwarden shut away in his bosom, an old manof the sea whom it is next to impossible to shake off. Sometimes you thinkhe’s asleep or dead, but he’s wonderfully tenacious of life, andsooner or later you find him enthroned in full possession of the soul.”

“I don’t know what you mean by the wordsoul,”interrupted Frank, “but if you do, pray go on.”

“The churchwarden is waking up in Basil, and I feel sure he will have avery successful career. But I shall warn him not to let that ecclesiasticalfunctionary get the upper hand.”

Miss Ley waited for Basil to speak of Mrs. Murray, but after two days herpatience was exhausted, and she attacked him point-blank. At the mention of thename his cheeks flamed.

“I daren’t go and see her. After what happened, I can never see heragain. I am steeling myself to forget.”

“And are you succeeding?” she asked, dryly.

“No, no—I shall never succeed. I’m more desperately in lovewith her than ever I was. But I couldn’t marry her now. The recollectionof poor Jenny would be continually between us, for it was we, Hilda and I, whodrove her to her death.”

“Don’t be a melodramatic idiot,” answered Miss Ley, sharply.“You talk like the persecuted hero of a penny novelette. Hilda’svery fond of you, and she has the feminine common sense which alonecounterbalances in the world the romantic folly of men. What on earth do youimagine is the use of making yourselves wretched so that you may cut apicturesque figure? I should have thought you were cured of heroics. You wroteand told me that the world was for the living—an idea which has truthrather than novelty to recommend it—and do you think there is any sensein posturing absurdly to impress an inattentive gallery?”

“How do I know that Hilda cares for me still? She may hate me because Ibrought on her humiliation and shame.”

“If I were you I’d go and ask her,” laughed Miss Ley.“And go with good heart, for she cared for you for your physicalattractiveness rather than for your character. And that, I may tell you,whatever moralists say, is infinitely more reliable; since you may easily bemistaken in a person’s character, but his good looks are obvious andvisible. You’re handsomer than ever you were.”

When Basil set out to call on Mrs. Murray, Miss Ley amused herself withconjecturing ironically the scene of their meeting. With curling lips she notedin her mind’s eye the embarrassed handshake, the trivial conversation,the disconcerting silence, and without sympathy imagined the gradual warmth andthe passionate declaration that followed. She moralized.

“A common mistake of writers is to make their characters in moments ofgreat emotion express themselves with good taste. Nothing could be more false,for, at such times, people, however refined, use precisely the terms of theFamily Herald. The utterance of violent passion is never artistic, buttrite, ridiculous, and grotesque, vulgar often and silly.” Miss Leysmiled. “Probably novelists alone make love in a truly romantic manner,but then it’s ten to one they’re quoting from some unpublishedwork, or are listening intently to themselves in admiration of their glowingand polished phraseology.”

At all events, the interview between Hilda and Basil was eminentlysatisfactory, as may be seen by the following letter which some days later theyoung man received:

“MON CHER ENFANT,
    It is with the greatest surprise and delight that I read in thismorning’sPost of your engagement to Mrs. Murray. You have fallenon your feet,mon ami, and I congratulate you. Don’t you rememberthat Becky Sharp said she could be very good on five thousand a year, and thelonger I live the more convinced I am that this is avraie vérité. Witha house in Charles Street andle reste, you will find the world a verydifferent place to live in. You will grow more human, dress better, and be lesscensorious. Do come to luncheon to-morrow, and bring Mrs. Murray. There will bea few people, and I hope it will be amusing—one o’clock. I’mafraid it’s an extraordinary hour to lunch, but I’m going to bereceived into the Catholic Church in the morning, and we’re all coming onhere afterward. I mean to assume the names of the two saints whose example hasmost assisted me in my conversion, and henceforth shall sign myself,

“Your affectionate mother,          
“MARGUERITE ELIZABETH CLAIREVIZARD.

“P. S.—The Duke of St. Olpherts is going to be my sponsor.”

A month later, Hilda Murray and Basil were married inAll Souls by theRev. Collinson Farley. Miss Ley gave away the bride, and in the church besideswere only the verger and Frank Hurrell. Afterwards in the vestry Miss Ley shookthe Vicar’s hand.

“I think it went off very nicely. It was charming of you to offer tomarry them.”

“The bride is a very dear friend of mine. I was anxious to give her thisproof of my goodwill at the beginning of her new life.” He paused andsmiled benignly, so that Miss Ley, who knew something of his old attachment toHilda, wondered at his good spirits. She had never seen him more trim andimposing; he looked already every inch a Bishop. “Shall I tell you agreat secret?” he added blandly. “I am about to contract analliance with Florence, Lady Newhaven. We shall be married at the end of theseason.”

“My dear Mr. Farley, I congratulate you with all my heart. I see alreadythese shapely calves encased in the gaiters episcopal.”

Mr. Farley smiled pleasantly, for he made a practice of appreciating the jestsof elderly maiden ladies with ample means, and he could boast that to his senseof humour was due the luxurious appointing of his church; for no place ofworship in the West End had more beautiful altar-cloths, handsomer ornaments,nowhere could be seen smarter hassocks for the knees of the devout orhymn-books in a more excellent state of preservation.

The newly married couple meant to spend their honeymoon on the river, andhaving lunched in Charles Street, started immediately.

“I’m thankful they don’t want us to see them off atPaddington,” said Frank, when he walked with Miss Ley towards the park.

“Why are you in such an abominable temper?” she asked, smiling.“During luncheon I was twice on the point of reminding you that marriageis an event at which a certain degree of hilarity is not indecorous.”

Frank did not answer, and now they turned in at one of the Park gates. In thatgay June weather the place was crowded; though the hour was early still, motorstore along with hurried panting, carriages passed tranquil and dignified; thewell-dressed London throng sat about idly on chairs, or lounged up and downlooking at their neighbours, talking light-heartedly of the topics of the hour.Frank’s eyes travelled over them slowly, and shuddering a little, hisbrow grew strangely dark.

“During that ceremony and afterwards I could think of nothing but Jenny.It’s only eighteen months since I signed my name for Basil’s firstmarriage in a dingy registry office. You don’t know how beautiful thegirl was on that day, full of love and gratitude and happiness. She lookedforward to the future with such eager longing! And now she’s rottingunderground, and the woman she hated and the man she adored are married, andthey haven’t a thought for all her misery. I hated Basil in his newfrock-coat, and Hilda Murray, and you. I can’t imagine why a sensiblewoman like you should overdress ridiculously for such a function.”

Miss Ley, conscious of the entire success of her costume, could afford to smileat this.

“I have observed that, whenever you’re out of humour with yourself,you insult me,” she murmured.

Frank went on, his face hard and set, his dark eyes glowering fiercely.

“It all seemed so useless. It seemed that the wretched girl had toundergo such frightful torture merely to bring these two commonplace creaturestogether. They must have no imagination, or no shame—how could they marrywith that unhappy death between them? For, after all, it was they who killedher. And d’you think Basil is grateful because Jenny gave him her youthand her love, her wonderful beauty and at last her life? He doesn’t thinkof her. And you, too, because she was a barmaid are convinced that it’s avery good thing she’s out of the way. The only excuse I can see for themis that they’re blind instruments of fate: Nature was working throughthem, obscurely, working to join them together for her own purposes, andbecause Jenny came between she crushed her ruthlessly.”

“I can find a better excuse for them than that,” answered Miss Ley,looking gravely at Frank. “I forgive them because they’re human andweak. The longer I live, the more I am overwhelmed by the utter, utter weaknessof men; they do try to do their duty, they do their best honestly, they seekstraight ways, but they’re dreadfully weak. And so I think one ought tobe sorry for them and make all possible allowances. I’m afraid it soundsrather idiotic, but I find the words now most frequently on my lips are:‘Forgive them, for they know not what they do.’”

They walked silently, and after a while Frank stopped on a sudden and facedMiss Ley. He pulled out his watch.

“It’s quite early yet, and we have the afternoon before us. Willyou come with me to the cemetery where Jenny is buried?”

“Why not let the dead lie? Let us think of life rather than ofdeath.”

Frank shook his head.

“I must go. I couldn’t rest otherwise. I can’t bear that onthis day she should be entirely forgotten.”

“Very well. I will come with you.”

They turned round and came out of the Park. Frank hailed a cab, and theystarted. They passed the pompous mansions of the great, sedate and magnificent,and driving north, traversed long streets of smaller dwellings, dingy and graynotwithstanding the brightness of the sky; they went on, it seemed,interminably, and each street strangely, awfully, resembled its predecessor.They came to roads where each house was separate and had its garden, and therewere trees and flowers. They were the habitations of merchants andstockbrokers, and had a trim, respectable look, self-satisfied and smug; butthese they left behind for more crowded parts. And now it seemed a differentLondon, more vivacious, more noisy. The way was thronged with trams and’buses, and there were coster-barrows along the pavements; the shops weregaudy and cheap, and the houses mean. They drove through slums, with childrenplaying merrily on the curb and women in dirty aprons, blowzy and dishevelled,lounging about their doorsteps. At length they reached a broad straight road,white and dusty and unshaded, and knew their destination was at hand, foroccasionally they passed a shop where gravestones were made; and an emptyhearse trundled by, the mutes huddled on the box, laughing loudly, smokingafter the fatigue of their accustomed work. The cemetery came in sight, andthey stopped at iron gates and walked in. It was a vast place, crowded withevery imaginable kind of funeral ornament, which glistened white and cold inthe sun. It was hideous, vulgar, and sordid, and one shuddered to think of therude material minds of those who could bury folk they loved in that restlessground wherein was neither peace nor silence. They might prate of thesoul’s immortality, but surely in their hearts they looked upon the deadas common clay, or they would never have borne that they should lie till theDay of Judgment in that unhallowed spot. There was about it a gross,business-like air that was infinitely depressing. Frank and Miss Ley walkedthrough, passing a knot of persons, black-robed, about an open grave, where acurate uttered hastily, with the boredom of long habit, the most solemn wordsthat man has ever penned:

“Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and isfull of misery. He cometh up and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as itwere a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.”

Miss Ley, pale of face, took Frank’s arm and hurried on. Here and theredead flowers were piled upon new graves; here and there the earth was butfreshly turned. They came at last to where Jenny lay, an oblong stone ofgranite whereon was cut a simple cross; and Frank gave a sudden cry, for it wascovered at that moment, so that only the cross was outlined, with red roses.For a while they stared in silence, amazed.

“They’re quite fresh,” said Miss Ley. “They were puthere this morning.” She turned to Frank and looked at him slowly.“You said they’d forgotten, and they came on their wedding-day andlaid roses on her grave.”

“D’you think she came, too?”

“I’m sure of it. Ah, Frank, I think one should forgive them a gooddeal for that. I told you that they did strive to do right, and if they fell itwas only because they were human and very weak. Don’t you thinkit’s better for us to be charitable? I wonder if we should havesurmounted any better than they did their great difficulties and their greattemptations?”

Frank made no reply, and for a long time they contemplated those rich red rosesand thought of Hilda’s tender hands laying them gently on the poorwoman’s cold gravestone.

“You’re right,” he said at last. “I can forgive them agood deal because they had this thought. I hope they will be very happy.”

“I think it’s a good omen.” She laid her hand onFrank’s arm. “And now let us go away, for we are living, and thedead have nothing to say to us. You brought me here, and now I want to take youon farther—to show you something more.”

He did not understand, but followed obediently till they came to the cab; MissLey told the driver to go straight on, away from London, till she bade himstop. And then, leaving behind them that sad place of death, they came suddenlyinto the open. The highway had the pleasant brown hardness of a country road,and it was bordered by a hawthorn hedge. Green fields stretched widely oneither side, and they might have been a hundred miles from London town. MissLey stopped the cab, and told the man to wait whilst she and her friend walkedon.

“Don’t look back,” she said to Frank, “only lookforward. Look at the trees and the meadows.”

The sky was singularly blue, and the dulcet breeze bore gracious odours of thecountry. There was a suave limpidity of the air which chased away all uglythoughts. Both of them, walking quickly, breathed with wide lungs, inspiringeagerly the radiance of that summer afternoon. On a turn of the road Miss Leygave a quick cry of delight, for she saw the hedge suddenly ablaze with wildroses.

“Have you a knife?” she said. “Do cut some.”

And she stood while he gathered a great bunch of the simple fresh flowers. Hegave them to her, and she held them with both hands.

“I love them because they’re the same roses as grow in Rome fromthe sarcophagi in the gardens. They grow out of those old coffins to show usthat life always triumphs over death. What do I care for illness and old ageand disease! The world may be full of misery and disillusion, it may not give atithe of what we ask; it may offer hatred instead of love—disappointment,wretchedness, triviality, and heaven knows what; but there is one thing thatcompensates for all the rest, that takes away the merry-go-round from a sordidshow, and gives it a meaning, a solemnity, and a magnificence which make itworth while to live. And for that one thing all we suffer is richlyoverpaid.”

“And what the dickens is that?” asked Frank, smiling.

Miss Ley looked at him with laughing eyes, holding out the roses, her cheeksflushed.

“Why, beauty, you dolt!” she cried gaily. “Beauty.”

THE END